I Trust You (5 page)

Chapter 8

I
t was a bit like when a child shoves a stick into an ant hill. What was once an inert-seeming pile of earth explodes into teeming life. Thousands of the tiny creatures sweep out in all directions and cover everything in the surrounding area.

              Marisa felt as if Dr Marsh had poked a bloody great stick into her quiet little existence and a streaming mass of memories and feelings had come tumbling out as a result.

              She didn’t think this was necessarily a bad thing. Laid out on the glass dining table before her were all the photograph albums, letters and school reports from her childhood. Responding obediently to the request, Trudy had sent everything she could find at their house in Bristol relating to her daughter’s adoption over to White Bay by recorded delivery.

              Rather than receding into the background as a result of her trips to the psychiatrist, the vision of the little boy with the blond hair and red t-shirt had become more powerful and ever-present. He appeared in her dreams now every single night. The sense that the boy was real – perhaps not as he appeared now, but at some point in her past – became a very definite conviction for Marisa.

              Almost without thinking about it, she lifted her mobile phone which was lying, half-hidden amongst the mass of papers. She called her parents’ home number.

              ‘Marisa, darling. Is everything okay?’ Her mother’s voice was cautious.

              ‘Yes. Fine Mum. Thanks for sending me the stuff. I received it this morning.’

              ‘That’s good.’ Trudy was smiling on the other end of the line, glad to have pleased her daughter, who she often found emotionally distant.

              ‘I wondered if you could tell me something.’

              ‘Of course.’

              ‘Do you remember much about the Dorans?’

              ‘Your foster family?’ There was a slight pause. ‘I’m afraid that Bryan passed away a couple of years ago. I’m sorry I never told you, Marisa. It was only fairly recently that we found out ourselves.’ Her tone was very apologetic.

              ‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t really remember them. I’m just interested in the period of time when I was in the foster home, that’s all.’

              ‘Erin Doran is still alive, as far as I know. There should be a contact number for her amongst the social services forms I sent you copies of, although it might be decades out of date now.’

              ‘How often did you visit me at the Dorans’ place?’

              ‘Quite a few times, actually. We were only allowed supervised visits at first.’

              ‘Do you recall much about the other children who were there?’

              ‘The Dorans had a big old Victorian town house with several floors. They appeared to have nearly a dozen youngsters living with them back in ‘83. Most were in their early teens and stayed in their rooms when we visited, or were out and about the town. The little ones were always playing in the back yard with you.’

              ‘Was there a little boy, maybe a few years younger than me with very light blond hair?’

              ‘Goodness, we’re talking about over thirty years ago! Let me think, there were certainly a few boys, because a social worker we met there was keen for us to take one of them instead of you. She’d been allocated to him for a long time, I believe. This particular boy was a bit older, you see. The social worker thought you’d get adopted easily – being still only three and such a bonny, sweet-natured wee thing. She was very keen for us to take on the other lad. I really can’t recall if his hair was blond or not. But he was bigger than you, definitely.’

              ‘Why did you decide not to take him?’ Marisa was intrigued. They’d never had this conversation before.

              ‘Roger and I had fallen in love with you, that’s the God’s honest truth. This other child struck us both as quite
difficult
. I wonder what became of him.’

              ‘Well, I’m glad you chose me.’

              Trudy felt a huge lump form in her throat. Her daughter had never said anything remotely like this before. ‘So am I, darling. So am I.’

*

It was growing dark by the time Marisa heard the front door open. She was still seated at the dining table, making the most of the evening light that continued to spill through the tall glass windows that ran along the rear of the house.

              Eliot padded through the hallway, pausing to rest his briefcase by the telephone table. ‘I had dinner with a client, darling. I hope you didn’t make anything for me.’

              Marisa glanced up. ‘Actually, I haven’t eaten myself yet. I’ve been so tied up looking through the folders mum sent.’

              Eliot picked up a photo album and scanned the contents. ‘You really need to take time to eat. I’m too busy right now to stand over you and make sure you’re looking after yourself. Perhaps it might be a good idea for you to go to Bristol for a few days? It certainly seems to me like you’re missing home.’ He gestured to all the pictures of his wife as a little girl, sandwiched between Roger and Trudy on the beaches of the south-west during the eighties and nineties.

