7July! This cant be just a coincidence. And the name Andrew. Same first name, different middle and surname. Its as if an adoption could change a patronymic, a surname, even a given name She stared at the portrait of the man, as if hoping to recognise a familiar face.
Helen Andrews, head of human resources for the Manchester City Council, signed the paperwork for a new employee and then called out:
Emma, come in! Your new post is ready.
Emma entered the office and, without a moments hesitation, addressed the senior woman with a hint of years in her voice:
Are you the new cleaner?
Yes, Emma replied.
Im the caretaker, Helen Andrews, the supervisor announced, extending a firm hand. And you are?
Grace, the woman corrected, a quiet question flickering in Helens eyes. Grace Whitfield.
Come, Ill show you your workstation, Helen said, leading the way. Youll be on the entire third floor
—
Grace felt a surge of relief at landing the job. She smiled, eyes wandering over the modest office that would become her domain.
Two years until retirement, and I could even work beyond that. The pay is eightthousand pounds, plus occasional bonuses. With Dave, well manage. The kids have grown and moved out. I cant even remember the mayors full name! It would be embarrassing to ask. Lunch is soon. Theres a photo gallery of every mayor on the ground floor. How did I miss that?
—
On her way back from the canteen, she paused beside a display and read the mayors name: Andrew Borrows, born 7July1983.
Only twentyfour, she thought, a shiver running down her spine. Andrew 1983. She turned back, eyeing the date again.
7July! This cant be just a coincidence. And the name Andrew. Same first name, different middle and surname. Its as if an adoption could change a patronymic, a surname, even a given name
She lingered on the portrait, hoping some familiar detail would surface.
—
The new job pushed other thoughts into the background. That evening she talked at length with Dave. He retreated to his room to watch the football, she to hers. Their threebedroom flat felt emptier now that the children had left; the house was spacious, the silence growing. Dave sometimes still shared the bed, but less and less.
Lying in her own room, memories of youth swirled. She kept a secret shed never shared with her husband. When she was nineteen, pregnant with a son she named Andrew, she had no money, no job, and a cramped dormitory that could not house a baby. She managed only six months before surrendering the child to a childrens home.
Three years later she married Dave. Neither spoke of the years before the wedding. Their own children arrivedtwo daughters. The elder attended university in Leeds and soon married; the younger settled in London. Grandchildren now filled the schoolyard.
Grace never secured a skilled trade. For the past twenty years she worked as caretaker in a Sheffield steel plant, until it went bust and the workers were let go. A friends daughter then offered her a position as a cleaner in the council offices. She accepted.
Now the mayor, Andrew Borrows, was born in 1983. Grace didnt lament her life, but the memory of the son she once gave up haunted her. He visited her in dreams a few times. She longed to know if that boy was alive and well.
—
A few days later, while sweeping her floor, voices rose from the doorway. Andrew Borrows strode in, midconversation with a colleague. He glanced at Grace, nodded, and slipped past her, still talking.
In that instant, a vision of a boyher first love, Victor, from forty years agoflashed before her eyes. He had been handsome and lively then, and she had always imagined him as serious, businesslike. The sight of the mayor made her realise she had once wanted Victor to be just like Andrew.
Victor had left the day she learned she was pregnant, promising to earn money abroad. She waited, then understood he had simply fled.
Could Andrew Borrows be my son? she whispered to herself. If I hadnt given him away, would his life be different? My daughters are thrivingmarried, with a house and a car. My younger daughters doing fine too. But I have no son.
What if I had never married Dave? My fate, Daves, and Andrews would be entirely different. Perhaps Andrew isnt my son after all. Could such a coincidence exist?
She shrugged off the weight. He had parents, after all; he was only six months old when he entered the home. Those parents might never have told him the truth. His childhood, despite everything, seemed happy. Its rare for an ordinary lad to become mayor.
—
After lunch, a young colleague, Olivia, approached.
Morning, Aunt Grace!
Morning, Grace replied.
Were throwing a birthday for Ethel on Friday. She works on the fifth floor, turning fortyfive. Are you in?
Of course! Grace smiled.
Then two pounds, and maybe a quirky salad or something creative.
Alright, Grace reached into her purse and handed over the money.
Everyone chips in for birthdays, Olivia said.
Just call me Grace, Olivia. Were colleagues, after all.
Will do, Grace!
—
Friday night, the staff gathered on the seventh floor after work. One office was empty, so they set up a table. As always, the drinks flowed, toasts were made in turn, and each clink of glasses was followed by a small sip of red wine.
The door swung open and in walked Mayor Andrew Borrows, smiling broadly.
Ethel OLeary, happy birthday! he declared, handing her a small box. A modest gift.
Thank you, Mayor, Ethels eyes welled with tears.
Mayor, please join us, Helen urged, gesturing to a seat.
Only for a short while, he replied, sitting beside Grace.
Grace placed a fresh salad on a clean plate, added slices of ham, poured wine into the glasses, and the mayor raised his cup in a toast.
She watched him, heart pounding, because in that moment she knewthis was her son. Doubt evaporated.
Andrew lingered for about twenty minutes, then rose and left.
What a character! exclaimed Kate, the longestserving council employee, who seemed to know everyones story. Even the former mayor never imagined sitting with us.
Has the mayor been here long? Grace asked.
A year. Remember the election last year?
Grace shook her head; Dave had always made the decisions.
His parents are wealthy and influential, Kate continued. But you know they arent his biological parents?
What? Are you serious? Lily, another colleague, asked, startled.
It came out two years ago, when he was preparing for the campaign. Apparently he never knew. He didnt react at all.
Where did you hear all this, Kate?
The former mayors deputy, Olga Patterson, gathered everything. She wanted her boss to stay in power, but the old mayors allies didnt back him.
Does he know who his real parents are? Grace pressed.
Seems not. He loves the people who raised him. Our mayor, in every respect, is an upright man.
Grace Whitfield stared at the closed office door where the mayor had just been. Joy and sorrow tangled inside herjoy that her son was thriving, sorrow that she could never hold him. She whispered to the empty hallway:
I wont trouble you, son. Ill always be near, in spirit.
The camera pulled back, the fluorescent lights humming, as Grace lingered by the doorway, a solitary figure enveloped in the echo of unfinished conversations.
