Back home, I stare at the envelope. The paper is brown at the edges and there’s a tea ring running through the name on the front.For Faye Redfearn.
It’s strange seeing my maiden name written down. Redfearn reminds me of the sixteen-year-old girl who had her world tipped upside down by one conversation.
This is coming to me too late, I realise. I should have requested it years ago. The woman who gave birth to me may not even be alive. I could open Pandora’s box and find it empty.
I toss the envelope down on the kitchen table and step away like it’s radioactive. I am going to open it eventually because I need answers. I need to know where I came from.
But first I need a glass of wine.
As I reach for the Sauvignon Blanc tucked into the fridge door, I see a notification flash onto my phone. Jason has sent me a message back on Twitter.
Hi, I’m so sorry about the attention you got after I posted the photo. I had no idea you were a famous writer. Sure, I’d be happy to tell you everything. I’m a photographer. I got up early to take photos on Seeley Moor. On my way home I saw you and thought you were in trouble. I tried to approach but you walked off, so I snapped a quick picture to post to Twitter. Sorry again. I probably handled it wrong.
I sigh. Yes, you handled it badly, Jason. You made everyone in my life think I’ve lost my mind.
Thank you for getting back to me,I reply.I know this is a big ask, but can we meet? I’d like to see the original photo for myself.
The fridge door slaps shut, and I pull the stopper from the already opened bottle. By the time I’ve poured a glass of wine, Jason has responded.
I can meet in Whitby tomorrow lunchtime.
I suggest we meet at a café near the west pier then I gulp down half of the glass before grabbing the envelope. I stare at it for a moment. Then I tear it open, almost ripping the pages inside with my haste. The paper tugs against the sides, creating an unbearable extra few seconds, and then it is in my hands. The information that I have avoided for over thirty years. Shaking, I unfold the paper and there it is. One name and one address.
Rachel Lacey.
15 Emerald Drive, Middlesbrough.
My birth mother’s name is Rachel. A perfectly lovely name. I close my eyes and try to picture her in 1974. She has long hair and bell-bottom jeans. Her fringe hides her eyes by design. She doesn’t like people meeting her eyeline because she’s shy. She’s in love with a boy at her school. He lives down the road from her. She wants him to ask her out, but he might like Betty from her maths class more. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to give her body to that boy and make me.
I place the paper back on the table. My imagination is running away with me again. It’s time to focus.
I head into my office and grab my laptop to take back into the kitchen where the light is better, and it’s easier to top up my wine. As soon as it’s booted up, I type “Rachel Lacey” into the search bar and wait to see what happens.
It’s not a common name but there is a romance author called Rachel Lacey and many of the results are dedicated to her books. I try to narrow the search down to the Middlesbrough area and begin to get better-tailored results. There’s a private Facebook profile for a woman who appears to be in her sixties which could match with my theory of my mother having me as a teenager. I add her as a friend. Then I glance at the address on the sheet of paper, wondering whether I can drive over after meeting Jason tomorrow.
I close the laptop and finish the wine. It’s a warm evening so I open the patio doors and let the sea air filter in, refreshing the house and hopefully my mind. Then I grab a notebook and sit at the kitchen table making notes. I start with the memoir, trying to pin down the emotions I felt hearing Mum talk about my adoption. But the words won’t come. Some escape me altogether. I’m disassociated by it all, like I’m floating above myself.
I go back to the Palmer Twins, jotting down ideas for Marigold’s return but it’s mixed together with notes about adoption. The twins weren’t adopted, were they? One of them dies, but how? Why can’t I remember? I created them and yet I don’t know them. I reach out to them in my mind, try to picture them but I can’t grasp hold of them.
And then time slips away.
* * *
When I comeround it is dark and I have something in my hands. Why am I reading my last novel? Why am I in my study? Why is the window open in front of my desk?
I blink but when I open my eyes, the scene remains the same. My heart is racing as though I’ve been startled but I have no idea what it was that disturbed me. The house is silent aside from the sound of the breeze billowing through the curtains. I stand and close the open window.
I check my phone, and see that it’s 3 a.m.
“The woman was here again,” I hear myself say it, but I don’t know why I do.
I pull the window shut, then make my way through to the kitchen and shut and lock the patio doors.
Then, slowly, I walk to the bathroom mirror where I stand and stare at my own reflection.
CHAPTER10
THE GRAVEDIGGER
