The Girl in the Letter

by Emily Gunnis

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Wednesday 3 April 1957

  Ivy looked up from the sheet press. The little girl she had seen several weeks before was standing in the doorway. Ivy had observed her at the time, standing on the footstool at the sinks, barely able to reach. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old, thought Ivy, with small, fragile features, matted black hair, and yellowy skin that looked like it had never seen the sun. Then after a few days, she had disappeared completely. Ivy had no idea where she had gone, to a happy home, she prayed most nights, until the little girl reappeared weeks later looking even more pale than she had before.

  She was staring around the room now, wide-eyed, her small hands clasped tight in front of her. The brown overalls she wore hung from her bony limbs like a tent, and only her tiny ankles and narrow sandal-covered feet were visible beneath them.

  Ivy watched as Sister Faith and Mother Carlin spoke to each other, dropping her eyes as soon as they pointed in her direction. She kept herself busy, pulling the heavy red-hot sheets from the press with Patricia; stretching them out and folding them ready to be taken to the drying room. She felt her body tense as Mother Carlin appeared next to her, conscious that she was being watched critically, her fingers beginning to fumble over her task as the presses hissed and snapped at her like snakes.

  ‘Mary.’ She felt Mother Carlin’s breath on her neck.

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ she said, stopping what she was doing.

  ‘Put this child to work. She can take the sheets to the drying room so you and the girls don’t have to stop your work here. And she can go down to the ironing room at the end of each day and divide up the laundry. Ask Sister Andrews to take you.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ said Ivy again, noticing that the little girl was instinctively moving away from Mother Carlin and towards her.

  ‘She has the devil in her,’ Mother Carlin said, with a look on her face as if she were chewing on something bitter. ‘If you cannot manage her, I will find someone else who can. Now get on with your work,’ she snapped at the little girl, who nodded fearfully.

  Ivy was painfully aware of how much Patricia would be struggling on her own. As Mother Carlin walked away, she turned to catch the huge sheet before it could drop to the floor, for which they would both receive a beating. She gasped as the boiled cotton sank onto her skin, burning it and causing her to yelp.

  The little girl looked up at her, reaching out to help her lift the sheet away from her arm. Ivy nodded her thanks, and a tiny smile formed at the corner of the child’s mouth.

  She watched intently as Ivy and Patricia folded the damp sheets and added them to the pile on the trestle tables in front of them. Ivy looked at Sister Faith, who was sitting darning, and then over at the little girl. Despite the obvious neglect she was suffering from, she was beautiful, with long eyelashes and dark brown eyes holding a stare that seemed to take her away for minutes at a time. She had an air of intensity about her and stood tall, her back straight, her head high, watching every move Ivy was making as if her life depended on it.

  As Ivy tried to concentrate, questions troubled her about why the girl was here. Was she another child of a pregnant mother, or had she wandered in off the street? Her skin was filthy, with ingrained dirt under her fingernails and grime pleated into the creases of her elbows. Her scrawny arms were covered in bruises, and at the top of them yellow bandages poked out from under her brown overalls, stained with little speckles of dried blood. They reminded Ivy of the sparrow eggshells her father sometimes found in a nest in their oak tree.

  Ivy’s head spun with the responsibility that had just been handed to her. Work in the laundry was hard enough for a twenty-year-old woman, let alone a small child. The day started at six and ended at eight, with only two short breaks in between for meals so meagre they left your belly rumbling more than when you first sat down to eat. The youngest girl she knew to be working there was fourteen, and most days she would struggle with the heavy lifting, the intense heat, the relentless repetition of the backbreaking work. She couldn’t fathom how this fragile creature would cope.

  She reached up and pressed the button to shut off the press, and she and Patricia began loading the sheets onto the trolley next to them. She was trying to figure out a way to make the task manageable for the little girl. It would be nearly impossible for her to steer the trolley through the laundry and along the corridor to the drying room without banging into anything or tipping it over. The trolley was old, and heavy with the weight of the sheets, the wheels awkward and clunky and the handle rough and splintered. At the end of the long corridor, each soaking sheet needed to be laid out carefully on the drying rails and then the whole platform had to be hoisted up to the ceiling. Ivy looked down at the thin creature, knowing it would be hard, but figuring that if she was precise enough, it just might work.

