Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  Afterwards, her landlady made the most unexpected and wonderful suggestion.

  To be sure of catching Mrs Saunders in good time the following day, Maggie pretended she had an urgent dentist’s appointment, and was already on a tram to Woodstock House by mid-afternoon.

  The moment she’d taken her usual seat at the front she pictured Tom, fast asleep in cot number 11. How would he be today? He seemed to have changed a little each time she saw him, grown a little more, learned new gurgles and grins, new ways of grasping her fingers. When she left him, it felt like he was being wrenched afresh out of her body. Re-opening a birth wound that never had a chance to heal.

  But not any more.

  She imagined herself lifting him into her arms – and as she did so, the tram and the busy street outside dissolved around her until there were no other passengers, no windows, no solid steel floor, no metal rails beneath nor any sparking electrics overhead. Nothing mattered but the moment when Tom would open his eyes and see her – and, with every passing second, that moment was coming nearer and nearer. Soon it was no longer the tram that was swaying from side to side, but Maggie herself rocking him in her arms. Nothing else existed as she whispered his name over and over under her breath. This was going to be the best weekend ever.

  She rushed into the children’s home and straight to the superintendent’s office. It turned out that Mrs Saunders was busy at present, but would see her in half an hour.

  Having taken Tom for a short walk along the canal in the Tractor, Maggie returned him to his dormitory, settled him in his cot and went downstairs. For once, the superintendent was bound to be pleased with her – the six months would soon be up and here she was, preparing to take Tom back.

  ‘Really, Miss Davies?’ Mrs Saunders took a cigarette from the packet on her desk, lit it and blew out the smoke in a slow, steady stream. For a moment they both watched it curl in the air between them. ‘For the weekend, you say? Your landlady suggested it? A “try-out”, like something you might get on approval from Jenners or PT’s, is that what you mean?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s to see how he gets on so that the next time — ’

  ‘The next time?’ Another lengthy drag on her cigarette. ‘Do you seriously think you can just waltz in here, tell me some story about your landlady and expect to be allowed to waltz straight back out the door, carrying Tom?’

  ‘No, it’s not like — ’

  ‘It certainly isn’t. There are procedures.’ Mrs Saunders looked her full in the face: ‘And then, of course, there’s you.’

  ‘Me? But what have I . . .?’

  ‘Well, Miss Davies, how can I put this without seeming to cause offence?’ The superintendent paused. ‘Whatever happens, or does not happen, will depend on whether we decide if you’re a fit mother or not.’

  ‘But I love him.’

  ‘Love? That’s the easy bit. Love’s never enough and usually ends up causing more problems than it solves. In Tom’s case we’re well past the maternal love stage. Different when he was a newborn baby; then you were free to choose to look after him – and if you remember, you chose not to.’

  ‘But that’s not what — ’

  ‘We’ve cared for Tom, looked after him day and night. In normal circumstances he would’ve been adopted long ago, Miss Davies. But we’ve been very patient with you, letting you come and go as you please, letting you take him for a quick tour round the block . . .’ she paused. ‘And now your landlady’s feeling in a good mood, here you are, telling me you fancy having him home for the weekend.’

  ‘But I’m his mother and — ’

  Mrs Saunders held up her hand for silence.

  ‘That, Miss Davies, remains to be seen. I grant that whenever you honour us with your presence he’s very pleased to see you . . .’

  ‘Yes, he is, always, and — ’

  Again the hand was held up. ‘That’s only natural. But you know nothing of what goes on after you leave – how he cries and screams and won’t let anyone hold him. Throws his toys at the other children, takes theirs and pulls them apart, bangs his head against the wall and — ’

  ‘No. Tom’s not like that. He — ’

  ‘Don’t you understand? Each time he sees you leaving, he really believes he’ll never see you again. Never. You’ve abandoned him not once, but a hundred times.’

