CHAPTER 1
She knew now, for good or ill, who her birth mother was. And she wanted to know, quite desperately, who was the other, shadowy, misty, unimaginable person — the one who had, in a single moment, created her; because she was real, someone you could touch, speak to, see, smell, hear: someone who had importance far beyond that moment of — what? Passion — anger — despairing love — deep affection — lust? Her father.
She knew she was beginning to be obsessed with the search; that it was probably useless. Just a few weeks more and she might have known for sure; now it was too late, and she should forget about it, let the dream go, settle for what she had, what she had always had since babyhood: a loving home, caring friends. And her children, whose parenthood would never be in doubt.
But it had become a habit to scan the faces of elderly men as she passed them in the street, trying to see, trying to imagine if he ... and knowing always that it was a waste of her time. Now she came out of the café where she had indulged in a chocolate cake of supreme sweetness, and found herself being winked at by a man of perhaps seventy. I have to stop this, she muttered to herself, turning her head away from him. This is madness!
* * *
FOUR episodes stood out in Andrea's memory. There were many more, of course, times of happiness, of the pointless miseries of childhood, of achievement. But the four brief moments had been like small windows opening on to a dark landscape, and they had stayed with her when other moments had been blown away by time.
'You adopted?' the eight-year-old who had no need of assertiveness training had demanded.
Andrea had flinched slightly. 'Yes.'
'Who's your mum, then?'
'You know my mum!'
'No — your real mum. Mrs Martins not your real mum. The other one — the one who borned you.'
Andrea stared at the child. She couldn't think what to say. She had always known she was adopted; the Martins, her dear Mum and Dad, had never hidden the fact. That word — adoption — held neither fear nor mystery for her. It was simply a word that hung harmlessly in the back of her mind, and she had never wanted to search beyond it.
Now she saw the word hanging before her, blotting everything else out. Miss Jarrow, her teacher, lost patience with her blank eyes. Andrea, shamed, wet the bed for the first time since she was a baby. The Martins worried over her.
But she wouldn't tell them what was bothering her. In some obscure way she felt guilty — guilty because her mind was searching for answers without knowing what the questions were, guilty because she sensed, even at the tender age of seven, that she might upset Mummy if she told her what had happened.
In due course the pain and confusion grew a tough skin, and she was able to ignore them for most of the time. Adoption, though, never seemed quite the same again.
When she was twelve: 'Bet you'd like to know who your mother is'. This from her best friend, Audrey, as they changed after sports.
'No.' said Andrea, combing her hair. 'Why would I want to?'
'I would! I'd be really curious to know. I wonder where she is now.'
All the way home, Andrea struggled with the concept of a birth mother, a woman who really existed, who was more than a shadow in the corner of a young girl's mind. She dreamed that night, vague and threatening shapes forming and re-forming to fill her sleeping mind; and when s
