The Forgotten Orphan: The heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel

by Glynis Peters

  ‘He’s ill?’

  Despite her anger towards Simon, she didn’t like the thought of him suffering.

  ‘I’m not sure if he’s ill, or just sick in the head. I bet he was sporting for a fight again. He won’t win one in there. We hear all kinds of horror stories. Steer clear, Maisie. Walk away. Even I would be better as a fella for you than that one, and you must admit, I’m not your type – and don’t be offended, I don’t mean anything by it. I’d need a stepladder to kiss you.’

  No matter how he tried to lighten her mood, Eddie failed. Maisie offered her thanks for the information and watched as Joyce whipped off her coat and stroked her pregnant belly.

  ‘Come on, everyone. Smile. I can’t have misery when it comes to memories of my Charlie. I have to hold it together for this little one. You all toast my man and his bravery whilst I’m putting my feet up. I need to lie down; it’s been a long day,’ Joyce said, and embraced the mourners one by one.

  Maisie’s stomach churned. The last thing she wanted to do was to sit listening to tales of her dear friend, it was too painful to hear them and remember the happier times. It pained her to see his parents suffering the loss of their son. A panic set in and she said the first thing she could think of which would get her out of the house.

  ‘I’ve got to go back on shift, Joyce. I’ll come and visit soon. I wish I could find the right words to help you, but I feel useless …’ she said and snuffled back her tears.

  Joyce leaned in and gave her a kiss.

  ‘We must try and be brave. No more tears. Charlie would be upset if he thought he’d made you miserable. We’ll get by so long as you come by regularly and cheer us up, you are far from useless.’

  ‘Take care and I promise, I’ll try not to cry next visit.’

  Back home, Maisie changed into her uniform and folded away her mourning clothes. Although not actually on the working rota, she felt the need to occupy herself to prevent the tears flowing every time she thought of Charlie. She took herself over to the main house where she was joined by Coleen in the kitchen.

  ‘I won’t ask how it went. Got a letter here for you. I was going to bring it over later. Looks official.’

  She handed Maisie a buff envelope. Turning it over in her hands, Maisie stared at the postmark: Colchester, Essex.

  ‘That’s odd. I don’t know anyone from there. What could it be?’ she said.

  ‘You won’t find out if you keep staring at the thing. Open the envelope and be surprised. It’s an army camp in East Anglia, that’s all I know,’ Coleen said.

  ‘I don’t think I can cope with anything else today. If it is bad news I’ll break. My nerves are fragile, Col. What with Charlie …’

  Coleen took the letter from her.

  ‘I’ll look after it until tomorrow. You can take some time to read it then. Switch the urn on for tea and we’ll play cards with the lads, or you go outside with Billy. Don’t think about this – see, it’s not arrived yet.’

  Slipping the envelope into her white apron pocket, Coleen patted Maisie’s arm with a reassuringly friendly firmness.

  Maisie made no objections to her friend’s decision. It was sensible and thoughtful. Maisie was so tired she knew thinking about the contents of the letter wouldn’t keep her awake. Hitler’s bombs wouldn’t disturb her sleep tonight. She needed to heal and recover from the pain of the day. A sudden urge to write and tell Cam about Charlie took hold and she snatched up her pen.

  Holly Bush House

  July 25th 1942

  Dear Cam,

  Today was one of the most painful I’ve experienced. We said goodbye to Charlie. We buried him. Sadly, he tried to detonate a bomb to save a family home. He got into the house and dragged them all free. Four of them. He then went on to do what he was trained to do and apparently, he called out a warning to a colleague that the wiring looked different. They were his last words.

  As you know, he was a brother to me, and I am numb. My duty now is to give comfort to Joyce and help her when the baby arrives.

  I can’t wait to see you again. I need to see you again to make life bearable once more.

  Stay safe.

  With love,

  Maisie

  Winds blew across the garden and Maisie watched a piece of stray paper fly free. For a fleeting moment she wanted to be that piece of paper. The war weighed heavy on her shoulders and she wondered if she would ever laugh again. Pretty dresses and a new pair of heeled shoes hanging in her wardrobe were going to waste. Coleen couldn’t do enough for her, but Maisie’s mood had reached rock bottom. Apart from attending work that week, she’d not done anything else. Food choked her and the thought of stepping outside of Holly Bush House made her tremble, but she’d done it and would forever regret the journey.

  It started the day after Charlie’s funeral, when she’d opened the letter Coleen had handed her. Inside was quality paper and neat handwriting. It was from the wife of the gentleman that Maisie had written to seeking information about where to obtain official papers relating to the orphanage. She’d not expected a reply, only hoped. Now, she wished she’d never written.

  S. R. Whiting

  Itchen House

  S/Hampton

  July 16th 1942

  Dear Miss Reynolds,

  My apologies for the late reply.

  My husband received your letter whilst serving in Africa, and sadly did not return home to us. His belongings, however, did survive and amongst those was your letter to him. There was also a part reply to you drafted out in his writing case, and I’ve written it out into a more legible copy for you. It is my hope that his memories assist you in your search.

  My regards

  Sylvia Whiting.

  Dear Miss Reynolds,

  When I received your letter, I will admit to being rather puzzled by your request.

  I see your residential address is still the orphanage, and you make no mention of your brother, James. Your twin. You were both entered into the care of Holly Bush Orphanage when you were about to turn four years old. I remember the day well as I was there for a meeting about another private matter. I wonder if your hair is still as red. You were a sweet child. Your brother was far livelier, and as I understand it, took a lot of persuading to get him inside the car, let alone the orphanage. It saddens me that you were separated. You were born together and should have been raised together. I did argue your case, but it fell on deaf ears.

  With regard to your question about a birth certificate, a woman named Juliana Reynolds will have the answers you seek. She had a local Southampton address, and if I recall it was rooms above an ironmonger’s in the high street. She is registered as your mother and when I heard of her dilemma, I agreed the funding for your care.

  I am wondering if Matron Mason withheld the information due to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your background. My advice is …

  Immediately after reading the half-finished letter several times, Maisie felt gut-punched. Gloria must have known their mother’s name – maybe even met her. Jack’s real name, unsurprisingly, had been James. Was her real name Maisie? She now had confirmation that Juliana Reynolds was their mother, but was she the woman who took them to the home?

  She recalled a large woman holding Jack’s hand and watching them walk down the corridor together whilst she sat alone on a seat outside Gloria’s office crying out for him to come back.

  Questions raced through her mind. She went to the photograph propped above the fireplace. This had to be a photograph of her twin brother and mother.

  Had Gloria Mason known the answers to all of her questions? Why had she hidden them from Maisie? Her cruelty of depriving a child the comfort of family was beyond comprehension, but only a heartless woman would split up twins.

  Anxious and desperate to learn more about her past, she took a half day’s leave and made her way to the city. Maisie despaired at the sight of flattened buildings and the once proud and beautiful architecture, now caved in and useless. Holy Rood
Church tower was the only part of the beautiful church remaining, and Maisie stopped to pay her respects. It was a sad sight, and as she looked further down each street she passed, the view was the same: total devastation. Hitler had not held back on his bomb quota.

  The further she walked, the more it became obvious that the blitz had destroyed the majority of the city and the further she searched up and down, the less evidence there was of the main street that had once existed. She walked along Above Bar Street and approached several people as to the whereabouts of the ironmonger’s, but most were demolition teams from outside the city, and couldn’t help. Eventually, a man with a barrow who was clearing a pathway said he was local born and bred.

  ‘I’m looking for the spot where the ironmonger’s shop was – well, the room above it is what I need.’

  The man removed his tin helmet and scratched his scalp in thought.

  ‘The ironmonger’s? Scrap junk shop, more like. It was over there. You ain’t going to find any room there.’ The man pointed across the street at more rubble and debris. Large chunks of building lay beaten by the enemy.

