‘Miss Alice gave funds quietly to the mission too,’ John continued. ‘She was never one for grand gestures.’
Maggie gave him a reproachful look. ‘Like me, you mean?’
John shook his head. ‘Perhaps she never had the courage to do the things you’ve done - few of us have,’ he smiled. ‘But there are other ways of fighting for what’s right, Maggie, and you shouldn’t judge the rest of us so harshly.’
Suddenly Maggie reached out to him and John stood and went to hold her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as she put her arms about his neck. ‘I’ve never meant to criticise what you’ve done. I’ve always admired your work at the mission, the way you treat people all the same, no matter where they come from or what they’ve done. It’s what I like about you most, John.’
He held her more tightly and kissed her hair.
‘Come, let’s forget the Pearsons and go home,’ he urged.
***
That autumn, Maggie accepted a part-time position at the offices of the Women’s Co-operative Guild to occupy her time, while Millie took on the role of housekeeper and a new cook was appointed. On Saturdays, Maggie helped Susan down on the quayside with the second-hand clothes and used her new-found status among the middle-class of Sandyford to procure clothing for the business. But the task that occupied her most was the search for Christabel. She thought of little else all day and her sleep at night was filled with dreams of finding her daughter and plagued by nightmares of losing her.
Sometimes she would wake to find John had come into her room to discover why she cried out in her sleep. He would stroke her forehead and stay by her side until she fell asleep once more, but he was always gone when she awoke in the morning.
He spent hours at St Chad’s, trawling the records and interviewing the staff in the children’s wing, but the matron and the midwife who had assisted at the birth had both left without trace and the records were a mess of inaccurate and missing entries. The Relieving Officer who had disappeared with Poor Law funds seemed to have taken registers with him, or disposed of them to cover up a web of embezzlement.
They visited orphanages and grim asylums for the feeble-minded, but no one had any information on a Christabel Beaton, born on 26 December 1916.
‘It’s as if she never existed!’ Maggie howled after a forlorn visit to an institution in Gateshead.
She had scanned the peaky faces of the children in the nursery for any family resemblance or likeness to George or herself, but had seen none. They gazed at her from blank, sad eyes, penned into iron cots or sitting on the linoleum floor playing with pieces of rag, skinny and uninterested. She had never seen such subdued infants; none of them appeared capable of speaking when she asked them their names. Maggie left swiftly, their dismal whimpering echoing down the dingy, urine-smelling corridors.
There were times when she caught a look in her husband’s eyes, as if he had begun to doubt whether the child had ever existed. If it had not been for Millie’s forceful confirmation that she had held the baby in her own arms, Maggie suspected John might have persuaded her to give up the fruitless search.
Then one day in early November, he came home with some news. Maggie was sitting at the roll-top desk in the corner of the sitting room, bathed in a pool of light from the gas lamp on the wall bracket above her. As soon as he strode into the room, she knew something had happened.
‘I’ve found Lily Smart, the midwife who was there at the birth!’ he told her.
‘Where?’ Maggie said, springing out of her seat.
‘She’s living in lodgings on Pandon Bank. A woman who comes into the mission lodges in the same tenement. Lily Smart is still helping out at lie-ins, by all accounts.’
Maggie shuddered to think of the heartless woman bullying other young mothers through their labours.
‘I imagine she has to, to make ends meet,’ John said, seeing Maggie’s look of distaste.
‘Well, let’s go to her now!’
‘Dearest, it’s late in the day,’ John protested, ‘and the streets are dark—’
‘I’m not afraid of the dark, John,’ Maggie answered impatiently, already making for the door.
He sighed. ‘You won’t build up your hopes too much, will you, Maggie?’
She turned and gave him a direct look with her grey eyes. ‘I’m full of hope,’ she answered simply. ‘I can’t be any other way.’
John insisted they took a cab through the town. They alighted on the steep bank that plunged down to the quayside, its tall slum dwellings clinging together as if they might topple over at any moment.
