The Secret Life of Dorothy Soames

by Justine Cowan

  I will write to you again later and if we have a representative coming into your district. I will get him to call and explain the matter to you more fully.

  Yours faithfully,

  Secretary

  Having grown familiar with Lena’s determination, I wasn’t surprised to see that she wasted no time in her response:

  February 23rd, 1944

  Dear Sir,

  I arrived back five thirty Tuesday morning very sorry to give inconvenience, and I thank them very much for the kindness shown. I feel certain the Governors would not disagree just at the moment it is of national as well as private interest to get back to work, [illegible] all very late. I have received your letter this morning, when I brought the child to you at the commencement, I was very glad to receive your aid, and I know that you are disappointed that you cannot educate the child. I have been thinking the cause, you have in fulfillment your [illegible] to the highest degree, but our lives are not revealed to us, how we shall start or finish in life time time alone can only give the answer. I shall be glad if you will kindly let me hear the decision of the Governors at their meeting,

  Yours truly,

  L. S. Weston

  I never found any records detailing the “psychology” treatment that Dorothy received, and my mother didn’t mention it in the pages of her book-to-be. It’s unlikely that any treatment administered in those years would have been accurate in its diagnosis or effective in its results. In the first half of the twentieth century, the field of child psychology was in its nascent stages. Behavioral issues were often attributed to breeding and considered to be moral problems, deserving of punishment rather than psychological care. At the time during which Dorothy’s treatment purportedly occurred, the groundbreaking clinical work that would soon lead to a collective understanding of the harms of institutional child-rearing was under way. But the governors of the Foundling Hospital would not have been likely to embrace these new ideas, their approaches to child-rearing anchored firmly in the past.

  Given what I’d come to know about the institution, I wondered whether there was anything wrong with Dorothy at all. She was described as troublesome, and having personally experienced my mother’s mercurial ways, I could vouch for the possibility that their assessment may have been right. But it was equally plausible that Dorothy was simply bright and inquisitive, although perhaps a bit mischievous, as many children are. My own behavior as a “precocious” child, a term I learned at an early age as I explored my surroundings or interjected myself into adult conversations, came to mind as I pondered the question. My impertinent disposition was considered a sign that I was high-spirited and curious. Perhaps Dorothy was just like me—or, more aptly, I was like her. It was a comparison that I would have despised just months before, that any part of my mother might be contained within my own body. I also thought of some of Miss Wright’s words, that Dorothy was defiant and challenged authority. These were traits we shared, except that where I was rewarded for my nature, Dorothy was labeled disobedient and savagely beaten and abused.

  I felt a familiar wave of anger flash through my veins, but this time it was not directed at my mother. Instead, as I came to fully understand the implications of the decisions of powerful men long since deceased, the full force of my anger shifted course. Channeling my emotions into an internal scream, I hurled invectives their way, accused them of injustice, cruelty, sadism, all the while knowing that my anger was directed into the chasm of history. I heard only the echo of my own voice coming back at me in response.

  What I read next did little to quell my anger. When Lena first reached out to the Foundling Hospital, asking for assistance in raising her daughter, she had to prove that she was a virtuous woman. With unrestrained hubris, the governors scrutinized her reputation, and only after a thorough investigation did they deem Lena worthy of their help. Over the ensuing years, her daughter would be subjected to abuses no child should ever suffer, but these failures would not spare Lena from going under the magnifying lens yet again. Still convinced that they provided the superior model of care, the governors dispatched a representative to Lena’s home in the quiet farming community of Shropshire to investigate whether she could provide what they deemed to be an appropriate home for her daughter. I found the investigator’s report in the Foundling Hospital files:

  APPLICATION BY LENA WESTON FOR THE RESTORATION OF HER FEMALE CHILD, LETTER “O”

  ADMITTED 2ND MARCH, 1932

  * * *

  With reference to the above application I beg to report that the girl in question, Dorothy Soames, No. 24090, is present in the schools at Berkhamsted and is reported to be a source of great anxiety to all the teaching staff and has always been a very bad influence in the school. Miss Wright is of opinion that she undoubtedly finds institution life very difficult and given the freedom and interests of home life would probably be a far better and happier child.

  I had an interview with Miss Weston at Rushmoor Lane farm Salop where she has lived the past fifteen years with her brother. I pointed out to them that the Governors were anxious to give their sympathetic consideration to her application and informed them that the girl was rather difficult at school, but they felt convinced they would be able to manage her and they are fully prepared to accept all responsibility if the Governors decide to restore her.

  . . .

  The house consists of two living rooms and three bedrooms, but there is no bathroom and the house has oil lighting. The rooms are large but I found them not particularly clean and very untidy. For example at three o’clock in the afternoon the beds had not been made and judging from the appearance I doubt whether they were ever made.

  Lena’s financial situation would also be considered. Lena and her brother, Harry, were co-owners of a forty-five-acre farm with thirty head of cattle, which included twelve milkers and one pedigree Friesian bull, along with ten calves and yearlings, one breeding sow, and three horses. Lena’s financial interest in the farm was surprising, given that her brother had kicked her out all those years earlier.

