A Perfect Match Page 24

  James walked in at this point. ‘God, I hope not, Mrs B. I don’t want my son prancing about in tights. He’s going to be a good old rugby player if I’ve anything to do with it.’

  ‘I don’t know about a career in rugby,’ said Mum, looking at Yuri’s tiny little pale face.

  ‘He can be whatever he sodding well likes and if he’s gay, who cares,’ I said.

  ‘Gay!’ said Mum and James.

  ‘Well, you were talking about Rudolph Nureyev, and he was gay.’

  ‘Yuri won’t be gay,’ said James.

  ‘Rudolph was having an affair with Margot Fonteyn, he wasn’t gay,’ said Mum.

  ‘Come on, Mum, he was as gay as Christmas. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘He was not. I’m sick of you young ones saying everyone’s gay. Anyone with any bit of creativity now is homosexual according to you lot. It’s ridiculous. Sure, that man had women throwing themselves at him all day long. They used to throw their knickers at him at the ballet. Can you imagine, the ballet crowd throwing knickers. Gay, my foot. James, you tell her.’

  ‘I think actually in this case, Emma’s right,’ said James.

  ‘What? I don’t believe it. He couldn’t be –’

  ‘Who bloody well cares?’ I interrupted, sharply. I couldn’t believe we were having a debate about Rudolph stupid Nureyev and his gayness when we were supposed to be talking about our beautiful son. ‘The only thing that matters is that our son is beautiful and alert and likes music. And, despite what you say, I think he looks like James. He has his eyes.’

  ‘We all fancied Rudolph, he couldn’t be gay,’ mumbled Mum, as her teenage pin-up turned out to favour men.

  James and I spent the next few weeks preparing to go to Russia. I took notes from all the adoption websites. They recommended that we bring educational toys with us and a list of medical questions to ask the children’s home director when we got there. They said we should hold him and see if he responds well to sound, see what motor skills he does and doesn’t have and check him naked for any signs of abuse or illness. Watch how he interacts with the other children, is he loving and helpful? Does he seem to accept discipline? Does he show aggression? Does he cry easily? The questions went on and on. I jotted down twenty and went out to buy educational toys for a ten month old.

  Alexander also told us that we’d be flying to Moscow, then taking a connecting flight to Gelendzhik, near Novorossiysk – 2,000 miles south of Moscow. We were going to be staying with a Russian family who lived not far from the orphanage. Alexander told us to bring gifts for the family, gifts for the staff of the children’s home, for the translator, doctor, driver and pretty much even-one you might meet along the way. He suggested watches, perfume, good quality chocolate bars and sweets, silk scarves, make-up, tights, computer games, glossy magazines and sweatshirts. He told us not to be surprised if we got little or no reaction to our gifts as the Russian people are not demonstrative with strangers. It didn’t mean they weren’t happy with the gifts, they just mightn’t show it.

  The advice from other adoptees on the websites said to pack as lightly as possible, but considering it was November, we had to bring warm clothes. I checked the weather in Novorossiysk – it was actually quite mild. Still though, it was Russia, so I decided to pack ski jackets and thermal underwear anyway. Packing medicine was also vital. Antibiotics, aspirin, Pepto-Bismol for upset stomachs, and lots of antibacterial wipes were recommended. We ran around buying far too much and ended up having to leave cuddly toys and several enormous bars of Toblerone behind.

  Friends and family called to wish us luck and as the day grew closer we became increasingly nervous. It was the biggest decision we would ever make. We were going to meet our son and hold him and arrange to bring him home. We were nervous wrecks. Even James couldn’t sleep and we stayed up half the night talking about the future and what it would bring.

  ‘Do you think he’ll like us?’ I asked, nervously twiddling the button on my pyjamas.

  ‘I hope so, though I’d say it could take a while for him to get used to us. You mustn’t worry if he doesn’t take to us straight away. After all, we’re complete strangers.’

  ‘God, I hope he doesn’t take one look at us and crawl in the other direction. Imagine if he did? What would we do?’

