Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  She stepped lively – across Bruntsfield Links, past the unlit shops and silent tenements to Holy Corner. The only sound was her own footsteps.

  If she wanted, she could turn round at any moment and go straight to the bakery instead. No harm done. She would marry Michael, set up home and then Mrs Saunders would surely let her keep Tom. She would have to. She would. Surely.

  But by then it might all be too late.

  Maggie kept walking. The first drops of rain began to fall as she turned off Morningside Road. A glance at her watch, plenty of time.

  She didn’t trust Mrs Saunders. It was as simple as that.

  By the time the outline of the children’s home loomed up in the darkness, the rain was coming down in torrents. Not a single light showed. Maggie checked her watch again – she’d made good time and now had exactly thirty-five minutes. She pushed open the gate.

  Of course you can’t come, too, Jean. I’ll need someone to visit me in jail! she’d joked as they’d said goodbye. But it was no joke now.

  She paused for a moment on the wet path, drenched through and almost blinded by the driving rain. This was her last chance to turn back. If she was caught and sent to prison, then Tom would be lost to her for ever.

  But as things were, she’d already lost him. So what real choice had she?

  Next moment she was squelching across the lawn.

  Having reached the rear of the building, she flashed her torch quickly round the cement yard till she found a pile of discarded wooden boxes stacked at the side of a small outhouse. An orange crate looked the sturdiest. More or less intact and the wood slimy with rain, it was probably strong enough to take her weight. She returned to the back wall – another flash of her torch located what she was looking for, the window with frosted glass. She positioned the box beneath it.

  Holding onto the window ledge for support, clambering up. Standing there for a moment to get her balance, wobbling slightly. A tentative half-rocking from side to side on her feet to test it. The box held.

  So far so good.

  Now for the tricky part. Both hands pressed against the sides of the window frame, she pushed upwards.

  Nothing happened. Not the slightest give.

  Pushed again.

  She paused to wipe the rain from her eyes, then pushed even harder . . .

  Not too hard though. The window had to be eased open ever so slowly. Eased open noiselessly.

  She pushed . . . and pushed . . . and pushed. It was the toilet window all right, the one she’d unsnibbed a few hours earlier, but someone must have re-snibbed it.

  After all their careful planning . . . She stopped herself from screaming out loud.

  For several seconds she remained standing on the box, hands on the wooden sill, struggling to hold back her tears, resisting putting her fist through the window.

  At last she stepped down and carried the box along to the next window. If she had to, she’d work her way right round the house. Having come this far, what else could she do?

  Clambering up again at the next window. Then the next after that. Her hands pressed against the frame . . .

  Starting to push upwards . . .

  Third time lucky! It slid open easily. The wood screeched. She froze.

  Remained standing motionless for as long as she could bear, the rain lashing down onto her head, shoulders and back . . . She forced herself not to move. Fist clenched, she counted under her breath, ready to jump clear and make a run for it at the first sign of a light going on, or at the sounds of someone coming.

  Nineteen, twenty. She relaxed, inched the window up enough to let her climb through . . . Moments later she was standing in Mrs Saunders’ office. Perfect.

  There was even a towel provided, a pair of towels, in fact – rust-red, extra thick and long. Having wiped some of the rain from her hands and face, she closed the curtains and switched on her torch. A glance at her watch – twenty-two minutes left. She and Jean had debated what she should do next – secure the paperwork first, or go straight upstairs? There’d be masses of files and she’d no idea how long she’d take to find what she was looking for.

  She had to speed up.

  The metal filing cabinet wasn’t locked. Good.

  Top drawer – Adoptions. The files each had a tab and were arranged by date. Good again. Most recent at the front – Montrose, Iris. 3/12/50. Next was Watson, James. 28/11/50. No mention of any adoption involving Tom. She breathed out a sigh of relief and slid the drawer back into place.

  The one beneath was labelled Admissions.