John took Maggie’s hand firmly and led her up a narrow, covered lane with stinking water dripping from its slimy walls. Children were playing war games around the steps and Maggie had to dodge their crudely fashioned wooden guns.
They were directed to Lily Smart’s room by the woman from the mission. Maggie hardly recognised the grey-haired woman who answered their knocking with a wheezing shout. Lily Smart had aged dramatically in the past two years of wartime deprivation, dismissed from St Chad’s in the shake-up of staff.
At first she was reluctant to speak, but John produced a sovereign and she came out onto the landing.
‘Aye, I remember the bairn,’ Lily grunted. ‘But she never stayed more than a month or two at St Chad’s. Matron wanted her out of harm’s way.’
‘Meaning me, I suppose,’ Maggie said tersely.
‘Aye,’ Lily said, eyeing her with resentment. ‘She could tell you were one of them troublemakers.’
‘But the child,’ John intercepted quickly. ‘Where did they take her?’
‘Sent her to a cottage home - up Tynedale.’
‘Which one?’ John questioned.
‘Can’t remember the name. Small place, paid for by the Pearsons.’
Maggie thought of their futile search of Tyneside. ‘So we’ve been looking in the wrong place all the time!’ she cried.
‘But why send the child all that way?’ John puzzled.
Lily snorted. ‘Matron was on to some fiddle. She picked out the pretty bairns.’
‘Why?’ Maggie asked, her heart pounding painfully.
‘Well, it was a model home, see. And rich folk could have their picking of the orphans - you know, the ones what couldn’t have their own, or didn’t want to risk childbirth. That’s what was rumoured, anyways.’
Maggie could not speak. She was paralysed by the thought of Christabel being chosen like some pretty ornament to adorn some rich person’s nursery.
‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Smart,’ John said politely, steering Maggie towards the stairs.
‘Oh, there’s one other thing I remember,’ the craggy-faced midwife called to them on the dark stairwell. They looked back. ‘The bairn - the Matron changed her name to Martha, said it was a plain, dutiful name and wouldn’t give the lass ideas above herself like her mother had. Maybes that’s why you couldn’t find her.’
All the way home, Maggie could not stop shaking.
‘Where is this place?’ she demanded. ‘John, we must go there tomorrow.’
‘I have the shop to run, my dear,’ John reminded her. ‘I can’t just go tearing off to search Tynedale. Besides, we need to discover the name of the home first.’
‘Daniel can manage the shop quite well without you,’ Maggie answered bluntly. ‘You should be giving the lad more responsibility anyways at your age.’
John flushed. ‘I can’t go before Saturday,’ he insisted.
‘That’s nearly a week!’ Maggie protested.
Her desperation made him relent. ‘Just give me time to make enquiries about this cottage home first, then we’ll go,’ he promised.
Maggie could settle to nothing for the rest of the week. She tried to immerse herself in her work at the Guild’s office but could not concentrate. She trailed around town with Susan while Millie watched the children, but she was tense and preoccupied.
Her mood unnerved Susan and made her impatient.
>
‘What if she’s not there?’ she dared to ask. ‘You’ve got to face the fact that with all the upheaval of the war, she may not be. Will you give up looking for her?’
‘Never!’ Maggie cried.’ How could you think such a thing?’
‘But is John not tiring of it all?’ Susan demanded. ‘It might be kinder on him if you were to put it all behind you and settle to the life he’s given you. Why can’t you just make the best of what you’ve got, Maggie? You’re always hankering after what’s just around the corner.’
Maggie spun round and glared at Susan. ‘You’re a mother. Could you imagine a life without Alfred or Beattie or Bella?’ she challenged.