              ‘I’ll fix an omelette in a minute.’ Marisa twisted round in her seat. ‘I think I will take a trip, if you don’t mind? But it won’t be to Mum and Dad’s. I’m going to meet with the woman who first fostered me. She’s called Mrs Doran and she remembers me very well. I spoke to her on the phone this afternoon. She now lives in a retirement flat in Southampton.’

              Eliot’s expression darkened. ‘What the hell do you want to do that for?’

              ‘Because I need to find out more about my early life – the place I came from. You know exactly where you were born, where you spent the first few years of your existence. I know little or nothing about where I spent mine.’

He abruptly stood. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a shower.’

She clutched his hand. ‘Don’t be cross, sweetheart. This is important to me. I’ve been reading through these old reports and records all day, becoming really excited about finding out more.’

‘Fine.’ He moved away, letting Marisa’s hand slip out of his and fall back by her side. ‘I’ve been working pretty hard myself. I need to get out of this suit.’

              ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine then,’ she called to his retreating form. Eliot was already at the foot of the stairs. Whether or not he heard his wife’s words, the man did not reply.

Chapter 9

T
he modern, low-rise block of flats was situated near to the West Quay retail park on the outskirts of Southampton. Marisa parked her car at the shopping centre and dodged across the busy junction to reach the building where Mrs Doran now lived.

              She was shown to the second floor by a middle aged warden who appeared to know each resident by name. He knocked loudly on the door. They waited for several interminable minutes before a tiny lady in her eighties finally opened up. When he was satisfied that she knew her visitor, the warden left them alone.

              Erin Doran led Marisa into a spacious living room, which boasted an impressive view of the multiplex cinema across the road.

              ‘My goodness, little Marisa.’ Erin sat down in a worn armchair and slid her glasses up her nose. The old woman’s voice still displayed a soft, Irish lilt. ‘But I’m sure I never expected you to turn out to be quite so beautiful.’

              ‘Thank you, Mrs Doran.’ Marisa perched on the sofa beside her. ‘I’m just pleased you remembered me.’

              ‘Of course I do. I remember all of you. There were sixty odd, in total. We didn’t have you living at the house all at the same time, mind!’ She chuckled.

              Marisa’s eyes widened. She was genuinely in awe of this couple, who were prepared to open their home to that number of unwanted children. ‘What you and Mr Doran did was incredible.’

              ‘We loved every minute of it my sweetheart. Some of those wee ones were a hell of a handful but they all left our place with good manners and a feeling they’d been loved and cared for.’ She gestured towards a cabinet crammed full of cards and photographs. ‘I still get letters from most of our kids. Bryan and I went to more weddings and christenings over his last few years on this earth than most do in a lifetime.’

              Marisa felt suddenly awkward. ‘I’m sorry I never kept in touch.’

              Erin waved her veiny hand as if to dismiss the comment. ‘Why would you? Roger and Trudy were amongst the best parents I ever handed a child on to. I knew I’d not be needed again.’

              She smiled. ‘I had a lovely childhood. I took up gymnastics and did really quite well in the district. We went to the seaside every summer.’

              Erin patted the thread-bare arm of the chair and grinned with satisfaction. ‘I knew it! I could tell straightaway that couple were good ‘uns.’ The lady knitted her brow. ‘What brings you here now, after all this time has passed?’

              Marisa shuffled forward. ‘I know I was very fortunate, but I’ve been thinking lately about the other children who were at the house with me, the ones who may not have gone to such a good home. Mum said there was another boy who the social worker wanted her and Dad to adopt. Do you remember his name?’

              Erin nodded solemnly. ‘Lee. We had him with us for a long while. Nobody wanted to take that lad on except me and Bryan.’

              ‘What was he like?’

