Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  “Lordy, Beattie Blaxland. It’s only nine in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you. Only I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “It’s no matter. You look dreadful. Have you eaten? I can make you tea.”

  “I . . .” Beattie took a deep, shuddering breath so that she wouldn’t cry. “I would love tea.”

  “Come in, then. Mind the wee step here. You’re not wearing an ounce of makeup. You look like death. Do you want me to find some lipstick for you?” Cora’s voice rattled on as she led Beattie up a wide hallway and into a parquetry sitting room with windows that went all the way to the floor. “Here, sit down. I’ll fetch you tea, and then you can tell me what this is all about.”

  Beattie waited in the quiet, sunny room, clasping and unclasping her hands anxiously. She felt as though she were sitting outside herself, watching from a distance. For surely none of this could be real. She felt so young, looking at her thin pale wrists. A child’s wrists. Cora returned, carrying a tea tray, smoking a cigarette. She set it down and poured Beattie a cup. Strong, black.

  Beattie took a sip, scalded her tongue.

  “What’s this about? I thought you’d had enough of me,” Cora said with a pretty pout. “The way you cut me out at the party. You didn’t ever come back to the club.”

  “Henry told me not to.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “Because of the baby.”

  “The . . .” Her eyes drifted down to Beattie’s midsection and widened to saucers. “Lordy, Beattie, you’re not still pregnant! I thought you’d got rid of the bairn. You didn’t mention it again.”

  Beattie could do nothing but shake her head, her lips pressed tight against sobs.

  “What’s happened, then? Has he come to see you? Is he going to look after you?”

  “He said he would, but I’ve not heard from him. His wife . . .”

  “Haggard old cow who can’t have children herself, that one. She should let him go.” Cora put a protective arm around her shoulders. “How can I help?”

  “Ma’s kicked me out. I don’t know where to go. Should I go to Henry? Only I don’t want to make life hard for him . . .”

  “And why not? He’s made it hard enough for you.” Cora butted out her half-finished cigarette with her free hand. “No, don’t go to Henry. He’ll not treat you right.”

  “Henry’s not so bad. He’s a good man, he’s—”

  Cora shushed her with a raised white hand. “There are two types of women in the world, Beattie, those who do things and those who have things done to them. Try to be the first type.” She sat back and looked Beattie squarely in the eye. “I know of a place in northern England. A friend of my auntie runs it. Girls like you go there, they have their babies, then leave them there for adoption. You could be back in Glasgow by Christmas, as if this never happened. I can organize it all for you.”

  Beattie’s mind spun. Here was Cora, offering her everything she’d wanted: shelter, comfort, an end to the responsibility of mothering. But Beattie had changed. Slowly but certainly, as the weeks had progressed and her fate had become inevitable, she had come to feel an unexpected affection for the child inside her. Soft as a silk rope, it tied her to the baby. They belonged together, didn’t they?

  Cora’s eyebrows drew together. “You’ve got no silly ideas about keeping the wee thing, I hope?”

  She was desperate. It was either do what Cora suggested or face her ruin. She forced a bright tone. “Of course not,” she said quickly. “I never wanted it anyway.”

  FOUR

  Through the rimy window of her shared room at Morecombe House, Beattie could see the rooftops that blocked the view of the sea beyond. Once a week on a Tuesday afternoon, the fourteen girls who resided here were taken down to the beach—late, so few people would be offended by the number of unlawful pregnant bellies—where they collected shells in their handbags and stood up to their ankles in the stinging seawater and took enough deep breaths of fresh air to last them until the next time they were allowed out.

  Beattie would have inched up the window, only it had been nailed shut. A seagull on the roof opposite ruffled its feathers against the afternoon breeze that tore off the sea every day at dusk. She dropped her hand to her belly. Inside, her child wriggled and kicked.

