The Adoption

by Anne Berry

  ‘She might be your real daughter,’ he said after she left last week. ‘She’s a bonny lass, Mother. And she loves your homely ways, cooking and sewing. It’s a rare pleasure to see the two of you, industrious as beavers bustling about the house, visions of womanly serenity.’

  He left me to make the tea and went back to his columns of figures humming a tuneful hymn, ‘For All the Saints’. Lucilla was sitting hunched on the stairs when I came out with the tray. She was moping as usual. ‘What are you sitting there for, face like the back of a bus?’ I asked.

  She shrugged and wrinkled her nose as if smelling something offensive. Then, ‘Where does Barbara live?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘You didn’t finish your tea,’ I accused, sidetracking.

  ‘I don’t like macaroni cheese,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s all stodgy.’

  ‘I’m glad Barbara didn’t hear you say that,’ I told her, now thoroughly out of sorts. ‘She made it herself. I thought it was extremely tasty. And wasn’t the parsley sprinkled on top such a clever idea? She’s going to be a wonderful cook. Why are you still wearing your school uniform?’ In the rush I’d forgotten to send her upstairs to change when she got home from school.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said routinely.

  ‘Sorry doesn’t butter parsnips,’ I retorted.

  ‘I’ll change in a minute. Where does Barbara live? Where’s her mummy and daddy? She doesn’t talk about them.’ She was dogged. She shrugged her arms inside her grey school cardigan and flexed them.

  ‘Don’t do that. You’ll stretch the sleeves out of shape. Let me give your father his tea and then I’ll tell you.’

  When I returned she was still sitting on the stairs in the same place. ‘Barbara doesn’t have a mummy or a daddy. She’s not lucky like you. She lives in a children’s home.’

  Her expression lifted immediately and her hands reappeared at the ends of her cardigan sleeves. ‘A home with nothing but children in it?’ she said perkily. ‘No adults? None at all?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Lucilla. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys only happen in those stories you keep filling your head with. Barbara lives at Saint Teresa’s, the children’s home. You know the one. Not more than a half-hour’s walk. They have aunties there, nuns who look after lots of children. It is very difficult because she has to share the aunties. You’re lucky. You have a mother all to yourself.’

  ‘Oh.’ It peeved me to see Lucilla taking her good fortune for granted like this. Almost as if she’d prefer not to have a mother. Ingratitude! She personifies ingratitude some days. She has no concept of how favoured she has been, how she could have grown up in a home as well. We’ll have to tell her the truth soon. Merfyn keeps prevaricating. But she ought to know. It seems to become tougher to talk about it as the years go by. And, of course, it will be a dreadful blow. She might take a while to recover from it. She will be distraught learning that I’m not her actual mother, that Merfyn isn’t her actual father. We shan’t tell her about the German. That really would be cruelty. But for the rest, ah yes, the day is coming.

  ‘Barbara wants you to go and visit her some time. Play. You could take Rachel and Frank. Make an outing of it.’

  ‘OK,’ she said without much enthusiasm.

  We could hear the dog’s bowl sliding on the lino floor in the kitchen as he licked it hopefully. ‘Do you think you could be friends, you and Barbara?’

  ‘I s’ppose,’ she said, sounding unconvinced.

  Barbara will undoubtedly be a positive influence on Lucilla. She may even bring about the transformation that we have failed so blatantly to do thus far. Lead by example. ‘I’d like you to be best friends, you and Barbara. She may come to live with us, you know.’ She yanked on the collar of her grey and white checked shirt, uncertainty writ large on her transparent face. I worked harder to persuade her. ‘She could be your sister.’ She stood up and bit a fingernail uneasily. ‘I’ve told you not to do that. I’ll paint your fingers with that bitter medicine if I see it again!’ She snatched her hand away from her mouth and I saw that it was ink-stained. One fawn knee-length sock was rumpled around her ankle. And the leather of her brown shoes looked scuffed and dull. She was sorry sight. Hands on hips, I sighed my frustration. She had her school beret in her hand and now she pulled it down over her head like a swimming hat. I felt my temper rising. ‘Lucilla,’ I prompted, ‘what do you think of that? Of Barbara coming to live here?’ She shrugged indifferently. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, do take that thing off your head.’ She obliged and the static in her hair caused it to rise up and then settle in snarls. Radio music reached us, Joe Loss with Betty Dale and the Blue Notes singing ‘Boo Hoo’. Merfyn called me to pour the tea. ‘You’d have to share a bedroom, mind,’ I cautioned.

