‘Are you alright, sweetheart?’ Aunt Liz had come to perch anxiously on the other side of her.
Emily shook her head. It might not have been their fault but she was not ready to reassure them, to let them off the hook. Instead she stood up abruptly, allowing the letter to flutter like a dead leaf to the floor. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said curtly. ‘I need to be on my own.’
She felt three pairs of troubled eyes follow her out of the room but she ignored them and, grabbing her coat, she yanked open the front door and let it slam behind her.
◆◆◆
It was several hours before she returned and she knew her aunts had been worried but she refused to acknowledge it. Her thoughts were still spinning through all the implications of this revelation and her emotions were likewise in turmoil. The whole fabric of her existence had shifted and she had no idea how she was going to cope with it.
A few more details about the adoption emerged in the days that followed. Mr Blake had left the box file for Emily to look through. Her parents had left this with him when they had given him their letter. Apparently, its contents had been given to the adoption agency by her real mother when she had given her up. However, to begin with, Emily refused to touch it. It sat like an unexploded bomb on the mahogany coffee table. What other secrets and shocks might she have to face?
Instead, as her natural curiosity about her past began to surface, she had questioned her aunts, attempting to cushion the possibility of further grief. They were only too happy to share what they knew but sadly that was very little. They were able to tell her that she had been born somewhere in London but they knew nothing else.
‘I don’t think your parents knew anything either. The adoption agency had very strict rules about information. They did say once that they would have liked to send your natural mother some photos of you so that she could see how happy you were but of course they couldn’t,’ Liz said.
There was nothing for it. She was going to have to look in the box. It felt quite light when she picked it up and took it upstairs to her room. As usual, Molly was waiting there, standing by her primrose-coloured curtains, her green eyes spilling over with sympathy. Emily placed the box carefully on the bed and, with trembling fingers, lifted the lid. Inside there were three items: a small, blue, velveteen jewellery box, an old, tattered, white envelope and a brown, leather-bound book.
Emily paused and took a deep breath. Could these three innocuous looking items hold information about her birth? Mr Blake’s instructions had been only to give her the letter from her parents first and then let her have the box. She was struck afresh by rage towards them. All those years they had guarded their secret. They should have been here, with her, when she opened the box. She should not have had to face this alone.
The envelope was lying on the top of the book and she picked that up first. It was blank and unsealed and she could see a piece of paper folded inside. When she pulled it out, she could see that it was a crumpled piece of lined paper torn from a notepad. She unfolded it. The writing was small and neat and very brief.
My baby,
I hope with all my heart you have a happy life which I know, due to my present circumstances, I would be unable to give you. I love you and it breaks my heart to give you up but I have no choice.
Please forgive me.
With love from your Mum xxxx
Emily sat on her bed and read the words over and over again. There were no answers – only questions? Who was she? Why did she have no choice but to have her baby adopted? The picture she had in her head was of a young girl, frightened and alone, and Emily could feel her pain radiating through her words. Her eyes filled with tears. How terrible to have to give up your baby. Of course, she could forgive her. After all she had always felt safe, loved and protected. Her parents had always done their best, as her mother had wanted, to ensure she had a happy life.
Carefully, she refolded the note and returned it to its envelope. Next, she picked up the jewellery box. It was light and felt smooth and luxurious in her hands. Inside, nestled against the ivory, satin lining of the box was a silver locket. It was oval shaped and the front was artistically engraved with two, intertwined initials - ND. She felt a pulse of excitement. Were these the initials of her real mother? There was a tiny clip on the side and when she applied pressure to it, it snapped open. However, disappointingly, there was nothing inside.
The last item was the book and, having returned the locket to its case, Emily lifted it onto her lap. The leather cover was smooth and worn but of good quality. The front was plain except for the same two initials stamped into the leather- ND. With a growing sense of expectation, Emily turned the cover to look inside. Written on the flyleaf, in bold, childish hand, were the words Norah’s Scrapbook and underneath a date - June 1st1922. The disappointment was instant; that was far too long ago to be her mother. So, who was Norah and why had her book and presumably her locket been given to her all these years later?
She turned the next page
