The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  But although I could blame myself for marrying Donald and for allowing myself to be seduced by Charles, I knew I couldn’t be blamed for Donald’s behaviour, for his unfortunate past and his addictions, or indeed for the disgraceful way that Charles treated me.

  Throughout the long sea voyage I’ve kept myself to myself. I’ve taken most of my meals in my cabin and the times I have gone out on deck, I’ve hidden myself behind my sketch book and worked on a few discreet drawings of my fellow passengers.

  The weather out on deck is decidedly chilly now. What a dramatic change it is from the tropics! I hadn’t quite realised how used I’ve become to the heat over the past two years. I’ve had to wrap myself up in a shawl on my forays on the deck, which is necessary not just to shield me from the cold, but also to hide my increasing girth from prying eyes. I certainly don’t want those eagle-eyed club gossips to be sending word of my condition back to Kandaipur!

  I’m a bit concerned, though, about how I’ll hide my bump from Mother. I’m lucky that I’m quite slender and it really isn’t showing much. Also, Mother is notoriously unobservant; she only has eyes for herself and for her lover, Cedric, so she’s quite unlikely to notice anything at all if I make sure I wear loose clothing.

  Ezra Burroughs’ letter said I should travel to Weirfield about a week before my due date. I need to write to him from Mother’s and let him know when I’ll arrive so he can arrange to collect me from the station. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand staying with Mother for the whole time, though. I’ve decided the best thing to do would be to book into a boarding house in a seaside town for the last month or so. Somewhere anonymous and a long way from Mother. I’m thinking of Torquay. It’s easy to get there by train and I don’t know a soul there.

  There is only a couple of days left of this journey. We’re almost at Gibraltar now, then it is only two days to Southampton. But that means crossing the Bay of Biscay. I remember the dreadful storms we had on the way out to India. The ship rolled and pitched in the most sickening way for hours on end. I had to retire to bed. I hope that doesn’t happen on this voyage.

  April 1934

  I’ve been at Mother’s house for six weeks or so and I’m so glad my visit here is nearing its end. I’m sure Mother feels the same way. Mother lives in a suburban villa in a small market town in Surrey and in her way, her life resembles Aunt Nora’s quite closely although she doesn’t have the number of servants or the wealth that Auntie has.

  Mother is an incurable socialite and, like Aunt Nora, she entertains several times a week, but her entertainment is mainly focused around cocktails and cards rather than full scale dinner parties. I have no idea where she finds the money for such extensive socialising, although her parents left her a small private income. I get the distinct feeling, that again, just like Aunt Nora, Mother doesn’t really want me to be here. When I arrived she was gushing with so-called love and bombarding me with questions about India and my life there, but I could tell she quickly grew bored with my company. She is happy to wheel me out to parade in front of her friends, though, so that they too can ask me about India, but she is even tiring of that particular game now.

  It is a harsh thing to say, but it is difficult to imagine how I could possibly be her daughter. We seem to be diametrically opposed in almost every way. I remember having similar thoughts even as a child. Mother seems to be a person without any inner life at all. All her concerns are superficial; about appearances, about moving in the right circles, about wearing the right clothes. She loves to gossip and she loves to drink. She skates over the surface of life and isn’t interested in exploring anything meaningful. I have had enough of her pointless little parties and endless scandalmongering now and I will be glad to leave. I have been bored almost to tears most of the time I’ve been here, but at least I’ve managed to make some reasonable sketches of Mother’s house and gardens.

  It hasn’t been difficult to hide my pregnancy from Mother. As I predicted, she’s been far too absorbed in her own affairs to notice much about me. I’ve also realised that, like Donald, she drinks far too much than is good for her, which seems to cloud her mind.

  Worse by far than Mother is Cedric. I have a residual affection for Mother, of course, but that doesn’t apply to Cedric. He doesn’t have any acting work on at present, having only ever had bit-parts in a couple of West End plays. He lazes about the house in his silk dressing gown, smoking cigars, drinking whisky and reading the papers. Like Mother he loves to indulge in gossip and to criticise others. I can tell from some of the vindictive remarks he drops that he resents my being here. He can only be a couple of years older than me, and I suppose my existence as Mother’s daughter serves to demonstrate and reinforce the age gap between the two of them.