  She riffled through the files . . . 12/12/50 . . . 18/11/50 . . . 3/10/50 . . . 25/9/50 . . . to reach those further at the back. About three-quarters in, she came across the tab marked ‘17/11/49 – Davies, Tom.’ Her hands shook as she pulled out the file.

  She laid the folder on Mrs Saunders’ desk and, by torchlight, turned over the few pages of Tom’s short life. Even though she was in a hurry, she flicked through the sheets to check everything was there – his birth certificate, the letter from the Queen’s Crescent nursing home and the doctor’s notes, the detested contract she’d signed and the various other forms Mrs Saunders had made her complete. Her own details were also included: Jean’s bakery address had been scored out and replaced by Glengyle Terrace. A handwritten note was attached: Father probably still married. There was a copy of the letter denying her access and her own unanswered replies, also the photo she herself had taken of Donna and Tom beside the Tractor. In addition, a sheaf of papers clipped together was headed: Adoption – Interest. Promising herself to burn these unread, she stuffed the complete file under her jersey and pushed the drawer shut. Good – there’d be no tell-tale paperwork left behind.

  Another glance at her watch – only eighteen minutes left. She switched off the torch and stepped into the hall. It was in complete darkness. Above her, she could hear the rain hammering onto the glass cupola. Making sure she didn’t blunder into the wooden throne or the Tractor, she crossed to the vestibule. A quick flash of the torch located the key, she turned it slowly to unlock the front door. No top and bottom bolts, thank goodness. Back to the hall. If it had been a clear night there would have been enough light to see her way upstairs. But it really was pitch black.

  Keeping the torch beam pointed down at her feet, she began climbing the stairs, holding on to the banister in the darkness.

  Halfway up, one of the boards creaked underfoot. She froze. Switched off her torch. Stopped breathing.

  Began counting into herself as slowly as she dared. One, two, three . . .

  She stood motionless, straining to hear the slightest sign that someone . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .

  At full alert, rigid, peering into the darkness . . . fourteen, fifteen . . .

  Then she relaxed.

  Placed her foot down gradually, very, very gradually. Letting the next step take her weight slowly, steadily . . .

  Again she held her breath.

  Nothing.

  The next tread. Pressing lightly as she could. A little more, a little more . . . The only sound was the rain gusting heavier every few seconds against the cupola. She continued up to the top.

  Fifteen minutes left.

  From along the corridor came the rasp-and-snort of someone snoring. Boss Beryl? She certainly hoped so.

  Time began speeding up. Keeping the torch beam directed at the floor, she inched open the door and stepped into Tom’s dormitory. Tiptoeing across the room, slowly, carefully. Watching out for the table that stood in the middle, and for any pails or –

  One of the babies was gurgling to itself, clearly awake. Another was standing up in its cot and stared at her as she passed.

  ‘Ssssh! Little one. Please don’t . . . don’t . . .’

  The baby blinked, reached out its small hand and started to whimper.


  ‘No . . no. Please, please no. Sssssh!’

  Then, a moment later, it slid down flat again on its mattress and closed its eyes.

  Maggie let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in. Like crossing a minefield, she thought. She reached cot number 11.

  Tom was fast asleep, wrapped in a new blanket and with one of Donkey Boy’s floppy ears clutched in his tight little fist. He looked perfectly content.

  He was usually wide awake when she visited. Not like this, lying here so peacefully, safe and secure in his familiar surroundings. She knew she was about to disrupt all that. She’d be wrenching him away from everything he had ever known in his brief life, destroying a carefully planned future. Other people’s good intentions, other people’s plans.

  She could still turn back now, creep off down the stairs and walk out the front door. But then what?

  The pendulum she’d thrown into the glass-green water and had imagined sinking deeper and deeper into the harbour – would that be her? Without Tom, what would the days and years ahead be but a hopeless choking slide into ever-deepening mud?

  Next moment she’d lifted him out of the crib.

  He didn’t even wake.