  ‘I don’t think I should like that,’ she muttered, stonily.

  ‘Well, you might have to settle to it,’ I told her, thirsting for that cup of tea, and being glad of the excuse to end this unsatisfactory têteà-tête. I brooded on things for most of the evening, crunching down in my tribulation on jagged pieces of slab toffee, and making such a rumpus that Merfyn complained. In plain, Barbara is everything Lucilla isn’t. She is the daughter I have always wanted, I have always dreamed of having. Lucilla hasn’t worked out after all. The trial, and believe me that’s what it’s been, a trial, is over. Maintaining the pretence that we are a happy family can be terribly wearing. Merfyn would be horrified if he knew how often I’ve fantasised about taking her back, dumping her unceremoniously on the doorstep of the Church Adoption Society, with a placard tied round her neck that read, ‘This child was not as advertised. She has not come up to the standards promised. Please take her back from whence she came.’ The nuisance of her seems to increase with every passing week.

  And she isn’t in the peak of health either, as they had us believe. We were duped. She has earaches constantly, earaches of such severity that she winds up in Great Ormond Street Hospital. She was five when she had the first attack. They sent us straight to St Bartholomew’s. When the doctor said we had to take her to a hospital I was stunned. Such a palaver for an earache, for goodness’ sake. Surely a few drops of oil of cloves would do the trick, I protested. But no, off we had to go. She was in there for three weeks. Three weeks! I mean to say, the inconvenience of it. But he insisted, saying it was very serious, that she needed these new fangled penicillin injections. They put her in a ladies ward and she made such a din, holding her head and crying and crying. She was giving me earache, let me tell you. I was so embarrassed. The nurse asked if there was a history of ear infections in either of our families. I was offended by the aspersion.

  ‘No such thing,’ I informed her vigorously. ‘I have a very strong constitution and so does my husband.’ Between us, Lucilla, the epitome of a sickly waif, howled her discomfort. This was the forerunner of many infections. She’s been admitted to hospital four times. The doctor says she has a predilection for ear infections. A congenital weakness if you like. Well, I don’t like it at all. I thought she was perfect. That’s what they told us. Recommended for adoption. This is the very thing that gave me pause when Merfyn had his brainwave. He sold it to me, made it seem so attractive, the ideal solution to completing our childless marriage. Back then I was concerned. Now? Depressing is how I view the future.

  I realise with her condition that I should exercise restraint when it comes to boxing her ears. But she so riles me I can’t stop myself. I whipped her with the dog lead last week. I wasn’t having any more of her backchat, so I thrashed her with it and locked her in the cellar. It must have done some good because after I let her out she was a veritable angel. Merfyn says we must keep trying with her, making an effort. But, the other day, I came upon her kissing a boy behind the hedge of her junior school. I was so ashamed. If she behaves like this at primary school, what are we going to have to deal with when she starts at the secondary modern in a few months? When I interrogated her, the excuse she offered was that she wanted to know what it felt like. How do you dis
cipline a child who says such evil things? I clouted her and sent her to her room. But no punishment seems to have any effect. And this business of trousers, she won’t give up on it. I don’t believe I’ll ever make a lady of her.

  It’s because of how she’s turned out that I want to adopt Barbara. She’s grown up properly, respectful, accommodating. She won’t just slip into our lives, she’ll augment them. She adores sewing besides. We are making a dress together, a project I thought would bring us closer. She said that she was happy for me to choose the fabric and pattern, that she trusted my taste. Well, I was so pleased. I chose a bombazine, the design, blue and green squares criss-crossed with fine red lines. And for the pattern, full-skirted, a fitted bodice and a wide lapel collar. It’s all pinned in place and ready to cut out. Barbara says that she can’t wait. I want her to come with us to a temperance meeting. I told her all about them and she said that she would love to, that she thought she’d like the activities. I don’t foresee her spending most of the evening doing penance outside in the street.

