Families and Friendships Page 6

  ‘Serve her right,’ muttered Ryan.

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Ryan,’ said Shirley. ‘I feel a bit sorry for her, actually. She was forever boasting when she was in the junior school that she was special. She was adopted, you see, and her mother had told her she was a very special little girl.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realize that,’ said Ryan.

  ‘Well, no; she doesn’t talk about it now, although I think it’s pretty common knowledge round about where we live. Her parents are rather older; I should imagine they’re turned fifty now. They’re both very nice. I know Debbie gets cross because she thinks her mum’s always on at her, but I don’t suppose she’s any worse than mine. I sometimes wonder, though, how she really feels about being adopted. I wonder how I would feel, if it were me …’

  Six

  It was when Debbie started at Kelder Bank School at the age of eleven that she began to think more about the fact that she was adopted. Near to the school, not much more than a mile away, there was a big house called Burnside House. She had discovered it was the place where girls went to stay if they were expecting a baby and were not married. Her mother had not told her very much about the ‘facts of life’, except about periods, and how it was nature’s way of making sure you were ready for the time when you might have a baby. She had known, of course, that babies grew inside your tummy, but she had been somewhat confused about how it got there in the first place. And Mum didn’t tell her about that; neither did she ask. The knowledge came to her gradually though, through confidential chats with her girl friends, and by keeping her eyes and her ears open.

  When she was twelve she asked her mother, ‘Mum, you know that big house near to our school? Burnside House, it’s called. Well, was that where I was born? You used to tell me that you went to a big house in the country because you wanted a baby girl. So … was that where you went?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Debbie,’ her mother had replied. ‘Burnside House, that’s where we went, your daddy and me. I haven’t set eyes on the place from that day to this. It’s sort of ‘off the beaten track’, as they say, and so we’ve never needed to go past it. Why did you ask, Debbie, after all this time?’

  ‘Oh, some girls at school were talking about that place. Linda knows somebody who’s gone to stay there. And I said to Shirley, I bet that’s where I was born.’

  Her mother nodded, looking a little anxious, Debbie thought. ‘Don’t worry your head about it, pet,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Debbie. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

  Then, a year or so later, she asked again. ‘Mum, Mrs Wagstaff works at Burnside House, doesn’t she?’ Claire Wagstaff was a friend of her parents. Not a very close friend; not close enough, for instance, for Debbie to call her Aunty Claire, a courtesy title she had always used for some of her mother’s closest friends. But she called at their house every now and again. Debbie found her very nice and friendly, and she had always shown an interest in her, Debbie, asking her about how she was going on at school and all that sort of thing. But it was only recently that the penny had dropped, so to speak, and she had discovered Claire’s place of work.

  ‘Yes, she does work there,’ her mother replied, in answer to her question. Then, as she had said before, ‘Why do you want to know, Debbie?’

  ‘Because I’ve only just realized, that’s why? Has she worked there for a long time?’

  ‘Er … yes; for quite a few years.’

  ‘So was she there when I was a baby?’ Debbie persisted. ‘When I was born, I mean. Is that how you got to know her?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake! Questions, questions!’ said her mother. ‘Listen – I’ll tell you about it, then perhaps you’ll let it drop, will you? We knew Claire long before you were born. She was a neighbour of ours when we lived in the village, before we moved here to Whitesands Bay. I told you how your daddy and I wanted a baby, and it didn’t happen, so we decided to adopt a little girl. We knew that Claire worked at Burnside House, and we’d kept in touch with her after we moved, and so we asked her if she could perhaps help us, just a little bit. She put in a good word for us with the adoption society; it was very kind of her. And so … we adopted you, didn’t we? Now, are you satisfied, Miss Nosy Parker?’

  ‘Yes …’ Debbie nodded thoughtfully. ‘So Claire knew the lady; the lady whose baby I was?’

  ‘Well, of course she did,’ said her mother. ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? But I told you, didn’t I, that she couldn’t keep you? I know she loved you, but she had to let you go.’

