The chairs were arranged in a circle around an old wooden coffee-table. Few of them matched, and some had sagging seats, but the room was quite comfortable and what it lacked in heating was made up for by the warmth of the company.
Marie was talking as she spooned coffee into the mugs. A quiet woman of about fifty she had been adopted when she was young. She often spoke in short, apologetic sentences that tailed off, as if she could never quite believe that anybody was listening to her. Her eyes were downcast as she spoke now, fixed on what she was doing; she didn’t have the slightest idea of the impact her words had on the group.
‘All my life, I felt something was missing,’ she said. ‘I was brought up as an only child, left home, and trained as a nurse at a London hospital. Then, one day, out of the blue, I remembered I had a brother. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became to me that he was younger than me and his name was Harold.’
Every person in the group was entranced. Normally so quiet and reserved, Marie had told us more about herself in those few sentences than in the previous twelve months.
‘What can you remember of your own childhood?’ I asked gently, wanting to keep her talking.
‘I know I was adopted somewhere in England, though not in Nottingham, when I was about ten years old. It’s hard to explain, but I know my adoptive parents changed my Christian name to Marie.
‘I lived with them in the South of England and when I eventually left home I went straight into nursing training. Nobody hid the fact I was adopted and I always wondered, and thought about, who I was.
‘Then from somewhere – who knows where these things come from – I remembered I had a brother. Somewhere I had a brother.
‘I didn’t know where to start looking for him, but eventually I began trying to trace his birth certificate.’ Marie paused and for a moment I feared that she wouldn’t finish.
‘I found it,’ she whispered as if it came as a complete surprise to herself.
‘His name was Harold and he was just eleven months younger than me. He hadn’t been adopted so I thought that maybe he was still with our mum and dad.
‘I put Harold’s certificate in my bag and kept it there for ages. I often took it out and looked at it wondering, Where is he? Will I ever find him? Sometimes I used to run my finger over his name.’
‘Did you ever try to trace him?’ somebody asked.
Marie smiled sadly and nodded.
‘For all I knew Harold could have lived around the corner from me. I had no idea where he was or how to find him. I turned to the Salvation Army which had arranged my adoption.
‘I sent off a letter, unsure of what would happen. I expected them to write back, asking for more information – information I didn’t have. In the meantime, I tried hard not to build up my hopes. A letter did arrive, but not from the Salvation Army. It was post-marked from Australia and when I opened it the first words were: “Dear Marie, I’m Harold Haig and I think I’m your brother.”’
‘That’s amazing,’ said someone.
‘You must have been thrilled,’ echoed another.
Marie’s face told a different story. There was no sign of joy or a happy ending.
‘Did you get to meet him?’ asked a chorus of questioners.
Marie lowered her head and explained that Harold’s letter had arrived almost twenty-five years ago, just as she was about to marry. As part of their honeymoon they were going to New Zealand to visit her husband’s brother and decided to return home via Australia so she could meet Harold.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ said Marie. ‘We had nothing to fill in twenty-five years except a handful of letters. I arrived on the doorstep with my husband and, from first sight, I knew it was true. It was lovely to see Harold, my brother.
‘But the visit was very brief. My husband and Harold were from different worlds. Harold was artistic and unconventional, my husband was very English and reserved. They didn’t get on and we weren’t there long before my husband decided we should leave.’
‘Harold and I didn’t write – not after a time, anyway. Perhaps my husband was jealous. Raising children and nursing took over and although we weren’t in contact I thought about Harold a lot. And then one day in the Seventies, it was Christmas Eve, my husband answered a knock on our door and there stood Harold.
‘I was shocked and thrilled at the same time, but again it was difficult. I wanted to talk to Harold, I wanted a brother, but there were tensions between Harold and my husband. They argued and Harold stormed back to Australia.
‘Periodically I wrote to him, never sure if he got the letters, but I have always held out the hope that we’ll meet again.’
Marie seemed exhausted and drained, sitting on the edge of an armchair and close to tears. I didn’t want to press her but I couldn’t let it rest.
‘How exactly,’ I asked, ‘did Harold get to Australia?’
She shrugged. ‘Somebody just sent him as a child.’
‘Who sent him?’
‘I don’t know. He said somebody put him on a boat.’
‘With your mother and father?’
‘No. He went on his own.’
‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ somebody said, and several conversations seemed to spark up at once as people shook their heads in disbelief and fired off more questions.
But I didn’t join in; I didn’t say a word. All I could think about was the letter from Madeleine in my overcoat pocket. It suddenly seemed far more significant and disturbing.