The Child From Nowhere

by Freda Lightfoot

  Flora’s increasing reserve, so far as Lucy was concerned, only proved that the ‘exercises’ were working. The purpose, after all, was to ‘instil discipline’ and if the result caused Kate O’Connor some concern, all well and good. A little bit of worry was excellent, exactly what that little whore deserved, so long as it didn’t get out of hand so that she realised what was really going on.

  Callum had never entirely forgotten his past but it remained somewhat distant and unreal; a muddle of half dreams, half memory. Now he had another puzzle to add to it. The day he’d met that girl at Kendal market stood out in his mind like a beacon. Not simply because she’d generously given him half her sweet, which had been pretty much all he’d had to eat that day, bar one apple and a lump of hard cheese, but because he’d caught a glimpse of her lovely mother. For some strange reason he couldn’t explain, she’d looked familiar.

  Ever since that day, he’d kept a look-out, longed to see her again. He never had, sadly. They rarely went to Kendal, it being a long way from the farm, and Mrs Brocklebank didn’t always let him go with her to the local markets at Keswick and Ambleside, more often leaving him with a list of chores to keep him busy on the farm while she was away. Now that he’d grown bigger, his work load had increased considerably.

  ‘Great lad like you needs to pull yer weight, since you eat so much,’ Mr Brocklebank would say. ‘About time you were some use round ‘ere.’ As if he’d never done a hand’s turn in all these long years.

  ‘Nay, he’s a growing lad, aren’t you, Allan?’ Mrs Brocklebank might add, if she was feeling kindly towards him.

  If she did take him with her, he’d be kept working the whole time so he was never able to wander off and do any exploring on his own account. Mrs Brocklebank didn’t allow any show of independence.

  But now he was thirteen and a half and not quite so biddable, and he’d grown big enough not to be cowed by her bully of a husband. In his bed in the dusty, cold barn, Callum would work on his plan of escape night after night. He was haunted by the vision of that woman: her lovely face, the red hair so like his own, those brilliant, clear grey eyes. She’d stood only yards away from him, calling to the girl, so he’d had several moments in which to study her. It had felt almost as if time were standing still in that instant. And then she’d smiled at the child, hugged her close as if she were precious, gently scolded her for wandering off and then hurried her away, not even noticing himself standing there watching.

  And if, at the back of his mind, he wondered if she was the one, if this lovely woman could possibly be the mother he’d been dreaming of all these years, he didn’t dare to let the thought grow. But then one of the other stallholders told him once that someone had been asking after him. He’d hoped it was she, but then he’d put that notion from his mind too. He knew that hope was a dangerous thing.

  But the possibility that she just might be looking for him had never gone away. The idea that she might indeed be his mother intrigued and excited him. Somehow he had to find her, and ask.

  Today was May Day, 1917, and as luck would have it they were once again off to Kendal to the butter market. Mr Brocklebank hadn’t been available to drive the cart, so that task had fallen to him. As usual, he helped the farmer’s wife set up the stall and arrange their wares. The morning was busy with shoppers, as always, but all the time he was looking for an opportunity to slip away, to put his carefully laid plan into effect. His chance came early in the afternoon when Mrs Brocklebank began gossiping with the woman on the next stall. Normally, he would have taken the opportunity to have a bit of a rest on the edge of the cart, if no one was wanting butter and eggs, but this was the best chance he’d get to look for the red-haired woman, perhaps his only one, and he meant to take it.

  With her back turned, Mrs Brocklebank didn’t see him slip under the stall and crawl away. When Callum believed himself to be out of sight, he got to his feet and ran hell for leather. Hopefully, she wouldn’t spot that he was missing until he was several streets away. What would happen later, when he returned, he didn’t care to think about too closely. Best just run for it, even if he hadn’t a clue where, exactly, he was running to, or where he might find the woman.

  He ran helter-skelter down Branthwaite Brow, his boots clattering on the cobbles, and instinctively turned left when he reached Finkle Street, not pausing until he’d run the length of Stramongate and reached the bridge where he skittered to a halt and stared in astonishment at the river.

