Stephen

‘How’re you doing?’ asked Sarah when she rang at nine from her coaching course in the Midlands.

‘Nothing so far. But I’ve eliminated a lot. I suppose that’s progress of a sort.’ I shifted in my seat at the computer, aware of stiffness in my back and shoulders.

‘You still think she’s the one?’

‘Yes. She’s the most likely. Gareth had cousins in Caernarfon, he said once. I suppose it could be one of them. But I’ve no idea who they are nor whether they’re male or female.’

‘Good luck then. Don’t stay up too late. We’re out tomorrow evening, remember?’

I smiled as we said goodbye. With Sarah away there was no one to mind if I went to bed late. And tomorrow was Saturday, anyway. I could stay up all night if need be. I got up to make more coffee.

That was five hours ago and I’m still at the computer. My eyes ache from staring at the screen and my hand feels as if it’s stuck to the mouse. I promise myself I’ll turn in soon but it’s hard to stop because I’m trying to find out who I am – or rather, who my mother is.

‘You’re obsessed,’ I tell myself. I’m sure Sarah thinks so, though she’s doing her best to be supportive. Much as I love her I’m not sorry she’s away this week. I can indulge what she calls my ‘mother-quest’ alone. I’m wary of going on about it too much in case she gets fed up with me. I don’t want to drive her away.

I sip black coffee and decide to try one more line of enquiry before going to bed. I’ve been at the computer three nights in a row, now. Every spare evening since I came back from Gareth’s funeral. But I can’t stop till I’ve trawled the website of every city law firm I can think of. Because she might be there. Gareth’s sister. The woman I’m convinced is my mother.

I’ve been sure of it for years, though it was Gareth I suspected of being my father at first. Why should he be so concerned about me after my parents died? Yes, he’d been a friend of theirs but I hardly knew him. Kind of him to take an interest, but there must be something more.

And then there was the likeness. How come we looked so similar that people in York thought he was my father when he came for my graduation? I teased him about it once I got to know him better, asked obliquely, in what I hoped were subtle, jokey ways till one day I tackled him outright: ‘Gareth, please would you tell me, honestly, whether or not you’re my father.’ We were having a pub lunch in a village outside York on one of his visits.

He looked at me straight this time, no teasing smile, no amused twinkle in his kind blue eyes. ‘No, Stephen,’ he said seriously, ‘I’m not your father. But I wouldn’t mind if I were. You’re the sort of son any man’d like to have.’

I saw truth in his eyes then and trusted him. But there was still a mystery. Why didn’t he introduce me to his family? Why did we have to meet on my ground all the time, not his, as if he were keeping me at arm’s length for some reason? But I didn’t inquire any more. Not directly anyway. I felt more probing would spoil the relationship we had.

Then I found out about his sister. Call it instinct, call it a hunch, but the moment Gareth mentioned her, a shiver ran through me. That’s her, I thought, I’m her son.

It’s been strange having this inner knowledge I couldn’t prove. Difficult. Gareth didn’t want to talk about her – he only mentioned her the once. And then I wasn’t fishing for information but bemoaning the lack of family to share my grief over the loss of my parents.

‘There are distant cousins in Canada, but Mum never kept in touch with them. And Uncle Edward, Dad’s brother, died without marrying,’ I grumbled. ‘If I had brothers or sisters it wouldn’t be so bad.’

‘One of the problems of being an only child,’ Gareth sympathised.

I looked across at him – we were standing on the Ouse Bridge in York two years after the accident. Below us the river, brown and swollen after recent rains, rushed past on its way to meet the Trent. ‘Are you an only one, then?’ I asked.

He didn’t answer at once, as if he was thinking hard what to say. ‘I’ve got a younger sister,’ he replied, after what seemed an age. ‘She works abroad so I don’t see much of her now.’ His curt tone, so different from his usual way of speaking, put me off asking more and he wouldn’t look me in the eye. Perhaps that’s what gave it away. I didn’t mention his sister after that. I never even found out her name.