  She likes to make an effort with her appearance. We spend long hours brushing her hair. We tried braiding it with a pretty chiffon scarf the other day and, although it was fiddly, agreed that the effect was worthwhile. I am also teaching her all my recipes. We made a lemon drizzle cake that Merfyn couldn’t stop praising. He very nearly finished it off at one sitting. She rolls up her sleeves and gives me a hand with the cleaning. She says she likes the smells: Mansion floor polish, Sunlight soap, Bluebell metal polish, Min cream, Kelso, even Shanks porcelain cleanser, bless her.

  ‘I like bringing up the brass until it gleams like gold, Mrs Pritchard,’ she says, buffing the polish off my round-top brass table. She washes the kitchen floor, puts the carpet sweeper over the rug, wipes down the fridge, gives the Mainamel cooker a scrub as if she’s in utopia. She loves curling up with a real book, Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Lucilla’s barely glanced at it. It’s not a story, she protested when I gave it to her. Strewth! We sit together doing embroidery, while Lucilla begs me to let her go haring about outside. There’s only one snag. Barbara seems to have something of a phobia about dogs. When we told her that we had pet, a mongrel, the colour drained from her face and her pallor went a shade of milky green, an indicator of how queasy she felt.

  ‘Oh, I don’t like animals, Mrs Pritchard. Really I don’t,’ she said. She’ll have to stop calling me Mrs Pritchard soon.

  ‘Oh, but you won’t mind our dog. He’s called Scamp. We bought him for Lucilla from Pentonville Market,’ Merfyn elaborated. ‘You’ll soon get used to him.’

  ‘No. No, I won’t! They make me come over all peculiar.’ She shivered out the words. We were walking in the gated courtyard of the home. But then she halted and shrank away from us, as if somehow we carried the taint of Scamp on our clothes.

  ‘Oh, he’s terribly friendly. He hasn’t bitten anyone.’ As Merfyn spoke he laid a calming hand on her quaking shoulder. But he had said the wrong thing.

  Barbara cringed. ‘Nasty creatures. I can’t stand to think of the dirty fur and sharp teeth.’ She was breathing rapidly and we could both see that she wasn’t putting it on. Unlikely as it is, the girl is petrified of dogs. We coaxed her over to a wooden bench and sat her down.

  ‘Now don’t go upsetting yourself,’ I quietened her. ‘It’s easy enough for us to shut the dog up when you come to the house.’

  ‘That’s right, Mother,’ placated Merfyn. ‘We’ll put him in the front room or in the garden.’ Sandwiched between us she nodded, her expression grim.

  ‘We’ll tell Lucilla that you’re scared of dogs. She’ll understand,’ I promised. It was autumn and the leaves were falling. The sky was a heavy battleship grey. Sitting there with the daughter who was perfect, all but for the phobia of dogs, I had a twinge, a misgiving.

  Barbara raised her head and found my eyes, her own bleak, her complexion now pale and clammy. She smoothed back a pigtail. There were other children from the home playing skipping games and catch. Their voices chimed together like a chorus of bells. Beyond the gates that gave the building, however grand the stucco facade, the atmosphere of a prison, traffic lumbered by. ‘If I come though,’ she uttered querulously when at last she could speak, ‘if I come and stay, if I come and live in your home, you will get rid of it.’ She licked her dry lips and inhaled unsteadily. ‘You will get rid of the dog, send it away.’

  I glanced from her to Merfyn. We both knew that no person on earth would persuade Lucilla to part with her dog. ‘Well dear,’ I consoled her patting her back, ‘we can organise that later, can’t we? Let’s see how we go on?’

  ‘Mother knows best,’ Merfyn joked, weakly.

  She scratched her eyebrow and I could tell that she was pondering our offer against the threat of the dog. ‘All right,’ she assented, timidly. She was wearing a smart button-over brown tweed coat. Her hand grappled for the belt buckle and she seemed to hang on to it.

  ‘Well done,’ said Merfyn, getting up and moving so that he faced her. ‘That’s my brave girl.’

