Alone Beneath The Heaven

by Bradshaw, Rita

  All three doctors had been enthusiastic about her ideas, the more so when Sarah had qualified from her nurse’s training, begun a few weeks before her marriage, and had been able to take on some of the minor medical complications rising from the clinic and the practice in general. There were many women in the Sunderland area who, despite the earthy poverty in which they lived, still found it unacceptable to talk openly to a man - albeit a doctor - about their more intimate problems, and Sarah had found herself often being used as a sounding board for problems which could have been life-threatening if left unattended.

  She missed her job, she thought now, but Rodney was right. She couldn’t have worked up until the day she gave birth, and the new nurse was a solid, brisk northerner who had already got the trust of most of ‘her’ women. She had handpicked her herself, warming to her instantly when the woman had waxed eloquent about the Commons vote in May for equal pay for women doing the same jobs as men. Since returning to Sunderland from London, one of the things she had first noticed was that a lot of the women, and a bigger proportion of the men, still considered a woman to be worth less in the wages realm - never mind if they were doing exactly the same work as their male counterparts. But Jenny was all right. Sarah nodded to herself as she pictured the big-framed young woman who was as strong as an ox and took no nonsense from anyone. She would stand up to some of the male bullies who occasionally came their way, complaining about the practice getting involved in cases of domestic violence and so on. Things were changing - and not before time.

  Sarah rose from the table, walking across to the square-paned window and opening it wide as she breathed in the fragrant scents from the little herb garden below. She loved her house in its acre of ground on the outskirts of Roker, with the sea and sands just a ten-minute walk away. It was a good place to bring up children . . .

  The telephone rang, interrupting her thoughts, and making her realize she still had a hundred things to do before Rebecca, Florrie and Maggie arrived for lunch. Maggie and Florrie were still in their rented house in the middle of town, and had firmly resisted all her requests to let her buy them a little bungalow of their own, insisting they were more than happy where they were. However, she had managed to persuade them to let her pay their rent, which meant the part-time work Florrie now engaged in at an old people’s home in Grangetown was as much for interest and pleasure as to provide for their small wants.

  Rebecca had returned to Sunderland at the same time she and Rodney had moved back, taking up work as a housekeeper to one of Willie’s old workmates from the docks, whose wife had died in childbirth leaving him with newborn twin sons. She had wanted Rebecca to live with them for a while, but she had to admit the arrangement seemed to have been heaven sent. The man proved to be the very antithesis of Willie, and within eighteen months Rebecca had married him, providing Lucy-Ann with two young ready-made brothers to boss about, something the little girl - who had more than a touch of her paternal grandmother about her - relished.

  The call was from Rebecca. The twins had come down with chicken pox that morning and she was unable to make it to lunch. Sarah expressed her condolences, thinking wryly that Lucy-Ann would come into her element with two young patients to tend to, and after telling Rebecca about the forthcoming wedding at Christmas, hung up.

  She had a pile of paperwork from the practice to deal with, having taken on the job as secretary along with nurse, teaching herself to type two-fingered on the old portable the surgery had boasted, but the second letter was still nagging at the back of her mind and she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

  A small blue butterfly alighted on the open kitchen window only to fly off again as Mrs Freeman, Sarah’s stalwart daily, opened the front door and came bustling through to the kitchen, nodding enthusiastically as Sarah offered her a cup of coffee. ‘Wouldn’t say no, Mrs Mallard.’ Mrs Freeman’s round face was red and sweating. ‘It’s like high summer out there, you’d not believe it was the middle of September. Here’ - she thrust a large square envelope at Sarah - ‘happy anniversary, Mrs Mallard.’

  After a brief chat Mrs Freeman disappeared upstairs with the vacuum cleaner and Sarah wandered out into the garden, where she sat down heavily on the long, cushioned swing seat she and Rodney had bought at the beginning of the summer with her pregnancy in mind.

  Mrs Freeman was right, it was every bit as hot as a July day, she thought now, letting the breath escape her body in a long sigh. It had been hard work carrying through the summer and she was glad she only had a few weeks more to go. And the thought of her child brought her mind back to the letter sitting on the kitchen table.

  Should they follow through on it, with the baby’s birth so close? She knew Rodney didn’t want her distraught over another false lead, but she didn’t think she could bear the thought that it just might be genuine and she could miss it.

  ‘Dear Madam’ - she knew each word by heart now, the letters written in an untidy scrawl that suggested the penman had no love of writing - ‘I am replying to your advertisement in the Sunderland Echo of March 1952, with regard to any information about an abandoned baby girl who was left in the public conveniences in Sheep Street on October 26th, 1927. I may know something of interest, but due to family difficulties’ - what did that mean? Sarah asked herself for the umpteenth time that morning - ‘I would need to speak with you privately first. If you want to meet me, I shall be in the Fox and Hounds in Hansley Road on 19 September at eight o’clock. Ask at the bar for Jack.’ It had ended formally, ‘Faithfully yours’.

