by Daisy Styles
Minutes later, she ran into the family cottage, out of breath and bedraggled, barely noticing what a stinking hovel her old home was in comparison with her clean, bright new home on the Lancashire moors. Kit feverishly cast about the room, but could see no sign of Billy. Frantic and trembling, she barged into the bedroom she’d shared with her sister, where she saw with horror that the drawer that Billy had slept in was now back in its original place.
‘Billy!’ she cried, hoping still that there could be an innocent explanation. Billy must be too big for the drawer now, she told herself; they must have got a crib for him. But where was he? There was no sign of his things either, not a bottle or a toy or even a dirty nappy. And where was Rosie, who had urged her to come? She wouldn’t have told her to return if there was nothing wrong. At that point the fear and tension she’d felt ever since she’d received her sister’s terrifying letter overwhelmed her and, unable to control herself, she began to scream, ‘BILLY! BILLY!’
Her sister came tearing into the cottage. ‘He’s not here, Kit!’ she exclaimed.
Kit whirled round on her. ‘WHAT?’
‘I’m so sorry – he’s not here,’ Rosie repeated, looking wretched.
Before she could offer any kind of explanation, Mr Murphy came rampaging into the cottage, where with a blow he knocked Rosie to the floor before turning to hit out at Kit. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he bellowed. ‘What the ’ell do you want?’
Suddenly Kit wasn’t frightened of her father. The experience of leaving home and working as a Bomb Girl in the Phoenix Munitions Factory, filling fuses for bombs and explosives that were vital for the war effort, had matured her. And for the first time in her life she saw her father for what he really was: a mean, dirty, blustering bully. Looking him straight in the eye she said, ‘Where is my son?’
Murphy hit her twice across the face, but Kit held her place, her voice icily calm. ‘Where is he?’
Kit would have taken as many beatings as it needed to get the information she wanted out of him, but her poor mother, gasping for breath and coughing up blood, put an end to her husband’s repeated slaps.
‘He’s taken Billy to the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin,’ she gasped.
‘Shut up, woman!’ Murphy roared.
Kit’s mother, like herself, was beyond fear; she knew her days were numbered. If she died as a result she was determined that her daughter would know the truth.
‘He’s after having the child adopted,’ she wheezed.
Kit’s legs literally gave way beneath her. Grasping hold of the back of a chair for support, she looked from her mother to her sister. ‘It can’t be true?’ she cried.
She’d heard of babies being taken at birth to the Sisters of Mercy, new-borns who never saw their mothers again. Surely her father, however drunk he was, would never do such a thing to her and Billy? When she saw the tears brimming in her sister’s eyes, her stomach knotted and her heartbeat quickened in terror. With a tense nod Rosie said quickly, ‘You’d better get yourself to the convent right away. You might just be in time to stop it.’
Kit needed no further encouragement. Hoping to God she wasn’t already too late, she grabbed her belongings, nodded her thanks to her sister and raced back through the door, praying she wouldn’t have to wait too long for the bus back to Dublin.
It was difficult not to notice a new lightness in Violet’s step; she walked as if a burden had been lifted from her.
‘God forgive me for how I feel about anybody’s death,’ she thought to herself.
Though still grieving for her former Wood End neighbours, nothing could stop Violet from feeling an intoxicating giddy relief at the loss of Ronnie, combined with a sense of growing hope that crept through her body, making her feel like she was a woman reborn.
It didn’t surprise her that Ronnie had come to a bad end, and she couldn’t bring herself to feel any sadness about him. She’d seen first-hand the kind of characters he was dealing with: profiteering scum of the earth getting rich on the backs of hard-working men and women living through a harsh war on the bread line. Ronnie had regularly invited the ring leaders into her own home, where they played cards, smoked and drank till dawn; more than once she’d found one of them in her own bed, having sex with a prostitute. She knew Ronnie had a gun and a couple of flick knives; he’d showed them off to her, threatening to cut her if she told anybody about his business. Well, now a gun had been turned on him; there was no way he could have survived that bombing raid. Never again could he hit her or force himself on her, or mock and jeer at her. She wished it hadn’t had to take his death to bring that about, but the honest truth was Ronnie’s death was the start of a whole new life for her.