  A prickle of recognition made the hair at the back of his neck rise. He’d been here before! He knew this place! But how and why? So far as he could recall, he’d only ever been to Kendal market a couple of times before with Mrs Brocklebank, and never once been permitted to wander anywhere on his own. When they drove into town on the farmer’s cart, they always came down Windermere Road. He didn’t remember them ever crossing the river at this point, over this particular bridge. Or could he be wrong about that? Had he travelled this way as a boy with the Brocklebanks on some occasion or other? Was he simply confused?

  He had a sudden vision of a woman in a smart grey coat and a big hat with a feather. She was holding his hand, shaking him quite hard and shouting at him. He was crying, because he was frightened. Who was this woman, and why was she so angry? Callum knew, with absolute conviction, that it wasn’t Mrs Brocklebank. Nor was this the woman whose face had haunted his dreams throughout his boyhood. This was a new memory. Someone else entirely.

  His feet were taking him on over the bridge, past a church which made him shiver with foreboding for some reason, then out on to a broad sward of grass.

  ‘What’s this place called?’ he asked a boy passing by on his bicycle.

  ‘Gooseholme. Where you looking for? Have you to deliver summat to Thorny Hills?’

  Thorny Hills. The name hummed in his head like a familiar tune. He’d definitely heard the name before. He had been here before. He knew it. He knew it!

  His excitement was growing but he let his feet make the decisions about which way to go. They led him unerringly across the grass, out through a lych gate and stopped by the walls of a big, square, grey-stoned house. He drew in a deep breath, unlatched the garden gate and walked up the path.

  At the door he spit on his hands and rubbed them over his face, did the same again, this time flattening down his unruly copper curls, tucked his cap tidily away in his pocket. He could do nothing about the none-too-clean working shirt and fustian trousers, the braces and mucky clogs, so he stretched up and tugged on the bell pull. He heard the sound of it echo deep in the belly of the house, and again there was that prickling sensation that he’d done this before, heard that sound before. Nothing happened. There was no response, no answer and he tugged on the bell pull again.

  Callum found he was holding his breath so much that it hurt, and he let it out on a gasp. He’d almost given up hope, had half turned away, deciding nobody could be in after all, when the door was pulled open. He swung about, his young face bright and eager for this first meeting with the woman he’d dreamed of for so long. Would she be the one? Was this the moment he would at last meet his mother?

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Was that the bell?’ Mrs Petty held the buttered scone poised in one hand, a knife loaded with jam in the other while she put her head to one side to listen. ‘Did you hear anything, Ida?’

  Ida sniffed, rubbing the back of her hand across her nose to wipe the drip from it. Of course she’d heard the bell, but she’d no wish to leave this warm fire, or this lovely tea Mrs Petty had done for them because Fanny was paying one of her customary visits. Nor had she any wish to miss the ending of one of Fanny’s stories, which were always titillating. ‘No, Mrs P, I didn’t hear nuffin.’ Let madam answer. She’d nothing else to do all day. Ida was taking an hour off.

  ‘You’d best go and check. Get along with you then. Don’t sit there looking gormless.’

  With reluctance, Ida set down her plate, casting a lingering glance back at her scone as s
he scuttled quickly out into the hall. She could see a boy at the door. He had copper coloured hair and a bright smile on his face, though even as Ida watched, the smile quickly faded as he looked up into madam’s face. Not that this surprised her. Madam Lucy wasn’t known for her warm welcomes, not unless it was someone she wished to impress. Delivery boys didn’t come into that category.

  Ida couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but madam was flapping her hand, then shaking a fist at the boy. Poor soul. He’d obviously done summat wrong. Happen he’d brought the wrong stuff from the shop.

  ‘I’ll deal with this, Ida,’ she called back over her shoulder.

  ‘Rightio, Madam.’ Ida turned to go, but spotted a bunch of grapes sitting atop the fruit bowl on the hall sideboard, and was momentarily distracted while she popped one in her mouth, then another. What a treat! Fortunately the aunts were out, so no one would see her. She heard an angry shout and a cry but by the time she’d rearranged the grapes to cover the gap, the boy was gone and the front door had slammed shut. Ida scuttled back to the kitchen like a mouse into its hole.

  By this time, Fanny had finished her story and Ida had missed the exciting part, as she so often did. Why was she always the one called upon to jump up and down to fetch things or answer the door, which on this occasion had been a complete waste of time?

  ‘’Oo was it, Ida?’

  She bit into her scone and spoke through a shower of crumbs. ‘Only a lad delivering summat for madam.’

  ‘Nobody special then?’

  ‘No.’ Ida reached for another scone, anxious that they might all be gone before she’d finished this one, and got her hand slapped for her greed.

  ‘Yer mouth is still full,’ Mrs Petty chided her. ‘Nay, I’ll never manage to teach you manners, girl, not if I live to be a hundred.’

  Ida flushed crimson, Mrs Petty being the nearest to a mother she’d ever known so she did her best to please. But it’d been mighty hard since Fanny left, and she missed Dennis teasing her, and even the smell of old Mr Askew’s pipe. Nothing was quite as it used to be, in the good old days, as Mrs P was wont to call them.

  Mrs Petty removed the plate from her reach. ‘You can have another, Fanny love, and tell us how you’re getting on with the mistress. Eeh, it’s grand to see you. We get none of the gossip in these parts nowadays. What’s she like as a boss, Kate O’Connor as was? Is she managing the factory well in the master’s absence? We rarely see hide nor hair of her round here. Mind you, it’s that poor child I feel sorry for. Left to her own devices more often than is good for her, poor little lamb. If it weren’t for Madam Lucy, she’d be no better than an orphan.’

  ‘Is that why the little lass looks so pasty-faced?’ Fanny enquired, plastering jam on to a scone as if it might go out of fashion.

  ‘Pasty faced?’ Mrs Petty looked affronted, taking offence at the implication the child wasn’t properly fed. ‘Nay, she eats everything I put in front of her. You should see the breakfasts that child consumes. Two eggs at a time, no messing.’

  Fanny shrugged. ‘Pardon me for poking me nose in where it’s not wanted, but I saw little Flora setting off to school after lunch and she looked a bit subdued like. A bit hang-dog you might say. No skipping about and running. Solemn little miss, I thought, holding on to her aunt’s hand. Is she allus so quiet?’

  Mrs Petty considered this question with a frown. ‘Aye, happen she is a bit too serious. You hardly know she’s there at times. Not normal really, for a child her age. I blame that mother of hers. That Kate O’Connor as was neglects her summat shocking, she does. Heartless floozy where her children are concerned, allus was. I’ve said as much often, have I not, Ida?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Petty.’

  Fanny frowned, ‘I thought you fancied her at one time fer the master? And he’s got her, hasn’t he? Tekken her as his wife, more’s the wonder.’

  Mrs Petty sniffed her disapproval, making her opinion on the matter abundantly clear. ‘I did once think she might suit as his bit on the side, as you might say. The toffs go in for mistresses, don’t you know. But never for a moment did I expect him to marry the brazen hussy. Well, I mean, it’s not done, is it? Tain’t right.’

  ‘Aye, but he has done it. Done it proper, some might say.’

  ‘It’ll not last. Mark my words, it’ll all end in tears. I’ve said so often, have I not, Ida?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Petty.’ Ida had managed to sneak another scone on to her plate, so again sent a scattering of crumbs flying everywhere as she spoke, earning herself no more than a resigned shake of the head this time as Mrs Petty passed her a napkin.

  Fanny surprised herself by defending her employer, stoutly pointing out how much of an effort it took to run a factory, particularly in war time. ‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t marry her, if you want my opinion. This class business is a lot of old fashioned stuff and nonsense. You’ll see, it’ll all be different once this war is over.’

  ‘Well, I never! What’s got into you?’

  ‘And she can’t be everywhere at once, now can she? Someone has to run that flippin’ factory, so why not her? She’s making a good job of it, s’matter of fact. I still say there’s summat not quite right with that little miss though, and if I were you I’d keep a watchful eye on things. Look a bit closer to home, and see what’s going on right under yer nose.’

