Newcastle, late May
Since Sam’s fortieth birthday at the end of April, Adela had been attending church on a Sunday morning. The congregation of the Gospel Missionary Church met in a small redbrick building in Sandyford, a modest suburb of railway workers’ terraces. Their grander church had been destroyed during the War.
‘Don’t know why you want to go there instead of St Oswald’s with me,’ Tilly had said in bafflement. ‘I bet the sermon’s twice as long and you don’t get all the local gossip afterwards.’
‘Lexy likes to go,’ Adela had said, ‘so I said I’d take her.’
Sam had given her sceptical looks but didn’t question her sudden interest in religion. They didn’t talk about much any more. Her attempt to give him a special birthday by inviting his mother to a picnic tea in the local park had been a disaster. The cake Adela had made collapsed in the tin and Mrs Jackman had spent the afternoon chiding Adela for not asking her to make it. A dog had run off with the cold sausages and rain finally chased them indoors. Sam had taken his mother home and didn’t return in time for Adela to take him to the cinema. By then she had polished off a bottle of sherry with Josey in the kitchen while Tilly worked in the sitting room on the stamp collection she was building up since leaving her old one in India.
Adela had not been able to hide her annoyance. ‘Your mother knew we were going to the pictures. I really wanted to see Black Narcissus.’
‘We can go another night,’ Sam had said, eyeing the empty bottle. ‘Anyway, you seem to have made the best of your evening without me.’
‘At least Josey knows how to have fun,’ Adela had retorted.
‘Leave me out of this,’ Josey had said, getting up from the table. ‘You lovebirds need time alone.’
Adela had tried to curb her resentment at Sam’s mother spoiling the birthday but in bed that night, she pretended a headache so they didn’t make love.
‘Drinking too much gives you that,’ Sam had muttered and rolled away from her.
Adela had lain awake feeling wretched and wracked with guilt. Why had her interest in sex shrivelled so quickly? It wasn’t that she didn’t love Sam, so what was the problem? But after that, Sam only spoke to her about the mundane day-to-day running of the café and kept out of her way. His commissions for wedding photography were increasing and took him all over Newcastle. On Sundays he went off with his camera on long walks and sometimes didn’t return until suppertime. Adela knew that she should be putting more effort into her marriage but all she could think about was tracking down her lost son.
She felt achingly alone. Why did Sam not understand her yearning to find her boy? Surely, he of all people should realise how she felt? He had been wrenched from his mother at an early age and knew how damaging it was to have the mother-son bond severed. If only he would let her talk about it, she could make him understand, but he never brought up the subject. Adela consoled herself with the hope that finding her son would bring her and Sam together again in a common purpose – loving John Wesley and giving him a home. That was her unspoken dream; it’s what kept her going through the relentless drudgery and worry of running the café. She would patch things up with Sam soon.
At least Lexy still understood her need to find John Wesley. When Adela had shown her the letter from the Reverend Stevens of the mission society, her friend had been indignant at its patronising tone. ‘Thinks he’s better than the likes of us lasses – the cheek of it!’ It had spurred her on to help in the search.
It was Maggie, Lexy’s old friend, who had remembered the name of the women who had come from the mission church to take away Adela’s baby in 1939. Mrs Singer and Miss Trimble.
‘Reminded me of sewing machines and thimble,’ Maggie had said in a rare moment of lucidity. ‘Singer and Trimble.’
Adela had tracked down the congregation – now reduced to a couple of dozen mostly female attendees – to the small hall in Sandyford. Lexy had agreed to go with her if Adela would drive her in the café van. This had been another cause of friction with Sam, when he’d wanted the van to get to an outlying village to take photos at a christening. Tilly had quelled the argument by offering Sam her car instead.
It was three Sundays before Adela plucked up the courage to ask about Singer and Trimble. She stayed behind to talk to the elderly preacher.
‘Miss Trimble died last year,’ the pastor said. ‘But Mrs Singer is still very much with us, I believe. How do you know her?’
Adela hesitated. Lexy said, ‘She used to come in the tearoom where I worked. Lost touch during the War. It would be canny to see her again.’
‘I’m afraid she doesn’t live in Newcastle any more,’ the preacher said.
‘Where is she?’ asked Adela.
He frowned. ‘I think it was Durham. She went to live with her daughter.’
Adela’s insides twisted in disappointment. ‘Do you know where?’
