When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  At Woodford Police Court yesterday, Frank Richard Pritchard, 50, clerk, and Beatrice Pritchard, 46, his wife, of London Road, Woodford, were charged on remand with being concerned together in the manslaughter of Sally Merriweather, aged seven months, by willfully withholding food from her. The child was found dead in a carriage at the prisoners’ home.

  Alice took a deep breath, understanding why Olive might have kept this from her, then forced herself to keep reading, knowing that no matter how disturbing the material was, she needed to collect as much information as she could.

  Sub-Divisional Inspector Robert Warner stated that on June 14, with Inspector Nixon, of the NSPCC, he visited the house at London Road, Woodford. Receiving no answer to his knock, he climbed the wall and entered by the back door. In the front room on the ground floor he saw a woman named McIntyre and three girls, Yvonne Ellis, Betty Pritchard and Annie Pritchard. On a broken couch he found the boy Norman Rogers, aged 11 months, lying on some newspapers and covered with a piece of filthy canvas. The child had on two wet garments which were black and filthy. He was emaciated and covered in sores. The girl, Ellis, was sitting in a broken armchair nursing a boy of about 11 months. The boy appeared to be fairly well nourished but was very dirty. Ellis was unwashed and badly clothed. In the back room was a child named Malcolm Strong, aged about 16 months, sitting on a chair-bedstead. There was another child, Hannah Rogers, about 1 month old, lying in filth and covered with vermin bites. The mattress on which the child was lying was filthy and covered with vermin. In an upstairs room a girl, aged 18 months, was lying motionless on a mattress on the floor, and appeared too weak to move. In another room were three infants covered with a quilt. They were dirty and when looked at by the doctor they uttered feeble cries. He visited a back room and there found a girl of 11 months lying in a crib covered with maggots; she was apparently too weak to move.

  Alice pressed her lips together, placing her hand over her mouth as she forced herself to carry on. She glanced quickly through to where Elizabeth worked as she considered what her mother would say if she read about these monsters; maybe then Ruth might reconsider giving her more of the facts.

  In a carriage in the same room he found the dead body of the child, Sally Merriweather, covered with an old frock and swarming with maggots. The children were removed to the infirmary. The house was in a filthy condition. The beds were broke. And the mattresses verminous. There was hardly any food in the house. Mrs. Pritchard returned at 3:15 p.m. and asked, “Where are my children?” She said that she had been up all night and had been out to try and find the dead child’s father. The child, she said, died at five o’clock in the morning. Detective-Sergeant Ryder said that he arrested the man Pritchard at an office in the City. Pritchard stated that he had been trying for a long while to get his wife to return the babies to their mothers.

  Alice just managed to place the article out of sight in her bag before she retched into her handkerchief.

  Twenty-three

  Alice’s legs were still shaking as she made her way up the path to the Dulwich house, suddenly aware she didn’t know what to say, and had no idea what state of mind her mother would be in. It was unlike the last time she’d seen Ruth, when she’d spent the whole train journey in disbelief and with only one question on her mind: where was Eadie? This time she had dozens of questions, as well as the mental image of the Pritchards’ filthy home and the poor children they’d kept prisoner. She had the article in her bag along with others; if her mother wouldn’t believe her, perhaps she’d trust the black-and-white print.

  Their family home was even less inviting than it had been the last time she’d visited, the windows dark shallow craters, muted light bleeding from the corners of the blackout curtains. She knocked and waited, listening as a door opened inside. The light came on, and her pulse grew faster as footsteps came toward her.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Alice.”

  There was a rattle as the lock was unfastened, and the clink of a chain being lifted from its hook. Then the door swung open. Ruth stood alone, a silhouette in the dark hallway. “Alice . . . how are you?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Alice suddenly felt calmer—much calmer, in fact, than she had on leaving the library, as if somehow being in possession of this knowledge gave her power. But as she walked past her mother into the kitchen, a knot tightened in her stomach as she looked around her former home and breathed in the familiar smells of beeswax polish, soap and tea.

  Ruth followed her in and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed in front of her. Under the harsh white glare of the kitchen light, Alice noticed that the lines around her eyes had deepened, and how the slackness of her jaw dragged down the corners of her mouth. It unbalanced Alice, seeing her mother look so old—so vulnerable—and then she remembered why she was there.

  “Sit down. I’ve got something to show you.” Ruth did as she was told, and Alice spread the articles out on the table in front of her. “You want to know about the kind of people you’ve paid to take care of your granddaughter? Read these.”

  As she stood watching her mother, Alice wondered how many other parents had lost their children in this way, their lives cracking apart with the tectonic force of this grief. She wondered, as she had so many times since she’d lost Eadie, whether she would ever see her again or if she would have to accept a life without her. Her life was divided into two parts: before and after Eadie.

  It was also divided into life before and after her mother’s betrayal.

  Ruth’s eyes stayed fixed on the newspaper articles, and Alice saw her swallow hard as she tried to conceal a sob, then her shoulders shook and her body released a shudder as she placed her hand across her mouth.

