7July! This cant be a coincidence? And the name Andrew. Different middle name, different surname. Its as if an adoption could rewrite a patronymic, even a first name She stared at the old portrait, eyes searching for something familiar.
In the humanresources office of the Bristol City Council, Miss Ellis signed the paperwork for a new employee. She lifted the receiver and called out:
MrsHannahBradford, could you step into my office? Your new colleague is waiting.
A moment later Hannah entered, and without missing a beat the senior clerk, a woman in her fifties, addressed her:
Are you the new cleaner?
Yes, Hannah replied.
Im the head of facilitiescall me Irene Caldwell, the woman said, extending a hand. And you are?
Hannah, the newcomer answered, correcting the silent question in Irenes eyes. HannahMiller.
Come on, Ill show you your workarea, Irene said, leading the way. Youll be on the entire third floor.
***
Hannah felt a sudden lift in her chest, as if the job itself were a lifeline. She smiled, turning the hallway into a runway of possibility.
Only two years to retirement, and I can even stay on after that, she whispered to herself. A salary of £8,000 a month plus occasional bonusesmaybe with Dave well live comfortably. The children are grown and gone. I cant even remember the mayors name! It would be mortifying if anyone asked. Lunch is soon; theres a photo gallery of every mayor on the ground floor. How could I have missed that?
***
On her way back from the staff canteen she passed the display board and read the mayors name: Andrew Bartholomew born 1983.
Wow, hes barely forty, the thought flickered through Hannahs mind, and a memory snapped shut. Andrew? 1983?
She turned back, eyes glued to the plaque:
7July! This cant be a coincidence? And the name Andrew. Different middle name, different surname. Its as if an adoption could rewrite a patronymic, even a first name
She stared at the portrait, hoping for a hint of recognition.
***
The new job pushed all other worries to the background. That evening she talked at length with her husband, then he retreated to his room to watch the football, while she slipped into hers.
Their threebedroom house felt emptier now that the children had left. Her husband still shared a bed with her, but the nights grew rarer.
Lying in her own room, Hannahs thoughts spun. Youth, secrets shed never told her husband. She had a son, named Andrew, when she was nineteenno money, no work, a cramped student hall that could never house a baby. She kept him for six months before surrendering him to a childrens home.
Three years later she married Dave. Neither spoke of the years before the wedding. Two daughters followed, grew up, left the nestone married in the county town, the other settled in London. Grandchildren now filled the schoolyard.
Hannah never learned a formal trade. For twenty years she ran the cleaning department of a local factory, until it went bust and the workers were let go. A friends daughter offered her a position as a council cleaner, and she accepted.
Now the mayor, Andrew Bartholomew, born in 83, sat in the council chambers. Hannah did not complain about life, but the memory of her son resurfaced nightly, sometimes even in her dreams. She needed to know if the man she saw on the wall was truly her child, and if he was happy.
***
Days slipped by. Hannah was polishing the thirdfloor corridor when voices echoed down the hall. Andrew Bartholomew strode past, chatting with a colleague. He glanced at her, nodded, and continued his conversation, completely unaware.
In that instant Hannah saw a flash of Vitaly, the boy she had loved forty years earlier. He had been handsome and carefree, and she had always imagined him as a serious, respectable manexactly the image she now projected onto the mayor. Vitaly had left the day she learned she was pregnant, promising to earn money abroad. She waited, hoped, then realized he had simply run away.
Could that mayor be my son? she thought, breath catching. If I hadnt given him up, he might not be who he is now. Yet my daughters have done wellmarried, a big flat, a car. My younger one is thriving too. No son, though.
She wondered whether marrying Dave had been inevitable, or if a different choice would have altered all three of their lives. Perhaps Andrew Bartholomew was not her son at all; perhaps the world was full of impossible coincidences. Still, the boy had been raised by loving parents, who probably never told him he wasnt theirs. Hed grown up happy, and it was rare for an ordinary lad to become mayor.
***
After lunch Hannahs young colleague, Olivia, bounded over.
Morning, Aunt Hannah!
Morning!
Were throwing a birthday party for Lucy on Fridayshe cleans the sixth floor and turns fortyfive. Are you in?
Of course, Hannah replied, smiling.
Great, £200 for the cake and something special, Olivia said.
Hannah slipped two hundred pounds from her wallet and handed them over.
Just call me Hannah; were colleagues, after all, Olivia added.
Will do, Hannah said.
***
Friday night, the staff gathered on the seventh floor. An empty office was cleared, a table set, and the usual toasts beganeach punctuated by a sip of red wine.
The door swung open and, to everyones surprise, Mayor Andrew Bartholomew entered, holding a small wrapped box.
Lucy OLeary, happy birthday! he announced, handing her the gift. A little something from me.
Lucys eyes welled with tears. The mayor turned to the table.
Andrew Bartholomew, have a seat with us, Irene urged.
Just for a short while, he replied, sliding into the chair beside Hannah.
She plated a fresh salad, ladled slices of ham, poured wine, and listened as he gave a toast. Hannahs heart thudded; she no longer doubtedthis was her son.
Andrew lingered for about twenty minutes, then rose and left.
Thats the man! exclaimed Katya, the longestserving council employee, who seemed to know everything about everyone. Even the former mayor never imagined hed sit with us.
Has Andrew Bartholomew been here long? Hannah asked.
About a year. Remember when we elected him last year? Katya replied.
Hannah shook her head; shed let Dave make most decisions.
Everyone knows his parents are wealthy and influential, Katya continued, lowering her voice. But theyre not his real parents.
No way, Lucy gasped.
It came out two years ago when he was prepping for the election. He says he never knew. He didnt react at all.
Where did you hear that? Hannah demanded.
The former mayors deputy, Olga Patterson, kept all the files on Andrew. She wanted her boss to stay in power, but the old mayors allies didnt back him.
Does he ever wonder who his real parents are? Hannah pressed.
Seems not. He loves the people who raised him. Our mayor is a decent man in every respect.
Hannah stared at the doorway where Andrew had just sat, feeling a mix of joy and melancholy. Joy that the boy shed once given up was thriving; sorrow that she would never hold him. She whispered to herself:
I wont bother you, son. Ill always be near, in spirit.
***
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