Page 108 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Of course he did.’ I smile, and reaching across the plastic tablecloth I squeeze her hand. There can be no doubt that Maeve has forgiven her brother for what happened all those years ago. It’s just a shame that it took her so long to forgive herself.

‘So what did she say? This Shannon?’ I ask, bracing myself for bad news.

‘That the Maeve she was looking for would be in her late fifties now, and if there was such a person fitting that description living there, to pass on the message that Shannon O’Toole wanted to get in touch.’

A look passes between us.

‘And there was something else,’ says Maeve quietly.

My chest tightens. I daren’t ask.

‘She said it was very important to tell me that her middle name was Orla, as it was the name first given to her when she was born.’

For a moment neither of us speaks. Oh my God, this isn’t what I was expecting at all. I look at Maeve’s face across from me at the table. Her pale blue eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses. Her small, delicate features now worn with age. I can’t begin to imagine the enormity of this news for her.

‘It’s my daughter, Emily. It’s my daughter come to find me,’ she whispers eventually.

‘But are you sure?’ I say gently, feeling both a sense of fear and joy. ‘I mean, I don’t want you to get your hopes up – there could be some kind of mistake . . .’

‘I’ve spoken to her.’

Wham. Out of the blue. Just like that.

‘You have?’

‘She left a number. I called her.’

I can feel my eyes saucer-wide. It’s not so much that Maeve has spoken to her that’s so astonishing, it’s the way Maeve seems so proactive. So determined. So fearless. The old Maeve would never have picked up that phone. She was too guilty, too heavy with remorse, too scared.

‘And?’ is all I can manage to say.

‘She sounded lovely, Emily,’ says Maeve quietly, but I detect the sound of relief and pride in her voice. ‘She’s a social worker and lives in Birmingham with her husband, Richard. She told me that she’d always wondered about me. That she’d wanted to find me for a long time, but while her adoptive mother was alive she never felt it was right to ask her about me, out of respect for her feelings.

‘But then when she passed away she got in touch with an agency that helps you trace birth parents. They found me straight away, but then she started to have doubts. What if I rejected her? What if I had a new life now, with more children of my own? What if I was ashamed of her and wanted to keep her a secret?’ Maeve looks at me incredulously, as if she can’t believe that anyone could ever think such a thing.

‘She kept my details in a drawer for over a year, then apparently she heard from the agency that they’d had an enquiry about a Maeve Tumpane’s daughter . . . Actually, that was the bit that I didn’t understand . . .’ She breaks off and shakes her head. ‘Or maybe I got that bit wrong. I don’t know, I can’t remember now. I was so overwhelmed by it all, Emily, I could barely take it in.’

‘Oh, Maeve, I’m so pleased for you,’ I whisper.

Having been listening to everything she’s been telling me, my fears have been slowly falling away until now I’m just left with a cautious excitement.

‘But I know it’s not going to be easy,’ Maeve continues. ‘I’m not expecting us to be suddenly like mother and daughter. I mean, she had a mother for thirty-five years – I don’t want to replace that, but I hope we can get to know each other, become friends.’

The way she says that is so humble, so hopeful, that she almost breaks my heart.

‘I’m sure you will,’ I say encouragingly.

‘And do you want to know the best bit? When I confessed to her about how all this time I’ve been punishing myself for giving her up, she said it was her that should be thanking me. For giving birth to her and making the ultimate sacrifice by allowing her to be adopted by a wonderful couple who couldn’t have children of their own. And who gave her two brothers – who are also adopted – the best childhood anyone could have ever had.’

I smile, the bitter-sweetness of the story conjuring up all kinds of emotions within me. I look at Maeve, who’s wiping a tear from underneath the lens of her glasses, and I squeeze her hand even tighter.

‘And you know what else she said to me?’ Sniffing back her tears, Maeve suddenly breaks into a smile. ‘She said, “You’re going to be a grandmother.”’

My mouth drops open, and I shriek, ‘Maeve! Oh, my God, Maeve!’

Jumping up from my chair, I rush round to the side of the table and wrap my arms tightly round her. ‘Maeve, that’s fantastic! Though of course you don’t look old enough,’ I add. Breaking into the widest smile, I squeeze her so hard I nearly squeeze the air right out of her, and in an almost comedy moment, the waiter finally reappears with our teas, only for us to send them back with orders for banana splits with extra cream, to celebrate.

Later that evening, after Maeve and I have got back from the Gate of India and I’ve watched four episodes back to back of the BBC dramatisation of Pride and Prejudice starring Colin Firth, I’m in my hotel room, about to go to bed. Except there’s one thing I need to do first.