A Chance Encounter

Melanie

A grey day in a dreary northern city. The streets are crowded with shoppers, their heads bowed to the perpetual rain. If only the sun would shine a little, then maybe their spines would unfurl and their faces lift to the grandeur bequeathed them by the city fathers in long gone prosperity. Instead the grey faces rise no higher than street level, to shiny shop windows promising Christmas bargains. 

A slim figure is picking her way through the crowds. Like the flocks around her, she wears a coat, jeans, dark boots, but a discerning eye can see that her clothing is of a different quality, that she is of a different breed. She looks uncomfortable, out of place at this end of town, but she’s no comer-inner. She hurries along the busy streets and not only because of the rain. Reaching her destination, she stops outside, as if to take a last breath of fresh air, but is soon jostled and swept inside. 

Melanie loves shopping, it’s a time to daydream and fulfil fantasies. But in Argos the women smell of fags and cheap perfume, the men know only one adjective, ‘f...ing’, and even in December flesh rolls over waistlines. Her mother has asked her to pick up one last present for her nephew Oliver. Melanie only agreed when her mother promised, reluctantly, to make her mince pies vegan. The shop is shiny and modern, with touch-screen catalogues on plastic tables but Melanie is loath to touch anything and relieved her mum agreed to ‘click and collect’. She queues to pay, and in the collection area weighs up her options: squeezing past the lardy lady and perching on the only hard chair remaining or standing in the crowd. After a couple of leering teenagers sleaze past her, she decides the chair is worth risking.

She watches the screen, impatient for her number to appear, whilst her obese neighbour wheezes. Then she notices a pair of eyes peeking above the seat in front, staring at her from beneath a blonde fringe. Someone else would pull a face or play peekaboo but Melanie doesn’t like children, they are noisy and messy. So she avoids those wide eyes and keeps checking the screen, but the gawping continues. Without taking her eyes off Melanie, the little girl starts tapping her mum’s puffa-jacketed arm. There is no response so she tries again. And again. What is she staring at?

“What?” Mum snaps, but her phone holds her attention so the jabbing continues. 

At last, her Croydon facelift quivering with irritation, mum turns her head. “What is it, Poppy?” 

Poppy’s finger appears above the seatback, pointing. Melanie feels her shoulders tense and the hairs on her arms stand on end, but keeps her eyes fixed to the collection screen. 

“Look,” says the child.

“Don’t stare, Poppy, it’s rude.”

“It’s you.”

Melanie lowers her eyes as Poppy’s mum turns, and finds herself gazing as if into a mirror. The face is rounder, the make-up heavier, but the resemblance is disconcerting. She realises that her mouth is hanging open, just like Poppy’s mum’s, so she snaps it shut, flicks her eyes to the screen and her number appears. Jumping up she heads to the collection counter, without looking back.

Lindsey

When I was overdue with Poppy, heavy, bored and scared, I watched a TV show about twins, one in America, one in London. They were adopted from China or somewhere and didn’t know about each other until they met by accident on Facebook. It was a happy show and cheered me up. They liked each other. They loved each other. There’s no way I’m adopted. People sometimes mistake me and Mum for sisters because she was so young when she had me. And dad might not have been around much but I do know him. When I was little, we all lived with Nan, because Mum and Dad were still at college, and Gran and Gramps were on the same estate. But as I watched the girl in Argos walk away with her package, those smiling reunited faces filled my head. And forgetting why I was there, I grabbed Poppy and chased after her.

“Hey! Hey, wait!” She was legging it in her posh jeans and high-heeled boots, but I had my Uggs on and despite carrying a fidgeting five-year-old, I wasn’t going to lose her, no way. I was sure she could hear me, was just ignoring me, so tried politeness.

“‘Scuse me! Hey! ‘Scuse me!” It seemed to work. She slowed and eventually stopped outside Wilko.

“Sorry....” I said, panting, “but this is a bit weird, in’t it?!” My heart thundered. 

“I don’t know what ....” 

“I mean, you look like me,” I took a breath, “and I look like you.” 

I took my bobble out and let my hair fall beside my cheeks like hers. “See?” 

She scrutinised my face, searching every detail. I let her, suppressing the manic urge to laugh, worried that if I did, it would frighten her off. After what seemed an age she gestured to a bench and I plopped Poppy down. She wiped the seat with a tissue before sitting down. Poppy climbed on me and rooted in my pocket for my phone.

“Where are you from?” Her voice was quiet and careful, but I heard a local lilt.

“Moor Park, d’you know it? How about you?”

“Churchtown.” She looked around.

“Well... maybe ...” I was stuttering, trying to think of something to say to stop her walking away, when she interrupted. 

“Are you adopted?”

“No, defo not.” I reached for my phone from Poppy, “I look just like mum. Look.” 

But she didn’t, and I realised what she was implying. 

“Are you?” She looked away. “We must be related somehow; don’t you think? When’s your birthday?” Behind those eyes she was deliberating. Calculating. 

“1997. March.”