He gave her an enquiring look. ‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘But you know she’s still alive?’ Adela persisted.
‘She keeps in touch with Mrs Kelly, the organist.’ He looked around. ‘It would appear she’s already gone home.’
Adela could hardly curb her impatience for the following Sunday morning to come. She made sure that she spoke to Mrs Kelly before she left church. The woman was large and wheezed as loudly as the bellows on the ancient organ that she wrestled with each week.
She beamed at the mention of her friend. ‘I was that sad when Lily moved away. But her daughter married and settled down Durham way and Lily was already widowed so she followed her. Friends of hers you said? Not regular church people though? Lovely voice you have, pet. Noticed it straight away. Makes a difference to the hymns.’
‘Thanks.’ Adela smiled. ‘We were wondering if you could put us in touch with Mrs Singer – with Lily. The minister said you’d know her address.’
‘Well, I’m sure she’d like a letter from an old friend,’ Mrs Kelly agreed. ‘My memory’s like a sieve but I’ve got it written down. I’ll bring it for you next Sunday.’
With a warning look from Lexy, Adela hid her frustration. ‘That’s canny of you, Mrs Kelly,’ said Lexy. ‘We’ll see you next week.’
It was early June before Adela got the address for Lily Singer. Afterwards Lexy said, ‘Does that mean I divn’t have to gan to church again? That preacher could put me to sleep standing up.’
‘I really appreciated you coming – but you can have a lie-in from now on,’ Adela said.
‘So are you going to write to her?’ Lexy asked.
‘No, I’m going to go over and visit her.’
Lexy shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You can’t just turn up on her doorstep.’
‘If I write she will just palm me off with the usual reply that she can’t tell me where John Wesley is.’
‘And what if she never knew where he was sent?’ Lexy asked.
‘Then I won’t be any worse off than I am now,’ said Adela. ‘At least if I can look her in the eye, I’ll be able to tell if she knows something.’
Lexy scrutinised her. ‘And are you going to tell Sam why you’re waltzing off to Durham?’
Adela felt a familiar pang of guilt over Sam. ‘I don’t think so. Not until I have something worth telling him. He’ll only get annoyed at me. I don’t think he really wants me to find my son at all.’
‘Well, maybe’s he’s right,’ Lexy said bluntly. ‘You should be looking to start your own family together. That’s the best way to get over losing the bairn.’
Adela gave her a bleak look. ‘That’s the problem – I can’t.’ She tried to put her deepest feelings into words. ‘It’s like I would be betraying John Wesley by having another baby.’
‘Don’t be daft!’
‘I know it sounds selfish of me – Sam longs for a child – but once we have one then I’m admitting that I’ve given up on my boy. And I just can’t bring myself to do that.’
‘Stop being so hard on yersel’, hinny,’ Lexy said with a pitying look. ‘You did what any young lass would have done in your position.’
Adela’s look was full of sorrow. ‘I can’t help it. And I won’t ever forgive myself if I don’t find out what’s happened to my boy.’
‘Then you must let Sam know how you feel,’ said Lexy. ‘’Cause he’s going around with the look of a dog that’s been kicked.’
Adela winced. ‘I just need to meet this Mrs Singer and find out what happened – then I’ll be able to put it behind me.’
Lexy gave her a look of disbelief which left Adela feeling hollow inside. She didn’t want to hurt the people she loved the most but she had to find out about John Wesley or she would go out of her mind.
After Adela had time to think it through, she realised it would be better to write to Mrs Singer first rather than risk travelling to Durham to find she wasn’t at home. She wrote a vague letter saying that she had recently joined the church and wished to meet so she could talk to Lily about her work with the adoption society. Lily Singer wrote back inviting her to visit on her next day off.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Adela arranged for Josey to cover for her at the café. She chose that day knowing that Sam was being hired by a local newspaper to take pictures of people at the annual races and would be out all day. Only Lexy and Josey knew where she was going.
That morning, Sam was in a good mood with his day of photography ahead.
‘What do you want to do for your birthday next week?’ he asked. ‘Would you like to go to the pictures? There’s a Ronald Colman film on at the Gaumont.’
She was touched that he had given it some thought and felt a guilty pang that she was going behind his back to see Mrs Singer.
‘That would be lovely,’ she agreed.
‘Good,’ he said with a smile – that familiar dimpled smile that used to make her stomach do flips.
