He shivered at the thought, but, although his hands and feet were numb, his mind was white-hot with emotion, as he pressed close against the barrier, picturing it as a high brick wall and admiring her determination in allowing nothing to stop her. He maintained a solemn silence, to pay homage to her memory, yet wordless words kept forming on his lips; things he longed to say to her: how he understood her desperate situation and how alone she must have felt; how he didn’t blame her; never had and never would, and, if she could bring herself to get in touch, the long gap didn’t matter; they could bridge it in a trice, if she would only seek him out.
His natural inclination was to stay here the whole day, soaking up her traces, communing with her silently, but he was aware of Mandy beside him, stamping her feet to try to warm them up. She must be freezing cold and also ravenous. They’d been out since early morning, first visiting the old wing of Mayday Hospital, and then the streets and houses where his various sets of foster-parents had lived. Mandy had urged him to knock and introduce himself, in case any were still there, but he had resisted the idea. Not only was it more than likely they would have died or moved away, but he had no desire to risk arousing painful memories, and had only gone in the first place because she was so keen to see his home-ground.
‘OK, time for lunch now, Mandy, before you die of hypothermia!’
They strolled back down the hill; his mind still on his mother, wondering by what cunning means she had gained entrance to the bothy, and where she’d gone and what she’d done, once she’d left him there. Was she totally alone in the world? Did she have money or a job? And what about—?
‘Eric, are you sure you don’t want to see Grove End? I mean, if we’re making a record of all your early life, shouldn’t we include it?’
‘No!’ he said, more brusquely than he intended.
‘But it’s been turned into an old folks’ home, so it’ll probably feel less threatening now.’
Determinedly, he shook his head. Whatever the iniquities of foster-care, living in an institution had been infinitely worse – that sense of being a ‘charity’ child, often hungry, always bullied; with nowhere to go in the holidays and nothing much to do except envy all those other kids who could go back to their families for Christmas, or the lucky few who were taken to the seaside in the summer. If he and Mandy visited Grove End, the horrors would surge back: those countless times he’d cried himself to sleep – or failed to get to sleep at all – because a kid in trouble was being brought back late by the cops, or the whole house being searched for some other child who’d gone missing. In fact, the memory alone had rekindled the experience of lying wide awake, while tramping feet and angry voices re-echoed through the corridors. His only consolation then had been the fantasy that he was living in a real home, with a real mother sleeping just across the landing.
‘What about the other place – the Haven?’
‘That was demolished a good ten years ago – thank God!’ However sympathetic Mandy was, there were limits to her understanding. ‘Haven’ was more the word for her own childhood home, where she and all her sisters had each had a room to themselves, and were allowed friends to stay and sleepovers, and where they would invite whole tribes of relatives for big, jolly family Christmases.
‘Well, you just have to show me the library. You can’t say no to that.’
‘I shan’t – don’t worry. The library’s the best place in Croydon, as far as I’m concerned! But how are we doing for time?’
Mandy consulted her watch. ‘Fine. We’re due at Violet’s at three, and it’s almost half-past one now, so if we find somewhere quick for lunch, we should be quite OK.’
‘Let’s settle for a pub, then, and grab a pie and a pint.’ He needed a drink before this next emotional encounter. In fact, he had put up some resistance to the idea of meeting Violet, since it sounded just too highly charged. But Mandy had insisted, on the grounds he needed solid, factual memories, instead of baseless fantasies, to give him a more rooted sense of identity.
None the less, it was all he could do not to order a double Scotch along with his pint of bitter, just to ratchet up his courage.
‘Cheers!’ he said, nudging Mandy’s leg with his, as they sat side by side on the tatty brown banquette, gradually thawing in the fuggy warmth of the pub.
She grimaced, as she inspected her cider. ‘Ugh! This glass is smeary.’
‘Want me to get you another.’
‘No, don’t worry. There’s such a crush at the bar.’
