What Lies Between Us(42)

CHAPTER 34





NINA


TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

I’m so nervous my hands are trembling. I slip them inside my jacket pockets so that no one else can see.

I am having second thoughts. What if they take one look at me and reject me on sight alone? What if they tell me I’m too old or too unqualified or don’t even give me a reason before turning me down? Now I don’t think I want to go inside, but the sensor has already picked up on me and the sliding doors open. Heads turn to look at the latest arrival and I’m greeted with warm smiles. It temporarily disarms my apprehension.

Northamptonshire County Council’s building recently opened and has that new smell attached to it. It’s in stark contrast to the mustiness of my library. I’d forgotten that workplaces can smell of thick carpets and wooden furniture and not just old pages and people. Lining the corridors are movable noticeboards, each with details of tonight’s event. Most have posters pinned to them containing images of children – models, I assume – of all ages, and there are pamphlets and information packs on trellis tables.

‘Hello there, I’m Briony,’ a chirpy woman begins as she approaches me. She thrusts out her hand and her smile swallows the lower portion of her face. She’s probably about the same age as me, but she has fewer creases around the eyes.

‘Nina,’ I say. ‘Nina Simmonds.’

‘Nice to meet you, Nina. I assume you’re here for the adoption and fostering open evening?’

I nod.

‘Great, and have you registered with us online yet?’

‘No, I haven’t. I only decided that I was coming as I left work.’

‘Not a problem.’ She hands me a clipboard and a biro to write down my details. ‘Bit nervous?’

I nod again.

‘Well you don’t need to be, we’re all very friendly here. We just need your basic contact details, it’s nothing intrusive.’

As I begin writing, I’m tempted to give them my work address as I don’t want anything mailed to the house before I get the chance to tell Mum what I’m doing. And I also want to be sure in my own mind that this is the right thing for me. I spot a compromise and tick the box that says I’d rather be contacted by email than by post.

I’d seen the poster for the open evening pinned to the noticeboards in the library for weeks. Every now and again it caught my eye, and I’d imagine how it might feel to be the parent of the desperate little girl pictured on it. The more I looked at her, the more I thought of Dylan. And the more I realised that just because my faulty body had ruined my chances of becoming a biological mother, it didn’t mean I couldn’t raise someone else’s child. I’ve lost a lot, but not my maternal instinct.

Sometimes my desire to be a mum becomes all-consuming and I crave the need for a child’s love above all else. I want to shape them, guide them into adulthood, help them to not make the same mistakes that I did. Even when they’re grown and have flown the nest, I want to believe they are out there thinking fondly of me and grateful that I chose them. Parents and boyfriends can walk away, but a child stays in your heart forever. Take Dylan. She is my heart.

I complete the form as Briony reassures me I’m not alone and that there are plenty of other prospective single parents like me here tonight. She leads me to a drinks station and invites me to help myself as she explains what fostering and adoption entails. My eyes wander to some of the others in the room. All ages and ethnicities are represented here; most are couples but there are a handful of us singletons. I wonder what their circumstances are. Perhaps they have bodies like mine that kill babies.

‘I’ll leave you with this,’ Briony says, and hands me an information pack. ‘It’ll give you an idea of what to expect from the interview process and the stages ahead should you wish to move forward. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’ll pop your name down on the list to have a chat with two of our adopters. Don’t worry, it’s an informal conversation and they’ll answer any of your questions. It’s about a ten-minute wait, is that all right?’

‘Yes, that’s great,’ I say. I pour myself a cup of tea and she leaves me alone to flick through the info. When she eventually returns, she has a young couple in tow. She introduces me to Jayne and Dom and I follow them to a seated area. They adopted twin sisters three years ago, Briony explains, and encourages them to recall their experiences.

‘I’m not going to sugar-coat it and say it’s been easy,’ admits Jayne. ‘When we decided we wanted to give them a home, they were aged four and had a lot of behavioural difficulties.’

‘Like what?’

‘They’d been left to run wild by their biological parents. There was neglect, a lack of rules and boundaries, no schooling, they ate junk food, they didn’t go outside and play and they couldn’t read or write. We’ve spent the last three years helping them to catch up with other kids their age.’

‘And how’s it going?’

‘We are getting there,’ says Dom with pride in his eyes. ‘They’re about a year behind where they should be development-wise, and while it’s been a tough slog, it’s also been incredibly rewarding.’

‘You must need a lot of patience,’ I say, quietly questioning whether I could ever be as good as them.