by Janet Woods
Pulling on her dressing gown, Julia went down. The cab cost a small fortune, since Irene had come down from Southampton.
‘Here, take Lisette will you.’ A large-eyed child was placed in her arms. She had the look of Latham, and seemed lethargic as she gazed around her.
Robert came down. ‘I heard the dogs.’
‘It’s me, Robert. You can go back to bed.’
‘Mrs Argette . . . How are you?’
‘How do I look?’
‘If I may be frank . . . like hell.’
‘You needn’t have been that frank, but I must admit I do I feel like hell.’ She staggered a little and passed a hand over her brow.
Robert helped her into the sitting room. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Take Lisette to Fiona and ask her to see to the child. She’ll need a bottle.’
‘They took my daughter away from me,’ Irene said after Robert had gone. ‘After Latham left I knew he was through with me. He was going home to you. Then I got a phone call from my father. He accused me of being responsible for leading Charles astray and causing his death. That’s how I learned that Latham was dead too . . . until the lawyer’s letter came. He advised me to give up the claim to the legacy. I wouldn’t of course, because Lisette was entitled to something. God knows . . . She was such a nuisance and nobody wanted her. Not my husband, not Latham . . . not even me.’
‘I went on a bender, and took some other stuff when the booze ran out. I clean forgot about poor Lisette, and she doesn’t cry much. She doesn’t do anything much . . . not even smile. But then, I wouldn’t smile if I had me for a mother, either.’
‘Hush, Irene, stop punishing yourself.’
In her usual manner Irene tried to make light of the situation. ‘I haven’t finished. I’m having a moment of dramatic desperation and it’s your duty to listen to me. The cleaning lady took her to the convent, and got me to the hospital. They pumped my stomach out.’ She shuddered and tried to make light of it. ‘An absolutely ghastly experience, darling,’ and she burst into tears. ‘I left the hospital and stole Lisette from the orphanage. I just walked into the garden and took her from out of her cot. I could have been anyone, and nobody tried to stop me.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I thumbed a lift on a donkey and cart to some port where I managed to bribe the fishermen. They dropped me off in Southampton, but I must have lost my purse in the boat, because it was gone from my bag. I didn’t have much money on me, and I had nowhere else in the world to go. You won’t turn me away, will you?’
Julia put her arms around Irene. ‘Of course not, I’ll look after you.’
‘I’m so bloody tired. If anything happens to me, you will look after her, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Really look after her, I mean. I want you to legally adopt her as your own, and give her a good life. You’ll be a better mother to her than I could ever be.’
Irene’s wild talk was beginning to scare Julia. ‘Nothing will happen to you. We’ll look after you until you get better, then we’ll talk again.’
‘Only I won’t get well, I’ll only get worse. There’s something wrong with my liver. Cancer, the hospital said. I want you to adopt her while I’m still alive, so I won’t have to bother to come back and haunt you.’
Poor Irene. ‘What about your parents, won’t they—’
‘They refuse to acknowledge either of us. If my mother knew I was here she’d probably burn your house down with me in it. I can’t say I blame her where I’m concerned, but poor little Lisette has nobody. I was tempted to leave her in France, but couldn’t bear the thought of her becoming a French nun. I bet they wear ugly black knickers that come down to their ankles and smell of mothballs.’
Julia chuckled. She couldn’t help herself. Even in the face of her terminal illness, Irene’s wit could make her laugh. She didn’t feel sorry for herself, though she was emaciated to the point of being a bag of bones.
‘I’ll give you Latham’s room, which is next to mine.’
‘Ah, yes . . . I remember it well. How exceedingly civilized of you. And to think I once called you a frightful prig.’
‘I do believe I can be one at times. All Latham’s things have been cleared out of it. In the morning I’ll ask the doctor to call on you, and we’ll talk again.’
There was a knock at the door and Agnes came in with a tray. ‘I thought you might both like a mug of cocoa to help you get back to sleep.’
