‘I finished my Masters last year and I’ve applied for funding for further study, possibly a PhD. This is delicious wine, by the way, Mrs Webster, thank you.’
The answer was unexpected. ‘Really? Look, please call me Amy. It seems a bit formal to use my married name.’
Chloe splutters: ‘If you’re clever, why are you working in a pub? In this out of the way place? No shops or cinema or other people or bars. Nothing to do. Unless you like walking.’
‘I do like walking and the countryside is beautiful. But there’s another reason why I’ve come here. I think I mentioned it,’ Aubrey looks at Amy. ‘I’m searching for someone. My mother.’ He is pleased to have finally captured the girl’s attention.
Chloe is transfixed. ‘You don’t have a mother?’
‘I have two mothers actually.’
‘God… two mothers! Appalling thought. Just teasing, Mum. How can you have two mothers?’
‘I was adopted at birth. So I have a birth mother – whom I’ve never met – and the mother that brought me up. After I finished my study, I decided that before doing anything else, I would see if I could find her. Maybe my father, too.’
‘I know people who are adopted often want to do that at some stage of their lives,’ says Amy sympathetically. ‘Were you able to talk to your mum and dad about it?’
‘Yes of course. They’ve been open with me about being adopted from when I was about eight or nine. They weren’t keen on secrets.’
Something niggles at Amy, a memory she cannot recall. ‘I’ll just check the food.’ She pokes at the chops. Standing by the cooker she tries to work out what’s bothering her.
Outside, Chloe is telling Aubrey her mother is ‘an old hippy’ and did up the cottage with all her weird friends in ‘the old days’ before either of them were born. She is making him laugh.
‘Come inside you two, it’s time to eat. Bring your glasses.’
When they have started eating, Chloe says: ‘Do you mind me asking, Aubrey? How do you start looking for a mother? What did you do?’
Aubrey puts down his fork. ‘It was a bit haphazard actually. You see when I was adopted in the early 1970s, record-keeping was rudimentary. I contacted the agency that arranged my adoption and they gave me this flimsy cardboard file with a few scraps of paper in it. It included notes from the agency worker who arranged my adoption and other stuff. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.’
‘God, how weird,’ said Chloe. ‘Did anyone go along with you?
‘One my friends did offer to come but I wanted to go alone. The woman at the agency was really nice, actually. She explained that when I was adopted, unmarried mothers giving up their babies were told to think of it as a ‘clean break’. That’s what the woman arranging my adoption probably said to my mum – that she and I should never meet again.’
‘It’s hard to imagine that now. It sounds so…punitive,’ Amy says.
Chloe adds: ‘Harsh, yeah. But weren’t you a bit angry with her for giving you away?’
Amy winces. Her daughter is so direct.
Aubrey shakes his head. ‘Why? I presume there was nothing else she could do. For all I know she was forced to give me up. No, I’d like to thank her for her brave decision – and tell her that I’m fine.’
Amy is impressed by the young man’s maturity. ‘But how did you end up round here?’ Chloe says.
‘That’s strange. I found a note in my file, a claim for petty cash. The agency worker must have given my mother money for fares so she would get home. The woman recorded the place, mentioned this village by name.’
‘Wow.’ The meal is far more interesting than Chloe could have hoped and, despite his terrible fashion sense, Aubrey is rather sweet. She decides to act the hostess.
‘Thanks for telling us everything, yeah? Mum’s bought a lemon tart for pudding. I’ll fetch it. No, you stay there, Aubrey. You’re our guest.’
‘Morning, Chloe. You’re up bright and early.’
The girl is already at her desk, books open and a pencil between her fingers.
Amy stifles a yawn. Her sleep was disturbed. The memory she had been struggling to recollect finally woke her in the early hours. Something Simon told her a few days after they’d decided to get engaged.
He had insisted she sit on their Habitat sofa, the one she hated as soon as they brought it home and found the foam filling was too bouncy to be comfortable. She had larked about, pretended to wobble off the sofa.
‘What is it, darling? Why the oh-so-serious face?’
‘I think we should be honest with each other before our special day,’ Simon had said.
The phrase made her giggle.
‘I can’t believe it’s that bad, darling! Have you robbed a bank? If so – hurrah – please can we use the money to buy a new sofa?’
‘I’m serious, Amy. I think we should tell each other who we’ve slept with. We shouldn’t have secrets.’
‘Oh but I like a little mystery. It’s naughty and …’
‘Isn’t honesty the basis of a good marriage?’
‘Don’t be pompous, darling, it’s not sexy. You know about most of my boyfriends anyway. David, that French guy, Marcus…’ She reeled off the ten men she had slept with.
She did not mention Seymour. Clarity could be cruel. How could she explain to her husband-to-be that Seymour was the most important of her lovers? As the perfect storm of her life raged, mourning her mother, missing her father, Seymour and life on Wyld Farm had given her the sanctuary she needed. And though Seymour had hurt her terribly when he cast dumped her, the rejection revealed something she needed to understand; what she needed from love. For that she was grateful.
Simon divulged the three women he’d slept with. She pushed him on to the sofa in mock horror, then teased him about his lack of sexual conquests.
Almost as an
