Ancestry

By Janet Baldey

None of us can escape our ancestry, it follows us every step we take on our way towards the end.  But, sometimes, we cannot even evade the ancestry of others.  This is what I have learned.

Right from the start, I sensed she was different.  Special – as they say today.  But that hardly mattered; from the moment she opened her eyes and stared at me out of eyes so dark blue they were almost black, I was caught and wanted her with all my heart.  

The orphanage was quite open about her. 

         “She’s a difficult baby, you will have to be patient.” The matron leaned over the cot and laid the back of her hand against the baby’s cheek; her workworn skin starkly emphasising the flawless porcelain of the child’s.

         “Sleeps all day and screams all night.  Almost impossible to feed.  Seems to hate the taste of milk and vomits most of it back up.  But we have managed to keep her alive and she does have the knack of drawing one in.  We all love her deeply.”

         She sat back down and stared at us over the width of her solid oak desk.  My heart was thudding in my chest as I returned her gaze.  What was she thinking as she looked at us? A late middle-aged couple, too old to deal with a new born - we’d already been turned away by half a dozen other orphanages.  I fought against my body’s urge to cringe and lowered my lids to hide the need in my eyes.  I struggled to douse my smouldering resentment; what did this woman know of the grief of six still-born babies or the silence of an empty house that was slowly suffocating the love my husband and I once had? I must have this baby.  It was our last chance.  

The outcome of that interview was pure joy but ‘be careful what you wish for’ is a wise saw that never entered our heads as we drove away with our precious newly acquired daughter asleep in the fastness of her carrycot.

 Difficult is an inadequate word to describe the trial of raising Meriel.   The orphanage hadn’t lied, she did indeed scream all night and sleep all day, which did nothing to improve my husband’s mood.  She clamped her rosebud lips against the nipple of every bottle of milk and a geyser erupted, drenching both of us, if she was forced to swallow even the smallest drop.  In the end, going against all advice, I improvised.  Like Meriel, I grew used to sleeping all day and staying awake all night.  I also found that she would tolerate a clear beef broth and this way, managed to rear her until she grew teeth and could eat meat. 

But I don’t want you to think this was a chore.  Once we had established our routine, she was a delight and we grew very close.  From early on it was clear that she was highly intelligent.  She learned in a flash and by the age of three was reading and writing fluently.  She had many talents but dance was her speciality and every evening I watched, filled with pride, as she flitted around her room with an airy grace, her silhouette mimicking every move.

By this time, there was just the two of us.  Albert hadn’t been able to get used to the idea that she had special needs and his love for me wasn’t strong enough.

“Children must fit in with their parents, not the other way round.” This became his  mantra, and one that I constantly ignored.   At last, during yet another row and infuriated by my adamance, a blood red tide suffused his face. “She’s an aberration” he roared.  Afterwards, he apologised but it was too late. The word was out and hung between us like a dagger of ice.  He left a few weeks later.  I think he thought I would grovel for him to return but he was wrong.  I had my daughter now and she was enough.             

              Meriel knew that she’d been adopted.  I remember the evening I told her. I was sitting in my armchair listening to the music of the fire as it sang in the grate and Meriel was sitting in her usual spot, behind the sofa.  Her head was bent and she was crayoning furiously. I chose my moment. The dark had already stolen the light from the sky and I knew she would be in a good mood, this was her favourite time.

I patted the seat beside me.  “Come and sit next to me sweetness, I have something to tell you.”

She looked up but she didn’t move.  Then she looked towards the fire and I knew what was wrong.  She wasn’t afraid of much but she hated the orange sparks of flame that spat from the coals with a crack as loud as a pistol shot.

So, I went to her and crouched down to her level.  I looked at what she was drawing, a black and crenelated castle straining against a purple sky. I marvelled at the detail and wondered where she had seen such a sight.  Then, with an effort, I returned to my task.

“Although I couldn’t love you more, Meriel, I have to tell you that I am not your birth mother.”

“I know.” She didn’t look up from her drawing.

How could she possibly know?  But I didn’t challenge her, perhaps this was the way she channelled information.