  The two high-points of my stay with Mother were the two occasions I told her I was meeting friends in London and escaped for the day. I caught the train to Waterloo from Mother’s local station. London felt so busy but so dreary and colourless compared to India. I didn’t want to spend any longer in the city than was necessary. I caught a cab from the station to Pentonville Prison each time and met father in the bare concrete and brick visiting hall.

  I was alarmed at how thin and grey he’d grown and how sallow his skin looked. There was no light in his eyes; the old fire seemed to have disappeared. In the two years since I had last seen him he seemed to have aged at least ten. He embraced me with tears in his eyes, and he was clearly delighted to see me, but he had very little to say. Instead he asked me lots of questions about India. I was determined to put on a brave face and not to show the turmoil I’d been going through. At one point he looked at me with a spark of curiosity in his eyes and said,

  ‘You look as though you’ve filled out a little, Anna. I don’t mean that in a critical way; you were always so slim, sometimes almost too slim in the old days.’

  ‘It must be the Indian life and the wonderful food out there. You know it’s easy to become very lazy. There’s no real need to take any exercise at all.’

  I started waxing lyrical about how skilled our Indian cook is, secretly relieved that Father hadn’t guessed the real reason I had put on weight.

  On the second visit he said, ‘You know I should be out of here in a matter of months. If all goes well with the prison board, that is.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Father. Where will you go?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll find somewhere. Some cheap lodgings in North London. There are a few men in here who have contacts who can help me out. I’ll try and warm up some of my old friends in the City. There’s bound to be some work going somewhere.’

  ‘You could always come out to India to see me, Father,’ I said on impulse.

  ‘That would be wonderful, Anna,’ he replied, but I think we both knew in our hearts that it would never happen. He didn’t have the funds for the passage for one thing, but more importantly he didn’t seem to have the will either. He seemed to have completely given up on life. When we said goodbye I had a lump in my throat, but I didn’t want him to see me cry. And all the way home I couldn’t get the image of him out of my mind. The image of a beaten man, a shadow of his former self.

  So tomorrow I’m leaving here. I told Mother that I’m going to visit some friends from India in Torquay, whereas in reality I’ve booked into the Foxlands Boarding House on Torquay seafront. It is cheap and convenient and I’m hoping the sea air will improve my spirits, although I have to say they are sinking fast as the impending day approaches that I’ll have to travel to Weirfield and surrender my wellbeing to the Rev Ezra Burroughs.

  May 1st1934

  My weeks in Torquay have passed uneventfully. The Foxlands Boarding House is exactly as I expected; rather down-at-heel with a genteel landlady and occupied by retired majors and impoverished gentlefolk. There’s been no need to hide my pregnancy here; there is no one I know and as far as everyone in the boarding house is concerned, I am Mrs Anna Foster, taking a seaside break before the birth of my baby. It has been a relief to
be alone again after the irritations of Mother’s house, and to be able to walk out along the seafront, taking great gulps of salty air. I’ve felt it doing me good day by day, and in the chipped mirror in my bedroom I can see a healthy bloom on my cheeks.

  The landlady, Mrs Briggs, has been very kind and very discreet. The food is plain and wholesome and the company undemanding. It has been just what I’ve needed. But tomorrow I’ll take the train to Paddington station, and change there for the Weirfield train. It will be a long journey, and I’m not looking forward to what awaits me at my destination. In fact, as I pack my trunk in preparation, a dreadful feeling of foreboding descends on me.

  May 2nd, 1934

  So here I am in a rather squalid little room above a garage, waiting for the birth of my baby. I feel like a prisoner already. I arrived last might on the last train from Paddington to Weirfield. Ezra Burroughs had insisted that I catch that particular train. In his letter he emphasised that my presence on his premises should be secret, which is why I had to arrive after his family had gone to bed.