  ‘She was an unmarried mother then, wasn’t she?’ said Debbie. ‘That’s why girls go there, isn’t it? Because they’re having babies and they’re not married?’

  Her mother looked startled; no doubt, thought Debbie, because she had found out so much about having babies without it being talked about at home. She answered a bit sharply.

  ‘Yes, she was having a baby and she wasn’t married. That’s what happens to girls, Deborah, when they don’t think about what they’re doing. Now, we’re not going to say any more about it, alright?’

  Debbie nodded. Mum never called her Deborah unless she was cross or upset about something. She hadn’t meant to vex her mother. She was just curious about … well, everything.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ her mother said then, a little more gently. ‘I don’t mind you asking questions, and I suppose you’re bound to think about it sometimes. Your daddy and I decided to be honest with you – about you being adopted – right from the start. You’re still happy about it, aren’t you, Debbie? You know how much we love you.’

  ‘Of course I’m happy, Mum,’ said Debbie. She smiled at her mother, then, on an impulse, kissed her cheek, something she didn’t often do spontaneously.

  ‘That’s OK then,’ said her mum, giving her a hug. ‘Your daddy and me, we don’t want you to worry about anything.’

  Vera had had quite a shock when Debbie started asking questions, although she had guessed that she might do so as she got older. She seemed happy enough at first with the answers she had been given. Nothing more was said on the subject for ages, whilst Debbie continued contentedly enough at school. She seemed to enjoy her lessons, and did her homework without any trouble. She worked away at her own little plot in the garden and helped her father with his gardening as well. Shirley Crompton was still her best friend, at school and Sunday school, and in the Guides now, to which they had progressed from the Brownies.

  Vera had thought it was a good idea when Stanley managed to get her a weekend job at the Sunnyhill garden centre. She clearly enjoyed it very much. It meant that she couldn’t go to church now, on a Sunday morning, or to the teenage class on a Sunday afternoon. But that didn’t worry Vera overmuch. She and Stanley didn’t always go themselves, but they had tried to bring Debbie up in what they believed was the right way, and they trusted her to be a good, responsible girl.

  It was inevitable, too, that she should eventually have a boyfriend. And Kevin Hill was a decent, well-brought-up sort of lad from a very respectable family, or so he seemed.

  But there was no doubt that Debbie was becoming more difficult as the weeks and months went by. Vera worried about it, but Stanley rather less so. ‘Teenagers all go through this stage,’ he said, trying to console his wife. ‘I’ve talked to the fellows at work, and they say their kids are all the same.’

  But she seems to be growing away from us,’ said Vera. ‘I know she was never a very clinging sort of child, but I feel sometimes that she can’t be bothered with us at all. I do wonder, Stanley, if it’s because she was adopted; whether she’s thinking about … well, about finding her real mother.’

  ‘You’re her real mother,’ Stanley replied. ‘Don’t be silly, Vera.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Stanley, and I’ve alway tried to assure Debbie that we’re her real parents now. But you know what I mean. She hasn’t said anything, not since that time a couple of years ago when she was asking about Claire and all that. But she c
an be so difficult at times – well, a lot of the time now – and she’s secretive, as well, as though there’s something on her mind.’

  ‘She’d be just the same if she were our own flesh and blood,’ Stanley replied. ‘You take it from me. It’s just a phase she’s going through. And I like young Kevin. She could have done a lot worse, I can tell you. Some of the young trainee lasses we’re getting at work now – drinking, smoking, swearing, and goodness knows what else! I wouldn’t he happy if she was friendly with one of them. I don’t think Kevin’s likely to lead her astray.’