  Jack. She hugged the name to her. Jack who? And why hadn’t this Jack given her his surname, a telephone number, anything? Could it be he thought he might be related to her? The pounding in her ribcage started again. Or was it a cruel hoax, or just another dead end? Rodney had warned her, when they had placed the very first advertisement some months after arriving back in Sunderland, that such things might happen. Up to now, three advertisements later, she had several letters from people who had been adopted or fostered themselves, and who wanted to write to someone who had been in a similar situation; two replies that had seemed very hopeful at first, but had fizzled out on investigation; and one other that had been someone’s idea of a sick joke, and had resulted in Rodney threatening police action. There had been nothing for the last six months since the March advertisement.

  Which led her on to her next thought. Why had this person, this Jack, written now, after all these months? Could it be he had only just seen the advertisement? But that didn’t seem likely. Or perhaps he had been considering whether to write at all in the intervening time? The pounding intensified. Maybe he had had to weigh possible family objections in the balance?

  Oh, all these perhapses and maybes and what ifs! ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ She spoke out loud into the quiet garden, before shaking her head and sighing softly. Talking to herself now; first sign, that was. Perhaps it would have been better to follow Maggie’s advice and leave well alone? Her old friend had not been happy about any of this, she knew that, but she had needed to try. She had prepared herself to uncover anything, good or bad, in exchange for some respite to the constant ache at the back of her mind. Genetically, she might belong to someone out there, someone who was still alive. She was only twenty-four - even if her natural mother had had her late in life, she could still be alive. Her mother . . . She took a deep breath and willed the agitation to settle. She had to calm down, she’d been through this so many times now it should be old hat, and she’d be having the baby weeks early at this rate.

  There were still several days to go to the proposed meeting on the nineteenth, and she wasn’t going to spend them whittling and worrying. She had to come to terms with this search for her beginnings. It was a vain hope, at best. She continued to tell herself more of the same, not wanting to admit that yet again her hopes were high, along with the underlying feeling of aloneness that thoughts of her abandonment always produced. She had expected it to get better when she had married Rodne
y, and it had, to a large extent it had, but since she had known she was expecting a child of her own all the old feelings had surfaced.

  Rodney had sat her down at the beginning of all this and talked to her like a dutch uncle, emphasizing that even if her mother was still alive, and they found her, she might not want to see the daughter she had abandoned twenty-four years ago. And she knew that . . . in a way. But how - Sarah screwed up her eyes against the thought - how could her mother have felt her move inside her, like this baby inside her was moving now, carried her for nine months, given birth to her, seen her face, and then followed through on the plan to get rid of her? How could she not have loved her? She loved this baby now, without ever having seen it and without knowing if it was a boy or girl, perfect or imperfect. She loved it, she did, and even if all heaven and hell itself were united against her, she wouldn’t let go of her baby.

  ‘Mrs Mallard?’ Sarah came to with a start as she heard Mrs Freeman call from the back door, and, rising slowly, she answered, ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Phone call from London. Lady Margaret.’

  Right. Back into everyday, live-in-the-real-world mode. Margaret would be expecting effusive congratulations and she would certainly get them. She deserved nothing less, bless her. The nineteenth was the nineteenth, and would go on the back burner until the calendar said otherwise, and then just she and Rodney would share the experience . . . whatever it held.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘I think so.’ She tried to smile but it was beyond her.

  ‘I’m here with you, I’m here every step of the way.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ This time she could smile as his love and support reached out to warm her.

  ‘If nothing comes of this, we will try again and we’ll keep trying. It follows that only a certain selection of the Sunderland population sees each advertisement, some probably don’t read the local paper at all, so we’ll think about other ways. Don’t be discouraged.’

  ‘I won’t, no, I won’t.’ They both knew she was lying.

  The Fox and Hounds public house was on the corner of Hansley Road and Carmichael Street, and having arrived almost half an hour early, Rodney parked some thirty yards down the street outside Fulwell’s sweet shop. There was a little café just a few yards into Carmichael Street, and that was where Rodney was insisting Sarah wait, while he ventured inside the pub to - hopefully - keep the appointment with the said Jack.

  They had planned to sit in the car until the last moment; from their vantage point in the vehicle they could see who went inside the Fox and Hounds whilst remaining inconspicuous themselves, but Sarah found that as the minutes ticked by her nerves increased, until, at ten minutes to eight, she had had enough.

  However, once they had left the car and passed Dunn’s toy shop and Wearings’ motor stores, and the first large arched window of the Fox and Hounds, Sarah stood stock still, clutching at Rodney’s arm as she said, ‘You will stay for a while if he’s not there straight off? You won’t leave immediately?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Rodney gestured towards the corner of the street as he eased her fingers loose and tucked her hand through his arm. ‘Now come on, I’ll take you to the café and get you a cup of tea first, then go to the pub and ask for Jack.’

  ‘I wish you’d let me come in the pub with you.’

