by Anne Berry
‘But Gina that’s wonderful,’ I say into her tangle of hair that smells sweetly of rosemary shampoo.
‘You see that’s when it hit me. The need, like hunger, to give a family to your child, a wide all-encompassing family that will give him or her a real sense of belonging. I don’t want my baby born into a sealed capsule. We’re part of a continuum. Am I making sense? I reckoned … oh I’m being ridiculous.’ Her arms belting my waist lock for a moment, then speedily she detaches herself and regains her composure. Merlin reacts decisively, heaving himself up and rotating through one hundred and eighty degrees, poised for the route home. ‘Granny Pritchard was always such a beast. I know we hardly ever saw her, but she wasn’t cosy the way grannies should be. And Grandpa Pritchard seemed rather strange as well. Gramps and Nanny Ryan were lovely, but because they both died when we were so young we barely got to know them. When you told me you were adopted and that you hadn’t met your real mum, that you didn’t know where she was, I used to dream her up last thing at night. Do you remember when I did that history project on the war back in school?’ I nodded. Now I wanted to cry too. ‘Well, everybody was talking about their grandparents and what they got up to in the war. But I didn’t feel able to ask Granny and Grandpa Pritchard to tell me their experiences. Even on the phone it felt awkward. So I had nothing to contribute, nothing to give. And here it seems like we had this … amazing story in our past – a German soldier and a Welsh girl fell in love, in spite of everything.’ Brightmore Hall hoves into view, the lights on the upper floors, where the family lives, shining out into encroaching dark like golden ingots. I sigh at the enormity of the chasm at my back, at my daughter’s back. ‘Please don’t be put off so easily,’ she implores with a sideways look that is my undoing. And as we trudge on I feel utterly torn, divided by love and the lack of it.
Tim is philosophic about the inadequacies of the Salvation Army. He discusses the situation in desultory fashion, in between serenading us with a ballad on a really quite splendid home-made guitar. Before he leaves, he expresses yet again his tenet that many adopted children regret tracing their birth parents. ‘Think on, Ma,’ he advises, giving me a peck on cheek at our cottage door. ‘I know you’re a dog person but look what curiosity did to cats.’ He does up his duffel coat and grins. ‘Dinner was excellent as per usual, Mother dear. Up to your usual standard, though the pudding could have done with more brandy. But now I’m nit-picking. Tea was good too. Your Christmas cake will keep me going for a good couple of hours.’
‘You are incorrigible,’ I say with affection, as he marches off guitar slung over one shoulder, a hand lifted in a backwards wave. Privately, I muse that fear of the unknown was a problem for Tim even as a toddler!
On 1 January, I walk up to Ranmore Church, with Henry at my side. Merlin refused to be lured from his cushion at the fireside. We listen to the bells ringing in the New Year. The chimes are so clear and optimistic, reverberating through the crisp air. I notice that the snowdrops are showing too, thrusting their deceptively delicate heads through the compacted ground. I shall paint them one day, make a watercolour of their pale feistiness. My easel is set up permanently in one of the bedrooms vacated when the children left home. We joke that it is my studio. I have a painting on the go all the time, all seasons. I like to work in differing light. It inspires me as though it is a living entity, an artist’s model available continuously if you make allowances for her moods.
I am in the middle of a landscape of the bluebell woods when I make up my mind. Henry pops his head round the door, sucking contemplatively on the stem of his pipe. With the spicy fragrance of his tobacco, a certain calm descends upon me.
My husband takes the pipe from his mouth, cupping the bowl in one hand and holding it aloft. ‘May one be allowed a preview of the great artist’s latest masterpiece,’ he ventures tentatively.
‘Henry, oh Henry! You do talk nonsense,’ I say, glancing back at him, amused.
‘Ah now,’ he continues as if I have flattered him, ‘your perception is accurate to an astonishing degree. I am in point of fact fluent in the complex language of nonsense. It is no small boast either. I will have you know I have been taken as a native of nonsense, the listener completely convinced that it is my natural tongue.’
Now I laugh accepting when I am beaten. Henry takes a step forwards and shoots me a questioning look. When I nod in acquiescence, he levelly studies my painting.
‘I’m giving up.’ I throw away my resolve in a contradictory tone heavy with defeat. I pause and grief wells in my chest, making breathing a chore that requires concentration. Then sketching an ‘S’ mid-air, I add quietly, ‘The Salvation Army have been successful in dissuading me.’ I force a closing chord into my voice. ‘My New Year’s resolution is to curtail my search, to abandon my past, and to get on with my life.’ I dab at my canvas, deliberately blurring the stinging blue of the inclined graceful flower heads, creating a delicate spectral film. When the haze ghosts the acid green of the pencil leaf clusters, the finest web of spun bluebells, I exhale a breath, content. ‘Well?’ I demand, counting the beats to his appraisal, both of my brushstrokes and of my determination to sound the retreat.
‘Ah!’ exclaims Henry. ‘Per aspera ad astra!’ A few more puffs on his pipe. The dulcet notes of Judy Garland emanating from the radio in the lounge sail upstairs. ‘Get Happy’, not a favourite of mine, especially this year.
‘And what pray is the meaning of that?’ I probe hesitantly.
‘A translation for my wife,’ Henry announces portentously. He gives a theatrical pause then inhales a breath like a seasoned Shakespearian actor prior to a mouthful of linguistically challenging Bard. ‘Through difficulties to the stars, my dear,’ he declaims extravagantly. ‘Through difficulties to the stars!’