She almost confessed there and then about tracking down the woman from the adoption society but didn’t want to wipe the cherished smile from his handsome face. She would explain everything to him when they had time alone on her birthday.
‘Off you go,’ said Adela, brushing his lips with a quick kiss. ‘You don’t want to be late for Plate Day.’
He strode from the house, whistling. It was the first time she’d heard that for weeks. Adela’s insides tightened with sudden anxiety; she hoped what she learnt from Mrs Singer wouldn’t drive a wedge further between her and Sam.
As Adela walked down the steep hill from Durham railway station in warm sunshine, the Cathedral bells were striking three o’clock. She had only ever seen the city from the train – the fortress cathedral set on its wooded peninsula – and if she hadn’t been so intent on seeing Mrs Singer she would have been curious to see more.
Following instructions that took her under a viaduct, Adela descended into tightly packed terraces of blackened brick houses and on down a wider street of shops that led to an ancient stone bridge spanning the River Wear. Crumbling housing clung to the riverbank on one side, while the other was crammed with twisting lanes flanked by tall elegant buildings. The narrow streets were busy with shoppers and traffic. It struck her how Sam would enjoy photographing all this.
Quelling thoughts of her husband, Adela walked briskly on through the market place, where a policeman was directing traffic from a central box, and made for the far side. Here the street banked steeply once again. She was perspiring and breathless by the time she climbed to the top of Claypath and turned into a cluster of terraced housing.
Adela’s heart was drumming with nerves as she knocked on Lily Singer’s door. She was surprised to see a dark-haired woman not much older than herself answer it.
‘You’ve come to see Mam?’ she asked.
Adela swallowed and nodded, realising this was Lily’s daughter.
‘Come in. I’m Dorothy.’ She opened the door wide so Adela could step into the tiny hallway. ‘Mam’s just in there.’ She pointed to an open door. ‘Mam! Your visitor is here.’ She turned and beckoned Adela into the room. ‘Go on in, I’ll bring tea in a minute.’
From somewhere deeper in the house, Adela could hear the chatter of children’s voices.
She stepped into a small, neat sitting room which felt chilly after the heat of outside. The furniture was plain and functional: an oval table with wooden chairs, and an upright green sofa with wooden arms. Sitting in a high-backed chair next to it was a stout woman with badly swollen legs. Lily Singer had wavy greying hair and a double chin which increased when she smiled, which, judging by the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, was often.
‘Forgive me if I don’t stand up, Mrs Jackman,’ she said. ‘My legs aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Don’t apologise, Mrs Singer,’ Adela said quickly, crossing the room to shake her hand. It still surprised her when people called her by her married name: she still thought of herself as a Robson.
‘Please sit down,’ said Lily, waving her to the sofa. ‘It’s so nice to get a visit – I don’t see many folk these days.’
Adela perched on the edge of the sofa and smoothed her skirt over her knees. It was a plain utility one to go with the modest blouse and cardigan she was wearing; she wanted to impress on Mrs Singer that she was a respectable married woman. At Lily’s feet was a basket of wool and some abandoned knitting.
‘What are you knitting?’ Adela asked, for something to say.
‘Jumper for my grandson.’ Lily smiled. ‘I’ve unravelled two old jerkins that my husband used to wear. Our Michael says he doesn’t like brown but I’ve told him waste-not-want-not. Fancy being eight years old and fussy about clothes!’
Adela’s stomach fluttered. Lily’s grandson was the same age as John Wesley. For a wild moment, she wondered if it was possible that this woman might have kept the baby herself. Perhaps daughter Dorothy couldn’t have children.
‘Is he your only grandchild?’ Adela asked.
‘No, I’ve got five in all,’ said Lily. ‘Dorothy’s three and my other daughter has twins. I don’t see them as much as they live in Cumberland but I knit for them too. Like to keep busy – ’specially as I don’t get out the house much.’
Adela felt a kick of disappointment, yet she would still like to see this Michael just to be sure. Then doubt gripped her. Would she know if it was John Wesley or not? How would she recognise a boy she hadn’t seen since he was a few days old? Adela nearly lost her nerve. She shouldn’t have come. She was here under false pretences and poor unsuspecting Mrs Singer didn’t deserve to be put in this situation.
‘But I’ve got nothing to complain about,’ Lily continued. ‘I’m blessed to have my grandchildren – they’ve kept me going since my dear husband was taken from me five years ago.’
