Chapter 11
‘My wife and I were in a second-hand shop on the weekend and saw this. It made me think of you,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘Oh, Joe, I can’t accept this,’ Gemma said.
‘Think of it as a birthday present or an early Christmas present, whichever comes first. Anyway, you may not want it.’
‘It’s very sweet of you to think of me.’
‘Open it.’
He looked so pleased, she couldn’t not.
‘It’s an old printer’s tray,’ he said, once she’d ripped off the paper. ‘It’s not large but it will hold thirty-five items. I’ve cleaned it up and given it a good dowsing of oil.’
For a moment, Gemma thought she was going to cry. How could this man, who was going through so much, have the time, energy and desire to think of anyone but himself?
‘I didn’t like the idea of your precious finds being stuck in Tupperware,’ he said.
‘They’re only precious to me.’ Had she over-glorified the bits and bobs she’d scavenged from the river?
‘That’s all that matters. Send me a photo when it’s filled.’
‘But I’m not allowed to accept presents. A box of chocolates at a pinch.’ Gemma glanced around in case Barbara was within earshot. ‘Let me pay for it.’
‘It wasn’t expensive,’ Joe said. ‘Less than a box of Lindt chocolates. Have you noticed how much chocolate costs these days? Exorbitant.’ Joe pulled a face in disgust. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
‘Okay, well …’ She chewed a lip.
‘That’s the way. Now let’s get today over and done with.’
That night, Gemma fetched her containers and sandwich bags of mudlarking finds from the chest of drawers in the spare bedroom and took them to the kitchen.
She cleared the table of the salt and pepper grinders, the energy bill, the used mug and the morning’s toast plate.
She lay down the printer’s tray and took out every object she’d brought back from the river and spread them out.
It wasn’t everything she’d ever found. Only the things she really wanted.
Greed or hoarding aren’t admired in the mudlarking world.
She wasn’t sure if she had enough items to fill the slots because not everything was small enough.
Objects such as the perfectly formed native oyster shell from the early nineteen hundreds and the stem of a clay pipe were too wide or too long.
But the Georgian button and the wedge of Staffordshire slipware were perfect fits.
She put things in and took them out, moving them around until the display took on a pleasing aesthetic.
She carried it carefully into the living room and placed it on top of the coffee table.
There were more spots to fill, and it could do with a glass top to protect the pieces from dust. But for now, it would do.
She took a picture to show Joe.
Then, she sent the photo to Anushka, whom she hadn’t heard from in a while, as a way of keeping in touch.
Her friend replied kindly with a compliment, even though Gemma knew she didn’t share her love of history or collecting.
In any case, it did prompt a discussion on when they might be able to catch up again.
A few dates were mooted and Anushka said she’d confirm in a few days.
It was when Gemma was putting away some of the now empty sandwich bags into a kitchen drawer that she found a photo of her with her mother.
It sat incongruously next to the paper clips, screwdriver and Post-it Notes.
She was four and she was sitting on a sofa next to her mother, mimicking her mother’s crossed legs, head angled to one side, and a cigarette in one hand.
What was striking was not that she was pretending to hold a cigarette like her mother but how physically unlike they were.
This was nothing new, but for some reason, she saw it more clearly than she had before.
It was also a stark reminder of every other difference between herself and her parents.
Where her mother had blonde hair and brown eyes, Gemma had brown hair and blue eyes.
While her mother was sporty and good with languages (just like Spanish came naturally to Rich), Gemma was neither.
Nor did Gemma share much with her father, who was olive-skinned, good with words and worked as an editor.
So, who was she like? Her birth mother, her birth father or a mix of them both?
When she was younger, she’d been mildly curious to know, but she’d never cared to find out because she had never once felt unloved or less wanted once Rich came along.
She had a lovely set of parents and, up until her death last year, an adorable mother-in-law, Adam’s mum Gwendoline. Why be greedy and ask for more?
Yet now, something had changed within her.
Adam’s leaving had made Gemma feel alone, vulnerable and lost. It was like she didn’t know who she was anymore.
It was as if she’d finished one life and was forced to begin another but didn’t know where to start.
Not only that, but she didn’t even know her origins or about the people who made her.
Her heritage was as blank as her future.
Gemma traced a finger over the photo of her mother.
What she saw now was not what was staring back at her but what was missing.
A tear slipped off her cheek onto her mother’s perm, smudging the curls and blurring her smile.
For the first time, Gemma wondered whether delving into her beginning would help right her future.
Would finding out about her birth parents make her feel found?
Was it now time, as a thirty-six-year-old with a future unknown, to search for someone with freckles that didn’t wash off?