‘It’s funny you like cider,’ he said, letting his hand creep up her thigh. ‘I haven’t touched it since I got filthy drunk on a huge bottle of the stuff. I was barely fourteen and being physically held down by a bunch of kids at Grove End, who forced me into swallowing close on half a gallon.’
‘Honestly, every time you talk about that place, it sounds more like a Borstal! But perhaps I’m just naïve. I mean, I’ve never met anyone before who’s ever been in care. I presume there are fewer of them, anyway, these days, if so many homes have closed?’
‘Well, there must be a good seventy thousand still going through the system. They’re called “looked-after” children now, but that’s really only window-dressing. I’m sure most of them don’t feel properly “looked after” – or “cared for”, come to that.’
‘The whole thing’s so unjust! I mean, from what you say, they need more help than anyone, yet they end up getting zilch.’
‘Yes, but don’t forget some are pretty tough nuts – villains, rather than victims. Although even the victims often end up as villains – ironically, as the result of being in care. And I’m not sure villains is the right word anyway, when you think what a rotten start they’ve had, with parents-from-Hell who neglect them or keep them away from school. Almost no one in care leaves the system with any qualifications.’
‘And yet you got – what was it – nine O-levels? Twice as many as me, yet I had it really easy.’
The difference, he refrained from saying, was that Mandy didn’t need to prove herself. With her secure and loving background, she could afford to be easy-going and unambitious; try her hand at a whole range of different jobs: waitress, nanny, florist, artist’s model. And if none of them worked out – well, she had doting parents to tide her over a tricky patch or support her next venture, be it jewellery-making or speciality cakes.
‘I’ve told you, darling, it was all down to Miss Mays. If she hadn’t kept my nose to the grindstone, I’d have probably landed up on the dole – or worse. It’s not exactly easy to study in a children’s home, let alone revise for exams. There’s so much noise and chaos, and the other kids would punch you up, if they found you with your nose in a book. But I had the refuge of the library and could study there in peace. Miss Mays even supervised my work and set me mock exam-papers, to give me confidence. But, more important still, she treated me like a normal child – one who had feelings and should be taken seriously. And she made it clear that I was worth some time and energy, so I felt I had to make some effort in return.’
‘But I thought you said you were continually moved from pillar to post, so how come you stayed in touch?’
‘Oh, I was only moved within the borough, so she remained a constant. And that meant all the more to me, because the staff at the home seemed to be always coming and going. And, even when they were there, they spent half their time filling in forms, rather than interacting with us kids.’
‘Well, I can’t wait to see where your famous Miss Mays worked. Eat up, darling, then we can get off.’
‘It’s OK, I’ve finished.’ He pushed his plate aside. Today’s emotional rollercoaster had left him with scant appetite.
The cold slapped them in the face as they emerged from the over-heated pub and turned into the High Street, on their way to the town hall.
‘Wow! What a fabulous place.’ Mandy stood gazing up at the Victorian clock-tower and the handsome building adjoining it, with its stained-glass windows and carved stone frieze.
‘Yes, it’s a big Arts Centre now, as well as the new library, but, in my day, the adult library was behind us in Mint Walk. That’s where I worked for twenty years. But the children’s library was here, on the site of the present entrance hall. It’s a pity it’s Sunday, otherwise I could take you in.’ He peered through the locked and barred glass doors, seeing only an empty lobby, but, in his mind, transforming it into a treasure-house of books.
‘It’s funny, I can feel the spirit of Miss Mays still hovering around the place. She used to let me help with little tasks – you know, like sticking date-labels into new stock, or putting books back in their proper places. She’d tell me where they went and why, so I was learning all the time. And sometimes she’d take me upstairs to see Braithwaite Hall, which was the reference library in those days. You can see how grand it is’ – he stepped back a pace or two and pointed to the storey above – ‘just from the outside. But inside it’s even better, with a huge hammer-beam roof and a minstrels’ gallery and stained-glass figures in the windows, depicting high-flown things like “Thought” and “Art” and “Science”. They use it for weddings nowadays, and concerts and what-have-you. But I used to imagine it was my parents’ home and the three of us lived in all that splendour and owned shelves and shelves of leather-bound books, and had troupes of minstrels singing to us non-stop.’
