The Letter (28 page)

‘Anyway, think about it. You haven’t had a wasted journey, have you?’

‘How do you mean, Grace?’

‘Well, when you came here all you knew was that your mother’s name was Bronagh Skinner and that she was 20 years old, right?’

William narrowed his eyes. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, now you know her real name was Christina Skinner and that she was born in Manchester in 1920.’ Grace paused for William to catch up, but seeing his blank expression she pressed on. ‘Don’t you see? You could travel to Manchester and try and locate her birth certificate. She was already twenty years old when she entered the convent, which we know was the beginning of April. So her date of birth must be sometime in either January, February or March 1920.’

Grace began to pour two cups of tea while William digested this information.

‘How would that help, do you think?’ His brain was still befuddled from the exertions of his travels.

‘The birth certificate would tell you not only her exact date and place of birth, but the names of her parents. I’m pretty sure that her mother’s maiden name will be on that certificate too. If she was sent to live with her aunt over here in Ireland I could ask around. Someone might remember her. I just wish
I
could remember the name of her aunt. It’s so frustrating. I know she was a spinster and that she died shortly before Bronagh, sorry I mean Christina, entered the convent. I know her aunt had inherited the farm from her parents, so if we could get hold of the surname of Christina’s mother and aunt, then there’s a chance that someone may know the farm.’

William clasped his hands round the back of his head and leant back in his chair. ‘You’re a marvel, Grace.’

She flushed slightly. ‘Go on with yer. You’d have worked out the same thing eventually.’

‘You think there is a chance she could be back in Manchester?’

Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know, William. It’s possible, I suppose. I mean she was sent here in disgrace to have the baby and after that she was free to return. I can’t imagine there was much to keep her here in Ireland so, yes, I would say it’s possible that she returned to her home town.’ Grace paused. ‘Manchester is a big city though, the chances of finding her there are slim.’

‘I know, Grace, I know. But I need to find out the whereabouts of the farm first. If I can find that, then maybe somebody there knows where she went.’

Grace opened the oven door and the aroma of cooked apples spiced with cinnamon filled the room. She placed the steaming pie on the table between them and then fetched a huge jug of custard. William peered in dismay at the thick, bright yellow sauce but then gave it a stir with the wooden spoon.

‘Allow me,’ offered William, taking the knife and slicing into the pie. A plume of steam rose between them and Grace wafted it away with her hand.

‘You know, Grace. I think I will take a trip to Manchester. I’ve come all this way across the Atlantic, another short hop over the Irish Sea wouldn’t do any harm. I may just find the key to unlock this mystery.’

Two days later, William found himself disembarking at Manchester’s Victoria Station. He had decided against flying over and had taken the ferry from Dublin to Liverpool instead, so completing in reverse the exact same journey his mother had made almost thirty-five years ago.

Chapter 31

William had been informed by a fellow passenger on the ferry that it always rained in Manchester. He couldn’t say if this was the case or not, but as the month of April ended, this new May day had dawned with skies as clear and blue as a swimming pool. He had found himself a cheap bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the city, only a short bus ride from the centre. The landlady had provided him with a map of the city and had drawn a bright red ring around his destination. He sat on the top deck of the red double-decker bus, a novelty which had him grinning from ear to ear as the huge steaming, hissing vehicle trundled along Oxford Road. He got off outside the Palace Theatre and spread out his map. He glanced in the direction of St. Peter’s Square and there it was, just as his landlady had promised, the huge dome of Manchester’s Central Library. William quickened his pace as he strode towards the impressive neoclassical circular building. The Corinthian portico entrance was two stories high with six imposing stone columns. As William climbed the steps, he felt as though he was entering a Roman palace and not a municipal library. Inside the splendour and majesty of the building was still in evidence, with the polished woodwork of oak and English walnut. He climbed the huge staircase and entered the Great Hall. It was originally known as the Reading Room and William could not imagine a more peaceful place to indulge in the study of literature, or take a leisurely browse through the morning papers. With some trepidation, he approached the young librarian behind the desk.

