Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson

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      ‘Glamping?’ I ask. ‘Yes, she did, didn’t she?’

      ‘I wish Maureen could have seen this place.’ Joan sighs. ‘She’d have loved it.’

      My throat tightens. Mum and I talked about going glamping together but we never got round to it. If only I’d realised my precious time with her was limited …

      Joan clears her throat. ‘Anyway, yes, Clemmy and that lovely fiancé of hers, Ryan, have opened the most glorious glamping site on the banks of a lake. It’s completely idyllic and the tents are magnificent. You’d really think you were staying in a five-star hotel!’

      ‘Sounds lovely.’

      Clemmy is Joan’s niece and was one of my best friends at university, although we’ve sadly lost touch in the years since we left. She went back to live in Surrey, near Joan, and I returned to Manchester. I’m intrigued by the idea of the glamping site but, however much I love Joan, I don’t think spending time with her during our romantic break would be the best thing to do. She would want to talk about Mum and, quite frankly, that’s the last thing I want.

      Why would I need to when I have all my lovely memories of Mum locked away inside?

      And anyway, this romantic break away is going to be a special time, just for Toby and me. We’d finally have time to talk – really talk – about our future together. The magazine with my story printed in it had arrived, which was really exciting, but I’d purposely not told Toby. I was going to present it to him when we were away on holiday and he finally had the time to read it!

      Glamping in Surrey is a nice idea but not for us right now …

      I don’t like disappointing Joan, though, so I tell her I’ll think about it.

      In all the whirl of moving house, I haven’t even thought where to take Toby for his birthday. But it’s June already. I need to make a decision!

      I get back to the unpacking, thoughts of Greece – or maybe Italy – flitting through my head; Toby and I, perfectly relaxed, languishing on a hot sandy beach somewhere, next to a sun-sparkled sea …

      I’m currently tackling a box that was up in Mum’s loft and looks as if it hasn’t been opened since we moved there more than a quarter of a century ago. I brush a cobweb from the front of my cardigan as a musty smell rises from the contents of the box – old books, mostly romance fiction with rather garish covers. Mum loved reading and never liked parting with her books. She was ruthless about clutter and was always boxing up stuff like clothes, shoes, old handbags and jewellery for the charity shop. But books were different. She held on to those. I’ve kept some of her favourites but I’ve carted so many off to the charity shop already.

      I’m about to seal the box up again and mark it ‘charity’, when I spot something wedged down the side of the box. I pull it out.

      A handbag.

      It’s a cheap-looking bag. Glossy pink plastic with a gold-coloured clasp and a long narrow strap. Appliquéd onto the front is a pink and gold pony with big eyes and a flowing mane. I can’t imagine Mum would ever use something like that herself. It’s definitely not her style. But someone clearly loved it because it’s scuffed around the edges and well-used.

      Was it mine when I was a teenager?

      It’s so distinctive, I would surely remember it. But I don’t.

      Opening the clasp, I find it’s empty, apart from an ancient-looking bus ticket and a lipstick in ‘shell pink’. There’s a pocket inside, though, and I can feel there’s something in there. Carefully unzipping it, I draw out a folded-up envelope.

      Smoothing it out, I’m disappointed to find that it’s empty. Whatever letter was in there, which might have brought a clue as to the owner of the bag, has long gone. But there’s an address on the front of it that makes the breath catch in my throat.

       Maple Tree House, Acomb Drive, Appley Green, Surrey.

      I’ve never been to Appley Green. But I know it for one very important reason.

      Mum told me it was the place where I was born.

      I asked her once if she knew anything about my birth parents and where I came from. I must have been about sixteen at the time. She was ironing a shirt at the time. It’s funny how you remember the little details. Mum looked across at me and, for a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. Then she shook her head. ‘Sorry, love. All I know is that you were born in a village called Appley Green, not far from where we lived in Surrey, and your mother couldn’t look after you so she put you up for adoption. I wish I could tell you more but …’

      ‘So you don’t know anything at all about my … real mother?’

      She got really flushed when I asked her that. The iron slipped and she burned her hand and had to dash through to the tap in the kitchen to run cold water over it.

      I felt bad because actually, she was my ‘real mum’. The other woman, who had had nothing at all to do with my upbringing, was only my ‘birth mother’.

      After that, I never asked again. I suppose I didn’t want Mum to think she might some day lose me to my biological mother.

      The name, Appley Green, stayed in my mind, though. I have an image in my head of what the village looks like, although it’s probably not like that at all. I searched for a photograph of my birthplace online once but I drew a blank.

      I glance at the date on the old bus ticket I found in the bag.

      July 15th 1990.

      I was born in 1987 so I would have been three years old when this ticket was issued.

      I stare at the envelope. It obviously held some sort of advertising letter because it’s simply addressed to ‘The Householder’. No name to give me a clue. My eye focuses on the village name. Of course it’s pure coincidence that I was born in Appley Green and there it is, typewritten, on this envelope. But it still sends a little tingle of curiosity through me. The owner of the bag must have lived at Maple Tree House, Acomb Drive, Appley Green.

      Maybe they still do …

      I turn the envelope over, and scrawled on the back of it, in child-like writing, is our old address in Surrey. I always remember it because Mum used to laugh about the name. Our street was apparently called ‘Bog Houses’, and Mum used to say it was a lot more picturesque than it sounded.

      There it is, on the back of the envelope, presumably scribbled down by the owner of the handbag.

       3 Bog Houses, Chappel-Hedges, Surrey.

      So many questions are tumbling through my head.

      Who did the bag belong to?

      How did it end up in Mum’s loft?

      And why did Mum – who was so meticulous about getting rid of clutter – carefully box it up and keep it for all these years?

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