The Child Left Behind

by Anne Bennett

  ‘Oh, I am so glad it turned out right for her in the end,’ Bridgette said. ‘What of the grandmother?’

  ‘Dead and gone long ago,’ Mick said.

  ‘The point is, though,’ Pat said, ‘this is all we know. I remember Tom saying Molly’s father was a man called Ted Maguire, so that was her name, but if she married the man she said was so special then I don’t know what she became. The man was called Mark and I only remember that because I have the son the same name, but if Tom told us his surname then neither of us has any recollection of it.’

  ‘But if we go to this camp maybe someone will recognise the name Molly Maguire. That’s, of course, if the camp still exists,’ Bridgette said.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Ada said. ‘You and me will take a dander up there first thing tomorrow.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The RAF camp was totally deserted, the fence around it buckled in many places and the gate, looking quite bedraggled, hung on its hinges. The only sign that it had ever been an aerodrome at all were the huge hangars at the very bottom of the large field and the tarmac runways crisscrossing the place. There were no Nissan huts and only piles of bricks to show that there had ever been buildings there. No one was around to ask if they remembered a Molly Maguire. Bridgette was so disappointed that she felt tears stinging her eyes.

  Ada saw them and she said, ‘Don’t take on, bab.’

  ‘I am trying not to,’ Bridgette sniffed, ‘but this was the first real lead I had. I met two people that had actually met and talked with my uncle Tom, and heard about cousins I had no idea about and I thought that this time I really might be lucky.’ She shrugged. ‘But no. I am once more disappointed.’

  ‘I know,’ Ada said. ‘I thought we might get summat here as well.’

  ‘I wonder if she is still in the house that she rented from the airman?’ Bridgette mused.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ada said. ‘And then if he survived this little lot, maybe he wanted his house back again. Anyroad, whatever he did isn’t going to help us, is it, because we have no idea where the house is?’

  ‘No,’ Bridgette agreed. ‘And all I can say is, thank God for Finn.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ada said. ‘He has a smile that nearly cuts his face in two and it makes you smile back almost despite yourself. How about taking him up the park for a bit?’

  ‘Is there one near?’

  ‘Well, Pype Hayes Park isn’t that far,’ Ada said. ‘Just up the Chester Road. We may as well give Finn a good time, even if we feel disappointed.’

  It was nice to walk on grass instead of pavements, Bridgette thought a little later. She unstrapped Finn and he toddled before them, stopping to examine everything that took his attention. But neither of them was in any sort of hurry and they let him do as he pleased. To him, everything was new and exciting, and his antics brought a smile to both women’s faces.

  ‘He needs a ball,’ Ada said. ‘Every boy needs a ball. Not that you could get one for love nor money during the war. Didn’t think it was in the nation’s interest to use rubber for balls, I suppose. Lots of things then was unobtainable and if you said owt about it people would say, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Like as if it might have slipped your memory. Things are coming back into the shops now. I bet we could get a ball for his lordship there if we tried. What d’you say?’

  ‘A ball would be good,’ Bridgette said slowly. ‘But…but I am afraid of spending anything I don’t have to spend just now.’

  Ada looked at the lines of anxiety crisscrossing Bridgette’s face and said reassuringly, ‘I understand, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have a word with Bill and the others. One of them is sure to have an old ball knocking about.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’

  ‘What’s the trouble about asking if they have got summat they don’t need any more that that babby would love?’ Ada said. ‘Don’t you think no more about it. Now,’ she went on, as they approached some large tennis courts, ‘if I remember right there’s a children’s playground not that far from here. Shall we take a gander? I bet his lordship will approve of that.’

  Bridgette readily agreed. She really liked Ada. In many ways she reminded her of Marie Laurent—not that they looked that much alike, but both women had such a kindly nature. Living there also meant that Bridgette had begun to understand the Birmingham accent and humour more, so she didn’t have to concentrate so hard to understand what people said. She even had a grasp on the money, though it still totally confused her at times. What threw her was when the money could be called different things, like when a one shilling piece could be called ‘a bob’ and when a shiny sixpence was also known as ‘a tanner,’ and so on, but in the main she understood it pretty well.

