to Jemma, hand out their name badges, anything rather than hear those words, in that moment. If only she’d never agreed to the visit. If only she’d asked Karen to do the tour instead. If only—
‘Bad day at the office?’ Archie asks sympathetically.
He has seen her car on the drive and already poured her a glass of wine. It’s winking invitingly, the deep straw-coloured liquid so chilled that a blanket of condensation has wrapped itself sympathetically round the bulb of the glass. Prince, ecstatic to have them both at home again, nudges her hand insistently, asking for attention. For a few seconds the scenario brings comfort. She takes the wine, closes her eyes and sips. It’s rich and buttery.
‘Oh – you know,’ she says noncommittally.
‘What’s up, Suse?’
He knows her too well. She can’t hide the fact that something is troubling her, but he can’t suspect that she’s begun to wonder if she knows him at all – and even here, in her own home, where everything is so familiar, she feels she can no longer trust the obvious. The blithe watercolour of glorious scarlet dahlias in its battered frame was her father’s. Her father’s? But he wasn’t, was he, if the story is true?
She looks at the Lladró figurine that has pride of place on the bookshelves to the right of the fireplace, a small shepherd boy, idealised and untroubled. Not her taste at all, but it was her mother’s knickknack and her mother’s taste, and the shepherd boy was one of the few items she kept after her mother died. It has always seemed to Susie that the small porcelain ornament was the embodiment of her mother – sweet-natured, unsophisticated, honest.
Honest?
She has to ask him. There’s no other way. An old cliché springs to mind: ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’. But she does know now, or at least she knows partly, and the hurt is there already. She puts her glass of wine down so that he won’t see her shaking hands.
‘I know, Archie,’ she says, the words as simple as she can make them.
But Archie’s attention is no longer focused on her. He has picked up the tv remote and is flicking through the channels. Her life is imploding and all her husband can do is hunt through a sea of banality of someone else’s making.
She waits. Silence can be as effective as speech.
In the end, he looks up. ‘Hmm? Sorry Suse, did you say something?’
‘Yes.’ She has to say it again. ‘ I know. ’ She invests the words with deep significance.
‘Sorry? He asks, confusion on his face. ‘You’ve lost me.’
Is there hope? There’s still a tiny window left to her. She can close the conversation now and that will be the end of it. Life will return to normal and the truth – whatever it is – will remain buried, in the graves of her parents, where it should be. But Susie, eyeing the dahlias, her gaze flickering over the china figurine, knows that the time for simple truths has passed.
She meets Archie’s puzzled gaze. ‘I had to show someone round the Parliament yesterday, a friend of my mother’s around the time I was born. She said – I couldn’t believe what she said, Archie, but I heard it very clearly—’ Susie lets the words hang in the air, then finishes, her voice breaking, ‘She said I was adopted.’
If she has the slightest doubt about the truth of the matter, it’s dispelled now. Understanding floods into Archie’s eyes like dye dropped into water, curling and spreading until it has changed colour completely.
Until now, there has been one element above all others that Susie can’t believe: that Archie knew. But looking at him confirms the story. Like snow triggered into movement by some minor shock, her feelings pick up speed and slither down a bottomless slope. She knows that her life, like the landscape after an avalanche, has changed for ever.
I can’t ask him to explain. I don’t want to hear.
She stands abruptly. ‘I’m going to walk Prince.’
‘I’ll come with
‘Bad day at the office?’ Archie asks sympathetically.
He has seen her car on the drive and already poured her a glass of wine. It’s winking invitingly, the deep straw-coloured liquid so chilled that a blanket of condensation has wrapped itself sympathetically round the bulb of the glass. Prince, ecstatic to have them both at home again, nudges her hand insistently, asking for attention. For a few seconds the scenario brings comfort. She takes the wine, closes her eyes and sips. It’s rich and buttery.
‘Oh – you know,’ she says noncommittally.
‘What’s up, Suse?’
He knows her too well. She can’t hide the fact that something is troubling her, but he can’t suspect that she’s begun to wonder if she knows him at all – and even here, in her own home, where everything is so familiar, she feels she can no longer trust the obvious. The blithe watercolour of glorious scarlet dahlias in its battered frame was her father’s. Her father’s? But he wasn’t, was he, if the story is true?
She looks at the Lladró figurine that has pride of place on the bookshelves to the right of the fireplace, a small shepherd boy, idealised and untroubled. Not her taste at all, but it was her mother’s knickknack and her mother’s taste, and the shepherd boy was one of the few items she kept after her mother died. It has always seemed to Susie that the small porcelain ornament was the embodiment of her mother – sweet-natured, unsophisticated, honest.
Honest?
She has to ask him. There’s no other way. An old cliché springs to mind: ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’. But she does know now, or at least she knows partly, and the hurt is there already. She puts her glass of wine down so that he won’t see her shaking hands.
‘I know, Archie,’ she says, the words as simple as she can make them.
But Archie’s attention is no longer focused on her. He has picked up the tv remote and is flicking through the channels. Her life is imploding and all her husband can do is hunt through a sea of banality of someone else’s making.
She waits. Silence can be as effective as speech.
In the end, he looks up. ‘Hmm? Sorry Suse, did you say something?’
‘Yes.’ She has to say it again. ‘ I know. ’ She invests the words with deep significance.
‘Sorry? He asks, confusion on his face. ‘You’ve lost me.’
Is there hope? There’s still a tiny window left to her. She can close the conversation now and that will be the end of it. Life will return to normal and the truth – whatever it is – will remain buried, in the graves of her parents, where it should be. But Susie, eyeing the dahlias, her gaze flickering over the china figurine, knows that the time for simple truths has passed.
She meets Archie’s puzzled gaze. ‘I had to show someone round the Parliament yesterday, a friend of my mother’s around the time I was born. She said – I couldn’t believe what she said, Archie, but I heard it very clearly—’ Susie lets the words hang in the air, then finishes, her voice breaking, ‘She said I was adopted.’
If she has the slightest doubt about the truth of the matter, it’s dispelled now. Understanding floods into Archie’s eyes like dye dropped into water, curling and spreading until it has changed colour completely.
Until now, there has been one element above all others that Susie can’t believe: that Archie knew. But looking at him confirms the story. Like snow triggered into movement by some minor shock, her feelings pick up speed and slither down a bottomless slope. She knows that her life, like the landscape after an avalanche, has changed for ever.
I can’t ask him to explain. I don’t want to hear.
She stands abruptly. ‘I’m going to walk Prince.’
‘I’ll come with
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