The Vanished Child

by M J Lee

  ‘What’s a coaster?’ Vera asked.

  Jayne had tried to find out that morning. ‘The nearest I can get is a man who pulled a sled around the brewery, probably with the ale barrels on it.’

  ‘Sounds very physical.’

  ‘It probably was. Thomas Henry had three other children as well as your grandfather.’

  ‘So I probably still have other relatives somewhere?’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Let’s have a look, shall we?’ Jayne booted up her laptop and logged on to the Lost Cousins website. She entered the details of Vera’s grandparents from the 1911 census. ‘Using the 1881 census would probably give us more hits. I’ll take your ancestors back a bit further when I have time.’

  ‘Isn’t this exciting, Robert?’

  Jayne pressed ‘Search’ and waited a few seconds. ‘Well, here you are. Four hits. They all seem to be from the elder brother of your grandfather, Vera.’

  ‘I’ve got relatives I didn’t know I had.’

  ‘They are your cousins, Vera.’

  She glanced across at Robert. ‘Wonderful! It’s a lovely feeling to know there is family somewhere out there.’

  Robert gave her a hug.

  Jayne coughed. ‘But to bring us down to earth, I’ve not been as successful finding your possible brother. The problem is, we don’t know his name. I have checked the Duckworth births for 1944 and I’ve narrowed it down to four possibilities.’

  ‘That’s great, Jayne.’

  ‘But it might not be one of these people. We’ll only know when I check the birth certificates.’

  A frown appeared on Vera’s brow. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The Births, Marriages and Deaths indexes only give the surname of the mother, not the Christian name. I’ve ordered the original certificates. If Freda Duckworth’s name is on one of them, then we’ve found your brother.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  ‘Then we’re stuck. You see, when she went to the Registry Office in 1944, there are a few things she could have done.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Vera.

  ‘She may have registered the baby under her own name, Duckworth. This is what most women did when births were illegitimate. But I can’t find any male births anywhere in England for 1944 with only the mother’s name.’

  Vera nodded, understanding the issue. ‘What else?’

  ‘She may have registered the birth under the father’s name, giving her own maiden name as the mother. These are the four birth certificates I’ve ordered from the General Registry Office.’

  ‘Are there more options?’

  ‘If the baby was adopted, it may have been registered under the adopting family’s name. But I’ve discounted this because you told me she looked after the baby for six months, which means she will have registered it herself.’

  ‘I think I understand. It’s getting complicated.’

  ‘I’m afraid it gets even worse.’

  Vera laughed. ‘How can it get worse?’

  ‘She may not have used her own name at all, and as we don’t know the father’s name…’ Jayne’s voice tailed off.

  ‘Why wouldn’t she use her own name?’

  Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘Guilt. Shame. Family pressures. The stigma of illegitimacy was still very strong then. And you did say your grandmother was a very religious woman.’

  ‘How do we find out what she did?’

  ‘Without more information, it’s very hard. Can you remember anything else she said that might help us?’

  Vera’s eyes glanced up and left, dredging every conversation she had with her mother for clues. ‘She wasn’t the most talkative of women, my mother. Taciturn, I think you’d call her these days. She didn’t tell us much and, as I said, I knew nothing about her baby until just before she died.’

  ‘Would your brother know anything?’

  ‘Charlie? I suppose he may do, but Mother talked to him less than she spoke to me.’

  They both lapsed into a depressed silence before Robert spoke. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to go to see Charles. We promised we would visit at the wedding. Give him a call, Vera, tell him we’re coming.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, how about now? No time like the present, and if we’re going to find this long-lost brother, Charles needs to know too.’

  Chapter Ten

  June 18, 2017

  Eyam, Derbyshire, England

  After a short thirty-minute drive from Buxton, they arrived in the Derbyshire village of Eyam, or ‘Eem’, as it was pronounced by the locals. Jayne had changed the music to Glenn Miller. She wasn’t certain her father or Vera would be able to withstand the aural assault of Liam Gallagher at maximum Manchester whine.

  ‘It’s been ages since I visited him,’ said Vera as Jayne parked the car opposite the museum. ‘He lives in one of the old plague cottages.’ She shivered dramatically. ‘Couldn't do it myself. Too many ghosts, too many memories.’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry yourself about such things, my love.’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you be a bit upset if you had sealed yourself in the village as the plague took hold, killing off your neighbours and finally yourself, one by one? I’d stick around and let people know how pissed off I was.’

  Eyam was famous in England. During the plague year of 1665, the villagers had voluntarily quarantined themselves in order to prevent the plague spreading to the surrounding district. Most of them had perished.

  ‘Which cottage does he live in?’

  ‘It’s one of the little ones on the left, just before the church.’

  They strolled down through the tourists and crowds of schoolchildren visiting the village, finally stopping outside a row of terraced cottages. ‘This is it,’ announced Vera.

  In the garden stood a green metal plaque, with a sombre message printed in bright white letters painted on it.

  Willow Cottage

  Eight members of the Pilling Family lived here.

  They all died.

  Thomas Pilling, died 26th September 1665

  Mary Pilling (his daughter), died 30th September 1665

  Elizabeth (his wife), died 1st October 1665

  Thomas (his son), died 20th December 1665

  Alice (his daughter), died 15th April 1666

  William (his son), died 2nd May 1666

  Henry and Anne Pilling, the parents of Thomas senior, died in 1666.

  ‘I couldn’t live here, but trust my brother to choose this place. Charlie was always fond of the macabre.’

  They walked up the path leading to a small, terraced cottage. As they were about to knock, the door opened and a small round man, with the most florid face Jayne had ever seen, stood in the doorway.

  ‘You’re here, come in. Thought you said three thirty.’

  Jayne checked her watch. It was 3.45. They were fifteen minutes late.

  ‘Don’t let the draught in. Put wood in’t hole.’

  Jayne stared quizzically at him. Vera came to her rescue. ‘He means close the door.’

  ‘Aye, that too.’ He vanished through a doorway on the left. Jayne followed him, ducking beneath the solid oak lintel. The ceiling was so low, she felt she had to stoop to enter the room.

  Even though it was the middle of summer, a fire was burning in the grate, filling the small room with the mellow aroma of burning wood. Every available surface was cluttered with stuff; magazines on a stool, books on a chair, old clothes on the sofa, a pile of vinyl records next to the fire. In the midst of it all, a small coffee table was set with cups and saucers, and a large teapot was hidden beneath a large tea cosy.

  Vera moved the old clothes to join another pile on the floor, clearing a space on the sofa for herself and Robert. Jayne lifted up some old books from the chair and searched for a place to put them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Charlie, ‘just put them on the floor. I’ll tidy up later.’

  She found a patch of empty space next to an old fireman’s helmet beneath the coffee table,
and sat down on the dusty chair.

  ‘We’ll let tea brew a little longer. I can’t stand weak tea. Fancy a bit of Dundee?’ A knife hovered over a fruit cake. ‘Got from t’shop this morning. They do a lovely bit of Dundee, do Ramsdens.’

  Both Vera and Jayne shook their heads, but Robert picked up a plate. ‘I wouldn’t say no. I like a bit of cake with me tea.’

  ‘A man after my own heart. Jayne? Our Vera?’

  They both shook their heads again.

  Charlie cut a slice for Robert and for himself. ‘Shall I be mother?’ he said, pouring a thick, dark brew of tea into the floral-patterned china cups.

  ‘Sugar?’

  Vera and Jayne declined again. Robert held out his cup. ‘Two, please.’

  Charlie dropped two lumps into the cup and added three into his own. Without stirring it, he took a large slurp of tea, followed by a loud ‘aaah’. ‘Good tea, that. Puts hairs on your chest.’

  Jayne glanced down at her cup. The tea was a dark, thick brown sludge that looked like it had been brewing for decades. She placed the cup back on the coffee table without drinking any, balancing it precariously on the edge.

  Between mouthfuls of tea and Dundee cake, Vera’s brother opened the conversation. ‘What’s this about our mother?’

  Vera stopped as her cup was about to touch her lips and returned it to the saucer. ‘It’s like I said on the phone. I was thinking about Mother...’

  ‘Not what she said just before she died?’

  Vera nodded.

  ‘Look, it’s all claptrap, Vera. She was old, she was dying, she said stuff she didn’t mean. Remember one night she sat up and talked about seeing her old friend from church, Myra, sitting in the chair?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Our mother couldn’t have had a child during the war. She wasn’t the type.’

  ‘And what type is that?’ asked Jayne, an edge to her voice.

  ‘Oh, you know, one of the good-time girls. There were lots of them during the war. Out with the men whilst their husbands were fighting in the desert or in Italy.’ Charlie chuckled to himself, the red veins on his cheeks going redder. ‘There were more than a few kids with American accents growing up in Saddleworth after the war, I can tell you.’ He took a large bite of fruit cake, following it with an even larger slurp of tea.

  ‘But what if it were true? What if she did have a child who was adopted? It would mean you and I had a brother somewhere.’

  ‘A half-brother,’ corrected Charlie, ‘and it can’t be true. Not our mother. You remember what a prude she was the day she caught you on the couch with that bloke having a bit of how’s-your-father.’

  Vera glanced across at Robert, who was suddenly obsessed with the currants in the fruit cake. ‘It wasn’t a bit of “how’s-your father”, as you put it. He was my boyfriend... then.’

  ‘Aye, and I remember how she lost the plot. Went totally doolally.’

  ‘Anyway, this isn’t about me. Did you look for her old case?’

  Charlie nodded and pulled out a small, battered suitcase, covered in stickers from Blackpool, Lytham St Annes and Southport. ‘You mean this one?’

  ‘That’s it. Where she kept her stuff, wouldn’t let anybody look inside it.’

  ‘It was on top of the wardrobe upstairs. Didn’t even know it was there. Haven’t looked at it since the funeral. How did you know I had it?’

  Vera glanced around the cluttered room, filled with knick-knacks, books and old newspapers. ‘I knew you never chucked anything away.’

  He chuckled again. ‘Aye, true enough. Never have, never will.’

  ‘I remember she used to sit by the fire sometimes on a Sunday night, after she had been to Evening Mass, and look in the case, picking through her old stuff. Wouldn’t let any of us have a look in.’

  ‘That was our mam. Kept herself to herself.’

  ‘You never looked inside?’

  ‘I had a quick rifle through, just in case there were old insurance policies or such like, but it was just a bunch of old pictures and letters. Nothing of value.’

  ‘Memories are always of value,’ said Robert.

  ‘You know what I mean. Nothing valuable, just old papers. I chucked some stuff in from the funeral and closed it up.’

  ‘Time to open it now.’

  Charlie took a last slurp of tea and lifted the small case on to his knees. It had two locks on either side. He pressed the catch, expecting it to spring open.

  Nothing happened.

  He pressed again, harder this time.

  Again, nothing.

  ‘Looks like it’s rusted shut.’

  Robert held out his hands. ‘Give it here. Have you got a hair grip, Vera, love?’

  Vera pulled one from the side of her hair. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Perfect. Give me a second.’ He unbent the hair grip, inserting one end of it into the lock and jiggling it around. As he did, he pressed the catch and it flew open.

  ‘You never cease to amaze me, Robert Cartwright.’

  Her father beamed. ‘Just one of my many tricks, love. I’ll show you a few more later.’

  He inserted the hair grip into the second catch and a moment later it too sprung open. ‘I think Vera should open it, don’t you?’ he said pointedly, looking at Charlie.

  Robert’s brother-in-law shrugged his shoulders.

  Vera placed the case on her lap and touched the faded brown lid.

  ‘Hold it.’ Charlie put his hand on Vera’s arm. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘I am. It’s the only way we’ll know for certain.’

  ‘But... these are her things... her life.’ A pleading tone had entered Charlie’s voice. ‘This was Mother’s life.’

  Vera stopped what she was doing and stared at him. ‘You went through it, didn’t you?’

  Charlie nodded once and glanced away. ‘Just before Dad died. He told me not to, but I did.’

  ‘I have to do this, Charlie. I have to know.’

  ‘You could never leave things alone. Even as a kid, you were always the one who went ahead, pushing everybody else out of the way.’

  Vera stared at him and then down at the case. She had to know. If she didn't open it, she would forever wonder what was inside. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you pretend you hadn’t looked inside?’

  ‘Because you’re like a dog with a bone. Once you get your teeth into something you never let go. Dad didn’t want you digging up the past. He told me to throw it away.’

  ‘The case?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘I couldn’t do it. These were Mother’s things. I should have listened to him.’

  Vera scanned the small brown case sitting on her lap. The stickers from Blackpool and Southport and Lytham St Annes were faded now, just like the resorts they represented.

  She lifted up the lid.

  Chapter Eleven

  November 10, 1951

  St Michael’s Home, Oldham, England

  He crept up on him in the late afternoon, nearly scaring him half to death when he tapped his shoulder. Harry was scrubbing the corridor in front of Sister Tomasina’s room, as he did every day.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Don’t do that, I thought it was her.’

  ‘Shoulda been working, not dreaming.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Jack? I though you were takin’ the slops to the pigs.’ Every day the boys emptied out the slops into a large bin, which was collected by the farmer in his army jeep.

  ‘Rocko and the Menace are doing it. Listen, Harry...’

  Harry glanced over his shoulder. ‘If they catch you here...’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Jack knelt down in front of Harry. ‘Are you up for it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tonight. The kitchen.’

  Every Thursday, Mrs O’Kelly brought a large Victoria sponge to the home. It was supposed to be shared amongst the children, but somehow it always ended up on the nuns’ table. ‘A little treat for all their hard work,�
�� Sister Mary used to say.

  Harry sucked in his breath. ‘I dunno...’

  Jack stood up to go. ‘If you’re too chicken...’

  Harry grabbed Jack’s leg with his wet hand. ‘It’s just...’

  ‘Just what?’

  Perhaps it was seeing the townies eating the toffee apples. Or watching Sister Tomasina’s fat finger wipe a blob of white cream from the side of her mouth. Or just the idea of something sweet and soft in his mouth instead of the usual fatty pork or half-cooked potatoes. But Harry wanted to do this with Jack more than anything else.

  ‘I’m in,’ he said defiantly.

  ‘It’s tonight.’ Jack strode off down the corridor, stopping to check if any nuns were patrolling before hurrying down the stairs.

  The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur for Harry. He finished scrubbing the corridor, then cleaned the nuns’ toilet. After pouring the contents of his bucket down the drain, he went into the dining hall with the others. They lined up in front of the long table and said Grace, led by Sister Tomasina.

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  The metal plates were passed to the front where one of the older kids doled out the fatty pork stew with a ladle. The food was the colour of the sky in November, with just a touch of brown to suggest something edible.

  Harry missed the food at the Beggs’. There was always bread and butter for tea, with meat and vegetables, and trifle for dessert. ‘You’ve got to eat properly if you young ’uns are to grow big and strong. Butcher’s good to me, he is. Even with rationing I can still get my pork and a few sausages from under the table,’ Mr Beggs always said.

  Harry looked down at the food in front of him. It stared back at him. If he didn’t eat now, there would be nothing more until breakfast tomorrow morning. He closed his eyes and dug in with his spoon, swallowed the first mouthful, feeling it crawl down his throat without touching his teeth.