knot. You know, I loved her, Mercedes. Truly …’ he tailed off and took a deep breath.
‘I only ever wanted her to be happy. But she couldn’t be; something kept her worried all the time. And she was so protective of you. So absolutely of the conviction that you should never know of your history other than the story we agreed on. It was one of her conditions when we got hitched. But I respected that, and it didn’t bother me. I was prepared to take you on. You were lovely.
‘You could say we created a fiction out of love. And you grew into a bright happy child.’ He reached over and rubbed my calf. ‘Of whom I am very proud.’
I could see it in his eyes. And all at once I wanted to forgive him. Both of them. Of course, there was a reason for it. Of course there was. And it was true – I had had a happy childhood.
I sighed and leant back on my hands, thinking back over the years. ‘But I always thought I was an Essex Girl, Dad.’ I noticed how I had referred to him and in that moment I knew, that despite the knot of pain in my guts, I had already forgiven him. He would still always be my dad.
‘You are. You are such an Essex Girl. Or rather, Essex woman now. I know this is difficult. But you have to realise that this was done with your best interests at heart. You understand that, don’t you? Knowing what your mother was like.’
I could get it. But I couldn’t get it, if you know what I mean.
‘I should find my dad,’ I said eventually. ‘The biological one. I suppose.’
‘No.’ He said it quickly, with conviction. ‘Please don’t. Whatever had happened in your mother’s life there is one thing I know for sure, and that was that she didn’t want anything to do with him.’ He was looking over my shoulder into the past. Silence fell on us for a moment then he said, almost to himself, ‘He was probably someone she met back home.’
I jolted upright. ‘Back home?’
‘London.’ He looked doubtful and touched his face with his hand to brush away an invisible hair. ‘She only referred to him once, in her own words, as an “unexpected sperm donor”. Her parents had wanted her to give you up for adoption but she refused and got kicked out of home.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Not really. It was the seventies. There was still a stigma attached to unmarried mothers. And,’ he pressed both palms into his eyes and rubbed, then leant back and looked at me, ‘she was just sixteen when she had you.’
That didn’t make sense. Mum was fifty-two. We had celebrated her fiftieth a couple of years back.
‘Another little tweak of the facts for appearance’s sake.’ I could see him swallowing down his feelings as he reached back through the years. ‘She’d be fifty this December, had she lived.’
It was hard to take. Why change her age? But I couldn’t dwell on it. I didn’t want to see him like this – all struggling and emotional. He was meant to be strong and fearless and, well, my dad. Dads didn’t do that.
I nodded. ‘Her parents: are they still alive? Do I have some family I’ve never met?’
Dad sighed again and looked at the broken grass beneath my feet. ‘I’m afraid not. They were elderly and died some years ago. Rosamund never made contact with them. She was so angry. I don’t think she got over them tossing her out like that.’
‘You think? You don’t know?’
He nodded. ‘She clammed up whenever I asked, so I learnt not to and, to be honest, after a while I couldn’t care less. Your mum became my wife, and shortly after, you became my daughter. I wanted to adopt you but your mother didn’t want to get official channels involved, so we did it unofficially.’
‘But I have a birth certificate that lists you as my father? Not this one.’ I wagged it in front of him. ‘Another. I’ve used it for my passport. You’re on it. Place of birth: Rochford, Essex.’
‘I am your dad, Mercedes. A man from Shoeburyness helped me organise that. It was just a case of getting the correct stationery, and bunging a few quid in the right direction.’
I took that on board in silence, watching the clouds sail towards the south-west. ‘Didn’t you want to know more about her?’