But she lived in my imagination. Hardly a day went past when I didn’t think of her. The urge to seek her out grew the more I became aware of being alone and rootless now Mum and Dad were gone. Gareth was the only person I could remotely call ‘family’ though I hardly knew him before the accident. ‘We met when your Dad worked on Deeside,’ he explained, ‘and I had a hand in your adoption.’

I knew the story. My parents had had three sons before me and all died as infants. They’d given up hope of having their own children by the time they met Gareth. And the various agencies judged them too old to adopt. ‘Then Gareth told us about you,’ Mum said, ‘and you were an answer to our prayers. God chose you for us.’

I liked the idea of being chosen. It made the thought of being given away easier to take. I’ve met adopted children who have grown up with a disabling sense of rejection, of not being good enough, of being thrown out like so much rubbish. I never had that, though I do remember waking up feeling sad sometimes, overwhelmed by a longing for something lost I couldn’t name.

Bereavement reactivated this longing. And the longing crystallised round the image of Gareth’s sister. The knowledge that she was Welsh and Welsh-speaking added romance to my notions but, even before that, I’d felt an inexplicable affinity with the Welsh language. I was keen on folk songs as a teenager and collected tapes of songs from around the UK. One day I bought a tape of Welsh folk songs in a Chester charity shop for fifty pence. Playing it in my room afterwards I was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging, the language felt so familiar. One song in particular had me in tears, a jolly little piece about a miller trying to woo his lady-love by listing all his possessions. I was so overcome whenever I played it that I hardly dared put it on unless I was alone. The only word for what it aroused in me, I learned later, is hiraeth, Welsh for a sense of homesickness, a nostalgia for something lost.

With Gareth’s stonewall reticence there was no way I could find out more about my mother even when adopted children were granted rights to details about their birth. It would have been disloyal to push it. I valued his affection and the last thing I wanted to do was upset him. My instincts told me he’d be grieved if I tried to trace my origins. He often talked about how things were now and how lucky I was to have had a good home and loving parents.

Once I looked up Pritchard in the North Wales telephone directory, wondering if any of those listed could be her. Then I remembered she was abroad. Besides there were too many of them – Welsh surnames are singularly unvaried – and she could be married anyway. So I was left to my own speculations. What had made her give me away? Inconvenience? Inability to cope? Had she been a teenager when I was born? Or a career woman for whom a baby would have been a handicap? And what about my father? Who was he? A lover? A passing fancy? A rapist even?

My mind teemed with questions that had no answer. I pondered all sorts of scenarios, romantic and hopeful, dark and depressing or just mundane. Girl meets boy, girl and boy have affair, boy deserts leaving girl pregnant, result – me. There were times when my imaginings led me to hate my own sex because of the selfish and careless way we can behave with women, times when I found myself beginning to hate the mother who’d got rid of me like an unwanted toy. Then I remembered the date of the abortion act and was grateful I’d been allowed to live at all. ‘I could have been one of those foetuses that never saw the light of day,’ I consoled myself in my worst moments.

I kept all these conjectures within bounds. They never interfered with my daily life or my legal career, though they grew more morbid during a time of depression when I found I was unsuited to work at the bar and switched, with Gareth’s encouragement, to train as a solicitor. All in all, by the age of thirty, I was coping pretty well with being an orphan and uncertain of my origins. I felt I was putting the effects of bereavement behind me. Then, suddenly, Gareth died.

In the midst of the shock and the devastating sorrow, a thought struck me. ‘I can look for my mother now. There is no one to mind.’ Immediately I was overcome with guilt. Was that how I saw Gareth? Just an obstacle to finding my mother? I was appalled at myself. All the more reason to go to his funeral, I decided, even if he had been emphatic about keeping myself and his family separate. Aware of the physical resemblance between us, I knew I couldn’t make myself conspicuous, express my condolences directly to his grieving wife and children, but surely it wouldn’t hurt if I sat anonymously at the back, I thought. I had to say goodbye. Naturally I wondered if his sister might be there, but my main reason for going really was to give thanks for a wonderful man who’d been more than an uncle to me over the last twelve years.