  ‘I do wonder, though, if he’s encouraging her in this business of wanting to leave school. He left when he was sixteen, didn’t he? And we had such high hopes for her, Stanley,’

  ‘Aye, well maybe we’re wrong to try and push her into something she doesn’t want. I’d far rather she was happy, Vera pet. And you can see yourself that she’s best at anything to do with gardening and growing things. Maybe Kevin’s encouraged her in that way, and happen she could take it further. You can go to college for all sorts of things now, you know; agriculture, farming, gardening and all that.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that might appeal to her,’ said Vera thoughtfully. ‘I’ve not heard her mention it, though. She just seems set on leaving school and working full time. Anyway, let’s wait and see what sort of results she gets with these O levels.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all we can do at the moment,’ said Stanley. ‘Now, for goodness’ sake, stop worrying!’

  Debbie had asked questions about her birth mother and Burnside House, not because she was unhappy at home, but because she was just curious. She had always had an inquiring mind, wanting to know the ins and outs of everything. And once she knew she was satisfied then, for a while.

  She knew she was lucky. She had a lovely mum and dad, and she knew she loved them very much, deep down. But she didn’t tell them so, nor was she often openly affectionate with them. They were always there, steady and reliable … if a little bit old-fashioned. They were several years older than the parents of many of her friends.

  She suspected she might even be what some people called ‘spoilt’, because she was an only child; indulged, that was, with regard to material things, but not with regard to behaviour. Her mum and dad would not stand for any nonsense, as they put it. She had to do as she was told and abide by what they said.

  She never went short of anything and got must things that she asked for, within reason. And since her mother had started working part time at a newly opened fancy goods shop on the road leading to Whitesands Bay, there had been rather more money to spend on a few luxuries, such as a fridge, a larger television set, and an automatic washing machine.

  Debbie had a very nice bedroom, which was the envy of some of her friends who had to share with their sisters. It had been decorated – by her father – in the colours she had chosen; pale yellow, with one wall papered with a design of bold yellow and orange flowers; orange curtains to match and an orange candlewick bedspread. She had contemporary G-plan furniture, her record player and a shelf for her books, progressing from Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfield to Edna O’Brien, Kingsley Amis and Alan Sillitoe as she got older. Although she was always happier grubbing about in the garden, rather than sitting reading a book.

  Her mother had allowed her to buy a minidress, and a miniskirt and tight sweater, although at school the skirts were regulation knee length, sometimes rolled over a couple of times at the waistband, if they thought they could get away with it. Mum had also let her have her dark curly hair cut short, though she had needed a lot of persuading. ‘Oh dear, Debbie! You’ll lose all your lovely curls,’ she had said. But even Mum had to admit it looked nice, styled with a fringe and back combed in what was called a ‘bouffant’ fashion.

  Debbie was fifteen when she met Kevin Hill, and it was then that she began to realize that there was a life outside of home and school, exams and Guides and all that. Working at the garden centre and mixing with people who were older than herself gave her a taste for the wider world. It was then, also, that she started to think about how she had come to be in the world in the first place.

  What about her mother? She knew that ‘birth mother’ was the correct term, as opposed to her adoptive mother. She had never thought of Vera like that, though – she was just Mum – until quite recently.

  What about the girl – she must only have been a girl at the time – who had given birth to her? What had she been like? A wild, disobedient sort of girl who had ‘got into trouble’, as her mother would say? Or … had she been led astray and not known what she was doing?

  And what about the lad – or man, maybe – her real father? Was he very young too, as she assumed her birth mother had been? Had he disappeared from the scene, or had the two of them got married later? The thoughts and images went round and round in her head, but she didn’t tell anyone how she was feeling, not at first. Not even Shirley, her best friend, and certainly not her mum and dad. Neither did she tell Kevin, when she first met him, about her being adopted.

  It was after she had known him a while and they started going out together that she had started to rebel against the strictures imposed by her mother: getting home by ten thirty, tidying her bedroom, not wearing too much lipstick because it looked common. And, above all, about studying hard at school – hadn’t she always done so? – so that she could get good results in her O levels and go into the sixth form and then to university. What a complete waste of time that would be when she could go out to work and earn some money.