  Ada was quite willing to help Bridgette in her quest to find her family too, though Bridgette wondered if Ada thought it a waste of time. Bridgette wouldn’t blame her if she did: she was beginning to feel that way herself. She bitterly regretted not writing to those people at the post office that Christy had told her about, and before throwing in the towel altogether she resolved to remedy that over the weekend.

  A shout from Finn broke through her musings and she decided to shelve her worries and give herself over to having a good time with her son. And he did have a wonderful time. There were several safe swings for him, but as Bridgette pushed him she remembered his father saying that he always seemed to be pushing his little sister, Dolly, on the swings, and as the memory flitted across her brain, her eyes clouded over.

  Ada saw it but didn’t comment. She knew Bridgette was carrying some great sorrow and couldn’t wonder at it, and she only wished that she could help her in some way.

  When Finn eventually tired, Bridgette put him back in the pushchair and he made only a token objection.

  Knowing he would be asleep in no time, Ada said, ‘I fancy looking at the gardens, if you don’t mind. They used to be lovely once upon a time but in the war all the flowers was dug up and they had to grow vegetables. Half the park was given over in the same way, and I know the nation wanted feeding and that, but it weren’t so nice to look at.’

  ‘I never mind looking at flowers, but who lives in that big house?’ Bridgette asked as they passed a large construction not far from the playground.

  ‘Well, once it would have belonged to some landed gentry and all this park would have been their land. Bill goes all over, being a taxi driver, like, and he said most of the parks are the same. Don’t know how it is in France.’

  ‘I think most are public parks,’ Bridgette said. ‘In my small town, St-Omer, there was a public park.’ And she added, ‘most of our landed gentry fell to Madame Guillotine of course in the Revolution.’

  ‘My goodness!’ Ada exclaimed. ‘Did they really?’ Doesn’t bear thinking about it does it?’

  Bridgette laughed. ‘No I suppose it doesn’t but that’s was how it was then,’ she said. ‘So who lives in the house now?’

  ‘Unmarried mothers,’ Ada said. ‘And there was a spate of them during and after the war, I can tell you. Morals and knickers fell along with the bombs, in my opinion, and them Yanks have a lot to answer for. Many of them left our girls with more than a pair of nylon stockings.’

  Bridgette felt a chill run through her, and she was immensely relieved that she hadn’t told Ada the truth about her baby son. They began to walk through the flower garden, which Ada observed were being restored to their former glory, and on the other side of the gardens was a pond that she said her husband and the lads used to fish in before the war. ‘That’s of course if they didn’t use the Cut. I didn’t like the lads going down there ’cos the water runs deep, see?’

  Bridgette nodded obediently as they turned away from the pond and she began pushing the pushchair up the slight incline.

  Seeing her confusion, Ada laughed. ‘The Cut’s what Brummies call the canal,’ she said. ‘Anyroad, during the war they was used to transport big items, coal and the like, and the canal was all board
ed over at night in case the bombers caught the gleam of water in their headlights. Birmingham made a lot of things for the war, see, and lots of factories and workshops backed onto a canal somewhere ’cos they used to tip all the waste in there. People say Birmingham has more canals than Venice. Course I’ve never seen Venice, nor am I likely to so I can’t say it has or it hasn’t. You got many canals in France?’

  ‘In St-Omer we have a very beautiful canal, wide and tree-lined.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Ada exclaimed with a laugh. ‘The Brummie cuts ain’t nothing like that.’

  They had reached the brow of the hill and Ada pointed right down at the edge of the park is a little stream. It’s over hung with trees and a pretty spot. We’ll go down one day if you like and bring a picnic; the babby will love it. But for today I’m ready to head for home. My stomach thinks my throat’s cut and I am dying for a cuppa. What about you?’

  Bridgette nodded. ‘I am a little hungry,’ she said. ‘And when Finn wakes up he will be ready to eat too, I’m sure.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ Ada said. ‘And leave the stream for another day.’