  ‘Sarah.’ It was a tone he rarely used, which made it all the more effective. If she’d said she wanted to come with him once, she’d said it a hundred times since they received the letter, and now she said no more, nodding and pressing her lips together as she breathed deeply through her nose. What if, after all this, this Jack had changed his mind and didn’t come? Or if it had been a ruse of some kind? Or -

  Rodney pushing open the door of the café stopped the brief moments of panic, and after he had got her established at a table in the corner with a cup of tea and a sticky bun she had no intention of eating, he patted her shoulder encouragingly, his eyes tender, before disappearing through the door.

  Her mind was buzzing as she sat staring at the rather dispirited looking bun. Maggie was right, she shouldn’t have started this, no good would come of it. But she couldn’t not have. The same old argument, that she had battled with many times in the past, still brought some measure of comfort when she reached the likewise same old conclusion. If she found out nothing then she was no worse off than she had been before; but if she got a name, a confirmation of her nationality, anything, it would have been worth all the disappointments. She continued to sit with her head bent, deep in thought, the other occupants of the café - a young courting couple making a cup of tea do all night, and a burly docker who had obviously called in for egg and chips on his way home - as uninterested in her as she was in them.

  ‘Mrs Mallard?’

  Her head shot up as the deep, soft, northern voice sounded in front of her, and she found herself looking at a broad, stocky man a few years younger than Rodney. Her eyelids blinked but she was unable to utter a word - it was only in that moment she admitted to herself she hadn’t dared to believe anyone would really keep the appointment, and after an ensuing few seconds of silent embarrassment, it was Rodney who said, ‘Sarah, this is Jack. Jack, Sarah.’

  ‘Hallo.’ She finally managed to get a word through the blockage in her throat, and then it was easier to smile and say, ‘So you’re the mysterious Jack then?’

  ‘Aye, I’m Jack all right. Jack McHaffie.’ And then as Rodney said, ‘Sit down, Jack, won’t you,’ he inclined his head, still without taking his eyes off Sarah as he said, ‘Thanks, man.’

  Jack sat at the other side of the little table at arm’s length from her, and he looked at Sarah, and she at him, and again it was Rodney who broke the silence by saying, ‘Let me get you a cup of tea, Jack.’

  ‘Ta.’ He half rose again, nodding as he said, ‘Aye, ta, thanks.’

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’ Rodney hesitated for a moment, his eyes meeting Sarah’s, before he left them alone.

  ‘So . . .’ She didn’t know quite how to begin, she was feeling distinctly odd. It was something to do with the man’s face, although it wasn’t out of the ordinary in any way - just a nice, good-looking, masculine face. ‘You think you might know something about the baby who was abandoned twenty-four years ago?’

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  He had a pleasant voice, soft, melodious, but it was some moments before Sarah replied, and then her voice was very low when she said, ‘Yes, it was me.’

  ‘Aye, I knew it. I thought it was too much of a coincidence when I read that bit in the paper, but the minute I set eyes on you I knew.’

  ‘Knew?’

  ‘Aye, you’re the spittin’ image of your mam.’

  The constriction in her throat was back and it made it impossible for her to utter a word, so as Rodney returned with a tray holding three fresh cups of tea, his voice over-jolly as he said, ‘Here we are then, everything all right?’ she merely looked up at her husband in mute appeal.

  ‘Sarah?’

  Placing the tray quickly on the table, Rodney sat down beside her and then they were holding each other tightly, Sarah’s face buried in his chest, as she muttered, ‘He knows . . . he thinks he knows who my mother was.’

  And then the man’s voice separated them as he said quietly, ‘Is. Who your mam is. She’s still alive.’

  Sarah lifted her head and stared into the big square face, and she saw the eyes were soft with understanding, but it was Rodney who said, ‘Look, Jack, I’m sure you mean well, and don’t take this the wrong way, but how do we know what you’re saying is fact? How do you know if it comes to that? It’s not that I think you’d deliberately mislead us—’

  ‘It’s all right, man, I’d be the same in your shoes.’ And then, as he looked at Sarah, her hand clutching her throat, he continued, ‘But if you knew her mam you couldn’t doubt it. Like I said, she’s the spittin’ image of our Nancy. An’ the dates you put in the paper, everythin’ ties in. Was anythin�
� left with you?’ he asked Sarah suddenly. ‘Was anythin’ wrapped round you, somethin’ like that?’

  Sarah nodded. Maggie had once told her that she had been found in a scrap of brown sacking, but that any marks of identification had long since worn off.

  ‘Was it a sack, a bit of sacking, maybe?’

  She nodded again, her throat working.

  ‘Aye, I thought so. Me da used to bring a load of sacking home with him off the boats whenever he could get it by the deck hand. Me mam used it for towels, bedding, whatever we was more short of at the time.’

  ‘You really think you know who I am?’ She felt strange, very strange, as though this were all a dream and she was outside looking in, knowing she would have to wake up in a minute. She knew she was staring at him as though she was half sharp, but she couldn’t help it. He knew her mother. He knew her mother.