  ‘Eeh, do you think so, Fanny?’ Mrs Petty asked, mouth hanging open in surprise.

  ‘I do.’

  The moment Lucy slammed the front door closed, she stormed upstairs to her bedroom and took out her temper on the pillows by ripping them to shreds, sending feathers flying everywhere. Drat and damn it, this was the last thing she’d expected. Dear God, how had he found them? She couldn’t believe her bad luck.

  She’d stared at the boy open-mouthed with horror for what seemed like a lifetime before she’d felt able to pull herself together sufficiently to think. And she’d certainly had to think fast. She’d heard Ida lurking in the passage behind her and swiftly realised that it wouldn’t do for the boy to be spotted by any of the servants. Mrs Petty in particular would remember him well. So she’d called out to Ida, saying something about a delivery, that she’d deal with the matter. It was a miracle she’d bothered to answer the door in the first place, but the sound of that bell clanging on and on had quite frayed her nerves, and it had become patently obvious that no one else in the house was going to.

  She’d known instantly who he was. For all it had been years since she’d set eyes on him, the likeness to his mother was uncanny.

  Heaven help her, but it was fortunate that Kate had not been home. As always at this time of day, she was at the factory. Even more fortunate, little Flora was still at school and the aunts out paying calls.

  Lucy began pacing the room, wringing her hands in agitation. What should she do? What should she do?

  After Ida had gone, she’d very cleverly scolded the stupid boy for coming to the wrong house, just as if he really were a delivery boy. She’d boxed his ears and sent him packing. She therefore did not expect to see him again; not after the roasting she’d given him.

  Lucy paused in her pacing to consider the situation more rationally and felt a film of perspiration break out on her brow, her hands grow clammy. What if he did come again though? What if he called when she wasn’t in? What if Mrs Petty answered the door this time or, worse, Kate herself? Dear God, this was a disaster. All that time and effort, all these years of planning and patient waiting, and she could be right back where she’d started.

  Lucy put her hands to her head, thoughts buzzing round and round like angry bees; none of them making any sense. Eliot had married the boy’s mother. He’d rejected Lucy’s own offer and made that little whore his wife, for God’s sake! And he’d adopted Callum legally, so if the boy returned from the dead, as it were, they’d be able to play happy families all over again.

  And her own children would get nothing!

  All three of them would be out in cold with nothing t
o show for her efforts, despite all her planning and clever scheming. Lucy almost let out a scream of rage; was forced to bite down hard on her lip to prevent herself from doing so, since the noise would be sure to bring someone running to find out what on earth was wrong with her. She was going mad, that’s what was wrong. Half demented with fury. There must be something she could do. But what? What could she do?

  Lucy regretted sending the boy away now, since it left her with no idea what he might do next. She should have gone after him. Found out why he was here. Taken him some place else, somewhere safer, somewhere from which there could be no return.

  Should she go and look for him? No, that could be dangerous. He might not have recognised her, after all. Might stay away. Then again, he might not. How could she be sure? Oh, she was in a fever of indecision. Biting her nails, wringing her hands, scarring furious wheels along her arm with her own sharp nails, Lucy continued to rage helplessly about the room.

  She’d kill the little bastard if she got half a chance. Wring the life out of his scrawny neck.

  Lucy still hadn’t thought of a solution some two hours later, despite turning the problem over and over in her head, considering every possibility, each new idea wilder than the last. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she was supposed to be collecting Flora from school, as she always did.

  By the time she arrived, the child was nowhere in sight. Dear God, now she’d lost her, and would be in trouble for that too. Perhaps that was the answer, Lucy thought. She should get rid of Flora as well. But how? She couldn’t take another child to the workhouse, not with the war on. They’d only ask if her daddy had been killed on the Somme and did her mother need special assistance to cope? Everything had changed now. The world had gone soft, become more caring. No, she would need to be taken somewhere far away, where no one would think to look. Somewhere much further than the Langdales.