‘Honestly, Eric, you seem to have spent your whole life in a fantasy-world!’
‘Well, it’s often a darned sight better than the real one.’
‘I disagree. In fact, my goal, as far as you’re concerned, is to try and show you that real life can be pretty good.’
‘You’re showing me already. Here, give us a kiss.’
‘Well, only a quickie. We ought to leave for Violet’s now.’
His elation immediately switched to apprehension, which increased to wild proportions as they made their way to Frith Road and found themselves, at exactly 3.01, standing on the well-scrubbed step of a small, neat terraced house.
The door was opened by a spry but elderly woman, with soft, white, thistledown hair and sharp eyes that belied her age.
‘Eric!’ she exclaimed, holding out a welcoming hand. ‘I recognize you by the hair. It’s exactly the same shade as when you were a baby.’
He laughed, relieved that she’d broached the awkward subject straight away. He’d imagined a stressful silence, or endless pussyfooting about, before any of them confronted it.
‘And you must be Mandy. Lovely to meet you both. Do come in and sit down. It’s perishing out there!’
They followed her into a small, chintzy room, overstuffed with furniture and crowded with china ornaments. An old-fashioned gas-fire popped and purred in the hearth, giving off a cosy orange glow.
‘I hope you don’t mind cats?’
‘I love them,’ Eric said, making for the chair already occupied by a well-upholstered tabby, whom he transferred to his lap. Any cat brought a pang of loss for Charlie, but Mandy was already on the lookout for Erica’s new kitten. ‘And Mandy likes them, too.’
‘Well, this is Caesar and he’s seventeen, which is almost older than me!’
They all laughed again, and Eric actually felt himself relax, as he sat stroking Caesar’s fur.
‘We’ll have a cup of tea in a wee while, but I thought we’d get down to business first, since Mandy says you’re very keen to know something about your first few weeks of life.’
‘Well, I have to admit it’s all a bit of a blank.’
‘You’re lucky that I remember it so well.’ Violet settled back in the chair, her thin, blue-veined hands clasped loosely in her lap. ‘But then it was quite a big event, what with the police and the ambulance-men turning up at the hospital, and the old park-keeper at the head of the whole cavalcade, holding you as if you were Baby Jesus Himself! We had quite a job prising you from his arms. Apparently, he’d recently suffered the loss of a grandson, and he obviously saw you as a replacement – sent by God, he claimed. If the police hadn’t intervened, I reckon he would have spirited you off home!’
Eric sat dumbstruck. A whole new life-story was opening up – a doting, elderly park-keeper as Dad.
‘Anyway, you were rushed into the maternity ward, where I happened to be on duty, and my heart went out to you immediately. You were such a dear little thing, with your bright red curls and your big blue eyes looking up at me as I cuddled you.’
‘You … you cuddled me?’
‘Of course. All the time. I knew it was important and, fortunately, you were healthy enough not to have to go into an incubator.’
‘But I thought I was very small.’
‘Well, just under six pounds, but very hale and hearty. Of course, you had all the proper medical tests, and the paediatrician checked you over carefully, to make sure you hadn’t suffered any harm. And he was the one who calculated your approximate date of birth as two days previously.’
‘Yes, February 13 – that’s on my birth certificate.’ A peculiar birth certificate, with no parents’ names or details.
‘He reckoned your mother was probably very young, because teenage mothers tend to have low-weight babies. And the cord had been roughly cut, so she probably gave birth alone, without a midwife in attendance.’
He drew in his breath, the usual pity he felt for his mother intensified still further.