  Ezra Burroughs was waiting for me on the platform as the train drew into the little station. I knew instantly that it was him. He is tall and – I was going to say imposing – but I think the word intimidating suits him better. He has luxuriant chestnut hair and piercing black eyes. He was dressed rather extravagantly in a three piece suit with a yellow silk cravat at his throat.

  ‘You must be Mrs Foster,’ he said, approaching me and shaking my hand. ‘Here, let me take your trunk.’ He grabbed the heavy trunk by its leather strap with one hand and taking me by the other, whisked me off the station platform and into a waiting Jaguar. He drove me himself the mile or so to his house and as he drove he explained that it was imperative that my presence in Weirfield should remain confidential.

  ‘You must refrain from making any noise at all. I know this will be difficult while you’re giving birth, but as I said, it is imperative that your presence remains a secret. You are not, under any circumstances to leave the room for the duration of your stay with me.’

  I stared at him in the car mirror, and didn’t reply. It felt as though all my fears about staying in his care were fully founded. Why had I trusted Charles? Why had I allowed myself to be persuaded to go through with this? A dreadful panic overtook me and I felt like jumping out of the car and running away.

  The room is sparsely furnished with an old metal bedstead in one corner with a stained horsehair mattress. There is a small lavatory in a cubicle in the corner with a wash basin, but no bath or shower. In one corner of the room is a threadbare chaise longue and there’s a small writing table under the window. When Ezra left me that first night, I sat on the bed and let the tears roll down my cheeks. I wondered how many other poor souls had given birth here and let their babies be taken away from them. The place has a strange atmosphere about it, as if it has borne witness to a great deal of sadness down the years.

  The window looks directly across a courtyard at Ezra Burroughs’ house. It must be Cedar Lodge, which is where his letters came from. It is a rather fine, imposing Edwardian residence with a beautiful glass conservatory at the back. It is quite close to this coach house, though. He is surely running a risk with his little operation here being so close to his family? Or perhaps they know all about it?

  On the far side of Cedar Lodge looms a great red-brick Victorian building. That must be the orphanage. I can sometimes hear children playing in the grounds if I open the window a chink (disobeying the rules, of course) and once or twice I’ve seen boys come through the gate in the wall that separates the two gardens, to work on the vegetable garden behind Cedar Lodge.

  ‘You must keep the curtains closed at all times. There is electric light here,’ he said. So here I sit under a miserable single bulb without a shade, waiting for any twinge in my body to signal the onset of my labour, although I’ve no idea what to expect.

  That first evening, when he returned with some water and biscuits for me I opened up my suitcase and got out the gifts that Charles had told me to bring. I handed Ezra the luxurious smoking jacket and I saw a glint of greedy pleasure in his eyes as he held it up to his chest.

  ‘Now pop up onto the bed my dear. I need to examine you.’

  ‘Examine me?’

  Was that strictly necessary? I had deliberately shied away from considering the sordid details of my confinement, but now I was face to face with reality I realised there was no escaping this. I went and lay on the bed. He hovered over me and pulled up my dress. I turned my face away in shame. I could feel my cheeks burning. He put his cold hands on my stomach and pressed and prodded up and down. I shrank from his touch and held my breath until it was over.

  ‘It won’t be long now. The baby’s head is fully engaged. A couple of days at the most. You came at the right time. Your stay here will be mercifully short, Mrs Foster.’

  May 4th, 1934

  Despite his assurances I am still here waiting two days later. I am bored beyond belief, and have spent my time sketching Cedar Lodge. Of course that means pushing back the curtain, but I’ve been careful to ensure he hasn’t caught me doing it.

