had been happy and secure with her adoptive parents. She was special after all; a chosen child. Her day dreams about her real parents had been vague and stereotypical, her mother in turn princess, parlour maid, poet, painter, prostitute. The choices and permutations were endless; harmless fun. One day she would search for the truth but if she were honest she knew she had put off looking for fear that the truth might be dull. It was not until she had looked down at Tom and known what it was like to hold her own baby in her arms that she realised she had to find out not just who her own real mother was, but how and why she had been able to give away her daughter. Between one minute and the next vague curiosity had become burning obsession.
At first it was too easy. Her mother, it appeared from the records, was Laura Catherine Duncan, née Manners, her father Philip George Henry Duncan, deceased. He had died seven months before she was born. She was born at Belheddon Hall, in Essex on 21st June, 1964.
Alice and Joe, her adoptive parents, long prepared for this moment, had tried to persuade her to go to one of the agencies which tracks down families for adopted children but she had said no, this was something she had wanted to do for herself. Even if her mother no longer lived at Belheddon Hall she wanted to see it, to explore the village where she was born; to see if she could feel her roots.
On the map Belheddon featured as a small village on the coast of East Anglia on the border between Suffolk and Essex. Surprisingly remote, it looked north across the broad expanse of water where the Stour Estuary met the North Sea, some five miles from the small town of Manningtree.
She had hoped for something more romantic than Essex, the West Country perhaps, or Scotland, but her brief to herself had been strict. She was not going to prejudge anything or anyone. She was keeping an open mind.
Her mouth was dry with nerves as at last she drove into Belheddon and pulled up outside the single small shop, its window unaesthetically lined with yellowing cellophane paper. Belheddon Post Office and Stores. She had closed her eyes, as she put on the hand brake and turned off the engine, surprised to find that her hands were shaking.
On the cold pavement a scatter of dead leaves cartwheeled past the car. The sign above the door swung violently backwards and forwards in the wind as, climbing stiffly out, Joss glanced round. It had been a long journey. If she had pictured the whole of Essex as a suburban wasteland irrevocably merged into north-east London she couldn’t have been more wrong. The drive had taken more than two and a half hours from Kensington, where she and Luke lived, and for at least the last hour it had been through deep country.
Ahead of her the street was empty of both cars and people. Straight at this point, it ran between two lines of pretty cottages before curving away across the village green towards the estuary. It was only a small village – no more perhaps than a couple of dozen houses, a few thatched, two or three timber framed, the last spires of windswept hollyhocks standing sentinel in their gardens. There was no sign of a church.
Taking a deep breath she pushed open the door of the shop which was to her surprise a great deal more sophisticated than she had expected. To her left the window of the small post office was enclosed behind piles of postcards and stationery and racks of sweets; to her right she found herself facing an attractive and well stocked delicatessen counter. The woman serving behind it was small, stocky, perhaps some sixty years old, with wispy white hair and piercing grey eyes. Reaching with a plastic gloved hand into the display for a lump of green cheese she glanced up at Joss and smiled. ‘I won’t keep you a moment, my dear.’
The woman in front of Joss in the queue succumbed to her curiosity and turned round. Tall, with dark hair escaping from a knotted head scarf, and with a weather-beaten face which spoke of years living within reach of the cold east wind, she gave Joss a friendly grin. ‘Sorry, I’ve been buying up the shop. Won’t be two ticks now.’
‘That’s all right.’ Joss smiled. ‘I actually came in to ask if you can direct me to Belheddon Hall.’
Both women looked surprised. ‘It’s up by the church.’ The woman in front of her had narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s all closed up, you know. There’s no one there.’
Joss bit her lip, trying to master her disappointment. ‘So the Duncans don’t live there any more?’
Both women shook their heads. ‘It’s been empty for years.’ The woman behind the counter shivered theatrically. ‘Spooky old place.’ Wrapping the cheese deftly in some cling film she slipped the parcel into a paper bag. She glanced up at her customer. ‘There you are, my dear. That will be four pounds ten pence altogether. My husband and I have only had the shop since ’89.’ She smiled back at Joss. ‘I never knew the people up at the Hall.’
The other woman shook her head. ‘Nor I. I believe old Mrs Duncan who used to live at the schoolhouse was a relation. But she died a couple of years back.’
Joss pushed her hands down into her pockets. Her sense of let down was acute. ‘Is there anyone who might know what happened to the family?’
The post mistress shook her head. ‘I always heard they kept themselves to themselves at the end. Mary Sutton, though. She would remember. She used to work up at the Hall. She sometimes acts a bit ga-ga, but I’m sure she could tell you something.’
‘Where could I find her?’
‘Apple Cottage. On the corner of the green. With the blue gate.’
The gate was stiff and warped. Joss pushed it open and made her way up the narrow path, dodging between overhanging thistles, downy with blown silk. There was no bell or knocker on the door so she rapped with her knuckles. Five minutes later she gave up. There was obviously no one at home.
Standing at the gate she stared round. Now that she had walked a little way out of the village street she could see the church tower partially concealed by trees on the far side of the green. And the Hall was somewhere beside it.
Leaving the car where it was she began to walk across the grass.
‘So, do you like our little church? It’s thirteenth century, you know.’ The voice behind her made her jump as she leaned thoughtfully on the lych gate staring up the path which disappeared round the church.
Behind her a tall, thin man in a dog collar was propping his bicycle against the hedge. He saw her glance at it and shrugged. ‘My car’s in dock. Something wrong with the brakes. Anyway I enjoy cycling on these lovely autumn afternoons.’ He had seen the pensive woman as he turned out of New Barn Road. Coming to a stop he had watched her for several minutes, impressed by her stillness. As she turned now and smiled at him he saw that she was youngish – late twenties or early thirties perhaps – and attractive in a quirky sort of way. Her hair was dark and heavy, cut in a bob with a fringe across her eyes – eyes which were a vivid Siamese cat blue. He watched as his bicycle subsided into the nettles and gave a humorous shrug. ‘I was just coming to collect some books I left in the vestry. Would you like to see round before I lock up?’
She nodded. ‘I was actually looking for the Hall. But I’d love to see the church.’
‘You can reach the Hall through the gate over there, behind the yews.’ He led the way up the path. ‘It’s empty, alas. Has been for many years.’
‘Did you know the people who lived there?’ The intensity of the gaze she fixed on him disarmed him slightly.
‘I’m afraid not. It was empty when I came to the parish. It’s a shame. We need a family there.’
‘Is it for sale then?’ She