Violet smoothed the skirt of her dress – obviously a ‘best’ dress, put on in their honour. ‘Actually, the park-keeper wasn’t the only one who wanted to take you home. I felt such a bond with you, Eric, that I’m afraid I got quite shirty if anyone looked after you but me. And, even on my days off, I’d come in to see how you were and feel jealous of the staff on duty. You see, I was already in my thirties and unmarried, so I knew I might not have children of my own – which, sad to say, I never did. I suppose a motherless child and a childless mother naturally gravitate towards each other. And you certainly seemed to take to me – far more so than to any of the other nurses. I always got the biggest smiles and coos! Mind you, I had to fight off a fair bit of competition. You’d become the star of the unit. The police had put out an appeal for your mother to come forward, so your story was public knowledge and people began sending in teddy bears and toys and cards and things. One dear old soul – she must have been all of ninety – spent half her pension on a rocking-horse. In fact, you must have had more presents than any baby in the world!’ Violet smiled, remembering. ‘And the older Eric kept turning up, telling anyone who’d listen the story of how he found you and gave you his own name, and how God meant for you to be saved.’
‘Perhaps He did,’ Mandy murmured, almost inaudibly.
Violet reached out to switch on a table-lamp, as the light outside was fading. ‘I knitted you a bear myself, and made it a little hat and scarf. Your foster-parents took it home – Arthur, it was called, after my late father – so maybe you still have it? And the rocking-horse.’
He shook his head. If only. ‘So I stayed in quite a while, then?’
‘Yes, it must have been a good four weeks. They didn’t want to discharge you until you’d put on weight – which didn’t take too long. In fact, I’ll never forget giving you your first bottle. You suckled at a quite frantic rate, then, when you’d finished, you looked around, as if to say, “Yes, that was nice, but how about some more?”’
‘He’s not much different now,’ Mandy laughed.
‘Well, in that case, I’d better fetch the tea. And I could do with a cup myself. I’m not used to talking quite so much!’
Mandy jumped to her feet. ‘Let me help.’
‘No, it’s all prepared. I just need to re-boil the kettle and wheel the trolley in.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Eric offered.
‘What, and disturb poor Caesar? He’d never forgive me. He’s enjoying all that fuss.’
Once Violet had left the room, Mandy came over and squeezed his hand. ‘Aren’t you glad you came?’
He nodded. More than glad – enc
hanted. He now had the crucial knowledge that he’d been pampered, cuddled, fêted, fed – showered with love, in short. Even more important, he’d learned the fact, unknown before, that he’d spent two whole days with his mother.
As they heard the wheels of the tea-trolley trundling along the passage, Mandy jumped apart from his embrace.
‘So when are you two getting married?’ Violet asked, manoeuvring it through the door.
‘He hasn’t asked me yet,’ Mandy said, with a mischievous grin.
He stared at her, confused. Had she told Violet they were engaged? Was she expecting a proposal? Surely not, when they’d known each other less than a month.
‘No, we’re just good friends,’ Mandy added, ‘as the celebrities tend to say!’
‘Well, Eric is a celebrity. Look, here’s a picture from The Times, no less.’ Violet took a yellowed press cutting from the lower shelf of the trolley and held it out to them. It showed a picture of a young, slender, dark-haired nurse, holding a surprised-looking infant, swaddled in a shawl. ‘You were a bit thrown that day, bless you, with all the photographers milling round and the flashbulbs making you jump. It was quite an event for me, as well. I had my hair done specially. It’s not often that I get to meet the Press.’
He took the cutting from her, handling it with reverence. This was an original – faded, tattered, flimsy – and thus more precious than a printout.
‘Pity it’s not in colour. Then you could see your hair. It’s most unusual, you know, for babies to be born with bright red hair. Future redheads are normally blond, as infants, or with just a reddish tint. And you had these brilliant blue eyes, like—’
‘I always thought they were rather pale and boring.’
‘Get away with you! You were a really bonny baby – everybody remarked on it. And, look, more cuttings here – from the Telegraph, the Mail and the Express.’
Broken Places Page 15