The Child From Nowhere

by Freda Lightfoot

  Her husband lay back with a sigh and closed his eyes, was silent for so long that Kate began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. In that moment, while she waited impatiently for his response, she realised how desperately important it was to her for him to agree, for Eliot to be as excited by the idea as she was. But perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned it quite yet. Perhaps that had been a mistake. It was too soon. She should have waited a while longer.

  He sat up suddenly and looked about him, rubbing his eyes as if he really had been asleep. ‘Time we were going I expect. Mrs Petty will shoot us if we are late for lunch.’ He got to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up. But Kate hesitated, had to persist. She simply couldn’t keep quiet.

  ‘And the shop?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shoe shop. Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  Frowning slightly, he looked bemused for a moment and then his brow cleared and he laughed again. ‘Oh, that. I’ve told you, not yet, my darling. I can’t put my mind to business matters just yet.’

  ‘But we must do something, now that we no longer have the orders for army boots.’

  ‘Later, my dear. Much, much later. Stop worrying about it. Right now I simply want to look at you, to know that I exist, that I’m free to enjoy you, enjoy life.’

  And enjoy her he did. Eliot took her whenever and wherever he wished. In the stables when he was harnessing the horses ready to ride out in the carriage and young Tom could have walked in at any moment. On the kitchen table one night when she went down to get herself a glass of milk; in the summer house over afternoon tea; another time in the rose garden. And when the aunts came innocently upon them, Kate was mightily flustered to be found with her hair like a bird’s nest, her bodice unfastened and the familiar tell-tale flush upon her apple cheeks. Not that the two maiden ladies gave any indication that they had noticed her disarray, they were far too well-mannered.

  For all her concern over her husband’s health, those first weeks of his homecoming were idyllic, so very precious.

  So it came as a shock to Kate when, one morning some weeks later, their citadel of happiness came tumbling down.

  Chapter Fifteen

  From the moment of his safe return, Kate had been at pains to include Callum in absolutely every part of her life. He had missed out on so much through his childhood years, on all the opportunities she had wanted for him, but Kate was determined that his future at least would be secure and bright. Anxious for him to have a trade at his fingertips, she’d apprenticed him to one of Tyson’s most skilled shoemakers, and he was doing well. Callum was methodical and painstaking, his fingers agile and supple, his strong shoulders able to bear the physically demanding job.

  While living and working outdoors on the farm in the Langdales for most of his youth, he’d had little or no education and one day had confessed to his mother that he could not read. Kate had vowed to teach him, assuring him that it wasn’t too late to learn. Callum was sensitive on the subject, feeling deep shame over this inadequacy on his part, and the lessons were carried out behind closed doors in the study, in private, never openly referred to in front of the family.

  He had proved to be bright and intelligent, and even though he came to book learning relatively late in life, was making good progress. But finding books simple enough for him to read while still being suitable for a sixteen-year-old boy was well nigh impossible. Kate had settled on classic adventure tales for him, which he loved: Arabian Nights, The Tales of King Arthur perhaps, or Around the World in Eighty Days. These interludes of reading aloud became their favourite time of the day as it gave each the chance to get to know the other a little better. Every evening after Kate had watched and corrected as her son painstakingly spelled out words or did a few sums to practise his arithmetic, she would then read a little from a favourite book, Callum following the words along with her.

  They were thus engaged one evening when Eliot walked in upon them. Kate had believed him to be taking a nap before dinner, and was startled by the sudden interruption. Callum leaped to his feet, his cheeks growing scarlet as if he were guilty of some crime.

  Eliot frowned, then marching over, picked up the book and gave a snort of derision. ‘What’s this? Robinson Crusoe? Good Lord, not still needing your mother to read to you, boy, before you go to bed? Do you suck a dummy too?’

  Kate, appalled by his insensitivity, was on her feet in a second, her hand reaching out to snatch the book from his grasp. ‘Eliot! That is most dreadfully unkind. Cannot mother and son enjoy a few quiet moments together? Isn’t this the only chance we get to be together in a busy day?’