  She began pulling the trolley, signalling to the girl to follow her, which she did eagerly. As it rumbled and groaned its way past the wall of sinks that lined the room, dozens of girls standing at them in silence, the little girl watched intently, taking mental note of everything Ivy was doing to constantly correct it and keep it moving straight. As they reached the door, Sister Faith turned to Sister Andrews and handed her a bunch of keys. ‘Hurry up!’ Sister Andrews barked, as Ivy turned the handle and eased the heavy trolley out into the corridor.

  She repeated the movement to ensure the little girl understood. There was a knack to it. They both knew she’d have only one chance to get it right, or she’d be punished. The child seemed to be reading Ivy’s mind. Watch carefully, Ivy’s eyes pleaded, and the girl did, nodding to let her know she understood.

  Sister Andrews marched ahead of them down the corridor in the direction of the drying room, opening it with a heavy iron key and standing at the entrance. The rickety trolley trundled and clunked over the black and white tiles, its rusty wheels groaning loudly under the strain. They walked in silence, Ivy moving quickly but carefully to make sure it didn’t hit the wall. As they reached the drying room, once again she pointed to the way the trolley turned, reaching out and giving the little girl the handle so she could have a go. It had taken Ivy several attempts to get the hang of it at first, but the little girl got it in two and, using both arms, finished the job on her own, heaving it over the threshold and into the dry, humid room. As soon as they were inside, Sister Andrews went back out into the corridor and pulled the door shut, locking them both inside.

  Ivy looked up. Hundreds of sheets hung from the twelve ceiling racks hovering above them like ghosts on broomsticks, and she walked quickly to the corner of the room, where the last rack hung empty. She unhooked the cord that lowered it and let the rope down hand over hand as quickly as she could, then pulled a sheet from the top of the pile on the trolley. Without an audience for the first time, she crouched down and spoke to the little girl.

  ‘They must be laid on straight, or they’ll get creases that even the ironing presses can’t get out. And you must work quickly,’ she said, laying the sheet out on the hanging rack. ‘We fold enough sheets to fill a trolley in no time, and we need you back by then to bring them in here.’

  The little girl nodded, saying nothing, but helping Ivy as they began to take the rest of the damp sheets off the trolley one by one, throwing them over the wooden rods and pulling them out straight. Ivy watched her as she worked. The child’s hands moved fast, and she studied Ivy closely to make sure she was doing it right. Several times Ivy opened her mouth to ask one of the many questions troubling her, but she would always stop herself, not wanting to cause any upset. In the end, she settled on a harmless one.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said, smiling gently.

  ‘Elvira,’ the little girl replied quietly.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Elvira. I’m Ivy, but you’d better call me Mary, which is the name Mother Carlin gave me. Now, at the end of each day, I’ll come back to this room with you and we’ll take all the dry sheets down from the racks, then ba
g them up and send them down the chute to the ironing room.’ Ivy pointed to a small hatch in the wall.

  Again the little girl nodded, and Ivy began to drag the rickety trolley towards the narrow doorway that led out into the hall.

  ‘How old are you, Elvira?’ she said.

  Before Elvira could reply, there was a click as the lock turned and the door suddenly opened. The faint colour Elvira had had in her cheeks drained away.

  ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ said Sister Andrews, her round cheeks flushed with anger. ‘Will I tell Mother Carlin you were talking idly while the other girls are having to do your work?’

  ‘No, Sister, sorry, Sister,’ said Ivy, heaving the trolley along as Elvira scuttled behind her like a frightened mouse. ‘Mother Carlin wants the girl to see the ironing room,’ she added, ‘so she knows where to go at the end of the day.’

  Sister Andrews let out a sigh and glared at them both, then turned on her heel and began marching towards the end of the corridor, where a dark staircase awaited them. She snapped on the dim light and began her descent, the heels of her boots clicking on the steps as she went.