  It was as Bridgette tucked Finn into bed that night that she remembered the child Kevin that the two Irishmen, Pat and Mick, had mentioned.

  ‘Maybe I could trace the others through him,’ she said to Ada later as they sat together over cups of tea. ‘I mean, I know his name is Kevin Maguire. I could try the schools.’

  ‘It was eleven years ago,’ Ada warned.

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘What I mean is, you don’t know how old Kevin was in 1935 when the accident happened,’ Ada said. ‘The men said he was young all right, but how young? Unless he was little more than a baby, eleven years on he will have left school.’

  ‘But they will have records,’ Bridgette said, ‘I am determined to try to find out.’

  ‘Paget Road is the nearest.’

  ‘Yes, but that isn’t a Catholic School, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Ada agreed. ‘That would be St Thomas’s at the Abbey, I would say. There is an Irish family down the street and their children all went there.’

  ‘Well, that’s where I will go,’ Bridgette said. ‘And first thing Monday morning.’

  In the meantime she composed the letter to the McEvoys in Buncrana. It was in a similar vein to the one she sent to Christy, except she said that she had actually arrived in Birmingham and was having trouble locating the family and could any of them help at all. She read the letter over three times and still wasn’t totally happy with it but she decided it would have to do. She put it in the envelope and wrote the address with care. She hadn’t much hope that the McEvoys would be able or even willing to help her, but she knew she had to try every avenue.

  Father Cunningham stopped Bridgette after Mass and asked if the Donahue brothers had been any help to her.

  ‘In a way, yes, thank you, Father,’ Bridgette said, and told the priest what they had told her about Molly and Kevin. ‘I went up to the aerodrome, but the place is all disbanded and deserted, and Pat and Mick said she had rented a house off a pilot but didn’t know where.’

  ‘That must have been disappointing for you,’

  ‘Oh, it was, Father, very disappointing,’ Bridgette said. ‘It was later I got to thinking of Molly’s brother. When the accident happened he was much younger—they didn’t know how young—and so he must have gone to school somewhere. I thought he might have gone to the secondary school here.’

  ‘He may have done,’ the priest said, ‘but though the aerodrome was in Castle Bromwich, you don’t know where the house actually was.’

  ‘Well no, Father,’ Bridgette conceded. ‘But it couldn’t be that far away if Molly had to make her way to the aerodrome to work every day.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. What did you say the boy’s name was?’

  ‘Kevin Maguire, Father,’ Bridgette said.

  ‘I don’t recognise the name at all,’ the priest said. ‘Of course, I have only been here two years. If you had spoken to Father Clayton or Father Monahan they might have been able to help you further. They had been here for years but Father Monahan has retired and Father Clayton moved to pastures new. Still, there will be no harm in your visiting the school. In fact I will accompany you and we will see what we can find out. When were you thinking of going?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Father, first thing.’

  The priest smiled. ‘I have some dealings with the school and I know that Monday morning is the very worst time to call, for it is very busy. Why don’t you call at the presbytery about two o’clock. I’m sure that that will be a more convenient time for them.’

  ‘All right then, Father,’ Bridgette said, and she turned the pram for home.

  Ada had said she had to go out and couldn’t mind Finn that morning. Surprisingly she was still out when Bridgette arrived home, but the kettle hadn’t quite boiled when she heard a car pull up outside.

  It was Bill’s taxi, and Ada got out of it and so did Bill, carrying a variety of items.

  ‘A cot for the babby,’ she said in explanation to Bridgette, who had opened the door for them. There wasn’t just a cot, but a truck too, full of bricks, a little tricycle and a football.

  ‘But where did they come from?’ she asked.

  ‘Our house,’ Bill said. ‘Mavis was glad to get rid of them. Been cluttering the loft up long enough, she said.’