  That too was a mistake, apparently. Her husband glowered. ‘If you are implying that I’m not pulling my weight, then perhaps you’re right. It clearly is time I did some useful work. As should this boy of yours, by the looks of it, if he still clings to his mother’s apron strings. My boys didn’t have stories read to them at bedtime - they lay listening to whizz-bangs, thinking they might have their heads blown off at any minute.’

  ‘That’s hardly my fault, sir,’ Callum said, his face white as parchment.

  ‘Indeed not, but your freedom to read these pretty yarns is largely due to their sacrifice. Think on that.’

  Without another word, the boy walked from the room.

  Kate ran after him. ‘Callum, don’t go!’ But he paid no attention and she knew instinctively, in that moment, that he would never come near the study for reading lessons again. It felt as if all her hard work to make up to her son for the years of neglect had been thrown back in her face. She was furious.

  The moment the door closed she turned on Eliot. ‘Why did you have to be so damned high-handed? Can’t you see I’m trying to help him, give him some of the education he missed? And you march in here like some commanding officer inspecting his troops and bark orders at him. How dare you! Do you not realise the courage it took for him to admit to me that he couldn’t read, and wasn’t he doing grand?’

  Eliot was taken aback by her vehement attack and had the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘I meant no harm. I didn’t think … didn’t realise.’

  ‘Then you should think. You should consider other people occasionally. Callum may not have suffered the war as your “boys” did, but nor has he enjoyed a stable, safe childhood with loving parents and a good education. Doesn’t he at least deserve some of that now? Thanks to your vindictive sister-in-law, he was denied the opportunity.’

  Quite unexpectedly, Eliot dismissed her comment with a casual shake of the head, ‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I can give little credence to this tale of Callum’s so-called abduction.’

  She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Are you saying that I’m making it all up, that I’m lying? Or perhaps that Callum is?’ Kate appreciated that Eliot was deeply hurt by the boy’s obstructive attitude, but not this. Not for one moment had she expected him to disbelieve her.

  ‘I’m saying that a resentful adolescent is not a reliable source of evidence. Maybe he’s always been lazy, didn’t want to learn, and is now taking advantage of your soft heart, your sense of maternal guilt, to wheedle his way back in and have an easy life.’

  ‘What? It hasn’t been at all easy for him living here. And isn’t the boy desperate to learn, thirsty for knowledge and information? He’s making good progress. Or at least he was, until you barged in playing the sergeant-major.’

  Eliot ignored her, unused to having his will challenged, his mind for once entirely focused on his argument. ‘Was anyone else witness to this heinous act Lucy purportedly carried out?’

  ‘Of course not, how could there be any witness? She did it in secret, cleverly covering up her tracks, but she most definitely did do it. She abducted my child!’

  ‘Our child. You will keep forgetting the small matter of the adoption.’

  ‘Don’t split hairs, Eliot. Lucy stole him.’

  ‘And you know this for certain because Callum says so?’

  Kate was stunned by his disb
elieving attitude. ‘Yes, I do. ’Tis so. ’Tis the truth!’

  He patted her shoulder, as if she were some foolish little woman who needed things explaining properly. ‘I can well understand, my darling, how upset you must have been when he told this tale, but I ask you to consider what proof do you actually have? None. Only the word of a mixed-up boy who feels a natural resentment against the parents who allowed him to wander off and get lost. Any child would in the circumstances. In consequence, he has been allowed to stand as judge and jury against his own aunt. No wonder Lucy feels a deep resentment over being cast out from the family and her home.’

  ‘Lucy feels resentment? She told you that, did she?’

  ‘She did, over lunch at the County, the day of my return. She is at a loss to understand your behaviour. Her feelings have been deeply hurt, her life well-nigh ruined.’