  Ivy looked back, signalling to Elvira to hold tight to the banister. As they neared the bottom of the steps, Sister Andrews took out her bunch of keys and opened a heavy oak door. Ivy instinctively took Elvira’s hand to guide her through the ironing presses in the fearsomely hot and airless room. At every press, the size of a dining table, stood a girl in brown overalls. Each was scarlet in the face, moving as deftly as she could with an enormous bump, pulling the poker-hot ironing presses up and down over the sheets beneath. Sister Andrews stopped beside a large steel chute and turned to the child.

  ‘This chute leads down here from the drying room. At the end of each day when the bell goes, you will come down here and stand at the chute to catch the dry sheets in the basket.’ She pointed to the huge wheeled wicker basket sitting at the back of the room. ‘Divide the sheets up equally between the girls ready for the morning. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if the job isn’t done properly, do I, child?’

  ‘No, Sister,’ whispered Elvira, her voice barely audible over the din.

  ‘Then leave the trolley by the door,’ said Ivy.

  ‘Which one?’ said Elvira, looking at a small door at the far end of the room and then to another larger door at the opposite end.

  ‘You’ll speak only when you’re spoken to,’ snapped Sister Andrews, slapping the little girl around the side of her head. ‘The black door over there. Don’t you be worrying your ignorant head about any other door. We’re not wrong putting you in a dormitory with the mongoloids, are we? Well, speak up, child.’ She came closer, and Elvira cowered away.

  ‘No, Sister,’ she said, twisting her fingers so hard that the colour left them completely.

  Ivy glanced at the small door, which rumour had it led to the tunnels under the house. She had never seen anyone come in or go out of that door, and Patricia said she should avoid finding out what was beyond it at all costs. She said she’d heard there was a tunnel that led to the septic tank and the graveyard, and that it smelt of death.

  For the rest of the day, Elvira worked diligently and methodically, carrying out her tasks exactly as Ivy had shown her. Ivy kept expecting the little girl to become tired, to start to lag, to complain of blisters on her hands or aches in her shoulders. But the complaints never came, and by the end of the first week, she seemed to be managing to get the insurmountable job done. When the sisters weren’t looking, Ivy helped her, and far from feeling resentful, it gave her hope to focus on something other than herself.

  The child was quiet and cautious with her answers, but by gently coaxing information out of her in their precious minutes in the drying room at the end of each day, Ivy slowly gathered that Elvira was six years old, soon to turn seven, and slept in a room in the attic of the house. That she had been adopted for the first six years of her life, but had then returned to St Margaret’s because ‘I did something bad.’ She wouldn’t say what it was she had done, and Ivy trod carefully, rehearsing in her head the questions she so desperately wanted to ask before speaking them out loud. There was an invisible line that Elvira was clearly fearful to cross. When Ivy asked about the bloodstained bandages on her arms, whether there were any other children in the attic with her, or whether she had enough to eat, Elvira’s hands would begin to shake and she would go quiet.

  After several attempts to get to the truth, with Elvira trying to hold back tears, Ivy gave up and they began to speak of other things. Things that took them out of St Margaret’s and back into the world they both missed so desperately. How they longed to go out into a large open field in midsummer, lay out a picnic rug on the soft grass and sit in the sun eating all their favourite food. Bread with cheese, thick pastry pork pies, scones with jam, and crisp red apples.

  Then one morning, Elvira didn’t appear at the laundry door.

  Ivy spent the day in a state of panic, praying it was because she had been sent to a lovely new home, but fearing it was for a reason much more sinister. She begged Patricia to find out if Elvira was in the infirmary, but she wasn’t.

  As before, Elvira was gone for a month and Ivy thought of little else. It was as if, in her grief for Rose, she had imagined the little girl, and now she too had disappeared from her life.

  Then, as suddenly as she had disappeared, she was back again.

  She had been very poorly, she told Ivy quietly in the drying room; she always was after the doctors came and gave them their injections. ‘We all have to look after each other,’ she added.