              ‘He was angry. Had been ever since the moment the social worker dropped him off when he was four years old. Lee’s mother had disappeared, taken off one night and never come back. His dad tried his best but he worked on the boats and enjoyed a drink. Lee stayed with us until the end of primary school. By that time we barely saw the lad. He was back for his meals and his bed but spent the rest of the time on the streets. Then the social worker came round and informed us his dad was sober and ready to take the boy back. Lee left us not long after his eleventh birthday.’

              ‘Did he keep in touch?’

              A smile flickered across the lady’s lined face. ‘Funnily enough, he did for a good long while. He even turned up on the doorstep every so often and stayed for a cup of tea. Last time I set eyes on him was in the nineties though. He would have been sixteen or seventeen by then.’

              ‘Do you recall his surname?’ Marisa edged closer, hardly daring to hope.

              ‘Oh yes. Lee Powell, his name was. He was our child for more than seven years. I’m hardly likely to forget, am I?’ Erin chuckled at the very idea of this, looking closely at the young woman seated before her, who seemed not to really appreciate the reason why this was unthinkable. And it struck Erin Doran, certainly not for the first time, how many of the children in her care hadn’t really understood the true meaning of love. It saddened the woman deeply, that even when the social brought those little ones to her at a very young age, for some of them, it was already too late.

*

Marisa had spent a couple of hours in Southampton’s central library. She’d been able to use the internet in there and photocopy the relevant pages from some local road maps. Now she was sitting in her car with the engine rumbling and the heating turned on. It was getting late and the temperature had dropped markedly.

              Opposite her was a terrace of post-war brick built houses in the area of Thornhill. They were what used to be termed, ‘two-up, two-downs’, although Marisa imagined a good number now had kitchen extensions and loft rooms added.

              As a tall, broad man in his late thirties strode down the narrow street in her direction, Marisa glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was seven fifteen. Just as she’d suspected, the man approached the door she was watching and deftly turned the key in the lock.

              She gave him twenty five minutes, thinking this would provide enough time to wash and have something to eat, making the man more amenable to an unexpected visitor.

              Marisa climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked up to the door. For a split second, she had second thoughts. The moment passed and she leant on the bell.

              Lee Powell opened the door in a crisp white t-shirt and jeans, his dark hair damp and spiky, as if recently rubbed dry with a towel. Just as Marisa had predicted, the man had clearly just emerged from the shower. She knew he worked at the docks and most likely needed to wash after every shift. Unlike her own husband, who rarely got involved in the manufacturing side of his luxury boat business.

              ‘Can I help you?’ His expression was inquisitive and vaguely hostile.

              ‘My name is Marisa Coleman. You probably don’t remember me, but I was at the Dorans’ foster home with you back in the eighties. I’m trying to find out more about my life back then – something to tell the kids, you know?’ Her prepared spiel was suddenly sounding weak.

              Powell took a step back into the shadowy passage. ‘Come in.’

              Marisa stepped into the poky lounge, which although challenged for space, contained a wood burning stove and a leather sofa positioned on polished original floor boards.

              ‘Take a seat.’ Powell disappeared into the connecting kitchen at the back of the property and began filling a kettle.

              Marisa perched unsurely on the sofa but kept her jacket on. ‘This is a lovely house, loads of character,’ she called in to him.

              Powell returned carrying two steaming mugs. ‘It’s tea or nothing. I don’t have any coffee or sugar in the place.’

              ‘That’s fine, I prefer tea anyway.’ Marisa gratefully accepted the cup, realising how desperate she was for a hot drink after her long day.

              Rather disconcertingly, Powell lowered himself onto the floor by the stove, crossing his powerful legs and resting the mug on his knee. He observed his guest closely. ‘I remember you. Little Marisa, with the blond hair and the dark blue eyes.’

              She straightened up. ‘Do you? I hardly recall anything from that time. I went to see Erin Doran today and although she was lovely and hospitable, I didn’t recognise her.’

              ‘How is Erin?’ A shadow crossed the man’s face. It was one of sadness and remorse.

              ‘Remarkably well, actually. Bryan passed away two years ago, I’m not sure if you were aware?’

              ‘No, I wasn’t. I’m very sorry to hear that.’

              ‘Erin spoke fondly of you as a boy. She gave me a contact number which was years out of date. But as you’ve stayed local, it was very easy to find you.’