So, I told her about the orphanage and my lips formed the old adage that she was a “chosen” child and that I loved her and had never regretted my “choice”.  On her part, she asked just one question.

“Where did I come from?”

“I don’t know darling.  I wasn’t told and I wanted you so much, it didn’t seem necessary to ask.”

This seemed to satisfy her and we never spoke of it again.

I knew that there were difficulties ahead.  Soon I would be forced to send her to school and she would detest that. Although she was now used to normal ‘office’ hours, she still hated the sun and refused to leave the house if it was shining.  Even on dull days she insisted on long sleeves and kept a nervous eye on the sky.  Also, on the rare occasions we visited the playground, she avoided other children and this worried me. I wanted her to socialise and not be ‘the odd one out.’ 

When the time came, surprisingly, we had very few problems.  I had already primed her class teacher that she suffered from a skin complaint, aggravated by the sun, and arranged that she should not go out at playtimes.  I also said that she had food allergies and should only eat the packed meal I would prepare for her.  I didn’t mention that her sandwiches were filled with raw liver, because I knew that would be found strange.  

Her other classmates seemed to accept that she was different and largely left my little girl, sitting swaddled in dark clothing at the back of the class, to her own devices.  Meriel was quite happy with this.  She was entranced by the school’s library and was rarely seen without a book.  Due to her superior intellect, she’d hoovered up the children’s section in no time and was now working her way through the junior adults.

Her class teacher, Miss Read, although slightly baffled by her odd pupil, was quite amenable.  She did, however, voice her concern about Meriel’s social skills.

“It’s not that she’s unpopular, it’s just that the other children avoid her. And, she in turn, avoids them. Would a birthday party help, do you think?”

Meriel would soon be turning six, so this seemed a good idea but when I suggested it, her eyebrows drew together and she shook her head so violently her hair rose up and swarmed around her head.

“No. No party. No one would come. They hate me.”

“Why do they hate you Meriel?”

“Once a girl gave me a sweet and I was sick all over her.  And they say my sandwiches stink.”

“Why did you eat the sweet? You know they disagree with you.”

She looked at me and I shall never forget that look.  Her eyes were so full of sorrow and anguish that I knew that I would protect her forever, with my life if necessary.

“I think they are afraid of me. And, I ate the sweet because I wanted to be like them.”

It was in secondary school that things came to a head.  I knew that puberty would be difficult and I had already sensed a difference in Meriel.  Restlessness, evasion, an inability to meet my eyes, these were just some of the changes I noticed.  In the mornings I would find her bed hardly slept in and she grew picky with her food, although I made sure I gave her all her favourites, raw beefsteak and entrails so fresh they were almost steaming.

One morning, the telephone rang and I rushed to answer it.  It rang so rarely I knew it was important and my thoughts flew to Meriel.   Sure enough, it was the headmistress.  They wanted me to come immediately.  Meriel had attacked a fellow pupil.

I followed the sound of sobbing as I hurried down the corridor. Through the open door of an office, I caught sight of a tumble of glossy curls and the slim column of a young girl’s neck, as white as alabaster - except for the blood. 

We were lucky. The parents didn’t want to take further action; the girl had a history of bullying and had been in trouble before.  The biter bit, I couldn’t help thinking as I sat in the headmistresses’ study.  The school were also more than happy with my suggestion that Meriel be home-schooled.  I chose the tutor. A squat, middle aged individual, whose jowls seemed to fit squarely between his shoulders. There would be no temptation there.

Above me, I can hear the faint shuffle of feet whispering across the floor.  Meriel is dancing, as she does every evening and her appetite will be good. I worry that soon I won’t be enough for her.  I know that old Dr Sanders is concerned about my iron levels and has prescribed Vitamin B Tablets.  He says that it’s just a matter of age but I know better and am taking double the dose.  I take off the scarf that I habitually wear and start to cream my neck which is both wrinkled and deeply scarred. Nevertheless, every evening I religiously apply emollients and afterwards dust it with the finest of powders.  I lower the lamp and in the half-light my neck looks almost normal. Satisfied for now, I dare not think about the future, I sit and wait for my daughter to come to me.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey