by Paul Kelly
Chapter Twelve
Jane drove me to the railway station and in order to be sure, I booked a return ticket to Bristol which I knew was the Somerset capital and I hoped if and when I returned to the flat, I would be able to bring Jonathon with me, but that was a dream and I knew it. My life had become one long, happy, enthusiastic dream and I was overjoyed.
It took me no time to get to Bristol and then I had to get another train on a smaller line to the village of Borham. I studied the address that Sarah had given me and it was Mr. and Mrs. William Charleston of 75 Creighton Crescent, Borham, Somerset but there was no phone number, however, in time, I arrived at the village and waited until I saw someone passing me in the street to ask if they could tell me how to get to Creighton Crescent and a little lady with a shawl wrapped around her head told me where to go.
Borham looked like a small and quiet area when I got there and I walked up to 75 and rang the bell. I rang twice before a little old lady came to the door and I asked her if she was Mrs. Charleston, but she ignored my question and demanded to know what I was selling. I assured her I was not a saleslady but again she ignored what I said and informed me that she was slow in answering the door as she had been in the toilet.
I tried to assure that I understood and was about to repeat my question when she shouted at me to tell me that she was not deaf, although I could quite clearly see a hearing aid sticking out of her right ear.
With that she closed the door on me and I had no answer, but two doors along, a lady appeared with a mop bucket in her hand and I asked her if she knew the Charleston family.
“The Charleston family . . oh they moved away quite some time before the accident,” she said and I asked what accident that was and she looked very sadly at me. “Mr. and Mrs. Charleston were killed in a motor car accident,” she said and I became immediately alarmed thinking that Jonathon could have been with them, but the lady with the bucket didn’t think they had any children, so I felt a little bit relieved, but still nervous. “You might try the Town Hall,” she said, “They might be able to give you more information, Good bye,” I went immediately to the Town Hall where the good lady had told me how to get there, but I didn’t get much information there. They told me that I would have to go to the orphanage if I wanted to adopt a child, and I think I must have confused them in my enquiry when I asked if a little boy had been adopted about twenty or twenty-five years ago by a couple who lived in Borham. I tried again to explain, but the lady at the desk just smiled and moved away to do something at another desk, however, after asking many questions again, I was directed to the orphanage where I found it was run by a pastor; a Roman Catholic Priest who told me his name was Father Paul Runcombe. At last I had got somewhere, but the priest asked me the same question, “Do you want to adopt a boy or a girl . . .” and I closed my eyes wondering if it was me who was going round the bend or the inhabitants of Borham, but after some considerable time I asked my question again about a family who had adopted a little boy some considerable time past and the priest took out a large book which I thought might be a register of births etc and he turned the pages slowly as he asked me some more questions.
“Was it a little boy or a little girl?”
“A little boy, Father.”
“Do you have the date when he was born?
“April 5th 1942, Father.”
“Was this your child?”
“Yes Father. The little boy was my baby.”
“And how old are you, may I ask?” the priest asked and he looked rather strange when I told him I was born in 1931 and that I had Jonathon in 1942, and he must have guessed I had the little boy when I was very young, but I was very reluctant to tell him I was only twelve even if it seemed fairly obvious, but it was something I didn’t want to talk about.
“This was a little boy, you say. . .yes?” he went on and then he started to tell me something about the orphanage, how it was multi-national and that they had many children there with some of them being 12 or 13 before they were adopted and I felt very sorry for those children.
“This was YOUR little boy, you say?” he asked again and I could not have felt more embarrassed when I told him that I was twelve when I was pregnant, but he didn’t seem to bother about that as he asked me if I knew the father . . . and I had to admit that I wasn’t sure who the father was as indeed that was the truth.
He asked my name and address and told me to call in again at the orphanage the nest day about noon and I asked him if he could tell me where I might stay for the night.
“There is a place next door which might suit,” he said, “They are not expensive and if you are only going to be here for one night, I would think this place is the best place for you. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” he said, but there was something in the way he spoke that made me think that he already knew something about Jonathon and I hoped my hint was right.
I thanked him and went next door where I was pleased to learn that they were very helpful and welcomed me for as long as I wished to stay, but I had hopes that it wouldn’t be too long, once I found Jonathan.
After a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, I went along for a long walk by the side of the orphanage until I looked at my watch and found it was one minute to twelve noon. The orphanage door was open and I walked inside where to my pleasant surprise I was met by Father Runcombe who greeted me very happily and told me he had some good news for me regarding my request. He told me that after the death of the Charleston family, a little boy was adopted by another family living nearby, I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to ask him if I could visit the family he spoke about so that I could make further enquiries about Jonathon, but he smiled and asked me if I ever prayed, which I thought was a strange thing to ask me at such an important moment in my life and when I told him that I was not a very religious person and that I was a Jewess by birth, he looked deep into my eyes and told me that he had always prayed and that the prayers he offered up were for a very special intention of his own which was to become a priest and two years ago he had achieved his ambition and was ordained a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, but his other ambition was of great importance too and he held this ambition in his heart without telling a soul.
I was pleased for him, but anxious to know where the family lived who would satisfy my needs, but Father Paul shook his head gently and took my hand in his.
“There is no need for you to visit the family,” he said and I was beginning to think he might be evasive when he added, “As I have said to you, I have always prayed and my prayers were answered today . . I was born on the 5th of April 1942, in a little house in London. There is no need for you to visit the family who adopted your little boy. I will take you to see them shortly. They are Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Runcombe and I am their son . . . your little boy Jonathon and you are my mother.
***
A Roman Catholic Priest does not normally embrace and hug a women, but this one did.
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