  She closed the dormitory door behind her.

  Out in the corridor she paused. Something seemed different from before. The complete silence. It had stopped raining. Moonlight was beginning to filter down from the cupola.

  She switched off the torch and, treading even more carefully, made her way along the corridor. Already she could make out the silhouettes of a fire bucket, a side table, picture frames. The top of the stairs only a few steps away.

  ‘Miss Davies?’

  She stopped. Utterly. Rigid.

  A faint shimmer of whiteness up ahead. A whispered voice: ‘Miss Davies?’

  ‘Ssh, Donna!’ Maggie hissed and put a finger to her lips.

  ‘You’ve got Tom with you?’

  ‘Ssh!’ Maggie stood beside her at the top of stairs. ‘Donna, please. Ssh!’

  ‘Take me, too.’

  The moonlight was getting stronger. The future chorus-girl was in a long white nightdress and bare feet, her hair sleep-tangled. ‘Please, Miss Davies, please.’

  What if she just shoved Donna out of the way and rushed down the stairs without stopping, then ran out the front door and off up the street? Everything might still be all right. She had all the official records with her, and she had Tom. But she’d have to do it now.

  Maggie shook her head and tried to push past.

  The girl didn’t budge: ‘If you don’t take me, I’ll scream as loud as I can and wake everyone.’ She stretched her arms out wide, barring Maggie’s way down.

  Tom had started fidgeting in his sleep, his small feet pressed into her stomach and his head shifted from side to side as if he might wake at any moment.

  ‘Please, Donna. You don’t understand. Let me past. I have to take Tom and — ’

  ‘I don’t care,’ the young girl whispered. ‘Take me — ’

  A door opened at the end of the corridor. ‘Who’s there?’

  It was Boss Beryl. Maggie clutched Tom to her chest.

  ‘It’s just me, Mrs Ferguson.’ Donna replied in her normal voice. ‘Needed the toilet. Very sorry for waking you.’

  ‘I’ve told you before about drinking water last thing at night, Donna. Be as quiet as you can and then straight back to bed. Goodnight.’ The door closed.

  Maggie whispered, ‘Thank you, Donna.’

  ‘Give me Tom.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need to get dressed and I’m not letting you leave without me. Give him here.’ She held out her hands. ‘If you don’t, I’ll scream. I mean it.’

  Maggie hesitated.

  ‘I will, Miss Davies. I will. Really.’

  Donna occupied an attic room up a flight of narrow, uncarpeted stairs – more like a walk-in cupboard with a bed under the sloping ceiling. Maggie watched her get dressed. Only eight minutes remained.

  ‘Donna, you must understand that — ’

  ‘I’m ready now, Miss Davies. Let’s go.’

  Without answering, Maggie laid Tom down carefully on the girl’s bed.

  ‘Listen, Donna . . .’

  She grabbed the girl by the shoulders and leant into her face. ‘You can’t come with us. You can’t. Understand?’

  Struggling and kicking out to free herself, the girl jerked to one side as if she was about to call for help. Instantly Maggie clamped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘You try coming with us and I’ll get rid of you,’ she hissed into the child’s ear. ‘They’ll think you ran off during the night, taking Tom with you.’

  ‘But that’s not what — ’

  Maggie clamped her hand harder.

  ‘The police’ll hunt you down and when they find you alone and without Tom – he and I will be long gone by then – they’ll think you killed him.’

  ‘Mmmmmm . . .’

  ‘People do that sometimes, you know, kill children.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t – mmmmm . . .’

  ‘They’ll hang you, Donna.

  ‘Nooo – mmmm . . .’

  ‘The rope’ll go tighter and tighter round your neck until you can’t breathe, till your eyes burst, till your tongue turns black. Understand?’ She ignored the terror she could see in the girl’s face. ‘Do you want that?’

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘If you scream for help now, I’ll run and I’ll get away.’ Maggie paused, then stared deep into the girl’s eyes. ‘I’ll return one night soon, just like I did tonight. And I’ll creep up these stairs, like I did tonight. I’ll come here, right into your room while you’re asleep . . . and snap your neck. Understand?’

  The girl nodded. She’d started to cry.

  ‘So then, are you going to scream?’

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘Good girl.’ Maggie began loosening her grip.

  ‘You won’t take me with you – ever?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m really sorry, Donna. I’d like to, but I just can’t.’ Then she added. ‘Maybe once we’re settled we can meet one day and — ’

  ‘I hate you!’ Wiping the tears with the back of her hand

  ‘Donna —’

  ‘I hate you. I hate you.’ The girl threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in the pillow.

  Maggie reached down to stroke the tangle of curls, then stopped herself. She sighed, picked up Tom, and left the room.

  Clutching Tom in her arms, Maggie paced up and down the short stretch of pavement where the taxi was supposed to meet her. Past low stone walls stripped of their iron railings; past high stone walls still streaming wet in the streetlight; past gates locked for the night: past trees whose branches thrashed the darkness. Three, four times she walked to the red pillar box at the next corner, turned and came back again. Up and down, up and down with hardly a pause. She’d got there only a couple of minutes after midnight. Maybe the taxi had arrived and, seeing no one waiting, had driven off? But then where was Jean? Michael?

  At every turn she glanced back down the street towards the children’s home, terrified she’d see lights and hear people shouting. Woodstock House, however, remained in darkness. Remained silent. She was ashamed at the way she’d threatened Donna. But what else could she have done?

  Halting several times in mid-stride – was that the clanging of a police bell? Was a squad car about to come screeching round the corner?

  Twice she saw headlights approaching from Bruntsfield, only to watch the car drive straight past. The only sound was rainwater gushing out of a blocked gutter nearby, splashing down onto someone’s front step.

  Once again she walked to the pillar box and back, singing under her breath:

  My Baby Bunting,

 
Daddy’s gone a-hunting,

  To catch a baby rabbit’s skin

  To wrap our –

  At last – another set of headlights, and coming from the right direction. It was slowing down. A taxi. Their taxi. Had to be.

  The black cab drew up beside her, the driver’s window was lowered:

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Missus. Engine kept needing cranked up. Doesn’t like getting up this early on a Sunday morning!’

  Jean was sitting in the back. She was alone.

  Maggie climbed in. ‘But where’s –?’

  ‘Dinna fear, Maggie, Michael’s back at the bakery. He’s waiting fer ye.’

  SUNDAY MORNING

  AN AXE TO the worn-out dining chairs. Slice and dice. Turn carpentry to kindling and haul the smashed woodwork in armfuls out to the garden and up the path to the heaped bonfire. Dragging the fifties’ kitchen cabinet that even the charity shop didn’t want. The three-legged stool you used to stand on when your mother did the washing, the rickety hat stand, wooden clothes-horse, bits of smashed shelving – worthless junk the lot of it, good only for burning.

  You’ll keep these photographs of your mother, of course – in her wellingtons boots digging up potatoes, dressed up smart for a trip to Edinburgh, and some others. The rest are a load of strangers and there’s no one to tell you who they were. Back in the black-and-white past, people hoarded their photos. Not like today’s disposable memories – the freeze-framed smiles, drunken moonies, drunken meals, the googled Earth itself. Everyone’s life Photoshopped to perfection for posting on Facebook or YouTube. The moment’s been saved . . . then so are you?

  Not really. But getting there.

  A nice one of Auntie Jean. That smoky voice of hers and her tobacco-smelling clothes – the only relative you ever met and then only for afternoon tea and cakes in Mackie’s. Never visited her home. Seems there was an Uncle Billy, not that you ever met him. Never asked why. This soldier standing next to a signpost pointing to Berlin – is that your Uncle Billy? Your mother won’t remember, that’s for sure. And so – in goes Mr Berlin, along with all the others.