Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  ‘Didn’t want to disturb you but it seemed urgent like,’ he said stiffly, pulling the door open. ‘There you go . . .’

  There was no one in the porch, so she went out, bewildered and rather irritated. What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until they’d finished? She looked from side to side.

  ‘Mercy.’

  He stepped out from under the trees. His face was sallow, exhausted-looking, the suffering in it plain to see.

  ‘Paul,’ she said, at a loss. ‘Oh heavens – Paul.’

  They stood looking at each other, the hymn sounding thinly from inside the church.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she asked him, somehow calmer than he was. His agitation was obvious, his hands gripping the edges of his open jacket. His face was even thinner than she remembered, fatigued. The sight of it wrung her heart.

  ‘You told me the name of the street. So I asked – in a shop. They said you’d gone to a wedding, and I thought at first . . .’ He shrugged helplessly.

  ‘No – oh, no! It’s Mabel – and Alf. My . . . my . . . the people I live with.’

  He turned away a fraction. ‘My father died last week. So I—’

  ‘Oh Paul.’

  ‘Mercy, why did you write that letter? What on earth happened? I haven’t been able to sleep, to think straight. I had to ask myself, were you just playing with me – all the time? Is my judgement completely wrong? Was everything that happened just a . . . a . . .’ He put his hand to his forehead. ‘I knew you, or thought I did. You were so straight, so true. I can’t make sense of anything. I thought you’d just write back and say everything was all right, that it was just a mistake, joke even . . .’ He raked his hand through his hair.

  She looked anxiously over her shoulder. ‘They’ll be out in a minute, come round here.’

  They crept round the side of the church under the shade of the trees. A blackbird rose from one of them, chirruping in alarm. Mercy felt weak, trembling, but she still had a small pool of calm inside her. She longed to put her arms round him, to comfort, spread her love round him, but that would be wrong. She would tell him the worst, the truth, and then he could forget her as she had tried to forget him. He deserved to know. She would tell him straight, bluntly, the thing a man would least want to hear.

  Standing apart from him she looked into his eyes. He watched her, arms folded as if to protect his heart, yet his eyes were so full of tenderness she was forced to look away again. Her own expression was brave, but infinitely sad.

  ‘I’m expecting a babby.’

  He was silent for a moment, then his hands hung loose at his sides. His tone was flat, defeated.

  ‘Oh – I see.’ He was struggling to take it in. ‘So you’re already married then.’

  ‘No, Paul, I’m not.’ She told him with a truthfulness that was almost brutal, about James Adair.

  ‘It happened twice. I didn’t know how I could stop him and I didn’t want it. If you can believe anything I say, please believe that. I’d never have thought it of him then – and I was so frightened . . . didn’t know. I just didn’t know what to do.’

  Her distress began to seep through, despite her efforts to remain calm. She put her hands over her burning face. This was the most horrible, the dirtiest moment of her life, facing all this again, having to tell him of all people.

  When she looked up, he too had his face in his hands. It’s over now, she thought. He knows the very worst of me.

  After a moment he said brokenly, ‘I came wanting to be angry with you . . .’ He looked up at her. ‘Did you love him?’

  ‘Love him?’ She was aghast. ‘How can you ask me that? Paul, I was spending every waking moment I could with you. It was like a nightmare – every time I went back to that room. I couldn’t tell you what was happening. I felt so ashamed, so used and dirty. I’d try and put it out of my mind in the day, almost as if it were happening to someone else. And with you – you were the one I loved with all my heart. I still . . .’ Her control was slipping away from her. ‘Oh Paul, I’ve wanted you so bad I can’t even tell you. I was so scared and sick and ashamed when I got home – when I found out there was a babby and it wasn’t all going to go away. I didn’t want you to know because . . . How could I tell you something so disgusting about me so that you’d despise me? I had to run away from the Adairs in the middle of the night and I wrote to you, and I thought, better just to . . . to cut it off. Finish it.’ She wiped her eyes and looked up, overcome to see tears in his.

