although I was blissfully happy with Mum and Dad, I also thought about how my 'real' mum (as I thought of her in those days) would one day visit me. I imagined her walking up to the house looking very pretty, wearing a flowery dress and a pair of white gloves; and I'd run down the path to greet her, just like Jenny Agutter in
The Railway Children
. Except that I wouldn't be shouting, 'Daddy! My Daddy!' I'd be shouting 'Mummy! Mummy!' instead. Then I'd imagine her picking me up and cuddling me, and she'd be wearing some lovely scent; then she'd take off her hat, and her hair would be red and very curly, like mine; it would almost spring out of her head, in long corkscrews, like mine does, and she'd exclaim 'Rose! My darling! How you've grown!' Then she'd hold me really close to her, and I'd feel her cheek pressing on mine. And we'd go inside for tea, and I'd show her all the drawings I'd done of her—dozens and dozens of them—which I'd kept in a box under my bed.
I never told my mum and dad all this because I knew that they'd feel hurt. So instead I let them tell me this nice story about how I came to live with them. But later on I discovered that's all it was—a nice story.
I guess you'd like to know, but I'm afraid I simply can't tell you—because I've never told a soul. Not Ed. Not even the twins. I never discussed it with Mum and Dad either, although I knew that they knew. I've always kept it to myself because it makes me feel somehow… ashamed. But when I turned eighteen I found out about my real mum, and all my nice daydreams about her stopped. I burned all the drawings of her on a bonfire and I vowed I'd never look for her. And I never will.
People who know I'm adopted sometimes express surprise at this, especially now that my adoptive parents are dead. 'Why don't you trace your natural mother?' they ask, with staggering cheek. I'm always amazed that anyone should think I'd be interested in meeting the woman who'd given me up. It would be like tracking down the burglar who'd nicked your precious family heirlooms to shake his hand. So thanks but no thanks— I'm not interested: I've only ever had two real parents and they're dead. So I never, ever think about my 'birth mother', to use the fashionable jargon, and if I do then it's with contempt.
I guess that's probably what's put me off having children myself. I'm not really the maternal sort. When I was little I used to imagine myself with lots of babies, but later those feelings changed. Some adopted kids go the other way and have a big family, but they've probably got a nicer story than me. Anyway, enough of my 'real' mother—you must be bored with her: I mean, Jesus, I'm boring myself! All you need to know is that I had an
idyllic
childhood and that my adoptive parents
were great
.
I used to wish that they'd adopt another little girl or boy for me to play with. I was often terribly lonely and I disliked being an only child. I remember asking Mum and Dad if they couldn't adopt a sibling for me but they said I made quite enough work for them as it was! And the next day I was riding my bike and I saw a pair of ducks on the river with eight babies, all squabbling and cheeping, and I remember envying those ducklings like mad. But then, luckily, not long after that, I met Bella and Bea. They moved in next door when I was eight and they were six and a half. From the start they fascinated me, not because of their identical looks, but because they were always arguing— that's how we met. I was in the garden one day and I could hear these two little voices, disagreeing viciously.
'Barbie is HORRIBLE!'
'She is NOT horrible, she is very pretty and KIND. Sindy is UGLY!'
'No she's NOT!'
'She IS. Her head's TOO big!'
'That's because she's very CLEVER. She can speak FRENCH!'
'Well Barbie can speak AMERICAN!!!'
I remember climbing onto the garden wall and staring at them in amazement. I'd never known any identical twins before. They were dressed in the same blue
The Railway Children
. Except that I wouldn't be shouting, 'Daddy! My Daddy!' I'd be shouting 'Mummy! Mummy!' instead. Then I'd imagine her picking me up and cuddling me, and she'd be wearing some lovely scent; then she'd take off her hat, and her hair would be red and very curly, like mine; it would almost spring out of her head, in long corkscrews, like mine does, and she'd exclaim 'Rose! My darling! How you've grown!' Then she'd hold me really close to her, and I'd feel her cheek pressing on mine. And we'd go inside for tea, and I'd show her all the drawings I'd done of her—dozens and dozens of them—which I'd kept in a box under my bed.
I never told my mum and dad all this because I knew that they'd feel hurt. So instead I let them tell me this nice story about how I came to live with them. But later on I discovered that's all it was—a nice story.
I guess you'd like to know, but I'm afraid I simply can't tell you—because I've never told a soul. Not Ed. Not even the twins. I never discussed it with Mum and Dad either, although I knew that they knew. I've always kept it to myself because it makes me feel somehow… ashamed. But when I turned eighteen I found out about my real mum, and all my nice daydreams about her stopped. I burned all the drawings of her on a bonfire and I vowed I'd never look for her. And I never will.
People who know I'm adopted sometimes express surprise at this, especially now that my adoptive parents are dead. 'Why don't you trace your natural mother?' they ask, with staggering cheek. I'm always amazed that anyone should think I'd be interested in meeting the woman who'd given me up. It would be like tracking down the burglar who'd nicked your precious family heirlooms to shake his hand. So thanks but no thanks— I'm not interested: I've only ever had two real parents and they're dead. So I never, ever think about my 'birth mother', to use the fashionable jargon, and if I do then it's with contempt.
I guess that's probably what's put me off having children myself. I'm not really the maternal sort. When I was little I used to imagine myself with lots of babies, but later those feelings changed. Some adopted kids go the other way and have a big family, but they've probably got a nicer story than me. Anyway, enough of my 'real' mother—you must be bored with her: I mean, Jesus, I'm boring myself! All you need to know is that I had an
idyllic
childhood and that my adoptive parents
were great
.
I used to wish that they'd adopt another little girl or boy for me to play with. I was often terribly lonely and I disliked being an only child. I remember asking Mum and Dad if they couldn't adopt a sibling for me but they said I made quite enough work for them as it was! And the next day I was riding my bike and I saw a pair of ducks on the river with eight babies, all squabbling and cheeping, and I remember envying those ducklings like mad. But then, luckily, not long after that, I met Bella and Bea. They moved in next door when I was eight and they were six and a half. From the start they fascinated me, not because of their identical looks, but because they were always arguing— that's how we met. I was in the garden one day and I could hear these two little voices, disagreeing viciously.
'Barbie is HORRIBLE!'
'She is NOT horrible, she is very pretty and KIND. Sindy is UGLY!'
'No she's NOT!'
'She IS. Her head's TOO big!'
'That's because she's very CLEVER. She can speak FRENCH!'
'Well Barbie can speak AMERICAN!!!'
I remember climbing onto the garden wall and staring at them in amazement. I'd never known any identical twins before. They were dressed in the same blue
Similar Books
