I showed her the assorted mail.
‘Well, these can go straight into the bin,’ she said, lifting the nasty notes and the letters from journalists. I agreed. I didn’t want to keep any of them, except the letter from Stella, my classmate, and the note from ‘S’.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine. Dad said I should move into the village. He says it’s unhealthy for me to live here on my own.’
‘Aren’t you lonely here?’
‘I’ve got Toby,’ I said, pointing to my bear.
‘Toby isn’t a person, darling.’
‘I know. I’m not stupid.’
She said nothing. We stared at each other. Her head was to one side and her eyes were soft.
‘What happened to me before I was adopted?’
She looked away then, out of the window, at the floor and then back at my face. She asked, ‘May I take your hand?’
‘What for?’
‘Touch can be comforting, you know. And it’s not a nice story.’
I let her take my hand and put it between hers.
‘Jean said that you … were medicated, that you don’t remember anything at all?’
I shook my head.
‘Your mother, your real mother, I mean, she … died.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘She was kidnapped by a man, when she was young, when she was … a child.’
I had seen films and dramas about men who kidnapped young women.
‘Did he lock her in a cellar?’
‘Yes, well, no, it was an extension at the back of his house. He lived in a large house on a half-acre of land in South Dublin. He kept her there for fourteen years.’
My head started to buzz. ‘Stop talking, please.’
She stroked my hand.
I turned away to refill the teapot. I picked up a sandwich and ate it. Aunt Christine sat silently.
‘Would you like one?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Would you like a sandwich?’
‘No. Darling, I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible story. Is there a friend I can call? What about Angela?’
‘Yes, I’ll call her.’
