The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  Connie

  Connie wakes with a start. She’s alone in her room, although she didn’t notice Erica leave. There’s no light seeping from behind the curtains, and she senses it’s dark outside. Remembering that Erica had brought her some tea, she gropes on the coffee table and with a shaking hand lifts the cup to her lips. When she takes a sip it is unpleasantly cold and she puts it back on the saucer in disgust, spilling some as she does so.

  She is shivering, although the room is warm and fuggy as usual. She gathers her knitted shawl about her shoulders. It must be that recurring dream that has made her feel so chilled. The one that makes the past more real than the present. It always makes her shiver. That, and all the other episodes from back then that come to her day and night. Especially now she’s here, away from home, away from where it all happened. It’s as if the memories have become more vivid, released from their surroundings, like genies from a bottle.

  Outside in the passage, the sounds of supper being prepared float along the corridor from the kitchen. The voices of the kitchen staff, the clatter of pots and pans, pop music blaring on the radio. So different from home where the only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock and the cat mewing for his food. Poor old Felix. Her eyes moisten at the thought of him.

  Even before Evie died the place had been quiet. Evie wouldn’t have a radio or a television in the house. They had an old gramophone, though. Sometimes, when Evie was in a good mood, she would say after supper, with a glint in her eye, ‘Shall we treat ourselves to some music, Con?’ and she would select one of the albums of organ music or hymns, and put it carefully on the ancient turntable, and sit back down with a blissful smile on her face, her head thrown back, her eyes closed as the music crackled out from the old machine.

  There’s a knock on the door. Matron puts her head round and says in her gratingly cheery voice,

  ‘How are we Miss Burroughs? Feeling alright? There’s a visitor to see you. There’s just enough time for a quick chat before supper.’

  Connie draws the shawl even closer around her, sits up straight and pats her hair.

  ‘Hello, Peter,’ she says as her visitor walks in. ‘This is very late. Is everything all right?’

  He strides towards her and shakes her hand. ‘Good evening, Miss Burroughs. No need for alarm. Could we speak for a few moments?’ He takes a seat beside the television and crosses his gangly legs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Connie purses her lips. Why does he let it grow so long? It looks so untidy. He doesn’t look like a professional should. Not like his grandfather, that’s for sure. Old Joshua was always beautifully turned out. Just like dear Father.

  ‘We moved everything out of the house today,’ he begins and Connie draws in a sharp breath and holds it, imagining the scene. All Father’s beloved furniture, his pictures, the great oak wardrobe where he used to hang his clothes. His clothes even! How will she bear it? She feels her hands shaking and she can’t let out that breath. It won’t leave her. It must be Father, punishing her for letting this happen.

  ‘You quite alright Miss Burroughs?’

  Peter is leaning forward and peering at her, an anxious frown on his face. ‘Would you like some water?’

  She nods quickly, clutching her throat, and he brings some from the jug on the sideboard. The breath leaves her with a choking sob as she takes a gulp of the water.

  ‘We talked about this last week, didn’t we?’ He’s speaking gently, leaning forward, looking into her eyes.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘The things you agreed to sell have gone to the second-hand shop in Wokingham. The other things are in storage. When you’re well enough to go out, I’ll take you along there and you can decide what you want to keep for your room here. There’ll only be room for a few things, of course,’ he says looking round at the small space that is now her home. ‘I’ve just had a word with Matron. She said they’ll move out anything that you don’t want of theirs to make room.’

  She nods. ‘What about the papers? Father’s… I mean all the papers in the office.’

  ‘Well, as we agreed, I’ve boxed them up and taken everything down to my office. We keep a lot of old deeds and records in the basement. We’ll keep them there until you’re strong enough to come and go through them with me.’

  Perhaps that’s not so bad. Father had always used Cartwrights. Old Joshua Cartwright was in his inner circle. But still, her stomach churns with nerves and upset at the thought of the house, empty of everything.

  ‘There was just one hitch, though, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hitch?’ she looks at him sharply.

  ‘Hmmm. Sorry, I should have worked this out before, but there was one piece of furniture we couldn’t actually remove.’

  ‘What was that?’ alarm rushes through her.

  ‘It was the old bureau actually. Just wouldn’t go through the door of the office. The men tried every angle, but in the end they had to give up.’

  Father’s bureau. She recalls him sitting there night and day writing letters, working on the paperwork for the orphanage. Sometimes when she was small she would tiptoe in to watch him work and he would look up and hold his arms out to her, taking her onto his knee. She loved those moments when she could be his special one, even if it was only for a short while. She can still smell the pomade on his hair as she snuggled against his smooth shirt.

  ‘Miss Burroughs?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The bureau?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That bureau belonged to my father. It was very special. He had a local carpenter in to make it to order. It was built inside his study. The carpenter bought the wood specially. The finest oak. I don’t remember where from now, perhaps the New Forest… no maybe not…’ she frowns, trying to remember.

  ‘If it was made inside the room, that must explain why the men can’t get it out of the door.’

  Connie nods. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I remember it quite clearly now. I must have been very small. The excitement of watching it grow, bit by bit. I would creep in and watch the carpenter at work… now what on earth was that man’s name?’

