July7th! It cant be just a coincidence. And the name Andrewdifferent middle name, different surname. As if an adoption could rewrite a patronymic and a family name, even a first name She stared at the portrait of the man, as if hoping to recognize something familiar.
In the humanresources office of Briarfield Council, Irene Anderson signed the papers for a new employee and then called out:
Emily, could you come in, please? Your new colleague is waiting.
Emily slipped into the small office and, without missing a beat, addressed the woman who already looked decades older than herself:
Youre the new cleaner?
Yes, said Emily.
Im the head housekeeper, Irene Anderson, the senior introduced herself, eyes flickering with curiosity. And you?
Emily Emily Clarke, she replied, correcting the unspoken question that lingered in Irenes gaze.
Come on, Ill show you your station, Irene said, leading the way down the corridor, their conversation trailing behind them like a thin ribbon. Your floor will be the whole of the third level
***
Emily felt a sudden surge of gratitude for the job. She smiled, eyes bright, and surveyed her new domain:
Two years until retirement, yet I could keep working afterwards. The wage is £8,000 a month, with occasional bonuses. With David well manage fine. The children have moved on, the house feels spacious. I cant even remember the mayors name! It would be embarrassing to ask. Lunch is soon. On the ground floor theres a wall of photographs of every mayor. How could I have missed that?
***
Leaving the staff kitchen, she passed a display board and read the mayors name: AndrewBoris, born 1983.
A young man, not even forty yet, Emily thought, and a memory flashed: Andrew? 1983?
She turned back, reading the date again:
July7th! It cant be just a coincidence. And the name Andrewdifferent middle name, different surname
She stared at the portrait, hoping some familiar thread would appear.
***
The new job faded into the background, as if pushed aside by the soft hum of unseen thoughts.
At home that evening she chatted with David, then he retreated to his room to watch football while she slipped into her own. Their threebedroom house felt cavernous now that the children had left. David still slept beside her occasionally, but those nights grew rarer.
Lying in her own bedroom, Emilys mind swirled with the ghosts of youth and a secret that had never been told to her husband.
She had once given birth to a son, named Andrew, when she was nineteen, penniless, a student living in a cramped dormitory. She could not keep him; after six months she placed the baby in a care home.
Three years later she married David. They never asked each other about the years before the wedding. Two daughters followedone studied at the university in the county seat and married there, raising grandchildren who now went to school; the other married and lived in Manchester.
Emily never secured a professional qualification. For twenty years she toiled as a housekeeper in a factory workshop, until the plant folded and all workers were let go. A friends daughter then offered her a position cleaning the council chambers, and she accepted.
Now the mayor, AndrewBoris, born in 1983, presided over the town. Emily did not complain about her life, yet the memory of her son resurfaced often, sometimes invading her dreams. She wanted only to be sure that the boy she had once held was alive and well.
***
A few days later, while sweeping her floor, Emily heard voices and saw Mayor AndrewBoris strolling past, deep in conversation with a clerk. He gave her a brief nod and continued on.
In that instant, a young man named Victorher love from forty years agoappeared before her eyes. He had been handsome and carefree then, and she had always imagined him as serious and businesslike. Seeing Mayor Andrew, she realized that she had once wanted Victor to look exactly like the mayor.
Victor had vanished the night he learned Emily was pregnant, promising to earn money elsewhere. She had waited, then understood he had simply run away.
Could AndrewBoris be my son? she whispered to the empty hallway. If I hadnt placed him in a home, would he be different? My daughters are doing wellmarried, with large flats and cars. The younger one is thriving too. Yet I have no son.
She wondered whether she would have married David at all. Perhaps fate would have unfolded differently for her, for David, for Andrew. Or maybe AndrewBoris was not her son at allcould there be so many uncanny coincidences?
It mattered little now. He had parents, after all; at six months old he could not have known they werent his. His childhood, by all accounts, had been happy. It was not every day that an ordinary lad became mayor.
***
After lunch, a young colleague, Olivia, approached her.
Hello, Aunt Emily!
Hello!
Were celebrating Lydias birthday on Friday. She cleans the sixth floor and turns fortyfive. Will you join us?
Of course! Emily replied, smiling.
Thatll be five pounds, and maybe youd bring a quirky little salad or something original?
Fine, Emily said, handing over the money.
Just call me Emily, were all colleagues here.
Will do, Emily! Olivia chirped.
***
On Friday, the staff gathered on the seventh floor after work. One office stood empty, so they set a table and, as always in any office, raised glasses in turn, each sip of red wine punctuating a toast.
The door swung open and Mayor AndrewBoris entered, handing a small box to the birthday girl.
Lydia OConnor, happy birthday! he announced, eyes twinkling. A little present for you.
Thank you, Mayor, Lydias eyes filled with tears.
Please, Mayor, have a seat with us, Irene urged.
Only for a moment, he answered, settling beside Emily.
Emily placed a fresh salad and slices of ham onto a pristine plate, poured the wine, and listened as the mayor gave his toast. As she watched him, a tremor ran through her whole beingshe no longer doubted; this was her son.
Mayor Andrew lingered for twenty minutes, then rose, thanked everyone, and left.
Thats the man! said Katie, the longestserving council worker, who seemed to know everything about everyone. Even the former mayor never imagined hed sit with us.
Has Andrew been here long? Emily asked.
A year. Remember the election last year?
Emily could not recall; David had always made the decisions.
His parents are wealthy and wellconnected, Katie continued, but theyre not his biological parents.
What? That cant be right, Lydia gasped.
It came out two years ago when he was preparing for the campaign. He says he never knew. He never reacted at all, Katie said.
How do you know all this? Emily pressed.
The former mayors deputy, OlgaParker, kept files on Andrew. She wanted her boss to stay in power, but the old mayors supporters didnt reelect him, Katie explained.
Does he know who his real parents are? Emily persisted.
Apparently not. He loves the people who raised him. Our mayor is a decent man in all his dealings, Katie replied.
Emily stared at the door behind which Mayor Andrew sat, feeling both joy and sorrow. Joy, because her son seemed to have a good life; sorrow, because she would never be able to hug him. She blamed herself for the distance, but a faint smile lifted her lips as she thought:
*I wont bother you, my boy. Ill always be near, in spirit.*
The dream dissolved, the council hall fading into a mist of red wine, salad leaves, and the echo of a July7th that refused to let go.
