The Long Way Home: A moving saga of lost family

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  ‘You don’t think he’d mind a girl?’

  ‘Not at all. The one who’s leaving to get married is a girl. I got her job.’

  ‘I see. But could I afford it?’

  ‘With your savings and what you’ve earned at the pub you should be okay for a few weeks. You can’t have spent much while you’ve been here.’

  ‘That’s true. But I’ll be needing some warmer clothes with winter coming on, and it’s expensive living in London, isn’t it? My money won’t last very long. And then what?’

  ‘Get a job. You got one here.’

  She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Do you think I could?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Dick says you’re great. I’m sure he’d give you a glowing reference. You’ve had some experience behind the bar now.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I like the catering best.’

  ‘Well, there you are. London’s full of restaurants and wine bars. You’re bound to find something.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful. I’ll ask Dick about a reference this morning.’ She jumped up and began to clear the table. ‘Which reminds me, I promised to go in early this morning and help him give the place a good clean.’

  ‘Leave the dishes then.’ Terry got up and took the pile of plates out of her hands. ‘You haven’t forgotten what I said, have you?’ His eyes were serious as they looked down at her. ‘You either see your folks, or you ring them. Let them know what you’re doing and where you are or it’s no dice about the room. I mean it, Leah.’

  Her face fell. ‘Oh, okay then. I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I know I am. It could save a lot of complications in the long run.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ll come down to the pub for my lunch, shall I?’

  She smiled. ‘Great. I’ll make you a crab sandwich — on the house.’

  *

  By the time Terry left on Sunday evening it had all been arranged. Leah had given Dick a week’s notice and he, in return, had given her a reference. Carefully written in glowing terms in his best handwriting, he had used The Mermaid’s headed notepaper — only used, as he told her, for special clients. Arrangements had been made for her to travel up to London the following Sunday morning. Dick had promised to drive her to King’s Lynn station and Terry would meet her train at Liverpool Street. She could hardly contain her excitement. There was only one thing left for her to do.

  She used the telephone at The Mermaid, choosing a time just before opening in the evening. Both Jack and Hilary should be at home, and she didn’t care which of them she spoke to. She wasn’t expecting either of them to beg her forgiveness or urge her to come home. But, as Terry said, at least she’d have done the decent thing. As the telephone rang out at the other end she could hear the drumming of her own heart, and when she heard the receiver being lifted the breath seemed to leave her body.

  ‘Hello? Nenebridge 54277.’ It was Hilary’s voice, crisp and cool.

  ‘H-hello.’ She swallowed hard. ‘It’s Leah.’

  The silence at the other end was so prolonged that for a moment she thought they must have been cut off, then Hilary said in a voice like breaking glass: ‘So — you’ve finally condescended to ring, have you?’

  ‘I did leave a note.’

  ‘Yes. We found that after you absconded.’

  ‘You make me sound like a criminal. Look, I just wanted you to know that I’m all right.’

  ‘How good of you to think of us.’

  Leah winced. ‘I know you always did all you could for me,’ she went on. ‘And I appreciate the years that you looked after me, really I do. But if we’re both honest, it never really worked out, did it?’

  ‘Why are you really ringing, Leah? What is it you want?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wanted you to know that I’m safe and well. I’m in Cleybourn-on-Sea at the moment, but I’m moving to London at the weekend. I’ll send you my new address.’

  ‘You must do as you think fit.’

  ‘How is everyone?’

  ‘Everyone here is fine — never better.’

  ‘Good. I — I thought you might be worried.’

  ‘We gave up worrying about you a long time ago, Leah. And you proved, I think, that you don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself. And now, if you’ve nothing more to say I’d be grateful if you’d ring off. I’m preparing a dinner party and I’m rather busy.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry — about Tom Clayton and everything. I didn’t know — didn’t mean to …’ There was a loud click and Leah found she was speaking into thin air. Hilary had hung up on her. She replaced the buzzing receiver. Well, at least she had kept her promise to Terry. She’d always known it would do no good. They didn’t care where she was or what happened to her.