  ‘Miss Burroughs. I’m wondering what to do about it. We agreed that the house would be sold empty. The buyers won’t be expecting to have to dispose of a large piece of furniture.’

  ‘Dispose of?’ she gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. She sits forward in the chair, glaring at him. Father’s precious desk! It’s bad enough all the furniture having to go into storage, some of it sold. Father’s wonderful wardrobe, Mother’s dressing table, where she used to sit brushing out her long hair before winding it up on her head.

  ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t be alarmed. Unfortunate turn of phrase. I meant that they would have to make arrangements for the desk. They would find that a bother.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to think about it. It’s not going to happen yet though, is it?’

  Peter’s face is flushed now. His eyes flick sideways. He clears his throat.

  ‘Well, actually, Miss Burroughs, a buyer has been found already. Mr Squires has been very efficient.’

  ‘Already? But I thought … you said, it might take months.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, it’s a company who’ve got great plans for the place. They’ve offered a very decent price. Certainly enough to pay your bills here and ensure your future comfort. I think it would be wise to take the offer while it’s on the table.’

  Her scalp tingles in alarm.

  ‘Plans for the place? What do you mean?’ her hands are shaking again.

  ‘I wanted to break it to you a little more gently. But since you ask, they’re planning to build some beautiful new homes on the plot. That’s their business. Pinsent Homes. A very reputable company.’

  Connie is breathing quickly now, her mind running over the implications. Father’s voice comes into her head again, You’ll look after things for me at the house, won’t you, Constance?

  ‘They can’t do that,’ she manages to blurt out. ‘They’ll need permission, won�
��t they? Permission from the council?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty about that,’ Peter Cartwright says, giving her a smooth smile. ‘They’re professionals, after all. They don’t foresee any difficulties with the planning team. Bearing in mind that Cedar Lodge is already surrounded by other modern houses.’

  Connie is shaking all over. Thoughts are swirling around in her mind. One hand fingers the filigree pendant at her throat for comfort, the other plucks at her skirt. She takes a deep breath and holds it as if she’s under water.

  ‘There’s a document,’ she says finally. It’s like the first gasp of a drowning person coming up for air. ‘A document to stop that. Father signed it when he bought the house from the County Council, when the orphanage was closed, forty-odd years ago. I remember it quite clearly.’

  She stares at Peter. He’s staring back at her, the flush even deeper now, his mouth wide open.

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ he says. ‘I’ve been through all the deeds myself and the title is quite clear.’

  Again she has that drowning feeling. She struggles for breath. She must make her voice heard.

  ‘That’s not right, Peter. There is something that Father signed to say that there would only ever be one house on that plot. Your grandfather knew all about that. Or perhaps it was your father…’

  He’s sitting up straight now. His mouth is twitching as if he’s about to shout at her. He loosens his tie.

  ‘It seems that your memory is playing tricks on you, Miss Burroughs. Please don’t worry. I’ll double-check, but I can assure you that I’ve been very thorough.’

  ‘You must check please, Peter. It’s very important.’

  ‘Of course. Everything will be taken care of.’ He’s recovering his composure now, his face returning to its normal colour.

  ‘We were saying a moment ago. About the desk. We’ll need to work out what to do about it. If the house is to… to be demolished, I’m afraid they will just take it away with the debris.’

  Connie swallows but her throat is dry. No words will come because of the images dancing around in her head. Yellow diggers and cranes in the stable yard, crashing through the masonry, splintering the beams, smashing the glass in the conservatory… the conservatory!

  ‘No!’ she says, her throat hoarse. ‘I won’t let it happen. It can’t happen.’

  Peter’s eyes flicker, a mixture of irritation and something else she can’t quite fathom. Desperation perhaps?

  ‘Now please, Miss Burroughs. We went through all this last week. There is very little money left in your bank account to sustain you here. As your trustee and legal adviser, I told you that we need to liquidate your assets. Your only asset, actually. We must do that as soon as we can, otherwise… well, otherwise we’ll have to look for somewhere else for you to live. That might not be so pleasant, and it might be very far away from Weirfield.’

  ‘Yes. You explained all that. But… but surely you can’t sell the house to a developer if that deed…’

  ‘There is no deed. As I said. The developer is offering a very good price and we need to make a decision in the next few days otherwise they’ll pull out and invest elsewhere. Now, please could you have a think about the desk?’

  ‘Have you cleared out all the papers from it?’ she asks in a thin voice, near to tears.

  ‘Of course. As I mentioned,’ there is impatience in his voice now. ‘They are all safe and sound in our archives downstairs in the basement at the offices. When you’re better you can come along and we can go through them together.’

  There’s a pause. Connie is still thinking about those machines, knocking down the coach house, now, churning up the lawn where she and Evie used to play croquet in the old days.

  ‘Well, Miss Burroughs. Do you have any suggestions regarding the bureau?’

  She stares at him for a few minutes then shakes her head slowly.

  ‘I really can’t think what to do about it.’

  ‘You don’t think… that it might be best to dismantle it and take it out?’

  She shakes her head vehemently. ‘No. That might ruin it. It must stay where it is.’