  These were the arms that had once held and comforted Alice, hands that had fed and cared for her. Parents were supposed to nurture and love their children. But the natural order of things had changed for Alice, starting from when her father and then William died, then Ruth had become mentally unstable and begun trusting too much in her faith. Now Alice didn’t understand her mother at all.

  Ruth looked up from the articles, her eyes reflecting her horror. “I’m so sorry.”

  Alice was still standing, arms crossed, looking down at her. “Are you going to tell me the truth now?” she asked in a level voice.

  Ruth sniffled. “There’s nothing left to tell. I answered all the questions the policewoman asked.”

  Sergeant Burns had contacted Alice after the interview as she’d promised she would, but told her she’d learned nothing from Ruth that would help with their inquiry.

  “There has to be more,” she pleaded. “What did the couple look like? You’ve never told me that.”

  Ruth’s neck snapped back as she gazed upward and Alice wasn’t sure if she was looking to her God for inspiration, or just staring at the ceiling.

  “Come on, Mum. If you met them twice you must have some recollection?”

  “They were different. The man I met the first time had dark hair that was combed back behind his ears, and he wore a suit. The man who collected Eadie was in a uniform. I remember him now,” Ruth said, frowning in concentration. “He had terrible skin, but I thought he must be respectable because he was a member of the Home Guard.”

  “Did you tell the policewoman that?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Alice wanted to take her mother by the arms and shake her; ask her how she could forget something so important, but her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

  “That’s why I trusted them, Alice,” Ruth said with a tentative smile. “And the woman was tiny, and so overjoyed to hold a baby in her arms.”

  She must have realized how insensitive she’d been because her smile quickly faded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about any of this. . . .” She pushed the clippings away, suddenly looking as revolted as Al
ice felt. “I know what you’ve been through, and what I’ve done must seem cruel, but I had my reasons.”

  “What reason could there possibly be for farming out your own grandchild?” Alice spat the words, and Ruth recoiled in her chair.

  Then Alice took her journal out of her bag and placed it on the table in front of her mother.

  Ruth sat motionless, her knuckles white, lips pressed together.

  “Go on,” said Alice. “Look inside.”

  Ruth opened the cover to reveal the handwritten title of The Zoo Chronicles: Tales from London Zoo. The first page had a clipping from the newspaper about Mr. Vinall, the penguin keeper, alongside Alice’s illustrations of the penguins jumping off the rock. Ruth took time to read it before turning the page and reading the article about Churchill’s gift of a lion, placed beside more of Alice’s illustrations. Then Ruth read the next page and the next, while Alice stood and watched, remembering the times she had worked on it, looking forward to the day she could read it to her daughter. Alice wondered what her mother thought of the animal stories her father had told her, and the tales she’d created since. Eventually Ruth reached the last page, which featured a photograph of Alice’s father in his zookeeper’s suit with the inscription: For my father, Frederick (Freddie) Charles Cotton, and his granddaughter, Eadie.

  When Ruth looked up, her eyes were swimming with tears.

  Alice waited, letting the moment linger as she savored the comforting memory of her father and the warmth of his love, allowing it to suffocate Ruth’s betrayal. “What would he say now?” Alice said coldly.

  There was a silence, then Ruth cleared her throat. “I would never expect you to understand, that’s why I’ve never told you.”

  “Well, why don’t you try now?”

  Ruth rose to her feet and disappeared into the living room, returning with some papers that she handed to Alice: the birth certificates she’d been unable to find in the usual hiding place. The first was hers: Alice Elizabeth Cotton, born April 20, 1920. Father: Frederick Charles Cotton, Agriculturalist. Mother: Ruth Cotton, domestic servant.

  She glanced up; there were no revelations here.

  Ruth sat back down and nodded for her to carry on.

  Alice unfolded the second piece of paper, expecting to see a similar birth certificate for her brother, but it was a form with only his name and date of birth: William Frederick Cotton, born May 22, 1918.

  “What’s this?”

  “I wanted a child so badly, Alice. Your father and I, we tried for so long.” Ruth wouldn’t look Alice in the eye, her gaze locking onto a place somewhere out of sight. “It was during the Great War, there was so much sadness and loss . . . so many unmarried mothers. So many babies without homes. This is what childless couples did then, what they’re still doing now.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “William—”

  “He wasn’t yours?”

  “He’s always been ours, Alice. Always wanted, loved, cherished.”

  “And what about me . . . am I yours?”

  “It was a miracle when you came along. We were so shocked, but it was obviously God’s will. He decided to bless us after all.” Ruth leaned back in her chair and let out a guttural groan. “I made a promise, Alice. When we were given William, I knew it was wrong in God’s eyes. Then we were blessed with you . . . I knew we would have to pay for it, one day.”

  “So, when Eadie was born you decided she would be the sacrifice for the choice that you made.”

  Ruth shook her head. “No, it was never like that. I never wanted you to pay for my mistake, or your own; we’ve paid enough with your father’s and William’s lives. No, I thought it would be better for her, and that you could recover from being a fallen woman, and even have a real family of your own one day.”

  Alice’s whole being ignited with rage. She held her fists at her sides, suddenly aware of what she was capable of. “I had a real family,” she said. “Eadie and I were family—and now look what you’ve done.”