  ‘But don’t you need them any more?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Bill said. ‘Our youngest is sixteen and I think Mavis would fling herself off a tall building if she found she was up the pole again, and we’ve stored the stuff for years. The football belongs to my lad, but he’s twenty and more interested in girls than footballs just now. Said the wee fellow can have it and welcome.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Bridgette said, overcome at the kindness of Bill and his mother, and Bill’s wife too of course. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You have said enough,’ Bill said. ‘A simple thank you was all that was needed, and now if you will excuse me I’ll go and assemble the cot.’

  The following day, Ada offered to mind Finn while Bridgette went up to the Abbey School. She was only too pleased to take up her offer and she set off full of enthusiasm and hope that surely this would be it. At the Abbey School she would find Molly’s address and that in turn would lead her to the rest of her family.

  However, again she was to be disappointed, thought the priest, who seemed almost as keen for Bridgette to be reunited with her family as Bridgette was herself, insisted on checking back records for seven years. The secretary, who had been at the school three times as long, insisted, however, that there had been no boy called Kevin Maguire there at any time.

  There were two sisters called Sullivan. Bridgette got very excited about this although the priest did warn her that it was a very popular name in Ireland. So it proved, because within minutes of talking to the girls, Bridgette knew that they were nothing to do with the family that she was trying to trace.

  ‘So,’ said the priest as they walked back to the presbytery, ‘seems like it’s back to the drawing board.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Have you any more irons in the fire?’

  ‘Pardon, Father.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,’ Father Cunningham said. ‘That saying just means have you made any other plans?’

  ‘Not really, Father,’ Bridgette said. ‘I mean, I have sent a letter to Mrs McEvoy, who runs the post office in Buncrana, the nearest town to the cottage where my father was born and reared. Christy, who was my father’s friend, said that the McEvoys were great friends with all the family. If that was the case they probably kept in touch and they would probably have all their addresses.’

  ‘So, why didn’t you write to these people before you came?’ the priest asked.

  Bridgette sighed. ‘I don’t know, Father. Why does anyone do these things that you know in hindsight aren’t sensible? But anyway, I didn’t think there was much point. They kno
w nothing about me. Why would they send people’s addresses to a perfect stranger?’

  The priest could see Bridgette’s point. ‘I feel very sorry for you, Bridgette,’ he said. ‘And I know it doesn’t help you but the same scenario is going on all over Europe. I was only reading in the paper the other day about families ripped apart through that devastating war and still searching for loved ones.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Bridgette said. ‘And what a heartbreaking search it is.’

  ‘Maybe he passed the eleven-plus,’ Ada said later when Bridgette told her what had happened at the school.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An exam the bright kids take,’ Ada said. ‘None of mine were brainy enough for it, but this Kevin might have been. See, if they pass they go to a different school called a grammar school. I’m surprised the priest didn’t think of that.’

  ‘So where are these schools?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it,’ Ada said. ‘They are all over the place. All the kids of the Catholic family I was telling you about went to St Thomas’s, bar the youngest boy and he passed for the grammar school a couple of years ago. Then apparently the parents have a choice of the school to send him too, but Catholics have to pick one called St Phillip’s as their first choice because it is the only Catholic grammar school in Birmingham. It’s in Edgbaston, right the other side of the city, one hell of a trek I thought it was, not that I said owt. It weren’t none of my business. Anyroad, he never went there in the end. He went to King Edward’s in Aston.’

  ‘So what you are saying is that if Kevin passed the exam for grammar school, the chances of finding out where would be very difficult.’

  Ada nodded sadly. ‘That’s just about what I am saying. Yes.’

  ‘So, everything now hinges on the letter to Buncrana.’

  ‘Yes, I think it does.’

  ‘And if nothing comes of that?’

  Ada was silent for a mintue or two and then she said softly, ‘You’ve still got the babby.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Bridgette said, suddenly scooping him up and holding him close. Finn had been playing with the bricks and he was surprised to find himself suddenly in his mother’s arms. He laughed at her and patted her face, and Bridgette felt a sudden tug of love for her child. She kissed his soft little cheek. ‘Without Finn I would be lost.’