‘Thank you, Agnes, that’s kind of you. I’m sorry you were disturbed. Now you’re up, do you think you could make up the bed in the room next to mine? Mrs Argette can wear one of my nightdresses. She will be staying with us for a while.’
‘Yes, Mrs Miller.’
‘Not for long though,’ Irene thought to add.
Before she went upstairs, Julia went through to the flat. Lisette was settled down to sleep in Ben’s pram.
Fiona had an attitude of mild outrage hovering about her. ‘The child was filthy and she’s much too thin for a child of her age. I gave her a good wash, and she gulped down her bottle as if she hadn’t been given a good feed in days, the poor wee mite. I think she has lice in her hair, too, but I’ll tackle those tomorrow before Master Benjamin catches them. The child settled down easily enough. I’m surprised that woman had the cheek to come here, I really am? You shouldn’t have taken her in.’
‘Hush, Fiona, be charitable. Mrs Argette was a friend of both my husband and myself. She’s terminally ill, and came here because she had nowhere else to go. She’s desperately in need of my help. Would you deny her that?’
‘Under the circumstances, no.’
‘Then try and forget anything you’ve heard about her past. She has asked me to adopt Lisette, and I’m inclined to do so.’
‘Aye, well, that would be a kind thing for you to do . . . though she’s not a very pretty child. Not like Ben.’
Julia gazed down at the solemn-looking waif and tears filled her eyes. ‘She doesn’t have to be pretty, she just has to be herself, and be loved.’ Julia stooped and kissed the girl’s pale cheek and whispered, ‘I love you, my little Lisette, and I know Ben will. That will do for a start.’
‘Watch out for those lice, they can jump a long way,’ Fiona said gruffly.
‘Who fathered Ben?’ Irene said when Julia went upstairs to bed. ‘I know it wasn’t Latham.’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘You’re not going to let me die without satisfying my curiosity, are you?’
‘I suppose not, and she grinned. ‘Actually, it was someone you never met . . . Martin Lee-Trafford.’
‘That doctor your father hired to manage the factory? But I thought . . . and Latham told me . . .’ Irene began to laugh.
‘Shut up and go to sleep,’ Julia said, and closed the door between them.
A month later Irene died. Julia sent a note to her parents and arranged a funeral, as Irene had requested. There was to be no service, just a few words spoken around the grave site.
Irene’s headstone read, Irene Argette, wife of Jacques and beloved mother of Lisette.
‘I’d hate to embarrass the other Curruthers in the district, either living or dead,’ Irene had remarked about her request that her maiden name be left off.
Julia and her household were the only mourners at the graveside, but beyond the churchyard wall was the Rolls Royce belonging to the Curruthers family.
It was early October. The nights were drawing in. The glorious autumn drift of sycamore and maple leaves was being mashed underfoot and the trees that had once shaded the earth were now uncovering large glimpses of sky. Irene’s grave would soon be covered in a thick layer of decaying foliage.
Julia went to clear the dead flowers away from Irene’s grave ten days later. She was going to plant daffodil bulbs to bloom in spring.
It was a fine, mild day and she took the children with her in the twin pram she’d bought. They were seated at either end,
one dressed in pink, the other in blue. Lisette faced her. Good food had added a soft pink bloom to her cheeks.
Julia smiled at the girl.
For a moment the child stared back at her through Latham’s eyes, then her eyes lightened and she decided it was time she smiled.
Julia was transfixed by the event. ‘Fiona was wrong . . . You are beautiful . . . You’re the most beautiful girl in the world when you smile.’
‘Mam mam,’ Lisette whispered hesitantly.
‘That’s right, my love. I’m your mamma, and I love you.’ She brought the pram to a halt and kissed Lisette.
‘Me’swell,’ Ben said, and began to giggle when she blew a raspberry against his soft neck.
