It may have been the rich fudge, or fear of what would happen when Miss Wright got hold of her, but just as Dorothy had vomited in the taxi before arriving at the Foundling Hospital years before, she vomited on the floor of the bus. Shortly after, Margaret did the same. This time, instead of a stern reproach, none of the passengers, neither Mrs. Braithwaite nor the strangers seated nearby, showed any displeasure, not even a frown. At the hospital, Nurse Rance would scold Dorothy if she threw up, but out here in the world not a word was said, even as they pulled into a depot and everyone disembarked to board a clean bus. Dorothy was mortified, overwhelmed with her own sense of badness, but amazed to find that she suffered no harsh words or punishment.
When the girls reached the Foundling Hospital, Mrs. Braithwaite quickly disappeared, and Dorothy and Margaret were ushered into Miss Wright’s office. She scolded the girls, instructing them to return any unspent money from the funds Miss Hopkins had given them. Trembling in fear, Dorothy handed over what was left, convinced that Miss Wright would now follow through on her repeated threats to send her away to reformatory school. Miss Wright turned to Margaret and sent her back to the dormitory for the rest of the day. And then, instead of doling out an equivalent punishment to Dorothy, she simply told her to return to her classmates.
Dorothy was allowed to go on as if nothing had happened, but she was apprehensive and bewildered. She couldn’t comprehend how she could have committed such a brazen act of disobedience and received no punishment whatsoever.
Scouring through Dorothy’s files nearly three-quarters of a century later, I learned that the school did in fact take immediate action, dispatching a letter with a full repayment to Miss Hopkins.
20th April, 1944
Dear Madam,
The Matron of our Schools has reported to me the circumstances with regard to two of our girls who left our Schools at Berkhamsted without permission and wandered through Amersham in the hope of visiting their foster parents.
I am afraid your action in facilitating the travel of the two children to Chertsey caused our staff a great deal of anxiety.
At the same time the Governors appreciate very much your kindness to the children and direct me to send you the enclosed note for 20£ which they hope will cover the expense you were put to. The Governors feel they cannot allow you to be out of pocket over the matter.
You will be interested to hear that the children arrived back here safely yesterday.
Yours faithfully,
Secretary
Miss Hopkins’s reply revealed a restrained irreverence, and I like to believe that, given the opportunity, she would have helped any number of foundlings to run away.
April 24th, 1944
Dear Sir,
I thank you for your letter of the 20th [illegible] enclosure, although I regret you thought it necessary to return the money, which could have been placed to your funds.
I accept your reprimand of my action, which I know is fully deserved—I can only say that a desire to see parents means a lot to me.
Yours truly,
M. Janet Hopkins
On her trip to England in 1977, my mother traveled to Amersham on a whim, hoping to find Miss Hopkins. She was able to find her number in a local directory, and to her surprise, Miss Hopkins answered the phone. My mother asked to stop by for a visit, picking up a cake on her way from the lone open shop in town. The offering seemed inadequate, considering the kindness that Miss Hopkins had shown all those years ago. But as my mother held Miss Hopkins’s hands and expressed her gratitude, her concerns about decorum melted away. The two women sat by the fire in her small, comfortable cottage. They would stay in contact until two years later, when Miss Hopkins died.
Back in the spring of 1944, Dorothy knew that she had committed one of the worst offenses imaginable within the world of Berkhamsted. To me, her behavior was a remarkable act of bravery, a little girl standing up to an institution that had ignored the bounds of human decency. Dorothy didn’t see it that way.
I felt ashamed, a terribly bad person, the worst in the school. I wished that I could be forgiven and that I could behave like other girls. I felt guilty, believing I had led Margaret astray and had got her into trouble. I had continual foreboding about my future. With my escape from the washroom and now from the school itself, I could see that my misbehavior was escalating at a frightening pace.
Yet there had been no reprimand, no beatings, no confinement in a closet, not so much as a slap across her head. Far from feeling relieved, Dorothy felt an unease about what would happen next, growing more anxious as the days passed.
A week later, on the morning of April 26, 1944, she was sitting at her desk during her arithmetic class when the door opened and Nurse Foley entered. She exchanged a nod with Mrs. Dadds, Dorothy’s instructor, and then stood by the door, waiting.
“Dorothy, hand me your work and go with Nurse Foley,” Mrs. Dadds instructed. Dorothy’s heart sank. As much as she hated life at the Foundling Hospital, she feared reformatory school would be much worse. “I knew I wasn’t coming back,” she wrote years later. “It was the dreaded moment that I knew was coming. I was gripped with fear as I went out. I was sure the girls knew as I did that I was headed for reformatory school.” But in characteristic fashion, she put on a show of bravery: “I walked out with my head up and an I-don’t-care attitude in an attempt to hide my pain and humiliation.”
As she stepped into the hallway and awaited her instructions from Nurse Foley, she was resigned to her fate. Her daring escape had been worth it, she thought, a magical adventure with sights, flavors, sounds, and treatment so different from the daily drudgery of life as she knew it. She hoped those memories would sustain her through the bleak days ahead.
