Lost River. Stephen Booth
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foster children who’d passed through the Bowskills’ lives. There must have been many of them. She supposed that most of them kept in touch better than she ever had. It had been too easy for her to forget the debt she owed them. She’d been too quick to put everything behind her when she moved from the West Midlands, cast the good aside with the bad when she started a new life in Derbyshire.
Fry remembered the Bowskills reluctantly producing her birth certificate when she needed to register at college. They themselves had obtained it from her social worker, by special request. Only her mother’s name had been on the certificate, the space to record the father left blank. It seemed her parents had never married, so the surname she carried was her mother’s, not that of an adoptee.
Then she thought about the one child the Bowskills had adopted. Perhaps tired of saying goodbye to those they’d cared for over the years, they had fought to keep one particular boy, a few years younger than Fry. He was called Vincent, a quiet boy born to an Irish mother and a Jamaican father. He had been with Jim and Alice after Fry had left to set up home on her own and pursue her career in the police. The Bowskills’ last commitment, the one final object of their love.
The children’s charity Barnardos had said recently that there was too much focus on trying to ‘fix’ families, when it would often be in the best interests of the children to put them up for adoption straight away when there was a problem. And by ‘straight away’ they meant at birth. Parents who’d failed to care properly for older children would not be allowed to bring up younger ones. It seemed to Fry that there was a definite logic in the argument.
And yet, Vincent Bowskill had made the wrong friends, been attracted to a way of life the Bowskills deplored. Something had still gone wrong, despite their best efforts. Despite what the experts said, could there be some genetic influence that would always flow in the blood? Blood, they said, was thicker than water.
Or maybe it was because there was no easy way for a boy like Vince to fit into a society that liked to put everyone in a category.
Fry knew that mixed-race people were an elephant in the room – the fastest-growing ethnic minority in Britain, more numerous than black Caribbean or black African. Yet it was only in the 2001 census that they were given an ethnic category of their own. They were obvious to anybody living in a large British city, yet invisible at a political level. In multiculturalism Britain, the fact that more and more people were having children across racial divides was an inconvenient truth. It didn’t fit with the concept of neat communities of black, white or Asian.
And that could be a problem for boys like Vincent Bowskill. These days, black and white kids tended not to call each other racial names. But the mixed-race kids got it from both sides. Many of them were fated to spend their entire lives searching for an identity.
‘So how is Vince?’ she said, as Jim sat down with her.
‘Oh, you know – fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, to be honest, he’s always been a bit of a worry to us. But he does his best. He’s a good lad, at heart.’
‘He isn’t involved with a gang, is he?’
‘No, no. Well, we don’t think so.’
Fry realized Jim Bowskill might find it difficult to tell what sort of circles his adopted son moved in. When Vincent came here to visit, he wouldn’t be displaying his gang tattoos and waving a gun around. He’d be well behaved, polite.
And maybe…just maybe, he’d actually turned his life around and moved on. It was possible to do that.
‘Should I look him up while I’m here?’
‘Vince?’ Jim looked doubtful. ‘Oh, you don’t have to, Diane. But –’
‘I’ll see if I have time.’
‘All right.’
She knew she had to broach the one subject they hadn’t touched on, the one the Bowskills were shying away from.
‘You know why I’m here in Birmingham, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, you told us. The case.’
‘You’ll let us know how it goes, won’t you?’ said Alice.
‘Don’t stay out of touch, Diane.’
She sounded even frailer than she looked. Fry hoped Alice wasn’t worrying herself too much about something she couldn’t do anything about.
Fry looked out of the bay window into the street. All the people passing were Bengalis. She hadn’t seen a white face all the time she’d been here.
‘Dad,’ she said, ‘what’s Surti Ravaiya?’
‘Oh, it’s a type of Indian eggplant. You serve it stuffed.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Why? Are you developing an interest in cooking?’
‘No.’
Jim Bowskill looked at her oddly. ‘You know, you haven’t changed, Diane.’
She turned back to the room. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I remember you when you were a teenager. You were always a very distant girl – so self-contained. It was hard for anyone to get you to open up. No matter how hard we tried, Alice and me, we never really understood what you were thinking, or feeling. You’re the same now. You’re still that teenage girl.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Do you remember that friend you had at school? Janet Dyson. Your best friend, she was.’
Fry shook her head. ‘Janet…?’
‘Dyson. Pretty girl, with long dark hair. Her father ran the taxi firm.’
‘I don’t remember her.’
‘You must do,’ said Jim. ‘She was your best friend. You used to walk out of school holding hands sometimes. It was very sweet.’
‘How old was I?’
‘Eight or nine.’
‘It’s too long ago, Dad.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve forgotten. We remember everything about you.’
‘Well, you must have kept a photograph album. She’ll be in there, this girl. I bet you’ve been getting it out to remind yourselves before I arrived.’
‘No, no.’ He tapped his temple. ‘It’s all up here. All we have are our memories. They’re what make us the people we are.’
Fry was puzzled. ‘Why are you bringing this girl up now?’
‘Janet Dyson? Well, we wondered why you fell out with her. You suddenly stopped being best friends with her, and we never found out why. You wouldn’t tell us. We thought, well…now that so much time has passed, we thought you might tell us what happened.’
‘Dad, I have no idea.’
He sighed. ‘Still the same Diane.’
‘Dad, honestly – I have no idea. I can’t remember what happened. It can’t have been anything very important, can it?’
‘If you say so, love.’
After a while, Fry looked at her watch and decided it was time to prise herself away. Refusing all offers of more tea, she got up to leave, then hesitated in the doorway.
‘So…is there a photograph album?’
‘Well, I think so,’ said Jim. ‘Do you want to see it?’
She thought for a moment, mentally recoiled as she imagined the album’s contents. Happy, laughing snaps of herself and Angie, skinny teenagers in jeans and puffa jackets. Sunburned on holidays in Weston-super-Mare, dressed up in their best