‘Let’s have a drink,’ says Zoe. She leads the way into the unfamiliar, familiar sitting room. Slightly too late, Ruth remembers social distancing and sits on the chaise longue, which is as uncomfortable as she imagined, rather than joining Zoe on the sofa. Zoe pours them both a glass of red.
‘I always knew I was adopted,’ says Zoe. ‘Mum and Dad must have told me when I was very young. We celebrated my adoption day as well as my birthday. But I didn’t have any urge to look for my birth parents while they were alive. Then I got divorced and Mum and Dad died within months of each other. Then there was the court case. Do you know about that?’
‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘It must have been awful.’
‘It was a nightmare,’ says Zoe. ‘I knew I was innocent but, at times, I even thought I must be guilty because everyone else seemed so certain. That feeling didn’t go away even when they found the real culprit. I changed my name and I thought: maybe it’s time to find out who I really am.’
‘Did you send off for your adoption records?’ Ruth has been doing some research.
‘Yes. And there it was. Mother: Jean Finch. It didn’t take long for me to find her married name. I wrote to her.’
‘When was this?’ asks Ruth.
‘Six years ago,’ says Zoe. She takes a sip of wine and strokes Derek, who is stretched out beside her.
‘Jean wrote back,’ she says, after another pause. ‘It was a kind letter, but she didn’t want to see me. She said she hadn’t told her husband or her children about me. But she did say she hoped we could meet in the future. But she sent me a photograph. And she told me my father’s name.’
‘What was it?’ asks Ruth.
Zoe laughs. ‘Derek. I named the cat after him, but I haven’t tried to get in contact. I suppose I felt a bit bruised after Jean’s response. Apparently, Derek was someone Jean worked with at the bank. She was in love with him but he was married.’
And, once again, Ruth hears her mother’s voice. ‘What do you mean you’re pregnant? You’re not even married.’ If only you’d told me, Mum, she thinks.
‘Jean didn’t feel able to bring up a child as a single mother,’ says Zoe. ‘They were different times, that’s what she said. I’ll show you her letter. I did hope that we would meet but. . .’
‘But she died the next year,’ says Ruth. ‘How did you find out?’
‘There was something in her local paper,’ says Zoe. ‘I’d put a search link on the name Jean Galloway. It was a shock but then, I’m afraid, I turned my attention to you. I’ve always wanted a sister.’
‘Me too,’ says Ruth.
‘It was quite difficult to stalk you,’ says Zoe, with a slight smile. ‘You don’t have any social media presence, but I read your books and watched your TV programmes.’
‘Oh God,’ says Ruth.
‘I thought you were wonderful,’ says Zoe. ‘I was in awe of you. Then this house came up for rent and I had a chance to be your neighbour. I grabbed it.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ says Ruth. ‘Did you realise that your foster mother had lived next door? In my house?’
‘No,’ says Zoe. ‘Did she really? I don’t really remember her, but I was always told that she was very kind. Maybe that’s why these houses always felt so homelike.’
‘It was the same with me,’ says Ruth. ‘I wanted to live here as soon as I saw the cottages. Maybe I sensed that it had been a safe place. That’s what Cathbad would say anyway.’
‘Cathbad?’ says Zoe. ‘He’s one of our patients. I’d heard he was in hospital. Is he OK?’
‘I think he will be,’ says Ruth, reluctant to talk about it for fear of jinxing the miracle. ‘I found a picture of my cottage when I was going through my mum’s things.Ourmum. On the back it said, “Dawn 1963”.’
‘I was born in 1963,’ says Zoe.
‘I know,’ says Ruth. ‘You’re five years older than me.’
‘I’ve got a little sister,’ says Zoe with a smile. ‘It’s been wonderful getting to know you. I didn’t count on being locked down together though. Or being kidnapped by a murderous pensioner.’
‘To be fair,’ says Ruth, ‘those were hard things to predict.’
‘I’ll get you the letter,’ says Zoe. ‘And then I’ll make us both a cup of tea.’
Ruth is sure that this is an excuse to leave her alone with her mother’s words and she’s grateful.