  The investigator also sought out the same three men who had vouched for Lena’s character when she first sought the assistance of the Foundling Hospital; instead of evaluating Lena’s virtue, this time the questions focused on whether Lena could be a proper mother. Dr. Mackie, the Westons’ family physician, attested that the Westons were “industrious people and although they lived in a rather untidy state,” he believed they would be “kind to any child that went to their home and he saw no reason why the governors should not restore the child.” The investigator spoke with Harry, who expressed the belief that “on the farm the girl could be of some help to them and that he did not think there would be any difficulty overcoming her peculiar ways.” The report noted that Reverend Nock, who had also been interviewed at the time of Dorothy’s admission, had since died.

  The investigator also interviewed Lena, who expressed thankfulness “for all the Governors had done for her,” crediting them for helping her out of a “great trouble as at the time her brother had a very serious quarrel with her regarding it, but he had now forgiven her.” The investigator noted that, from the “the manner in which she made this latter statement, . . . there was no question of incest in this case.” The report concluded with the investigator’s impressions of Lena, that she appeared to be “a respectable woman but somewhat erratic and talkative.”

  As the investigation continued, Lena wrote often, eager for news of whether she would be reunited with her daughter. And then she received the letter that she had been waiting for.

  19th April, 1944

  Dear Miss Weston,

  Referring to your letter of the 22nd March, the Governors have further considered your application to have your daughter restored to you and have decided to accede to your request. I shall be obliged if you will kindly let me know when it will be convenient for you to call and fetch her.

  We can let her leave in the clothes she is wearing and you can return these later. />
  I hope that the Governors’ action will be for your happiness and the welfare of the girl.

  I may tell you that she has been exceedingly troublesome lately, and the psychology treatment she has received does not appear to have done her any good.

  We can arrange for her to be ready on Friday this week, or Wednesday or Thursday next week.

  Yours faithfully,

  Secretary

  Further correspondence reminded Lena to “please bring with you the parchment receipt given you on the admission of the child,” and she heeded the secretary’s instructions. I had held the original document, yellowed and frayed, when I first saw my mother’s files. The “receipt,” a simple form that had remained largely unchanged for over a century, reminded me of an old-fashioned IOU, as if its subject were an inanimate object instead of a living, breathing little girl. I don’t know if my mother ever saw the slip of paper, but if she had, it would only confirm her convictions.

  Whatever was articulated about the purpose of the Foundling Hospital, it is clear to me now that the entire system, every action, every rule, the regimentation and rigid discipline, the strict obedience enforced, the isolation, the silences, the punishments—all virtually unchanged since the founding of the Hospital in the 18th century—were for the purpose of training us to become superior, unknowing domestic servants. The distancing of the staff for instance, I feel sure, was instituted as part of our training as future servants in the homes of the upper echelons of society, where no talking to or familiarity with those in authority would be allowed.

  The foundlings were treated as chattel, the lower rung of a system designed to benefit the upper class. “It seems to be that the Governors,” my mother went on, “the very people who had the power to make reforms, to liberate us from a repressive, long outdated system, were themselves the very people who most benefited from the system and consequently perpetuated it.” Or perhaps, she mused, “the Governors were guilty of nothing more than the British tendency at the time to cling to the past, to carry on the way things had always been done.”

  Whatever the reason, as my mother saw it, she had been allowed to go home with her mother not because it was in her best interest but simply because she had become too difficult to be of value to the Foundling Hospital as a future servant. Her attempt to escape was the final straw that led to her release, the letter granting Lena custody having been written just one day after Dorothy had been returned to Berkhamsted.

  And so, in a roundabout way, it was her courage that brought about her freedom.

  Once the decision had been made, Dorothy was given only an hour or so to bathe and share that final meal with her classmates. She hardly knew what to expect when she followed Miss Wright into Mr. Nichols’s office. As Dorothy entered the room, she saw Mr. Nichols sitting at his desk. To his right stood a slender woman of medium height, wearing a tailored navy suit, a white silk blouse with a brooch at the neck, and a navy cloche, gray wisps of hair visible beneath. Her face was pale, her large blue eyes her most arresting feature. Dorothy froze as the woman stepped toward her.

  “How’s my little girl?” she asked, placing a hand on Dorothy’s shoulder and kissing her cheek.

  Dorothy blushed, never having been kissed before.

  That first sight of my mother disappointed me, but it made no difference to my extreme excitement and desire to go home with her. It was simply that I had expected to see someone more like Margaret’s foster mother, more “rounded,” less tall and stiff, more “motherly” as I remembered her when Margaret and I ran away to her house.

  There was little conversation. Mr. Nichols indicated that the taxi was waiting and that they should be on their way, but Dorothy was not told where they were going. Lena took her hand and led her through the entry hall and down the few steps, out into the fresh air, toward their new life together.