“Mine’s 28^th of July ’98.” So we’re not twins, I thought, disappointed. I was trying to work it out, when she stood and scanned the street, searching for an exit.

“Wait ... can we just go for a cuppa or summat?” She chewed her lip and frowned, whilst I lifted every muscle in my face in the effort to get her to agree.

“I’ve gotta go.” But she didn’t. And then as if she’d spotted the escape route, “Give me your phone number. I’ll call you.”

Tracey

You love a bit of Christmas telly, with the curtains closed and the tree lights glistening. There’s no pressies under it yet because Poppy wouldn’t be able to resist them, and besides you love to see her face when she finds them Christmas morning. Lindsey was just the same. So a good Christmas movie and a glass of wine, that’s the plan. Make the most of the calm before the storm, then an early night so you can get the turkey in first thing. Lindsey might go out for a drink with her mates, but you don’t mind babysitting, and Steve’ll no doubt stay, now he’s here.

“Ta, for bringing the booze, Steve,” you say.

“S’alright. You’re doing the food, anyroad,” He stands awkward at the living room door.

“I might have a glass of wine now, watch a movie. D’you want to join me or have you got stuff on?” 

“Go on then. What’re you havin’? I’ll get it.”

“There’s a bottle open in the fridge, bring me a glass o’ that,” you say and stretch your legs out on the sofa. 

Steve makes himself at home in the armchair, while you flick through Netflix. He’s been making himself at home at your place ever since you were kids. For a while you both thought that meant you should be sharing your home, especially when Lindsey was small. But he likes his own space too much.

“It’s good of you to have mum and dad round tomorrow,” he says. “Especially with Mikey and his mum coming and all. It’s gonna be a full house.”

“S’alright. How about this one?” you say, pointing the remote. Steve clicks the ring pull on his can and the beer hisses threatening to overflow. 

He slurps and says, “Yeah. It’s funny. Seen it before but its worth another watch.” 

You’re both laughing at Jim Carrey’s antics when you hear the front door, and Poppy bursts in.

“Nana! Nana! We saw another mummy!” 

“Hiya, Pops,” you say, and press pause before giving her a kiss, “look, your Gramps is here.” 

“Gramps! We saw another mummy!” 

“Hi Poppy.” Steve opens his arms. “Come and give your Grandpa a cuddle.” She bounces over to Steve. Lindsey appears on the threshold, silent and unsure. 

“You alright, love?” you ask, and swing your legs so she can sit beside you. 

“Mmm.” She fiddles with her fingernails and then looks up at you.

“Can I ask you something, Mum?” she says, biting her lip. 

“Of course, sweetheart, anything.”

She frowns and looks away, but doesn’t say anything.

You take her hand in both of yours and sit up.

“What is it?” you say, “You’re worrying me now.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Have I got a sister?” 

You don’t move a muscle, but inside you’re melting. Why weren’t you prepared for this? When Lindsey was a baby you thought about her all the time, you talked about her all the time, to the baby, to Steve. Lindsey looked so like her those first few days and you sometimes forgot that she wasn’t. Each new thing Lindsey did; smiling, thumb-sucking, you imagined and wondered and talked. Steve didn’t like it. He didn’t want to think about the one you gave away. And one day he caught you calling her Meggie, her pet name, and was furious. So you put those feelings in a box and focussed on Lindsey. And now Lindsey has opened that box.

You become aware of Poppy’s chattering as she bounces on Steve’s knee, “Another mummy, another mummy!” 

“Shall I give her some tea?” he asks.

You blink and turn to Steve, “There’s some pasta in the pan.” Typical Steve, always finds a way to escape when things gets tough. 

“It’s just ... I met someone ... and ... she looks like me,” continues Lindsey, “A lot like me.” You’ve never had secrets, you and Lindsey, always been so open. Except this. “She said she’s adopted.”

“You talked to her?”

“Yeah.” She waits. “Mum? Did you have a baby before me? You must have been ...”

“Fifteen,” you say, the memories gushing now. It was so easy in your pink bedroom, with the boy you’d known since primary, your Disney princess duvet still on your bed. When there was a baby coming, you were nervous, but happy. Who else but Steve was going to be Prince Charming? Even your mums were excited. But not Steve. 

Everyone whispered as you passed in the school corridor. They were all visiting colleges, discovering which pubs would serve them if they wore enough make-up. And Steve pecked you on the cheek at nine o’clock and went home to his bed. The little flutters in your tummy that had delighted, became hard kicks that kept you awake, and fear crept in. Fear of the birth. Fear of the baby. 

You sniff back your tears and take Lindsey’s hand. “I was gonna keep her... but ...”

Two weeks before she was due you realised you didn’t have to. As if the baby knew, your water’s broke that night all over Cinderella. 

You’re sobbing now. Lindsey puts her arms around you. 

So you started college, went to the pub, but you couldn’t forget. Neither could your body, it longed for that cherub. And a year later Lindsey came. This time you weren’t scared. This time you’d make it work, with Steve or without him.

And now, the past has come back to bite you. Or to kiss you? You’re not sure which.