After a long afternoon shift, Violet lay in a rather tepid bath, wondering if she should share her news with Gladys and Kit, and Arthur too. She didn’t want to deceive them but neither did she want to relive the past. What was the point of digging up disgusting and degrading memories, which she’d much rather forget? ‘And what will they think of my feeling such relief that he’s been killed,’ she thought, the guilt returning. As she soaped her long slender arms and legs, she knew that she would keep her secret of those nightmare years in Coventry and move on. God had given her another chance, a clean sheet, finally to live the life she really wanted.
13. Billy
Kit somehow managed to keep her wits sufficiently about her to trace the Sisters of Mercy to Duke Street. On the slow journey back into Dublin, she’d forced herself to stay calm and think straight. Surely the nuns couldn’t put her child up for adoption without her consent? Weak and dizzy as she was after not eating or sleeping for over twenty-four hours, Kit steeled herself to concentrate.
‘Everything depends on me coming over as a strong woman capable of bringing up my own child, so don’t go in all guns blazing,’ she scolded herself.
After impatiently ringing the convent bell, she was admitted by a young nun into a gloomy parlour that was dominated by scenes of the Passion of Christ. Pacing the room, Kit waited for the Mother Superior, who appeared wearing a long black habit and a starched winged wimple. A heavy gold crucifix dangled from a gold chain around her neck.
‘Welcome, child. I am Mother Gabriel; how may I help you?’ she asked softly.
At the sound of her gentle voice, Kit burst into tears. ‘Is my son, Billy Murphy, here with you?’ she sobbed.
‘Yes, Billy’s here,’ she answered calmly.
‘My father brought him to you without my permission,’ Kit said as she took deep breaths and wiped away her tears. ‘Billy belongs to me.’
Seeing Kit so distraught, Mother Gabriel called for tea, then settled the weeping girl in a high-backed wooden chair. As she poured tea into fine china cups, she added, ‘Your father produced no birth certificate; he just said he was the child’s father.’
Kit sipped gratefully at the hot sweet tea, the first thing that had passed her lips in twenty-four hours.
‘He’s my son; he was born out of wedlock after I was raped.’ She then listed the bald facts for the Mother Superior. ‘Mi da forced me to work in England. He said he would look after Billy if I sent money home every week, and I have,’ she added angrily. ‘I’ve never once failed to send him money and look what he’s done in return.’
‘He told me he could no longer bring the child up on his own,’ Mother Gabriel informed Kit.
‘The lying pig!’ Kit cried, then quickly covered her mouth. ‘I beg your pardon, Mother Superior.’
Mother Gabriel smiled as she poured more tea. ‘I’ve heard a lot worse than that in this room, believe me.’
‘Mi poor ma’s dying, so she can’t do much, but mi sister, Rosie, would always look after Billy,’ Kit explained. ‘But I want to take him back to England with me,’ she quickly added. ‘There are nurseries on the factory site where I work; babies are taken care of there whilst their mothers build bombs. I want to take Billy back to England with me,’ she said again desperately.
‘There’s no doubting your
commitment, my child,’ the softly spoken nun said. ‘But your father said he thought the child would have a better quality of life in America –’
Aflame with shock and indignation, Kit sprang to her feet. ‘AMERICA!’ she cried incredulously.
‘Calm yourself,’ Mother Gabriel said as she indicated that Kit should sit back down again. ‘We have a great many adoptive parents in America,’ she informed a stunned Kit. ‘They are generous with their donations to the convent, money which in part is passed on to the mother or the father seeking adoption for their child. A fine healthy boy like Billy would bring a good price.’
Kit felt all the blood drain from her body before an anger she had never experienced before flooded through her, to the point where she could barely breath. ‘A GOOD PRICE?’ she spluttered.
With a look of regret in her eyes, the nun nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I can see this is a shock. But the truth is, your father signed the adoption papers in this very room. I countersigned them and we already have a wealthy young couple in New York keen to see Billy. I don’t honestly know what I can do for you.’
Feeling like she was in the middle of a bad dream, Kit frantically shook her head. This couldn’t be happening. ‘But … but,’ she stumbled on, ‘I’m his mother! There must be something I can do.’
Mother Gabriel answered firmly, ‘My dear child, the matter is well out of our hands. I’m sorry, but the papers are all signed.’
The room swayed and the china cup she was grasping fell from Kit’s hands and shattered on the parquet floor. ‘This isn’t happening,’ she half sobbed. ‘It makes no sense that you can push me to one side just because mi da’s a filthy rotten liar and a fine young couple in New York are rich enough to buy my son!’ she finished scathingly.
Mother Gabriel looked genuinely sad. ‘Your absence was your downfall; if you’d been here things might not have gone so far.’ Rising to her feet, she extended her hand to Kit. ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing further I can do.’
Knowing she was being politely asked to leave, Kit grasped the nun’s cool hand. ‘I beg you, for the love of God, let me see him at least.’
‘He’s asleep in the nursery,’ Mother Gabriel replied, frowning.
‘I won’t disturb him,’ Kit begged. Seeing a look of alarm pass across the Mother Superior’s face, Kit quickly added, ‘I won’t touch him … please just let me see my little boy for the last time,’
Mother Gabriel held Kit’s pleading gaze for a few seconds. The least she could do was to let this desperate, bedraggled young woman see her child for the last time.
‘Follow me,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you to Sister Clare.’
Stumbling down the dark corridors, too shocked to think of anything beyond her urgent need to see her baby boy, Kit eventually reached a window that gave on to the nursery. Her eyes scanned the few cots arranged around the room, and then she saw her own little Billy peacefully sleeping in a pretty blue-quilted cot. Her stomach lurched with a primeval urge to snatch him up and never let him out of her sight again. Her eyes raked along the length of him as she greedily took in every single detail of his beloved face and body.
‘My son,’ she breathed. ‘My darling boy,’ she sighed as she leant against the window, which steamed up with her breath.
Seeing her face pressed to the glass, the nun in charge of the nursery came out to greet her.
‘I’m Billy’s mother,’ Kit quickly told her. Pointing to Billy in his cot, she added with a catch in her voice, ‘He’s my little boy.
Sister Clare smiled kindly. ‘I can see that, for sure, he’s the spit of you with his black hair and dark eyes.’ Seeing tears well up in the heartbroken young mother’s eyes, she added brightly, ‘He’s grown. He’s doing well. Would you be after giving the little lad a cuddle?’ Sister Clare asked with a gentle smile.
Kit’s eyes opened wide. ‘Could I?’ she gasped. ‘Really hold him?’
‘For sure,’ the young nun said as she pushed open the nursery door and led Kit to Billy’s cot.
Desperate not to disturb his innocent sleep, Kit gently lifted Billy into her arms, and in that split second of holding him, of inhaling the sweet, clean smell of him, she felt for just a few seconds the sheer ecstasy of owning him.
‘Remember this,’ she said to herself.
Closing her eyes at the intense longing that threatened to overwhelm her, she felt the soft weight of him in her arms and listened to his steady breathing as he snuffled closer to her. Opening her eyes, she marvelled at how much bigger he was. Sister Clare was right: he had grown and his silky hair was longer too.
‘All the days I’ve missed with him,’ she mourned. ‘Happy days watching him grow, teaching him his first baby words, always being there for him with a kiss and a smile.’
Remembering Sister Clare beside her, Kit murmured, ‘He seems content.’
‘He is now, thanks be to God,’ Sister Clare replied. ‘You should have seen the state of the poor child when he arrived in rags and covered in excrement; his hair was matted and he had lice.’
Gazing at Billy’s beautiful black eyelashes curling on his rosy pink cheeks and his tiny white hands with clean pearly pink nails, Kit could hardly believe she was hearing right.
‘LICE!’ she cried in horror.
‘Crawling with the things,’ Sister Clare retorted. ‘I’m sorry to say he’d been dreadfully neglected, Miss Murphy; any longer with that father of yours and the child would be dead for sure.’
