by Maggie Holt
But then the door was opened and a lady stood there smiling – and then she stared hard at him and put her hands up to her face.
‘Timmy! Timmy Baxter,’ she whispered and he gazed in unbelief as the distant, far-off memory stirred inside his head. Was she – could she possibly be –? She wore a white apron and a cap on her fair, wavy hair, just as he remembered. She had the same blue-grey eyes, the same tender mouth that had kissed him, the arms that had held him safe . . . yes, she was the very same one – his Somebody again!
And now she was going down on one knee, so that her face was close to his. ‘Oh, Timmy, don’t yer remember me? Yer Nurse Mabel? All that long time ago?’
The name found an echo in his long-ago dream. Mabel. Maby. Yes, that was her name.
His lady companion from the Waifs and Strays looked down at them both in astonishment. Never before had she seen a new child welcomed into a cottage home in this way; there were actually tears in Miss Court’s eyes.
He put out a hand and touched Maby’s shoulder. She was real and alive, this was no dream!
‘Aren’t yer goin’ to say hello to me, Timmy?’
He found his voice at last and asked a question. ‘Am I gonner stay ’ere wiv yer?’
‘Yes, Timmy, ye’ve come to live here with me,’ she told him, her eyes fixed on his.
‘Wot, all the time?’ He had to be sure. He couldn’t yet believe that it was true.
‘Yes, Timmy, me love, all the time. This is where ye’re goin’ to live from now on, don’t yer understand? I’m goin’ to be yer mummy.’
He held out his arms and she gathered him close to her. Timmy Baxter had come home.
Epilogue
‘BLIMEY, THERE IT goes agin! ‘Oo is it this time?’ asks Joe, standing on a chair to see who’s ringing the doorbell.
‘Yer not to say blimey, an’ git dahn orf that chair or yer won’t ’alf cop it,’ Polly tells him.
‘’Ere, it’s that Mrs West’ouse, collectin’ ’er money,’ he shouts, peering through the bay window. ‘She ain’t got the baby wiv ’er.’
‘If it’s any bus’ness o’ yours, nosey!’
‘Look out, ’ere comes Mum,’ warns Tim Baxter. ‘Git dahn!’
Joe hastily drops to the floor as Matron Court appears.
‘Mum, can I answer the door?’ pleads Polly. ‘I can reach the ’andle.’
Matron stifles a sigh, shakes her head and goes to let her sister Alice into the entrance hall and through to her little sitting-room, which also serves as an office. She unlocks a drawer.
‘Ye’re lookin’ much better since the baby, Alice,’ she remarks, nodding her approval. ‘I’ve got it ready for yer, here we are, in this envelope.’
‘It’s most generous of you, Mabel. Thank you.’ Alice stows the money in the leather satchel she uses for collecting the monthly subscriptions, and writes Pinehurst: £5 Os. Od under August 1920 in her accounts book.
‘How’re me nephew an’ niece?’ asks Mabel.
‘Geoffrey’s a little resentful of Geraldine, but I suppose that’s only to be expected,’ replies Mrs Westhouse, not quite meeting her sister’s eyes. ‘Her daddy thinks the world of her, of course, and it’s just as well that we’re in our own home now, or she’d be in danger of being thoroughly spoiled.’
‘And Gerald?’
‘Oh, he goes to the office on three days each week now and I’ve engaged an excellent nursemaid, so I’m able to do a little more work for the War Memorial Hospital Fund.’
Yes, thinks Mabel, it must be like escaping from prison to get away from the Westhouses at last – and to see Gerald returning to something like normality. Thank heaven for little Geraldine, now four months old and so obviously her father’s child.
‘I see the buildin’s goin’ up quite quickly,’ she says aloud. ‘It’ll be such a boon to local people, not havin’ to go to Winchester.’
Alice nods. ‘Just think, twelve beds, an operating theatre and an X-ray machine! Alderman North is pressing for two more general practitioners in Belhampton, with up-to-date experience in surgery and anaesthetics.’
‘Yes, Dr Forsyth’s interviewin’ for a partner, an’ really we could do with a younger doctor for the children, anyway.’
‘Don’t worry, Mabel, I can assure you as a member of the Board of Governors that Alderman North is quite determined to convince the council,’ says Mrs Westhouse, subtly emphasising her position in Belhampton, and Mabel sees a flicker of the old sparkle in the dark eyes, a hint of the superior airs she affected in the past. ‘Anyway, how are you, Mabel? I’m sure that you work much too hard – oh, hello, Daisy, I didn’t realise that you were here.’
‘Yes, I come over every day in the summer holidays to help out,’ explains Daisy Somerton, now a pretty girl of sixteen with Alice’s dark-brown eyes and hair. ‘The aunts keep hoping that you’ll call on them with the babies.’
‘They’re next on my list this afternoon,’ says Alice, but Daisy breaks in with her own exciting news. ‘Lucy Drummond went to the pictures last night and what d’you think – Maud Ling is absolutely marvellous in Downfall of a Nobleman – she’s the wicked Lady Blanche and ever so much better than the heroine, Lucy says, and all the men are swooning over her! She’s got this white face and huge dark eyes that burn right into you when she looks out from the screen!’
