Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘Craig, I’ve found her, it’s the right place. She wasn’t there but her husband answered. Oh, God!’ She stopped speaking.

‘Good God!’ Craig said.

‘I can write or get Helen to, she said it’s best to use an intermediary at first. Oh, God. I can’t believe it. It’s really her. Somerset… No, I’m fine. I’m going to ring Mum, let her know. Yes, see you later.’

She paced some more, her face alert with excitement, shaking her head with disbelief, and then rang her mother.

‘Mum, it’s me. I rang that number, it’s the right one. She wasn’t there though, she’s away, but I spoke to her husband. Pardon? No, not like that, just to ask for her, and he said could he help, he was Paul Wainwright. Probably thought it was a customer or something, it’s a nursery and garden centre.’ Sudden, unexpected emotion robbed her of further speech or coherent thought. She listened to her mother’s congratulations and fought to retain control. She cleared her throat. ‘Talk later,’ she managed. ‘Bye.’

She locked the door to her office and returned to her chair, the tears already splashing down her face. Like a dam bursting, bringing relief and easing the awful pressure in her chest. She let it all go. All those hours in the records office searching, peering over microfiches and registers. The awful fear of not getting there in time.

Once she had found the marriage certificate she had to go all the way to Bristol to follow up the records. It had been hard, the family had moved. But she tried local phone directories in adjoining counties and found Wainwrights listed in both the residential and the business section in listings for Somerset. Now she had found her. Even if they never met, never spoke, she knew where she was. And she could write and ask about Ella.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She had a tutorial group in fifteen minutes. She went to the ladies’ and washed her face. Tried to make herself presentable. It obviously didn’t work, for on the way back she passed her colleague Dan Kingsley, who looked at her with concern. ‘Theresa? Bad news?’

‘No.’ She smiled and with alarm felt her eyes water again. ‘Good. Just a bit hard to take in. Found my birth mother,’ she explained. ‘I’m adopted.’

‘Oh,’ he said, disconcerted, and his face flooded with colour.

‘And now I’m late for my ethics tutorial.’

‘Busman’s holiday, eh? Digging up your past? Mining for information.’

‘Very good, Dan.’ She was grateful for his clumsy humour. ‘I’d best go. First years and still keen…’

Caroline

The address was handwritten and the sender had printed Private in the top left hand corner. That alerted Caroline’s curiosity but that was all.

She invariably opened her mail when she stopped for coffee halfway through the morning. Carl the postman called in about ten most days and the bulk of the mail was for the business.

She assumed the letter would be from one of the work-experience students wanting a reference or some local youngster enquiring about vacancies. Unemployment was high in the area, farms were going to the wall, and although people were moving into villages they weren’t bringing jobs with them. They were commuters, happy to spend a couple of hours a day travelling into the city.

Dear Caroline Wainwright,

I am writing on behalf of Theresa Murray, who I believe you knew briefly in Manchester in May 1960. Theresa would very much like to contact you and has left a letter with me to give to you.

Would you please ring or write and let me know if I can pass this on to you?

If you have any queries I would be more than happy to talk with you, at your convenience, in complete confidence.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs Helen Fairley

She scrambled to her feet, spilling her coffee. No, it couldn’t be. No. She stood by the desk, staring at the letter as though it might lash out and bite her. Theresa Murray. Theresa. The name rang in her head like a bell. The name she’d chosen. She tried to imagine her but the picture she had in her mind was of an infant, Baby Theresa. What was she going to do? How could she possibly tell Paul? Or Davey and Sean?

She made a moaning noise, sat heavily in the chair and rocked to and fro. The letter before her. Oh, my baby.

After a few minutes she got up and put the snib on the Yale lock on the office door. Her heart was hammering as she dialed the number. She could just get the letter. No one need know.

‘Hello, Helen Fairley here.’

‘This is Caroline Wainwright. You wrote to me,’ she cleared her throat, ‘about Theresa.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you so much for ringing. She will be so pleased. It must have been a terrific shock.’

‘Mmm,’ she mumbled, not trusting herself to speak.

‘I ought to explain my part in all this. I’ve been helping Theresa with her search and counselling her as well. With something like this everyone needs time and space to adjust and it’s not in anyone’s interest to rush into things. I’m what they call an intermediary, a sort of go-between. I’ll be there to support Theresa, and you as well, if you wish, with each stage of the contact process.’

‘My husband doesn't know, my family. I can’t…’ She broke off.

‘You haven’t told anyone about Theresa?’

‘No.’

‘That’s quite a common situation. Theresa already knows that you’re married and that you have two sons, from the letter you sent. We did wonder whether they’d been told anything since. Obviously you have built up a life of your own since the 1960s and Theresa understands the need to respect your privacy and your wishes, though I know she very much hopes to meet you eventually.’

Oh, Theresa. Caroline pressed her lips tight together but there was nothing she could do to contain the tears that began to stream down her face. She sniffed loudly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she squeaked.

‘It’s a very emotional time. A rollercoaster for everybody. If at any time you’d like to talk, then we can meet up. I’m based in London but I can always get the train your way if it’s difficult for you to come up to town.’

‘Tomorrow, I could get there by the afternoon,’ Caroline blurted out. ‘Can I come then? And get the letter?’

‘Yes. I can give you Theresa’s letter then and tell you a bit more about her.’

‘Is she…?’ What? Happy? Lonely? Beautiful? Gifted? Angry? ‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she’s married and she has a little girl. She has a good job as a university lecturer. They have been living in America for some time but now they’ve moved to London.’

Caroline tried to collate all this with the events of twenty-seven years ago and failed completely.

‘I have a photograph for you with the letter.’

Caroline couldn’t talk.

‘Let me give you directions. Will you be driving?’

Mechanically Caroline wrote down the details and agreed that she would aim to arrive after midday.

When the call was over Caroline gathered up the letter and placed it with the directions in the envelope. Her hands were shaking, thoughts helter-skeltered round her mind. She mopped up the coffee from her desk. She took the envelope with her and went up to the house. She washed her face and brushed her hair. It was a grey, cold day but she had to get out. She wasn’t expecting anyone that afternoon, Paul and Davey were visiting a site for a water garden, they wouldn’t be back till later. She left a note for them, saying she’d be home in time for tea. She changed into her walking boots, got her waterproof coat out and let the staff know she was going out, they could run the place for the afternoon.

She walked quickly over the footbridge and into the woods. She began to climb the hillside but she was oblivious to her surroundings. She was in a new dimension, turning the unfamiliar facts over and over in her mind like the nuggets of stone that she carried in the deep pockets of her waxed jacket. Strange as a new language. Theresa had a little girl. That made her a grandma, somehow. She thought of her own grandma, calling her Mouse and entertaining her with her daft antics. Theresa. They’d kept her original name. Theresa. Who was now Theresa Murray, married, a little girl, America, lecturer – Theresa Murray. Would like to meet you. She sifted them again and again. Drumming them into her soul.