In the event I missed Gareth’s sister. That was justice, I thought. The church was so crowded I couldn’t get a clear sight of the family and though I watched the procession down the aisle I saw no one that could be her – I’d always pictured her as a female version of Gareth – and in the front pew, where any sister would surely have been, were just his wife and children. In the churchyard I stationed myself at a distance to get a long view of the mourners at the graveside but again I saw no one who fitted the bill. The only lead I got was from the vicar, who told me afterwards she is a lawyer in the City. I came home planning to search for her, even if it meant looking up all the law firms in London.

I stifle a yawn and click on the last name on my list for tonight. Uttley Stannaway is an old-established firm that has gone global in the last twenty years. Rumour has it they are picky about who they employ, only applicants with first class degrees need apply. But I decide to try anyway. I click on ‘Lawyers’ and ‘London office’ and scan the list of names. A Pritchard at last. And a woman. Heart racing, I click on the name and stare at the emerging image of Elin Pritchard, Senior Partner, specialist in Mergers and Acquisitions, responsible for training. Could this be her?

My heart is thumping and my mouth is dry. Now the picture is complete, I stare at it critically.

At first I am disappointed. This woman is nothing like Gareth. Her short, wavy hair is red, but not the same colour as Gareth’s or mine and she has a thin face and pointed chin whereas Gareth’s features were broad and square. There could be a similarity about the nose – Gareth had a long nose, too, I remember – but that’s all. Then I realise she can’t look like Gareth because I missed her at the funeral, that siblings aren’t necessarily alike and that Elin is a Welsh name.

I gaze at the photograph testing what I feel. There is no shiver, no frisson such as I experienced when Gareth first mentioned his sister. Does that mean this isn’t the woman I’m looking for? But would you recognise the mother who had you adopted thirty years before?

I search her face for clues but find none. She isn’t unattractive but she doesn’t look motherly. She gazes straight at the photographer over half-moon glasses and wears the uniform dark suit, the typical professional lawyer of a certain age, Sarah would say. The only sign of personality is in her half smile and slightly inquiring expression as if she has just been asked to look up from her desk and is amused. Does she appear approachable? And how would I feel if I were told this is my mother? I don’t know how to answer but I can’t suppress a rising excitement. I could be on to something at last. A pity it’s too late to ring Sarah.

Elin Pritchard’s CV is below her picture…

Ist class honours University College London, 1970. MA 1972, articled 1976, Partner 1986, Senior Partner 1996. Hong Kong office 1985-90, Singapore 1990-2000. Specialist M. & A. Training 1996-2000 (Singapore), 2000 London.

Worrying… I only got a II:1. What would this woman think if she found she had a hack criminal lawyer for a son?

I dismiss instant reactions and check the detail. Elin Pritchard was in Singapore when Gareth said his sister was abroad. And my birth in May 1973 would fit in the gap between her second degree and the beginning of her legal career. Though I’m disappointed to have no flash of recognition, no intuitive ‘yes’ or ‘no’, I realise the evidence doesn’t rule this woman out. Then I remember the words of a friend who researches family history – ‘Don’t assume a connection till it’s proved.’ – and try to keep Elin Pritchard, Senior Partner with Uttley Stannaway, in the pending tray. But I allow myself a small flicker of hope. My late nights may be paying off.

I print her profile even though it feels as if I’m intruding into this woman’s life without permission. This must be what stalkers do, I realise, and shudder. Then I put the printout by my bed. ‘Don’t pin too much on this,’ I warn myself, ‘Elin Pritchard may not be Gareth’s sister and Gareth’s sister may not be your mother. You’ve no proof despite your secret hunches.’

I am too excited to sleep. I toss and turn, my brain working overtime. If this woman is my mother, would I like her? Would she like me? She isn’t what I’ve imagined. I’ve always dreamed of a warm, solid, earth mother-type with welcoming arms – a red-haired, Welsh version of Mum, I suppose. Elin Pritchard doesn’t look like this. But I can’t wait to find out more about her. Is there anyone in the City I can ask?