  ‘I’ve not abandoned him. I come as often as I can. It took ages to find a job, but now that I’ve managed to — ’

  ‘You show up – and he’s ecstatic. Naturally. It’s like you’ve risen from the dead.’ The older woman leant closer. ‘Let me tell you, Miss Davies, an infant can take only so much ecstasy and grief, only so much loss. God only knows what he’ll be like when he grows up.’

  ‘But that’s why I’m wanting to — ’

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Tom’s father, naturally. Assuming, that is, you know who — ’

  ‘How dare you! Of course I know who his father is!’

  ‘Had himself a very late war, did he? Only got demobbed a few days ago?’

  Maggie gritted her teeth. The woman was simply goading her.

  ‘Saving up for the tram fare to visit his son, is he?’

  Maggie gripped the edge of the chair to stop herself answering back. Whatever she said would be wrong.

  With exaggerated calm Mrs Saunders turned to glance out of the window before continuing, ‘I’m going on holiday soon. My husband and I are spending a long weekend with friends. Do you know Skye, Miss Davies?’

  Sky? What had the sky to do with anything? For a moment Maggie pictured the superintendent and her friends drifting at their ease, perfectly at home among the clouds. That was Mrs Saunders’ charmed life – holidays, friends, permanent sunshine.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Lovely place. But even if it wasn’t, even if it was a total hell-hole – pardon my French – I know I’d still be having myself a ball. Why? Because I won’t be here. I won’t be having to deal with the likes of you.’

  At once Maggie was half out of her seat, both hands on the superintendent’s desk. ‘What do you mean, the likes of — ?’

  Seeming not to notice the effect of her words, Mrs Saunders continued: ‘The couple who adopt Tom – and I may as well tell you that there are several couples extremely keen to . . .’

  Maggie sat back down again. Several couples?

  ‘. . . will be a real couple. Married, settled, respectable. Able to give Tom a good home, eager to support our work here . . .’

  Several couples . . . a good home?

  ‘. . . and doubtless keen to express their gratitude to you.’

  Maggie glared at the superintendent. ‘Yes, you told me all this the first time.’

  ‘Come in very handy for a smart new outfit and some high heels for the evening.’

  ‘You think I’d sell my son for a new pair of shoes!’

  ‘Not interested? Well, suit yourself. As a charitable institution we can’t afford to be so sniffy. We need all the help we can get.’ Mrs Saunders picked up her pen and resumed her paperwork.

  ‘Still here?’ She laid the pen down again a moment later. ‘Well, Miss Davies, perhaps you’d care to explain why you and your gentleman friend aren’t getting married?’

  Maggie had run out of words.

  ‘No? Then let me guess . . .’ The superintendent took a deep drag of her cigarette and blew out the smoke in a steady jet, then stubbed it out. ‘He’s already married, isn’t he?’

  Mrs Saunders waited for her reply, hand poised in mid-air as if ready to remove Maggie from Tom’s life for ever with a single stroke of a pen.

  Maggie felt a wave of total exhaustion pass over her. ‘The man’s dead.’ She stood up. ‘Enjoy Skye.’

  She left.

  The following day, Maggi
e had to stay after work to make up for leaving early the day before, and so she arrived at Woodstock House much later than usual. For the first time, she found the front door locked.

  But it couldn’t be.

  She tried the handle again.

  Firmly locked.

  She reached for the bell pull.

  Its dull jangle-jangle tolled in the empty hall, to be answered almost at once by a scamper of footsteps coming to the door. Donna’s welcoming smile was accompanied by a most elaborate curtsey.

  ‘Hello, Miss Davies. I’m practising for my first ball.’

  ‘Very good, Donna. I’m sure you’ll have all the young men at your feet.’ Maggie moved to go in.

  The young chorus girl-cum-debutante didn’t stand aside to let her pass. ‘I’m sorry, but Mrs Saunders said that if you came, you were please to wait.’

  Before Maggie realised what was happening, the door was closed again.

  What was she to wait for? She was here to see Tom, same as usual. Nothing was different. She’d come to take him for an evening walk like she’d done dozens of times before.