‘Maud Ling? You don’t mean that girl that Alex Redfern was –’
‘Oh, yes, we do, Alice!’ Mabel’s tired eyes light up with pride. ‘Maudie’s goin’ to be a big star one day soon, an’ ye’ll be tellin’ Geoffrey an’ Geraldine that yer knew her as a child.’
‘Good gracious!’ Alice is clearly taken aback by the Ling girl’s rise to fame. Gerald might want to see this film, she thinks. He’s been so much easier to live with since the arrival of his darling daughter, for which Alice thanks her lucky stars – and to be free of her in-laws and Gerald’s mother’s accusing silences.
Young Daisy’s bright face glances from one sister to the other. Alice at twenty-three has kept her looks, though her once slender waist has thickened considerably after two confinements. She gives the impression of a brave and beautiful woman who has come through difficult times with a war-scarred husband, to find a new niche for herself.
By contrast, Mabel at twenty-six looks at least thirty, stern-faced and straight-backed. She has a reputation for being firm with officials, strict with her staff but always gentle and loving towards the children in her care – her family, as she calls them. Privately Daisy is inclined to agree with Cook that ‘Mum’ is too soft sometimes, like when little Fanny has those awful tantrums, screaming and kicking out at everybody. Mabel calls them brainstorms and tries to hug Fanny out of them, even though she’s had her hand bitten. Daisy wonders if a good hard smack might be more effective, but does not dream of saying so.
Daisy sometimes worries about Mabel who must feel dreadfully lonely for her lost fiancé and brother – and her friend Norah McLoughlin, once so close but now shut up in an Irish convent preparing to take her vows and become a Sister of Mercy. Mabel may not ever see her again. And heaven only knows where Maud will end up! Will she forget her old childhood friend in her brilliant new career as a film star? Yet Mabel never complains; in fact, she has told Daisy that God has been good to her and given her this family of children, these waifs and strays. ‘They are my life now, Daisy,’ she says.
Two days later the boys are playing leapfrog on the back lawn and Matron Court is sitting at her sewing, when Tim Baxter hurtles through the open french-casement door.
‘Mum! Mum, can I go rabbitin’ wiv Yarrow an’ ’is dog down the bottom field? The farmer’s goin’ to shoot ’em all, so we might as well catch a few first – please, Mum!’
There is a ring at the doorbell and Matron rises to her feet, wearily putting aside her work-basket. ‘Just a minute, Tim, dear, while I see who this is,’ she says, and Tim climbs on a chair.
‘Blimey, Mum, it’s anuvver one! A little kid in a pink dres
s an’ a bonnet, an’ a man’ wiv ’er, ever so tall an’ old-lookin’.’
‘What?’ Mabel suddenly catches her breath and holds the back of the chair. ‘But I haven’t heard anythin’ from Headquarters about – another – child.’
Her voice sounds oddly jerky and Tim looks at her. ‘Y’all right, Mum? Shall I fetch Miss Daisy to see ’em?’ he asks, jumping down from the chair.
‘No – no, I – I’ll take a peep from the window,’ she whispers, aware of her heart pounding and her mouth gone dry. She puts out her hand and flicks the edge of the curtain just for a moment.
It is enough. She sees. She knows. ‘Timmy – oh, Tim, me dear little boy,’ she says under her breath, and he is quite alarmed.
‘Are yer sure y’all right, Mum?’
‘Yes, yes – only come with me to the door, Tim.’
It has happened. The dream that has visited her time and time again in the lonely hours of the night is here and real. He has come back and brought his daughter with him. Words from the past echo in her head: I don’t want her to be brought up by grandparents.
She takes a deep breath, holds Tim Baxter’s hand – and opens the door.
‘Mabel.’ Oh, the look in his eyes. He is older, greyer, sadder – but he has not changed.
‘Stephen. And this must be Lily.’
‘Yes, Mabel, she’s my Lily. Three next month.’
Another child at the door. Shall I pick her up? Mabel wonders to herself. Yes, I will. I will. I’ll stoop down and lift her up in my arms. If she cries and turns away from me, I shall know it’s not going to happen. But if she takes to me, I shall know that she’s to stay. And her father.
‘I’ve had an interview with Dr Forsyth today, Mabel,’ he is saying. ‘He has offered me a partnership and I’ve told him that I’ll let him know by tomorrow.’
His blue eyes darken as they meet hers. Lily holds tightly to his hand.
‘It all depends on you, Mabel,’ he says, and waits in hope and fear for her answer.
She lets go of Tim’s hand, bends down and lifts Lily Knowles in her arms. He lets go of the child’s hand and she gazes solemnly at Mabel who straightens up and smiles at her.
‘Hello, Lily.’
Two soft little arms go round Mabel’s neck – oh, so familiar does it feel – and a pink cheek presses against her face. ‘May – Maby.’
Tim Baxter looks up as if mesmerised, but Mabel’s eyes close briefly in thanksgiving. She has her sign. Yes!
‘She needs a mother, Mabel,’ says Stephen.
‘An’ my children need a father,’ she answers. ‘Ye’d best come in, the pair o’ yer. Come on in. There’s room enough for yer both.’
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Copyright © Maggie Holt 2002
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2002 by William Heinemann
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