24th December 2016
Flora
I’m driving. Not my usual tootle around town driving, but pedal to the metal with power ballad blaring driving – the kind seen in plush car adverts. If I were driving in a snazzy commercial I’d have a backdrop of raging fire, tornados or cyclones looming over a dusky landscape to reinforce my mood. Instead there’s a pitch-black night sky and a heavy flurry of snow pelting the windscreen creating a deep in outer space illusion.
Like the car commercials, I have navigated many winding and twisting roads but despite having a Sat Nav with the destination entered, I have no idea where I am.
‘Take the third exit at the roundabout,’ orders the Sat Nav lady.
I follow her instructions as I have for the previous two hours. ‘Continue for one mile… arriving at your destination on the left.’ The tiny screen depicts a chequered flag and a blobby image unrecognisable as my red Mini.
My stomach flips; I want to be sick.
Not the drunken sickness that Christmas Eve parties can deliver, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, but that nervy tremor, butterflies in your stomach kind of sick.
Within minutes, I arrive at my destination: St Bede’s Mews, Pooley.
I indicate, park at the kerb and switch off the engine in front of a large church with stone angles and angels illuminated by spotlights strategically positioned amongst the tilting gravestones. The church looks empty and locked, I presume Christmas Eve mass was earlier in the evening. Janet, my mum, always goes to church on Christmas Eve – though not this year.
Is this a bad idea? Should I stay or return home? I want someone else to decide – there’s no chance of assistance; I’m on my own.
The church clock strikes half eleven.
I hadn’t planned on driving here. I’m supposed to be dancing under neon lights at the Pink Coconut, laughing and joking alongside Lisa and Steph surrounded by tonight’s selection of tall, dark and handsome Prince Charmings.
Was I right to dash off into the night? Did they manage to flog my Christmas Eve Extravaganza party invite to the ticketless crowd huddled by the club entrance?
I stare at my surroundings. Adjacent to the church, is a row of Edwardian houses with steep stone steps leading to impressive doorways. A large archway is straight ahead, through which the road snakes before disappearing, linking the houses to a quadrangle of commercial buildings. The buildings edge a pretty cobblestone square freshly decorated with the flurry of snow and dominated by a community Christmas tree. On the far side of The Square, opposite the church, a noisy pub spews festive spirit from an open doorway.
My stomach convulses and my mouth unattractively dry gags.
‘Don’t puke,’ I mutter, looking down at the red chiffon skimming my bare thighs. ‘I haven’t paid for it yet.’
I don’t do tights, even in winter. I don’t do spare plastic bags to act as sick bags stashed in glove compartments either.
I lower the window by an inch allowing a whoosh of cold air to bathe my clammy forehead.
Breathe, just breathe.
I close my eyes.
This has to be the right decision. How many nights have I dreamt of seeing The Square?
It’s not easy growing up being different. Different from every child in the extended family, your English class, girl guides or youth club. Everyone I know knows where they came from: job relocation from Newcastle, divorcing parents or social aspirations – they all knew how they’d arrived in the leafy suburbs of Bushey. Except me, because I am different. I’m special, as Janet says.
‘Special’ – not the most flattering of labels in today’s society. ‘Special’ counts for nothing in the employment stakes, the education system or a long-term romance. ‘Special’ doesn’t get you far in life outside the three bedroomed detached belonging to Janet and David Phillips, my adoptive parents.
What would they say if they knew I was here? I peer into the Mini’s tiny rear-view mirror where my sea-green eyes reflect a wave of guilt that snags in my throat. Was this the way to repay their kindness and love? Snooping behind their backs while they cruise the Bahamas escaping the British winter and celebrating an early Ruby wedding anniversary. What harm could it do? They’d never know. A quick look and I’d be starting the return journey towards Bushey within ten minutes.
The majority of the world were preparing for the fraught and frantic celebrations of a family Christmas, so why wasn’t I? Because family is the Achilles heel of my life, through no fault of my own. Sadly, I seek answers to the complex curiosity or sheer spite of the seven year olds who taunted me relentlessly in a primary school playground.
I was destined to be different from day one. Different from Steph and her infectious laughter, her overflowing confidence and in control attitude. Or Lisa, with her delicate manner, her ditzy brain and her constant search for Mr Right. Or as Steph jokes, her ‘Mr Right-Now’.
I snort at the very thought.
My Mr Right-Now had been Julian Wright who swiftly became Mr Has-been-and-gone two months ago by knobbing the blonde who serves in the local chemist. Before Julian, I swore blind Robbie Brookes was my Prince but he stuffed it up on a stag weekend in Blackpool. Before him was Terry, Rikki, Seb, Jamie and…
Need I torture myself by continuing?
I open my eyes; the nausea has passed – much like the heavy snow flurry which has eased to a light sprinkle.
Reaching for my silver clutch bag on the passenger seat, I rummage for my purse and unzip the back pocket. Lisa keeps an emergency twenty tucked in hers. Steph an emergency condom. I keep a yellowing piece of newspaper.
I know the piece off by heart.
I carefully unfold my clipping and stare at the black and white image, gently stroking the baby’s forehead, as if she can feel my touch. This was my beginning, my first photograph, technically the first entry in my baby record book, if I had one.
I carefully fold my newspaper cutting. I’ve treasured this clipping since the story was explained to me by Janet, amidst tears and gentle hugs, at the tender age of seven.
I’ve heard about The Square in Pooley, throughout my life.
Be it a scrubbed red tile, rough cement or coloured block paving that doorstep was the beginning of my story.
I might as well take a look. It won’t hurt. I may never be this near again.
I haven’t brought a coat so reach for the tartan blanket stashed on the rear seat, wrap it around my bare shoulders and make my way from the car, clutching my newspaper clipping. Instantly, the snow permeates my strappy heels as I head for the row of Edwardian houses.
The houses in St Bede’s Mews vary in original features and renovation work. Number three, the middle house, is in darkness like every other house; the occupants were obviously out enjoying themselves or early to bed awaiting Santa.
I suppose this is how burglaries occur.
If I was a burglar I could nip over the wrought iron fencing, jemmy up the front window and be off with their presents from beneath their decorated tree. But I’m not a burglar; I’m a single, thirty year old who wasted an hour curling her hair and a hundred quid on a red dress to stand and stare at a doorstep on Christmas Eve.
I stand before their gate and stare at the pathway of tiny black and white tiles lightly covered in snow.
If the tiles are original, and they definitely look original, then my birth mother walked along them, twice.
I gulp.
Never before have I been in close proximity to anything that my birth mother had touched.
Clutching the tartan blanket beneath my chin, I place the yellowed clipping in my lap as I crouch down, passing my hand through the swirls of wrought iron to touch the snow frosted tiles that she walked upon.
My eyes fill with tears.
I can touch something that my birth mother touched – this is a first.
The church bells strike midnight; immediately an explosion of coloured fireworks fills the night sky.
‘I may be a little old to make Christmas wishes but let’s hope this one brings me some happiness and festive cheer.’
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