  ‘Oh,’ Maisie said, her voice flat with disappointment. Realistically, she knew she would find nothing, but a spark of hope still fired her up inside. ‘I’m told my mother lived there. Above the shop.’

  The man’s smile twisted into a black-toothed sneer.

  ‘Oh, them. You’ll find them down on the docks. Working.’

  A cold shiver struck Maisie as he continued his sneering smile. Maisie thanked him and picked her way through the bomb sites towards the docks. Was her mother alive and nearby? Today her life could change forever.

  Along the dockside she saw people moving around from one side to the other, men and women in various forms of work. One woman walked past her with a tray of pies, and the smell teased Maisie’s taste buds, but she knew she could never eat one; her stomach was tied in knots, twisted up with nervous energy. Where on earth would she start looking for her mother?

  She stopped person after person for over an hour to ask about Juliana Reynolds but received nothing but negative replies. Maisie had to conclude that her mission was hopeless. The docks was a large place with extensive damage, and she needed a plan so as not to waste what was left of her day. She strode to the end of burned-out warehouses with only their blackened frames on show, like large skeletons of nothingness. She stared into the hollows of what had once been and tried to comprehend the what was now. How could the city come back from such devastation? Talk she’d heard on the radio suggested that other cities had endured the same level of devastation. How could the country keep moving forward? Surely food would run out and building supplies would be in short supply?

  Maisie shook off the negative thoughts and concentrated on finding her mother. She worked nearby; the man had said so. If it took a lifetime, Maisie would come each day and spent her free time searching.

  She glanced at her watch and was disappointed to see it was nearly time for her next shift. With reluctance, Maisie turned around and headed home. The next time she came she would bring the photograph and hope someone might recognise the young woman in the picture.

  CHAPTER 22

  For two weeks, Maisie walked around the docks. Both Coleen and Joyce pleaded with her to give up her search. Their fears were for her health and mind. Coleen forced her to eat a bowl of porridge and Maisie only did so because her friend had used her precious milk and sugar allowance to make it and refused to leave until the bowl was empty.

  ‘I’m worried about you, Maisie. Is she worth it, this woman who not only gave you away, but her other baby too? Make a new life. Stop living in the past. It’s making you ill.’

  ‘I need to find out who I am,’ Maisie replied.

  ‘Well, don’t make yourself ill doing it. I hate to say it, but it might be for nothing.’

  ‘But I still need to know.’ Maisie’s arguments never altered, and Coleen gradually gave up trying to persuade her from her search.

  Both Joyce and Coleen offered to go with her, but she refused. If the answers she got were not the ones she was hoping for, she didn’t want witnesses.

  One morning, Maisie decided to walk around a different area of the docks. It was a hot spring day with a hint of summer and a welcome breeze filtered between the ships docked on the quayside. A pretty shimmering silver haze danced on the usually dull grey-brown water, and she stopped to look whenever it caught her eye. Courage skipped around her insides, teasing Maisie into a tranquil mindset one minute, then trampling all pleasantries the next when she remembered why she’d set out to walk the docks that day. Maisie pushed her sun hat more firmly onto her head; her neck was hot where the bottom curls refused to stay tucked inside. She gripped her handbag tightly as she marched between stacked boxes and army vehicles lining the edge of the walkway. Soldiers whistled. Dockers called out to her to be their sweetheart, but Maisie gave them no attention in return. She was determined to find her mother. She manoeuvred past a group of men standing idle against packing crates, when one gave a low, elongated whistle.

  ‘Well there’s a sight for sore eyes. Not seen you for a while. He’s down the other end, love.’

  The man pointed to the end of the walkway. ‘At the bottom end. They moved offices.’

  The other men in his company gave loud raucous laughs and made comments about his choice of words. Maisie tried to ignore them and walked away.

