Water Born by Rachel Ward Page A

bottom always creaks, so I step over that and I’m safely in the hall.
    Misty pads out of the kitchen. I can hear her claws clicking on the parquet floor and see her dark shape looming towards me.
    â€˜Ssh!’
    I grab her collar, feel my way into the lounge and close the door softly behind us, then I click the light on. It’ll be fine like this as long as we don’t make a noise. Misty, somehow sensing that we’re on a secret mission and that I won’t be able to shout at her, hops quietly – and illegally – on to the sofa and settles down. I wag my finger at her, but leave her be.
    There’s a small desk in the corner with shelves above. The desk has three drawers. I know the top one’s got stationery in it – pens, envelopes, that sort of thing. Even so, I have a quick rummage through. There’s nothing out of the ordinary.
    The second drawer has a jumbled collection of takeaway menus, maps and tickets. I go through themcarefully, but again there’s nothing.
    The third drawer is deeper. It’s filled to the brim with documents of all sorts. I gather them all up and dump them on to the sofa between Misty and me. There are brown envelopes with all sorts of insurance papers, stuff about the car, tax forms. Some are labelled on the outside in Mum or Dad’s handwriting. Others are blank. I go through them all, looking for clues. Some of the papers have Grandad’s name on them: Anil Gupta. But I know about him, and I know Mum was a Gupta before she and Dad got married.
    It doesn’t take long to find the first piece in the puzzle.
    There’s an exam certificate, dated August 2015. A-levels. Three As and a B. And the name at the top: Neisha Manjula Gupta.
    Neisha. The name Dad used when they were arguing in the kitchen. My mum’s real name.
    There’s nothing similar for Dad. No GCSEs, no A-levels. No diplomas. And yet he’s the real reader in the family. I bet you he’s read every one of the books on the shelves in this room. He’s the one who read me my bedtime story every night when I was little. He took me to the library every week. He’s a bright guy, so what went wrong at school?
    I carry on looking through, and then I notice Misty nibbling the corner of an envelope.
    â€˜No!’ I hiss. ‘Bad dog!’
    I pinch her nose and extract the envelope from between her front teeth. There’s a thick piece of paper inside. I draw it out and study it.

    Certified Copy of an Entry Pursuant to the Births and Deaths
    Registration Act 1953 .
    Date and place of birth: Twenty Second April 2014, Princess Anne Wing, Royal United Hospital, Bath .
    Name and surname: Nicola Manjula Adams
    Sex: Female
    Name and surname, Father: Carl Adams
    Place of Birth: Kingsleigh, Somerset
    Occupation: Labourer
    Name and surname, Mother: Neisha Manjula Gupta
    Place of Birth: Birmingham
    Occupation: Student
    And so on, down to:
    Date of Registration: Third May 2014

    So this is me. I’m Nicola Adams. And I think it means that my parents are actually my parents. Neisha Gupta is likely to be Anil’s daughter, right? So she’s my mum, the mum I’ve always known. And is Clarke Anson really Carl Adams? It’s looking pretty likely.
    Not adopted, then. That’s a good thing, right?
    It is a good thing – it’s one element of uncertainty out of the way – but there’s another one in its place. What’s with all the name-changing? Why would anyone do that?
    It’s a little cooler down here. I put the papers back in the drawer, but keep my birth certificate out. I sit staring at it for a while. Misty has shifted round and is resting her head on her paws. Her breathing is turning into a gentle snore. I tuck my legs up, hitching them round the curve of Misty’s back, and rest my head on the arm of the sofa.
    And that’s where Mum and Dad find us in the morning.
    Through cotton-wool clouds of sleep I hear their footsteps