Adela licked her dry lips and nodded, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. ‘Mrs Kelly sends her warmest regards.’
‘Dear Doris!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘How I miss her and the folk from church. Tell me all about them.’
Adela tried to answer Lily’s many questions about the congregation and the move to the Sandyford hall but it was obvious the woman was disappointed with her lack of detailed knowledge.
‘I haven’t been going there very long,’ Adela admitted. ‘But they’ve been very welcoming.’
‘They are, aren’t they?’ agreed Lily. ‘So tell me about yourself, Mrs Jackman.’
Adela hadn’t really wanted to say much about herself but Lily had a warmth of personality that invited confidences. She found herself telling the widow about being brought up in India, marrying Sam and coming back to Newcastle to help run the family tearoom founded by her mother.
‘You see my family were from the North East originally. My Belhaven grandfather was from North Northumberland and I have an aunt and cousins in Newcastle.’
Mrs Singer’s eyes were wide with interest. ‘Which tearoom is it?’
‘Herbert’s,’ said Adela, ‘in the West End.’
Lily nodded enthusiastically. ‘I remember going there when Dorothy was little. There was that nice park nearby. We’d go there for a cup of tea and the lady in charge would always give Dorothy a toffee. Would that be your mother?’
‘Probably the manageress Lexy.’ Adela smiled. ‘Mother went back to India with my father after the Great War.’
They were interrupted by Dorothy bringing in a tray of tea things, a girl of about three following and clinging on to her skirt while peering at the visitor. She reminded Adela of fair-haired little Bonnie.
‘Hello.’ Adela smiled at her. ‘What’s your name?’
The girl darted behind her mother.
‘This is Maureen,’ said Dorothy. ‘Say hello to the lady, Maureen.’
Adela went down on her knees as the girl peeped out again. ‘I see you!’ Adela grinned. ‘Hello, Maureen.’
The girl gave a shy smile.
‘Where’s your big brother Michael?’ asked Adela.
‘Playing football,’ Maureen whispered. Then she turned and ran out of the room.
Dorothy said to Adela, ‘I hope you don’t mind if I leave you to pour the tea while I keep an eye on the children?’
‘Of course not,’ said Adela, relieved that she would not have to ask awkward questions in front of the younger woman.
As Adela put a cup down on the side table next to Lily, the older woman asked, ‘Do you have children, dear?’
Adela’s stomach lurched. ‘My husband and I haven’t managed to have a baby yet.’
‘All in good time.’ Lily gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I know you haven’t come here just to chat to me – pleasant as that is. What is it you would like to know, Mrs Jackman?’
Adela sat down again and tried to calm the thumping in her chest.
‘I – I wanted to ask you about your work with the adoption society – the one the mission church used to run in Newcastle.’
‘I’m not sure I can help you. I haven’t been involved with the society since early in the War,’ said Lily. ‘You’d be better off speaking to the minister if you’re thinking of adopting. He can put you in touch with the society.’
‘But you used to help with the children – the babies – that were given up for adoption?’ Adela asked.
‘I wasn’t one of the inner circle who made decisions,’ said Lily, looking puzzled. ‘But I did help with fostering now and again before the babies were found parents.’
Adela’s heart drummed to think this woman might have cared for John Wesley and cradled him in her ample arms. She took a deep breath.
‘Did you foster a baby boy just before the War? A baby with black hair and skin a bit darker than mine?’ She ploughed on. ‘You went to Cullercoats with Miss Trimble to fetch him . . .’
Lily’s expression changed. She stared at Adela.
‘You remember him, don’t you?’ Adela pressed her.
It seemed an age before Lily spoke. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed four o’clock.
‘Are you the mother?’ Lily finally asked.
Adela’s eyes smarted. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Please tell me what happened to him.’
Lily gave her a pitying look. ‘He went to a good home – to parents who wanted him.’
Adela was cut by the remark. ‘I wasn’t able to keep him – not then – but I’ve regretted it ever since.’
‘Many girls have made the same mistake,’ said Lily. ‘But at least you’ve got a husband now, so be thankful for small mercies. Does he know about the baby?’
Adela nodded.
‘And does he know you’re here?’
Adela shook her head. Her throat was so constricted she couldn’t speak.
‘Go home to him, Mrs Jackman,’ said Lily, her tone sharper, ‘and just be grateful for what you have.’
Adela gave her a pleading look. ‘Just tell me something about my boy.’