  *

  When she wakened on Sunday morning it was raining. Packed and ready, she wandered round the cottage as she waited for Dick. Although she would miss this little place, she somehow had the odd feeling that it had already cast her off. All her things were packed in the suitcase and it looked too clean and tidy — as impersonal as it had been on the day they had arrived. In the yard the cobblestones glistened in the rain. The rambling rose on the porch of number four looked straggly and unkempt, the last of its blooms hanging tattered overblown heads. And the dahlias in the trough under the window were nipped by early frost, their bright petals already turning brown at the edges. Leah shivered and drew her light jacket more closely around her. It was time to leave.

  Dick arrived on time in his elderly Cortina, muffled against the rain in a raincoat and scarf. He opened the passenger door and handed her in, then threw her suitcase into the boot.

  ‘You picked a right old day for it, my ’andsome,’ he remarked as he settled his bulk behind the wheel. ‘Another hour and I reckon you could ha’ swum it to ’Lynn.’

  The cross-country drive to King’s Lynn took almost an hour. In the station booking hall Dick hugged her warmly.

  ‘Well, this is it. Gunna miss you, girl,’ he said, blowing his bulbous nose. ‘Best little barmaid I’ve ever ’ad. Any time you want to come back to Cleybourn, just you drop me a line. Always a place for you at The Mermaid.’

  She kissed him on both cheeks and promised to come back. The train came in and she climbed aboard. Finally she was on her way to London.

  *

  Melbury Street was close to the main road and five minutes’ walk from Notting Hill Gate Underground. The houses were small, semi-detached Victorian villas with two storeys, basement and attic, and Terry told Leah that most were occupied by artists and actors. All of them had been treated to what estate agents call ‘sympathetic restoration’ which Terry described as ‘twee’. Each of the new owners had tried hard to give their house individuality. They were painted in bright colours and most had window boxes, bay trees in tubs or plant-filled jardinières decorating the area steps. Number twenty-four vied with the best of them. The brickwork in the area had been painted white to reflect the light, and someone had painted a trail of ivy on the wall over the iron railings that wound down to the basement door. In the tiny flagstoned space at the bottom stood a cobwebbed conifer in a green and white painted tub.

  ‘I’d no idea there were places like this in London,’ Leah exclaimed. Her only experience of London was of the West End where she’d been with Hilary on shopping trips and occasionally to the theatre.

  Terry laughed. ‘All sorts of things in London that you don’t know about. But I’m sure you’re about to discover them.’ He used his key to open the door at the bottom of the steps and they walked into a narrow hallway. To the right, a door led into the basement kitchen, a large warm room with an Aga. It was fitted with pine units and there was a fridge-freezer and an automatic washing machine. In the centre of the room was a round table with six wheelback chairs tucked under it. Leah looked around admiringly.

  ‘I like this. It’s cosy.’

  ‘That’s all there is down here,’ Terry told her. ‘It was two rooms but it’s been knocked into one. We all sha
re the cooking facilities and keeping the place clean. Bill’s quite strict about that.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘And I warn you — he says that girls are the worst when it comes to clearing up after themselves.’

  ‘I hope he isn’t one of your chauvinistic types.’

  ‘No. He’s just had one or two bad experiences, that’s all, so watch your step.’

  ‘Does the house belong to him?’

  ‘Yes. He used to live here with his wife, till the marriage broke up a couple of years ago. Come and see the rest.’ He led the way upstairs. On the ground floor the two original rooms had been knocked into one again to form a spacious oblong room with shabby-comfortable furniture and an abundance of bookshelves. At the front a bay window looked on to the street and at the back there was a glazed door that gave onto a paved yard.

  ‘We all use this room too,’ Terry was saying. ‘Though you can entertain in your own room if you want to be private.’

  Leah stood looking out into the back yard at tubs of wilting plants. The whitewashed walls facing her held a trellis with a dead clematis still clinging to it. Strung from one side of the yard to the other was a washing line on which hung two greyish teatowels.

