by Ann Bennett
‘He left and went downstairs and after a few minutes I heard thumping sounds coming from the conservatory. They were sounds of digging, of a spade in earth. I had to find out what was going on, so I crept downstairs and hid myself in the kitchen and watched him through the glass door. I watched in silent horror as Father dug a hole in the conservatory floor in front of the door. He then placed the bundle of rags in his toolbox and buried the toolbox in the hole. Then he filled the hole in and put the flagstone step back in place.’
Sarah stares at her. ‘It was the bones of the baby that we found.’
‘Of course.’
‘So you knew all along.’
Connie nods slowly, her eyes grave.
‘I couldn’t tell the police. What good would have come of it anyway? I’m telling you now because I trust you to keep a secret.’
‘What happened after that? Did you take Anna’s baby to her? Did you ever confront your father?’
‘I was aghast by what I had seen. I was sure it was a dead baby he had buried. I was revolted and appalled. The next day I could hardly face Father. I couldn’t meet his eye. How could he have done such a thing in the middle of the night, then sit at breakfast munching toast and reading the morning paper as if nothing had happened? I suddenly saw what a sham his life was. I knew now that he accepted money to find homes for these unwanted babies to fund his extravagant tastes. I began to despise him almost as much as I feared him.
‘After breakfast that day I went up to my room and wrote to Anna to say that I would do as she asked, but that she must come quickly or the baby might have gone to his new home. She wrote back as soon as she received the letter to say she was coming on the next ship and that she would contact me as soon as she was in England.
‘During those weeks I prepared myself for the repercussions of what I was about to do. I knew I would have to leave home when Father found out what I’d done. I found out about cheap lodgings in London and started to look in the newspapers for a job there. By this time, I was a qualified school teacher, just like Evie.
‘I also decided to practice what I would do when Anna arrived. I started taking her baby out in the pram for walks. Nobody minded that, some of the staff did take the babies out for fresh air in the afternoons. A couple of times I went to the station to meet the London train. I stood on the platform as it puffed into the station, imagining Anna getting down from one of the carriages and running towards me.’
‘So when did she arrive?’
‘She never came. Weeks went by. I checked the liners arriving in Southampton from India in the newspaper, and after each one arrived I expected a letter. I went to the post office every day to check. But there were no more letters. She never wrote to me again.
‘In a month or so, Father had found a family for the baby and he took him away himself. One day I went to the nursery and the baby had gone. I didn’t have a chance to slip the diary into the baby’s belongings. It was the only way I could think of to send it with him. When I asked Father where the baby had gone he refused to tell me, said it was a confidential matter between him and the new parents when I challenged him.
‘After the baby left I went through a bad patch. I felt very low. I had failed him and I had failed Anna. If she ever did make contact, she’d want to know about his new home and I hadn’t even managed to find out where Father had taken him. I wouldn’t be able to tell her that I’d sent the diary with him either.
‘I went into a spiral of despair. I felt trapped in Father’s narrow, restricted world with no way out. I lost weight and I had no enthusiasm for my work. I felt hopeless and weak. I knew I should challenge my father about what he was doing but I never could pluck up the courage. I felt so alone, so powerless. It was as if I was a shell of a young woman, creeping through my days like a ghost, not the vital girl I should have been. I knew how weak I was, and I was ashamed, but paralysed at the same time. I should have gone to the authorities about what was happening, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything except pray. That’s all I did my whole life…
‘Two or three years after Anna’s baby had left, Tommy here came into my life.’
Connie smiles at Tommy, who reaches out and takes her hand. Sarah smiles at the sudden intimacy and at the tender way they look at each other.
‘That’s right, I came to Cedar Lodge to work for the Reverend Burroughs in 1937,’ Tommy says.
‘Tommy grew up in the orphanage,’ Connie explains. ‘He left to work on a farm for a couple of years and came back to work for Father when the farmer died. Father hired him to do odd jobs and look after the car. I would sometimes bring Tommy a cup of tea in the garage and we used to talk.’
‘It was more than that, Connie,’ Tommie breaks in. ‘We were sweethearts.’
Sarah notices a spot of colour appear on each of Connie’s wrinkled cheeks. Her wet eyes twinkle with memories.
‘Of course we were. We used to walk out together, didn’t we?’ says Connie. ‘We used to spend as much time as we could in each others’ company.’
‘Our favourite stroll was along the river bank,’ Tommy chips in.
Connie pauses and she and Tommy exchange shy glances.
‘I almost told you back then, Tommy,’ Connie says, ‘the things I’ve just told you and Sarah. I knew I could trust you. You were the first person I ever thought about telling. Each time we were together I had it on the tip of my tongue, but I could never quite pluck up the courage to say the words. The moment never seemed right. And then you left. Suddenly. Without a word.’
‘Like I told you, I was forced to go,’ Tommy says bitterly, looking down. ‘Forced by the Reverend Burroughs.’
‘Why don’t you tell Sarah what happened?’ Connie asks gently.