Confirming Dorothy’s fears that she would be leaving, Nurse Foley told her to go upstairs and have a bath; she would be up shortly with clean clothes. Dorothy was crestfallen, overcome with a deep sense of dread—until she heard Nurse Foley’s next words.
“You’re going home, Dorothy.”
Dorothy stared up at Nurse Foley, uncomprehending. She knew she shouldn’t question an adult, but she was too stunned by Nurse Foley’s statements to stop herself.
“I don’t understand,” she blurted out. “I’m going home to live with Mrs. Vanns?” While she wasn’t fond of her foster mother, Dorothy was relieved to hear that she wasn’t being sent to reformatory school.
“No,” Nurse Foley clarified. “You are going home to live with your mother—your real mother.”
It took a few moments for the words to sink in. “In one second I had been in the depth of despair and in the next delirious with joy,” my mother wrote, recounting the momentous day.
I’m not sure which emotion was the most intense, but nothing in my life since has come remotely close either way. But, as was normal in the presence of staff, I didn’t utter a word or show a flicker of emotion, not so much as a gasp, so completely internalized had my feelings become in the presence of authority through the years of repression.
The one outward sign of the enormity of the impact the announcement had on me was that I took off like the wind along the corridor—fully aware but not caring that I was breaking the rules. I rounded the corner to the right, raced past the cloakrooms, careened to the left and flew up the wide staircase two steps at a time. By the time Nurse Foley caught up with me with a complete set of clothes in hands, I was already stepping out of the bathtub, having run the water and given myself a swift swish all over.
After her bath, Dorothy was given a small suitcase and taken to the playroom to empty her locker. When she opened the locker and saw her insignificant belongings, her plimsolls and perhaps a small toy she had made herself in sewing class, she was filled with guilt and anguish, remembering all of the gifts that her mother had sent—the knitting bag, the brooches, the ivory-carved container embossed with a penguin with ruby eyes. They were all gone, given away to curry favor with her classmates. What if her mother were angry? Dorothy’
s joy was replaced by a sudden worry that her mother wouldn’t accept her or love her.
As she placed her few belongings into her suitcase, her classmates filed in. The news had already spread: Dorothy had been “claimed,” something that had never happened to any other girl, at least during the years that Dorothy had lived there. Seeing Dorothy, the girls rushed toward her, crowding around her, peppering her with questions, some of which Dorothy couldn’t answer. Where are you going? What is your real name? Everyone wanted to see her, to touch her. Some were standing on benches, others kneeling on the table near her, hoping to get a better view. They were clamoring for her attention, arms outstretched, calling out her name, begging her to write them.
Write to me, Dorothy!
No, write to me, Dorothy!
Dorothy! Dorothy! Write to me!
Dorothy! Dorothy! Dorothy!
Dorothy had never felt so special in her life.
She had been told that her mother was to pick her up after dinner, which meant that Dorothy would have to walk, one last time in crocodile formation to the dining hall, sitting in silence for her final meal.
As Dorothy took one of her last bites of the tasteless food, Miss Wright entered the dining hall, motioning for Dorothy to follow her. Dorothy obeyed, walking quietly between the long rows of benches where the girls remained seated in silence, heads turned to catch a glimpse of Dorothy as she passed. She felt a moment of sadness as she passed under her classmates’ watchful gazes. There was, after all, a bond between them, a shared experience that no one else would ever understand. Together they had huddled in a cold basement as German planes droned overhead, endured beatings and brutality, filled their stomachs with stale buns and stolen carrots, and shared in the joy of Miss Woodward’s death, marching defiantly as one. These girls, who were not always kind, were the only real family Dorothy had ever known.
As she approached the door, Dorothy thought about turning around to wave goodbye, but she stopped herself, knowing Miss Wright would disapprove. With her head held high, she walked out of the dining room and down the long hallway toward Mr. Nichols’s office, where she would finally meet her mother.
15
Mothers
I was seven when I found my mother standing in the hallway that led to her bedroom, motionless except for her hands. She was wringing them, twisting her fingers intently, her knuckles turning white under the pressure. Tears were rolling down her face, and she made no effort to wipe them away.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
She looked at me blankly, not realizing at first that I was standing in front of her.
“Nothing,” she finally said, after a long pause. “It’s just my tear ducts. There’s something wrong with them, is all.”
I knew she was lying.
“Mom, tell me what’s wrong,” I repeated, my voice trembling. I hadn’t seen my mother cry before, and I would see her tears only a few more times during my life.
“It’s nothing to be worried about. Someone passed away, a distant cousin, no one important,” she replied.
I had never heard her mention a cousin, or any family member, for that matter. I knew better than to try to find out more. Without another word, my mother turned away and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
More than forty years would pass before I would learn the truth, that the tears she’d shed that day were not for a distant cousin, but for someone whose memory she had buried long ago.
LENA WESTON HADN’T given up on her little girl, not when the Foundling Hospital refused to let her visit, not when the governors denied her request to reclaim her daughter on the eve of war. She prayed for her daughter’s safety and continued to write, month after month, year after year, always with the same question—How is my little girl? Without fail, she received the same reply: I am pleased to tell you that your little girl is quite well.