  ‘Her life has been ruined!’ Kate felt her knees go all weak and wobbly, a sick feeling lodge itself in her stomach. She longed to sink into a chair but somehow remained standing rigid before him, determined to prove her case. ‘And what about my feelings? And Callum’s life? Who ruined that? Lucy!’

  ‘So you say. Or rather, so Callum says.’

  ‘And you’d take her word against mine?’

  ‘I might well take her word against a vindictive adolescent’s. The matter needs to be carefully investigated before I can properly decide.’

  ‘Investigated?’

  Instinctively Kate had known that Eliot would see no wrong in his sister-in-law, or that he would forgive her if he did. Didn’t he always see the best in people? He was far too soft-hearted for his own good. He’d been exactly the same over that conniving foreman, Swainson. He was the most incredibly stubborn, obstinately fair minded man.

  Concern about his reaction had been behind her decision not to call in the police the day she’d discovered the truth, knowing that Eliot would do anything, believe anything rather than disturb the smooth running of his life, or face a family scandal.

  Yet he must face the truth. She couldn’t have him implying that her son was a liar.

  ‘What about Flora, is she a liar too? The day Callum returned home, Lucy had promised to pick her up from school, but Flora says that her aunt wasn’t there waiting for her as she usually was. Lucy arrived late and scolded Flora because she wasn’t standing by the school gate. The child was going frantic, so she was, looking everywhere for her aunt. Then, Flora says, Lucy seemed to lose control and began to beat her about the head, slapped and punched her and left her for dead up an alley. Sure and Flora might well have died had not Callum found her and brought her home, black with bruises and covered in mud. Lucy had done that to her.’

  ‘Did she say so? Did Lucy admit to having beaten the child?’

  ‘No, of course she didn’t!’

  ‘Did Flora say her aunt had done this heinous thing?’

  ‘Yes, I’m telling you, she did.’

  ‘And Flora came home with Callum? Quite out of the blue, our long lost son turned up at this opportune moment?’

  Kate hesitated fractionally before answering this question, her temper cooling a little. ‘Y-yes, Callum found her lying unconscious in the alleyway.’

  ‘What a remarkable coincidence.’

  ‘Not so. Callum was attending Kendal market that day with Mrs Brocklebank, and sneaked off to walk by the river. He recognised the house and knocked on the door. Apparently Ida caught a glimpse of him when she was in the hall, though she hadn’t the first idea who he was. Lucy sent him packing, which she would do, of course. She’d recognised him instantly, and no doubt took out her fury on Flora.’

  ‘How do you know Callum wasn’t the perpetrator of this crime, that he wasn’t the one to beat up Flora?’

  ‘Utter rubbish. He doesn’t have it in him to beat anyone up. He’s a very gentle boy.’

  ‘You are his mother, you’d be bound to think so.’

  ‘And why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘Out of jealousy because Flora was still at home being petted and loved, and he, the outsider, was lost and forgotten.’

  Kate could feel all the blood draining from her face, from every limb, despite her heart pumping like a mad thing. ‘That’s not true. Callum adores Flora. To be sure he’d never hurt her, and they met once before remember, at the market.’

  ‘When he learned who she was, and started to plan his revenge.’

  Kate was shocked yet again by his twisted interpretation of events. ‘No, that’s not the way of it at all. Flora told me it wasn’t the first time Lucy had hurt her.’

  ‘She’d be bound to say that, wouldn’t she?’ Eliot scoffed.

  ‘Why would she? Why would she protect Callum, a stranger to her at that time? Flora was systematically abused over a long period, and I was too damned busy with the factory and with my own army boots business even to notice. How do you think that makes me feel?’

  ‘Perhaps it was merely Flora’s way of getting your attention?’