Lily sighed. ‘I don’t have anything to tell – I hardly saw him.’
‘Did you look after him?’
‘Just for a couple of nights at the most. There was a childless couple ready to take him.’
‘What were they like?’
Lily looked agitated. ‘I shouldn’t be talking about them and you shouldn’t be asking. I’m sorry for you, dear, but if I’d known this was why you’d come I wouldn’t have agreed to see you.’
Adela felt tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Singer. I know it’s wrong of me. But I can’t go on not knowing what became of John Wesley. It’s eating away inside me. I’ve tried to forget and get on with my life but I can’t. Coming back to Newcastle has made it worse. Please, I beg of you – tell me something about his adoptive parents – so I can picture him happy. Your grandson Michael is the same age. Imagine if you never knew what had happened to him!’
‘My daughter is a good Christian girl,’ Lily protested. ‘She would never have got herself into such a mess.’
Adela fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped her face. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Singer, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She stood up to go. ‘Please forgive me for coming here like this. You’re a good person and don’t deserve to be tricked.’ Adela picked up her handbag. ‘Thank you for looking after my son – even for a short time. I’m glad it was someone caring like you. That gives me comfort.’
She walked to the door. As she reached for the handle, Lily spoke.
‘She used to come to the church – the lady that adopted your boy. She was a kind soul but a bit lonely. They weren’t from round there, didn’t know many people. Husband had come to Newcastle for work.’
Adela turned towards Lily and held her breath, willing her to say more. When she didn’t, Adela dared to ask, ‘Where were they from?’
‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Lily, ‘but they were foreign.’
‘Foreign?’ Adela gasped in surprise.
‘Yes, French, I think. That’s why we thought the baby would suit them, with him not being quite white-skinned. They looked the same, you see – especially the father.’
Adela felt light-headed. She wasn’t aware of a Frenchwoman among the congregation but surely it would be possible to trace a French couple in Newcastle?
‘Don’t ask me anything more about them,’ Lily cautioned. ‘I don’t know what happened to them. Probably went back to France. But you mustn’t tell anyone that I told you. It’s in strictest confidence. You won’t go bothering them if they’re still in Newcastle, will you?’
‘No, Mrs Singer,’ said Adela, blinking away fresh tears. ‘I promise you I won’t bother them. I’m so very grateful for what you’ve told me. My worst fear was that my son was in an institution with no one really caring for him.’ Adela managed a tearful smile. ‘But I like the sound of this French couple – so thank you.’
She went swiftly so that she wouldn’t have to explain her distressed state to Dorothy or the curious Maureen. Adela closed the front door behind her and hurried blindly down the hill.
Adela saw Sam pacing outside Tilly’s house, smoking, as she rounded the corner. She tensed, ready for his anger. Her head was fuzzy from the couple of sherries she had stopped to drink in the station buffet. She had wanted to clear her head and think about everything Lily had told her. The third sherry had been a mistake.
‘Where have you been all this time?’ Sam demanded, stamping out his cigarette. ‘It’s practically dark. Mother said you left Josey in charge. What’s been going on? Josey went off to the theatre without saying a word.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Adela, ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’
‘Who’ve you been with?’
Seeing his troubled look, Adela couldn’t lie. ‘I’ve been to Durham – it took longer than I thought.’
‘Durham? Why?’
‘To see a widow from the church.’
‘What widow?’
‘You don’t know her – it was a pastoral visit.’
He searched her face. ‘If you’d told me about it sooner we could have gone together – had a day out.’
‘You had your work for the paper,’ said Adela. ‘Did it go well?’
‘It did,’ he answered, his tone sharp, ‘but I want to know more about this mysterious visit to Durham that has taken till nine at night.’
‘Let’s go inside, Sam, and talk about it there. I’m tired.’
Sam grabbed her arm as she tried to step past. ‘Do you expect me to believe that you spent all this time with a devout widow when you come home reeking of booze? Don’t treat me like a fool!’
Adela gaped at him. Did Sam suspect her of infidelity? She felt terrible for making him worry about such a thing, yet she was aghast he could even think it.
‘Please, Sam, don’t make a scene in the street,’ she hissed. ‘Come inside and I’ll tell you.’
He let go his grip and followed her in. The house was quiet.
‘Where’s Tilly?’ Adela asked.
