Alice shook her head.
“Right, that’s first, then I want to know about the father and what he’s going to do to help.”
In her mind’s eye Alice saw fragments of Rupert’s face, his mouth flashing in front of her, his eyes wild as he straddled her, laughing as if it were a joke. She felt so ashamed, and she didn’t know what was worse: that she’d let it happen, or that she’d believed his lies and thought she was the only one.
Penny said, “Ah, was he someone at work . . . the one you told me about?”
Alice nodded and kept on nodding; she couldn’t stop.
“It’s okay, Alice, it’s okay.” Penny moved a comforting hand to Alice’s shoulder until she grew still again.
From the corner of her eye, Alice noticed the young serviceman stand up to leave, the other diners glancing in their direction. Penny followed her gaze and then turned back to Alice. “Don’t you worry about them—they’ve seen everything there is to see. And they’re friends.” She smiled. “I’m taking you upstairs for a bath and some rest, and I bet you need a cold compress and some cabbage leaves. Then we’re going to talk about what we’re going to do.”
“So, it’s still all right for me to stay, then?”
“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just . . .” Alice dropped her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Her humiliation felt as visible as her grubby clothes, and she worried Penny could see it too—and that Michael wouldn’t approve when he found out why she was there.
“No one should have been through what you have, Alice, no one. You can stay here as long as you want. And you must say if there’s anything you need, anything at all we can do to help.”
“I will . . . and thank you.” It was as if a weight had lifted, and Alice knew it had been the right thing to come here.
Penny was still shaking her head. “It’s horrific. Truly horrific. I can’t believe your mother could be so cruel. Are you sure the police can’t do anything more?”
“They said it will take time—there are so many missing people. They told me to be patient and not try to do anything myself.”
“And of course you’re going to ignore them,” Penny said with a small smile. “So, where are you going to start?”
“Well, where would you go if you desperately wanted a baby?”
Penny looked aghast. “The adoption agency—I think they’re called the National Children Adoption Association.”
“Yes.” They would have records, and perhaps she could learn the names of couples the agency had rejected, those who might have turned to another source to find a baby.
“You can borrow Michael if you need to pretend to be married,” Penny said earnestly, “don’t worry about that.”
That hadn’t crossed Alice’s mind, but it was something to remember if doing things this way didn’t work, and Penny’s gentle giant of a husband would agree to be involved.
“Thanks very much,” said Alice. “For now, I just need to find their address.”
“That’s easy, it’s in the newspaper. They often have adverts in the classifieds section. And they always break my heart.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any papers, have you?” If Alice had a copy of the Daily Mail, she might be able to find the advert her mother had described.
“Sure, over there.” She pointed to a wooden rack near the window. “You take a look while I get the kids in, then we’re taking you upstairs.”
“That sounds good.” Alice squeezed Penny’s hand. “And thank you.”
Alice examined the papers from cover to cover but couldn’t find an advertisement for the National Children Adoption Association or a notice for private adoption. She was ready to give up when she found a group of adverts in the classified section.
Wanted—a baby-lover to adopt a baby girl; love only. Slough.
Offered for Adoption—month-old baby girl. All rights forfeited. Contact PO Box 575, Guardian Office.
His Job Is to Find a Baby Girl
WANTED—a baby girl for adoption by English people in Ecuador, South American Republic of the Pacific, over 5,000 miles away. The baby must be typically English, must be a girl, and must be strong enough to withstand the journey.
She clamped her hand across her mouth as she fought to stay calm. The adverts made her even more certain that she needed to ignore the police and act quickly.
Twelve
London, March 22, 1943
Wanted—a baby girl for adoption by English people in Ecuador . . . must be strong enough to withstand the journey. The words still echoed in Alice’s mind as she made her way down Sloane Street early on Monday morning, looking for the National Children Adoption Association. She’d struggled to sleep in the attic room as she thought about unmarried mothers, babies and childless couples, and the people who benefited from all their misfortunes. She had finally drifted off just before dawn, and Penny’s kids had woken her soon afterward, so her feet were clumsy and her eyes gritty as she searched for the address.
Most of the local buildings were given over to support St. George’s Hospital—various departments and training centers housed in Edwardian apartment blocks, specialist offices in white stucco terraces, their names and specialties inscribed on bold brass plaques—and there squeezed among them was number nineteen, the only house between the hospital and the Old Barrack Yard. Behind its glossy black door, a vast white hallway was lit by gold filigree wall-lamps, and a luxurious red carpet covered the expansive curve of the staircase. Alice climbed it steadily, her pain dulled for the moment by drugs, her mood optimistic at the prospect of making progress.
An engraved wall plate on the first floor announced the association, and she knocked and entered, tentatively looking around. The large room could easily have been mistaken for a theater lounge: brocade curtains encased the floor-to-ceiling windows, and rosewood side tables sat next to two green velvet chesterfields on thick oriental rugs. It struck her that this environment couldn’t be further from the kind of place the infants the association sought to help usually came from. Then she saw the certificates on the wall and understood the extravagant furnishings: HRH Princess Alice, Princess Victor Napoléon and Reginald Nicholson MP were among its patrons, as well as the founder and executive director, Miss Clara Andrew.
Then Alice noticed the two anxious-looking couples eyeing her from the sofas, and she quickly approached the reception and introduced herself as Mrs. Cotton.
“I’m afraid you need an appointment to see Miss Swift,” the plain-faced receptionist explained.
“I’m happy to sit and wait.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not permitted.”
“I really don’t mind how long it takes.”
“We work on an appointment system, and there are no appointments available for the next two weeks,” the receptionist said, sounding exasperated.
“But what if Miss Swift finishes early. Can’t she squeeze me in?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but we can’t help you”—the volume and pitch of the receptionist’s voice rose—“I really don’t know how many times I have to explain!”
Alice tried to reassure her that she really didn’t mind waiting, when an interior door opened and a young couple filed out, followed by a well-dressed older woman, presumably Miss Swift. She said good-bye to the couple before turning her attention to the flustered receptionist. “Whatever is the matter, Julia?”
“This lady . . . Mrs. Cotton—she won’t take no for an answer.”
“I’m Miss Swift,” she said matter-of-factly to Alice. “How can I help you?”
Alice had worn the only other of her dresses that fit her and swept her hair into a respectable chignon, yet she knew she didn’t look anywhere near as suitable as the other women in the room. “I need to speak with you, but your receptionist says there are no appointments for two
weeks.”
“Exactly. As you can see, we are very busy,” she said brightly. “You will have to come back then.”
“But I can’t wait that long.” Alice was trying to stay calm, keep her voice even.
“That’s what they all say, but believe me, my dear, two weeks won’t seem that long at all.” Miss Swift laid a dainty hand on Alice’s arm. “Once you’ve registered for a child, it could take months or even years to find one, so you will need plenty of patience.”
“But I don’t want someone else’s baby,” Alice said loudly, her voice fracturing. “I want mine . . . and she’s been stolen.”
Miss Swift glanced at the horrified couples on the chesterfields. “Excuse me,” she said to them, “we shan’t be a minute,” and she ushered Alice into her office. She closed the door behind them and stood in front of Alice, her arms folded, manner still composed. “I don’t want a scene in the middle of my waiting room. These people are very vulnerable and have been through years of anxiety in their quest to become parents. Now, I don’t know exactly what you think we can do to help you, but if your baby is missing then surely it’s a matter for the police.”
“They don’t know anything, but perhaps you do. Where do you get your children from?” Her voice broke. “And the couples you reject; do you know who they turn to for help after they leave here?”
“No. Mrs. . . .”
“Cotton. My name is Alice Cotton.”
Miss Swift scrutinized Alice. “Look, Mrs. Cotton, the children we place with adoptive parents come to us from all sorts of places, but I guarantee that none of them are stolen. Most unmarried mothers willingly give up their babies to us. Of course, some have second thoughts, but I’m afraid to say that in most cases it’s too late.”
Alice shook her head disbelievingly: the one place she thought she might receive help, and she wasn’t even being listened to.
“It’s perfectly understandable if you’ve changed your mind. Parting with your baby is difficult under any circumstances, but you have to think about what’s best for the child. Consider why you made the decision to give it up.” Miss Swift enunciated her words so carefully that Alice was almost convinced they were true—until she came to her senses.
“But I didn’t give her up. My mother took her.” She articulated carefully too, so there could be no misunderstanding. “And she’s given her to a couple—paid them to take Eadie, in fact. I need to find them. Will you help me?”
If Miss Swift was shocked, she didn’t show it. Her expression changed, sharp features softening, then she unfolded her arms and stepped closer. “I’m sorry to hear that, Alice. Why do you think your mother would do such a thing?”
Alice’s gaze dropped to the woman’s navy tweed suit and the Union Jack brooch fixed to its lapel near the collar of her lilac blouse. Her graying hair curled at the front and fell longer at the back. There was an idiosyncrasy to her manner, and Alice knew that anyone who did what she did must have remarkable inner strength to deal with many unconventional people and might not judge her harshly.
A lump had lodged in her throat, and she struggled to reply. “I’m not entirely sure why.” She hesitated, her mind going to an uncomfortable place. “I think she loves her God more than me . . . more than us.”
It looked as if Miss Swift was about to say something, but she must have changed her mind since she simply pressed her lips together and blinked slowly.
“We’d agreed to pretend it was my cousin’s baby and raise it together.” Alice swallowed. “She made the arrangements, but she didn’t follow through with them.”
“And when did all this happen?”
“Eadie was born a week ago, and taken six days ago.”
The older woman looked at her worriedly. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“I’m fine, Miss Swift. I just need to find Eadie.” Alice wasn’t fine; her tear was bleeding badly, despite the baths Penny had insisted she take. Her breasts were engorged and she had a mild fever, and while she knew her despair and sleeplessness were partly caused by anxiety, her friend had told her it was the baby blues and perfectly normal to be tearful and overemotional after giving birth. She’d been learning all the things she had expected her mother to share.