  One good strong tug at the bell-pull would set it jangling like a demented Big Ben. No keeping her waiting after that!

  She took hold of the bell-pull and was about to –

  When she stopped herself.

  Too much noise and she’d probably wake the younger children. And as for Mrs Saunders . . . After their conversation yesterday, who knew what the old battle-axe might do if she got annoyed – maybe not let her see Tom at all?

  But supposing he was ill? Mumps, chickenpox, measles . . .

  The door opened again.

  ‘If you came they said to tell you that Tom has a bit of a cold today, but he’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about, and this is for you.’ Donna held out a sealed white envelope: miss margaret davies.

  Maggie ripped it open. Headed notepaper, stiff. Typed.

  Dear Miss Davies . . . over six calendar months since . . . the contract dated 15th October 1949.

  She had to start reading it again: Dear Miss Davies – two short paragraphs, and signed Yours faithfully, E Saunders (Superintendent).

  And again: Dear Miss Davies . . . 15th October . . . failed to take back your child . . . In absence of any formal application . . .

  October. The six months had been calculated from the day when the contract was signed. She’d not understood, that’s all. It was just a mistake, a simple mistake. She could tell Mrs Saunders she’d got it wrong, explain to her that –

  ‘Seeing Tom’s not coming out today, can you take me with you instead?’ Donna was tugging at her sleeve. ‘We could go to the canal, if you like. See the ducks. Last week I saw four of them when — ’

  She’d thought it was six months from the day when Tom first came to the home. From October 1949, Tom wasn’t even born then. How could they – ?

  ‘I need to see Mrs Saunders.’

  ‘Mrs Saunders isn’t here. They said to say she’s having dinner with the Government.’

  The second paragraph was one short sentence. She had to read the words several times over: ‘From the date of this letter, no further access to your child will be permitted.’

  No further access . . .

  No further access . . .

  No further access . . .

  Donna was tugging at her sleeve. ‘So can we go to the canal?’

  ‘Tom is here, isn’t he? You’ve seen him?’

  ‘They said to tell you he’s got a bit of a cold and he’s getting better now, like I said. He’s maybe sleeping.’ Donna was trying to take hold of her hand now. ‘The canal. Please, Miss Davies, please.’

  Maggie took a step forward and pushed at the part-opened door. It was being jammed from behind.

  ‘Donna. Indoors, now!’ Boss Beryl stood in the doorway.

  ‘Bye, Miss Davies. Maybe we can see the ducks another time?’ With a cheerful wave, Donna stretched up onto her tip-toes and then ballet-stepped gracefully back into the hall.

  ‘Mrs Saunders isn’t here, Miss Davies, and the letter explains the situation.’ Boss Beryl tried to push the door shut.

  Maggie stuck her foot in the gap. ‘Is Tom all right?’

  ‘Please remove your foot, Miss Davies.’

  ‘Is Tom all right? I want to know. This letter says — ’

  ‘Remove your foot and I’ll tell you.’

  Beryl opened the door a crack wider . . . and the instant Maggie withdrew her foot the door was slammed in her face. She heard the key turn.

  Maggie stared at the locked door. If only she’d not spoken to the superintendent the day before. If only she’d not said a word to anyone, just taken Tom for his walk, same as usual, then simply kept on walking. He was her own child so it couldn’t be stealing, surely?

  She made a complete circuit of the house – all the windows were closed, all the doors locked. When she rapped on the playroom window, some of the older children saw her and waved back. The staff ignored her. There was no sign of Donna. Then, one by one, all the downstairs curtains were drawn shut. The building had been made into a fortified castle.

  Twice she went round it.

  Having returned to the front door she gave the bell pull another tug – firmly but not too strong. Not wanting to wake the wee ones who’d already be in bed, not wanting to upset anyone, not wanting to make a scene. All she wanted was to see Tom, to know that he was safe and –

  Another tug at the bell.

  Not a sound this time.

  She tugged again.

  And again.

