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Post date: 24-Sep-2015 18:40:12
As I said before, I’ve never been able to understand why people who were adopted or fostered would have a desire to trace their birth parents. I would far rather let sleeping dogs lie.
I suppose, from a purely practical point of view, there might be some benefit in knowing if you have a family history of various illnesses – my doctor certainly seems to think that I’m disadvantaged by never being able to answer his questions on the subject – but I’m sceptical even of that. What’s the good of knowing that you have a higher than average chance of developing some unpleasant disease? I know I’d rather be in ignorance than being like Bernie, living with the knowledge that she’s already reached a greater age than either of her parents did. And always having at the back of her mind the possibility that she might have inherited a predisposition to motor neurone disease from her mother. Not to mention hoping against hope that she’ll manage to survive long enough to see Lucy through university. She never talks about it, but I know she worries.
But I digress.
I told Bernie about Jane Carrington’s visit. We were sitting in the kitchen having “a brew” after putting Lucy to bed. Bernie didn’t say much, but I could see from her face that she was anxious about the effect that the letter and now this meeting was having on me. When I started telling her about what Jane had said about her mother wanting me to tell her I forgave her, she put out her hand and took hold of mine. I think she wanted to be supportive, but couldn’t honestly say that she thought I’d got things right.
Round about that point in the conversation, Stan came in from the garden to wash his hands at the sink. He had been feeding his pigeons. Afterwards, he dried his hands very slowly and deliberately and then came over and sat down with us.
‘I know it’s none of my business,’ he began, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing.’
Neither Bernie nor I said anything, so he went on.
‘I have to say, young Peter, that I thought better of you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bernie asked sharply, giving him a hard look. ‘I’m sure she knew what he was getting at, but she didn’t like anyone criticising me – especially when she knew how badly I was feeling.’
‘I mean – I always had you down as a kind sort of person, but what you said to that poor woman wasn’t kind at all, was it?’
I stared down at the table, feeling like a small boy who had been told off by a favourite teacher.
‘Have you tried to see it from your mother’s point of view?’ he asked, remorselessly. ‘How do you know that she didn’t want desperately to keep her baby, but other people prevented her? How do you know that she hasn’t been longing all these years to find him? And now she does, and all you can say is, “I’m glad you gave me away because you’d have been a rotten mother anyway!”’
‘Peter never said that!’ Bernie protested.
‘As good as – eh, Peter?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘I knew I was out of order a soon as I’d said it, but it was too late then. I just wanted to make them go away!’
‘Well, it’s your choice,’ Stan said, getting up to go. ‘I’d just like to suggest that it wouldn’t really do you so much harm just to pick up the phone and speak to her yourself.’
Of course, I knew he was right. I had known all along that I couldn’t leave things the way they were. But it was a long time before I could pluck up the courage to ring the number that my “mother” had given in her letter. What could we possibly have to say to one another? How could I prevent her developing expectations that we would continue to communicate and ultimately to forge some sort of “relationship” with one another, without saying things that would be hurtful to her?
When I did eventually ring, she was pathetically grateful to me. However many times I reiterated that no blame attached to her, she seemed unable to comprehend that I did not hold it against her that she had abandoned me – as she saw it – as a baby. She kept thanking me for be prepared to speak to her despite what she had put me through – and was quite impervious to my protestations that she hadn’t put me through anything at all!
In the end, the only way I managed to get her off the line was to agree that we would meet – just once – so that she could see for herself how I had turned out and whether I looked as much like my “father” as she remembered I had done from the TV appearance. The whole idea was very much against my better judgement, but, remembering how disappointed Stan had been in me, I didn’t dare to express my dislike of the idea as forcefully as I would have liked to have done. I did put my foot down at her suggestion that I might come to stay at her house. I insisted that we meet on neutral territory.
In the end, we agreed on Manchester Piccadilly Station, which was as convenient as anywhere and would provide both parties with an easy exit if things went wrong. She tried to persuade me to bring the kids with me, but I refused. I had no intention of ever letting on about her existence to either Hannah or Eddie.