Page 72 of All Our Missing Pieces

Abruptly, she pushed herself away from the windowsill she’d been leaning on and hurried downstairs, bursting out through the kitchen and into the garden.

‘Beatrice.’ Orla greeted her with her usual friendly but guarded smile.

‘Hi. You look busy.’

‘I’m planting tulip bulbs. This looks like it’s the last chance before it gets too frosty.’

‘May I speak with you?’

Orla smiled again, but there was a flash of something like alarm in her eyes.

‘Of course.’ She gestured with her trowel, but there was nowhere for Beatrice to sit and she didn’t fancy joining Orla on her knees on the newspaper, so she remained standing.

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’ Now that the moment was upon her, all the opening lines Beatrice had researched seemed to have deserted her. ‘Are you – have you ever been married?’

Orla looked surprised. ‘Yes. A long time ago, when I was living in South Africa. His name was Adrian. It didn’t last very long but I kept his surname. I don’t really know why.’

Beatrice nodded. ‘And, Orla – do you have a sister?’

Orla’s look of surprise turned to one of suspicion. ‘No. I’m an only child. My parents’ marriage didn’t last long either; I suppose it must run in the family. Why do you ask, Beatrice?’

Beatrice didn’t answer her question. Instead she asked another of her own.

‘You had a baby, didn’t you? At St Gerard Majella hospital in Dublin in February 1983.’

Orla turned her whole body towards her now, swivelling her knees around on the newspaper. Her face was as bleak as the bare branches of the chestnut tree, disappearing now against the clouds in the dying daylight.

‘That’s right,’ she said weakly. ‘A daughter.’

‘And you gave her up for adoption, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

Orla’s face was still; Beatrice had no way of reading her thoughts. Her own were in turmoil: torn between fevered anticipation of a conclusion she’d longed to reach, longing for recognition and – overwhelmingly – fear of the response she might be about to receive.

‘And you never tried to make contact with her. Not even when the contact register thing opened this year.’

‘Beatrice.’ Orla extended a hand. There was earth on her fingers; beneath it, they were bone-white with cold. ‘Are you telling me you are Aisling?’

Beatrice nodded. All the scenarios she’d imagined seemed to have vanished in the wind; there were only Orla’s eyes, confused and impossibly sad. Beatrice shivered, wishing she hadn’t done this – not now, not alone.

Orla stood up, slowly, as if her knees hurt from kneeling on the cold, hard ground for so long – but Beatrice couldn’t bring herself to reach out her hand and assist her.

‘After all these years,’ she said slowly, ‘I never imagined this would happen.’

‘Because you never wanted it to happen?’ Beatrice demanded.

‘Because it was impossible. There was no question of me ever seeing my daughter – seeing you. That was how it was then. How it’s been all along, until very recently. Everything was a secret, and you get used to keeping secrets if you do it for long enough. I’m sorry. Sorry you’ve waited so long. Sorry it happened in the first place. Sorry for it all.’

She took a step towards Beatrice, her arms lifting.

Now, Beatrice thought. This is the moment – the embrace.

But Orla didn’t touch her. Helplessly, she spread her hands up to the sky.

‘Sorry I was born?’ Beatrice asked, her voice tight and angry.

Orla’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘Of course not.’