by Diana Finley
‘Marie? Are you still there, my dear?’
‘Yes … sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m here. I … I was just thinking about the train … I was just wondering … er …’
‘Ah … I think you are worried about buying a ticket. Am I right?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Mrs Goldstein. I … I was just wondering how much it might cost …?’
‘Marie, can you maybe borrow the money from someone you trust? I will pay you back the cost of the journey tomorrow – whether or not we decide that the job will suit you. Do you think you can do that? I really would like you to come. I think I will like you.’
I looked at Sylvia. She had helped me so much already. Was it fair to ask her for a loan on top of everything else? I absolutely had to try for this job. What other chance of work did I have? Meanwhile, Sylvia was nodding her head madly like a mechanical puppet. She must have understood what was going on.
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Goldstein. I will ask my good friend Sylvia to help me … and then I’ll pay her back as soon as I can. If you’re sure, I’ll come to see you tomorrow at eleven.’
Sylvia started jumping up and down like a dervish, grinning and gesticulating ‘thumbs-up’ at me.
‘That’s good,’ Mrs Goldstein said, ‘and bring little Barry, won’t you? I would have been so disappointed if you didn’t come. You have a very kind friend in Sylvia, I think. Now listen carefully and I’ll explain exactly how to get here. Have you got a pencil and paper?’
Sylvia leapt up and hugged me when I put the telephone down, pulling me into a crazy dance.
‘It’s a real chance for you, darlin’, and they don’t come often, do they?’ she said. ‘Somewhere to live, and a job into the bargain! She sounds such a nice lady. Don’t you worry about the fare money – I’m not bothered about it. I want to see you and Barry settled.’
***
I step off the train and on to the platform at Blackheath station carrying Barry in my arms. We make our way out onto the hectic street, busy with shops and cars, and a crush of people scurrying about. My hand clutches the precious instructions, crumpling the paper into a damp ball, even though I know them off by heart. Barry is alert and curious, turning his head eagerly from side to side, trying to take everything in. He’s starting to walk quite well, but it’s too far to the house and I don’t want to be late. So I have to carry him. He’s getting very heavy now.
By the time we’re out of the bustling centre of Blackheath, and into the quieter streets, twenty minutes have passed. I’m getting tired, but we’re nearly there. We come to a leafy, spacious street. Linden Avenue, that’s right, it’s Mrs Goldstein’s street. The houses are large and detached, quite varied in shape, but each one is set in a verdant garden, with bushes and trees. It’s very different from the tightly built, older terraces I remember of Mr Finch’s area, where most of the front doors opened straight onto the pavements – and even more different from the council houses round my block in Shoreditch.
I check the address on my scrap of paper. Number 19 Linden Avenue. This is the house, a fine, double-fronted brick building. The front garden looks lush and thick with large shrubs. Early spring flowers, like bright stars, dot the lawns. A curving path winds through this foliage towards an imposing front door. I gaze up at the wide windows on the upper floor. There are further smaller windows under the roof, set into the eaves. Barry wriggles, wanting to be put down. He toddles on up the path, stamping his feet.
The house looks quite old, maybe built in the last century, but it looks very well maintained. As we approach, I notice the window frames are all freshly painted white, as is the front door.
I hesitate nervously on the front step, trying to imagine us ever actually living in such a grand house. Before I’ve had time to ring the bell, the front door is flung open by a tall lady, quite old, maybe seventy or even more, with grey hair piled on top of her head. Mrs Goldstein. She’s smiling broadly and reaches out both her arms to welcome us.
‘You must be Marie – and Barry! I’m Erna Goldstein. I am so very pleased to meet you. What a darling little child! Hello, Barry; hello, my sweetheart. Welcome to my home. Come in, come in! Let us have some coffee together, and we will talk – and then I shall show you around.’
She leads us to a comfortable sitting room and tells me to take a seat, then sits herself down on the sofa opposite. There’s a tray with coffee things: a white pot and two cups and saucers, with a plastic mug of juice that she gives to Barry. She points to some toys on the floor in the corner of the room.
‘Those are for Barry to play with, if he would like. Now, tell me a little bit about yourself, Marie. Do you have experience as a cleaner?’
