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reassuring me for me to find the strength to stop crying and give her some sort of answer. I knew that my mummy would make it all better: Susie must have been making-up stories, must have been repeating nasty lies about me, she must have been mistaken. But, when I told my mum what my little friend had said, there was a horrified, and horrifying, silence.
‘I thought you knew darling; we did tell you before, when you were little. Don’t you remember?’
Looking back now, more than 30 years later, into thedepths of my memory, I still am not sure if I do remember any of their babyhood explanations or not. Apparently, I had been told as an infant, perhaps just two years old, that my ‘real’ mother was leaving home and that I was to be looked after by my maternal grandparents. I was told that I had been ‘adopted’ by my nan and granddad, and that they would care for me now that my real mummy had moved away. My family then assumed that, with duty done, there was no point in repeating the explanation when I grew a little older. ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ seems to have been their watchword without ever considering that such traumatic news would have been blanked out of my little-girl mind as though no words had ever been spoken in the first place.
It may be that I had retained some sub-conscious worry that all in my family life was not quite what it seemed. I remember being puzzled that other children knew more about the time and the exact circumstances of their own birth. That uncertainty was perhaps the reason why I would occasionally ask my mum gentle questions about it: ‘Oh, how much did I weigh when I was born, Mum?’
‘Well… I just don’t remember exactly now Miranda. That’s a silly question… I’m not sure… it was a long time ago because you’re a grown girl now.’
How odd it was that my mum couldn’t remember my birth weight, I used to think. Naturally, I can recognise now that whatever she did or did not remember, such issues were always brushed aside and my attention quickly deflected on to other things. Then again, perhaps I never had the courage to ask the direct questions that might have proved both more illuminating and more painful: ‘Susie’s mum tells her all aboutwhen she was born. If you had me then why don’t you remember?’ Might it have been that even at that young age I was colluding in my own childish way with my family’s conspiracy of silence? Might I have been unwittingly conspiring to keep myself in the dark?
Whatever the truth of my own complicity, the fact is that from the moment I was originally told the story of my adoption, ‘the scandal’ was never spoken of again. And, even if I had once heard what the adults thought they were telling me, the memory had been utterly lost in those seemingly-endless years of early childhood – till the day when Susie revealed her big secret. It was thus a devastating moment when I realised that her fantastical story was true. My mummy was not denying it and so many things were falling into place: an instant explanation as to why my mother and father were older than all my friends’ parents, why Dad had so much grey in his handsome, dark hair, why Mum dyed her hair blonde to cover up her roots. I remember, vividly, lying face down on my bed and crying till I thought my heart would burst because I realised that I was the only one who did not know the truth. Yet, how could Mummy and Daddy not be Mummy and Daddy any longer? Why had everyone lied to me? Why did everyone else know all about me when I did not even know myself? Even my best friend, her whole family, and, as it later transpired, most of the people in my road, knew intimate secrets of which I had no knowledge. I was far from being old enough to vocalise such thoughts at the time but I did feel an overwhelming sense of betrayal and deceit.
Many years later, my grandmother – whom I still called ‘mymum’ till the very day she died – told me how terrifying that