She wore them out. By three o’clock in the afternoon, having visited Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London and St Paul’s, all via the most interesting and historic routes, Betty Epsilom said it was time they went back to their hotel, ‘For one of your English teas.’
In the thickly carpeted luxury of the Dorchester lounge, a wonderful tea slid soundlessly towards them, propelled by a waitress armed with silver tongs.
It couldn’t be, Betty said, that she hadn’t guided people before. Why she was the best guide they’d ever had, and they’d had a few. Emboldened by their kindness, the salmon sandwiches, the cream and scones, Rosie asked, ‘Do you have children?’
Betty looked down. Edward Epsilom spoke. ‘No, Rosemary. God has not blessed us in that way.’
She was on the brink of opening her purse and taking out the photograph of Alex, one Sister Fran had taken in the park a year ago, fuzzy at the edges but still clearly a lovely boy, and saying, ‘Here you are, a lovely boy for you,’ but something stopped her, some inner knowledge that they would recoil in confusion and disgust. Having unexpectedly found such favour, Rosie couldn’t bear to fall from grace.
They parted with handshakes in the lobby, the Epsiloms off to the Mediterranean, Rosie back to her office, to her digs with Mrs Silverman, to her three hours each Sunday with Alex in Camberwell.
But for the first time, Rosie had imagined somebody else bringing up her child and the idea slowly established itself. She found herself looking at couples, assessing whether they would make good parents for Alex. Almost unconsciously, parent hunting became an established part of her daily routine.
One lunch hour a few weeks after meeting the Epsiloms, Rosie sat on her favourite bench in St James’s Park, finishing her sandwiches. The first couple looked promising. The woman wore a little fur cape around her shoulders, so they must have money; his face was tired, but kind. Their boy ran ahead of them, excited by the sight of the little bridge. The mother, looking bored, sat down on the bench next to Rosie’s and took a powder compact out of her handbag. ‘You go with him,’ she said to her husband, flipping the compact open to inspect her face. The father joined his boy on the bridge, but they had no bread. The boy peered sadly through the railings at the water and the disappointed ducks below.
No. She wouldn’t like them to adopt Alex. Rosie took her crusts over. The boy looked uncertainly from his father to the strange lady. He was fairer and pinker than Alex, with hair parted at the side. A bit girly. Rosie dropped a piece of bread through the railings and a flurry of ducks, quacking and splashing, fought for it. That made him laugh. ‘You have a go.’
He took the crusts. ‘Not all at once. One bit at a time.’
The father’s voice spoke above the clamour of the ducks, ‘You’re very kind.’
When Rosie stood up, the woman was coming towards the bridge.
‘I must go. Bye, bye.’ The boy, squatting down to drop the bread through the bars, didn’t hear her. The two women’s eyes met.
‘I hope Dominic said “thank you”.’
‘Oh yes. Do you realise how lucky you are, having such a lovely boy?’ The powdered face showed surprise. Well, she needed telling. Silly cow didn’t have a clue. Rosie walked back to work convinced that even life at Naz House was better than life with that gloomy couple.
But on Sunday she found Alex had a huge bruise on his head no one could explain. Though she searched high and low, the toy train she’d given him the previous week had completely disappeared. Rosie thought again about the boy in the park: the clean boy; the boy who wore well fitting shoes and had his buttons done up right; the boy who wouldn’t get a daily slap from Sister Alphonso; the boy who nobody would call a bastard. When she left, Alex struggled out of her goodbye hug to chase after Frankie. Rosie spent another sleepless night. She had so little to offer him. What right did she have to deny him a better future?
The next week, Mother Ignatius thanked God Rosemary had at last seen the sinfulness of her ways and in the magnanimous mood inspired by the gift of chocolates agreed, in exchange for Rosie’s signature, to include in Alex’s file the photograph, the newspaper cutting and a letter, ‘so long as it is brief and factual I say factual and includes nothing silly or upsetting.’ The nun popped a coffee cream into her mouth and added, ‘I cannot promise he will ever see these things,’ she said. ‘That will be entirely up to his adoptive home.’
