The Forgotten Orphan: The heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel

by Glynis Peters

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘And there she is, the laziest girl I know. Enjoy your holiday?’

  The sarcastic tone of Norah Bately grated on Maisie.

  She was tired and not in the mood for Norah’s snide remarks. Rather than disturb the house, she’d spent the night curled up on two chairs pushed together.

  Sliding off the chairs and onto her feet, Maisie stretched her body. She ignored Norah and went to the sink to fill the kettle. She lit the stove, keeping her back to the woman still ranting on about her night away.

  ‘Sleeping around town with the soldiers, were you? Trying to earn your way out of here? Ungrateful. That’s what you are: ungrateful.’

  Norah often tried to goad Maisie, but Maisie tried her hardest not to rise to the bait. But, exhausted after all she’d been through last night, Maisie wasn’t in the mood for listening to the spiteful tirade. Finding new courage, she bit back.

  ‘I’ve never, never been ungrateful. You know that, so why are you so horrid? You make my life so miserable. Just leave me alone!’

  A snort of indignation was the only reply from Norah, and the woman pointed to the door.

  ‘Stop snivelling and get back to the job you were given to do before you chose to gallivant around town. I cannot abide the sight of you. Go and clean yourself up and stay out of my way.’

  Maisie stood her ground and sipped from her mug, all the while staring at Norah over the brim.

  ‘I’m speaking to you, madam,’ Norah said.

  Maisie raised a daring eyebrow at her, and it was Norah who eventually left the room.

  Determined not to be browbeaten by Norah ever again, Maisie gave herself a virtual pat on the back for finding the courage to stand up to the woman. The previous night had scared her into rethinking her life. Although she’d been fired up to seek out a war-effort position this morning, she decided it best to wait a day or so before throwing out innocent questions about where people went for help after losing their homes. It would give her a clue about where she could apply. She would also speak to Charlie about where she would be best placed, and even where she’d find a wage and accommodation. Getting caught up in the bombings had changed her mindset. The enemy frightened her far more than the likes of mean old Norah Bately.

  When she’d finished in the kitchen, Maisie headed for the dormitory and bathroom. Once freshened up, she went to collect her chore list from Matron.

  Tapping on the door, she waited for the usual trumpet sound of Gloria Mason’s firm voice, but all she heard was a mellow, ‘Come.’

  Puzzled, Maisie cautiously opened the door.

  ‘I’ve come to collect my worksheet, Matron,’ she said.

  Gloria beckoned her inside and Maisie stood waiting in front of the large desk for whatever Matron had in store for her. Quite often she received instructions for jobs no one else could be bothered to do; she pondered on which delight she’d be given today. Washing windows? Scrubbing toilets?

  ‘I didn’t hear any banging at the door so I assume you arrived home on time. Today I need you to help me. I’m not feeling well and it’s something you can handle alone,’ Matron said as she rubbed her hand across her brow. She slumped back in her chair with a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose as if in an attempt to ease a pain somewhere.

  Maisie was taken aback. In all the years she’d known Matron, the woman had never had a day’s illness. Today, Maisie had to agree that she looked pale with dark rings framing her eyes. She was also grateful Matron hadn’t heard her arrive home but she knew Norah wouldn’t miss the opportunity to mention she’d slept downstairs. She thrived on telling Matron awful tales about Maisie.

  ‘I was a little on the drag as the bus didn’t arrive and I had to get home during the bombing raid. It was horrible. I didn’t want to disturb you all so I slept in the kitchen,’ she said, keeping her voice calm and steady.

  ‘Stop your chatter. As I said, I’m unwell and my head won’t cope with your voice chipping away all day,’ Matron said, putting her hand to her head again and rubbing at her temples.

  ‘What’s the matter? Do you need the doctor? I’ll fetch him,’ Maisie said with genuine concern in her voice.