  ‘Think positive, darling.’

  ‘What if he hates redheads? He may never have seen one before. Do you think I should wear my Russian hat? I don’t want to freak him out. There probably aren’t many redheads in Russia.’

  ‘I think the enormous furry Russian hat would be much more likely to scare the child than your hair. Stop fretting, I have no doubt that he’ll fall in love with you at first sight – just like his father did.’

  The day we were due to leave, Dad came to collect us and bring us to the airport. He rang the doorbell and shouted at us to hurry up. We could hear a commotion outside. Beeping car horns and shouting. When we opened the door, there were three cars. Mum, Dad and Babs in one, all wearing Russian hats. Lucy and Donal in another car, with Good Luck painted along the side, and Jess, Tony, little Sally and Roy in the last car, all wearing furry hats and cheering as we came out of the house. I was so moved that I couldn’t speak. I hugged Dad and cried into the side of his hat.

  ‘We couldn’t let you go without a proper send off. Everyone wanted to join in. We’re all behind you, pet.’

  ‘Come on you two, you’ll miss your flight,’ shouted Donal, who had jumped out to help James with our enormous suitcases.

  We climbed into the back of the car where Babs handed us two Russian hats and Mum pretended not to cry. Dad drove us to the airport, followed by our best friends.

  To Russia with love.

  33

  As we sat on the plane and Moscow loomed closer, we began to get very nervous. James’s nerves manifested themselves in a grumpy outburst about our living arrangements.

  ‘I have to say, I’d much rather stay in a hotel. I’m not sure about this living with a Russian family business,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but Alexander said there were no decent hotels nearby and that it would be good for us to see how a normal Russian family lives.’

  ‘Can’t we visit them for an afternoon? I’d really much rather hire a driver and go back to a hotel every night, regardless of the distance. I don’t fancy having to speak pidgin Russian after spending the day in an orphanage. We won’t have any privacy,’ grumbled James. ‘This place Novorofsky or whatever it’s called is in the armpit of Russia, so I doubt this family has much money, which means we’ll be sleeping on top of each other.’

  ‘For goodness sake, James, it’s not bloody New York, there doesn’t happen to be a Hilton Hotel nearby. We’ll just have to make the most of it. It’s only for a few days, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ludicrous. Why the hell couldn’t they match us with a child in an orphanage near Moscow. Two thousand bloody miles outside Moscow is a farce.’

  ‘Children’s home.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Don’t call it an orphanage, they only like to be referred to as children’s homes.’

  ‘Considering its location in the back arse of Russia, it’s probably a barn.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no point talking to you, you’re determined to be negative about everything.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘James, so far today you’ve complained about the weight of our cases, the bumpy flight, the size of our seats, the location of the children’s home and our lodging arrangements. Next time we do this, you can bloody well arrange everything and we’ll see how well you get on. I’ve done my best to make this as seamless as possible so will you please just put a sock in it. I know you’re nervous, but so am I, and your constant moaning is not helping matters.’

  James sighed. ‘You’re right. Sorry, darling. I promise to be positive about everything. Even if our hosts lodge us in an out-house and serve us pigs’ trotters I’ll be politene
ss itself.’

  When we landed in Sheremetyevo-2 (Moscow Airport to us non-Russians, named after the family on whose estate it is located – how loaded are they!) we were surrounded by porters wearing green vests, clamouring to carry our bags. I tried to bargain with them while James stood beside me looking uncomfortable. Eventually I handed over a bunch of dollars to the strongest looking man – I didn’t want anyone to put their back out earning our overweight luggage – and we followed him as he flew through customs where we had our declaration form stamped. When we arrived out to the arrivals area a driver was waiting for us with a sign saying HAMILTON. He didn’t speak much English and so we drove in silence to the domestic airport which took nearly an a hour.