  I LONGED TO turn the page of my mother’s manuscript to find out what happened next, to read the details of her time with her mother—the love they felt for each other, the healing I could imagine taking place after so many years of separation. I saw the two of them by the hearth in an old farmhouse, the crackling fire providing warmth as they chatted, my mother sitting beside Lena, leaning gently against her knee, home at last.

  But the chapter I yearned for wasn’t there. The pages had been removed, with a brief note in my mother’s unmistakable handwriting under the heading “Shropshire”: “Not included.”

  The Foundling Hospital’s files provided little in the way of additional information about the next ten years of my mother’s life. But I did find a letter written by Lena not long after Dorothy had been returned to her home.

  May 16th, 1944

  Dear Sir,

  I am most grateful to you for your letter and enclosure of last Thursdays date which came duly to hand. I am sure you were pleased to hear how contented and happy Dorothy is in her new surroundings and not the least she is already of some considerable help to us. If I may I would again like to express my deep sense of gratitude to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital for the great benefit they have so freely given to me, and to yourself for your most courteous letters and consideration. I am greatly indebted to the Staff, Teachers and Matron. I would like you to convey sincere thanks for all they have so well done and kindly done for this child.

  Yours truly,

  Miss L. S. Weston

  That was the last letter from Lena on file. But three years later Dorothy’s foster mother, Louise Vanns, wrote informing school administrators that Dorothy would be spending a month with her. She also indicated that Dorothy wished to visit the school in Berkhamsted. Attached to the letter was a handwritten note, written by the secretary to provide some background on Mrs. Vann’s request:

  This child was a worry to Miss Wright when in the Schools; and I believe she was the girl who once ran away. After restoration, she wrote several times to Miss Wright, who was doubtful if the girl was attending school.

  I never learned what might have been said in those letters to Miss Wright. They were not contained in the file. Nor would I ever discover what transpired during Dorothy’s visits with Miss Vanns, or the years she spent on the farm with her mother and her uncle.

  The last piece of correspondence I was able to find was written on June 4, 1947, and did not identify the recipient, beginning simply with “Dear Sir”:

  In reply to your request to write to you, I am pleased to say that I am very well and very happy back with my own mother and uncle. I am at present staying with my foster mother for a holiday and I am enjoying it very much.

  I am very grateful for the interest you have taken and I have heard from Mr. White to say that I might visit the school any time. I wish, which I think is very nice of him. Mrs. Vanns and I will be going to Berkhamsted sometime during the next two weeks. I hope I may be fortunate enough to meet you too. Thanking you.

  I remain

  Yours faithfully

  D. Soames

  The letter had been written by my mother as a young teen. Her penmanship was usually instantly recognizable to me, but not this time—the characters lacked their usual grace, the neatly crafted bends and curves. The writing in this decades-old letter was more practical and indelicate.

  I was surprised to learn that Dorothy had stayed in contact with Mrs. Vanns and Miss Wright, two women who had caused her so much pain. In the recollections she set down years later, she had no kind words for either of the women, describing them only as cruel and uncaring. Perhaps it is simply a quality of being human that draws us back to those who shaped us during our formative years—like a moth to a flame.

  In search of more clues, I rummaged through a stack of old files I had kept in the attic and happened upon a page filled with names and addresses, all of them in either England or other parts of Europe. There were Westons on the list, along with some surnames I had never heard before. Hoping that I could find someone to fill in the missing pieces of my mother’s story, I wrote to each of the add
resses, brief letters asking for any information relating to my recently deceased mother. I received two replies.

  One was a short, typewritten note from a woman in England who believed she might be a distant cousin of my mother. Those who would know more had passed away, she told me. I thought about reaching out to her, but while polite, the tone of her letter did not indicate a willingness to engage more. Perhaps my inquiry had served as a reminder of a dark chapter in the Weston family history. I had read in the Foundling Hospital files that, other than her brother, no member of the Weston family had known that Lena had given birth to a child. What a surprise it must have been when a twelve-year-old girl unexpectedly appeared on the family farm. Did Lena fabricate a story to explain Dorothy’s sudden arrival (and did she even call her Dorothy)? I remembered the letter I found in my father’s files staking claim to the Weston farm following Lena’s death. It had included a reference to me—that I looked like a Weston. Perhaps the Weston family had refused to acknowledge my mother as a member of their clan, challenging her right to inherit from her own mother. My mind churned with possible scenarios, but I was left with only more questions than answers.

  The second reply to my entreaties came as an early-morning phone call from an unknown number in Switzerland. An unwanted marketing call, I assumed as I sent it to voice mail. But the caller, a woman identifying herself as Patricia, left a message. She started to say something else but began to cry, and the voice mail ended abruptly. I returned her call to learn that she and my mother had been friends many years before. Presumably this was the “Pat” that I had heard my mother speak of when I was a child. They had spent their twenties together in San Francisco and had stayed in touch through Christmas cards over the years. My letter had been her first knowledge of my mother’s death.