I shake my head and Clemmy switches off the indicator. A car behind us blares its horn and she drives on, staring crossly in the rear-view mirror. ‘All right, mate. I’m going.’
She pulls into a bus stop a little way ahead and switches off the engine.
‘You could have gone anywhere for your holiday with Toby. Why did you choose here?’ she asks softly.
I smile ruefully. ‘Because I wanted to find the owner of the bag.’
She shrugs. ‘Well, there you are.’
‘I know but I’m scared. Sometimes I think it would be best to forget the biology bit and just remember Mum as my real mum – because she was, when you think about it. And she was the best mum I could have ever had.’
Clemmy nods, her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Of course she was. And she always will be your mum. But … I don’t know … if there’s even a small part of you that needs to discover the truth about your birth, I honestly don’t think you’ll be able to rest until you’ve got to the bottom of the mystery.’
‘Have you seen Maple Tree House?’
She nods. ‘It’s quite grand. Georgian style, I think, with lovely gardens.’
I’m silent, absorbing this fresh information.
‘Is there a name on the envelope?’ asks Clemmy.
‘No. That’s why all this is so hit-and-miss.’
She nods. ‘I guess it all happened such a long time ago.’
‘Thirty-two years. What are the chances she’ll still be living in the house she lived in when she was a girl?’
‘So you’re assuming it was a girl who accidentally got pregnant and didn’t have the means to support her child? I mean, you?’
‘Yes, but only because it’s so often the case. Plus, of course, the bag definitely looks as if it belonged to someone young. There’s a pink cartoon pony appliquéd onto the front.’
Clemmy frowns thoughtfully. ‘Someone very young, then.’ She looks at me warily. ‘I could just drive you past the house. We wouldn’t have to stop.’
I nod and try to swallow but my throat is so dry it’s almost impossible.
Clemmy smiles reassuringly and looks back along the road before turning the car around and setting off in the opposite direction. A little way along, she takes the turn-off and we drive into what looks like a private lane that hasn’t been resurfaced for a while. As we bump over potholes, I scan the houses, my heart thudding against my ribcage.
My birth mum might be behind any one of these doors.
My nausea ramps up to the point where I think I might actually be sick.
‘Take some deep breaths,’ says Clemmy.
So I do and the panic subsides a little. I tell myself she probably doesn’t even live here any more. It was thirty-two years ago, after all …
There’s a small turning circle at the end of the cul-de-sac and we head for this while peering at the house names. From how Clemmy described it – a rather grand Georgian detached house – I’m guessing it’s the one straight ahead of us, and as we approach, the plaque by the front door confirms this. Set a little back from the road in an acre or so of gardens, Maple Tree House is built of honey-coloured stone with a red tiled roof.
Clemmy pulls the car wheels half onto the pavement a few yards away from the front door and we both stare at the house.
There’s a car in the drive, so there’s probably someone at home.
‘What do you think?’ asks Clemmy. ‘I’ll come to the door with you if you like.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t. I just can’t. I’m not ready yet. I need more time.’
At that moment the front door opens and a woman of about fifty appears, dark hair swinging around her shoulders. She’s dressed in jeans and a stylish tan leather jacket with matching ankle boots.
I stare at her, my heart in my mouth. And a single thought flashes through my head: I look just like her!
But next second, a bolt of panic rips through me and I slither down in my seat so I can’t be spotted. It’s ridiculous, really, because she wouldn’t know me anyway, even if she did catch sight of me …
Clemmy looks at me from on high as I crouch down as low as I can get, almost sitting on the floor.
‘What’s she doing?’ I murmur, trying desperately to peer out without making myself visible.
Clemmy glances across. ‘She’s getting into her Mini Clubman. Brand new.’
‘Don’t look!’ I hiss.
‘Don’t worry. She’s not looking this way. And anyway, she doesn’t know me from Adam.’
Me neither, I think to myself sadly.
The impression I got from that brief glimpse of her is of a successful woman in her prime. A woman who’s happy with life.
A woman who won’t necessarily welcome an intrusion from a long-lost daughter who reminds her of a sad past she might very likely want left buried.
‘Can we go now?’ I swallow on the painful lump in my throat. After all the build-up, the anticlimax of not actually speaking to this woman feels devastating.
But I just can’t do it …
*
We drive over to the supermarket, which is a huge out-of-town store a couple of miles the other side of Appley Green.
I’m silent on the journey, watching the scenery, lost in thought.
After my heart-stopping experience earlier outside Maple Tree House – totally freezing at the idea of meeting my birth mother at last – I’m determined to just forget about it and focus instead on the holiday.
Perhaps the time isn’t right to look for her after all.
I’m dimly aware that I’m just making excuses, because the thought of introducing myself makes me so anxious I can barely breathe.
But whatever. I’m determined to put it behind me for now. This mini break is supposed to be Toby’s birthday treat, not a hunt for my long-lost family! I’ll cook a lavish meal for Toby when he returns this evening.
