The Secret Mother(54)

It’s a generic open-plan office with half a dozen staff sitting at desks, some tapping away at their computer keyboards, others on the telephone. A woman at the back of the office gets to her feet and comes over to meet me, her hand outstretched. I shake it.

‘Hi, I’m Margie.’ She looks up at the receptionist. ‘Thanks, Sharon.’

I mutter my thanks, too. Sharon disappears back through the door and I follow Margie over to her desk.

‘Please, sit down,’ she says, pushing her glasses back up her nose and taking a seat opposite me. ‘Sharon said you wanted to know the name of the doctor who delivered your baby.’

‘Yes, please. It was actually twins.’

‘Aw, how lovely,’ she says.

I cut her off before she starts asking questions like How old are they now? and Are they boys or girls? I launch straight in with: ‘My name’s Tessa Markham and the father’s name is Scott Markham. The date of delivery was the third of March 2012.’

Margie begins tapping into her computer. ‘Bear with me,’ she says. ‘The system is on go-slow today.’

She’s probably expecting me to come up with a response like Well, it is Monday morning. Then we’d both laugh and roll our eyes. But I can’t bring myself to make light-hearted comments in this place. So I simply give her a wan smile and say, ‘No problem.’

‘You gave birth to Samuel and Lilian Markham, is that correct?’ she asks, looking at the screen on her right. ‘Samuel Edward Markham born at 4.46 a.m. and Lilian Elizabeth Markham born at 5.14 a.m.’

‘Sorry, what time does it say she was born?’ I ask.

‘5.14 a.m.’

‘That’s not right,’ I say. ‘She was only born ten minutes after Sam.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asks.

I’m pretty sure I know when my own children were born. ‘Yes.’

Margie sticks her chin out as she studies the screen further. ‘It says the doctor on the ward that night was Dr Friedland,’ she says.

I frown. ‘No, that’s not right, either.’

‘That’s what it says here. He was your consultant, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He was my consultant, but he was ill that week and another doctor took over. I can’t remember his name.’

Margie frowns and taps at the keyboard some more. ‘I’ll pull up the roster from that night. Hang on.’

What if she can’t find out the name? Or what if Fisher really wasn’t there that night and my mind is making connections where there aren’t any?

‘Here we go,’ she says cheerily. ‘Found it.’

My heartbeat amplifies in my head as I wait for her to tell me what she’s found.

‘So, the midwives were… blah-blah-blah blah-blah-blah.’ She skips through all the other information. ‘And the on-duty obstetric consultant that night was…’ Her eyes skim back and forth along the screen. ‘Yes, here we are, same name – Dr Friedland.’

No, it can’t be true! I know it wasn’t him. I push a breath out through my mouth, almost like I’m in labour. I remember… I remember Friedland was ill that night. They said it was gastric flu. I remember. Don’t I?

‘You okay?’ Margie looks up.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t a Dr James Fisher?’ I say. ‘Can you check again? It’s the third of March 2012.’ I pray that she’s looking at the wrong date, that she’s made a mistake.

‘Here,’ she says, ‘come and see for yourself.’

I get to my feet and walk around to her side of the desk so I’m staring at the screen, at the line of text she’s pointing to. I see the date and the times, and I see the name ‘Dr Friedland’. Tears spring to my eyes. ‘It can’t be,’ I say. ‘I thought it would be Dr Fisher.’

‘We don’t have a Dr Fisher here,’ she says. ‘You must be mistaken. Didn’t you say you couldn’t remember who was on duty that night?’ She looks up at me. I can’t tell if that’s concern or mistrust in her eyes.

‘Fisher moved to Dorset not long afterwards,’ I say.

‘Oh, okay, so maybe he did practise here,’ she says, ‘but that’s a bit before my time. I’ve only worked here for three years, although sometimes it feels like a lot longer.’ She smiles up at me, but I can’t smile back – I’m too disappointed that my theory has been proved wrong. ‘Let me check our employment records.’ She taps on the keyboard some more. ‘Ah, yes, you’re right, Dr Fisher did practise here during that time. Just not on that particular night.’

I realise with a dull thud in my heart that all my suspicions appear to have been wrong. ‘Is there any other documentation that might show the name of the consultant on duty?’ I ask.

‘Not that I’m aware of.’ She shakes her head. ‘Maybe you just remembered it wrong. I mean, both names start with an F. It’s easy to forget something from that long ago.’

I shake my head. ‘Dr Friedland was sick that night.’

Margie shrugs helplessly, palms splayed, as if to say she doesn’t know what else she can tell me.

‘Can I speak to Dr Friedland?’ I ask. ‘Is he here?’

‘No, he retired last year. He and his wife moved to Spain.’