Ben loved having Lisette for company. ‘Yes, you wretch,’ and Martin came into her mind. Ben was growing more like him every day. Perhaps she should contact him, she thought, then hesitated. He hadn’t answered her last letter, and she now had two children. Perhaps she should just let sleeping dogs lie.
Engrossed in her thoughts she wheeled the pram past Irene’s grave and had to retrace her steps. No wonder she’d gone past, and she gazed down at it. A marble fender and a low wrought-iron fence had been erected, the space neatly filled in with gravel.
Her parents had tried to confine Irene’s natural exuberance in life, and hadn’t succeeded. She’d been a free spirit. Now they were doing it in death. At least it showed they cared a little, she supposed.
But it was neat – too neat a bed for Irene.
Taking out her trowel Julia stepped over the fence, carefully pushed the gravel aside and planted her bulbs. When she’d finished she smoothed the gravel back over it.
The daffodils would push their spears through the earth and their muted clamour would blaze their brazen beauty for Irene in the spring, and for every spring to follow.
Eighteen
Turning the letter over in his hand Martin stared at the return address. ‘J.R. Singleton,’ he said to the cats. ‘Are either of you acquainted with him?’
Clarence gave him a superior look. Billy Boy meowed.
The telephone rang.
‘Dr Lee-Trafford’s surgery.’
A rather nervous voice said in a whisper, ‘I’m Jane Singleton.’
‘How odd . . . I’ve just received a letter from a J.R. Singleton posted from Edinburgh. Is that you?’
‘Yes it is. Have you read it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then I’d better ring you back in half an hour.’
‘I’ll be seeing patients then. Look . . . to save time perhaps you’d like to tell me what this is about, Mrs Singleton. If it’s the partnership you’re a little late. The position has been filled by a doctor who lives locally.’ And one who he knew was sound, since he’d gone through medical school with him.
‘It’s nothing to do with the partnership, Martin. I know that this might come as a shock, but I’m your mother.’
His mother! The breath nearly left his body and he put his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. ‘My mother?’
‘Can we talk?’
‘I only have ten minutes before surgery,’ which sounded somewhat curt and unwelcoming even to his own ears. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it how it sounded.’
‘I know how difficult this must be for you, as it is for me. I need to see you, Martin, to explain.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘In Edinburgh, but I’m going to London in April to visit my daughter and grandson.’
Her daughter? He stated the obvious. ‘Then I have a sister? Good Lord!’ and he laughed. ‘That’s wonderful. Are there any more surprises . . . Mother.’
Her voice wobbled with tears. ‘None that I can think of. Your sister’s name is Avis.’
His own tears weren’t far away. ‘You’re crying.’
‘I thought you might not want anything to do with me.’
‘On the contrary, I made a rather belated attempt at trying to find you myself. I even wrote a letter, but it was returned. You know that my father is dead?’
‘Yes.’
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and at the same time the doorbell rang. ‘Look, Mother, I really must go since my partner is coming in. Will you give me your number so I can call you back? This afternoon I expect, about four. And yes, we must make arrangements to see each other. I can easily get up to London in April.’
He wrote down the number she gave him, then said, ‘By the way, how did you know I was still living here . . . at home?’
‘I didn’t know for sure . . . but thought it was worth trying. Then I was convinced that you wouldn’t be there, because I went down to Bournemouth about three years ago and the place was boarded up. The old woman who lives next door told me your father was dead, and she thought you’d been killed in the war.’
‘I was one of the lucky ones who survived it, but I spent some time in hospital.’
‘Poor you, are you fully recovered?’
‘Perfectly. So why did you look for me if you thought I was dead?’
‘My husband knew someone who made enquiries on my behalf. They wouldn’t tell me much, just that you were alive, and had been awarded a medal and bar for bravery. I was overjoyed to learn that you were still alive, and knew I wouldn’t rest until I found you.
‘Anyway, my dear, I called your father’s lawyer, but he was having a week off. So I told the secretary who answered that I was from the police department and needed to contact you urgently. She gave me your details. Up till then I had no idea you were a doctor.’