  ‘You will do no such thing. It’s my business. You will spend your day emptying the filing cabinets in here in readiness for our departure. As I understand it, the new residents will take over the moment we leave,’ Matron snapped back at Maisie and rose to her feet. She brushed Maisie’s hand aside when she swayed momentarily.

  ‘I’m going back to my room to rest. Hopefully this headache will disappear in an hour or so. In the meantime, pack away the files into the boxes over there.’

  Maisie turned to where Matron pointed and saw several wooden packing crates.

  ‘Keep everything in alphabetical order.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The children and I will be moved on. You? I’m not sure. You’re too old for me to be worrying about anymore.’ Matron gave a dramatic wave of her arm. ‘I’m too ill to even think about you. Just do as you’re told.’

  Matron slammed down a set of keys onto her table and left the room. Maisie simply stared at the back of the door.

  The rumours were true! Her home was to be ripped out from under her and Matron did not care one bit. She’d kept control of Maisie’s life for eighteen years and now she was walking away without a single thought of where Maisie was to go. Anger bubbled inside Maisie, but it was followed by sadness, and the feeling of being discarded like an unwanted cat or dog. She meant nothing to Matron … to anyone.

  Unable to face that while she was still shaken by the previous evening’s near-miss during the bombing raid, Maisie opted to work her way through her crisis. She had a mammoth task ahead of her. Not only did the files need organising, but she could see the room needed a declutter and thorough clean too. If the freezing wind weren’t howling around the windows, she’d have lifted them all open and blown fresh air into the room.

  Maisie prepared a large crate and opened the first of the large cabinets. Perhaps she could turn this into an opportunity? With Matron out of the room, she’d finally get the chance to find answers to the questions she’d been asking for years. Where had she come from? Who were her parents? No matter how often she asked the questions, Matron had always ignored her or found a reason not to answer. It was part of the insidious emotional torture that had long frustrated Maisie. Why, when records were to hand, couldn’t Matron find time to answer her questions? If her mother had never wanted her and Jack, and if she were unmarried, then so be it, but Maisie could never understand why her requests were met with hostile responses. A sudden thought came to her. With access to the files, she’d be able to find Jack’s paperwork and in it would be information relating to his new home. Maybe she could find him! She tugged open another drawer and flicked straight through to the R section until she found the file bearing her name: Maisie J Reynolds.

  The J confused her. She’d only known herself as Maisie Reynolds; a middle name had never featured in her life. She pulled the folder from its resting place and opened it to the first page. It bore her name and age on entry to the orphanage.

  Where the family name had once stood out as clearly as the first name, the page was rubbed and smudged. She held the paper up to the light in the hope of seeing the surname more clearly. Was this her mother, or simply the person who’d handed her over?

  Then it hit Maisie. Was it wrong to forget the face of the person who gave birth to you? As hard as she tried, she could not bring her mother’s face, the woman who’d fed her scraps of food, to the fore. Why couldn’t she remember her? Had she ever loved her mother as a child should? Maisie simply couldn’t remember having feelings for anyone other than Jack and the thought sat heavily in her chest, like a bulky mouthful of bread trapped in the gullet.

  A creaking floorboard alerted Maisie to someone coming along the corridor. She snatched up the file and moved towards the crate in the hope of hiding it, but time was against h
er. Matron re-entered the room and looked at the papers Maisie held in her hand.

  ‘Have you finished?’ Matron demanded.

  ‘It’s going to take longer than five minutes if you want me to do a good job,’ Maisie replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She placed the file on top of the cabinet.

  Matron walked over and Maisie placed her hand back onto the file. Gloria’s face creased into a disapproving frown.

  ‘Hold your tongue girl. Your file, I assume?’

  Maisie nodded. ‘There’s not a lot of information in there but I think I’ll keep it as it is mine. There’s nowhere else for it to go. You never know, I might need it for the future. I’ve not received call-up papers yet, but might need this when I do,’ she said.

  Matron took a step forward and stared Maisie down, her teeth grinding beneath her jawline.