By four a.m. my thoughts are less optimistic. If my mother has rejected me once might she do so again? And if she is Gareth’s sister, did he avoid mentioning her because he knew she wanted no part in my life?

At half past seven, feeling distinctly the worse for wear, I text Sarah then stagger downstairs for my first fix of caffeine to discover the post has come. There’s a packet for me bearing a North Wales postmark. I revive myself with a mug of strong, black Arabica, freshly ground, then open it.

Inside is a jiffy bag addressed to me in Gareth’s handwriting, and a letter:

Dear Mr Loxley,

I regret to inform you that my brother, Gareth Pritchard, died suddenly on May 14th.The enclosed was found amongst his effects to be sent to you in the event of his death.

If there is anything arising from it, or any matter you wish to discuss in relation to his estate, please feel free to contact me at the above address.

Yours faithfully,

Elin Pritchard, Executor.

The business address on the letterhead confirms my suspicion that Uttley Stannaway’s Elin Pritchard is Gareth’s sister. My stomach plunges. Coming on top of last night’s discovery, this feels a massive coincidence. The answer to a prayer I haven’t dared pray.

I seize the jiffy bag, tear off the parcel tape and remove the staples underneath. Out falls something small wrapped in tissue paper.

The something small is cufflinks. The letter is Gareth’s goodbye. Full of affection and fond memories, it brings tears to my eyes. When was it written, I wonder. It has no date. Did Gareth suspect he was going to have a heart attack? The letter can’t bring him back but it softens the impact of his death. It’s consoling to think I mattered enough for him to leave me something personal. I blow my nose and read on.

The cufflinks were his, Gareth explains, handed down from his grandfather. ‘I never wore them but when I saw you in your Jermyn Street shirts I knew they’d be just the thing for you. Wear them when you become “something in the City” and remember your old Uncle Gareth as you pass the port.’

I smile. Gareth always teased me about my clothes. ‘You’d better stick to high-class crime the way you dress,’ he said once. I pick up the cufflinks reverently, enjoying the feel of the smooth, old gold on my palm, fingering their embossed pattern. I will treasure them always, even if I never get to wear them.

But it’s the extended PS that sets my pulse racing.

Dear Stephen,

I’ve thought long and hard about adding this but I believe you have a right to know it. I am sorry if I haven’t been straight with you before about your past. That was my fault. I wasn’t sure what to say because it involved others than myself and I allowed family loyalties to override my duty to you.

I want you to know that my sister, Elin, was your natural mother. Your father was an Australian academic to whom she was once engaged to be married. I have never told her I’ve been in touch with you, and I am not sure how she would respond to any approach on your part. But I am certain she would want you to know that she let you go for adoption believing it was best and was pleased you went to a loving and stable home.

The enclosed photographs are enlargements of snapshots taken in your first few weeks. I thought you would like to have them.

What photographs? Hastily I feel in the jiffy bag and find them, fingers clumsy in my excitement. My heart misses a beat. There are four enlargements almost the same size as the bag, three of myself with my mother and one of me with Gareth. I fall on them like a starving man on food, greedy for information, ready to devour all they have to tell.

They are windows into another world, another time.

My throat tightens as I see pictures of my mother and myself, and Gareth as proud uncle. They give no sign that I will be given away for adoption, no hint of anything wrong.

I spread them on the table and examine each in turn, my eyes misting. This is me, I think. My past, before I came to be with Mum and Dad. And here is Gareth’s sister. My mother. At last.

At first glance she is nothing like the successful lawyer whose profile I took from the internet. Pretty, smiling, full of life, she looks young enough to be a teenager with that long red hair, though she must have been in her early twenties when she had me.

And I am so small. Tiny. A few weeks old, if that. I gaze at the self I have no memory of and bite back tears.

The photographs are poignant in view of what came after. I am breathing as hard as if I’ve just run a hundred yards. My life is being turned upside down, my sense of identity undone. Tectonic plates of personal history shift to disclose new patterns, new truths, and I feel as if I’ve been shot through the middle, blasted by some inner earthquake.

