Page 36 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Apparently you can write to them,’ Neil explained, ‘and tell them you’d like to make contact with your birth family. Only unless your birth family does the same thing, the request will just sit there on file. But it’s a starting point.’

Beatrice gazed at the words, amazed. It hadn’t occurred to her that something as prosaic as a change in the law, debated by a bunch of old people in whatever Congress was called over in Ireland, could hold the key to her past.

Seeing her face, Neil said, ‘I can send you a link to the article, if you like. In case you lose that.’

‘Yes. Yes, please.’ She gave him her email address and he jotted it down. ‘And it would be amazing to meet your grandfather, too, some time.’

She didn’t really mean it. The house seemed secondary now that she had this far better new avenue to explore. But gratitude to Neil made her generous.

‘I’ll give you my number as well, then.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s make a plan.’

She thanked him and said goodbye, then took the children’s hands in hers and led them out of the library. The sky had cleared, the pavements were sparkling and a rainbow arched high over the glass towers of Canary Wharf.

It’s a sign, Beatrice thought. It’s totally a sign.

TWENTY-FIVE

I still remember the day everything changed. I can picture it as clearly as if it were a movie or a dream I’d just woken from, before the images my mind generated had time to fade. Of course, at the time I didn’t see it as a seismic change – just an upsetting event, a blip that could be overcome with apologies, time, brushing beneath the carpet.

It was a Saturday morning in late July – one of the many days that were, in my memory at least, perfect: dry, sunny, still and happy. Luke and I were out in the garden, lying on the pair of deckchairs he’d recovered from a skip somewhere. Luke had his sketchpad on his knees and was drawing, from memory, a street scene – the bustling pavement of Brick Lane with its neon signs and crates of piled-up fruit and vegetables.

We’d placed the chairs on an island of cobblestones Orla had uncovered from the forest of weeds and brambles that had once filled the garden; she’d cleared some of the space, but not all of it, because she said that birds, bees and butterflies had thrived here for years and who was she to destroy their habitat?

Bees were everywhere that morning, I remember, rummaging and fumbling in the blackberry bushes whose fruit Orla had talked about making into jam come autumn. Her promise had made me happy – I’d imagined us having jam on our toast, jam on the scones Orla would teach me how to make. Next time, I’d be able to make them myself; in future years, I might even make the jam.

I was confident, on that summer Saturday, that there’d be a future for us all in the house. I had no reason not to be. But at the same time, I was entirely immersed in the present – the heat on my bare skin as I stretched out in my deckchair in my bikini, the hum of the bees going about their business, the heavy scent of honeysuckle hanging in the air.

And Luke, of course. Luke’s presence next to me, the occasional murmur of his voice over the music coming from Orla’s tape player, the sun glinting off the fuzz of hair on his chest, the shiver that ran through me when he reached out a finger to brush my thigh.

We must have missed the first knock on the front door, because when the second came it was loud, impatient, almost aggressive. Maud, who’d been snoozing on the hot bricks next to us, raised her head, startled.

‘Door,’ Luke observed sleepily. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘No, I’ll go.’ My feelings for him were at that early pitch of intensity where I wanted to give him everything, even the chance to lie in the sun for five minutes while I went inside. ‘I need a glass of water, anyway.’

I stood up, pulling Luke’s T-shirt on over my bikini, and hurried inside. The knock came again, even louder.

I opened the front door and saw a young man standing there, perspiring in the heat in his suit and tie.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘We were outside and we didn’t hear you knock at first.’

He didn’t acknowledge my apology. ‘May I ask if you’re the homeowner?’

I shook my head, eager to get rid of him and return to Luke. ‘Just a lodger.’

‘Then is your landlord home?’

‘Landlady,’ I corrected. ‘I’m not sure.’ I looked behind me, half-expecting Orla to materialise in the hallway behind me, although I hadn’t seen her all morning.

‘Would it be possible to go inside and check?’

Although he was perfectly polite, something about his manner annoyed me.

‘I don’t think she wants satellite TV or to change energy provider,’ I said. ‘If that’s why you’re here.’

‘It is not.’ He drew his shoulders back, pompous in spite of his sweating face. ‘I represent Digby Marchant real estate brokers. We’ve recently established an office in the area and are seeking to explore avenues of opportunity with potential vendors.’

An estate agent. That explained the suit – and the persistence. As far as I knew, Orla had no intention of putting the house on the market – even if it was in a saleable condition, which it wasn’t – but it wasn’t for me to decide. Anyway, Orla would be more likely to succeed in getting rid of him than I was.