Cath Staincliffe: Trio

He moved around his desk and stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, bent to kiss her hair. ‘I love you,’ he murmured.

‘Me, too.’ She kissed his hand. But her thoughts were distracted, strewn about like dropped papers, and she felt only dread at the thought of the journey ahead. The unknown stretched before her like a chasm, black and bottomless.

Caroline

She was walking the Pennine Way, the whole of it, from Edale to Kirk Yetholm, right along the backbone of England. On their visits to Paul’s family in Settle she had walked a lot in the Yorkshire Dales, she had done the three peaks – Ingleborough, Pen-y-ghent and Great Whernside – and had promised herself one day she’d walk the whole length of the hills and here she was. Bliss.

She had left Malham that morning carrying her pack. It was a fair morning, bright and blustery, the sort of day when you could see right across the fells, pick out tiny sheep clinging to hillside tracks and watch the clouds chase across the sky, skimming shadows over the undulating green swards. Most of this section was treeless. The lower slopes would once have held forests but these had been cleared hundreds of years before for farming. The Romans had marched over here, building their long, straight roads, some of which were now part of the route.

Limestone country, and the white rock gave a bright, luminescent feel to the landscape, so that even in the foulest weather it never had the bleak, god-forbidden look of places like Dartmoor with its darker stone, where she had walked the previous summer.

She checked her map and followed the lower trail, which would take her down the hillside to meet a path rising from the hamlet below. She let her thoughts ramble as they did whenever she walked. Not concentrating on anything but aware nevertheless that there was an accounting going on. A weighing up of what she had made of her life, a consideration of what she would like to change, an assessment of her emotional health.

As she rounded the corner she found a stile set in the dry-stone wall. Just beyond it was a cairn of stones and, following tradition, she found a small pebble to add to the mound. Large rocks, fissured and worn, scattered the area and she decided to stop and have lunch among them. She had brought a piece of the creamy Wensleydale cheese, bread rolls, tangy orange tomatoes, locally grown, a flask of coffee and some flapjack. She ate and drank and then closed her eyes, savouring the quiet that was interrupted only by the pee-wit of the lapwing or the melancholy cry of the curlew and the barking call of grouse.

She felt safe on the hills. The nearest she got to peace. ‘The one place I can’t follow her,’ Paul joked. And there was some truth in it. She relished the solitude and gently avoided linking up with other walkers, preferring a brisk ‘good morning’ as she passed them to any conversation.

She would be forty-three next birthday. Her hair was showing grey and every day brought more wrinkles but she felt reasonably fit, work kept her active.

Davey had joined them in the business. He was less interested in the plants but a natural at the landscaping and the structural side of design. People wanted more than a patch of lawn with borders these days and Davey was developing that side of things. He seemed happy with it. She didn’t need to worry about him. Sean was settled too. Doing a computing course. She barely understood what he did but he was happy and had good prospects and he was engaged to an energetic young woman in PR whose confidence was breathtaking.

She had never heard from the Children’s Rescue Society. She had never stopped hoping but sometimes it was hard.

She stirred herself and packed up her rubbish. She hefted the rucksack on to her back, groaning a little at the mild ache in her shoulders. She skirted the rocks and regained the path.

Theresa

‘How was it?’ Craig put his briefcase on the kitchen counter, pulled out a chair.

‘Awful. Just like I expected. Why on earth they can’t just send you the stuff in a sealed envelope and let you get over it in private…’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a safety net, I suppose. Someone to listen, could be quite traumatic…’

‘Craig, there was a letter.’

‘What?’

‘A letter. From her.’ Her face crumpled, her brown eyes glimmered. ‘I never thought… It’s all very nice but I didn’t want… I just…’

‘Tess.’ He went to hug her. She pulled away after a minute and handed him the white envelope.

He drew out the paper and read it. He blinked several times, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘Jeez. She was sixteen. Caroline.’

‘You think I should write back?’

He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘God knows. This was written in nineteen seventy-eight. She’s not heard anything in all this time…’

‘So I should feel sorry for her,’ she said resentfully.

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘I feel cornered,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want this. I didn't ask to be born. I didn’t ask to be adopted.’

‘What did the counsellor say?’

‘“Take some time”.’ We haven’t got time though, have we? I still need to know about the medical stuff. There’s nothing here -’ she gestured to a large, manilla envelope – ‘only a basic check they do at the home.’ Her hand sought out her ear. He didn’t miss the movement.

‘I feel so cross, there’s nothing to help with Ella, nothing. So that means if I want any more I need to trace Caroline and then write or get the agency to write and ask specifically. And what if it’s on my father’s side. There’s no indication who he was. It’s a nightmare.’

She looked at him. He looked haggard, his face creasing. She knew what he was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’

‘This counsellor could write for you?’

‘First we’d have to track her down. There’s no address on the letter. And they haven’t any record of where she is. She could have left her address.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be found, a new family and all. She just wanted to leave something for you, wanted you to know.’

‘Wanted forgiving?’

‘That’s a bit harsh. I know I can’t really imagine what it’s like for you but she was sixteen, Theresa, a schoolgirl. She obviously thinks about you…’

‘Don’t. You’re right, you don’t know.’

In the days that followed she found herself obsessed by thoughts of Caroline. She read and reread the letter, her feelings swinging from fury at being abandoned to compassion for the woman. She tried to imagine Caroline. She’d be forty-two. Married, two sons. Was she happy? Moments of spite pricked through her thoughts – hope she’s lonely, lost without me, hope she’s regretted it. She despised herself for such petty, cruel impulses. She was tearful too. When Craig was out she allowed herself to indulge in bouts of weeping, wondering where all the tears came from, whether this was a delayed case of postnatal depression. She was exhausted. She had to act.

‘I’m going back for more counselling with Helen next week. I’m all over the place with this. I’m going to start the tracing. Mum will have Ella for me.’

‘What does your mum say about it all?’

‘Haven’t told her yet, there wasn’t a chance really, just said I had a meeting. I don’t want to upset her. She’s on the waiting list now, for the hysterectomy. She’s a lot on her plate. I just need to find the right time.’ She felt awful keeping it from Kay, but she was frightened of what her reaction would be. She couldn’t bear it if Kay was distressed by it. It might be best to wait until she’d had her operation and recovered.

Ella thrived but their pleasure in her was shadowed by the fear that she was ill. That something lurked inside her waiting to rear up and create fresh delirium, fresh traumas.