  ‘Mercy.’ He stepped closer to her, cautiously. ‘Do the Adairs know about this child?’

  ‘No! They must never know! It would make her so unhappy and even more, I don’t want him to know. I can survive without him. He lied to me,’ she finished furiously. ‘He used me like a dirty handkerchief and he said it wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t have a babby – as if he knew! No – I may be alone, but I don’t want him anywhere near.’

  The door of the church opened and they heard whoops of laughter as Alf and Mabel came out to be showered with rice.

  Paul grasped her hand and pulled her even closer to the wall, out of sight.

  ‘Tell me something.’ He spoke with immense intensity, his face close to hers, eyes still wet with tears. ‘Tell me truthfully whether you could . . . whether you still feel anything for me.’

  She saw the anguish with which he waited for her answer. ‘Oh Paul, of course I do,’ she said gently. ‘There’s only one man I love with all my heart and that’s you. I’ve never stopped loving you and I’ve missed you so much sometimes, I felt like coming to find you. Except I knew it was all impossible. That it’s hopeless now. Sometimes I think I’m fated always to be on my own.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why should you be alone?’

  ‘Paul,’ she reminded him gently. ‘I’m carrying another man’s child. How could I expect you to forgive that, however much I didn’t want it?’

  Paul suddenly pressed his hands to her face, lifting her chin a little. His palms were hot on her cheeks.

  ‘Say again that you love me.’

  Tears ran down her face. ‘I do. I love you.’

  ‘And I love you. YOU. I told you before, whatever the past, whatever we are and what we’ve done, or what’s been done to us, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I can’t live without you. Not properly.’

  ‘But this isn’t the past, Paul, it’s now.’

  He released her, but stayed close. ‘Do you think, in the great scheme of things, that my bringing up a child that isn’t mine is so very terrible? Mercy, I’m not looking to you for purity or perfection or any of that mumbo-jumbo. I’m so sorry for all you’ve suffered believing I was, but you were wrong. I’ve learned that surviving is about more than just staying alive. It’s about holding on to the few worthwhile things there are, the things that make sense, that you can love.’

  They stared into each other’s eyes, both their faces wet with tears. He reached for her hand. ‘Now, once more, my dearest love – please will you be my wife and share your life with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, weeping. Then finding her voice, ‘Yes. Yes!’

  As if in response to their promises a cheer broke from the front of the church as their arms reached for each other, cheeks, then lips meeting, each clinging to the most precious thing in life.

  *

  Grace was standing rather at a loss with Dorothy at the front of the church while the rest of the party talked and celebrated in the sunshine. Mabel and Alf posed for a couple of photographs, solemnly side by side. There was food waiting at home, but no one was in a rush. It was a lovely day and a celebration, so what was the hurry?

  Holding Paul’s hand, Mercy led him shyly round to the jubilant little crowd. Grace looked relieved, then puzzled on seeing her.

  Mercy stopped him for a moment. ‘Paul, I’ve got summat else to tell you. This has been the strangest, most wonderful week of my life.’ Her eyes radiated joy and excitement, b
ut Grace could also see that Mercy’s face was flushed from recent tears and her heart filled with anxiety for her.

  ‘I want you to meet Grace Weston,’ Mercy said, leading Paul over.

  Each of them shook hands, smiling politely, a little baffled.

  ‘Paul – Grace is my mother. My real mother. And mother – Mom,’ she giggled, still unused to saying it, ‘this is Paul Louth, the man I dearly love and am going to marry.’

  Paul and Grace both dealt with these surprises with perfect courtesy and gladness. Mercy took huge delight in introducing him to the boys – ‘my half-brothers’ – and to Dorothy.

  ‘Dorothy Finch is—’

  ‘I remember you talking about Dorothy,’ Paul said.

  Dorothy’s eyes were welling with emotion.

