Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Her tongue pinched painfully between her front teeth, Beatrice piped the final rosette of pink icing on to the surface of the cake, then stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect – not by a long stretch. The sketches she’d done in her notebook had shown a cute yet graceful unicorn’s head, complete with fluttery black eyelashes, a flowing lilac mane and a twirly horn.
What she’d actually produced looked more like the love child of a Shetland pony and a rhinoceros.
Still, for a first attempt at least, it was decent. Once she’d chucked some glittery shit over it to hide the worst of its flaws, it would definitely pass muster. Parker would be happy; Frances would be complimentary. And the cake-baking project had fulfilled its purpose: it had given her an outlet for the need she increasingly felt to express how she felt about the kids.
They’re not your children , she kept reminding herself. Don’t overstep.
But she found it hard to heed her own advice. The moment she stepped into the apartment in the mornings and heard Parker’s feet tapping on the parquet as she ran to greet her; watching Slate finish a plate of food she’d cooked; being able to give them cuddles when they cried and see their tears turn to smiles – all those moments now brought her indescribable happiness.
Just yesterday, as he was dropping off to sleep, Slate had murmured, ‘I love you, Bibi.’
‘I love you, too,’ Beatrice had said, feeling tears prick her eyes.
She wasn’t sure if that had been the right response, but surely there could have been no other? Nothing in the childcare course she’d done had covered this, and even if it had, nothing could have prepared her for it. She knew she was meant to meet the children’s physical needs, stimulate them mentally, provide appropriate discipline consistent with what their parents requested.
But love them? That was something else entirely.
Beatrice stepped back from the kitchen worktop and reached for the canister of edible glitter. The piped bits of the cake were okay, but the areas of white frosting that were meant to be smooth weren’t. Maybe unicorns had dapples. She used a teaspoon to apply careful splotches of glitter to the most uneven areas, aiming for crescent shapes but not quite achieving them.
It would have to do, she concluded after a few minutes of painstaking sprinkling. Parker would wake from her nap any moment and then it would be time to fetch Slate from pre-school, take the kids for a quick run round the park before it got dark, and give them their dinner.
Then it would be her favourite time of the day: watching them splash in the bath, emerging damp and fragrant, ready for their story and bedtime. She remembered how, just a few months before, she’d have been gritting her teeth, willing them to go the fuck to sleep so she could clock off and watch TV until Frances returned home.
Now, those moments felt precious. The children tucked up in bed, clean, fed and content. The random questions they asked: Did dinosaurs have willies? Where did the sun go at night? How long was it until Christmas?
And, just the other night, from Parker, ‘Bibi, do you have a mommy and daddy?’
‘Of course,’ Beatrice had said. ‘Everyone has a mommy and a daddy.’
‘But you’re adopted,’ Slate had pointed out, as if Beatrice might have forgotten.
‘That’s right. So I have a mommy and daddy who I lived with when I was growing up, and another mommy and daddy somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I’m trying to find out.’
Beatrice opened the kitchen cabinet, slid the cake on its board inside and closed the door. It was time to get Parker up.
First, she checked her phone. She’d almost forgotten to look at it while she was engrossed in the cake, and it had been on silent so as not to disturb Parker’s nap.
And there it was – a missed call from Neil.
With each passing day, her hope that he would call warred with growing certainty that he wouldn’t. Why should he? She’d been clear about not wanting to date. But his silence had left an unexpected ache.
Beatrice needed a friend. She’d thought at first that she and Livvie might become friends, but then Livvie had grown closer and closer to Orla, and that had made Beatrice push her away. And, of course, Livvie had Luke – who would want Beatrice’s friendship when they had giddy loved-upness and sex on tap?
The more she thought about Neil, the more she felt herself drawn to him. All the qualities he had that had made her think he was wrong for her – the stable family, the history stretching back generations, his steady demeanour – now seemed increasingly desirable.
She hadn’t wanted him, but him not calling had made her feel she needed him.
And now, at last, he’d called.
Hastily, her fingers fumbling on the keypad of her phone, she began to text.
Sorry I missed your call. Just about to dash off and fetch Slate from school. How’s it going?
His response came gratifyingly quickly.