  Not her child anymore. The matron had informed her that a family had already been found for the baby, a good Christian couple from Durham who had two adopted daughters and were hoping this time for a son. The matron had told her this sternly, almost as though warning her not to disappoint them with a girl. Beattie tried not to think about whether the baby was a boy or a girl: those thoughts made it seem too real, too close. If she had to give up the child, it didn’t do to imagine it in any detail.

  What she wouldn’t give now for her mother’s comfort. For her father’s wisdom. Here she was, about to birth a child, and yet she still felt as if she were a child. Young and frightened and longing for comfort. But there was no comfort here at Morecombe House. Just a daily diet of instruction about how ashamed she should be, always served stone-cold.

  Beattie turned from the window and found a book to read. The matron allowed only the Bible and classics in the rooms. Beattie had no desire to read the first and was largely bored by the second, but she had managed to find a Charles Dickens novel that held her attention. She lay down on her bed and tried to read.

  The room was small and would be cold when autumn came—when her baby came. No rugs to warm the floor, no wallpaper or paintings to break up the cool stone walls, between which she listlessly wandered from morning chores to lunch, from craft time to supper. Her bed was made neatly, but Delia’s was a mess of sheets and blankets. Delia had been her roommate for the three weeks since she’d arrived. Last night at midnight, Delia had been ushered out, groaning and crying, to deliver her baby. Then, half-awake, half-asleep, Beattie had dreamed strange dreams of blood and death and crying children. Her nerves were frayed. She couldn’t focus on the lines in front of her.

  The door thumped open, and Beattie looked up to see Delia in a floral dress so faded that the daisies were gray.

  “Delia? You’re back?” she said, sitting up.

  Delia smiled, but it was brittle. A smile stretched over a dark fissure. “All finished.”

  Beattie glanced at Delia’s stomach, which had been round and ripe. Now it bulged softly against the dress. “You’ve—”

  “It’s done,” she said grimly. “I’ll be out in a week.”

  “The baby?”

  “Didn’t see it. They held a . . . a blanket up . . . in front of my face . . .” Delia’s smile faltered, fell. “I don’t even know if it was a girl or a boy.” She sat gingerly on her bed and lay down.

  Beattie’s heart pinched. “Did you hear it?” She slid across to sit with Delia, smooth her hair off her face.

  “Such a little noise,” Delia said. “Like a cat.” The smile was back. “So now it’s over, and I’ll be off home next week and can get on with life. Thank God.” She brushed Beattie’s hands away and pulled up the covers.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Like hell.” She yawned. “I’m tired, Beattie. Can you leave me be, so I can sleep?”

  Beattie rose and returned to the window, leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She wasn’t due for months, but already the dread crept up on her. Delia’s baby was gone. That wriggling bundle of life that had been attached to her was now in somebody else’s care, and her womb was empty. The thought made Beattie cry, and she let the tears run silently down her face and drip off her chin, knowing all the while that the tears weren’t really for Delia. They were for herself.

  * * *

  The sea churned gray, and thick foam lay in waving lines across the beach as the girls picked their way down the path. Beattie glanced up at the leaden sky, holding her hat on firmly against the wind. It was sure to rain, which would mean their weekly outing would be cut short and they would be sent back early to More
combe House. Perhaps they would get extra Bible studies for their sins.

  “Get some good fresh air, girls,” the matron called as they fanned out across the beach. The ones closest to giving birth sat, exhausted and fearful, watching the gray waves. The ones who were barely showing ran down to the water’s edge to dip their toes. The ones in between, like Beattie, wandered up the shoreline looking for shells or pieces of colored glass washed smooth by the sea. Beattie, determined to make the most of her time outside, walked briskly up the damp sand. The sea air and the thump of her heart washed out the cobwebs that had gathered in her mind while she was stuck inside the cabbage-scented linoleum halls.

  Up on the verge in the distance, she saw a figure. She paid it no attention until she saw it lift a hand, almost as if waving to her. Tentatively waving. She slowed. Peered. It was a man in a gray suit, his face obscured by his hat. Definitely waving.

