by M J Lee
Her father reached over and placed his hand on her arm. ‘Let Vera finish, love.’
Jayne kept quiet.
Vera took another deep breath. Jayne could see her eyes glaze over with tears. ‘It was on my mother’s deathbed, she told me. We knew the end was coming, the doctor had been in to examine her. Old age, he said. He offered to take her into hospital but she wouldn’t go. Hated them, she did, hospitals. Hated the smell of them. Me too, probably got it from my mother.’
Her father took Vera’s hand in his own and smiled at her. She smiled back at him, moving a little closer on the bench.
‘Anyway, she wasn’t eating any more. Spent most of her time sleeping, coming in and out of consciousness, I suppose. My brother and I took turns to sit with her, reading the newspaper or a book aloud.’ She stared off into the distance again. ‘Always loved the news, did my mother. Almost as if she discovered the world through it.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Never went abroad, you know, not even to Spain. “A week in Blackpool is good enough for me,” she used to say. I always wanted to take her to America, but we never went. And now we never will...’
Her voice broke and Robert put his arm around her. ‘There, there, it’s okay, lass,’ he whispered in her ear.
Vera gathered herself together, sitting up straight. ‘One night, a couple of days before she died, I was sitting in her bedroom reading to her when she suddenly spoke out loud. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she said. Well, Jayne, I didn’t know what she meant so I asked her.’
‘“Shouldn't have done what, Mum?”
‘“Shouldn’t have given him away.”
‘“Given who away?”
‘“Your brother.”
‘“But you didn’t. Charlie has just gone home. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
‘By now I thought she was delirious or something. She was taking drugs they give old people and they were very strong. But then she sat up in bed and I could see her eyes were bright and it was like having my old mum back in the room with me. She said: “Not Charlie – your other brother, the one who vanished.”
‘“But, Mum, I don’t have another brother. There’s just me and Charlie.”
‘Then she let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumped and her head nodded forward. She turned to look at me, and I’ll never forget the look on her face. It was as if all the regrets in the world were painted into every line, every wrinkle and every crease of her skin. She said in a low, quiet voice: “I never told you about him. Norman knew, of course. He was a good man, Norman. Wanted to be the boy’s father but they had already given him away, vanished like he had never existed.”
‘“Mum, I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
‘“I had another child during the war, in 1944. The father was a guard at the Glen Mill POW camp. He died at Sword Beach during the D-Day landings. I was already seven months pregnant. I never married him, and your grandmother, well, she was a tough old stick, upstanding member of the church and all that. I tried to look after the baby but after six months it was all too much. I had to give him up. Always wanted my baby boy back, though. After I married your dad and you were born, we tried to find him again. But they said he was already gone, already adopted. It was too late.”
‘Mum had stopped talking for a moment and stared at the picture of Jesus on the wall. I’ll always remember that picture; this long-haired man with a bright red heart, his head surrounded by a golden light. She stared at the picture and said:
‘“I remember him so well before he vanished from my life. He was a beautiful baby, always happy, with big black curls and rosy cheeks. I should never have given him away.”’
Vera stopped speaking for a moment to wipe a tear from her eye.
Robert handed her his handkerchief. ‘You’d better use this side, love, I’ve blown on the other.’
Vera smiled. ‘He always makes me laugh, does your dad. That’s why I love him so.’ She leant over and gave Robert a big kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a scar of bright red lipstick.
‘I love you too, Vera.’ He pulled her closer to him.
She began speaking again. ‘Anyway, after that last moment of clarity, Mum nestled back under the covers and went to sleep. She never regained full consciousness and died two days later. The death certificate said pneumonia but I don’t think she died from an illness at all. It was regret that killed her.’ She stared at Jayne. ‘Do you think people can die from regret, Jayne? I do. I know my mother did.’
Jayne thought back over her past. Her time with the police and her time with her ex-husband, Paul. She had regrets, too many probably, but nothing that would kill her. ‘I don’t know, Vera,’ was all she managed to offer in response.
‘I can’t have those same regrets, Jayne. I have to know if the things my mother said were true. Did she have another child, and if so, what happened to him? I know this is your job and everything, and I’d be happy to pay you...’
Jayne reached over and touched her step mother’s arm. ‘Shush, Vera. I’d be happy to look into the past for you. It’s the one thing I know how to do.’
Chapter Three
June 17, 2017
Buxton Residential Home, Derbyshire, England
‘I’m going to need a few details before I make a start.’ Jayne pulled out an ancestor chart from her bag, which she had downloaded from the Lost Cousins website. ‘This allows me to create a structure for the family members you know. Now what were your parents’ names and dates of birth?’
Vera sat up straighter as Jayne’s pen hovered over the form. ‘My dad’s name was Norman Atkins, and he was born in Oldham in 1921. He was older than my mum.’ Her eyes looked up and left as she tried to remember the date of birth. ‘I think his birthday was January twelfth. He served in the Army during the war, and stayed on afterwards, spending time in Palestine. They met after he was demobbed in 1950. Mum always used to joke he was in such a rush to get married, he proposed to her after two weeks.’
‘That’s quick, love. It took me two months.’
She reached over and kissed Robert on the lips. ‘But we knew after two days. Must have been the same for them.’
‘And your mother?’ Jayne asked.
‘Freda Atkins, nee Duckworth. She was born on June tenth, 1926. She passed away seven years ago. It’s one of the reasons I came to live here. Dad died a couple of years after her, and with both parents gone, I didn’t need to take care of them any more. My children had already moved away and made lives for themselves.’ She glanced across at Robert. ‘Best decision I ever made.’
‘So, if she had a baby during the war, it will have been between 1939 and 1945. She must have only been a teenager when she gave birth.’
‘She said it was in 1944. It was very young, even for those days...’ Vera’s voice trailed away, remembering her mother once more. ‘I can’t believe it. She was such a conservative woman. Went to church every Sunday without fail. Wore those two-piece suits with skirts below the knee.’ She stopped for a moment and glanced down to the ground. ‘I even remember an argument I had with her. I must have been fourteen. The Beatles had just released Rubber Soul and I was one of their biggest fans; beehive hairdo, skirt above the knee and all the rest. I thought Paul McCartney was the loveliest thing since sliced bread.
‘I had a boyfriend then – David Endersby, a nice boy, looked just like Paul. One night my mother came back early from church, it must have been a Sunday. Myself and David were on the couch, just having a kiss and a cuddle, nothing serious. She walked in on us and exploded. And I mean went off like a hydrogen bomb, shouting at me and telling David to get out and never come back again. I wasn’t allowed out for a month; just school, home, school, home. She kept watching me like a hawk all the time.’ Vera looked up at Jayne. ‘It makes sense now, doesn’t it? She didn’t want me to have a baby like her.’ She began to play with the lint she had found on her dress. ‘I wish she’d told me. I would have understood. Even then, I would have understood...’
‘
And when were you born, Vera?’
‘April thirteenth, 1951,’ Robert answered for her. ‘She’s my bit of young stuff.’
‘Do you know anything about your grandparents?’
Vera shook her head and, still looking down, answered. ‘I think the ones on my dad’s side died in the bombing of Manchester. My mum had nothing to do with her parents. I only met my granddad once. I was already seventeen. One morning there was a knock at the door. I opened it and a small, thin man was standing there. He asked if a Mrs Atkins lived in the house. I called my mum and she came to the door. It was my granddad. Apparently, my grandma had died a couple of days before and he wanted my mum to go to the funeral. I remember them standing at the door arguing. I don’t think my mum wanted to go. He said it was her mother, she had to go.’
Vera reached for Robert’s hand and took a few deep breaths before continuing. ‘We went, of course. There weren’t many people there. Apparently, my grandmother was an only child and had no living relatives apart from us. The only people at the Requiem Mass were parishioners she knew from church. My brother carried the coffin with the undertaker’s assistants but I wasn’t allowed.’ She grimaced. ‘A girl, you see. It all meant nothing to me then. All I cared about was music – I had moved on to the Rolling Stones by then – guys and my friends. Family didn’t mean anything. I remember Mum was very quiet when she came back from the graveyard. Didn’t say a word all night.’
‘When was this?’
‘I was seventeen, so it must have been some time in 1969.’
‘What was your grandmother’s name?’
Vera thought for a moment. ‘Dora Duckworth, that was it. I remember thinking how old and uncool the name sounded.’
‘And the church?’
‘St Mary’s on Union Street.’
‘She was buried there?’
‘No, at Royton Cemetery. Why do you ask, Jayne?’
‘Because, as she died in 1969, her death certificate may give us her place and date of birth. They added those details in that year. The information could help build your family tree.’
‘My mother hated her, you know. After the funeral, she never mentioned her again. Not once.’
‘You never asked her why?’
Vera laughed. ‘You didn’t ask my mother such questions. And, if I’m honest, I wasn’t interested. Young people don’t think about such things, do they?’
Jayne snapped the lid back on her Montblanc pen. It was one of her eccentricities. When she was creating a family tree, she always wrote in the brightest vermilion ink. It was her way of commemorating the lives of the people she listed. On this form, they were going to be remembered once again. The dead brought back to life.
‘I think I have enough to make a start, Vera. I should be able to find out more about your family.’
Vera reached over and touched Jayne’s arm. ‘Will you be able to discover if I have a brother?’
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. Adoption records are notoriously difficult to discover. Sometimes the baby was renamed completely and the date of birth changed. I can’t promise anything, Vera. But I will try.’
Vera nodded. ‘You know, the older we get, the more we want to know who we are and where we came from. And the more family means to us. My brother, if he exists and is still alive, will now be nearly seventy-three years old. Another life, another family. I would like to meet him before I die, Jayne.’
Jayne took hold of her step mother’s hand. ‘If he’s out there, Vera, I’ll find him. I promise.’
Chapter Four
September 27, 1951
23 Haggate Lane, Delph, Lancashire, England
He didn’t know why the man took him away from Mr and Mrs Beggs. He sat on the floor playing with his soldier. He wasn’t a real soldier, of course, but he looked like one. He was soft and cuddly, with a tall black hat – a busby, Mrs Beggs had told him – and a bright red coat with shiny golden buttons. His mother had given it to him for his birthday on her last visit. Ever since then it had never left his side, even sleeping with him at night.
The man talked with Mr and Mrs Beggs for a long time, and they drank tea from the best cups nobody was allowed to use unless it was Father Vincent when he came round for his cake on Thursday afternoons.
Harry knew Mr and Mrs Beggs weren’t his real mummy and daddy. They had told him just before he went to school that they were his foster parents, whatever that meant. He didn’t care what they said. He was a lucky boy – he had two mummies and one daddy. More than anybody else in school. His real mummy sometimes came to see him. She always brought him a present. On her last visit, she had given him the soldier, but it seemed such a long time since she had come to see him. He liked it when she came because she picked him up and gave him lots of kisses. He had to wipe his face afterwards, though. Her lipstick was very red and it made his cheeks sticky.
He always remembered her smell. Like all the plants in the garden had given up their flowers and crushed them together to spray on her neck. He liked the smell. A smell of the warmth of summer, the wind rustling through the trees and him on the warm grass, playing in the garden.
The man who came to see Mr and Mrs Beggs smelt of tobacco and sweat, with a hat that was too black for his head. Harry didn’t like the man’s smell. It was sour and burnt. He pretended he was playing, but he actually listened to what the adults were saying.
Mr and Mrs Beggs wanted him to stay with them. They said he would miss David and Geraldine and Grace and Flora, all the other children. But the man said he had to go back to the home, it was time for him to go.
When the man spoke he played with the hat that was too black for his head, his fingers stroking the dark lining inside the dark hat. Fingers stained brown at the ends, with nails that were a deeper shade of brown, like the man had just put them in his poo-poo.
When they had finished speaking and drinking their tea, Mr Beggs stood over Harry and lifted him in his arms, saying, ‘You have to go with Mr Keaton now. They are taking you back to the home. You’ll be happy there. There are lots of little children to run and play with.’
‘But what about school?’
‘You’ll go to school there too. There’s lots to learn and the fathers will tell you all about your catechism.’
Harry didn’t understand that word, but at least at the home he would have a father, maybe lots of fathers.
Mr Beggs handed him over to the man who smelt of smoke. The man put him down to stand on the floor and they walked out of the front parlour to the door. Mrs Beggs was waiting with his bag, which she gave to the man. She knelt down beside Harry and put his coat on him, fastening the buttons and tying the belt tightly around his waist. ‘We’ll miss you, Harry. Always remember we love you. We love you very much.’
Then she gave him a big hug and the man took his hand and they walked down to the gate.
At the gate, Harry pulled away and ran back to the house. Mr and Mrs Beggs were just closing the door. Harry rushed through it, hearing the footsteps of the man behind him and a shout: ‘Stop him, he must come with me!’
Harry brushed past Mrs Beggs and turned left into the parlour. His red-coated soldier was still on the floor where he’d left it, arms stretched out on the old rug as if it were warming itself in front of the fire.
The man who smelt of tobacco ran into the room. Harry held up his soldier and made a charging noise with his mouth. The man snatched him up roughly, holding him tightly to his chest, the hard brim of his hat cutting into Harry’s cheek.
Mr and Mrs Beggs were still standing at the open door. As they walked past, Mrs Beggs touched the man’s arm. ‘Does he have to go?’
The man said nothing and strode past her down the path, picked up the bag in his free hand, and marched out through the gate and into the waiting car that was as black as the man’s hat.
It was the first time Harry had been in a car. It sounded just like a rocket, only louder.
Chapter Five
June 17, 2017
Didsbury, Manchester, England
Jayne pushed open the door of her house and was immediately greeted by her cat, Mr Smith, his long tail erect and his body rubbing against her legs.
‘I know, I know, you’re hungry and then you want to go out, right?’
The cat purred in agreement. Without taking off her coat, she went into the kitchen, booted up the computer and opened the fridge door. ‘Lamb or chicken?’
The cat had followed her and was now standing beside his bowl expectantly.
‘You had lamb yesterday, so it looks like it’s going to be chicken.’ She checked the title on the small pouch of food. ‘“Tender chunks of chicken breast with beef in a tasty, wholesome jelly.” Hmm, sounds good, I almost fancy it myself.’
She tore open the pouch and squeezed the contents into the cat’s bowl, adding a handful of dry food for a bit of crunch. Mr Smith tore into it as if he hadn’t been fed for days. ‘You just ate this morning, you greedy beggar.’
The cat ignored her, as he usually did.
‘Now, what am I going to have?’ She went back to the fridge. Nothing but a half-opened packet of cream crackers, four bottles of wine, a third of a box of French brie, a newly opened packet of custard creams and a tomato. ‘That settles it. A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some cheese and biscuits. A gourmet meal for one coming right up.’
She suddenly realised she had been talking out loud again. Since Paul had left for Brussels, and their subsequent break-up, she had been spending most of her time alone. The sound of her voice in the emptiness of the kitchen was somehow comforting, as if she were still having a conversation with someone.
She placed a plate next to the computer, added a few stale crackers and twisted off the cap of the Sauvignon Blanc, pouring a large glass. She twirled the glass around, releasing the aroma of lemon, gooseberries and fresh grass. A classic New Zealand Sauvignon. The glass was already beginning to pearl with condensation as she drank the first crisp mouthful of wine. Immediately her body relaxed and the tension in her shoulders from driving drifted away on a cloud of New Zealand grapes. She checked the label. Villa Maria 2016, as fresh as the day it was poured from the steel vat.
