‘I think you need to read your dad’s last letter, and then I’ll answer the questions that I’m able to answer, okay?’
We all went into the sitting room. I was so dizzy. Aunt Christine asked Angela if she might have some medication that would pacify me.
‘Sally needs to be fully able to absorb this news.’
I retrieved Dad’s letter from his office. ‘I’m supposed to wait until –’
‘Your dad would be okay with it, Sally, honestly,’ said Aunt Christine.
They guided me to the sofa and sat either side of me. I asked them to sit on the other chairs.
Part II
16
Peter, 1974
I remember when I was small, being in a grand room overlooking the sea. There was a wall of books behind me, and I sat at a long dining table opposite my dad. Before he left for work every weekday, Dad would have breakfast with me, and we would listen to the radio. And then he would give me biscuits, fruit and a colouring book with crayons. He gave me my homework instructions and then he locked me into my white bedroom in the annexe. There was a large window which looked on to the back garden, and a potty under the bed, a shelf with my four books and a cupboard which contained my clothes.
The days seemed endless then, but when he came home, he would unlock the door and scoop me up into his arms and carry me into the main house. He would cook me a hot meal and then he would check my work, reading and writing and sums, and then we would watch television until my bedtime, but he could never explain how those tiny people got into the television box. I often heard him playing the piano, or sometimes I woke to the sound of him unlocking the room next door.
On Saturdays and Sundays when the weather was fine, I was allowed out into the garden, where I would help him with the weeding. I’d make little hills out of the cut grass, or bird’s nests, and then he might put them on a bonfire.
The annexe was in a funny-shaped building on the side of the house. There was a door into it from the downstairs pantry. There was another door beside my bedroom door too. Occasionally, I would hear noises coming from behind the other door. Often, the sound of crying or howling. Dad said that’s where he kept the ghost, and that I mustn’t worry because she could never get out. And he was right, because she never did. But the noise could be frightening sometimes. When it got bad, Dad told me to stay under the covers with my hands over my ears and I think he must have gone into the room next door and told the ghost to be quiet, because there wouldn’t be a peep out of it for days.
At bedtime, Dad would read me a story and kiss my forehead and tell me he loved me and we would say our prayers together and then he would lock the door again to keep me safe until morning.
Every year on my birthday, 7th August, we had a Special Day. Dad didn’t go to work. The first one I remember, Dad brought home a tent and we pitched it in the garden. He made a bonfire and we cooked sausages on it. We slept in sleeping bags in the tent. And then, later, he woke me up and it was dark. He led me outside and lit fireworks and the summer ink sky burst into colour and noise and it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me.
The next birthday was scary. I was seven years old, I think. I was frightened when we went through the gates at the bottom of our garden in Dad’s car and turned out on to the road. I was dizzy. I hadn’t been in his car before although I helped him wash it on Sundays. He had put cushions on the front seat so that I could see out of the window. And he gave me a bag to get sick into, in case the dizziness didn’t pass. It went away quickly. Outside the gates, there were people – the same size as Dad and me – and there were women. I’d only seen them on TV and in books, but these were life-size.
We had a long journey in the car to the zoo. I was worried that we would never find our way home, but Dad said he would always be able to find home.
I was so terrified of letting go of Dad’s hand. I was more intrigued by the people than by the animals. They walked around in groups, mothers with children and babies in prams, mums and dads walking arm in arm. Groups of children, girls and boys, running around together. Dad was trying to get me to look at the chimpanzees and the elephants, but I was listening to the people talking to each other. Dad bought me an ice pop and told me not to look at the other people, but I couldn’t help it. A man stopped Dad and talked to him. I hid behind Dad’s legs. Dad told the man I was his godson. I could tell he didn’t want to talk to the other man, and we moved along quickly, and then Dad said it was time to go home. I was glad.
I had lots of questions. I asked him what the difference between a son and a godson was and he said a godson was a child who believed in God. And I certainly did.
I asked Dad if women were bad. He said most of them were. I said that there were nice ones on television and in my books, but he said that television and my stories were make-believe. I asked if I had a mum and he said I did but that she was a ghost. There was a big padlock on the door of the room next to mine in the annexe. Now, I asked if my mother was the ghost who lived in that room, if she was the one who made the howling noises, and he said that she was, but that I shouldn’t worry because I wouldn’t ever have to see her.
17
Sally
I opened the letter with trembling hands.
Dearest Sally
I hope by now that you have recovered a little from my death.
These are things I should have told you gradually long ago, perhaps over a period of time. I don’t want you to be upset by this news. It is all in the past and nothing will change for you now, unless you want it to, but I think you are a creature of habit and you will go on as you have.
Your birth name is Mary Norton. Norton is your birth mother’s name. We believe it would not have been her choice to use your birth father’s name. All of the original medical reports and some newspaper clippings are in the box under my desk in a file marked PRIVATE. When you came to us, we decided that you were a new person. You were our Sally Diamond.
The reason you are a bit odd is not because there is anything wrong with your brain, but because you were raised in disturbing circumstances, until you were discovered.
At the age of eleven in 1966, your mother, Denise Norton, was kidnapped by Conor Geary. He abused her mentally and sexually for the next fourteen years. As far as we are able to tell, you were born eight years after her abduction. Your birth mother could not be certain of the date or even the year, but that was her best guess, and my medical colleagues agreed that you were probably born sometime in the latter half of 1974. Your birth was not registered, for obvious reasons, so the birth date on your adoption certificate may not be correct. I am sorry to tell you that Conor Geary, the kidnapper, is your birth father.
Denise Norton’s family searched for her for years. She was not found until March 1980, after an anonymous tip-off to the guards. You and your birth mother were discovered within a matter of days. You were both in appalling condition in a home-made extension at the back of Conor Geary’s house in Killiney, Co. Dublin. The window of your mother’s room was boarded up. It was dark and dank. There was a hot plate and a fridge. There was a mattress on the floor in one main room with a toilet and washbasin adjacent. Your small bedroom next door was bright and airy with a large window looking out to the garden. You were both terribly emaciated and although you were almost completely silent, and obviously distressed on your release, Denise was suffering from severe mental health issues. I am not sure it would do you any good to try to imagine her state of mind. In the beginning, she was feral, and would attack anyone who approached her. You both had to be anaesthetized in order for doctors to physically examine you. Normal sedatives were not strong enough. It was never initially intended that she would be permanently separated from you.