‘Good morning, ma’am, I was wondering if you could help me.’

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she smiled. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need to obtain a copy of a birth certificate.’

The librarian, whose badge told William she went by the name of Miss Sutton, took out a form from under the desk.

‘Ok, then. I’ll need to take some details. First, do you want the birth certificate posting out to you or would you like to collect it?’

William was taken aback at how easy the process appeared to be. ‘I will collect it, please. I do not have a permanent address here in the United Kingdom.’

Miss Sutton smiled sweetly. ‘I could tell you’re not from round these parts. You Canadian?’

‘I’ll try not to be offended’, laughed William. ‘I’m from the US, Vermont. I was born in Ireland though, but my parents are English.’

Miss Sutton frowned.

‘It’s a long story,’ explained William.

She gave a sideways smile. ‘You’ll have to tell it to me sometime.’

Gosh
, thought William,
are all English girls this forward
? ‘Maybe…’

‘I was only joking! Now what’s your name?’

William composed himself. ‘William Lane.’

‘And the birth certificate? What is the name of the person you require this for?’

‘Christina Skinner.’

Miss Sutton’s pen moved swiftly across the paper and without looking up she said, ‘Date of birth?’

William was confused. ‘
My
date of birth?’

She gave him a withering look. ‘Christina Skinner’s date of birth.’

‘Well, I don’t know that exactly. I only know her name and her approximate date of birth which was either January, February or March 1920.’

‘Do you have any other details? Address? Place of birth, father’s name?’

William suddenly felt foolish. ‘No, is that a problem?’

‘Not for me it’s not, but you’re going to have to search through the General Registration Indices and see if you can locate the correct Christina Skinner. I can’t order a copy of a birth certificate with so little information.’

William sighed. ‘And how do I do that?’

Miss Sutton pointed over to a table in the corner of the room. ‘You park yourself over there and I will bring you the first of the ledgers.’

After two hours, William felt as though his eyes would never be able to focus on the horizon again. The close-up work had caused his distance vision to become blurry and he felt the beginnings of a headache. He badly needed some fresh air. He approached the desk and asked Miss Sutton, who he was now addressing by her first name.

‘Karen, sorry to disturb you,’ he whispered. ‘I need to go out and get some fresh air. Can you keep that table for me?’

‘Of course. How are you getting along?’

‘I’ve found two possible Christina Skinners at the moment, but have another ledger to check. I’ll be back in about half an hour.’

As William wandered the streets of Manchester, he wondered if his mother had ever trodden these pavements. Was it possible she was actually here in Manchester now? And what of his father, Billy. Why had he so cruelly deserted his mother just when she needed him most? He didn’t seem to be a father to be proud of, that was for sure. He thought of Donald then, back home in Vermont, tirelessly working on the farm to provide for his family, his calloused hands and bent back testament to his labours. The usual feeling of guilt at what he was trying to do engulfed him again and William felt suddenly homesick. He yearned for the tranquillity, peace and love of his family home, the warm homely smells of his mother’s cooking and the temple-achingly sweet aroma and solitude of his sugar shack. Manchester was a world away from his idyllic home and he really began to question the wisdom of his endeavours. Nevertheless, deep inside was an insatiable desire to uncover the circumstances surrounding his birth, and already he had found out that it was his mother’s dearest wish to raise him herself. That she had been forced to give him up against her will made him both desperately sad and incandescent with rage at the same time. He needed to know the whole story about his mother’s courtship with his father and why she had been so cruelly abandoned. With this renewed determination, he climbed the library steps once more to continue his search.

It was almost time for the library to close when William approached Karen Sutton again with a list of three possible Christina Skinners. He pushed the list over the counter with a grim expression. Karen Sutton scanned the list quickly.

‘You want to order all three certificates at once?’

William pondered this for a moment. ‘How long does it take?’

‘A few days, maybe more.’