For a moment I had forgotten that this was supposed to be an interview.
‘Yes, Mrs Goldstein, I have always helped my mother at home, being the eldest girl in the family.’
‘Have you now? I’m sure she taught you lots of useful skills.’
‘She did,’ I reply eagerly. ‘I can cook quite well … erm, but nothing too fancy. I can clean windows and hoover and … and scrub the house. I’m used to doing washing and making beds … and I’ll do any other jobs that need doing. I’m good at sewing too …’
I explain I’ve been doing a part-time job as a domestic help and nursemaid for a lady with a small child of three, while she’s at work. That enables me to pay the modest rent in a temporary, small bedsit the council has given us in a block in Shoreditch, near my friend Elsie, but now the council need it back, so Barry and I have to find somewhere else to live.
Mrs Goldstein just smiles and says, ‘Well, I’m so glad you found me! How wonderful to have so many skills and such useful experience. Now when you’ve finished your coffee I’ll show you all round the house. I hope you’ll like the little flat you and Barry will be living in.’
So I guess that means I’ve passed the interview, that I’ve got the job! It seemed to happen without me noticing. Barry and I move into Mrs Goldstein’s house two weeks later.
***
Many mornings, as I emerge from sleep, I wonder briefly if it’s true, that it isn’t a dream. We really do live in the beautiful house – warm, comfortable, and safe.
In the two weeks since we’ve been at Mrs Goldstein’s we’ve already developed a routine. I begin each day by getting Barry up from his cot, and then washed, fed and dressed. Then while he sits strapped into his highchair or plays on the floor with his toys, I make Mrs Goldstein her usual light breakfast of coffee, a boiled egg and a slice of the dark brown rye bread she prefers, and which I have learned to buy at a small delicatessen in the village, run by a Polish couple.
Twice a week I hoover and dust the whole house, each time concentrating on a different room for a more thorough cleaning. Several of the rooms in the large house are unused, except very occasionally when a distant relative or old friend of Mrs Goldstein’s comes to stay. She doesn’t have a lot of washing, but I do it regularly, carefully making up her bed every week with fresh sheets and pillow cases.
She often asks me to join her while she has her mid-morning coffee, or to accompany her on a walk to the nearest shops, or occasionally to the park. I love these times. One of Mrs Goldstein’s friends kindly gave me a pram, which her grandchild had outgrown. It converts into a pushchair, so I can take Barry wherever we go without the strain of carrying him. He’s growing bigger and heavier by the day. No wonder, the amount of food he eats!
In the evening I cook us all a meal. Gradually, I’ve been expanding my repertoire, at first under instruction from Mrs Goldstein, and then by studying her numerous cookery books. She is used to different food from the plain fare I grew up eating and cooking, so I’m learning to make all sorts of unusual dishes – wiener schnitzel, Hungarian goulash, coq au vin, and other foreign-sounding – and tasting – dishes. I love their exotic names, and the ingredients: veal, red and green peppers, spices, garlic, and even wine! I’ve never tasted such things before. Generally, though, we both prefer to eat quite mode
stly and simply. Usually Mrs Goldstein eats her supper from a tray and listening to the classical music she loves, while I take my share, and Barry’s, upstairs to our warm, cosy little ‘flatlet’ at the top of the house. Up there we have everything we could possibly need.
Mrs Goldstein even bought us a little colour television. It’s a great wonder to me, bringing the world in all its reality into our home. I’d never seen such a thing before – the few televisions I’d seen in other people’s houses back home had had dull black and white pictures, even though we all thought them a miracle at the time. Of course, Barry loves the cartoon shows like New Zoo Revue and the Bugs Bunny Show, but after he goes to bed I watch my favourite programme: Bewitched.
My housekeeping tasks only keep me busy for part of each day; for the rest of the time I’m free to play with Barry or take him out. I’ve also been developing my dressmaking skills, and have been using them to earn some extra money. Mrs Goldstein has recommended me to her friends. At first just repairs and alterations, and with the money I saved I managed to buy a second-hand electric sewing machine.
Now I’ve also been asked to make an outfit for one of Mrs Goldstein’s friends, for her daughter’s forthcoming wedding. She asked me to make up a pattern she’d bought, together with the material: a fine blue silk. I know how important the dress is for such a special occasion so I want it to be perfect.