  The bell pull had gone completely slack, its brass handle no longer sliding smoothly back into the wall.

  Hanging loosely on its wire.

  Disconnected? Did they really think a disconnected bell would would stop her? That she’d simply give up and walk away?

  She crouched down and began calling through the letter-box, loudly as she dared: ‘Beryl! Mrs Saunders!’

  ‘Stop that row!’ Boss Beryl was right behind the door.

  ‘Let me see tom!’

  The response was immediate. ‘Stop your shouting! You’ll frighten the children!’

  ‘Open the door then. Please.’

  ‘We’ll call the police.’

  ‘No – I only want to see Tom, and to know he’s okay. That’s all. I don’t want any trouble.’

  She waited.

  ‘Talk to me face to face at least.’

  She waited longer.

  Then, after several seconds, Beryl’s voice came back to her: ‘All right. But you have to stand clear first. Then I’ll open it.’

  Maggie took an immediate step back. ‘I’m standing away.’

  As soon as she heard the key turning in the lock, she prepared herself.

  She watched the door ease open an inch at a time.

  Boss Beryl faced her through the tiny gap. ‘You’re still too close, Miss Davies.’

  Without taking her eyes off Beryl, Maggie took another step back. ‘Far enough?’

  She focused on the crack she could see widening between the door and its frame. She tensed herself. She was ready. She knew she would only have the one chance.

  ‘Is Tom with you?’

  ‘No, he’s fast aslee — ’

  Lunging suddenly forward, her whole weight shouldering the door –

  Boss Beryl tried to stand firm, but was too late.

  Maggie shoved her aside, then rushed across the hall and bounded up the stairs three steps at a time. A group of younger children, some holding hands, stood on the landing, one of them calling out, ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ at the top of his voice.

  ‘Sshhh! It’s okay, it’s okay. Shh! I’m here to see Tom.’

  Boss Beryl came hurrying after.

  ‘Stop! You can’t just barge your w
ay in. Mrs Saunders said that — ’

  Next moment she was in Tom’s dormitory, Boss Beryl calling behind her:

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? Get back downstairs at once.’

  Maggie headed across to the far corner. Past Crib Number 8. Crib Number 9 . . .

  ‘Mrs Saunders said that if you came . . .’

  . . . Crib 10 . . . Crib 11 –

  ‘. . . I was to tell you that — ’

  Crib 11 was empty. Tom’s crib was empty.

  She snatched up the patchwork blanket, pressing it to her face. Tom’s blanket.

  ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

  SUNDAY

  ‘FINISH, MRS STEWART?’ Donna’s come to take away your tray.

  That lass had better take care she doesn’t let herself go, helping herself to a chocolate biscuit every time she gets a chance . . . She’ll never become a chorus girl gorging herself like that.

  ‘Where’s all the photos, Mum? There’s nothing here.’

  You watch him turn over blank page after blank page until he comes to the only photograph left in the album.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Donna, of course.’ You smile at the would-be dancer as she lifts away the tray. ‘Before she discovered chocolate biscuits. Am I right?’

  The young Polish woman squints at the photo. ‘Nice baby, Mrs Stewart. I come soon with meds. Bye, Mrs Stewart.’

  ‘But, Mum, you can’t be meaning someone here, in Rosehaven? This is just a wee girl – it’s an old black & white photo, must have been taken over fifty years ago! The pram’s like something out of a museum. How can it be the Polish woman here, the one you call Donna? And what’s happened to the rest of the photos?’

  You shrug again. All these questions. Like someone turning the wringer, wanting to get all the water squeezed out. But there’s hardly a drop left, is there?

  Managing without anyone’s help, you slide the photo out of its plastic sleeve. ‘That’s my little boy. He’s called Tom.’

  ‘Tom? But I’m — ’

  ‘Ssh! It’s a secret, remember. But he’s being well looked after. Donna treats him like a wee brother.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Mum.’

  ‘Sssh! I know what: you take it, you can look after it for me. Things vanish here sometimes.’