Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘I mean, it gives you all the information you said you wished you knew. See that.’ Mandy jabbed her finger halfway down the column. ‘It says you were taken to the Mayday Hospital, so that’s one of your questions answered. Of course, I went straight on to see it, from the library, although it was quite a little trek. The present hospital looks newish, but there’s one wing left of the old building – the one where you’d have gone.’ She rummaged for her mobile, clicked it on. ‘I took a lot of photos, darling, so you’d get the feel of the place. Actually, I reckon it looks nicer than the new hospital – sort of faded brick, but with loads of character.’

  It was all he could do not to push the phone away. They were going far too fast. His early history was being excavated, fact by fact by fact, and all he felt was panic. Suppose he couldn’t handle the turmoil of emotions this knowledge might evoke? It had been bad enough in the prison, last week, and since then he’d been extremely careful not to risk another disorientating state.

  ‘And do you know why it’s called the Mayday?’

  Before he could answer, she had plunged straight on again. ‘There are several different theories, in fact, but the one I like best is that it comes from the French distress-call, “M’aidez!” And that’s wonderfully apt, don’t you think? I mean, they did help you, Eric – saved your life, most probably. Oh, and by the way, I’ve written down most of the stuff I’m telling you. You see, I thought it would be a great idea to re-make your Precious Box. Then we can put in all the information, as we gradually get hold of it, and the photographs, of course, and this article in pride of place. And the nationals may have also run the story, so if we go to Colindale, we can check their records, too, and gradually build up your personal dossier.’

  She paused for breath, but only for a second, clutching his arm in excitement. ‘And, listen – there’s even better news. I was determined to dig a bit deeper, so I asked if I could have a word with someone at the hospital who might let me see the records from the sixties. The receptionist tried several different departments, and there was a whole lot of palaver while they put me through to various bods, but they all told me the same thing – they never keep records that far back. Eventually they let me speak to the data-protection manager – a lovely man called Oliver Birch, who actually came down to see me and was more helpful altogether. I showed him the piece in the Advertiser and said I was a close friend of yours and that you were longing to discover more about your—’

  She was interrupted by the noise of banging, vibrating through the ceiling in a series of sharp hammer-blows. At least it gave him an excuse to stay silent, since he’d just realized, with a jolt, that her detective work was totally his fault. He had given the impression of someone desperate to know about his origins, unaware how threatening it would feel to be actually faced with the facts.

  Mandy glanced up with a grin. ‘Those must be the neighbours you told me about – the DIY fanatics!’

  ‘Dead right!’ he said, glad to change the subject. ‘It beats me how they can still find things to do, when they’ve been hammering and drilling ever since I first moved in. We’ll probably hear the other couple soon – shrieking at each other or hurling crockery about! Hey, darling, do drink up. You haven’t touched your wine.’

  Mandy, however, refused to be diverted, either by her wine or by the neighbours, and merely raised her voice above the din. ‘Well, this Oliver chap confirmed that, after eight years, all records are destroyed, but he said one of the present staff might know a much older nurse – you know, someone retired but who still lived in the area and would remember back to 1964. And, bless his heart, he promised to ask around – said he’d send a memo to all the nursing staff and, if a name did come up, he’d drop that person a line. He said he’s not allowed to give me their details, because of data-protection issues and stuff, but he can give mine to them, and leave it up to them whether they get in touch or not. And he thought it was quite possible – you know, someone old, with nothing much to do except sit and watch TV, might welcome the chance to revisit such a drama from their past. So, who knows, darling, in just a week or so, you might be face to face with one of the nurses who actually held you in the first days of your life!’

  He seized his glass and drained it in a few choking gulps, while he struggled through a maelstrom of emotions. One part of him ached to meet such a person, so that he could discover what he’d been like as a baby: a bawling brat, or a charmer; a clingy, sickly infant, or a stout-hearted little fighter? Perhaps it was downright stupid to put his head in the sand; refuse to take this chance to fill the gaps. Certainly he was deeply touched that Mandy should have gone to so much trouble purely on his behalf – all the more so because her approach was such a contrast to Christine’s. The latter’s uptight, conventional family had regarded the idea of a foundling as suspicious and unsavoury, so his wife had followed their lead in sweeping the whole thing under the carpet. When people enquired, she had sometimes even pretended that both his parents had died young. And yet, strange as it might sound, that felt safer, somehow. Admitting you’d been dumped could turn you into a piece of rubbish – dross, to be discarded.