  ‘Yes, but Dorothy is my auntie – oh Dorothy, come here!’ Both very tearful they hugged and hugged each other.

  ‘You don’t know how often I’ve wanted to tell you,’ Dorothy sobbed, ‘only I couldn’t.’

  Mercy took Paul’s arm. She felt she wanted to hold and hug everyone around her all day long. ‘If you’re all confused we’ll explain on the way back,’ she said. She looked round anxiously. ‘You will come back, won’t you?’

  ‘Well,’ Grace was uncertain. ‘If Mabel doesn’t mind.’

  ‘She won’t,’ Mercy said firmly. Suddenly she broke away from Paul, and for the first time in her life, went to Mabel and kissed her cheek.

  ‘You be happy now,’ she said. ‘You just make sure.’

  Mabel looked startled, then grinned. ‘I’ll do me best.’ She patted Mercy on the arm.

  The wedding party made its unhurried, celebratory way back along the Moseley Road, Mercy, in the middle of it, arm and arm with her mother and her husband-to-be.

  Grace looked round at her beautiful, indomitable daughter, who had in the last hour transformed into someone lit up by great happiness. Grace, too, was full of a calmness and joy she had not experienced for many, many years. A sense of rightness and completion. She was not anxious about her husband. She had kept Mercy from him for twenty years and she would continue to do so. The rest of them would not let her down. Neville was an irrelevance.

  But there was one anxiety. Her eyes met Mercy’s and then she glanced at Paul.

  Does he know? her eyes queried. Does he know the truth?

  Mercy’s eyes shone back at her full of deep, unclouded joy.

  He knows, hers responded. He knows. And he forgives.

  Grace smiled and squeezed her arm. Bless you, that loving pressure said. Bless you, my darling. Be happy.

  Epilogue

  Margaret Adair picked up the letter from the table in the hall and frowned at the rather childish hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ Stevie said, full of questions as ever.

  Margaret patted his head rather absently. ‘A letter. I don’t know who from. You go on upstairs now, darling, and see how Nanny’s getting on with the twins’ breakfast. Then she’ll take you all out.’

  She took the letter into the sitting room and sat by the window, slitting open the envelope.

  The address at the top provided no enlightenment. It was simply ‘Birmingham, May 1923.’

  Dear Mrs Adair,

  I’ve been meaning to write to you for such a long time to apologize for leaving you and Stevie the sudden way I did. I was sorry to do it, especially with you having the baby on the way. There were some bad problems in my family and I had to go. I hope you can forgive me. I did miss you.

  I expect Stevie is a big boy by now and has forgotten me long ago. But please give him a big kiss and cuddle from me.

  You might like to know that I’m married. My husband is an engineer working at the Austin, and we have two children and another on the way. Our two little girls are called Susannah and Elizabeth and they are very healthy and full of energy.

  We had a very special surprise last year. I had met, after many years, a Mr Joseph Hanley who founded the home where I started life and we had become friends. I’m sad to say he died last year, but he left me a tidy little sum of money which has been a great blessing for our family life.

  We are all in good health and hope you are too. My warmest regards to you and your family. Perhaps one day we shall meet again.

  Yours,

  Mercy (née Hanley)

  Margaret read the letter twice, with a mixture of emotions. She had been hurt and saddened by Mercy’s mysterious flight from their house, had worried about her, and was delighted with news of her happiness. Yet something about the letter troubled her. Mercy’s reasons for leaving them that way didn’t seem quite right. Surely she had been on bad terms with her family such as it was? And why could she not have have talked her troubles over, not dashed off like that as if she were eloping?

  ‘Who’s that from?’ James popped his head round the door before setting off for work.

  Margaret looked up. ‘It’s the strangest thing. It’s from Mercy – little Mercy Hanley – you remember?’

  The immense pang which passed through James Adair’s heart at the mention of her name did not register in his face. He stepped into the room, hands in trouser pockets.

  ‘Our little fly-by-night? Ah yes – what news of her?’