Dear Erna Goldstein. How I bless the day I answered that advert for a housekeeper to care for an elderly lady. I learn she was a refugee from bad times in Europe. I know that she had escaped to England more than thirty years before, but I know little else of those times. Perhaps one day she’ll tell me about just what happened to her all those years ago.
On more than one occasion Mrs Goldstein insists that this is ‘my home’.
‘You must do exactly as you want, Marie; you don’t need to ask permission for anything you want to change in your flat. You should feel free to ask your family members round if you like. Or invite friends – perhaps for tea or coffee. In fact, you could ask them to visit, if you want. It’s your home remember.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Goldstein, thank you. But all my family are still in Ireland, and I don’t really have any friends here in London yet – apart from Sylvia, of course, and my friend Elsie who lives with her baby in her parents’ house in Shoreditch.’
I tell her all about Sylvia, how kind she was, and still is, to me. How she helped me when I was all alone and that we have been friends ever since.
‘Ah, Sylvia! She’s the special friend you were with when you rang me, isn’t she? She sounds so nice. Why don’t you invite her round for lunch one of these days? Or even to stay for a night or two if you like?’
A few weeks later, on a Saturday, Sylvia comes for a day and we have a lovely time, walking around Blackheath, with Barry in his pushchair, exploring all there is of interest. We walk to Greenwich Park, so Barry can have a run about, chasing the birds and squirrels. While he’s happy and absorbed, Sylvia and I have time to talk. She and Elsie are the only people in London, apart from at St Agatha’s, who know about Donal, how his loss tortures me.
‘You look well, Marie,’ she says.
‘I am well … and happier than I’ve been in a long time, thanks to you mostly, Sylvia. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here. My life is transformed, because of you.’
Sylvia looks straight into my face. ‘Oh really, don’t be so silly. I’m just glad all’s going well for you.’
‘As well as it could possibly be without Donal.’
She nods her head and reaches out to hug me. ‘I know, love, I know. Come on, Marie – let’s have a go on that roundabout! Give me a spin!’
She picks Barry up and swings him in the air. We race to the little playground nearby. It’s the happiest time Barry – or I – have had for a long time. We stay in the park all afternoon.
Then we head back to the house and all have tea together. I can tell Erna Goldstein enjoys Sylvia’s company too. After that visit Sylvia comes to stay for a weekend every two or three months. Mrs Goldstein is always very welcoming.
Sylvia and I love to walk on the heath together. Barry loves it too. He seems mesmerised by the sky, leaning his head back and gazing upwards.
I understand why he is drawn to the sky. In the peace of Blackheath, in its open spaces and vast skies, my heart gradually settles. It has become my home, although I still miss my family back in Ireland.
‘It’s good to see you like this, Marie,’ Sylvia says.
‘I love to walk on the heath,’ I tell her. ‘That’s what local people call it, anyway. It’s not what I understand a heath to be, not at all like in my homeland. After all, there’s no heather, no bracken, no shrubby golden gorse bushes. Just this great wide, manicured stretch of grass, an endless grassy meadow – with neither sheep nor cows to graze it!’
Sylvia laughs. ‘Yes, and with roads and cars criss-crossing it.’
We stand and stare up at the sky, rising huge and dominant, sometimes steely grey and forbidding, but more often a great swathe of blue, and gentle. I get Sylvia to stand with me in the middle of the grass and we stretch our arms out to the sides and up to the heavens above. Then little Barry watches us with a cross face on him. He frowns at me, as if he thinks I’m a crazy woman – which perhaps I am!
‘You know, Sylvia, sometimes I’m almost happy,’ I tell her. ‘There’s just the one area of my life causing me pain and anxiety, and I can’t stop it. That feeling of loss eats away at my soul every day and every night – and the sadness never seems to lessen. If anything, it consumes me more and more as our separation wears on. Sure, I chide myself for not being satisfied with my perfect, adorable Barry. Just look at him! Isn’t it a disgrace – a sin even – not to be grateful for the life I now have, and especially with my fine, lovely little boy?’