  ‘I just wish you could meet the park-keeper, as well, but he must be dead and gone by now. It says here that he was sixty-three when he found you and very near retirement. But Oliver did suggest a few other things. Apparently, there’s this outfit called NORCAP, who help people trace their origins and have a separate group specifically for foundlings.’

  Yes, he knew about NORCAP but, once again, he’d concluded that the dangers in the search might outweigh the benefits. But couldn’t he change his stance? Did he have to be so stubbornly determined to leave things under wraps? He sat wrestling with himself, but the maddening noise reverberating overhead made it impossible to come to a decision.

  Mandy, though, seemed unfazed by the racket and, after a quick sip of wine, returned to her account. ‘And he mentioned a Foundling Museum – in Brunswick Square, I think he said. Apparently, it’s quite well-known. Have you ever heard of it?’

  Certainly he had, but its very name was enough to reignite his former reservations. He had never had the slightest wish to see those pathetic ‘exhibits’. In the past, most foundlings had died, whether in the workhouse or the famous Foundling Hospital. Bastard kids had been treated like dirt; fed on watery soup; sometimes even forbidden to speak, or known simply as girl fifty or boy ninety, without so much as the distinction of a name. Royal bastards were different, of course. Charles II’s illegitimate sons had all been created dukes. But for a commoner like him, the whole concept of illegitimacy remained a source of shame.

  ‘And he said, if you agree, we could send out an appeal on the Internet – you know, does anyone remember the “miracle baby” of 1964? Or we could put leaflets through people’s doors in the local Croydon area, or—’

  Absolutely not. Having spent his life concealing his past, he had no intention of broadcasting his foundling status to the world. None of his colleagues at the library knew about his origins – not even Stella, who was close friend as well as colleague – but if Mandy went full steam ahead, it would soon be the hottest gossip in the staffroom.

  She nestled closer; put a protective arm around him. ‘Darling, are you OK? I thought you’d be over the moon, but you seem – well, sort of weird – almost as if you don’t even want to listen. Yet it’s such a touching story. I actually cried when I read it, thinking about your mum and how she must have felt. I mean, she obviously cared about you deeply, leaving you in the warm like that, in the park-keeper’s cosy little office, right in front of the stove—’

  ‘What?’ He gripped her arm so hard, she flinched. ‘Mandy, what did you just say?’

  ‘Well, the stuff about your mother. You’ve read it, haven’t you? It’s all here, in black and white.’ Retrieving the printout from the sofa, she pointed to the second paragraph.

  He took it from her with shaking hands. Even now, he didn’t dare believe her until he had
seen those crucial words with his own eyes.

  ‘See?’ She pointed over his shoulder. ‘They reckoned she must have slipped in with the baby while the park-keeper was out on his rounds. And apparently that was quite a feat, because the office was behind a wall, with big double gates, kept strictly locked. And, anyway, there’d have been other staff around – gardeners coming and going, and people working in the glasshouses – who would pounce on any trespassers if they were discovered in the private yard. So, of course, the old boy was completely gobsmacked when he came back in and found a new-born baby by the stove. You were wrapped up in three cardigans, it says – not baby-size, but big, warm, cuddly ones.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Eric, what’s wrong with you today? You’re meant to be a librarian, yet you seem to have forgotten how to read! You haven’t taken in a single thing, as far as I can see.’ Shaking her head in bewilderment, she slumped back against the cushions and took refuge in her wine.

  He was now struggling to control his tears. Those cardigans, the stove, the little haven of the office – all superseding images that could have been so different: naked infant flesh turning slowly blue in a germy metal litter-bin, or decomposing in a clump of thorny shrubs. Mandy had given him treasure; banished his worst fears.

