CeCe had a nightmare around four o’clock, and, after I had slipped into bed with her to comfort her, I felt wide awake. I got up and went downstairs to make myself a cup of tea. I looked over the velvety dark of London, the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades – at their most brilliant in the Northern Hemisphere in winter – shining brightly above me. Tracing the river to the east, I wondered if my real relatives were asleep somewhere, perhaps wondering how I was. Or where.
Gritting my teeth, I took the envelope out of my rucksack and, not daring to stop to analyse my actions, I opened it, with the still sleeping city as my only witness.
There were two sheets of paper inside. I unfolded them and placed them on the glass coffee table. One was a family tree covered in Orlando’s flamboyant hand, with arrows pointing to his various comments. The second was a copy of a birth certificate:
Date and place of birth: 21st April 1980
The Mothers’ Hospital of the Salvation Army, Hackney
Name and Surname: Lucy Charlotte Brown
Father: —————
Mother: Petula Brown
‘Lucy Charlotte,’ I breathed. ‘Born on my birthday.’
Was this me?
I referred to the family tree, carefully drawn by Orlando, and studied it. ‘Tessie Eleanor Smith’ had given birth in October 1944 to a girl named ‘Patricia’, whose surname was also ‘Smith’. No father was mentioned on the tree, although Orlando had written Teddy’s daughter? in the margin. Which indicated that Tessie had not managed to make it up with her fiancé. And had brought up her daughter, Patricia, alone . . .
Then, in August 1962, Patricia had given birth to a daughter by the name of ‘Petula’. The father was named as one ‘Alfred Brown’. And on 21st April 1980, ‘Petula’, at the age of eighteen, had given birth to ‘Lucy Charlotte’.
I double-checked the family tree and saw Orlando had recorded that Tessie had died in 1975, and Patricia only recently in September of this year. Which probably meant that my mother – even thinking those words sent a shudder of fearful anticipation up my spine – was still living.
Hearing the bathroom door slam above me, I stood up and began to prepare breakfast, wondering whether I should ask CeCe’s advice.
‘Morning,’ she said as she came downstairs freshly showered. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Not bad,’ I lied. CeCe never remembered her nightmares, and I didn’t embarrass her by reminding her of them. She looked unusually pale and subdued as she sat down to eat.
‘You okay?’
‘Yep,’ she nodded, but I knew she was lying. ‘Are you back home for good now?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I might have to go back again if I’m needed.’
‘It’s lonely here without you, Sia. I don’t like it.’
‘Maybe you could invite some of your friends from college round when I’m away?’
‘I don’t have any friends, and you know it,’ she replied morosely.
‘Cee, I’m sure you do.’
‘I’d better go.’ She stood up.
‘Oh, by the way, I spoke to Ally last night and she’s invited us both over to Bergen to hear her play in a concert at the beginning of December. Do you think you’ll be able to come?’
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes, of course! I thought we could fly out together.’
‘Okay, why not? See you later then.’ She shrugged on her leather jacket, collected her portfolio case and barked a ‘bye’ at me as she left the apartment.
The oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow . . .
Even if I was making a complete hash of walking out from behind hers, at least I was trying. And I was still convinced it was right for both of us, even if CeCe couldn’t see it yet.
I showered, then checked my messages. Orlando had left one, saying he was heading back from Kent up to the shop today and wanted to know if I was going to be there.
‘Dear girl, please come. I so wish to speak to you. Thank you. Oh, it’s Orlando Forbes here, by the way,’ he’d added unnecessarily, which made me smile.
As I was still officially in his employ, I decided I should go. But as I got on the bus to Kensington, I admitted this was just an excuse; I needed to talk to Orlando about the family he had found for me.
‘Good morning, Miss Star. How wonderful to see you back here. And how are you this fine foggy day?’ Orlando greeted me on the threshold, looking positively perky.
‘I’m okay.’
‘“Okay” will just not do. I aim to improve on that ghastly word forthwith. Now, sit yourself down, for we have many things to discuss.’
As I did so, I noticed the fire was already lit and I could smell fresh coffee brewing. Orlando meant business. He brought us both a cup of coffee, then laid a thick plastic file on the table in front of us.
‘First things first: will you accept my apologies for my insensitive approach to your current familial crisis?’
‘Yes.’
‘I really should stick to talking to myself or shouting at characters in books. I don’t seem to have the human touch.’
‘You’re very good with Rory.’
‘Well now, he is another story, but thankfully not my own. So, did you open your envelope?’
‘I did. This morning.’
‘My goodness!’ Orlando clapped his hands together like an excited child. ‘I am glad. And may I say, Miss Star, you are far braver than I. Having been “Orlando” all my life, it would be hard to discover I was a “Dave”, or a “Nigel”, or, God forbid, a “Gary”!’
‘I rather like “Lucy”, I once had a lovely friend called that,’ I countered, not in the mood to tolerate Orlando’s snobbery.
‘Yes, but you, Asterope, are destined to fly up to the stars. As your mother did before you,’ he added mysteriously.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well now, apart from her birth certificate, I could find no record of a “Petula Brown” during my long and arduous search into your background. No internet paper trail whatsoever, which is strange, given her unusual Christian name. In the end, I wrote to the National Archives, and anyone else I could think of, to try and find out what had happened to her. And yesterday, I finally received a reply. Can you guess what it told me?’
‘I’ve really no idea, Orlando.’
‘That “Petula” changed her name by deed poll. Hardly surprising, being burdened with a name like that. She is no longer “Petula Brown”, but “Sylvia Gray”. Miss Star, the person who I believe is almost undoubtedly your mother is currently a professor of Russian literature at Yale University! Now, what do you make of that?’