Come Away With Me

She paused and took a deep breath. In her house drink was the devil’s brew. ‘My father went into a blind fury when he saw me. He told me, before I even had time to sober up, that he and my mother were not my biological parents. That I had been adopted. It was funny, really. My mother stood in front of me muttering darkly, Blood will out. Blood will out, like a demented Lady Macbeth.’

I stared at her, horrified.

‘A few weeks later my father took a job he previously had no intention of taking and I was deported as fast as humanly possible to the outer regions.’

‘I can’t believe this. I was your best friend. Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because my father was paranoid and my mother hysterical about anyone knowing what they were going to do. I begged to stay and do my A levels with you. I knew Bea had come round. My father was very threatening and I was scared of him.’

‘You should have run away and come and told us everything. Bea and James could have stopped them sending you away. You should have confided in me.’

Ruth leant towards me. ‘It’s hard to explain now, but the stuffing went out of me. My parents waited seventeen years to tell me that they were not my real parents. They went on and on about how they had saved me from a terrible background. I felt defeated by them, and utterly wicked and valueless.’

‘They really were dreadful people,’ I said angrily. ‘I should have realised you were in deep trouble, I must have been blind.’

‘I hid my feelings from everyone. I think I was in shock. I didn’t want Bea—any of you—to know I was adopted. It seemed suddenly shameful. Later, of course, I was very relieved I did not have the same blood as them.’ She met my eyes. ‘Truly, I was afraid that you would all think less of me. I needed to remember a place and people where I was loved, your house. I needed that to take away with me.’

I closed my eyes and shivered at the random cruelty of life. ‘You should have trusted us, known us better. All you had to do was pack your bag and walk across to our house.’

I paused. It did not explain why she had never written. Had she believed she deserved to lose us?

Ruth studied the backs of her hands. ‘I’ve had no contact with my parents for fourteen years. They shipped me out to that Scottish island and they never wrote or got in touch with me again. I haven’t heard from them since the day they put me on the ferry at Glasgow and turned their backs. I lived with them for seventeen years and for them I simply ceased to exist. As far as I know they are still in Canada. Anyway…’

‘They were wicked, cruel people.’

Ruth put her chin in her hand and smiled at me. ‘How I loved your warm, chaotic family. How I envied you. I don’t think I would have survived childhood without your family. I always felt included. It was fun. I could be a child in your house. I always thought of my house as somewhere time stood still; a place with the slow, heavy ticking of a clock that marked the endlessness of my childhood.’

I stared at her. I had taken my childhood completely for granted. ’It’s unforgivable that your parents could just abandon you. What happened to you? How did you manage?’

‘I managed because of the wonderful aunt on Arran who took me in. She was amazing. Do you know, Jenny, I had more love and support in my years with her than I had in all my childhood with my parents.’

‘Could you study on Arran, then?’

‘For a while, by correspondence. Then I commuted to the mainland to study. Eventually, I had to leave the island to work and my aunt came with me. I got a job in a big department store in Glasgow, found I was good at selling, became a buyer, got ambitious, did a business degree and began to run my own departments. I also lecture on business management on a freelance basis at conventions. A few years ago I moved from Glasgow and joined the Fayad group in Birmingham.’ She laughed and threw her arms wide. ’That’s my story!’

I smiled at her. ‘Ruth, you’re amazing.’

‘No, but my aunt was. She was like your mother. Like Bea. She gave me a sense of self-worth and motivated me to succeed, despite everything. She died a few years ago and I still miss her.’

We were both silent. I looked at Ruth’s hand. ‘You’re married?’

‘Yes. He’s a good and lovely man, very kind…’

Kind is a giveaway line. Kind is a word you use instead of love.

As if reading my thoughts, Ruth said, ‘Sometimes I suspect my parents might have been right. I’m not always a nice person. I’m driven. I don’t make enough time for the people I should cherish.’ She fiddled with her wedding ring. ‘Do you have children?’

I shook my head and dug my nails hard into one hand under the table.

‘God, I’m sorry,’ Ruth said suddenly. ‘Here I am, prattling on about my life when it’s nothing compared with what you’re going through at the moment, Jenny.’

‘It helps to talk of other things. Do you have children?’

Her whole face lit up. ‘Yes. Just one. His name is Adam.’

The sun shone on the dirty train window in a thin ray touching our heads. It turned Ruth’s hair gold and reminded me of our schooldays long gone, hiding in a corner of the common room trying to avoid games in the bitterly cold winds that blew straight in from the sea and swept over the playing fields freezing us solid. Light from the coloured panes used to slant down on to the window seat where we crouched, ears straining for a nun’s footsteps coming our way.