‘If I order them one at a time I might get lucky and order the correct one first I suppose, but then again it could be the last one and by then a couple of weeks will have passed. I don’t have enough money to stay in the UK that long and anyway my parents will be needing me back home.’

‘We could post the certificates back to you in the US,’ suggested Karen.

William rubbed his forehead as Karen stared at him, waiting for a decision.

‘I don’t want to rush you,’ she urged. ‘But the library closes in ten minutes.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said William. ‘I guess I’ll have to order all three at once.’

As Karen began to write down all the details she was joined behind the desk by a colleague, a grey-haired officious-looking lady in a brown tweed skirt and jacket with a row of dull pearls at her throat. She peered over Karen’s shoulder and then moved her glasses to the end of her nose for a closer look.

‘Christina Skinner? We already have that birth certificate. It was ordered last week and is awaiting collection.’

Both William and Karen stared open-mouthed at this startling news.

Karen turned to face her colleague. ‘Mrs Grainger, you mean we have a birth certificate here already for a Christina Skinner?’

Mrs Grainger did not hide her impatience. ‘That’s what I just said, wasn’t it? Now come on and get this desk cleared away I need to lock up.’

Karen gathered together a sheaf of papers and piled all the stray pens into a pot. ‘Would it be possible to look at it, you know to see if it is the one William needs.’

‘Certainly not. That certificate has been paid for and is the property of the person who ordered it. Only they may open that envelope.’

Karen raised her eyes to the ceiling. She looked as though she had been expecting that response from Mrs Grainger, who was a stickler for the rules and officialdom.

‘When is this person coming to collect the certificate?’ asked William.

Mrs Grainger shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It only came in yesterday so maybe tomorrow or the day after. It depends how urgently it’s required.’

Could that birth certificate really be that of his mother? William could not imagine who else would require a copy of it. Did he have siblings that were also trying to trace their mother? Was it for his mother herself? Had she ordered it to replace the original? Was it for a completely different person altogether? William desperately needed answers.

Mrs Grainger had now left the desk area and was busy returning some books to their shelves. William whispered to Karen. ‘I need to know who ordered that copy.’

Karen turned round and checked Mrs Grainger was still occupied. She had now climbed a step ladder and was reaching up to the top shelf with a particularly hefty volume in her hand.

‘Give me a minute,’ Karen answered. She dug deep into a drawer under her desk and rummaged round for a key. Then, without taking her eyes off Mrs Grainger, she shuffled over to a filing cabinet and silently pulled open the top drawer. Her fingers were swift and nimble as she quickly flicked through the files. She found what she was looking for and she just had time to read the name on the envelope before Mrs Grainger called over. ‘Have you finished yet, Karen?’

‘Just tidying up the last few things, Mrs Grainger,’ she called. She winked at William. ‘Meet me outside in five minutes.’

It was rush hour in Manchester City Centre and William watched as people hurriedly made their way home. The square was filled with the noise and fumes of the traffic as people ran for buses and cars impatiently sounded their horns. He heard the sound of high heels clacking on the stone steps behind him and he turned to greet Karen. She took him by the arm and propelled him onto the street, glancing furtively over her shoulder.

‘She’s right behind me,’ she whispered to William. She bundled him into a shop doorway as Mrs Grainger strode past, her eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. Both William and Karen breathed a sigh of relief and Karen started to giggle. ‘I feel like an international arms smuggler.’

William smiled.

‘Did you get it? The name of the person who ordered the certificate?’

‘I did. It was ordered by a Mrs Tina Craig. Does that mean anything to you?’

William shook his head. ‘Never heard of her. But I don’t know anyone here in Manchester. Maybe it’s another Christina Skinner.’

‘Maybe, and maybe not. But there is a way to find out.’

‘How?’ asked William.

‘Come in again tomorrow and wait for her to show up.’

‘What if she doesn’t come though, she may not come for days, weeks even.’

Karen shrugged. ‘Depends on how desperate you are to trace your mother.’