  ‘What do you mean, all?’ said Ivy, stroking Elvira’s hair.

  ‘All the children in the attic.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Monday 6 February 2017

  As soon as they reached Kitty’s apartment, Sam called Nana to check in on Emma, who was still poorly but seemingly on the mend.

  ‘Is anything wrong, Nana? You sound upset,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine, darling, just tired.’ Nana’s voice was quiet.

  ‘I’m going to call in sick today, so I’ll be with you soon, okay?’ said Sam gently.

  ‘I don’t want you to do that, darling,’ said Nana. ‘You could get into trouble. Ben said he’d be here about lunchtime.’

  ‘It’s fine, Nana. You sound wrecked; I’m worried about you. I’ve got a bit of a journey ahead of me on the train, and then I’ve got to pick up my car, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, hopefully by eleven. Emma’s ill, and I need to be there.’

  ‘Okay, I love you, sweetheart, and don’t you worry about us.’

  ‘I love you too, Nana, see you soon.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to read Ivy’s last letter?’ added Nana as Sam went to end the call. Nana’s voice had faltered as she’d asked her, it seemed Ivy’s story was affecting Nana as much as it was her. So much had happened since Nana had given it to her the evening before that she hadn’t had a chance to read it.

  After finishing the call, Sam had reached into her bag and pulled out the small parcel of Ivy’s letters, untied the red velvet ribbon and peeled open the final one. She had read it quickly, conscious that Kitty was about to reappear. It was as heartbreaking as all the others and mentioned a lady called Mrs Helena Cannon, who had dealt with the adoptions at St Margaret’s. Sam’s heart had stopped as she had read the name. Cannon. Could this be Kitty’s mother? A quick search in Google told her that Kitty’s mother had indeed been called Helena, and that she had died suddenly and unexpectedly whilst receiving dialysis treatment in hospital.

  ‘Everything all right?’ said Kitty, appearing behind her and handing her a mug of tea. Sam smiled up at her as she placed her mobile and the letters back in her bag.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Thanks for the tea,’ said Sam, her eyes wandering around the room. It was a large modern apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the River Thames. The room was softened with heavy curtains, oversized rugs an
d warm lamps scattered everywhere. A framed tapestry hung on the wall above a desk in the corner. It read: Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid.

  Sam suddenly felt slightly faint. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and her eyes were heavy. She looked around for something to perch on. Everything in the apartment was so pristine and neat, she felt as if she was part of a window display, scared to sit on any of the immaculate furniture in case she made a mark on it.

  ‘Have a seat, Samantha,’ said Kitty, gesturing to the space on the sofa next to her. ‘You look a bit pale. Relax and make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sam. They sat for a moment in silence, Sam trying to calm down. She couldn’t work out why she felt so ill at ease. Make yourself at home. But a home was full of paraphernalia, pictures and souvenirs. She had sat in hundreds of lounges, interviewing people, listening to their stories, and nowhere had ever felt like this. Although everything matched perfectly, there was nothing personal in the space. She looked around for a photograph of Kitty with family or friends, but couldn’t see any. Everything was beautiful, including Kitty herself, but nothing in the room gave anything away. There would be no use looking for evidence of Helena Cannon here.

  ‘Was that your grandmother on the phone?’ Kitty watched Sam intently.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam, sipping her tea. No wonder she felt strange, she thought: she was sitting in Kitty Cannon’s apartment, having been up all night chasing leads on a story she had been told not to pursue by her boss. ‘My daughter and I, we live with her. She’s very good to us. I’d be lost without her.’

  ‘You sound like you’re close. Does your mother live with you too?’ Sam looked down, not sure how to respond. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ said Kitty.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ replied Sam, feeling the opposite. She didn’t want to talk about Nana, or think about Emma and how far away she was from them. From Nana’s cosy, happy, cluttered, messy home. ‘It’s only fair that you want to know about me; I’ve certainly been doing a lot of prying into your life the last couple of days.’