Tommy turns towards Sarah and in a halting voice, tells her about discovering Ezra Burroughs with the body of a young woman on the back seat of the Jaguar. He explains how Ezra bullied and intimidated him into leaving Weirfield, even though Tommy knew he should go to the police. He tells her how the newspapers reported that a young woman was washed up in the Thames at Henley a few days after that, with nothing to connect her to Weirfield.
Sarah feels the blood draining from her face.
‘But that’s dreadful,’ she says. ‘Do you think that Ezra Burroughs killed the young woman?’
Tommy shakes his head. ‘I thought he might have done for a while, but even back then I didn’t actually believe that was what had happened. Knowing what I do now though, I think it was more likely that she died in childbirth, or perhaps she was in despair and killed herself up in that room. Perhaps something went very wrong and the Reverend Burroughs didn’t know what to do. He had no medical training, except some experience in the field as a missionary.’
‘I’m sure she must have died in childbirth,’ says Connie. ‘When I think back, I am almost certain that another foundling appeared shortly after the news about that young woman’s death. I didn’t associate them at the time because I didn’t know that she had anything to do with Weirfield.’
‘How many foundlings do you think there were altogether, Connie?’ asks Sarah.
‘I’m not sure. A few each year for several years. There was only a trickle during the war and it stopped completely a couple of years after that. Perhaps it was something to do with Indian Independence. I’m sure several young women like Anna made the journey from India to Weirfield to give birth in order to avoid a scandal. Also, I read somewhere that the law changed in 1939 and after that the local authority had to be informed of all adoptions, however informal. Before that, it was still possible to have children adopted informally. Perhaps Father thought he’d be running too much of a risk once the law was tightened up.’
Sarah looks from Connie to Tommy, at their lined faces, thinking about what they had lost. She thinks about Anna too. Why ever didn’t she return for her baby? Did she have a change of heart? Did she fall ill? Did someone stop her? There must be some explanation.
But there’s one thing
burning at the back of Sarah’s mind. She knows she has to ask, she needs to know the answer, but she is afraid that the answer won’t be what she wants to hear.
‘Do you think that my father could be Anna’s son?’ she asks tentatively, breaking the silence.
Connie shakes her head.
‘I don’t think so. Didn’t you say your father’s birthday was September? I distinctly remember it being Spring when Anna came. She came outside in a thin nightgown and although it was raining and she was shivering, it wasn’t cold.’
‘I asked you this before, but you weren’t sure about it. Do you know if your father kept any records of the babies?’
‘All the paperwork is in the archives at Cartwrights. I’ve never seen it. I’ve never wanted to see it.’
‘That ledger I showed you earlier? The one with the numbers in columns. Do you have any idea what that means?’
Connie shakes her head again. ‘No idea at all, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you think it would be possible to go along to Cartwrights and look at your father’s papers? I know it’s a lot to ask, but perhaps there’s a chance that we might be able to find out something about my father’s mother from them.’
Connie is silent for a while. She closes her eyes and Sarah wonders if she has drifted off. She must be tired after the emotional effort of telling her story.
‘Connie?’
Connie sits up, takes a sip of her tea. ‘I’ve never looked at Father’s papers because I was afraid of what I might find. After Tommy left, I gave up on life. I gave up even thinking about questioning Father about what was happening in the coach house and about the foundlings. I decided to accept it all like Mother and Evie did. That’s how I coped with it; by shutting down my doubts, by focusing exclusively on Father’s good side.
‘After he died I tried my best to carry on with that. I didn’t want to know anything about that sordid business. I wanted to close the chapter. That’s why I had the study carpeted, so I wasn’t tempted to look under the floorboards for the metal box of letters. I didn’t want any reminders of what had happened. That’s why I sealed up the cupboard with his presents from India inside. I knew why he had received them, what they were payment for. But I had this feeling that it was wrong to throw them away altogether. I was still afraid of him, long after his death. It’s why I never looked inside his bureau. I wanted to rewrite history, I suppose. To preserve the good side of Father and shut out the rest.
‘But when the bones of the baby were found I realised I couldn’t put it behind me any longer. And now I know what he did to Tommy, I’m angrier with him than ever before. He ruined my life when he sent Tommy away. I’ve thought a lot about Anna lately, too. I’ve read her diary for the first time. I think I’m ready to look at Father’s papers now. You can both come with me if you will, to lend me some moral support. I’ll call Peter on Monday morning and make an appointment.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course. It’s time to settle everything.’
Thirty
Sarah
Before Sarah leaves Fairlawns, she asks Connie if she minds if she takes up the carpet in the study and looks for the box of letters under the floorboards.
‘There might be some information in those letters that will help us in the search for information about my father’s mother,’ she says.
‘If you think it will help,’ says Connie. ‘You know everything there is to know now. I don’t have anything to hide.’
It’s mid-afternoon when Sarah enters Cedar Lodge. The sky outside is brooding and the rooms are dark and full of shadows. Connie’s story has affected her so profoundly that she can feel the malevolent presence of Ezra Burroughs in every room. She stands in the doorway to the dining room and pictures the Burroughs family sitting down and saying grace before eating a sparse breakfast. In the living room she can see them kneeling to pray before the fire. When she enters the study, she can almost smell cigar smoke and whisky on the air and hear the booming voices of Ezra’s associates, laughing and joking.