              His face hardened. ‘And why would anyone want to find me, Mrs Coleman?’

              Marisa realised this man must have assessed her very quickly – her expensive, tailored clothes and her platinum wedding ring. ‘It’s like I said. I want to know more about my past.’

              ‘There’s very little to know. You were only with us for a year or so. The pretty kids, the sweet and lovable ones got adopted quickly. The older you got, the lower your chances were of going to a good home. I wish I’d known how to play the system back then – hidden the disappointment and bitterness. Showing emotion certainly didn’t help your case.’

              Marisa felt suddenly guilty. She’d never given a thought to the others left behind in that foster home, not in all these years. Not until now. ‘Do you recall another little boy, he would have been a couple of years younger than me with white blond hair. He had a favourite t-shirt which was bright red.’

              Powell narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t recall any kid like that. I reckon you were the youngest at Blackstone Road around the time you left.’

              Marisa couldn’t hide her disappointment. She sipped the tea in silence for several minutes, hoping she wouldn’t start to cry in front of this stranger.  

              ‘What about
your
kids?’

              She glanced up, surprise showing on her face.

              ‘You said when you arrived that you wanted to be able to tell your kids about your past. How many have you got?’

              ‘Did I? It was just a figure of speech. I don’t have any. Yet.’

              Powell shifted his position, as if aware he’d stumbled upon a sensitive topic. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got two. Oliver and Josh. They live with their mum in Portsmouth.’

              ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

              He chuckled. ‘It’s not so nice I’m divorced, but I love my boys. We spend a lot of time together. It isn’t easy to make family life work when you’ve never experienced it yourself. Linda got sick of trying.’

              ‘But your dad came back for you, when you were eleven? You still had some of your childhood left, surely?’

              Powell frowned deeply. ‘The only childhood I ever experienced was with Erin and Bryan. By eleven I was out roaming the streets with lads five, six years older than me. I was drinking myself into oblivion every night by the age of twelve. Dad was on the wagon by then but he couldn’t control me. I was so angry with him for fucking my life up.’

              ‘I suppose he couldn’t cope on his own.’ Marisa’s words were spoken softly, without conviction.

              Powell rested his dark, angry eyes upon her. ‘It’s never anyone’s fault, Mrs Coleman, but that doesn’t make it any fucking easier.’

              She was regretting having come here. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dredged all this up. I’d better go.’

              ‘Wait. Tell me about
your
life. Mine’s a fucking open book. You’re the one who escaped it all, got rescued by that nice, middle class couple. Why you ever came back to this shitty town is beyond me.’

              Marisa was beginning to tell that Lee Powell
was
like an open book. He wore his bitterness on his sleeve and it had never done him any favours. Unlike Eliot and his associates and clients, who could create a smooth persona just like slipping on an Armani suit, this man had never understood how to play the game. She rather liked him for it. ‘Roger and Trudy took me back to their house in a suburb of Bristol. This is what I’ve been told. I don’t actually remember it. The first memories I have are of being in the local primary school and playing out in the back garden at home. I was on the gymnastics team and went to lots of competitions.’

              ‘I bet you won them too.’

              ‘A few. But I hurt my knee when we went skiing in the mid-nineties. I gave up after that. I passed three A-levels and went to Manchester University. I have a degree in Sociology.’

              ‘Does that mean you can become a social worker?’

              ‘Not really. It doesn’t qualify me for much, to be honest, but my parents were very keen for me to go. I had a good time there, gained my independence.’

              ‘Is that where you met your husband?’

              ‘It wasn’t, actually. I didn’t find anyone I really gelled with at uni. I met Eliot through Dad. Roger was a solicitor in Bristol before he retired. He represented Gerald Coleman, whose luxury yacht firm had outlets all over the south-west. Their head office was based in Bristol whilst my father-in-law was still in charge. Dad handled his account for decades.’

              Powell placed his empty mug very carefully on the coffee table. ‘You’re married to Gerry Coleman’s
son
?’ His tone was incredulous.

              ‘Yes. Do you know him?’