Juliette felt like a child again as she stood in the middle of the vast building, clutching the knowledge (adoptive parents’ names, recently learned place of birth) inside her head, the fee (one folded-up five-pound note) tight in her fist, and her passport (complete with de rigueur terrible photo) deep inside her handbag.
Now Juliette was actually here at Somerset House she felt an uncomfortable obligation to go through with the search – Renée would never let her leave at this point, not without at least trying. Renée was doing her best, but she couldn’t hide her ridiculously over-the-top excitement, and it saddened Juliette that it almost seemed like entertainment to her friend, as if Juliette’s past of rejection and abandonment was some kind of treasure hunt, with the fantastic prize of a mummy at the end of it. She privately thought that Renée ought to sort out the issues with her own mother rather than keep chasing after hers, but she tried not to be upset with her, she knew Renée meant well.
At the enquiry desk Juliette was timid; there were other people around, and she felt ashamed somehow. But once she’d half-whispered her reason for being there, one of the clerks came straight round from behind the counter and led her towards a private room that smelled of furniture polish and stillness. Renée gestured to ask whether she should come too, but Juliette shook her head apologetically, suddenly aware she needed to do this herself – and that seemed to upset Renée, almost as if she were being left out of the best bit.
‘So, let’s see,’ said the clerk, peering over the top of his glasses as he settled into his chair behind the massive desk. He wore a burgundy cardigan with a grey bow tie, like a friendly old uncle, and Juliette started to feel a little better, despite a twinge of guilt about making Renée stay outside. ‘Your adoptive parents’ names, please.’
‘Cynthia Jane Greene and Giles Arthur Greene,’ said Juliette, and although she had spent all but the first few weeks of her life with her adoptive parents, here in this wood-panelled room they felt as unreal, unconnected to her as long-dead movie stars.
‘And your place of birth, dear.’
‘Acton,’ said Juliette, as confidently as she could manage. The man was perceptive and looked at her, gently inquisitive.
‘Or maybe Clacton,’ she admitted, and as she said it she thought for the thousandth time how strange it would be if it did turn out she’d been born there – after all, that was where Renée was from. The man looked puzzled.
‘I’m afraid I’m not a hundred per cent sure,’ she added lamely.
‘Oh. Well, we can always check Clacton too if we need to.’ He coughed. ‘Erm, I don’t suppose you know which Acton?’
‘Er, no … oh no, is there more than one?’
‘I’m afraid so, my dear, there are four or five, I think.’
Juliette looked crestfallen. ‘Shall we try the one in London and start from there?’ he said. She nodded gratefully.
‘And may I see your ID, please?’
Juliette handed over her passport. The photo was from when she was thirteen and she’d had great silver braces on her teeth and a velvet hair band taming her hideous hair, and she remembered the horror she’d felt when, after what seemed like a lifetime, the machine had spat out the photos, as if in disgust, and Juliette had begged her mother to let her take them again. But Cynthia had just smiled and said they were fine, not in a mean way, but in a way that made Juliette feel unconnected with her mother, not misunderstood exactly, just un-understood. She wondered whether her real mother would have acted in that way, and then she thought, well, maybe she was dead, or a hopeless alcoholic, or so deadbeat her daughter wouldn’t have had a passport at all, would never have gone anywhere. And then she thought she might be about to be one step closer to finding out, and it made her feel light-headed, faint almost.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ said the clerk.
‘Oh, yes, thanks,’ said Juliette. He wrote down some details from her passport and she handed him the money, which was crumpled and ancient-looking now; she didn’t know why she hadn’t just kept it in her purse until she’d needed it. The man got up from his chair and walked across the room, to where there was a wooden ladder, and she noticed with a start of sympathy that he limped a little. He climbed slowly, seemingly unable to bend his left leg properly, and Juliette thought he looked well past retirement age, was perhaps even in his seventies, and she worried he might fall. He reached one arm up, looking ever more precarious, and after running his finger along the length of identical-looking volumes he eventually selected one of the giant leather ledgers. As he pulled it down he seemed to only just avoid dropping it, and she was anxious as she watched him one-handedly descend the rickety-looking ladder with this over-sized book that maybe contained her mother (not literally obviously, but it almost felt like that, like she was there in the room with them) tucked awkwardly under his left arm, and as he sat down behind the desk again Juliette found that she seemed to have forgotten to breathe. She felt like she might even take off, literally flutter away with nerves.
The clerk opened the ledger about two-thirds of the way through, and as he let the pages fall there was a dull thud that vibrated through the table, across to Juliette. He licked his fingers and thumbed backwards a few pages and then stopped, seemingly having found the right one, and then he ran his forefinger down the records, as though his skin itself could read. It was excruciating. Eventually his finger became stationary, and he looked up over his glasses again, into her frightened face.
‘Well, you were right the first time,’ he said with a kind smile. ‘I’ve found the record here.’ Juliette’s eyes welled involuntarily.
‘I’ll leave you now, to have a look yourself,’ he said. ‘Just come out when you’re ready.’ When he got up he appeared to be limping slightly less than before, and as he passed her he squeezed her shoulder, just for an instant, and she was grateful to him.