  I stare down at the yard. The slightest movement down there is of interest to me. I have noticed that Ezra Burroughs has two daughters and a wife. They are all three similar in build, petite and slight with mousy brown hair. The wife looks terribly shy and nervous and rushes about as if she is always in a hurry. The two daughters cross the yard to go through to the orphanage each morning. The taller and older one looks a little severe. I have never seen her smile, but the other one has a look of freedom about her, almost as if she doesn’t belong here in this pious, lifeless place. I can see it in the way she walks and the effusive way she moves when she speaks. A couple of times I’ve seen her glancing up at this window – something the other two never do – as if she is curious as to what goes on up here. Each time she has done that I’ve drawn back quickly, my heart quickening pace. It would be dreadful if she saw me.

  May 6th, 1934

  My baby was born in the dead of night last night and what a beautiful baby boy he is. With dark hair and twinkling dark eyes, and perfectly soft, unblemished skin. I’m not allowed to name him; the Rev Burroughs says that it is for his adoptive parents to choose his name and that he mustn’t get used to another name before he goes to them.

  My labour was mercifully short, which is just as well as I had no preparation for how painful if would be and nothing at all to dull the pain. The Rev Burroughs was with me for the last part. He got me to bite on an old sheet to stop me crying out. I hated him being there and I shrunk away from his touch, but there was no choice in the end. I had to submit to him delivering the baby.

  I look at my beautiful baby now – he is sleeping peacefully – and already I’m mourning the fact that I have agreed to leave him here and return to India by myself. I’m not sure if I’ll actually be able to do it when the time comes. How could any woman tear herself away from a precious helpless creature? I wish there was some way I could find out what happens to him. The Rev Burroughs has promised he will go to a good home, but how will I know if he keeps to that promise? These thoughts keep turning over in my head. If only there was someone who could help me; who could write and tell me how he is and where he goes to live. Perhaps I’d be able to cope with the separation better if only I knew my baby was well and happy.

  It’s raining outside and almost dark. I’m going to sketch him now while he sleeps so I can take his picture back to India with me, so I won’t forget his little face, and while I’m sketching I’ll try and figure out a way of keeping tabs on my baby. A thought has just occurred to me – a wild and impulsive sort of thought – perhaps Ezra Burroughs’ daughter, the one with the generous smile, would help me?’

  * * *

  Sarah puts the diary down. She wonders how long after that thought was sown in Anna’s mind it was before she went out and down the coach house steps and came face to face with Connie. Finally the swaying motion
of the train sends her off to sleep and she sleeps soundly until the steward wakes them for breakfast at 7 o’clock.

  At Kandaipur station Sarah helps her father off the train and they are immediately surrounded by a crowd of taxi drivers, touts and porters plying their trade.

  ‘You want taxi?’

  ‘You want hotel?’

  ‘I take your bags. Very cheap price.’

  ‘Where you go to? I show you nice place.’

  Sarah strikes a bargain with one of the drivers – a portly man in a stained nylon safari suit. He has a kind face and promises to show them the best hotels in town.

  ‘My name is Bharat,’ he says as he guides them out through the din and clamour of the station entrance to a stately Ambassador taxi. He opens the back door of the car and with an elaborate gesture and bow invites them to sit on the scuffed leather seats.

  ‘Do you know the Maybelle hotel?’ asks Sarah, remembering the name from Anna’s diary. When they were at home her father had asked her to find it on the internet, but she had drawn a blank. She’d hoped that she’d be able to locate it once they arrived, so she hadn’t booked anywhere to stay for this part of their trip.

  ‘There are many, many beautiful hotels in Kandaipur,’ says the taxi driver disapprovingly, wagging his head. ‘I take you to Ananda Lodge instead. Very nice. Very clean place. Not expensive.’

  ‘But do you know the Maybelle?’ Sarah persisted. ‘I don’t mind paying extra if you’ll take us there instead.’

  ‘Maybelle is not called that anymore. It is now called Mandaka Palace Hotel. OK I take you there if you really want. But you might not like it. It’s very old-fashioned hotel.’ He pulls out of the station forecourt in the wrong gear, making the taxi shudder and jump. At the same time he winds down the window and spits a stream of betel-nut juice onto the road.