But he might see them, Rosie thought. He has a chance of knowing who he is.
When Rosie emerged from Mother Ignatius’s office, Sister Fran had a cup of tea ready. She whispered, ‘Of course, I’ll let you know when anyone comes, just so’s you can get a look at them.’
September 5, 1946
To my dear son Alex,
I do not know if you will ever read this letter, and if you do, it will be because of the kindness of people you know as your mother and father. I didn’t want to give you up, but I had to. It was so you could have a better life with people who had enough money to provide for you and no blot on their name.
Your father never saw you. He was a soldier who went missing in action and I now think must be dead. There is a newspaper cutting here that tells you about the brave deed he did and I know you will be proud of him. The photograph is of us both, so you can see what a good-looking man he was and how you take after him, particularly around the chin and eyes. I loved him and I think he loved me. He was an educated man from a good family, so your blood is good on his side. I am half Romany but my father was settled and Romany blood is nothing to be ashamed of. It has made me strong and I hope it will do the same for you.
You were born at Nazareth House in Camberwell. You weighed six pounds, twelve ounces and had a thick cap of dark hair. When you first looked at me, I told you, ‘I’m your Mam,’ and your eyes, which were almond-shaped then, though they changed later, slid slowly over my face. I have this moment in my heart, kept there forever.
You were a lovely chubby baby, always smiling. I stayed with you until you were two years old. You called me Auntie Rose. The nuns would sometimes let me take you around with me when I did my chores. When you were 10 months old you pulled yourself up on my bucket and walked four steps. Then you did it again and the bucket fell over and you got soaking wet. You cried with the shock and cold and didn’t try to walk again for three months. Your first word was duck.
Sometimes, there were air raids and we had to get up in the night, fetch our babies and go down to the shelter across the road. The shelter was damp and smelly and most of the other girls complained when this happened, but I loved it because it meant I could have you in my arms all night long. Once, when it went quiet after a bad night, you said, in such a clear voice, ‘All gone!’ and everyone laughed. You were always such a clever boy. I was so proud of you.
I wouldn’t agree to you being adopted for a long time because I kept hoping for the miracle that your father would come home and we could be a family. The nuns told me I was wrong to encourage you to be so attached to me. They said people preferred to adopt young babies and I was standing in the way of good fortune for you. I hope you will forgive me for this and understand it was for love.
When you were two I had to leave Nazareth House. Sister Frances held you at the window to wave goodbye. You wore the blue rompers I made. She told me later you cried and cried and would not be comforted. After that, I came to see you every Sunday and sometimes I took you out. Do you remember riding the elephant?
I did not have a good education, but I want you to understand knowledge is a wonderful thing. Your father studied history. Perhaps you will too. My father (your grandfather) though a poor man, knew everything there is to know about horses. Success is not easy to obtain in life, but knowledge helps and can also give something to live for in bad times. I have done my best to teach you your letters to give you a good start.
By the time you were three and a half you could say Our Lord’s Prayer, count up to a hundred and write your name beautifully. I am
giving you up because I want you to have parents who can teach you much more than I can. I am so sorry for being selfish and not letting you go before.
I hope even if you forget my face you will feel in your heart how loved you were from the moment you were born and that my love will be with you forever. I know one day we will meet again, in this world or the next. God be with you always.
Your mother,
Rosemary Mullen
Rosie read through the letter and added a postscript. ‘This seems a very sad and serious letter, but life can also be funny. I want you to be happy and laugh a lot.’ Ink welled at the nib as she paused. ‘Remember you are as good as anyone. Never let someone trample over you just because they have more money.’
It was impossible to say all she wanted. Rosie read the letter once more, running her pen through everything she knew Mother Ignatius would find ‘silly or upsetting’, including the postscript. She wrote it out again and put it in an envelope with the photograph and the newspaper cutting. After work the next day she went again to Camberwell, delivered the letter and signed her name to the adoption papers.
At work, a few days later, Denis came upstairs to tell Rosie that Clarissa would be leaving at the end of the month to get married. ‘Would you be interested in replacing her as one of our travel advisors?’