Hot scalding tears coursed down Kit’s face. Not only had she abandoned her son when he was tiny, she’d allowed him to be maltreated and neglected. What must the poor little boy have gone through in her absence? Slumped against the wall, she realized she owed the convent a great debt.
‘Thank you, sister, for taking care of my Billy.’
Seeing the abject agony the young mother was in, Sister Clare’s heart melted in pity for her.
‘You know,’ she started hesitantly, ‘you should think about seeking legal advice, Miss Murphy.’
Kit’s dark brown eyes locked with her blue ones, hope sparking in her heart.
‘I don’t know much about the law, miss, but I would make inquiries when you get back to England.’
‘But Billy’s adoption papers are here,’ Kit said frantically. ‘And I can’t wait that long; I’ve got to stop this right now. By the time I’ve made inquiries in England, Billy could be on his way to America!’ Her heart almost stopped at the horrific thought. ‘I don’t know what to do!’ she wailed, causing the sleeping child to throw up his arms.
Sister Clare wagged a finger at Kit. ‘Now, don’t go upsetting yourself,’ she advised. ‘One thing’s for sure, adoptions don’t happen fast. They go back and forth and back and forth between the Mother Superior and the convent’s legal adviser, Mr O’Rourke. I know that for sure, because I’ve hand-delivered enough to the man myself.’
Seeing the young mother gripping Billy and wondering if it had been a mistake to let her into the nursery in the first place, Sister Clare continued calmly, ‘The best thing you can do is go home and see if you can find a loophole in the contract.’
‘A loophole?’ Kit repeated the word hesitantly.
The young nun nodded. ‘It’s a word I’ve heard bandied about between the Mother Superior and Mr O’Rourke in the parlour,’ she said as she looked rather pleased with herself. ‘Get yourself a top-notch adoption lawyer – no matter what it costs. And fight for your little boy. He should be with you, I can see that,’ she added kindly.
Kit held her head high. The little nun was right: Billy should be with her.
‘I can pay for a good lawyer,’ she announced. ‘I saved every penny I didn’t send home for Billy. I’ll hire the best,’ she replied firmly.
Returning her gaze to her beautiful boy, who was by now stirring in his mother’s arms, she squeezed him hard, trying to give him in a single hug all the love she had for him, to keep him safe and protected until she could return and claim him as her own.
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‘I have to say goodbye, darling Little Man’, she whispered, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Lay him down in the cot,’ Sister Clare said softly as she drew Kit away. ‘I promise I’ll take the best care of him,’ she added reassuringly.
As she was led away, Kit allowed herself one more glance back at her beloved boy. ‘I’ll come back for you, my love,’ she whispered. ‘I promise I’ll take you home and keep you by me forever.’
14. Plans
Back at the Phoenix factory, Arthur Leadbetter was in turmoil. He’d virtually fallen in love at first sight with Violet, but he’d been initially rash in his judgement, assuming he could approach her as he would any other woman. Not that Arthur had had many girlfriends: he’d always had high standards and was particular about what he liked in a girl. Violet certainly lived up to all his expectations, but she was a tricky one, like a shadow the way she came and went. At least these days, after several patient months of holding back, Violet now spoke to him, and the other night she’d even allowed him to walk her home, which Arthur considered real progress. He often wondered who had damaged her so much and what had happened in her past to make her so skittish and timid. As these thoughts raced around inside his head, Arthur started self-consciously when Violet walked into the filling shed with Gladys by her side. He stared at her beautiful face, which was looking less tense and preoccupied these days. What had brought about the change in her?
‘Morning, Arthur!’ she called cheerily. ‘When are you going to show me this secret garden of yours that Ivy keeps going on about?’
Her enthusiastic words were music to his ears.
‘Any time you want,’ he said, slightly taken aback.
‘At the end of my shift?’ she suggested.
Arthur desperately tried to hide a smile when he caught the stunned expression on Gladys’s face.
‘What’s happened to Violet?’ she whispered as she passed him by.