  ‘How sad,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everything’s dying. It was the same at Cleybourn. Even the dahlias were wilting.’

  Guessing that she was feeling a little unsure and disorientated Terry slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s just the season. Who was it said: “I saw the tree, eternity put forth the blossom, time”?’

  She turned to look at him with a wistful smile. ‘I don’t know, but I like it. It’s hopeful.’

  He grinned and took her hand. ‘Come up and see your room.’

  Leah’s room was at the back of the house. There wasn’t much of a view from the window, just the back yard with its washing line and dead flowers and, over the wall at the end, the back yard of the house in the next street, which at first glance seemed to be half full of overflowing dustbins. It was certainly a far cry from the view of the Saltings and she had a sudden pang of nostalgia.

  ‘It’s great, Tel,’ she made herself say, looking round at the single bed, the worn carpet and slightly sagging armchair. ‘I’m really grateful to you for getting it for me. I only hope I can afford to stay.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Just take it one day at a time,’ he advised. On the landing he showed her the bathroom, which was next door to hers, and his own small room which led off the half landing.

  Downstairs there was the sudden bang of a door and footsteps on the stairs, accompanied by cheerful whistling.

  ‘That’s Bill,’ Terry told her. ‘Come and meet him.’ Bill Fenton was tall and loose-limbed. He wore corduroy jeans and a leather jacket, scuffed at the elbows. His checked shirt was open at the neck, but Leah noticed that his shoes were expensive and well polished. He smiled at her, but she was well aware that the smiling grey eyes were assessing her shrewdly at the same time.

  ‘Hello, Leah. Welcome to Melbury Street.’ The hand he offered her was hard and strong and as she shook it briefly she sensed his restlessness. ‘Has Terry shown you round?’

  Leah smiled. ‘Yes, and it all looks very nice.’

  ‘You’ll have to get used to the odd hours that journalists keep,’ he said. ‘No set mealtimes for instance. We pass each other on the stairs like ships in the night.’ His accent was faintly cockney and Leah guessed that he had a quick wit and was probably quick to speak his mind.

  ‘I won’t get in your way, I promise.’

  Bill looked at Terry, one eyebrow raised. ‘What on earth have you been telling the girl about me?’

  ‘That you don’t trust girls to clean up properly,’ Leah put in. ‘But I’m no slut, as you’ll hopefully find out.’

  Bill gave a great shout of laughter. ‘Good for you, girl. I might as well tell you that I don’t like wet tights dripping down my neck when I’m shaving either.’

  ‘I’ll remember. I’m a good cook, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Bill held up a prohibitive hand. ‘Strictly sex equality here. We all do our own thing, right, Tel?’ Terry nodded and Bill grinned at them both. ‘Right then. You’ll soon shake down. Be one of the guys in no time. Got to rush now. Cheers.’ He clattered up the rest of the stairs and disappeared into the room at the front of the house.

  ‘He’s okay, Bill,’ Terry told her as they went downstairs. ‘Been in the business since he left school. What he doesn’t known about journalism and newspapers isn’t worth knowing, and he’s got the best nose for a story in the business.’

  ‘What went wrong with his marriage?’ Leah whispered.

  Terry shrugged. ‘His wife was a journalist too. She landed a good job in TV though up north — Granada — Grampian or somewhere. The relationship couldn’t stand up to being apart so much.’

  *

  Leah spent the days that followed getting her bearings. She bought herself a raincoat with a warm lining, a couple of sweaters and some new jeans, appalled at the way London prices gobbled up her money. She familiarised herself with the rambling spread of the capital city. Investing in an A to Z she studied the maps and Underground system carefully until she felt fairly confident that she could take herself about without getting lost. She even managed to fit in a little sight-seeing. On a visit to the Houses of Parliament she bought a picture postcard for Granny Dobson; then, on second thoughts, she bought another, wrote her new address on the back and addressed it to Jack and Hilary. She put them both into a postbox with a sigh of relief. She’d kept her promise to Terry. Now she could forget it.

