Page 56 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Sure,’ Beatrice agreed. ‘But first we need to get you two dressed.’

With any luck, she thought, Slate would have forgotten all about the library by the time that had happened. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go – the prospect of sitting quietly by herself while someone else occupied the kids still had its appeal. But she knew there was no point looking through the newspaper archives any more – there was nothing more for her to find there.

And Neil – for some reason she couldn’t quite name, she felt awkward about the prospect of seeing him.

Slate didn’t forget. After persuading them to spend the morning in the park and then wrestling with them over their lunches, Beatrice – unable to face disappointing him – reluctantly gave in. She soon found herself sitting cross-legged on the fringes of the circle of children while Neil, glove puppets on both his hands, launched into an improbable tale about a lonely little boy who was befriended by a dragon.

He isn’t a good-looking guy, she thought – nothing like the dark-haired, chiselled-featured boys she’d dated in college. But there was something cute about the total lack of inhibition with which he engaged with the children, the way his goofy grin flashed out when they laughed at the funny parts of the story, the way he held their attention, fascinated, through every pause.

‘And so Ferdinand the dragon went to school every day with Jeremy,’ he concluded, ‘and soon, he found he had lots of friends. All of the other boys and girls wanted to play with him and his dragon, and Jeremy didn’t feel lonely any more. But the funny thing was, none of the teachers ever asked him why he came to school riding on the back of a dragon.’

Neil got to his feet, laughing and shaking his head as the children crowded round him pleading for another story. Beatrice hung back, waiting for Parker and Slate to give up and accept that it was time for them to leave.

But Neil brought them over to her.

‘That story was adorable,’ she said. ‘You had them in the palm of your hand. Did you make it up yourself?’

‘I guess.’ Neil smiled. ‘My mum used to make up stories for me when I was a kid and I kind of got the taste for it.’

Beatrice thought of the story her father used to tell her at bedtime. Somehow, the memory no longer brought the nostalgic comfort it once had.

‘Anyway, how’s it going?’ he asked. ‘Have you found out anything more? About the house?’

Beatrice’s hand moved involuntarily towards her purse. Her feelings of awkwardness – shyness, almost – about Neil had dissipated now she’d seen him behaving so naturally around the kids, greeting her so casually. She might as well open the letter now – if its contents were confusing, Neil could help her understand. And, more importantly, she could dispose of it here, in the public library, in the large cardboard bin with the recycling logo on its side. It would be safer here than in Frances and Peter’s apartment, and certainly safer than in the house on Damask Square.

‘I got the deeds to the house.’ Her words came out in a rush. ‘I sent off to the Land Registry for them. Apparently anyone can – it doesn’t have to be your house or anything. You just pay a fee and they send them.’

‘Wow. And what did they say?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ve got them right here.’

She took out the envelope and showed him.

‘Cool. So are you going to open it, or what?’

Now that the moment was upon her, Beatrice found it quite natural to slip her thumb into the corner of the envelope and slide it across, the paper tearing more or less evenly along its fold.

As easy as opening an envelope, she thought.

She took out the paper inside and looked at it. It was a photocopy, the blank areas pale grey and the printed ones darker, as if the original document had been yellowing or its print faded with age, or both.

Neil leaned in close to her shoulder and they both looked at it.

‘The house hasn’t been sold since 1938,’ Neil said. ‘So your landlady…’

‘Her grandmother didn’t buy it from the Doyles. She can’t have done. She must be…’

Even though it was the information she’d been hoping for, now that it was there in front of her, she felt a sick sense of something like dread.

‘What are you going to do?’ Neil asked. ‘Will you ask her if she’s your birth mother?’

Beatrice’s mouth was dry. ‘I can’t.’

‘I get that. It’s quite the conversation to have.’

‘And we… we had an argument. Things aren’t great between us. And anyway – I can’t be sure. Not sure sure. I can’t confront her if I’m not sure. She might say it isn’t true. I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Bibi?’ Parker appeared at Beatrice’s side, her hand tugging at her skirt. ‘I’m hungry.’