  Twenty-four

  London, April 17, 1943

  “I want to see the lions,” the boy shouted as he skipped along the path.

  “We will . . . just slow down!” his mother cried as she chased along behind him.

  The walkways and gardens were crowded with families, children pulling parents from one enclosure to the next, as well as lots of servicemen—American, British and Royal Indian Army—all of whom Alice knew gained entry for half price. In fact, it was as if the two thousand daily visitors had descended at that very moment to invade her solitude. She sat on a bench, watching numbly as the boughs of a tree danced in the wind, white blossoms leaping like kids on a trampoline, the sunlight behind them crafting lacework from the leaves. Children’s squeals and laughter looped and fell, as though distant and then close again. It had seemed like a good idea for a Saturday outing: get the trolley bus to the zoo, stop at the corner store where her father had always bought sweets for her and her brother, re-create their childhood ritual. She had so desperately wanted to build the safe world for Eadie that her father had for her and William, but look how badly she’d failed. And she didn’t even know her family anymore; it was like seasickness, everything she knew kept shifting and changing. She really had no idea what to do next, so she just sat with the half-eaten bag of boiled sweets in her lap, feeling hopeless.

  A mother and her young daughter sat at the other end of the bench, the girl’s gray wool coat buttoned up to her chin, faux fur around her collar and cuffs, her feet encased in a pair of navy Mary Janes. The mother smiled at Alice, and she was forced to get up and walk away, the thought of the simple act of choosing clothes for Eadie, and the likelihood she never would, setting her off crying again.

  She took a familiar path, one that in summer was lined with colorful shrubs: hydrangeas with their emerald-green leaves and scented flowers, and cotoneaster, with its herringbone branches, providing a home for the bees and a forest for the insects to dance through. Today thick stalks and branches were exposed like skeletons.

  Alice dried her eyes and headed toward the Penguin Pool, where she watched their show blankly, as the keepers rewarded them with fish and spectators arrived and left. Still she couldn’t feel anything, just a gnawing emptiness.

  She carried on toward Three Island Pond, always one of her favorite places, yet when she reached the metal railings she noticed how much smaller it seemed now than when she was a girl, and how much slighter the grasses and rushes were that grew on the banks of the moat opposite.

  “Look, Mummy, look. There’s our flamingo!” The boy held his mother with one hand and pointed with the other.

  “Yes, darling, isn’t he delightful?” she exclaimed.

  “They’re not going to play croquet with him, are they?” he asked worriedly.

  “No, darling. Of course not.”

  Alice’s thoughts turned to the times her father read her Lewis Carroll stories. Then she remembered one of their other favorites: Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, who’d been Rudyard Kipling’s and her father’s hero mongoose. Rikki had protected a family that wasn’t even his, so surely Alice should be able to protect hers.

  On the fence in front of her was an engraved wooden plaque: trink the ratel (honey badger) proudly sponsored by mr. and mrs. atkins, from harrow. She knew that the zoo’s adoption scheme was a success since The Sketch and Evening Standard often featured the zoo news, with articles by the eponymously named Craven Hill. But while she’d always been glad that the adoption scheme had worked, right at that moment she felt as if it existed merely to taunt her—that Alice Cotton couldn’t even look after her own child, let alone anyone else’s.

  As she stood watching, the helplessness was replaced by a nagging sensation, like a sinew being pulled. She realized nostalgia had driven her to come here. What was it that she could learn from the animal kingdom about how they cared for their off
spring? They all looked after their children first and foremost, not their parents. Perhaps it was that simple, the message she needed: it was time to stop protecting her mother.

  Ruth had committed a crime, and she would have to face the consequences, because her daughter couldn’t wait for her any longer.

  * * *

  When Alice passed under the blue lantern above the door of Marylebone Lane Police Station, she felt a fleeting sense of déjà vu. Her stomach gurgled yet outwardly she was calm, glad she looked more respectable this time. After all she’d been through, she now knew for certain that she would only get what she wanted by persistence and cunning, not by being compliant.

  Although reception was busy again, the duty officer showed her straight to an interview room once she’d provided Sergeant Mildred Burns’s case number. Alice felt encouraged when the young policewoman appeared a few minutes later in her dark Women’s Branch uniform. “Miss Cotton, how are you?” she asked as she closed the door behind her.

  On the way to the police station Alice had decided to reveal everything, and so she did: from the moment she’d found out she was pregnant and told her mother, to when she’d woken in Brighton to find Eadie gone, to her police station visits. Sergeant Burns interrupted with questions about her failed search, and she scribbled notes and asked Alice to repeat the information about her brother’s illegal adoption.

  “Oh, and look at these,” Alice said, as she brought out the birth certificates. Then she pushed a folded piece of paper across the table with her aunt’s name and number and offered the police the opportunity to question Hope if they needed to. It had taken a long phone call on the way there, and the relaying of the disturbing contents of her research, before she’d convinced Hope to change her mind and turn on her sister-in-law. “So, this will all help, won’t it? This changes things.” She was hoping that by the time she left the station, her statement would be lodged and Ruth would be brought in again for questioning.