  ‘I’m fed up with my mum nagging at me all the time,’ she complained to Kevin as they walked along the prom one evening. It was just a few weeks before the exams. ‘I’m working hard at school, like I always do, but she never shuts up about it. About going into the sixth form, and I’ve told her I don’t want to. I want to leave school and work at Sunnyhill. Your dad said he’d take me on permanently, if that’s what I want.’

  ‘He suggested it, Debbie,’ Kevin replied carefully, ‘because he knows how you enjoy the work and what a hard worker you are. Not like some of the lazy louts we’ve had from time to time.’ They stopped walking and leant against the railings, looking out at the sea that was fully in, lapping against the sea wall.

  Kevin was not sure that his father had meant it seriously. He recalled that what he had actually said was something like, ‘You’re a grand little worker, Debbie. I’d like to employ you full time; I would that! But I know you’ve a long way to go with your studies. Don’t forget about us though, will you, when you go off to college or wherever?’

  ‘You’re a bright girl,’ Kevin told her now. ‘You could do much more than work in a garden centre. You’re far cleverer than me. That’s why I left school when I was sixteen. I didn’t want to carry on – my O levels were only so-so – and Mum and Dad said it would be best if I started work and learnt more about the business. Dad hopes I’ll take it over some day.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start!’ snapped Debbie, rather put out. ‘You’re as bad as my mum. Dad’s not so bad, actually. I think he understands how I feel …’ It was then that she told him.

  ‘I was adopted, you know. Vera and Stanley, they’re not my real parents. I’ve always known about it and never minded. But just lately, since Mum’s been getting on at me, I’ve started wondering …’ She had never put her thoughts into words before. ‘Wondering what it would have been like with my real mother.’

  ‘Gosh! I never knew that, Debbie,’ said Kevin. ‘You look rather like your mum, actually – the same dark hair, and the way you speak and … well, you’re just like her.’

  ‘I suppose that’s ’cause I’ve always been with her,’ said Debbie. ‘You pick up accents and speech patterns and all that.’

  ‘I think your parents are great,’ said Kevin. ‘You’ve been lucky, haven’t you, to get such a nice mum and dad?’

  ‘You don’t have to live with them,’ muttered Debbie. ‘No, like I said, Dad’s OK most of the time. It’s Mum …’r />
  ‘But all mothers worry about their children, Debbie, especially about daughters. I remember my parents being the same with our Jennifer. I think she was glad to get married and move away. They’re OK with me, though. Perhaps it’s different with boys. But I suppose you can’t help wondering … You don’t mean that you would do something about it, do you? You wouldn’t try to find your birth mother?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Debbie. ‘I’ve thought of it, I must admit, but I’m not sure how to go about it.’

  ‘Then forget it,’ said Kevin. ‘You might be making a big mistake. And just think how your parents would feel; they’d be very upset, I’m sure. Just try to think how lucky you are.’

  Debbie answered as though she had not heard his last remarks. ‘I do know something,’ she said. ‘I was born in Burnside House; you know, that place for unmarried mothers, not far from our school. And I know a lady who works there, Claire Wagstaff she’s called. She had quite a lot to do with my adoption. So I’ve got some facts, if I ever wanted to take it further.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Kevin again. ‘Count your blessings, Debbie.’ He sounded as though he were her uncle or something! Kevin was so sensible and unadventurous at times. Then he leaned towards her and kissed her lovingly on the lips. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a coffee at Katy’s Kitchen. I must make sure you’re home by half past ten!’

  She pulled a face at him, but the memory of that kiss lingered. She really did like him a lot.

  Seven

  ‘My mum’s still nagging me about staying on at school,’ Debbie complained to her friend, Shirley the following day. They had just finished their lunch and were sitting on the grass near to the tennis court, idly watching a couple of girls who were more energetically inclined having a friendly match. Shirley and Debbie enjoyed tennis, but were content just now to bask in the warmth of the midday sun. It was mid-May and unseasonably warm for the time of the year.