The first shows my mother cradling me in one arm and offering a finger for me to touch. My tiny fingers curl round hers and she looks down, smiling. I see tenderness, a playful love in that smile. Her hair is loose and she wears a patterned summer dress. Closer examination reveals her thin face, angular chin and long nose. She does resemble the woman on the website after all.

In the second I am very new, possibly newborn. My mother sits in bed, holding me. She smiles at the camera, pride in her face, ecstatic as the cat that got the cream. ‘Look at my baby,’ she seems to say, as if I am the first baby ever to be born. Cards and flowers flank the bed. So there was delight at my birth. After years not knowing, I feel I have been welcomed, given permission to be. Not just the me my parents took on, but the whole of me, the person I was before.

The third shows us in a garden, forest trees in the background. My mother holds my face towards the camera. She is grinning, a wide, mischievous, Cheshire cat grin, lifting one of my tiny arms for the person taking the photograph. Her hair is tied back but she still looks very young. The fun in the picture is infectious. I find myself responding to it, humming aloud a tune that seems to go with the party mood, though I can’t remember its name.

The images of myself and my mother look so full of joy that my heart aches. What happened to make her let me go when she seems so elated at my coming? Something must have. But there is no inkling of it here, no shadows, only warmth and love. Something inside me unknots and I realise I have been haunted by a buried sense of rejection all my life and not known it. ‘You weren’t cast off at birth,’ these pictures tell me, ‘you were wanted. You were loved.’ And I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

But I don’t dissolve in tears. I sit immobile, as if encased in glass. The hum of the fridge seems unnaturally loud. The tick of the kitchen clock echoes in the quiet room. I can hear my heartbeat and sense the accelerated rhythm of my breathing. I stare at the hand that holds the photographs as if it belongs to someone else. It’s the shock of Gareth’s death, my parents’ deaths all over again. But this isn’t death, I tell myself, it’s a beginning. My beginning. It could even be the start of something new.

Then emotion kicks in again. Excitement, elation, relief, sadness and uncertainty hit me in a jumbled mix. I am euphoric at finding my mother, discovering who she is, knowing I can contact her, learning her name. I am also haunted by grief, by hiraeth for the love I never knew. Part of me wants to open a bottle of wine, get in touch with my mother at once, tell her who I am, reclaim our lost relationship. Part holds back, unsure what her response might be.

I am assailed by questions. Why did the bond between myself and my mother, so plain in these pictures, have to be broken? Why did she give me away? Did her fiancé desert her? Did my father desert us both? The answer to my life’s one big question has spawned a hundred others. ‘What happened?’ I want to demand, ‘What went wrong? How could she let me go after all this?’ But there’s no answer that I can see.

I glance at the clock and reach for the phone. It’s not too early to ring Sarah. They have breakfast at eight. I dial her mobile but can’t get her. She’s probably in the shower knowing her, or luxuriating in a bath full of bubbles. I leave a voicemail. ‘Sal, I’ve found her. I was right. She is Gareth’s sister. Tell you all about it when you get back. Love you lots. Stephen.’

Time passes and I continue to gaze at the photographs. I compare the successful company lawyer my mother is now with the vivacious young woman whose smile lights up these pictures and draws a smile from me in response. Her joy doesn’t look forced, but people put on their best faces for the camera. What was going on behind these scenes? What do they hide?

I pick up my mother’s letter, the letter she wrote to her son, though she had no idea who I was when she wrote it. I trace her signature with my finger, examine her handwriting. What is she like, this efficient-looking woman with the top job and dazzling CV? Would she want to meet me? I know I won’t rest till I’ve found out. But the uncertainty Gareth expressed in his PS warns me off precipitate action.

Don’t do anything yet, I tell myself. Take time to think. Get advice, put out feelers. Talk it over with Sarah. You’ve waited years for this. It won’t hurt to wait a little longer.

But I can’t help singing as I shower and dress to face the day. It’s only as I’m shaving that I recognise the tune that’s been playing in my mind since I looked at Gareth’s pictures. It’s the miller’s song from my old Welsh tape.