To Rosie it seemed uncomfortably like a reward for giving up her child.
29
Kent and the Isle of Wight, April 1946 – February 1947
Tucker pushed open the passenger door and let Margaret wriggle off his lap. ‘God, Phil, you’re not feeling guilty about her, are you? She’s absolutely beautiful! What did I tell you about this bloke, Margie? Gets his hands on a lovely thing like this and all he wants to do is ask for his money back and give it to the starving poor up north.’
Tucker’s girlfriend stood on the pavement beating the creases out of her dress. She smiled shyly at Philip. ‘We were going so fast!’ she breathed. ‘Sixty nearly all the way.’
Philip, deciding there and then he liked Margaret enormously, got out himself and took several paces back to admire his new MG TC. It was every boy’s dream of a car, from the shiny spokes of its wheels to the gleaming deep green body and folded back leather hood. He grinned. ‘All right, I give in, she’s gorgeous. I’m in love with her.’
Tucker and Margaret watched him, their arms loosely about each other, Yes, they were a good pair, Philip decided, rather alike in a funny way, his friend a little less bulky after three years as a POW, but still solid, and Margaret, ‘a nice handful’ as Tucker would say, with an open friendly face and windblown fair hair pinned to one side with a tortoiseshell slide.
‘Reckon it’s time to put the Yorkshire pud in.’ Tucker gave Margaret a squeeze. ‘Can you manage all right if we stay out here for a smoke?’
After she’d disappeared into Tucker’s neat house, the two men leaned against the warm bonnet of the car and puffed away in silence. The small Kent town where Tucker lived was pleasantly quiet after London. Three boys cycled past the car, turned and cycled past again. Tucker’s smoke rings floated in the crisp April air.
‘You’re getting better.’
‘Been practising.’ Tucker carefully released another quivering O. ‘Great feeling, isn’t it, freedom?’
‘Speak for yourself. I’ve still got two weeks to go.’
‘But your choice, wasn’t it, to stay in for a bit?’
‘Well, it suited me. Couldn’t think of much else to do, to be honest.’
‘Thought you were mad keen on getting back to university and all that lovely history.’
‘Didn’t feel right. I think I’ll go back in September.’
‘What you going to do till then?’
‘First thing is to help my mother move house.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Mmm.’
They turned at the sound of an opening window. ‘Five minutes!’ Margaret waved and disappeared. A fragrant waft of roasting meat reached Philip. ‘I meant to say – I think Margaret’s lovely. Is it serious?’
Tucker smiled and looked at the ground. ‘Suppose it is. She’s round here most days and her dad’s beginning to drop heavy hints.’
‘I think you’re very well suited.’
‘Yeah. I think you’re right.’ There was a pause. Tucker’s pink face searched Philip’s. ‘Still no luck, then?’ Philip shook his head. ‘She’ll turn up. I’m always hearing about people getting back in touch. Amazing number of stories like yours, you know.’
‘I’ve put ads in newspapers, written God knows how many letters…’
‘Bet you didn’t get much change out of those Catholic places.’
‘Just the brush-off. You know, “It is policy not to divulge details of individuals in our care,” sort of thing.’
‘Told you. Like a secret society. But Rosie’ll find her way to you. If it’s meant to be.’
‘Getting all fatalistic in your old age.’
‘If that’s what it’s called. One way of explaining things, isn’t it? Why we’re still here and our friends aren’t.’ They were silent. As if on cue, a small pugnacious-looking dog appeared and snufflingly greeted the three boys, now standing astride their bikes and surveying the car from a respectful distance.
Tucker trod his cigarette end into the ground. ‘Come on. Let’s get her covered up. Give us a hand, you lot.’ Bicycles clattered to the ground as three boys rushed to respond. Together they secured the leather hood and Philip locked the car. ‘Keep an eye on her, would you?’ Tucker winked at Philip. ‘Might be something in it for you later.’
