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Longer for you though, he said, saying it half as a question but knowing it was true. She considered the thought for a moment.
Aye, I suppose so, she said, a few years more at least, in a way. He hesitated and pushed on.
No, a lot longer I'd say, he said. I didn't know until I was an adult. I was twenty-two when I found out. Her eyes widened a little. She put her teacup down and peered at him. Sarah leant forward in her chair.
Is that so? Mary asked. Well, there's a thing. I'd never thought of that. She picked up her teacup again. Well, she said, shaking her head, well, there's something.
Didn't you ever wonder? asked Sarah. Did it never cross your mind? He looked at her. I mean, sorry, she said, it's not really my business, but. She sat back in her chair. I wonder why they waited so long to tell you, she said, I wonder what it was - Mary turned to her, frowning, and Sarah stopped herself. Sorry, she said. Look at me now. It's not my place, I'm sorry. She pulled the collar of her blouse away from her neck and looked towards the gas fire. Are you too warm there? she said, to David and Eleanor, and they both shook their heads.
No, he said, it's okay, I'm fine, thanks. He glanced across at Mary, her face patient and impassive. He was surprised by how calm everything had been so far, how formal. He had thought, on the many many occasions he had imagined this scene in his mind, that by now there would have been tears, garbled explanations, tentative embraces. He realised, already, that this was unlikely.
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nbsp; They didn't tell me, he said, answering Sarah's question but looking at Mary as he spoke. My father died before I found out, I'm not sure that he knew either. As he said the word father he noticed something flicker across Mary's face, some slight pinch of the lips, a turn of the head, and he realised that there was going to be an awkward uncertainty around their use of these words. A friend of my mother's told me, he said. It was an accident. She was getting old, and forgetful, and one day she lost sight of it being a secret at all, and told me as though I'd always known. He was surprised by how easily the words were coming. He had the sense that now he'd started he'd be able to talk until the light failed outside, and on until the sun came up again.
Well now, Mary said. That must have been some surprise. He laughed, nodding, covering his eyes for a moment, clearing his throat. She looked at him, smiling faintly, pleased with her own understatement.
Yes, he said, you could say that. It was something of a surprise. He finished his tea, and she immediately reached over to refill his cup.
And have a cake there, she said, pushing the plate across the table towards him. She refilled her own cup, and the pot trickled empty. She turned to her daughter; would you make us another pot Sarah? she asked. Sarah stood up and moved towards the kitchen, taking the pot with her, keeping her eyes on David as she left the room. Eleanor stood up as well, suddenly, and said I'll give you a hand, touching David's shoulder as she edged back round him and followed Sarah into the kitchen.
Well then, Mary said, here we are. Let me get a look at you, properly. He turned more fully towards her, feeling his face colouring under the fixed attention of her gaze. She sat back in her chair, slowly looking him over, measuring him out as an artist might measure out a life model before setting the pencil against the page. Stand up, she said softly. He stood, moving away from the table, aware of Sarah standing close to the frosted glass. Mary got up from her chair and stepped back a little, looking up at his face, moving around him. He followed her with his eyes, watching her steadily taking him in, and realised with a hard inward jolt what she was doing. The tears came then, at last, hot and stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he did his best to keep them hidden there, blinking them back, biting the inside of his cheeks. He saw that the rims of her eyes were reddening as well, and her small bony hands were curling into red-knuckled fists. I'm just wondering who it is you look like, she said, whispering.
Before Julia had let things slip, it had never occurred to him to wonder who he looked like. He had the same colour hair as his father, and the same colour eyes as his mother, and that seemed enough. He grew at about the same rate as his sister, and when they were younger and had their hair cut the same way there had been a similarity between them, and so there had never been a reason to think about it. He'd wondered, once he knew, if his mother had ever worried about these things as he was growing up, if she ever checked his growing hair for telltale signs of redness, or scanned his face for freckles, or looked into his eyes for any giveaway flecks of green. He wondered how she might have explained these things away if they had appeared, or if she might perhaps have used them as reasons to tell him the truth.
When he'd found out, he'd stood in front of the mirror with a family photograph held up beside him, looking for similarities, astonished at how few there were. It had never occurred to him before. But why would it? he asked Eleanor angrily, when he told her and she asked him this. Did you never look at yourself next to them and wonder? she said. Why would I think to do that Eleanor? he'd almost shouted, angry that she seemed to be implying some fault of his own, some blindness, some weakness in the ease with which he'd been taken in. That my parents spent my whole life lying to me? he said, shaking his hands in the air, why would that cross my bloody mind Eleanor?
I've got a few things in the car, he said later, as they were finishing the second pot of tea. I brought a few things with me. Mary and her daughter both looked at him, not sure what he meant. He stumbled over his words anxiously. I brought some things, in the car, he said, I mean, just some photos and things, I thought you might like to have a look, you know. Sarah looked at her mother. Her mother looked at David. I mean, only if you want to, he said. I thought you might like to see what I looked like growing up, where I lived, that kind of thing. Mary didn't say anything for a moment. He could feel sweat forming in the folds of the palms of his hands. He saw, from the corner of his eyes, Eleanor looking at Sarah, their eyes meeting, some understanding passing between them.
Well, Mary said, smiling. It would be one way to begin, wouldn't it? Her voice caught slightly as she spoke. Please, she said. I'd like that very much.
