‘Anna said to deliver the message in person.’ Anna is the real receptionist. She must have the patience of a saint, dealing with this one. Roll on next month when she goes back to the classroom.
‘What message?’
‘Well, it’s not so much a message as a person, innit?’
Is it? ‘Carly.’ I fill her name with every ounce of patience available to me. ‘Are you saying someone at reception is asking to speak to me?’
‘Yeah. Some old bint from Social Services.’
‘Social—’ I shake my head. She must’ve heard wrong—or else she can’t even carry a message successfully. Social Services is the government body that deals with families in crisis, vulnerable children, and old people, I think. ‘Here to see me?’ I don’t know anyone in crisis—child or otherwise. Maybe they’re here to hit me up to donate shit? Equipment for a children’s home or something? Wouldn’t that come in a letter, though, not via a social worker? As the thoughts shoot through my mind, Carly stands at the door, catching flies. Not really. But she could be, stood there with her mouth open like that.
‘You want me to send her in, or what?’
‘Er, yeah. Yeah, send her in.’
Moments later, a woman in her fifties—steel grey bob and trendy square specs—sits in the chair on the other side of my desk.
‘Mr Adams, my name is Melanie Morton. I’m a social worker with child services. I’m afraid I’m the bearer of some rather surprising news.’
Beyond her introduction, I have trouble computing what she says as my gaze wanders the room. I take in the Swiss coffeemaker, the warm yet pale walls, and the glossy potted palm, all while her shocking words dance around the periphery of my understanding. There was no warm-up—the minute her arse touched the upholstery, she told me her name then knocked the wind right out of me. I can’t ever say I’ve felt a smile slip from my face before.
‘Mr Adams,’ she says kindly, bringing my attention back. Christ, I must look like some kind of idiot—or someone socially inept. ‘I understand this must have come as a shock to you, but my interests lie with the child.’
I inhale sharply. Shock? No, that’s finding out your granny is ill or that your supposedly single sister is pregnant.
‘I’m sorry, but what you’ve just told me, Miss Morton.’ I run a shaking hand through my hair. Fuck, get a grip. ‘What you’ve just told me is like something . . . something . . .’ Something fucking unreal. Something happening to someone else.
She smiles not unkindly. ‘But the child, Mr Adams.’
‘My child?’ The words feel fucking weird—an alternate universe.
‘Of course, you may want to have DNA testing to confirm paternity, but as it stands, your name is on his birth certificate—’
‘A birth certificate I know nothing about.’
‘And you are his only family,’ she continues heedless, her words harder now. ‘I’ve been in this business many years, Mr Adams. I’ve seen a lot of things, some of them that would turn your hair as grey as my own. I’ve seen women name men on birth certificates for all kinds of reasons—from wishful thinking and trying to hang onto a doomed relationship to the matter of child maintenance. I’ve also seen them name a man to protect a child from their biological father.’
My stomach cramps. I tell myself it’s because I’ve worked out and haven’t yet had time to eat, but I can’t say the same for the flash of shame—confusion and shame and fear.
‘But what I’ve never seen,’ she continues, ‘is a mother name a father for no other reason than he is the father. For no personal gain, not for love or power, for no matter of money or security. She named you on the birth certificate and asked for nothing else.’
‘And that’s fucked up, isn’t it? Not to tell me? To leave me in the dark!’
She stares at me long and hard. It’s not unlike the time I was hauled in front of the headmaster for flashing my arse from the school bus. It was unfortunate it happened to be as we passed the local convent . . . and a group of novice nuns.
‘He has no one else, Mr Adams. Your son is all alone in the world.’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t even know if he’s mine, for God’s sakes.’
‘As I’ve said, DNA can—’
‘Just tell me more about the wee lad’s mother.’ That I can’t even remember his creation, what kind of father would I be?
‘Louis. His name is Louis.’
‘Louis, then. Tell me about Louis’s mum.’
‘She’s not known to us. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Her hands tighten in her lap, fingers stark against her grey skirt. ‘It means she wasn’t on drugs, wasn’t struggling to survive. This is very obvious when entering the family home. Your child was well cared for. She loved him very much.’