  ‘I’m not really, and I shan’t ever be able to live in a house with a dog running free. But I’ll come, if you swear I won’t have to be near it.’

  Merfyn nodded and gave her a hand up. And after that she did seem to rally somewhat. No, it was me who felt despondent as we walked back. I glanced over my shoulder once. Barbara had melted into a crowd of girls, each taking turns to jump the skipping rope two of them were swinging. I thought I spotted her head, taller than the rest, moving among the throng. In that brief glimpse I also saw a girl with gingery curls, and a thin girl, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. I wondered about them as well, if they might be a safer bet, if they didn’t mind dogs. Should we have another go? Tell Barbara it was we who had changed our minds. It could go on forever. Perhaps, I reflected, as we strolled up Leicester Road, I was being unduly pessimistic. Didn’t matter what she said, she was only a child. She hadn’t handled a dog, that was all. If Scamp was the only stumbling block I wouldn’t have hesitated to rehome him – but for Lucilla.

  ‘What if she doesn’t get over it?’ I said. ‘What if the dog is a real problem?’

  ‘Oh, Mother, don’t be so negative. We’re new to her, and she’s new to us.’ Merfyn linked his arm through mine. ‘You like her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’ I adjusted my hat. ‘I want it to go well, for her to feel part of the family, that’s all.’

  ‘And it will,’ Merfyn insisted. ‘You know Barbara may be the very thing our family needs, Mother. A friend for Lucilla, especially now she’s growing up, and a companion for you. She’s a reliable down-to-earth sort, apart from the hitch with the dog. But, mark my words, a month or so down the line and she’ll be walking Scamp with Lucilla, and rowing with her over who is going to scratch his tummy.’

  I so wanted it to be a success. I wanted Barbara to be the right one, the one we should have got in first place. I’d work on her dress that evening and I’d have it ready for the next temperance meeting. I’d make sure that she was the star of it, that she was noticed. At least with her she was ready-made. We could see what we were getting. We had a lot in common. I felt a kinship and I had a hunch that she did too.

  ‘This daughter, our Barbara, is going to be a tick in the credit column,’ I told Merfyn with a proud smile. He held my eyes for a moment and then we both looked away. I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same. Lucilla was a cross in the debit column.

  Chapter 19

  Lucilla, 1959

  SHE IS WATCHING Crackerjack when the visitor calls, sitting at the dining table, which has been laid up for tea. On the lighted screen there are three children standing on a block of wood, while Eamonn Andrews quizzes them. The skinny boy with the sticking-up hair, who she thought was going to win, gives an incorrect answer. He is presented with a cabbage. Lucilla is having a fit of laughter when she hears the doorknocker.

  ‘Folks coming for tea. Folks comi
ng for tea,’ her mother cheep-cheeps. She bustles from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, keeping up the repetitive bird cry all the way to the front door. Although Eamonn Andrews has her ear, Lucilla does strain from the muffled voices that her parents are penning up Scamp in the front room. The guest, inexplicably, doesn’t like dogs. It is the Barbara girl coming for tea again and she doesn’t like dogs. How can anyone not like dogs? Lucilla conjectures, astonished. How can anyone not worship Scamp? Why, he is all wagging tail and licks and bounces. He is a crumpet-hot smile on four furry legs.

  Then her mother and her father enter and stand with Barbara between them. She is done up like a birthday cake, Lucilla observes. She studies her dress critically. It is gathered at the waist and the frilly white petticoat can be glimpsed underneath the skirt. There are buttons that look like sugar icing flowers down the front of the bodice, which is trimmed with yards of lace. The collar and the bell sleeves are also adorned with lace. The fabric is a deep pink printed in coloured balloons. Lucilla imagines a hoop of birthday candles sticking out of Barbara’s head, and thinks they would look like a matching accessory. Maddened that her programme is being interrupted, she is visited by a vision. Candles burning down and setting that abundant brown hair alight. The corners of her lips turn up. All this comes to her in a blink.

  ‘Lucilla, Barbara’s here.’ Her parents speak in unison as though they have been rehearsing. ‘Say hello.’

  ‘Hello.’ Robotically, Lucilla does as she is instructed, though her turquoise eyes are on the television that her mother is about to switch off.