‘It’s not a sin to mourn your missing child, Marie, your Donal. Your love for Barry can’t wipe out your love and longing for Donal.’
She squeezes my arm.
‘There’s another shadow hanging over me …’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s hard to put my finger on it, Sylvia, but I feel a concern about Barry. Oh, he’s beautiful, healthy and thriving, yet, yet … I wonder if there isn’t something not quite right with the child. As a baby, you know, he was forever looking around for no apparent reason, kind of looking over his shoulder, as if he expected to see someone there. Often his little face would suddenly crumple and he would cry inexplicably.’
Barry ran round us laughing and whooping.
‘Well, he looks lively and happy enough just now,’ Sylvia says with a smile.
‘Yes, anyone who saw him now would say that. But, as he’s grown into a toddler, he has a peculiar little game that he often plays by himself, holding out one of his toys, as if to some imaginary child, and then snatching it back, saying something like “No not you!” or “You not having it!”, with a glowering look of fury on his little face. It really worries me, Sylvia.’
‘Mmm?’
‘Well, at first I thought it amusing and quaint, but as time goes on he often repeats the game, and it just seems a bit odd. It’s as if there’s a terrible anger in the boy, which neither I, nor even Barry himself, can understand. Sometimes Barry’s anger expresses itself against me, his own mother, Sylvia. It happens particularly when we have quiet times together, Barry and I. I suppose it’s when thoughts of the dreadful empty gap in my life surface and preoccupy me. I really do try hard to control them, for fear of upsetting Barry, but I can’t always hold those thoughts at bay.’
I can’t stop the tears starting. When Sylvia hugs me, a deep sadness, a desperate longing, winds itself around my heart like a snake, squeezing it so painfully that my tears start to flow. Then Barry frowns and narrows his eyes and watches me closely. Of course, I reach for him and try to draw him into an embrace to reassure him, but his small body just stiffens and resists me with amazing strength.
> ‘On two occasions,’ I tell Sylvia, ‘his hard little fists pummelled me and he shouted, “No! Shadow boy there!” Whatever could the child be thinking? Such an odd little boy.’
‘He’s a lovely boy, but he’s very sensitive, Marie. Maybe you shouldn’t make too much of these behaviours. He notices if you’re upset or preoccupied.’
I know Sylvia is right. So I decide I’m right never to mention to Barry that he has a brother, a twin. It would only upset him further. He isn’t ready for this information. He wouldn’t understand the terrible choices I had to make, that in the end I made the only choice I could. Surely it was the right choice?
Maybe I’ll never tell him. Or perhaps when he’s older, much older … perhaps then I can explain.
Chapter 4
1972
Robert
‘These things take time, Mrs Carlton,’ the social worker assures Clarissa soothingly. ‘You may need to be patient. None of us know just how traumatic early separation from the birth mother can be. And remember, your Robert had a twin brother. They had nine months in the womb together. Being parted from such a close sibling can affect a child in all sorts of ways, even one so young. Also, you have to understand that some children take a long time, perhaps even years, to settle, to feel fully secure, to attach themselves to a new parent.’
Clarissa glances at her husband, who sits at a slight distance, watching Robert in the play area. She is not prepared to be fobbed off by such platitudes, not this time. The child had been less than two months old when they’d adopted him, for heaven’s sake! It’s now two years later. She and Simon aren’t ‘new parents’. Surely Robert had barely had time to attach himself to his birth mother? He probably hadn’t even noticed a change in mothers, let alone been traumatised by it! Nor is she impressed with Miss Phillips’ half-baked theories on the emotional effect of sharing a womb with his brother – such twaddle! Does she think they were happily playing ‘uterus hide-and-seek’ in there?!
It isn’t as though she and Simon haven’t tried – tried time and time again. Have they not committed themselves totally to the welfare of their adopted son? All right, maybe she isn’t the most lovey-dovey sort of mother … a brief hug and kiss at bedtime, or a little cuddle when drying him after his bath; that’s how Clarissa shows her affection, and that is surely enough. Have they not devoted over two years to the child’s every need? She has no intention of allowing this young woman, a mere slip of a thing, with her fake smile and condescending expression, to patronise her. Absolutely not.