The supermarket stocks pretty much everything – including Toby’s favourite, mussels in white wine, which I immediately drop into my trolley. Then I pick up some prime cuts of steak, recommended by Clemmy, and lots of lovely fresh vegetables, with a chocolate roulade for dessert. If Toby has to work, I can always try to ensure he has a lovely relaxing evening.
And if he doesn’t approve of the yummy-looking roulade, that means there’ll be more for me!
‘Are you excited for October?’ I ask Clemmy on the drive back.
We’ve stopped at some traffic lights and she turns and gives me a wistful smile. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I am.’ She shrugs as the car moves off. ‘I’m marrying the man of my dreams. Why wouldn’t I be excited?’
I glance at her profile. She doesn’t look like a woman planning what’s meant to be the best day of her life. But maybe it’s just the stress …
‘More importantly, are you all right?’ she asks, not taking her eyes off the road.
I swallow. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Everything’s peachy. Absolutely hunky-dory in fact.’ We exchange an ironic smile but, to my huge relief, she doesn’t pursue the subject of what happened back there outside Maple Tree House.
I’m not sure I’d be able to answer her, even if she asked me.
Back at the tent, I turn my thoughts determinedly from Maple Tree House and settle down to read over the last chapter of my book again.
It’s good, I realise. Perhaps the time is right to think about sending it off to a publisher?
I’m not really expecting to hear from Toby until early evening, when he’s on his way back. But to my surprise, he returns just after five, bearing a big bunch of flowers.
‘For me? Thank you.’ I kiss him. He smells of the Guildford office. ‘Now I just need something to put them in. Have you seen any big jugs anywhere?’
Toby snorts. ‘Try next door.’
‘Toby!’ I laugh, glancing over at the next-door tent.
‘They’re not in, are they?’ He glares across.
‘No, they went out earlier. Chantelle was in skyscraper heels and a little sequinned dress, so I don’t think they were planning a hike in the countryside.’
Toby looks disgruntled for a moment. ‘Very nice. They’re probably off out for a lovely meal. Back to civilisation.’ He grins as if it’s a joke but I know it’s not.
He disappears into the tent and I follow him in.
‘We could go for a wander?’ I suggest. ‘Just down to the lake and along a bit, if you like? It’s getting cooler now.’
‘Okay. I’ll just get changed.’
‘Great.’
I put the flowers in a bucket, deciding that I’ll ask Clemmy when I see her if she has a vase I can borrow. Then we wander down to the lake and have a really lovely walk. Toby’s had a productive day and he seems much more relaxed about the whole crisis-at-work thing. It’s early evening and the air is very still with the odd midge flying about. But even this doesn’t seem to bother Toby tonight.
When we get back, I decide to barbecue the steak, so Toby sets it up while I make a salad, prepare the steaks and simmer the mussels in white wine on the little hob.
The meal turns out to be lovely and I’m hoping for a romantic end to the evening. But unfortunately, we left the tent flap open a little and we return later to find we’ve been invaded by some unwelcome visitors. They’re mostly midges as far as I can see, although Toby seems to think we have an army of rampant mosquitoes invading our temporary homestead, which is a whole other level of nasty apparently.
The upshot is we’re up half the night trying to eliminate every single one. Toby swears he won’t be able to sleep if there’s even one insect left flying around. This really tests my patience. And frankly, after the third time he’s shaken me awake because he’s heard another buzzing in his ear, I want to yell at him to pull the duvet over his head and go to sleep, which is what I’m trying hard to do.
But I know that unless I help him whack the poor things into next week, I’ll not get any peace. So, at four in the morning, we’re rushing around our lovely tent, armed with a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times each, with Toby shouting, ‘It’s there! On that wall! Get it, Daisy! Damn, you missed it … over there!’
But the crowning glory happens just before dawn.
I awake to find Toby standing in the middle of the room, rolling up a magazine, a feverishly determined look in his eyes.
‘Right. I’m going to get that bastard!’
A big bluebottle is flying around manically, buzzing with alarm at Toby thrashing his rolled-up magazine in the air as if he’s practising sword-fencing.
Leaping onto the bed in pursuit of the fly, which has landed on the wall behind us, Toby almost crashes on top of me. I roll out of the way and he reaches up and splats the bluebottle onto the wall.
‘Ha! Gotcha!’ He subsides back onto the bed with a triumphant smile.
It’s only then that I realise what he’s been using as a fly swat. It’s the magazine with my story in it. I’d left it open at the right page so he’d read it – and over the title, there’s a giant blood spatter, courtesy of Mr Bluebottle.
‘That’s my story you’ve ruined,’ I point out testily.
He looks down. ‘Oh, shit. Sorry. Shall I chuck it out?’
‘No!’ I glare at him, horrified he should even think of it.
He shrugs, as if to say, What have I done now?
With a loud exhalation, I turn my back on him and pull the duvet over me, not even wanting to look at him.
After Toby’s efforts, we’re now in a bug-free zone.
As for me, I’m fervently wishing it were a Toby-free zone.
Would sleep deprivation count as a mitigating circumstance if I accidentally committed a murder?