  Kate stared at him, speechless for a long moment, quite unable to believe they were even having this argument. ‘If you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘I certainly will ask her. We’ll get this matter cleared up once and for all, see what Flora and Callum have to say for themselves. But Lucy too should be allowed the chance to speak up on her own behalf. That is only fair and just.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Eliot, you’re talking as if you were about to hold a court martial. These are your children we are speaking of here.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we will conduct this investigation with all due propriety, honour and integrity. Lucy must be given the opportunity to put her case.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eliot chose to conduct the investigation with everyone present, as if they were young soldiers being called to account in front of their commanding officer. Callum and Flora looking distinctly nervous, the aunts sat huddled close together against the tapestry cushions, their faces mirroring their bemusement and dismay. Today they wore their usual black, Cissie having removed her doggie-scented cardigan in honour of the occasion. Vera still wore a fichu of lace at her throat, although it had been considered outmoded even before the war. Aunt Vera’s short cropped hair was more of a muddy grey these days than the rich brown it used to be, if every bit as neat and tidy. Cissie, sadly, had never been tidy in her life.

  It was all unspeakably awful. Kate strongly protested against this so-called investigation, hating the notion of seeing her children put under such close scrutiny before an audience, let alone the very idea of having to entertain Lucy in her own front parlour. She told Eliot as much.

  ‘This is not the right way to tackle such a sensitive issue. Please, speak to each child alone first. In complete privacy.’

  ‘We must not only be fair, but be seen to be fair.’

  ‘This is not a court martial, Eliot.’

  ‘I am aware of that. Nonetheless, justice must be seen to be done.’

  ‘These are our children, not some of your men. This isn’t the war.’

  Eliot half wished that it was. In some ways he’d almost enjoyed the war, relishing the company of his men. And then a bomb had destroyed most of the little church in which they were hiding, burying so many of them in stone and soil. He could remember seeing the ground pitted with holes. He was in one of them, grinding sand between his teeth, desperately fighting for air as he clawed his way to the surface. Some of the men were running, their cries of fear vying with the scream of heavy shelling all around. He’d got up to run with them but found he couldn’t.

  Yet he’d been thankful still to have his leg, for all he knew that it was broken. Had it not been for the quick thinking of his sergeant, who’d dragged him away from the strafing, the rest of him would have been riddled with bullets too.

  He would never forget the horror of that moment. Dead men lying all around like rag dolls, one young face staring right at him, eyes wide open, sightless.

  Moments bef
ore they’d been joking together, the boy planning how he would propose to his girl friend, how many sons they might have. Now there was no response from the would-be bridegroom. Another soldier had risen on one knee, as if he’d just been about to get up and leave, but hadn’t quite made it.

  They buried them later, all of those fine young men. Eliot remembered propping himself against a tree, grating out a few words from some prayer or other through a dry throat, choking with the dust and ash of death, of destruction.

  But one had run away, had deserted. He’d been brought back, of course, and dealt with as all cowards are. Put in front of a firing squad. Eliot himself had given the order with not a scrap of pity in his heart. How could there be?

  He turned to Kate now, trying to make her understand. ‘You may have heard their side of the story, but I have not. I need to hear it from their own lips before I can judge its credibility. Whether they are heroes or lying cowards. And it is long past time to allow Lucy also to put her case.’

  ‘Heroes or … ? Eliot, I ...’

  ‘Enough. Ask Lucy to come in, Aunt Vera, if you please.’

  And so she came, flouncing into the house from which she’d been banned with a smile of pure triumph on her beautiful face, violet eyes sparkling as if she’d already won a victory. As indeed she had, simply by being invited to step over the threshold.

  Kate was forced ruefully to admit that her sister-in-law still looked marvellous despite her more matronly appearance these days, her plump breasts straining against the burgundy silk of her gown which was a work of art in itself with all its draped layers, tucks, pleats and folds. The colour set off the glossy jet of her hair, swept up beneath the silliest of hats which bore the tallest possible feather. Even her parasol was much frilled and beribboned. Not for Lucy the current fashion for simplicity and clean lines, although how she found the money to be so elegantly gowned and so immaculately coiffured, Kate could not imagine.