  ‘It is government property to go to the local council and of no use to you. Now, hand it over. As regards to call-up papers, you won’t need to worry about those. Your work here is important enough for them not to want you.’

  Not wanting to antagonise the woman, but frustrated by her attitude, Maisie spoke again, this time more forcefully. ‘But the file is mine,’ Maisie said, holding the file closer to her.

  With a hissing reply of impatience, Gloria balled her fist and shook it at Maisie. ‘Don’t be childish. It is not yours, and nothing in there reflects your life as you know it. It is my file, or rather, the property of the orphanage.’

  ‘It has my mother’s name inside,’ Maisie whispered, unable to raise her voice. The pain of having to battle to find out such meagre scraps caused her throat to tighten against a pending screech of indignation.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It has a smudge. It does not mean anything to you personally.’

  Matron had been known to strike hard when her temper was roused, and Maisie could see the Matron’s face reddening, a sure warning sign, but still she clutched the file to her chest.

  ‘If it is of no importance, why are you so het up about it?’

  With a forceful step towards her and a push, Matron launched herself at Maisie, knocking her against the cabinet. She wrenched the file from Maisie’s hands and with a triumphant roar held it high.

  ‘There’ll be consequences for this, Maisie Reynolds!’ she yelled and went to sit behind her desk. Maisie stepped forward and stood with her arms out in question.

  ‘Why? Who would know? Tell me, who would care?’

  The pleasure in seeing Gloria flinch when she slapped her hand onto the table in response, gave Maisie a thrill. She repeated the act.

  ‘Don’t make out I’m a fool. I know I had a mother, and I know she’d be named on official papers when she brought me here. This can’t be all you have on me! Where are my true files?’

  ‘You were not brought here by your mother, and this file sums up your paltry life.’

  ‘So, who did bring me here? Why has my mother’s name been rubbed out in the file? Who would be able to help me find my family? You’ve never liked me. Never tried to find me a loving family or home to go to. You tore Jack and me apart. Can you be any more unkind? You destroyed my life and now you use me as an unpaid skivvy.’

  Frustration clutched around Maisie’s throat and she choked on her words as they rushed from her mouth. Maisie was no longer prepared to take the scraps she was offered, to have her past hidden from her by the people who should have protected her. It was her right to know who’d given birth to her, to know what had been so ruthlessly hidden from her.

  She stared Matron down as the woman crossed her arms over her bosom in a defensive gesture. Maisie knew she held the trump card and also that if she stopped her onslaught now, she’d never learn the truth about where she came from.

  ‘You always pushed me to one side, never praised me. When people wanted a child, you held me back, or pushed me into the faces of people who’d no intention of taking on an older child.’ Maisie snatched in a breath, giving Matron no time to intervene. ‘I was a four-year-old child and you were all I had. I trusted you. How could you treat an innocent child in that way? Call yourself kind, I—’

  Maisie stopped her verbal attack when she saw Matron’s hands go to her chest and clutch her blouse close to her, her face scarlet, and her lips blue and twisted with pain.

  ‘Matron? Gloria?’ Maisie called as the woman slumped to the floor.

  Unsure whether to run for help, or run to Matron, Maisie faltered for a few seconds before rushing to Gloria’s side to check she was still breathing. On hearing rasping noises from her mouth, Maisie ran to the door. At that moment, the dreaded sound of the enemy-pending siren burst out over the town. Outside the window, Maisie watched the figures of staff members running towards their allocated units. Maisie looked back at Matron. Her twisted face with one eye staring back told her something was seriously wrong, but there was nothing Maisie could do. Gloria was too heavy to lift, the staff were needed to get the young ones to safety, and deep inside, Maisie couldn’t deny that she wanted Matron’s cruelty gone from their lives. However, instinct told her she must do all she could to save her and so, with renewed strength, she dragged Matron into the hall.

  ‘Help! Norah! Help! Somebody?’

  The ground shuddered as the bombs dropped around them, near enough to suggest they were a sitting target and they needed to get to safety.

  ‘Norah!’