  We then boarded a very old and decrepit looking plane and spent the next two and a half hours flying to Gelendzhik, near Novorossiysk. When we dragged our luggage out – no eager men in green at this airport – our translator Olga was waiting for us. She was a very serious young woman who shook our hands solemnly and without batting an eyelid, threw both suitcases into the boot of her car – clearly Olga was an Olympic weightlifter in a former life. We then drove to Novorossiysk, which Olga informed us was the largest trading port in southern Russia. While driving through the city, James nudged me several times and pointed to the hotels we passed along the way.

  We eventually pulled up outside a very uninviting, grey apartment block where, Olga announced, our hosts lived. We trundled into the building and headed for the lift, which was broken – our new home was situated on the eighth floor. As Olga bounced up the steps earning one bag, James huffed and puffed behind her, dragging his suitcase as if it was the cross of Calvary itself. He cursed under his breath, while I got a fit of very badly timed giggles. It was a mixture of nerves, exhaustion and tension, but once I started I couldn’t stop. Every time I looked back at James’s red, angry face, I collapsed. He, needless to say, found nothing remotely amusing in our situation and my laughter just caused him to get more wound up. By the time we reached the eighth floor, I was verging on the hysterical and James was close to murdering me. Our hosts opened the door to a giggling mess and her sweaty, grouchy husband. I managed to control myself as Olga reminded us to take off our shoes before introducing us. When she called James Mr Hamiloon, I was off again, shoulders shaking. Somewhere between wanting to kill me and gasping for breath, James got the giggles too. Our poor hosts, Mr and Mrs Vlavoski, just stared at us in bemusement.

  Twenty minutes, a clothes change and a reality check later, James and I appeared out of our bedroom, bearing gifts and apologizing for our earlier display of hysteria. We asked Olga to explain that we were over-tired and emotional. The Vlavoskis’ eighteen-year-old daughter, Nikki, had arrived home from work and she helped break the ice when she hugged me after opening her present of make-up and perfume. Her parents took a little longer to warm to us. They were clearly still in doubt about the state of our mental health.

  After a lovely meal of vegetable soup and dumplings filled with potato, James and I fell into bed. We were in Nikki’s room, she was sleeping on the couch. It was a nice room but the double bed was very small – it was really a large single, so we spent the night rolling into each other and trying to sleep in the spoon position – which looks very comfortable in the movies, but in reality means that one of you ends up with their nose pressed against the wall. In this case it was me. We got up the next morning, after very little sleep, and packed our knapsack with all the gifts for Yuri and the staff of the children’s home. We had our camera and video recorder with us as well. Olga arrived at nine sharp to collect us. I was a nervous wreck. I tried to eat the pancakes we were given for breakfast, but I just felt sick. James looked a bit green himself. This was it. We were finally going to meet our son.

  As Olga explained what we should expect from the day, James and I sat in the back of the car holding hands – well, gripping each other’s hands for dear life to be precise. The children’s home was a two-storey building that looked a bit run-down. Inside, the paint was peeling off the walls and it was cold and dark. We were ushered into a large, draughty reception room which was filled with toys and playpens while a couple of sofas were pushed back against the wall. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. Behind this room was the dormitory where all the children slept. It was a large room crammed full of little beds and cots. Although it was old-fashioned, it was clean and you could see the staff did the best they could with what they had. The director of the home showed us around. Speaking via Olga, he told us how delighted he was that we were going to meet Yuri. He assured us that he was a very healthy little boy and as bright as a button. We sat nervously on the couch – neither of us able to speak – as we waited for the children to come in from breakfast. The door burst open and twenty or more children rushed in. They ranged in age from six to six months. I looked around desperately to see Yuri. Where was he? My heart was pounding in my chest, I thought I was going to black out – and then I saw him. He was crawling along the floor in the middle of the bunch, concentrating on getting to the other side without being trampled. I grabbed James’s arm.

  ‘There,’ I said hoarsely, pointing to the tiny little boy in the blue romper suit. James froze.