Margaret stood waiting for them in the doorway. She’d brushed her hair smooth and changed into a pink cotton dress. For a moment, envy filled Philip. He felt Tucker’s hand on his shoulder. ‘The other thing I learnt in that camp, which I don’t think you’ve worked out for all your posh education – is you got to enjoy the moment. You got that little darling parked outside and a lovely piece of sirloin waiting inside, what more could a man want?’
Looking at Margaret looking at Tucker, the answer was obvious. Someone to love. Someone to come home to.
But perhaps, Philip thought later on the way back to London, he had learned to take enjoyment where he could. His handing over of a bundle of notes in exchange for the car proved that, as well as also proving him a hypocrite – a budding socialist with an expensive plaything of a car. But the pure forgetful exhilaration of driving the thing cancelled out the fault, somehow. Another conviction, that after the long war and the disappointments of his return he deserved something for himself, won.
Once out of the car and back in barracks the familiar preoccupation returned. Philip checked his pigeonhole, only to remember it was Sunday and no post came. ‘Any messages for me?’ he called to the sentry at the gate. The soldier shook his head. Just below the surface of his life, the search for Rosie went on.
Three Sundays later, a new man in his demob suit, Philip left the barracks for the last time and took the road south. Clear of the suburbs, he watched the road unrolling beneath the slender tyres of the MG and felt the world opening up before him. Surrey and then Hampshire unfurled along the quiet A3, counties prosperous for a thousand years, their rich farming land interspersed by sleepy villages of honeyed brick getting along quietly with the afternoon’s business of supping pints and knocking a ball about a bit.
Philip sat in the garden of a pub on the Winchester road, a pint of Gales between him and the slope down to the grey stone of the Saxon city. He thought of the men who’d marched to war over the centuries and come back, changed, to this unchanged landscape, so at ease with itself, so unscathed.
He looked at his watch. Another hour before the ferry. He drove on through the heathland of the New Forest, where wandering clumps of ponies reminded him of Rosie. At Lymington, a reedy estuary met the Solent and an oily rust bucket of a car ferry waited to take him over to the Island.
The sun started to sink on the trip over. In his shirt
sleeves on deck, Philip felt the chill. He drove off at the pretty boat-bobbing harbour of Yarmouth. Perhaps it was just that he’d put up the hood, but everything shrank. The lanes narrowed, the houses grew smaller, and the Island enclosed him in its miniature embrace. Darkness fell. The headlights illuminated only a narrow path in front of the car. By the time it nosed into Calbourne, sniffed out the rectory drive and pulled up in front of the large dark door, Philip’s sense of entrapment was complete.
His mother materialised out of the gloom and there was the usual awkward greeting, but the inconvenience of electricity rationing – all the fault of Mr Attlee’s terrible Government – gave them something to talk about. They ate salad in the kitchen by candlelight.
Afterwards, Philip drove the MG into the garage to keep his father’s Riley company. He lingered there, flicking his torch over the old car, remembering outings with his father. Beneath the musty, unused smell of the interior, he could still detect the whiff of pipe tobacco.
‘There you are at last.’ Mrs Seymour stood in the hall, holding a night light on a saucer in each hand. There was relief rather than irritation in her voice. She seemed older to Philip, slightly enfeebled, so that his determination to get some sense out of her about moving out, faltered. He felt a tremor as she passed him the night light. Perhaps she regretted sending Rosie away, and might, if she were a different person altogether, have been able to say so. They walked up into the shadows, the wide staircase allowing them to ascend together yet remain several feet apart. There was room for another person, or even, if one were a child, two others, in the gap between them.
Philip’s reluctance to raise the subject of moving was more than matched by his mother’s reluctance to move. But while she stayed put, he found himself unexpectedly busy. As soon as the Archdeacon discovered Mrs Seymour’s son was at home, he handed over to Philip the task of running the church. The steeple needed repair and services had to be held, despite the fact relief vicars were very thin on the ground. There were committees, choir practices, people wanting to get married, or have their babies christened, or their relatives buried. There were flower and cleaning rotas; the congregation needed to be kept in communion wafers… He’d never realised how much work his father had had to do.
The War Before Mine Page 26