Wythenshawe was the other side of Manchester, near the airport. A stall on Tib Street and Grey Mare Lane, a market. Nina had never been there but it would be like the market in Longsight, she thought, cheap and cheerful. Was that what Megan did? Worked on the market with her family? Outdoors in all weathers. She might be really common, swearing and rollers in her hair, like Hilda Ogden off Coronation Street. And what would Megan make of Nina? A right snob? But then when she was adopted that’s what people wanted, didn’t they? A better life, a good home for their child.
In Piccadilly the pigeons flew in an arc around the gardens. The place was noisy and busy and her bus was full so she had to stand all the way back. If she got stuck tracing Megan she could always try finding her father first in Wythenshawe, look in the phone book. Nina was getting closer. The bus lurched to a halt suddenly as the driver swerved to avoid a car. People muttered and cursed. Nina straightened up, smiled at the woman who’d bumped into her. She must tell Chloe. What next? She could try and find a marriage at the records place so she’d know if Megan had changed her name, or she could just go up to the markets the woman had talked about and see if anyone knew where the family had moved. Or try the Housing Department, but she thought they might be a bit cagey about giving details out unless you could prove a connection. She could even put a little advert in the paper. But that felt scary. How would people contact her anyway without Marjorie and Robert finding out? It was probably best to wait and get her proper records. After all, Megan might have sent details of where she was so she could be easily found. Yes, she’d hang on and do that first.
‘There are only the formal records, I’m afraid,’ the counsellor said. She held the large manilla envelope in her hand. Nina wanted to snatch it from her.
‘Sometimes there is a letter or photo but that’s less likely because of the time when you were adopted. In the sixties your birth mother would have been told very clearly that she was giving up all right to you, she had to swear in court, to make everything legal.’ She drew out the papers. ‘I’ll just explain what’s here and then I’ll give you a little time to yourself if that’s what you’d like?’
Nina nodded. Get on with it. Her palms were damp and her throat felt as though she’d overeaten.
‘This is the History Sheet.’ She showed Nina a typed-up form. ‘It would have been made by the social worker when your mother first applied to the society for help, and attached are some notes obviously made after you were born. Then there’s this medical record – all the children had to be examined by the doctor, of course. I’ll be next door if you need anything or want to ask any questions.’
Nina felt disappointment steal through her. There was so little. She read it through slowly. There was some new information. Her mother’s age – sixteen, only sixteen – and a note that she had been a packer in a factory. She read the handwritten sheet.
24/5/60 Baby girl born at Withington. Both well.
27/5/60 Baby baptised Claire by Father Quinlan.
10/7/60 Baby placed for adoption with Mr and Mrs Underwood, 29 Darley Road, West Didsbury, Manchester.
12/7/60 Megan discharged home.
Two days after, oh God! She wiped at her eyes. Looked at the medical form – nothing there of interest except her birth weight, six pounds twelve ounces.
Nothing about who the father might be or how Megan came to be pregnant.
No letters.
No photo.
She had been expecting so much more.
Maybe Megan didn’t care, hadn’t cared. Maybe ‘Claire’ had been the result of some silly mistake, larking about with some loser from the market or the factory, him taking advantage and bingo, a bun in the oven. A problem to be got rid of. Forgotten about. These days she’d have an abortion, it was illegal back then and dangerous. Nina was furious. She hated her. How could she just leave her like that? Walk away and never, not once, think about her and leave some sign.
When the counsellor returned, Nina tried to hide her rage but it was too big for that, clambering all over her.
‘I want to punch her,’ she blurted out. ‘That sounds stupid doesn’t it?’
The counsellor talked about anger and emotions and how she might feel lots of different things and try to accept them. She gave her leaflets and a magazine. She told her to take things at her own pace and to come back any time if she wanted to. She talked about the importance of using a go-between if she tried to find her mother, an intermediary she called it. Less threatening all round. Nina nodded to show she was listening but already her thoughts were racing ahead. She’d find her, see what she had to say for herself.
‘Some people wait a long time, years and years, before they are ready to start tracing, some don’t go further than this, it’s enough for them.’
Not for me, Nina thought. Can’t stop now. It was the only thing she could think of. She had to do it, the sooner the better. Whatever it was like.
Marjorie
‘We don’t know where to turn, Father. It’s affected the whole family. I’m only glad Stephen doesn’t have to put up with it.’
‘He’s gone to Birmingham, is that right?’
‘Yes, he’s doing really well. But Nina, this constant depression. Moodiness. I can’t remember the last time there was any joy in the house. It’s like walking on eggshells.’
‘Adolescence is a tricky time,’ he agreed, ‘hormones all over the place, identity crisis, the rest of the world all seem to be against you. But it will pass.’
‘Will it? I don’t know, I think it’s more than just the usual teenage ups and downs.’
‘You’re not the first parent to sit here and say that. When you’re in the middle of it, it seems never ending. Talk to your husband, try and share this, support each other.’
If only, she thought. Robert had completely withdrawn from any attempt to be a father to Nina. He endured her presence at mealtimes and that was it. Marjorie felt as if they were all actors pretending to be a family but with no conviction.
None of them ever referred to the night in France. Marjorie had tried to talk to Nina about it. Just the once. ‘I’m sorry,’ she had said the following morning as the two of them sat on the verandah eating bread and apricot preserve and drinking coffee. The sight of Nina’s face sickened her. ‘Nina, I’m sure he never really…’
‘It wasn’t you,’ Nina said. ‘You don’t need to be sorry. I don’t want to talk about it, anyway.’
It was like a boulder of shame rolling round the house, like a leg iron they each wore, silent and invisible but dragging the life from them. She could never tell the priest about it. That would be disloyal. And Nina had been difficult before then.
She knew Nina continued to drink too much, probably meddled with drugs as well but she no longer flaunted her abandonment for the family to see. She spent a lot of time at her friend Chloe’s. She had become secretive, withdrawn and uncommunicative. The fight had gone from her and now she was sullen instead.
‘I don’t know how to help her, Father. There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do.’
The priest nodded. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘That’s all you can do. Be there for her and listen.’
What to, she thought, the sound of silence?
Nina
‘Have you no regard for your mother’s feelings?’ Robert thundered, his face dark with rage.
‘I never asked you to,’ Nina retorted and then, sensing rather than seeing her mother flinch, she reined in her temper. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you, I knew you’d be upset. I’ve a right to find out about my own background. Lots of adopted people do it.’