‘No, of course not,’ Susan admitted, ‘but…’
‘So why is it any different for me?’ Maggie demanded. ‘I carried my bairn for nine months and brought her into this world with as much pain and effort as any other woman. You may think I’m hard but I’ve just as much feeling inside as the next lass.’ Maggie put a hand on her sister’s arm, willing her to understand. ‘I held that bonny baby in me arms, Susan. She sucked at me breast. I was a mother for those brief moments and it felt grand! I was lying, half bleeding to death in that hellhole, yet I felt so at peace...’ Maggie struggled to explain. ‘When John talks of the love of God, I think of that time in that dark cell with Christabel lying beside me.’ Her eyes glistened as she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘It was the most comforting feeling you could ever imagine. I knew that Christabel was mine and that I’d always be bound to her whatever happened.’ Maggie looked pleadingly at Susan, then her voice hardened in determination. ‘Christabel doesn’t belong in an orphanage, Susan, or to anyone else. She belongs to me.’
Susan stared at her sister in awe. She had heard Maggie rant about politics and rights but she had never heard her speak before about something so personal. It surprised and touched her.
‘Of course the bairn belongs to you,’ she said, squeezing Maggie’s hand. ‘I just hope you find her.’
By Friday, John had discovered that the most likely orphanage was the Hebron Children’s Home, named after the Pearsons’ Newcastle mansion and situated outside a small village in the upper Tyne valley. They travelled by train up the valley and then walked the steep dirt track that wound its way up the valley side to the moortop institute. Maggie drank in every detail of the sturdy stone building, hidden among a spinney of wind-blown trees. It must have been an old vicarage or gentleman farmer’s house which had been taken over for the orphans, for its windows were large and unbarred and its aspect in the summer must have been pleasant. It was early November now though and the wind battered the ivy-clad facade with a squall of icy rain and whipped around their chilled faces. Even so, Maggie could hear the shouts of children playing in a field at the side of the house, half hidden by a thicket of hawthorn. She was pleased and surprised that they were given such freedom and quickened her step.
Two young boys ran up the steps ahead of them, their faces rosy and well nourished, to alert the staff. A pleasant-faced nurse showed them into a large schoolroom and went off to find the housemother. Maggie looked around her in astonishment. There were bright maps and pictures adorning the walls and one corner had been given over to a play area with dolls and toys like a children’s nursery.
Maggie lowered herself carefully into one of the miniature benches attached to the infant desks and breathed in the smell of ink and chalk and children. For a moment she was transported back to her own classroom where Rose Johnstone had nurtured her passion for learning and she remembered that she had once yearned to be a teacher. Where was Rose now? Maggie sighed to herself and thought how differently her life had turned out.
‘I like the feel of this place, John,’ she murmured, listening to the clatter of feet on a staircase beyond the door. ‘It’s so different from St Chad’s.’
‘I quite agree,’ her husband nodded, picking up an exercise book and flicking through its pages. ‘It has the atmosphere of a happily run home.’
Maggie felt her spirits lighten at the thought that her daughter might have been here for most of her two years of life, breathing in the fresh country air and cared for by kind people.
When the smiling housemother appeared, Maggie’s optimism increased further. The woman was about Rose Johnstone’s age, neatly dressed in a suit rather than a uniform and with a concerned and interested demeanour.
She stretched out her hand in greeting. ‘I’m Lucinda Cooper, the housemother here. What a way you’ve come! If you had given me some warning I could have made arrangements for you to stay in the village.’
‘We didn’t have time,’ Maggie answered, returning her smile.
‘I apologise for the abruptness of our arrival,’ John intervened, ‘but we’ve come on a matter of some urgency.’
‘You’ll take tea with me then?’ Miss Cooper suggested. ‘While we discuss the matter.’
She ushered them into a small sitting room across the hall. As they followed her, a stream of small children came hurrying in from outside, their pink faces muffled in scarves and hats. They squealed and chattered as they took refuge from the sleety rain, cajoled and fussed over by an older woman in a brown cape.
Maggie’s heart lurched as she scanned the faces of the small girls, wondering ... But they appeared older than Christabel, already fluent in speech. They disappeared in a giggling band while their nurse tried to curb their noisy exuberance.
Inside the cosy sitting room, a coal fire blazed and teacups and teapot were already laid out on a gate-legged table. The furniture was ill matched and a touch shabby, but the walls were lined with pictures and bookcases, denoting the interests of Miss Cooper.
