Trio - [83]

She had passed some shops a few minutes down the main road with a newsagents amongst them. She retraced her steps and went in. She had practised a story, which she trotted out to the woman behind the counter and the customer she was chatting to. Nina said she had moved away and lost touch with relatives who had lived on Livesey Street. When had they knocked the houses down?

‘Be a good few years now,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘You could try asking at the Housing. Some people went out to Wythenshawe. What were they called, love?’

‘Driscoll.’

Recognition lit the woman’s face. ‘Anthony Driscoll. They had a stall on Tib Street for years. Don’t think they’ve got it now though.’

Would that be Megan’s father? Nina’s grandfather.

‘And Grey Mare Lane,’ the other woman piped up.

‘I couldn’t swear to it but I think they moved out to Wythenshawe when they did the clearance. Try the Housing, they should know.’

Nina nodded and left.

It was cold and she struggled against the wind as she walked back along Oldham Street to Piccadilly Gardens. People waited at the bus stops, many of them poorly dressed and carrying bulging shopping bags. Nina was aware of her neat, new clothes – one of the perks of working at the shop. A couple of tramps were begging and Nina gave them some change. The wind seemed to howl down the street, lifting litter and dust and blowing over a sandwich board outside one of the shops.

Wythenshawe was the other side of Manchester, near the airport. A stall on Tib Street and Grey Mare Lane, a market. Nina had never been there but it would be like the market in Longsight, she thought, cheap and cheerful. Was that what Megan did? Worked on the market with her family? Outdoors in all weathers. She might be really common, swearing and rollers in her hair, like Hilda Ogden off Coronation Street. And what would Megan make of Nina? A right snob? But then when she was adopted that’s what people wanted, didn’t they? A better life, a good home for their child.

In Piccadilly the pigeons flew in an arc around the gardens. The place was noisy and busy and her bus was full so she had to stand all the way back. If she got stuck tracing Megan she could always try finding her father first in Wythenshawe, look in the phone book. Nina was getting closer. The bus lurched to a halt suddenly as the driver swerved to avoid a car. People muttered and cursed. Nina straightened up, smiled at the woman who’d bumped into her. She must tell Chloe. What next? She could try and find a marriage at the records place so she’d know if Megan had changed her name, or she could just go up to the markets the woman had talked about and see if anyone knew where the family had moved. Or try the Housing Department, but she thought they might be a bit cagey about giving details out unless you could prove a connection. She could even put a little advert in the paper. But that felt scary. How would people contact her anyway without Marjorie and Robert finding out? It was probably best to wait and get her proper records. After all, Megan might have sent details of where she was so she could be easily found. Yes, she’d hang on and do that first.

‘There are only the formal records, I’m afraid,’ the counsellor said. She held the large manilla envelope in her hand. Nina wanted to snatch it from her.

‘Sometimes there is a letter or photo but that’s less likely because of the time when you were adopted. In the sixties your birth mother would have been told very clearly that she was giving up all right to you, she had to swear in court, to make everything legal.’ She drew out the papers. ‘I’ll just explain what’s here and then I’ll give you a little time to yourself if that’s what you’d like?’

Nina nodded. Get on with it. Her palms were damp and her throat felt as though she’d overeaten.

‘This is the History Sheet.’ She showed Nina a typed-up form. ‘It would have been made by the social worker when your mother first applied to the society for help, and attached are some notes obviously made after you were born. Then there’s this medical record – all the children had to be examined by the doctor, of course. I’ll be next door if you need anything or want to ask any questions.’

Nina felt disappointment steal through her. There was so little. She read it through slowly. There was some new information. Her mother’s age – sixteen, only sixteen – and a note that she had been a packer in a factory. She read the handwritten sheet.

24/5/60 Baby girl born at Withington. Both well.

27/5/60 Baby baptised Claire by Father Quinlan.

10/7/60 Baby placed for adoption with Mr and Mrs Underwood, 29 Darley Road, West Didsbury, Manchester.

12/7/60 Megan discharged home.

Two days after, oh God! She wiped at her eyes. Looked at the medical form – nothing there of interest except her birth weight, six pounds twelve ounces.

Nothing about who the father might be or how Megan came to be pregnant.

No letters.

No photo.

She had been expecting so much more.

Maybe Megan didn’t care, hadn’t cared. Maybe ‘Claire’ had been the result of some silly mistake, larking about with some loser from the market or the factory, him taking advantage and bingo, a bun in the oven. A problem to be got rid of. Forgotten about. These days she’d have an abortion, it was illegal back then and dangerous. Nina was furious. She hated her. How could she just leave her like that? Walk away and never, not once, think about her and leave some sign.