Page 53 of The Pieces of Us

It’s too late to change my mind. My cousin and her husband are walking towards me, the baby snuggled against his chest. At nine months old she’s still tiny. She’s wearing a pink knitted hat.

I told Mam I was meeting my new work friend Cara today and she was too busy fussing over the wee ones to do more than nod her head and tell me to take my coat, because it’s not summer yet and there’s a chill in the air.

And so here I am at the top of the cliff, not with my new work friend Cara and not looking out at the vast ocean like I normally do, because I can’t take my eyes away from the tiny pink knitted hat.

It’s only when they’re right in front of me that I look at my cousin.

‘Hi, Mary. Was your journey over OK?’ My own voice sounds stiff.

‘It was long,’ she says. ‘Catriona cried a lot. I think she’s teething.’

I don’t know anything about that, because I’m not a mother. But I do know that I wouldn’t have called her Catriona, the name I’ve said in my head hundreds of times since Mary first wrote to me, back when we still lived in Glasgow – a long letter of kind, grateful words.

Catriona . I’d have gone for Melissa or Michelle.

‘I can’t believe we’re actually here,’ Mary says. ‘It’s beautiful. Just like the postcard you sent.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I blurt out. ‘Do you want me to sign the papers? Let’s get it over with.’

‘Here?’

I shrug. ‘Why not?’

We sit on the grass and she rummages in her bag while Hugh stays standing, hovering awkwardly, gently rocking the baby from side to side.

‘I want to make things official,’ Mary says as she points to the space for my signature. ‘We should never have put our names on Catriona’s birth certificate, Beth. That was wrong.’

‘It wasn’t your decision, really,’ I tell her. It wasn’t mine either, but nothing that Mary does now matters to me. It won’t change my life. It won’t bring the baby back to me. I scribble in the space above her finger.

‘We’re going to sort it out, and then let social services know what’s happened. My mum is going to help us. She’s spoken to a lawyer.’

‘OK.’ I hand the pen back to her. ‘Is that all you need?’ They’ve travelled all this way to get my signature because it was too risky to send the papers through the post, just in case my parents intercepted them.

‘Thank you so much, Beth.’ Mary grabs my hand. ‘I don’t know how to –’

‘Then just don’t,’ I say quickly. ‘You’ll give her a much better life than I could.’ I find a dark spot on the ocean and keep my eyes there.

‘Do you want to hold her?’ Mary’s voice is tentative.

‘I don’t know.’ I’m scared to take the baby I gave birth to in my arms for the first time. But I’m just as scared not to.

‘There’s no rush. We could go for a cup of tea? Or an ice cream. We have a few hours before we have to head back.’

‘I can’t,’ I tell her, and I can see in her eyes that she understands why I can’t risk anyone seeing us together.

We sit for a moment, on the grass, staring at the water.

‘I have something for her,’ I say, remembering.

I reach into the pocket of my coat and carefully pull out the small newspaper-wrapped parcel I hastily assembled this morning, when Mam was busy making the porridge that would sit untouched in front of me, gradually turning to stone.

I press it into Mary’s hand. My own baby bangle, engraved with my initials.

‘Don’t open it now,’ I say quickly, and she nods and slips it into her bag.

‘Thank you, Beth. A hundred times over. I promise I’ll be the best I can be for her.’

‘I know you will.’

‘Beth, this will seem like a stupid question, but are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ I tell her, because I don’t have my real answer prepared, because nobody has asked me that since the day I’ll never forget. The day of my screams and the nuns’ silence.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, which is a more honest answer at least.

‘I hope so,’ Mary says. ‘You’ve been through so much.’

I bristle. ‘I’ll be fine .’

‘What’s it like, living here?’

‘It’s quiet. But nice. I’m working in an office. I’ve made a friend there – Cara. You’d like her. She likes music.’

‘I’m happy about that, Beth. I … I don’t know when I’ll see you again. But I promise to keep in touch. I’ll write. I can send photos … if you like. But I’ll understand if you don’t want me to.’

I don’t want to think about a lifetime of letters and photos. ‘Is she a good baby?’ I’ve heard Mam and Nana talk about good babies, and I don’t really know what that means – how can any baby, too new in this world to cause harm, not be good?

Mary smiles. ‘She’s very good when she’s not teething.’ And, as if on cue, Catriona starts to wail. Neither of us move, watching Hugh try to quieten her. He moves a little further away from us, but her cries grow louder.

It’s not a conscious decision to get up and walk to him. But my feet move one in front of the other, and my arms stretch out, and Hugh only hesitates for a second before passing Catriona to me. I look down at her, and she stops crying.