Sarah wastes no time in fetching the tool box that Terry leaves at weekends and taking it into the study. She kneels in front of the fireplace and placing the chisel under the edge of the carpet, prises out the nails that are holding it down, one by one. Soon she has removed enough to be able to pull a large section of the carpet and underlay back. She scans the floorboards. There is one that is smaller than the rest and looks loose. Sarah slips the edge of the chisel under it and prises it upwards. It comes out easily and she lays it aside.
She peers into the void and sure enough, lodged between the floor joists is a black metal box. She pulls it out and as Connie had found all those decades ago, it opens easily. It is packed with letters. As she takes the bundle out there’s a chink of metal. She peers into the box. There is a silver key there. She recalls Connie mentioning it. She picks it up and examines it, but there is no clue to what it might be for. It is far too big for the lock of the metal box. She slips it into a zip up section in her handbag, making a mental note to see if it fits any of the door locks in the house, although it appears rather small for that.
Then she turns to the pack of letters. She pulls one out, eases it out of its envelope and holds it up to the light with trembling fingers. It’s dated May 1933.
Dear Ezra,
As per our discussion last week, I can confirm that my client, whose name must remain confidential throughout our correspondence, is content to pay the sum of five hundred pounds for the facility we discussed. Two hundred will be paid into my client account straight away, and the remainder upon completion of your services. You mentioned that you would prefer the money in cash, which can be arranged. I therefore suggest you call into my offices on Monday morning. Please contact my secretary to arrange a suitable time. At that time, we can also discuss detailed arrangements for the delivery, which I can convey to my client in India.
Yours sincerely,
Joshua Cartwright, Solicitor.
She places it back inside the envelope and takes out another letter. It’s along the same lines, but dated a few months later and this time there is no mention of India. She reads four or five letters which are similar, all from Joshua Cartwright.
But there are some other letters in the box that are in different handwriting. She looks at one of the envelopes and sees that the stamps are Indian. This one is dated December 1933.
My Dear Ezra,
It is a while since we were in touch, but I have heard that you are settled well in England and now running an orphanage. I have also heard on the Anglo-Indian grapevine that you provide a discreet service for women who find themselves in difficulties. I will get straight to the point and tell you that I have a friend who finds herself in such a predicament. She will need to come to England and avail herself of your services within the next six months. If that is something you could help with I’d be obliged if you could write to me at the above address as soon as possible letting me know the rates for your services and what exactly the process involves.
Yours sincerely,
Charles Perry
There is a later letter from the same source.
My Dear Ezra,
You don’t know how relieved I am to hear that you are able to help my friend. I enclose a cheque for the first two hundred and fifty pounds herewith. My friend will bring another cheque with her to be paid on delivery for the balance. She will arrive with you in early May. I hope all appropriate arrangements can be made for her arrival. I will write in due course with her name and address. Perhaps you would kindly then be able to write to her directly with details of the arrangements.
I am also sending, under cover of this letter, a watch, as a token of my sincere gratitude to you for this service.
Your sincerely
Charles Perry.
Sarah puts the letter down and hurries over to the shelves. She takes down the gold watch that she discovered when she opened up the cupboard. She turns it over and sure enough th
ere is the inscription… To Ezra, with heartfelt thanks, your devoted friend, Charles Perry.
She places the letters back inside the tin, and as she does so she notices something about them. A number is scrawled on the corner of each envelope. Both the numbers on the envelopes from Charles Perry have the number 5 in a circle on them. Sarah stares at them, frowning. What can that mean? Perhaps the archives in Cartwrights will shed some light on that.
She glances at her watch. It’s almost time to go over to Dad’s. She’d said she would go early today. He said he wanted to get a good night’s sleep before his hospital appointment tomorrow. She goes through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and her phone rings. Glancing at the screen she sees that it is Julia Marshall. As she answers she realises that she has hardly thought about Alex or the divorce for several days now.
‘I’ve got some news for you,’ says Julia. ‘Unless you’ve heard it from your husband already?’
‘No, I haven’t heard from him for weeks. What’s happened?’
‘I’ve had a letter from his solicitor saying that he’s been arrested and charged with money laundering. He wants to put the restaurant business and your former matrimonial home up for sale.’
Sarah’s heart beats quickly. This is a shock. She had thought because she hadn’t heard anything further about the police investigation that it might have gone away.
‘That’s taken a long time. Is that normal?’
‘Quite clearly the police were gathering their evidence these past months, but they must have what they need now as they’ve lifted the freezing order on the bank accounts and assets.’
‘Poor Alex,’ Sarah murmurs because despite everything she feels pity for him. She has an image of how he appeared last time she saw him in the restaurant, beleaguered and a little lost. She tries to drive those thoughts from her mind.
‘Mrs Jennings,’ Julia goes on, ‘you can refuse to co-operate with the sale and he would have to get a court order to sell the business and house. But I wouldn’t advise that. If they are sold, you will be able to realise your share of the proceeds and put an end to the dispute between you.’