Margaret's Secret

'Happy Birthday dear Margaret, Happy Birthday to you!’ The six people around the restaurant table finished the song with just a hint of embarrassment, as Margaret stared at the single candle on the ice cream sundae before her. With an exaggerated gesture, she blew out the candle to a ripple of applause from her friends. It had been a lovely day for her, really, really lovely, as she repeated to each of her colleagues as they left to head home to their respective families.
'Your birthday and retirement in the same month. Lucky you.' Julia said as she drove Margaret home after the meal. They had been good friends for many years, teaching at the same primary school. With the best part of a bottle of Shiraz inside her, Margaret failed to spot the envy in Julia’s voice.
'It's just taken some planning - not many teachers can retire at sixty, but I've always been prudent, and have made some good investment choices. You'll be able to retire in a couple of years anyhow.’
'What! With my twins? No chance, though they've finished university there's no sign of them leaving home. Then there’s sure to be grandchildren on the way once they’ve settled down. You've been lucky there, no children.’
Margaret sat there quietly, watching the white lines in the centre of the road pass by in the headlights, letting Julia witter on about the school. Before long she was back home, a suburb of Birmingham praised by local estate agents, and said goodbye to her friend, promising yet again that she would keep in touch. She let herself into her apartment, checked the answer phone for the expected birthday greeting from her older sister, poured herself a gin and tonic, and sat down to read her Mills and Boon novel. This was her secret, her indulgence which no one else knew about. Who amongst her pupils over the years would have thought Miss Palmer, oh so sensible and proper, liked trashy romantic novels? As she sipped her drink and stared at the pages of ‘The Desert King’s Virgin Bride’, she realised that rather than losing herself in the Saharan sands, she was still pondering her conversation with Julia.

Margaret gave every appearance of thoroughly enjoying her retirement and wondered how she had ever managed to find the time to work. Helping out at the charity bookshop, evening classes in pottery and calligraphy, lunch with friends, and of course working her way through the prodigious output of romantic fiction published each month kept her busy. Very occasionally a gentleman visitor to the bookshop would notice the lack of a wedding band, and would hesitantly invite her out for a drink. Margaret would smile nicely, but gently decline, always citing a prior engagement.
It was some six months after her birthday that Margaret received the letter. It has been a warm June, and all she had planned for the day was a visit into town to buy a birthday card for her sister. As soon as she saw the postmark stamped 'CAA' above a stylized crucifix she knew what it meant.
She made herself a mug of tea, with just a tot of whiskey in it for courage, and went out onto her small balcony overlooking the adjacent park. With the gentle roar of traffic from the road as a background, she opened the letter.
Margaret had been expecting something like this for so long. She couldn't even clearly recall Kristo's face clearly now, not without looking at the photos stored at the back of the wardrobe. It had been a brief summer affair, during a painting holiday in Greece. My 'Shirley Valentine' moment as remembered it.
When she got home the holiday romance faded away like the memory of a good meal in an expensive restaurant - enjoyable at the time, but difficult, if not impossible to recreate back home. When Margaret missed her next period she wondered whether it was a symptom of something more serious, when her doctor gave her the ‘good news’, her first feeling was of relief, before a whole host of other emotions crowded her mind.
But ever the practical person, she considered all options, did her research during the rest of her summer holiday before returning to school, and had everything in place. All sorted and packaged neatly away, an inconvenience which could be… resolved.