  ‘I … I’ve taken in absolutely everything,’ he managed to stammer out, at last. ‘And, Mandy darling, I just don’t know how to thank you. I’d never have found this article without you.’

  ‘Well, it was dead simple, actually. In fact, I’m completely at a loss to know why you didn’t do it yourself, as soon as you left care – or even years before.’

  No, she couldn’t understand – nor could anyone. ‘Did you go to Park Hill – see the office and everything?’

  ‘No. I was fearfully late by then. I’d promised Beatrice I’d help out in the café and she kept texting me to see where I was. But surely you must know the place, when you’ve lived in Croydon so long.’

  ‘I’ve, er, never actually been there.’

  ‘Why on earth not? Weren’t you curious?’

  Curious – of course – but it came back to the same issue of his mother. Why would she choose to leave him in a recreation ground – such a scrappy, unromantic sort of place? If it had to be outside, then why not Lloyd Park, which was gracious and extensive, or Coombe Wood, with its historic house and grounds? Better not to know, he had invariably concluded.

  ‘But you must have been to Mayday.’

  ‘Never. The only time I landed up in hospital, it was the old Croydon General, to have my tonsils out.’

  ‘Listen, darling’ – Mandy gripped his hand – ‘why don’t we go on a sort of odyssey together? You know, visit Mayday and Park Hill and take lots of photos and collect anything we can for your Precious Box. I’ve already started making the box and I have to say it’s quite a work of art – just you wait and see.’

  As he bent to kiss her, she suddenly leapt up to her feet. ‘Something’s burning, Eric! Either that, or the flat’s on fire.’

  ‘No, it’s not the flat, it’s dinner! Oh, my God – it’ll be charred to a cinder by now!’

  He rushed out to the kitchen, opened the oven, which was belching clouds of smoke, and withdrew the blackened, shrivelled chicken-corpse.

  Yet, as he stared down at the wreckage, he found himself grinning like a loon. They could always feast on trifle, after all. The only thing that mattered at this moment was the fact that his mother had wanted him to live; had braved high walls, locked gates and even possible arrest, to ensure that her beloved son was left somewhere safe and warm.

  chapter twelve

  ‘It’s absolutely nothing like I thought.’ Stopping in his tracks, Eric glanced around at the sweep of grass, stretching as far as the eye could see; the well-established trees and glossy shrubs – a green oasis, tucked peacefully away from the soulless office-blocks. ‘So much larger, for one thing. And nicer altogether – more like a proper park.’

  ‘Well, they changed the name from Park Hill Recreation Ground to Park Hill pure and simple.’ Mandy was busy taking photographs, snapping away from every angle. ‘And you’ll never guess when – 1964 – the very year you were born! I reckon they wanted to upgrade you.’

  He laughed, although the sound was almost jarring in his present state of mind. It was incredibly emotive coming here for the first time in his life – the very place his mother had left him; cutting the cord, for ever. Was it as cold then as today, he wondered, picturing the unhappy girl not only terrified and weakened after the birth, but also frozen stiff? All the years he’d lived here, he’d been desperate to believe that she had deliberately remained in Croydon, so she could watch her son grow up – brushing past him in the street; sitting next to him on the bus; mouthing a silent goodbye as he went into school each morning; a silent hello when he emerged again, at four. And while he’d imagined her observing him, he, too, was seeking her. Any red-haired woman, at least fifteen years his senior, invariably attracted his attention. Could that one be his birth-mother? And should he pretend to trip and fall, so that she would pick him up, console him, reveal herself, at last?

  ‘Look!’ said Mandy. ‘Roses in bloom. Amazing in mid-January!’

  He was tempted to pick one and twine it in her hair – although one would be poor recompense for the sheer trouble she had taken today. She deserved a whole nursery-full of roses, not only for arranging what she called this ‘pilgrimage’, but for coming with him and giving him support. Without her, he would never have found the courage to venture here at all.