  Peter Cartwright gives a deep sigh and sits forward in the chair.

  ‘That might not be possible if… well, if the house itself isn’t going to be there, I’m afraid.’

  As Connie tries to digest his words, he glances at his watch and gets up.

  ‘Look, I must get off home now. It’s very late. We can talk about this another time.’

  He crosses the room and his hand is on the door handle when she remembers something. ‘What about the carpet in that room?’

  He turns, his shoulders sagging. ‘The carpet is fine. You mean the fitted carpet, of course?’

  ‘They didn’t damage it did they, when they took out the rest of the furniture?’ she asks in a whisper, dreading the response.

  ‘No, no. Of course not. But as I said. The carpet might not be staying for much longer anyway.’

  ‘Evie and I had that carpet put down,’ she goes on, ignoring what he’s just said. ‘It isn’t old. But the floorboards were…’ she looks away and swallows.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off then. I’ll come again soon and let you know how matters are progressing.’

  He’s gone and as his footsteps echo away down the passage, Connie sits staring at the thick beige curtains, breathing quickly, imagining again those machines razing the old house to the ground. Eventually though, her breathing slows down and her mind returns to Father’s office. She remembers how she would watch him bent over the bureau, scribbling away at the ledgers, savouring the fact that for one precious moment it is just the two of them. No Evie, no Mother, none of the orphan children running after him shouting his name, grabbing his coattails.

  ‘Tell me about India, Father,’ she would say if he was in a good mood.

  He would laugh and say; ‘What do you want to know, Constance my dear?’

  ‘All about when you were a missionary there, Father. Everything,’ and her eyes would wander to the fireplace where a hollowed-out elephant’s foot stood filled with coal in the hearth, to the mantelpiece where carved statues of Hindu gods and goddesses would dance mysteriously together, and to the picture above it of the little church surrounded by palm trees, nestled amongst the great mountains. Those things gave her a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach. Especially the gods. Her mind would soar as she tried to imagine that land, far, far away.

  ‘Well, my little one, I could tell you about the time I had to walk to a village that was miles along a mountain trail to help the people during an outbreak of cholera. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?’

  ‘I think so, Father. Is the village in the picture?’

  ‘No, no. You can’t see it. It’s behind that great big mountain.’

  ‘Did you see any tigers on the way?’

  ‘Of course not. Not there, anyway.’

  ‘Did the people get better, Father?’

  ‘Most of them. But God didn’t see fit to spare them all.’

  Connie would pause, picturing her father tending the sick, mopping the brows of suffering people lying on mats inside wooden huts, bringing them water and prayers.

  ‘Why did you come home to England?’

  His face would cloud over whenever she asked this question. She knew it troubled him but he had never answered it properly, and she needed an answer. Wouldn’t it be so much better, if she, Evie, and Mother could have lived in India amongst all that beauty, helping the poor village people to come to God, rather than here in the cold, in this mundane place, sharing Father with a hundred other children? One day he gave her an answer of sorts: ‘I had to, my dear. They needed me here to do God’s work running this orphanage.’

  She knew this wasn’t the whole truth, but details about those years were very vague.

  Sometimes, though, he wouldn’t smile and take her on his knee when she brought his tea from the kitchen, or his letters from the postman. S
ometimes he would scowl at her and turn away, and sometimes he would speak roughly, snatching the post or pointing to where she should put his cup down, and turning straight back to his work. She and Evie learned to keep away from him at those times, and Mother would behave even more like a ghost than usual, tiptoeing around the house so as not to disturb Father. Connie would notice nervous perspiration on Mother’s top lip at supper time when they sat in cowed silence in the dining room.

  ‘Supper time, Connie my darling,’ a voice breaks into her thoughts. She stiffens in alarm. Will they try to make her go to the dining room again? It’s Mairead, the plump Irish girl this time. She has kind misty-grey eyes.

  ‘Erica told me that you weren’t so keen on going along to the dining room yesterday, so I’ve brought your supper to you instead.’

  Mairead is carrying a tray with plates with tin covers. Why is there someone different all the time? So many people to get used to. The girl looks harassed. There are dark patches of sweat under her arms.

  ‘Is it all right to put it down on your lap?’ she asks, rattling the tray with her shaky hands.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You weren’t hungry yesterday, Connie my darling. You must eat.’

  She sighs. What difference will it make? Who will care if she never eats another morsel? Then she stops herself. God will care. It is very wrong to think like that.

  Matron appears in the doorway again. ‘Oh good. I see your visitor has gone. I hope he didn’t tire you out?’

  Connie shakes her head. ‘Of course not. But Matron. I really must go out tomorrow. I need to go back home before the house is sold. There are some things I need to check.’

  ‘Miss Burroughs, my dear lady, you’re in no fit state to go anywhere. Especially if you can’t even go along to the dining room.’

  Connie begins to shake, and her fingers fly once again to the filigree chain at her throat. She holds it to try to soothe her nerves. ‘I must, Matron. I really must.’

  ‘But Mr Cartwright is taking care of it all, isn’t he? You can ask him to check things. I’ll bring you the telephone tomorrow and you can call him if you’re worried.’