  She looked behind her. The other girls were twenty yards away from her, and none of them were looking at the man. She turned back, and her heart started dancing: it recognized him before her eyes did.

  Henry.

  Beattie froze with shock. She couldn’t just run up to him; the matron would see. But nor could she ignore him.

  At the precise moment, the clouds above her parted and rain began to fall. The matron’s voice was loud against the wind. “Come back, girls. We’ll return immediately.”

  Return? How could she? Henry was there, just a hundred yards down the beach, standing in the rain.

  “Somebody get Beattie! For the love of God, Beattie, we’re all waiting for you!”

  A hand closed around her arm. One of the new girls; Beattie had forgotten her name. “Come on,” she said in a thick Geordie accent, “we’ll catch our deaths out here in the rain.” Beattie shook her hand off, turned back to look at Henry.

  He was gone.

  “Come on,” the girl said.

  Beattie could see ahead that the girls were hurrying away from the beach, that the matron was waving her meaty arms in fury. She glanced back: there was no figure.

  What if it had never been Henry? Just an imagining thrown up by her desperate heart?

  Wiping away angry tears, Beattie stomped down the beach toward the others, caught up just as they were crossing the road. Parked behind the pavilion was a black Austin precisely the same as Teddy Wilder’s.

  Beattie shook herself. Many men drove black Austins. But still, it was enough to make her hope. The rain had intensified, the matron had her head down under her black umbrella. Nobody was looking at her. Not right at this moment . . .

  Beattie peeled off from the group and dashed for the beach. Nobody called after her. She ran as fast as her body would allow with its recently acquired clumsiness and slowed when she realized she was standing on the sand alone.

  Gray sea, gray sky, completely alone. No Henry. He wasn’t coming. He was never coming.

  And then a heartbeat later, it all changed. She heard him call her name.

  “Beattie!”

  She turned. He stood at the verge, beckoning her. She hurried up the sand, threw herself so hard into him that she was afraid she might knock him over. But he was as strong and steady as a rock.

  “I thought you’d never come.”

  “I lost you! Your parents knew nothing. Cora finally confessed to me. I’ll never forgive her for keeping it secret.”

  The rain soaked them, but they held on to each other tightly. Finally, he stood back. “You’ll be seen. Quick. Come with me, I have Teddy’s car.”

  Her eyes darted around. She would be seen. The matron would send somebody back to find her. Henry swept his arm around her, hurried her up toward the car.

  Inside, she dripped into the seat while the rain pounded on the roof. Henry didn’t start the car. Rather, he turned to her and fixed on her with his gray gaze. Her pulse was hot and thunderous. She dared not speak.

  “Run away with me,” he said. Was she imagining it, or did his breath smell like gin?

  “What do you mean?” But it was already too late. He’d said the words she longed to hear, had not even dared to imagine.

  “I’ve telegraphed Billy, in Australia. He’s going to find me a job.”

  A wave of dizziness.

  “We can be together.”

  “Your wife . . .” she said, struggling for air.

  “I don’t love her. I love you. I love our child. She’ll never find us. I’ve organized a berth for us on a cargo liner leaving from London in eight days. I’ve forty pounds in my pocket. Will you go with me? Now? To London?”

  Outside the squally rain eased. Beattie gazed at him, thoughts flitting across her mind: of letting Cora down after she had done so much to help, of moving so far from her home, of never seeing her parents again . . . But none of these thoughts settled because, in the deepest well of her spirit, she wanted to go with Henry. And that desire overrode everything.

  “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Evening closed in on the windows of the little hotel room in Bayswater. Beattie watched the street for Henry; he was late. And every moment he was late, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. It was not right, surely, for her to lose faith in him the moment he was out of her sight.