The letter from the Catholic Adoption Agency was short, and to the point. The child which she had given up for adoption had, as was his legal right upon reaching the age of eighteen, asked for her contact information. This would be sent to him, and so she could expect some form of communication in the next few days. A leaflet was enclosed, filled in equal parts of empathy, telephone numbers and websites that she could turn to for support. Despite her very best efforts, she found herself crying a little, and then set about spring-cleaning the apartment in anticipation of the reunion.
As it happened, Margaret had ample opportunity to read more of her beloved Mills and Boon novels before the letter arrived from Daniel, her son. It was word processed, and had been carelessly stuffed and folded into an envelope. With an return address somewhere in the city centre, it simply stated that he wished to meet his ‘biological mother’, and that he hoped that he could come to see her. A specific date and time was given a couple of Saturdays ahead. It was one of her days at the charity shop, but she thought given the exceptional circumstances, she may be able to rearrange this. She wrote back to the address on her personally printed Vellum notepaper, confirming that this was acceptable, and providing details of how to find her home.
The day came, and despite promised to herself, Margaret found herself playing ‘what if?’ What if she had decided to raise her son, even at the age of forty-two and with a deputy headship of a school ahead of her? Holidays wouldn’t have been a problem, though an apartment wouldn’t have been a suitable environment to bring a child up. Maybe they would have moved further into the country and bought a small cottage, but then traveling costs would have gone up. She thought that her sister would have liked being an aunt, whilst they had never been close it’s possible that if they both had children as a common bond…
Her reverie was interrupted by the buzz of her apartment intercom. She went to the hall to answer.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s, it’s Daniel.’ His voice sounded mature, was she really expecting an eighteen year old man to have a child’s voice?
‘Come on up, top floor.’
Once again, the interminable wait. She left the front door ajar, but stood in the hallway awkwardly adjusting herself in the mirror. The lilac cardigan was, fine, but those pearls! She quickly took them off and stuffed them in a drawer. She heard heavy footsteps, and the door was pushed open.
She didn’t gasp, she was pleased to recall later. But of all the images she had imagined of her son, this wasn’t what she expected. Taller than she was, Margaret could see the darker, Mediterranean shades of his father’s skin, but maybe she could just see some of her features, more like those of her own father when he was a lad. However her image of Daddy in his RAF uniform was totally incongruent with the view before her. Despite the heat he was wearing a long black leather jacket, and his hair, oh God his hair. Jet black, and sticking up like he’d just got out of bed.
‘Daniel?’ Maybe this was a joke, some early Halloween prank.
‘Hello Margaret.’ They hesitantly approached each other in the hall, unsure of how to greet each other. They shook hands, and Margaret placed her hand over his outsized fingers. After sorting out drinks (fresh lemonade for both of them, with a generous measure of gin slipped into Margaret’s), and a long gulp, she felt better able to deal with the situation.
‘Come and sit down, let’s have a look at you.’ Using polite formality to hide her nervousness and inquisitiveness she gave Daniel another appraising look. She’d missed the eyebrow stud on the first examination, and yes, that glint in the mouth, he had his tongue pierced.
‘It’s a nice place you’ve got here. Lived here long?.’ His accent was local, but as well spoken as her own.
‘Yes, about twenty years, I moved in when new.’
‘Cool, I’ve never lived anywhere that long.’ Daniel gave an appraising view out of the window. He paused a moment longer than was comfortable for either of them, then leaning forward he peered round the corner to the bedroom, door half open and the floral duvet cover visible. ‘So, was that where I was conceived then?’
Margaret wasn’t shocked, very little can after nearly forty years of teaching, but this was not an easy conversation for her to take part in. Fussing over her armchair cover, she tried to explain to her son the circumstances of his conception. Despite all her rehearsals and promises to herself, she found herself becoming defensive.
‘It wasn’t an easy decision for me. You have to understand. It just wasn’t fair, everything was going so well, then one stupid mistake.’ Margaret instantly realised what she had said and looked sharply up at Daniel. But she couldn’t read what he was thinking. ‘I’m sorry Daniel, are you angry at me?’
‘What for?’
‘For giving you away of course.’
‘You did what you thought was best for me at the time didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Another pause. ‘Yes. I did do what was best for you, but to be honest, it was also what was best for me at the time. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh.’
Daniel stared down at his hands, and the black painted fingernails. ‘You sound just like one of my teachers.’ There was a faint smile as he looked up at Margaret.
‘That’s because I was one, until a few months ago. I’ve retired now.’
‘Never! You don’t look old enough. My mum’s only just turned fifty.’
The ice broken at last, they continued to talk. Daniel explained that whilst he got on well with his adoptive parents, he’d moved out about a year ago and shared a flat with a student friend. Margaret told him a little of what filled her days at the moment. Daniel feigned interest, and nodded in all the right places.
‘What do you want to do then Daniel, are you going away to University?’
‘No, I’m not clever enough for that, or to be honest I am clever enough, but don’t want to go anyway. Scott and I are happy at the moment, when he finishes uni we may move away then. To help out, I work in a bar in town.’
Margaret couldn’t help but give am appraising look at her son. ‘It’s a goth bar, I fit in really well there – honest!’ For the first time, they both laughed. Heading into the kitchen for a top-up, Margaret reflected on David’s words.
‘Are you and Scott good friends then?’ she asked, taking another long swig from her lemonade.
‘Let’s just say you’ll never have to worry about having grandchildren.’
‘Oh.’, she replied automatically, then as she thought about it more ‘Oh, right. What is Scott studying?’
‘Architecture, he’s nearly finished his first course, but will be studying for another few years yet before we can move. So you don’t get rid of me that easily.’
‘After I’ve just met you! No, I want to meet again. Your life sounds very… interesting.’
‘Good.’ Another pause. Another gaze down. ‘Would you like to come over and see us soon. It was Scott’s idea that I got in touch with you, he’d like to meet you. I can do a meal or something, nothing special but I do a mean three bean curry.’
‘I’d love to. You’ve got my number, and here’s my mobile.’ She had already prepared a slip of paper, and carefully written her number and email address. She gave it to Daniel, pinned to the back were two fifty pound notes.
‘What’s this for?’ Daniel was surprised when he saw the money.
‘Just call it a down payment on eighteen years of missed birthdays. Spend it on something silly for Scott.’
Daniel grinned, and pocketed the money and note with ease. ‘Thanks Margaret’.
When Daniel left there was no awkward formality, they hugged each other closely, leather against wool. She went out onto the balcony to wave him off; he turned back and gave a double-handed wave in return. As Margaret tidied up and calmed herself, she heard an unfamiliar tone coming from her handbag. No one ever sent her text messages. The number wasn’t in her phone directory, but she knew whom it was from.
‘Tx mum number ii. Looking fwd to c-ing you again, xx’. Though grammatically abhorrent to her, it was a message she never deleted from her phone.

Much later that evening, after the sun had set over the park and the French windows had been closed against the moths relentlessly attempting to mate with her reading lamp, Margaret found her address book. It was about time that she stirred up the world’s perceptions of Margaret Palmer. Selecting a name, she dialed the number carefully.
‘Julia? It’s Margaret. I haven’t disturbed you have I, there’s something I need to tell you. Remember about eighteen years ago, when I was off work for months, and everyone thought it was backache or stress or something. Well, I hope you’re sitting down!’