The winds changed in 1943, when she received a distressing reply to her query. Lena’s letter, dated December 11, was no different than the ones she had sent before:
Dear Sir,
I have sent a parcel for my little Girl and I shall be very grateful if you will please let me hear whether she is quite well.
Yours truly,
Lena Weston
But the response, this time, was unexpected:
13th December, 1943
Dear Madam,
I have received your letter, together with the Christmas presents for the little girl, with which she will be very pleased.
I am glad to say her health is quite good but she is rather temperamental and difficult and it may be necessary to seek further advice regarding her.
Yours faithfully,
Secretary
The familiar but impersonal black typewriter marks revealed no further details about Dorothy’s behavior, but to Lena, it didn’t matter. Her daughter needed her. She had to act.
December 16th, 1943
Dear Sir,
I have your communication of Dec 13 and note the report you give of my little Girl. I think it would relieve you of additional concern and myself possible anxiety if you would kindly consider releasing Her to my care, and will you kindly take the necessary steps to bring this about. I am most grateful to you for all you have done for Her and for the courteous replies you have always given to my enquiries, may I therefore anticipate a reply from you in due course.
Yours truly,
L. S. Weston
For years, Lena had waited to hold Dorothy in her arms, to comfort her, only to have her dreams dashed time and again. This time, she received a response that gave her reason to hope:
21st December, 1943
Dear Madam,
I have received your letter of the 16th instant. If you really feel you would like to have the girl restored to you I will bring an application before the Governors.
I think you had better let me consult our Doctor and get a special report on the child’s condition.
In the meantime perhaps you would kindly tell me what you have been doing these last few years and what you are doing at present and what facilities you have for looking after a child.
Yours faithfully,
Secretary
Having organized the documents chronologically, I could see that this last letter from the Foundling Hospital’s secretary had been sent right around the time Dorothy was being chauffeured to Bovingdon Airfield for that special Christmas feast with the American GIs. It had been an extraordinary privilege to be selected, one of twelve among more than four hundred foundlings housed at Berkhamsted at the time. Why had Miss Wright bestowed such an honor upon Dorothy, a child who could not follow the rules, who was troublesome and difficult? My mother had attributed her good fortune to some heretofore hidden vein of compassion within Miss Wright. Perhaps the thought that a woman as cruel as Miss Wright had a bit of goodness in her had provided my mother with some comfort.
My review of the documents gave me a dimmer view of Miss Wright’s motives; her lone act of generosity came as Dorothy’s time at the Foundling Hospital was coming to an end. Perhaps Miss Wright realized that the child she had beaten and routinely locked in closets would soon be in the company of a loving adult who might not approve of Miss Wright’s treatment of her daughter.
If there was kindness in Miss Wright’s heart for Dorothy, it was not evident in the way she described her young charge in a report prepared as part of the hospital’s investigation into Lena Weston’s request:
The Secretary has asked me to write to you with regard to Dorothy Soames.
He has, I believe, told you that we have found her increasingly difficult.
Dorothy is now even more disobedient and defiant and is, in consequence, a very bad influence in the school.
She adopts a very insolent attitude and manner, resents any authority and is very unwilling to conform to any rules of the school.
Her work in school is erratic depending upon her mood, and her power of concern seems to have grown less. She makes
no attempt to do anything which she finds difficult and very rudely resents at such a time any offer of help.
She is a most tantalizing child and will scheme and plan to do all in her power to annoy anyone with whom she comes in contact. And yet Dorothy can be quiet and charming.
Friday evening (later)
Dorothy has had a bad afternoon, petty stealing (notepaper, etc.), followed by untruthfulness and the usual bad temper.
J.W.
Miss Wright’s contempt oozed from each typewritten word. I felt protective of Dorothy—a parentless twelve-year-old girl could not deserve such wrath. But I also felt the sting of recognition: difficult, defiant, erratic . . . In my household, that meant never knowing whether my mother might fly into a rage at a moment’s notice, or retreat to her bedroom to brood in the dark. In decades prior, Miss Wright’s words might have comforted me, supplying me with the proof I craved that my mother was to blame for our troubled relationship. Instead, I was struck by the tragic irony of the report. The very traits Miss Wright found so intolerable had been forged by her own hand, and reinforced each time she raised her belt or bolted the storeroom door.
Lena had written back not long after she had received the secretary’s letter asking about her ability to care for a child, informing him that she was a housekeeper at the family farm, and that she felt that she could “now look after the little Girl and give all the attention desirable for Her Welfare and upbringing.” After that, there was nothing for Lena to do but wait. She wrote periodically, anxious to hear news as the hospital’s investigation dragged on, until, two months after her initial request, she received the following response:
21st February, 1944
Dear Madam,
I expect you are wondering why you have not heard from me.
The fact of the matter is that the Governors have decided your daughter should have some psychology treatment and sufficient time has not yet elapsed to see whether it alters her disposition.
The Secret Life of Dorothy Soames Page 20