  A flurry of seagulls went soaring overhead; their white wings a reproof to the leaden greyness of the sky. Just minutes ago, they had seen a couple of parakeets, and several self-important crows were strutting around, calling to each other with deep-throated, rasping caws.

  ‘It’s almost like a little wildlife sanctuary.’ Mandy took a photo of two squirrels, chasing each other up a tree.

  He nodded, profoundly relieved that he could ditch his long-feared image of some crummy recreation ground and replace it with this charming pleasure-garden. He was also glad it was so central. OK, Lloyd Park might be better known and larger, but it was further away from vital public services, so a tiny infant might well have died while waiting for the ambulance.

  ‘And we seem to have the place to ourselves. I suppose most sensible people are indoors in the warm.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, suddenly anxious on her behalf, ‘we can call a halt now if you’re cold.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it! I want to see absolutely everything, especially the place where you were found. It’s such a shame the actual building was demolished.’

  Not a shame – a tragedy, he felt. Everything connected with his mother should be preserved for ever, as vital monuments.

  ‘Mind you, that Polish guy I spoke to in the Parks Department gave me a pretty good idea of what it used to be like. He hadn’t a clue himself, of course, because he’s only in his twenties. But he made a few enquiries and managed to track down an old chap called Ken, who’d worked at Park Hill as a gardener in the old days, and remembered the original office really well. It was called a bothy, then, apparently, and, although it was fairly basic, the old cast-iron stove made it incredibly warm, Ken said, and could have kept a whole brace of babies alive!’

  ‘Lord!’ He clutched her arm. ‘You mean, he was actually there when I was found?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not. He left in 1963, although, of course, he heard about it later, on the grapevine. But what he couldn’t understand was how your mother ever smuggled you in, in the first place, when the office was barred to the public and behind a high brick wall.’

  Because, thought Eric, I meant so much to her, she was willing to brave anyone and anything – a tiger fighting for its cub.

  ‘Anyway, the present ranger’s office is on roughly the same site, so I’ll take some photos of that, to go in your Precious Box, along with all the rest.’

  Even now, he could
n’t quite believe that she should care enough to remake that box – and remake it in such splendid style: silk-lined, velvet-covered and decorated with glass beads and fabric flowers. The original, he suspected, would have been plain and functional.

  ‘Oh, this must be the walled garden.’ Mandy pushed open a small metal gate beneath a yellow-brick arch. ‘The Polish chap told me it was used for growing medicinal plants. And, look, more flowers in bloom – primula and winter jasmine. I’m sure that’s a hopeful sign, Eric – you know, that spring is on its way, and better times for you.’

  ‘They’re so much better already.’ He stopped to kiss her, as he had been doing all the morning. ‘I can’t tell you what it means that you should involve yourself in all this stuff.’ She probably didn’t realize that, never before, had another human being taken such an interest in his past.

  ‘It’s so quiet in here,’ she whispered, pausing for a moment to listen to a chaffinch tuning up, ‘we could be in the country. Did I tell you this whole area used to be a deer park? And used by the Archbishops of Canterbury, no less, who apparently hunted here for yonks. You’re getting grander by the minute, Eric!’

  ‘Right, that deserves another kiss!’

  ‘Get away! You’ll have to wait till tonight.’

  She pranced off through the gate, he running to catch up with her, and they walked arm in arm up the hilly path. The beeches, birches and cherry trees were now giving place to evergreens and firs, and even a cedar and an impressive-looking monkey-puzzle tree. Yes, he liked the grandeur.

  ‘Hey, there’s the ranger’s office!’ He stopped dead; took in the scene: a flat-roofed, featureless building, positioned beside a long green metal barrier, with a gate set in the middle. ‘Could that be the gate my mother went through?’

  ‘No, the old brick wall was pulled down, and all the buildings behind it, including the bothy, alas. If only the ranger was here, he might have unlocked this entrance for us, so at least we could see the site, but, if you like, we can come back when he’s on duty. What’s important, Eric, is that your mother must have stood here, on this exact same spot, preparing to sneak in with you.’