  In the next room, through the thin walls, she could hear someone whistling “Bye Bye Blackbird.” The cheerful tune was at odds with the chill of the room, the approaching dark, the pressing sense of caution in her heart.

  Tomorrow they were off on a cargo ship that had enough space for two passengers and not even a steward to tend to them. Henry would have to do some cleaning to pay for their passage. They were to travel via India and would not be in Hobart for eight weeks.

  Eight weeks at sea. In the moments when she wasn’t tired and overwhelmed with doubt, it seemed an adventure. But now it was hugely, horribly daunting.

  The promises Henry had made her! Eternal love. Raising their son together (he was sure it was a boy, a little Henry). A new life in a new world. They would pose as husband and wife. She would cease to call herself Beattie Blaxland and would henceforth be known as Mrs. Henry MacConnell. She would bear babies; he would work hard and bring home money. They would have a little place of their own and grow old together.

  But there were too many false notes in this symphony of his imagining. He would be working with Billy Wilder. His wife may track them down. And he hadn’t found himself able to make love to her pregnant body.

  “It’s nothing,” he’d muttered, gently turning away her advances. “You look different, that’s all. Not my Beattie. When you’ve had the child, it will be the same again.”

  Had Henry not come for her, she would still be in Morecombe House, waiting like all the other girls to give birth and give away the child. She curled her hand around her belly. Why could she not escape this terrifying ambivalence? One moment she wanted Henry, the baby, the new life. The next moment she did not. She simply wanted this to have never happened.

  But it had happened.

  There he was, striding casually along the street. He’d been finalizing the arrangements for their journey and picking up a bag full of roomy dresses for her from a friend of Teddy’s in Paddington. Beattie had nothing but what she had fled the beach in, and it wouldn’t fit for much longer.

  He glanced up at the window, saw her watching for him, and lifted his hand in a greeting. No smile. That wasn’t Henry’s way.

  She simply couldn’t doubt herself, not now. She had made her decision, or rather, her heart had made it for her.

  Tomorrow the journey would begin. Tomorrow there was no looking back.

  FIVE

  Emma: London, 2009

  I was running late, but I supposed by now that Josh was used to it. The rehearsal had ended right on time; I’d dressed and grabbed my handbag from my locker. I’d started out with such good intentions from the Shaftesbury Avenue studio—don’t stop to look at anything, don’t stop to buy anything—but up on Euston Road, I’d been recognized.


  “Excuse me! Excuse me!” A toffee voice behind me, growing closer.

  I stopped and turned.

  A middle-aged woman and her awkward preteen daughter were hurrying up to me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “You’re Emma Blaxland-Hunter, aren’t you?” the woman asked, smoothing her shirt as though preparing for esteemed company.

  “I am. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  The woman glanced at her daughter, then back to me. “This is my daughter, Glenys. She loves to dance. Do you have any advice for her? She wants to be just like you.”

  “Mum!” Glenys exclaimed, as mortified by a simple thing as only a twelve-year-old can be.

  This was the point where I should have smiled politely and backed away, offered my apologies but claimed to be terribly busy, and so on. But I couldn’t. Gran always said to share the good times and they would last forever. London had been the city of my dreams as a child. To live and work here, exceling in my field, was an honor, and to be welcomed with such enthusiasm by its residents was something I never grew tired of. I wasn’t naturally good with people, especially children, but it was only twenty minutes out of my life. So, while the traffic roared past and the long summer afternoon wore on, I talked to Glenys, gave her some tips, danced with her on the footpath as puzzled commuters hurried by on their way to King’s Cross or St. Pancras. Glenys shed her awkwardness quickly, became shiny-eyed with excitement. Finally, I autographed the back of an old envelope for her and encouraged her to keep dancing.

  “Thank you so much,” Glenys said, pressing the envelope against her chest.

  The mother nodded appreciatively. “It was such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve long been a fan of your grandmother’s brand, you know. There must be something in the blood with the women in your family. Such creativity, such drive.”