‘I mean, in terms of making contact. What is it you’re hoping will come out of it?’
‘I suppose,’ he began again, just to say something in the hope that more words would follow, ‘I was wondering whether my mother had left her details at all. Or if she’d been in touch. Or tried. I mean, I don’t know if that’s even possible. I… I don’t really know how it works. I only found out I was… I only found out the other week.’
‘That’s all right.’ She nodded, her blue eyes fixed on his. ‘You must be feeling quite up in the air with it all.’
Up in the air. That was it exactly. A red helium-filled balloon floating in a vast blue sky. He nodded his agreement, tried to smile. At the maddening prickle in his eyes, he blinked, coughed, pushed himself back in his chair. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them – crossed his arms instead. He wished she would not look at him and stared down at his knees.
‘What I’m trying to ascertain, Christopher’ – her voice was gentle, so gentle, but still he could not look up – ‘is whether you feel ready, potentially, to start a search. Actually, you won’t know this, but none of this was possible up until this year really. The law didn’t change till 1975, and these things take a while to filter through. So you’re lucky in that sense. Before now, you’d have been on your own.’
‘On my own,’ he repeated. Again, she had said exactly what he felt, as if she were him and he her. On his own – he had felt this since his mother, Margaret, had told him the truth of his life. Before that. Perhaps always.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘In terms of any investigation you might have wanted.’
When she didn’t say any more, he made himself look at her. Her eyes were such a vivid blue, like the celestial paintings in church. They made him want to tell her everything about himself, to start talking and never stop. He looked away.
‘I suppose I’d like to find out who I am,’ he said, to the window. ‘My real name, that sort of thing. Where I belong.’
‘You don’t feel like you belong at home?’
‘No. Yes. Of course. I mean, of course. It’s just that, when they… my parents… my adoptive parents told me, I… I can’t really explain it. Except to say I already knew. I didn’t know. It’s not that. What I mean is, is that common? Is that normal? To know something like that before you’re told?’
‘People feel all sorts of things, Christopher. Everything’s normal in that sense.’
The sound of traffic from outside. She had paused, was looking at him. He spoke – to fill the silence. ‘I knew my brother and sister were natural, or biological, or whatever it’s called, and that I was… different, is maybe the word. I knew they were biological because I saw my mother with… with… you know, pregnant. And I don’t remember being born, obviously – I wouldn’t expect to. I don’t remember any before, in terms of the feeling. What I mean is, I suppose I always felt…’
In another office, a phone trilled twice and stopped. He heard a man’s voice, though nothing of what he said.
‘No one else in my family has dark hair,’ he went on – couldn’t help himself. ‘Not even aunties and uncles. I’m the only one.’ He stopped, attempted another smile, feeling his face grow hot. ‘Anyway, sorry, I was hoping, I am hoping, that maybe if I could see my actual biological mother I would see where… where I fit, I suppose. Where I make sense. In the world, I mean. That probably sounds ridiculous.’
‘Not at all.’ The counsellor still had the file held to her chest. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘All right. Now, of course, there’s the possibility that you won’t feel that. These things are never perfect.’ She spoke with such gravity, Christopher felt, as though she were a surgeon come to deliver the worst possible news to the next of kin. Except here there was no next of kin. At least, not yet.
‘Never perfect,’ he said. ‘Of course. I understand.’
‘You have to take that on. And what I also have to tell you is there is the possibility that your birth parents are no longer with us.’
‘Of course.’ He had not considered this eventuality, and the thought hit him flat in the chest. ‘That… that stands to reason.’
‘There’s also the possibility, and I’m not saying this will happen or it won’t, that she or they won’t want contact. It happens. But in the eventuality that they do want contact, we advise getting in touch by letter first and then perhaps by phone before an actual physical meeting.’
In his mind’s eye, a faceless woman fought to emerge. She was holding a red balloon, holding it out to him: Here, she said. She let go. The balloon floated away before he had a chance to grasp it. The woman was gone.
‘I understand,’ he said.
Samantha Jackson laid the file on the coffee table, opened it and drew out a document. ‘This is a form for you to apply for your birth records.’ She held it out and he took it from her. ‘You’ll have to fill that in and send it to the Registrar General.’ She pulled out another paper and laid it over the first. ‘This is another form you can send to the court overseeing the adoption, which in this case is Liverpool. There’s some more information for you here.’ More documents landed, until a small pile of papers lay on his lap. ‘I’ve photocopied the relevant information on adoption contact registers. You can register a veto, you see, if you don’t want to be contacted. And that’s obviously a possibility.’
‘I have no expectations,’ he said, taking hold of the papers and stacking them on his knee. ‘I just want to know.’
‘I’ll put a call in to NORCAP. Sometimes birth parents register their details there. I’ve got a colleague there – Robert. He’ll have a look and see if your mother’s been in touch. All right? In the meantime, you have my number if anything’s troubling you or if you need to ask me something or talk to me, OK?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.’
And that was it. I remember thinking how photographic his memory must be. And along with the visual details, he was able to relay the conversation too, verbatim, as if it had happened the day before. What I’ve written here is an approximation, of course, but everything he said stayed with me long after he’d said it. That’s the way, I think, with the people who become important to you, who impact your life. And Christopher did more than impact mine.
He destroyed it.
* * *