As she poured tea, she chatted to them about the running of the home to put them at their ease. Then she turned to Maggie and fixed her with a direct look.
‘But perhaps your interest doesn’t lie in the management of the home,’ she said. ‘You have some particular concern?’
‘Yes,’ Maggie blurted out. ‘We’re trying to find my daughter, Christabel.’
Lucinda Cooper’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
‘Your daughter? Christabel you say?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, we have no child named Christabel Heslop.’
John interjected quickly, ‘No, the child is not mine.’ He stopped suddenly, aware of Maggie’s discomfort, and wished he had not been so quick to disown the girl.
‘She carries my maiden name, Beaton,’ Maggie explained bashfully. ‘We believe her name was changed from Christabel to Martha when she arrived from St Chad’s. She’ll be nearly two now.’
‘Ah,’ Miss Cooper exclaimed in understanding, ‘the child came from the orphanage at St Chad’s.’
Maggie nodded eagerly. ‘Is she here, then? Do you know my Christabel?’
The woman’s brow furrowed. ‘There was a Martha Brown who came to us from St Chad’s a little less than two years ago, a sweet baby. It’s very possible that the surname was changed as well as the Christian name.’
‘Can we see her?’ Maggie questioned eagerly. ‘Please!’
Miss Cooper looked at her with sad compassion. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but little Martha - Christabel - was adopted over a year ago.’
Maggie felt her mouth and throat go dry.
‘Are you quite sure about this?’ John demanded, reaching to hold Maggie’s hand.
Lucinda Cooper nodded. ‘Quite sure.’
‘But she can’t be,’ Maggie gasped, closing her eyes. ‘She’s mine!’
‘We had no idea the natural mother had any interest in Martha,’ Miss Cooper answered quietly but firmly. ‘In fact we did not know of your existence, Mrs Heslop.’
‘Who adopted her?’ John asked forlornly.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.’ The housemother was adamant.
Maggie opened her eyes and looked at the other woman with such desolation that she flinched.
‘Please,’ Maggie whispered, ‘I have to know. I need to know
that my Christabel is in good hands - caring hands.’
Miss Cooper hesitated, then shook her head again. ‘I really can’t give away their identity. All I can say is that your daughter will want for nothing in her new life. I can show you a photograph of her if you wish.’
Maggie could not speak, merely nodding her head vigorously.
Lucinda Cooper crossed over to a filing cabinet and pulled out one of the drawers. She rummaged for a minute and returned with a binder. From it she drew a photograph and handed it to Maggie.
She stared down at the small child in the picture. She was wearing a tailor-made outdoor coat and hat and buttoned-up boots beneath flounces of petticoats. But it was not the expensive clothes that interested Maggie, it was the enquiring look on the little girl’s face. She was not smiling at the camera but gazing at it in curiosity with round dark eyes, her petite face framed by dark ringlets. In that moment, Maggie had no doubt that this was Christabel; it was as if she already knew this inquisitive infant. The eyes seemed to look at her directly, accusingly, as if to ask why she had not been there to claim her.
Maggie’s eyes brimmed with tears and she broke down in front of the concerned housemother.
John took her to him and tried to comfort her, but she was overwhelmed by her grief. Lucinda Cooper withdrew to give them time alone together to come to terms with the bad news, carefully locking away the file while leaving the photograph of Christabel on the table.
Maggie made a supreme effort to pull herself together, blowing hard into John’s cotton handkerchief.
‘Look at her, John,’ she insisted. ‘Look at her before we leave and know that she exists.’
Reluctantly John picked up the picture and glanced at the stubborn-faced child that challenged him. He was struck immediately by how like Maggie she was, the same oval eyes and determined mouth. It was a sudden relief to him that Christabel held no resemblance to George Gordon and he thought sadly how he could have cared for this child, even grown to love her.
Maggie heard his small involuntary gasp. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love Page 80