And at first it was just as he'd always imagined it would be. Mary and Sarah standing back while he opened the albums and the scrapbook and laid them on the table, pushing back the plates of cakes and biscuits, the basket of bread, leafing through the pages: photographs of him as a child, of the house in Coventry, of his mother and father in the garden; photographs of Julia, of her house in London, of Laurence glowering at the camera; photographs of summer holidays with his grandparents in Suffolk. A page of wedding photographs. A photo of Kate, taken when she was a baby. Another one of her eighth birthday, and of her leaving for university. And, tucked loosely into the pages of the scrapbook, his birth certificate, the hospital admissions card he'd found at Julia's, a map of all the places he'd been to the first time he'd come to Donegal.
He turned the pages backwards and forwards, looking at Mary, not knowing where to start, not knowing if he should say something. Eventually, he stepped back, gesturing vaguely at the opened albums as if to say here, help yourself, please.
She stood in front of it all, uncertainly, resting her weight on the edge of the table, her glance scattering from the album to the scrapbook and back to the album again. Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway, her back half turned, and Eleanor sat on the sofa. David watched her, this woman, as she looked over his life. She was so very different from his own mother was all he could think. Quieter. Shorter. Fuller in the face. Her voice, when she spoke, seemed lighter, calmer, more ready to listen. He wondered how the two of them would react to each other if they ever did meet. He wondered if it would ever come to that.
She turned to him, the rims of her eyes reddening again, opening and closing her mouth as if she wasn't quite sure what to say. Perhaps you should tell me about some of these, she said. He nodded, and stood a little closer. He reached across the table and started to point things out. Here, this is my mother. My father. Me. My sister. Our house. My first day at school. My first day in my job at the museum. That's Eleanor, of course, and our daughter. She leant over each photograph as he described it for her, peering at it closely, tilting the pages towards the bright light from the window, touching her finger, once or twice, against the face of the person pictured.
And this is when you moved into the new house then? she asked, pointing to a picture of the four of them by the front door, Susan clutching her father's hand, David held against his mother's chest. David looked at it a moment.
Yes, he said, that's 1947.1 would have been two, two and a half more or less. Mary looked at him, oddly, as if trying to remember something, as if there was something she wanted to ask. But she turned the page over without saying a word. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what he had planned. She would look at these things closely, ask him what that was, who this was, what they were doing in the picture and what they were doing now. And he would tell her. It was all he'd ever wanted, someone to tell these things to. My father was a builder. My mother was a nurse during the war. My father made this garden himself, when we moved to Coventry; look, he planted these, and these, and these. He died when he was fifty-one, exhaustion they said but we think now it may have been asbestos. This is my Auntie Julia. A friend of my mother's. She was a nurse as well. She wasn't my real aunt but I was very close to her. When I started working at the museum she came up especially to see me and made me give her a guided tour. This is when I met Eleanor.
She was working at the tea rooms at a museum I visited for work, up in Aberdeen. She wrote her address on this napkin look. I know, it's funny, isn't it, the way these things happen? This is our wedding certificate. This is Kate again, this is her graduation photo - Eleanor was furious with her for not smiling.
Once, just once, she turned away from him, fumbling into the sleeve of her cardigan for a screwed-up tissue and holding it tightly against her face, covering her nose and the corners of her eyes, nodding her head soundlessly. He turned to the window, standing very close to the glass so that the warm light shone against his wet face, listening to Sarah saying oh Mummy, hey now, wishing it could be him folding his arms around her and holding her comfortingly against his chest. Just once, and it only took her a minute or two before she turned back to him, saying oh well will you look at me now, you mustn't take any notice, wiping the tissue around the edges of her eyes and tucking it back inside her sleeve. Where were we then? she asked, smiling.
When he talked to Eleanor about it later, he said I don't know though El, it's strange, I think she knew even then, don't you? I think she knew as soon as she opened the door. But she was still so interested, she asked me all those questions, and then she cried like that, did you see? I can't really work it out, he said, and Eleanor sighed impatiently and said David, it's a bit obvious, don't you think?
She'd looked through almost everything in the albums when he noticed her hesitating, looking as though she wanted to turn away, to sit down and bring the scene to a close. He reached past her and picked up the hospital admissions card. And there's this, he said. She nodded, looking at it, and he could see that she'd been looking at it all along. I found this when we were clearing out Julia's house after she died, he said. I don't know why she had it. She must have taken it just in case, in case my mother ever needed to know, or in case she thought I might want to know. My mother said she had no idea Julia had taken it, he said.
Is that so, Mary murmured, looking closely. Mary Friel, she said softly, as if trying to remember writing those words, as if she wasn't sure that it had ever been her name at all. He didn't say anything. Sarah moved closer to them, looking over her mother's shoulder.
She told me they panicked when you didn't come back, he said, and maybe Julia took this in case there was some trouble about it. She told me they tried to find you but there wasn't enough information here. She looked, and nodded.
Well now, she said, taking the card from David's hands and laying it down on the table without quite letting go. I suppose it's my turn now. Would you get me those albums from the bureau in my room? she said, over her shoulder, and Sarah turned towards the door, gesturing with her head for Eleanor to go with her. They listened to the two of them walking down the hall and away into another room.
Mary turned to him, and put her hand on his, and he realised immediately that he knew what she was going to tell him, and that there was nothing he could do to stop her saying it aloud.