‘Oh!’ Ruth jumped up suddenly. ‘I get off at the next stop to meet Adam on his way home from school. We both change trains here. We don’t often coincide, so it’s nice. We live out in the suburbs.’

She was tearing off a used envelope and writing down her address and telephone number. ‘My surname is now Hallam. Call me tomorrow, Jenny. Come and see us or I’ll meet you somewhere central. I can probably give you some contacts too. Which hotel are you staying in?’

I told her and gave her my card as she gathered her things together. ‘You shouldn’t be alone in a strange city, you should have company.’ She touched my face lightly. ‘It’s so good to see you again. You never make friends in the same way as when you’re very young, when you grow up together, do you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you do.’

I put out my hand and Ruth clasped it. We didn’t say goodbye. It felt too final. As she moved away down the carriage I felt a loss at her leaving. I didn’t want the numbness of months to wear off, I needed its protection. Her tall figure moved out of the carriage and I turned to the window as the train slowed and stopped.

A lone boy was standing on the platform amid a sea of saris scanning the opening doors of the carriages. He turned my way. My heart seemed to stop beating, so familiar, so beloved were his features and the way he casually flicked his hair away from his eyes. The way he held his head, slightly to the side. The way he moved, darting forward suddenly to Ruth emerging on to the platform, his face lighting up.

‘Tom! Tom!’ I cried out his name in shock and people turned and stared. The train started to shunt, move slowly forward in slow motion through glass. I saw Ruth run and hug the boy to her. She turned to catch a glimpse of me and waved wildly.

I pressed my face to the window to keep them in sight for as long as possible. Then they were gone, behind me. The train carried me onwards alone, towards Birmingham. I got up from my seat and stumbled into the corridor. My breath came in sharp, painful bursts.

Tom. A lament started deep inside me. I felt the tears streaming down my face. Seeing that familiar face was like glimpsing my love again. I cried out in anguish. I did not understand. I did not understand.

I looked down and saw I still held the envelope with Ruth’s address and telephone number on it. I screwed it up violently and threw it away from me down the corridor. I wanted to scream, and I moved quickly into the lavatory.

After a while someone knocked and asked anxiously if I was all right. With a great effort of will I tried to pull myself together. I ran cold water over my face, pulled a comb through my hair, managed to put on some lipstick. My hands shook. I stared at my wild, pale reflection in the mirror. Was I going mad? Did something of Tom live on, but not with me? With Ruth?

I felt as if a pane of glass were shattering into a thousand pieces inside me. Then all feeling drained away. Numbness returned. I unlocked the door and moved back into the corridor.

The crumpled envelope still lay discarded on the floor. I bent and picked it up, smoothed it out. Ruth Hallam. I opened my bag and unzipped the small pocket that held the photos of Tom and Rosie. I placed the envelope carefully beside them, zipped the pocket shut and closed my bag. It was all I had left.

I looked out of the window. The train was coming into the station. People were pushing past me to get to the door. Everyone had reached their destination. Ruth has a husband and that boy. She has a home life waiting where life goes on. Where life goes on.

SIX (#ulink_4e37e570-94f1-522b-985d-4121240762f9)

I walk away from the noise of the party and lean against the huge trunk of a horse-chestnut tree. Its red blooms stand upright among the green foliage. It is like standing under an exotic, rustling chandelier.

The party is lavish, a PR exercise thrown by Justin, a designer friend Danielle and I had been at St Martin’s with. His clothes are a bit over the top, but celebrities and models flock to him for their competitive, reckless little red carpet numbers. He certainly has beautiful women here in abundance.

I watch Danielle networking. She looks like a celebrity herself, a perfect advertisement for our clothes. She is wearing poppy-red chiffon. I designed the dress especially for her. It was deceptively simple, low-cut with a straight silk bodice with floating chiffon panels sewn into the skirt. It looks as if she is wearing a scarlet hanky. Her dark colouring and long legs make her resemble an exotic butterfly.

I smile as I watch her. We need to come to parties like this, to be seen, and she is brilliant at networking. I am better at watching a party from a distance. I can spot emerging trends, get an instinct for the next fashion statement, and it helps to observe how women walk and sit in relation to the clothes they are wearing.

I can see a tall fair man standing with a bevy of women in front of the marquee. He stands like a fish out of water in this showy, arty-farty fashion crowd. He keeps throwing his hair back from his eyes and glancing sideways, as if seeking escape or at least another male. As the place is heaving with girly boys, gay or camp, I can perfectly understand why the women are dive-bombing him like noisy seagulls swooping at their prey, but it’s funny to watch.

I see Danielle looking for me, and ease myself away from the tree and walk back across the grass towards the noise and laughter. Danielle made me a classic white dress, cut exquisitely, as only she can, with narrow gold edging. I am brown from a week in Cornwall and I feel cool, simple and restrained.