  ‘She sounds very well. She’s married, two little girls already. But she doesn’t say who to.’ She turned the paper this way and that. ‘No address or anything.’

  ‘Hmm. Curious. Still, there we are. And you say she’s well and happy?’

  ‘Seems to be, yes. I’m glad for her. Odd business that, altogether.’

  ‘Odd, yes . . .’ James said dismissively. ‘Anyway, must go. Give Stevie and the girls a kiss for me will you? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘All right, dear. Have a good day.’

  James left, then on second thoughts came back and unexpectedly kissed her cheek, caressed her shoulder.

  ‘Goodbye, my darling.’

  She smiled up at him in happy surprise.

  Some days later, the postman pushed a thin, cheap envelope through the letter box of a terraced house in Bournbrook which had a climbing honeysuckle lazing, sweetly scented, up its front wall.

  Mercy picked it up in the hall as Paul came downstairs with the two girls. Susannah, determined to walk down by herself had a mass of blonde curly hair like a corona with the light from the landing window behind her, and striking dark brown eyes. The little one, Elizabeth, in Paul’s arms, was unmistakably going to have his long, sensitive face and brown hair.

  Paul sat Elizabeth down on the hall floor. ‘There now, miss, you can crawl about – and keep off the stairs.’

  He crept up behind Mercy and caught her by the waist, stroking her swollen stomach. The baby was due in four months.

  ‘Your family coming round in droves today?’

  Mercy laughed. Paul loved teasing her about her family, Grace’s and Dorothy’s eagerness to share her children, and the house was hardly ever quiet. Even after nearly three years of marriage she was still in a state of wonder at the richness of her life. The love of her family, and this house, their house, to which she could welcome them, with space and running water and a generous strip of garden for the girls out at the back. Paul had just built Susannah a swing from the pear tree.

  ‘Oh, I dare say someone will be round!’ she said.

  Paul rested his head against the back of hers for a moment. Her hair was hanging loose and he lifted a hank of it to kiss the back of her neck.

  ‘Look,’ she said, squirming with pleasure. ‘From America.’

  They read it together, he over her shoulder.

  ‘Yola and Tomek!’ Mercy said. ‘Oh – they’ve moved again, look – the address is new. Maybe now they’ll have a bit more space for all these babbies of theirs.’

  Yola already had three and was due with the fourth.

  The letter was very short. Slowly, gradually they were learning to write English as well as speak it.

  ‘WE ARE ALL GOOD,’ Tomek had written c
arefully in capital letters. ‘NEW PLACE IS GOOD. YOLA HAS A BABY BOY.’

  ‘Oh, lovely!’ Mercy exclaimed.

  ‘EVERYTHING FINE. WE HAVE FOOD AND GOODS. WE ARE ALL FINE AND HOPE YOU TOO FINE. LIFE IS GOOD. TOMEK PETROWSKI.’

  ‘Life is good.’ Mercy turned in Paul’s arms, still holding the fragile letter. She felt her embrace returned with equal passion and gratitude.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Very, very good.’

  Orphan of Angel Street

  Annie Murray was born in Berkshire and read English at St John’s College, Oxford. Her first ‘Birmingham’ novel, Birmingham Rose, hit The Times bestseller list when it was published in 1995. She has subsequently written many other successful novels, including, most recently, The Bells of Bournville Green. Annie Murray has four children and lives in Reading.

  Also by Annie Murray

  Birmingham Rose

  Birmingham Friends

  Birmingham Blitz

  Poppy Day

  The Narrowboat Girl

  Water Gypsies

  Chocolate Girls

  Miss Purdy’s Class

  Family of Women

  Where Earth Meets Sky

  The Bells of Bournville Green

  For Rachel, in memory of a Mashhad taxi ride

  A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S

  With special thanks to Mike Price, Jonathan Davidson, and to Birmingham City Council Library Services for their help and support.

  First published 1999 by Macmillan

  This edition published 2001 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books