  The director picked Yuri up, spoke gently to him in Russian and then handed him to me. I held the little boy in my arms and he stared up at me with his huge brown eyes, frowning at the sight of this unfamiliar face. I smiled and he broke my heart by smiling back. As I stood there crying and smiling, James, snapping out of his trance, came over. I handed Yuri to him, I wanted them to bond.

  ‘Hey there, little fellow,’ he said, as he smiled down at his son. ‘Welcome to our family.’

  Yuri looked up at James and then reached up and touched his face. His little hand rested on James’s cheek, and I saw my husband cry for the first time. I turned away, it was their private moment. I moved across the room and took deep breaths. I wanted to lie down and wail. We had come so far, and it had been such a long, bumpy and emotional rollercoaster that sometimes I had wondered if it was worth it. But now, seeing James holding our beautiful son, I knew it was worth every minute.

  We spent most of the day playing with Yuri and watching as he played with the educational toys we had brought. He was incredibly lively and he adored the musical mat we laid him on. It played Mozart when he rolled on it. I quizzed the director with my list of questions and got satisfactory answers to most. He had very little information on Yuri’s birth mother. He said she was very young and already had three children so she wasn’t able to cope with another. She had dumped Yuri with them and left in a hurry, not staying to answer questions. James and I checked Yuri for signs of bruising or scars of any kind and found none.

  We spent the next three days getting to know our son and delighting in every tiny thing he did. We talked of nothing else. Yuri consumed our thoughts and conversations. ‘Did you see that smile?’, ‘What about when he danced to the music?’, ‘The way he put those bricks one on top of the other’… We had turned into those people we had always sworn not to – the boring parents who talk of nothing but their child. That was us – Mr and Mrs Hamilton-bore.

  The fourth day with Yuri was our last. We were going home while Alexander’s people organized a court date. They had promised to get the earliest one possible, but said that it would be at least two weeks. Saying goodbye to Yuri was the hardest thing we’d ever had to do. I made the director swear over and over again that he would take special care of Yuri until we came back to collect him. I cried all the way home – and I mean all the way.

  ‘What if he has an accident?’ I asked James on the flight from Moscow. ‘What if his mother comes back and swipes him?’, ‘What if he gets really sick and dies?’, ‘What if some Russian couple go to the home and decide they don’t want the baby allocated to them, they want Yuri, because he’s so beautiful, and because they’re Russians they get first choice?’

  ‘Emma!’ said James, sounding utterly exasperated. ‘You’ve been
doing the “what ifs” now for six hours. Please stop. It’s all going to be fine. This is the way adoptions work. Nothing is going to happen. Stop tormenting yourself and me. We’ll be back in three weeks to pick him up and bring him home and we’ll never let him out of our sight again.’

  ‘How am I going to get through the next few weeks?’ ‘I’m sure Lucy’s wedding will be a good source of distraction.’

  ‘My God, I’d completely forgotten about it.’

  34

  Once we got home, the days dragged – they were the longest of my life. We waited impatiently for Alexander to call us with our court date. Meanwhile, I rang the children’s home even,’ day to check on Yuri. I knew I was driving the director insane, but I didn’t care, it made me feel better to know he was all right. James and I talked of nothing but Yuri and how wonderful he was, how smart and alert and beautiful and good-natured … We made everyone sit through a thirty-minute video of Yuri eating, crawling, lying on his play mat and sleeping.

  A week before the wedding myself, Lucy and Jess went away to the spa for a day of pampering. As we lay back side by side being massaged with wonderful smelling oils, I asked Jess what it was like.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, when you have a child, when you give birth, what’s it like? What do you feel when you hold the baby for the first time?’

  ‘God, well, it’s amazing. By the time you’ve given birth you’re usually pretty exhausted so half of you is just thrilled it’s all over and the baby is OK. But when they hand the baby to you and you hold him for the first time – it’s just magical. I honestly don’t know how to describe it.’

  ‘Like being hit by a bolt of lightning and falling in love at first sight,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly how it feels, and you forget all the pain when you look at their little face.’