  ‘Where you been? I’ll give you a look tomorrow. Oh, sorry love, you ain’t who I thought you was … but you’ll do.’ The man winked and stepped in front of her. He wasn’t threatening in his behaviour but it still made Maisie uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean. You must have me confused with someone else. I’ve come to see the ships. Who do you think I’m here to see?’ Maisie asked. She kept her voice casual despite the trembling inside. This man seemed to have confused her with someone who resembled her. Could it be …? Could it actually be her mother?

  ‘Your sister’s bloke. But he’s down the bottom now.’

  Maisie shook her head and smiled.

  ‘I don’t have a sister.’

  The man drew on his pipe and scratched his chin.

  ‘She’s got the red hair like you. I just thought …’

  Maisie gasped.

  ‘Someone else has red hair like mine?’

  ‘Not quite as red, but she’s the spit of you.’

  Maisie’s heart pounded. A sister! Finally, this felt like progress. Her chest heaved with anticipation and anxious excitement.

  ‘I’ve no idea who you’re talking about, but I’m keen to find someone who can help me with … well, something to do with my mother. I was told I’d find the person here. Maybe it’s the same person you’ve mentioned. Where will I find them?’

  The man pointed ahead.

  ‘Take a left behind the temporary huts down there, and walk into the yard. He’s hard to miss. Big guy. Usually works from the hut with a splash of red paint on the front. Strange … I thought you were family. Mind how you go, lady. If they ain’t who you think they are, don’t hang about, that’s all I’ll say.’ The man gave her a nod goodbye.

  With a swift smile of thanks, Maisie headed in the direction the man had pointed, keeping her eyes open for another red-headed woman. She entered the yard and saw several men standing around smoking, passing packages back and forth. They grinned at her as she walked across the yard towards a hut with a large red paint mark splattered across the front.

  To one side of the building, a man with a large protruding stomach that stretched a shabby waistcoat to its limits stopped talking in order to look Maisie up and down. She stopped in her tracks, his face not encouraging her to venture closer.

  ‘Who the ruddy heck are you?’ he bellowed at her, waving a dirty, stodgy hand her way.

  Another man cursed and nudged his fellow loiterer, and so it went on amongst the group of roughly ten.

  All heads turned to face Maisie and she felt a burning fl
ush rise to her face.

  ‘I … I’m looking for someone,’ she replied, determined not to be intimidated.

  ‘Who?’ the man asked, puffing on his cigarette and exhaling the smoke slowly.

  He unnerved Maisie with his menacing stare. The men gathered around him watched her every move, but she stood her ground, not willing to show how terrified she was inside.

  ‘I’m actually looking for my mother. She’s got red hair, the same as me, I think. I’ve got a name written down but not sure if it is my mother’s: Juliana Reynolds. She had twins twenty years ago.’ Maisie’s words came out in a rush.

  ‘Ain’t here no more.’

  The large man spat on the ground.

  ‘So, you know her?’ Maisie asked, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

  ‘Sort of,’ the man said and winked at the others who let out loud, deep laughs.

  ‘Where is she? I must speak with her. I’ve been in an orphanage for sixteen years. Did she have hair like mine?’ Maisie knew her voice sounded pleading, but she no longer cared. This man might have the answers she sought.

  ‘Went with the business in town. Bombs hit and she was gone. Not a bone left unbroken. Ruddy woman left me without a penny to me name. You might be a blessing in disguise. A replacement sent from heaven.’

  He turned to the gang of men with a leering grin, waggling his tongue between his stained teeth and they all laughed again.

  Maisie cringed inwardly and made a pretence of getting her handkerchief from her bag. From the corner of her eye she noticed a woman look her way; she stared Maisie up and down then walked over to the men and draped herself around the large man. He clutched her buttock and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘Found a replacement for Red, Jock? I’ll get her working tonight. She’s a good match,’ the woman said, then sneered at Maisie. ‘Needs a bit of padding up top, but what’s below is more important. She’ll earn you top-drawer money.’