The doorbell rang again – this time for longer. He must get a receptionist, he thought, and some domestic help. The paperwork was mountainous and his sink would soon be full of dirty dishes.
‘It was lovely to talk to you, Martin. I’ll expect to hear from you later, then.’
‘You will . . . I promise.’ He dropped the receiver back in its rest and headed for the door at a run.
His fellow practitioner, Andrew Pethan, came in followed by a trickle of patients – followed by a small flood. By noon they’d mopped up a couple of latecomers.
Martin hadn’t expected, when he’d hung his shingle on the door, that business was going to be quite so brisk. He made a pile of sandwiches and some tea for lunch and they discussed the situation.
‘Bournemouth’s population is growing,’ Andrew said.
‘And several of your patients have followed you here; I hadn’t considered that.’
‘Will you do the rounds this afternoon, while I catch up on the paperwork and get the banking ready? We desperately need a receptionist, and certainly can afford one now,’ and he suddenly wished Mrs Seeble was available. ‘I’ll put an ad in the paper.’
‘Advertise for a receptionist with nursing experience,’ Andrew advised. ‘There are plenty of sensible and mature women with experience looking for work. In the meantime, I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind helping out for a short time while the children are at school, even if it’s to sort the files out.’
Within a fortnight they had a competent woman of middle years who’d been a member of the Queen Alexandra Imperial Military Nursing Service. Her name was Olivia Stark, but she was to be called Nurse Stark. There was no nonsense about her. She was efficiency itself, and soon had the practice organized. The men sighed with relief, and the cats slunk off to Martin’s private quarters and stayed there. A separate advertisement found Martin a cleaner for three afternoons a week, selected by Nurse Stark.
With that settled Martin made plans to meet his mother in London and gained Nurse Stark’s permission for a day off in advance. She noted it on the large calendar that she’d hung on the wall.
‘Doctor Pethan wants a day off in February, so you can cover his patients then.’
It was a cool day in early April when Martin took the train up. The landscape was taking on a tender green mantle and the showers of ra
in hit the train windows, and the quivering drops chased each other down the glass.
He’d assembled a special gift for his mother, copies made of the photographs taken of him during his childhood. He’d placed them in an album for her, so she’d have a sense of him growing up. He bought a gift for his sister, Avis, and a teddy bear for his nephew. Suddenly he had his health and career back. And he’d discovered his family. There was order in his life again, and with it came a warm feeling of hope, as though his life had just begun.
He admitted to himself that there was one big gap in it. The thought of Julia hit him so strongly that he could almost sense her presence and smell her perfume. Emeraude, by Coty, he recalled. He could smell it! The woman in the opposite seat was wearing it. But she wasn’t Julia.
His mother was waiting for him at Waterloo station. He recognized her straight away, even though she’d aged. He grinned at the thought. He’d certainly aged too, but inside he could feel the bewildered little boy she’d left behind.
His mother was still slim and elegant. She wore a grey three-quarter coat with a fur collar and a little hat with a flamboyant bunch of cherries on that matched the colour of her shoes. She was as beautiful as the mother of his memory. A little way behind her was a younger woman – his sister, Avis Singleton, with his nephew Timothy held in her arms. She was small and dainty and had tawny-brown eyes and a wide smile.
His mother’s glance went anxiously over the crowd of alighting passengers and settled on him. Her smile came like a mouse tentatively moving from the safety of its hole. Her mouth formed his name and her eyes filled with tears. He strode forward and drew the trio into his arms. His mother’s tears fell.
Avis kissed his cheek and whispered, ‘Ever since mother told me about you I’ve wanted to meet you. She was so very scared that you’d reject her. You won’t, will you?’
‘If I was going to do that I wouldn’t be here.’ He found his mother a handkerchief to dry her tears on and handed it to her, making light of them. ‘Here, mop them up before you drown me. Allow me take a look at your son, Avis.’
