Page 66 of The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
‘I can understand why you’d like to talk to them and hear the story of how they found you first-hand,’ he said, ‘but if you’re hoping they’ll reveal some clue to your identity, then I think you’ll be in for a disappointment.’
‘No … no, of course I don’t really think that,’ I said. ‘But they must have been on the scene soon after I was left, or I wouldn’t have survived, so they may have seen something.’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. And the offer still stands: if I’m not away somewhere, then I’ll come with you,’ he said, which was very kind of him, though actually I thought it was something I’d prefer to do alone.
I sighed. ‘I do accept I’m unlikely to find my birth mother, it’s just an outside chance – though I could try Bel’s suggestion and contact thelocal paper to see if they’d like to do an article about me. How I was found on the moors and now have come back to open my own teashop in Haworth – that kind of thing. It would be good publicity even if she didn’t see it and come forward, but she might.’
‘I’d advise against it, but that’s only my opinion. I’d hate you to find her and then … be hurt because she doesn’t want anything to do with you.’
‘One final rejection,’ I agreed. ‘But perhaps then I’d feel I’d done everything I could and I’d be ready to move on with my life.’
‘I suppose there is that.’ His face had that brooding, dark, inward-looking expression again.
‘Did you never want to try to trace your real father, or any other relatives?’ I asked him curiously.
‘Dad – Paul – asked me that once. He was keen on family history research and he’d just taken a DNA test through one of the genealogy websites to see if he could link up with any other relatives on the database. He suggested I try it, too.’
‘I didn’t even know you could do that! Did you have a go?’
‘No, because I already knew my father was a Greek waiter. My mum told me once that he’d gone back to Greece soon after I was born, saying he’d send for her when he’d told his parents, but that was the last she’d heard of him.’
‘That’s so sad,’ I said.
‘I suppose it is, but I’m sure family pressure was brought to bear, once he got home.’
‘You tried to find him, didn’t you?’ I guessed, and saw by his expression that I was right.
‘Yes. I managed to trace the village he came from and went there … but he’d died a few years before in an accident. I’ve seen a photograph, so I know I look very much like him and I could see his family knew about me, but they denied it because they seemed to have the idea I’d come to claim my inheritance, such as it was.’
‘I’m so sorry, it must have been horrible for you,’ I said gently.
‘I was more curious than anything and it did show me the background my father had come from,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t tellSheila and Paul what I’d done because they were myrealparents and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings in any way.’
‘I won’t mention it then,’ I assured him. ‘And I can see now why you don’t think searching for my birth mother is a good idea – though not all experiences will be the same. If I go public with the story and shedoesn’tcome forward, then that’s it, I really will let it drop.’
‘Then I suppose you’d better go for it,’ he said.
‘Did your dad’s research throw up anything interesting about the Giddingses?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t even know youcouldtrace your family history through DNA.’
‘You can if there are any matches on the database, and he found several. It’s a very old family, with lots of branches and several eccentric characters … like Teddy.’
‘Teddy’s lovely and not eccentric at all!’ I protested.
‘Wait till you’ve seen the scale of the model train layout he’s got in one of the attics, or caught him wandering round the house in his replica Victorian stationmaster’s uniform,’ he said with a grin.
I myself like to chill out in a long, voluminous, Victorian-style, flounced and frilled white cotton dressing gown, which I call Miss Havisham …
I decidednotto mention it.
Now that Nile had opened up to me a bit about his childhood, I could see that in many ways we’d been shaped by the same forces: abandonment, redeeming love and the search for who we really were. I felt I understood him better and that despite the way we seemed constantly to strike sparks off one another, deep down, we had a real connection.
It was odd that after giving practically no thought to the events of that dreadful night in the intervening years, once I was living in Upvale again I not only had the impulse to write down the details of what happened, but also found myself strangely drawn to the area around the Oldstone.
But then, the dog needed daily exercise, and since there was a convenient parking area nearby, it might as well be there as anywhere else.
Early in the morning I was unlikely to see anyone else up there, even during the summer months when one could barely move on the moors for Brontë-driven tourists, so there was no danger of my liking for the spot being noticed and commented on.
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