  In the evenings she studied Bill’s stack of London telephone directories and excitedly pointed out to Terry that there were several Miss H. Browns listed in various parts of London.

  He looked doubtful. ‘It’s not an unusual name. It could well be that none of them is the Miss H. Brown you’re looking for.’

  ‘But if I work systematically through them one by one …’

  ‘That’d be time-consuming and it could also be expensive. Besides, it’s a long time ago, love. Miss Brown could have become Mrs somebody by now. I think getting in touch with Social Services direct might be a better plan. I expect they have some sort of register of all their employees.’ He gave her a warning look. ‘Oh, and better keep a record of all your telephone calls. Bill will hit the roof if you run up a big phone account.’

  Alone in the house the following Monday morning Leah began her task. She drew an immediate blank at the local Social Services office when they informed her that they could not give out private whereabouts of any of their social workers on the telephone.

  ‘Does that mean she is still working in London?’ Leah held her breath. ‘Look, if you could just tell me which area?’

  But the female voice at the other end of the line cut her off short. ‘I’ve told you. We can’t give out that kind of information. If you have some kind of problem …’

  ‘I’m trying to find my sister.’

  ‘You mean Miss Brown is your sister?’

  ‘No. My sister and I were adopted at birth. Miss Brown was the social worker on the case, so I’m told.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say? How long ago was this?’

  ‘Nineteen years.’

  ‘It’s a long time, but you’re perfectly within your rights to try to find her through the proper channels. Perhaps if you wrote to Social Services in the district where your birth was registered.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’

  Leah fetched her birth certificate — the original one that Jack Dobson had given her on the day she left Nenebridge. She already knew that Hannah Brown had long since left there but maybe someone would know where she was working now. It was worth a try anyway.

  The voice at the other end was helpful and kind. ‘Miss Brown left here years ago, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know, but I thought … I was adopted, so was my twin sister, you see, and I’m trying to trace them bot
h. I’m not having much luck so far.’

  ‘I know it can be difficult sometimes. Look, if you’d like to give me your number, I’ll try and find out where she is and get back to you.’

  ‘Oh, that would be marvellous. Thanks.’

  Leah waited by the telephone all afternoon. Maybe the girl had had no more luck than she had. Maybe she’d been too busy even to try. She had almost given up hope when suddenly the phone rang. Snatching it up eagerly she said breathlessly: ‘Hello. Leah Dobson here.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Dobson. It’s Marjorie Bates from Social Services. We spoke earlier — about Hannah Brown.’

  ‘Yes — yes?’ Leah tried not to sound impatient. ‘Have you traced her?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to find out where she’s working now, but someone here in the office used to know her socially. She’s given me a telephone number. Whether she’s still at that address I couldn’t …’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ Leah interrupted. ‘Go ahead. I’ve got a pencil.’

  There was a pause at the other end. ‘Look, we’re not really supposed to give out private phone numbers so …’

  ‘It’s okay. I won’t say where I got it. And it really is a genuine case.’

  The girl read out the number and Leah wrote it down. At last she was getting somewhere. When she’d hung up she sat looking at the telephone pad with Hannah’s number printed on it. At last she was within an ace of making contact. She had only to make one call. Should she ring now, or wait till this evening? Unable to wait she carefully dialled the number, then held the receiver close to her ear, the sound of her own heartbeats loud in her ears.

  The telephone rang out three times at the other end, then there was click and a pleasant voice said: ‘Hello, Hannah Brown here. I’m sorry I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’d like to leave your name and number, and maybe your reason for calling, I’ll ring you back. It may be a few days as I’m going to be busy over the next couple of weeks. If it’s an emergency please ring the office.’

  After the bleep, Leah said quickly: ‘My name is Leah Dobson. The name on my birth certificate was O’Connor. My twin sister and I were adopted and I’m trying to trace my mother and sister. I’d be grateful if you could help.’ She just had time to give the telephone number when the time ran out. She replaced the receiver with a feeling of frustration. Now all she could do was wait.