Not too bad. Fancy a drink when you knock off work?
Sounds great! Where?
He suggested a pub on the river, roughly equidistant between Frances and Peter’s flat and Damask Square, and Beatrice – after hastily consulting her A–Z – agreed.
She had no time to change or top up her make-up. Fortunately Frances was home early – just as she was giving the children a goodnight kiss – and she hurried out, walking along the river in the darkness to Limehouse, chiding herself for how nervous she felt.
Neil was already there when she arrived, a pint of beer on the table in front of him.
‘Hey.’ To her pleasure, he looked delighted to see her. ‘How was your day?’
She told him about the unicorn cake and he exclaimed over her preparatory sketches.
‘That looks awesome. I bet Parker will be made up.’
‘We’ll find out tomorrow. The family are going away for a few days for half term and I wanted her to have it before they leave, although her actual birthday’s only on Sunday.’
‘So you’ll get a few days off? Or are you going with them?’
‘Not this time. They’re going to stay with some work colleague of Peter’s in the Cotswolds. Sounds like it’s a massive, fancy house – I’d have liked to see it but at the same time, I could do with a break.’
‘That’s good. Because I’ve had an idea. It’s about finding your birth mother.’
Beatrice sipped her wine, frowning. ‘I mean, what if I’ve already found her? Everything – it all points to it being Orla. But I’ve messed up so badly and anyway I’m just not quite sure enough. I mean – she could have a sister. Or her grandparents could have had other kids. Some Irish families are huge. I could be her niece or her second cousin or something.’
‘Surely even then she’d want to know?’ Neil said.
‘But what if she didn’t? What if I asked her and she didn’t care? Or she thought I was just some scammer after the house? I need to know for sure before I can confront her. And if it’s not her, then I’m wasting my time. It’s my actual mother I need to find.’
‘Well, I think I’ve found a way for you to do that.’
Beatrice looked at him, assessing. All her efforts, all her investigation, all the information her own parents had been able to give her – and somehow Neil had a solution? It didn’t seem possible.
‘Seriously?’ she asked.
‘Sure. I mean, you know your birth date, right? And you know you were born in Dublin?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘The place my mother’s meant to be from – Clonmara – is too small to have a hospital.’
‘Well, then.’ Neil smiled with satisfaction. ‘It should be quite straightforward. I went on a genealogy forum online and I found out.’
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What do I do?’
‘Births – and marriages and deaths – are public records,’ he said. ‘In Ireland, same as here or in the United States or anywhere else. I could go and look up the Taoiseach’s birth record if I wanted to.’
‘The what?’ Beatrice asked.
‘The Irish prime minister,’ he translated.
‘You mean – the information’s there for anyone to find?’
‘Anyone with the time and patience to go to the General Register Office in Dublin and look for it,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Beatrice felt utterly deflated. All her detective work and this solution had been there all along? All she had to do was go through a list of names in a book?
‘Sure. You know where you were born?—’
‘The hospital was called St Gerard Majella’s, apparently.’ Somehow, the name emerged from Beatrice’s memory, even though she’d barely thought of it in years.
‘And – I guess your parents told you the name you were given at birth.’
‘It was Aisling.’ For the first time, she spelled it out.
‘That’s a lovely name,’ Neil said, ‘but I still like Beatrice better.’
She smiled, feeling her face flush a little. ‘Me too.’
‘There we go, then.’ Neil drained his pint. ‘While you’re off work, you can go to Dublin and head to the General Register Office and take a look at the records.’
‘Seriously? It’s that simple?’
‘I mean, there are no guarantees. Something could have gone wrong somewhere. There could have been a mistake with the dates or something. But it’s got to be worth a try.’
‘Neil…’ Gratitude and surprise made Beatrice feel vulnerable, and for once she couldn’t prevent herself from showing it. ‘I’m scared.’
He reached across the table and touched her hand – just a brush of his fingers. ‘I get that. Would it help to have some company?’
‘Are you saying you’d come with me?’
‘Sure.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve always wanted to see Dublin. I read Finnegans Wake at uni. Should have put me off the place for life, but it didn’t.’
‘That’s – thank you, Neil. Let’s do it.’
‘Deal,’ he said.