  The silence inside the house was deafened by the screams of retaliation from planes outside. Maisie sank to her knees. This was it; this was the end of her life. A life of struggle and loneliness. A forgotten life. A forgotten daughter. As the high-pitched sound of a bomb homing in on its target sounded outside the window, Gloria groaned and Maisie crawled over to her. Now was not the time to abandon someone in need, but to offer them comfort. No matter their past deeds. She muttered words of reassurance to Matron, despite the rising fear that she would never get out alive.

  Was this really how her life was meant to end, lying on a floor with a sick woman who’d shown her nothing but unkindness? Who’d refused to help her move forward into a safe and happy future? The file! If she did get out of this alive, Maisie was determined to have her file, even if there was nothing of importance inside but a scratched-out name; it was part of her – a record that she had existed.

  She scrambled to her feet and rushed back to the office where Gloria had dropped the file. She rolled it up and pushed it into the elastic of her skirt. Now for Jack’s. She returned to the cabinet and flicked with speed through the R section but was met by disappointment. Jack’s file was not there. She ran back to Matron.

  ‘Where’s Jack’s file? What have you done with my brother’s file? Where is it? Maisie shouted and railed at the woman who lay staring back at her, her eyes blank. It was too late; Gloria Mason had passed away and Maisie yelled out her frustrations until Norah Bately and other members of staff pulled her away. Maisie was convinced the woman had died holding on to secrets about her and Jack’s background. Was it to save herself from having to explain why she split up twins? Or was the simple truth exactly what she’d always told Maisie: she was not desirable enough to be someone’s daughter?

  By the time Gloria’s body had been removed and Norah Bately had stepped into the chaos, Maisie had resolved to find Jack’s file, to find out the truth about who they were, and where they’d come from. And there was nothing Norah could do to stop her.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘How’s it going up there?’ Charlie asked, referring to Holly Bush Orphanage.

  He called across the hut to where Maisie was laying out cups and saucers in readiness for the first batch of firefighters taking a break. Many had been drafted in from other areas to support the local teams. The city refused to buckle under the ferocious attacks but the struggle to survive wasn’t easy.

  ‘Oh, Norah enjoys whipping me with that spiteful tongue of hers, but I’ve found a trick. If I get on with the ironing, she leaves me alone. So, as you can imagine, I do a
lot of ironing.’ Maisie laughed for the first time in a long time. Her life had become a living hell since the authorities had asked Norah to step in and run the home until its closure. Today, Maisie had ignored requests to clean toilets and instead announced she was off to carry out her war duties by making and serving refreshments for the firemen and others working to beat out the fires in Southampton. She knew Norah could not refuse Maisie permission to join Charlie and his team, so no argument was offered on her part. The offering of tea was the least Maisie could do and it helped give her a feeling of being useful. She was happy to be in a place where she could hold her head up with pride and not suffer constant putdowns.

  She took jugs from a shelf and filled them with watered down milk. With a small smile, she produced a small bag of sugar from her basket. It was her personal ration. She’d grown used to drinking tea without it, and instead of surrendering her share to Norah, she wanted to give it to people who she felt deserved it more.

  ‘You coming to the dance on Saturday? Providing that lot,’ Charlie pointed to the sky, referencing the enemy bombers that wreaked havoc on their lives, ‘leave us alone. Over 600 bombs dropped in two nights, according to my dad. The docks are a right mess – all the food storage areas are destroyed. Butter melted across the docks, coal went up in flames. A true disaster. And we’ve not enough firefighters if anything like that happens again. Dad reckons there’ll be more. We need something to cheer us up!’

  ‘I can’t get away, Charlie. You know that. Not to a dance. I can come here, yes, but for me to have fun … God forbid. Norah would never let it happen. It’s like a prison up there since she’s taken over.’

  Charlie pulled out a chair and stood on it, rearranging a blackout curtain across a window.

  ‘Get away from the place. Look at the state of you. White as a ghost and old before your time. Move out, Maisie. Why stay?’