Miss Swift regarded her carefully, then took her by the hand. “Come and sit down. And call me Joanna, please.” She led Alice to a small sofa in the center of the modest office, the furniture far less ornate here and altogether more functional. Alice bit her lip, trying not to cry, and concentrated on the reading material that lay on the coffee table in front of her. There was a pile of academic texts and a large encyclopedia, and there were also popular magazines and journals with editions of Illustrated London and The Spectator recognizable by their spines. Alice considered how well versed Joanna Swift must be in understanding human nature—and what atrocities and acts of kindness she must have seen.
“I wish I could help you, Alice, but I have no idea what happens to the couples we don’t accept as adoptive parents, although I can assure you that we do know the origin of every baby that comes to us. However, the Adopted Children’s Register might help. The entry won’t contain any information about the birth, though, only about the adoption.”
“How can I find it?”
“It’s held by the General Register Office, not by local Register Offices.”
“That’s okay. It’s a start.” Alice attempted to smile. It sounded more promising than the Juvenile Index that the police kept for “stray or missing” children, which Eadie hadn’t been on. Although if she was on this one that Miss Swift spoke of, it would mean that she might already be too late.
Joanna smiled back. “It’s difficult for everyone, I know.” She sighed. “Formal adoption didn’t even exist in the United Kingdom until nineteen twenty-seven, and there’s rarely any documentation. The Adopted Children’s Register is really all there is.”
“But how can there have been so little progress in sixteen years?” Alice said, wiping her eyes and fueled by a newfound anger. “There must be something else I can do.”
“Eadie is only a week old?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried the foundling hospitals? There’s the Thomas Coram register, which lists children given to those hospitals. That’s probably your best chance, although they do baptize them with new names.” Joanna looked thoughtful and pursed her lips.
“But Eadie was only a day old when she was taken—she hadn’t even been baptized,” Alice said, as she dabbed at her eyes.
“You could try the Dr. Barnardo’s Homes too, where apparently quite a few children are claimed.”
Alice’s optimism was evaporating, a cold nausea taking hold. “There was an advert in the newspaper . . . that’s what my mother responded to. Maybe you’ve seen it, or something similar.”
“Oh dear. If that’s the case, then I’m afraid I really can’t offer you any help. I’m afraid we are all at the mercy of the government in that respect.”
“What do you mean?”
Joanna sighed and then spoke in the slow sympathetic tone she’d used earlier. “I can’t advise you, I can only tell you that we exist to protect infants and children, not exploit them. If there is any way I could help you, Alice, I would. And if you had come to me in a few months’ time . . .” She paused and sighed. “I might have been able to help you then, but I’m afraid you’re too early.”
That didn’t seem to make sense. “What do you mean ‘too early’?”
“You’ve heard of baby farmers?”
Alice nodded; she hadn’t heard the term for some time but knew it was associated with child trafficking that had existed in the early part of the century. It brought to mind images of alleyways engulfed in fog and grim reapers trading babies, and these thoughts chilled her to the core.
“In the two decades after World War I, the buying and selling of children became
such a big problem that an act was proposed in nineteen thirty-nine that should have put an end to it.” Joanna’s gaze was intense, her words full of fervor. “But when World War II broke out, the act was shelved, and so the abuse continues.” She walked over to her desk and picked up a newspaper. “Sadly, the conditions of war—more vulnerable women, more illegitimate babies—have provided the perfect environment for the baby farmers to thrive more than ever.”
Alice shuddered. “I really had no idea.”
“Yes, it’s quite scandalous that it’s been allowed to carry on this long. And so blatantly too—newspapers carrying adverts for babies before they’ve even taken their first breath. It makes my blood run cold.”
Alice was aghast; she had never contemplated this.
Joanna must have seen the horror on her face, because she continued in a more measured tone. “Fortunately, at last the government seems to be listening.” She handed her the newspaper. “This explains it all far better than I can.”
The paper was dated March 20, only a couple of days earlier, and the headline read: Law Will Put Baby Farmers Out of Business on June 1. The article described how the Adoption of Children Act was supposed to come into effect before the war but had been “put on the shelf.” Recently Mr. Herbert Morrison, the home secretary, had brought it in under growing pressure from welfare societies over the growth in child trafficking. It was just as Joanna had described; Alice read how the act forbade anyone other than a local authority or registered adoption society from making any arrangements for the adoption of a child. The article set out how the act would also ban payments and adverts for adoption, and how it would include restrictions on sending children abroad.
Alice looked searchingly at Joanna. “So, this is good news?”
“Yes, for some. But I’m afraid not in time to help you.”
Alice rose shakily to her feet. She handed Joanna back the paper, unable to fully grasp the situation, only knowing she needed to get out into the open air; her wound burned, her breasts were leaking and her head spun. “Thank you. I’m very grateful for your time.”
When We Meet Again Page 11