‘Out to dinner with Jamie and Mungo,’ said Sam, ‘celebrating Mungo’s end of term.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten she was doing that. Nice to think of Mungo being around for the summer.’ She headed for the kitchen. She needed black tea to clear her head. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Flicking on the kitchen light, Adela winced at the glare of electric light. Sam could not contain his impatience. He took her by the shoulders and forced her to look into his face.
‘Don’t treat me like a stranger, Adela,’ he said, his jaw clenching. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
She flinched at the stormy look in his hazel eyes – eyes that were usually filled with compassion and love – and looked away.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she said. ‘I really have been to Durham to see a woman from the church.’
‘Then why all the secrecy?’ Sam asked, the traces of suspicion still evident in his voice. ‘I don’t see why you want to keep me away from your church friends. I’m the one who used to be a missionary, remember? I’m not allergic to religion.’
Adela gave a ghost of a smile. Sam always tried to defuse arguments with humour – until recently when they had begun to grow apart. She realised that it was largely her fault for pushing him away but she knew he wouldn’t like what she had to tell him.
‘It wasn’t really a pastoral visit,’ Adela admitted. ‘I went to see Mrs Singer for my own benefit – for what I hoped she could tell me.’
‘So who is Mrs Singer?’
Adela braced herself to tell him. ‘She was one of the women from the church adoption society who took John Wesley away.’
Sam dropped his hold and stepped back as if he had been physically struck. ‘How did you find her?’
‘Through the church.’
‘So that’s why you’ve suddenly found religion,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘Why else do you think I go there?’ said Adela, willing him to understand.
‘But you didn’t want me to go with you – not to church – and not to see this Mrs Singer.’
‘I didn’t want to put you through all this,’ said Adela, ‘in case nothing came of it.’
‘But I am part of this,’ Sam protested. ‘How can I not be? I’m your husband!’
‘’Cause I know you don’t really want me to find my baby,’ Adela cried.
‘But it’s true – deep down it’s true – and I don’t blame you, Sam. Finding him can never mean the same to you – and I don’t expect it to – though I want you to love him too. But I can’t go on any longer pretending that it isn’t the most important thing in my life.’ She saw him flinch, yet she had to explain or the unhappiness that was gnawing inside her would destroy them both.
‘Today I discovered that my son was adopted by a childless French couple – here in Newcastle. I’m so happy to hear that he’s not in an institution. Mrs Singer said they were kind people.’
Sam’s eyes glistened. ‘I’m happy to hear that too.’
‘But I don’t know anything else – whether he’s still in the city – or whether they’ve taken him back to France.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘It can’t be so hard now to find him,’ said Adela. ‘At least if they’ve stayed in Newcastle.’
Sam looked horrified. ‘So you’re going to pursue him even now? Even though you know he has parents who are looking after him well. Are you going to barge into his life and tell him that these people aren’t really his mother and father?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Adela, ‘but I just want to see him . . .’
‘Good God, woman! Just listen to yourself. You won’t stop at that, will you? You’ll carry on with this obsession till you’ve got him back, no matter who gets hurt in the process. Why can’t you just let it rest, now you know that he’s with a kind family?’
‘You of all people should understand why!’ Adela cried. ‘Would you rather not have known about your real parents – that you were a Logan? To have gone through your life not knowing you had a loving older sister? Imagine a life without Sophie.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Sam said angrily. ‘You know it’s not the same. Nobody got hurt by my finding out about Sophie and my parents. But you risk tearing this boy’s life apart.’
‘I would never do that!’ Adela said, wounded by his words. ‘How could you think it?’
‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ he growled. ‘Except that our marriage appears to mean a lot less to you than it does to me.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ Adela said, tears choking her throat. ‘I love you, Sam.’
‘Do you?’ he demanded. ‘Or are you still in love with Sanjay?’
Adela reeled from the accusation. ‘Sanjay?’ she gasped.
‘Yes, the man you had a child with, remember?’ He looked at her in fury. ‘You’ve never really got over him, have you? That’s why you can’t give up on finding his son.’
Adela gaped at him in disbelief. She was so shocked at his suggestion that she could not speak.
Sam clenched his fists. They stood glaring at each other.
‘If that’s what you think, then just go, Sam,’ Adela hissed.
Abruptly his angry expression turned to one of desolation. He spun round on his heels and strode out of the kitchen. Adela wanted to call him back but in seconds the front door was slamming shut behind him. She sank to her knees, buried her face in her skirt and wept.