Chapter 9
Harriet, 1948
WE’VE HAD A communication from the Church Adoption Society. They have an available baby, a girl, which I concede is a plus. Apparently, she needs adopting as a matter of some urgency. The less said about that the better. So far the business has been more protracted than I anticipated. I was under the misapprehension that it would take a matter of weeks. It has however been closer to a year. Admittedly there were a couple of boys, but by then I had set my sights on a girl. Even hearing that they have the correct sex in stock does not overly thrill me. I hoped we would be offered more variety, that Merfyn and I might wander a row of cribs all occupied with potential candidates, that we would select the ideal baby for our daughter from the assorted homeless. I express something of my dissatisfaction with the process to my husband, and he reassures me that if this baby isn’t to our liking we can hang on for another one. He does not seem to grasp that the delay of itself will be disadvantageous to us. I am thirty-six and Merfyn is forty-one. We are neither of us in our prime, and really it would be advisable not to waste another day.
About the baby (lately everything seems to concern the baby), it appears that they haven’t collated all her documentation yet. But apparently this technicality is not an insurmountable obstacle to us taking her home then and there – if we find her engaging of course. Merfyn called the secretary last week, Valeria Mulholland. It was she who signed the letter. He has already fixed up a meeting. It is tomorrow, Tuesday, 27 April, scheduled for 2.45 pm, at their offices in Bloomsbury Square. It’s been rather a rush really. The mother, I’m reliably informed, is Welsh, a Miss Haverd. Envisage Merfyn’s delight when we discovered this. She lives on her father’s farm in Wales, helps out by all accounts. The identity of the father fills me with dread though. I was unprepared for the news. I had to sit down to absorb it. He is a German, was a prisoner of war, and has been working on the farm for a few years – though I imagine he’s been sent packing now. I can’t pretend that I’m not full of consternation. German! A Nazi, though Merfyn says they aren’t all Nazis, so we can’t be sure of this. It’s not as easy to stomach as he assumes.
‘They killed my mother,’ I remind Merfyn, needled at how
dismissive he is being. ‘A Zeppelin raid in 1915 that blew our house to smithereens.’
‘That was the First World War,’ Merfyn placates, unwrapping a toffee. We’ve had our tea and are tuning in for Dick Barton – Special Agent, on the radio.
‘They nearly killed me,’ I add, blowing my nose and ramming my handkerchief into my skirt pocket. I am sewing buttons on a well-worn coat, brass buttons, and turning the collar. Giving it a new lease of life. Can’t afford to be wasteful these days.
‘She’s a baby. Half-Welsh. An innocent,’ he cajoles, popping the toffee in his mouth and concentrating on his paper again. ‘They’ll be running the Olympic games on a shoestring,’ he mutters, his brow crinkling. ‘Seems an odd time for us to host them, with no money to spare. Surely we should be using every penny to get back on our feet after the war.’
I set aside my sewing to scrutinise the letter yet again. ‘It says here that the mother’s given the baby a name: Lucilla.’
‘You don’t like it?’ Merfyn asks, glancing over his paper at me. ‘The Devil’s Galop’ starts up, Dick Barton’s signature melody.
‘Actually I like it very much. It’s … feminine sounding. A fitting name for a girl. Born on the fourteenth of January, so she’s over three months old already. You don’t think she will have become attached to her birth mother by now?’
‘Goodness no!’ exclaims Merfyn. ‘Babies don’t have that kind of awareness until much later on. I have an idea that they start recognising people, places and things around the twelve-month mark. Another cup of tea in the pot?’ His head rises over the parapet of the newspaper then lowers again.
I lean forwards as Dick Barton tells a police inspector that he wants more than a humdrum existence, that he’s not afraid of hard graft. The brown teapot is set on the table in front of us. I lift the lid and peer inside it. ‘I don’t think so. I’ll make another pot.’
‘That’d be most welcome.’ He turns the page fussily, shaking out the creases.
‘She weighed seven pounds six ounces at her birth and she’s nine pounds seven ounces now,’ I report, without getting up.
‘Oh, a good weight then,’ he remarks absently.
‘According to this overall she’s in decent condition,’ I continue. Then with less confidence, ‘Her Wassermann test is negative.’ I pause awaiting enlightenment. But as none is forthcoming I wade in, breath bated, ‘What’s that? The Wassermann test?’
‘A test for syphilis,’ Merfyn mumbles apologetically.
‘Oh!’ I gulp down my distaste and my mind strays inevitably to the father, the German soldier, and what escapades he might have got up to on his travels. ‘That seems rather … rather unpleasant,’ I cannot prevent myself from saying.
‘It was negative, dear,’ asserts Merfyn unruffled.
I give an explosive sigh. Unfortunately, at present, I am incapable of erasing the crude image that assails me. On the farm. Not being properly chaperoned. No one about to keep an eye on their licentious behaviour. A sordid roll in God knows what filth. A young naive girl letting the moment run away with her. A girl who, blatantly, is dismally lacking in moral fibre. ‘So the mother is twenty and the father is twenty-six. Both healthy, or so they say. But then they would, wouldn’t they? They’re not going to tell you they’ve got some fungus running amuck in their family tree, spreading from branch to branch. Or a lunacy that resurfaces every few decades. If they did, no one would take their unwanted baby.’
‘I think you’re worrying unnecessarily. Have a toffee?’ Merfyn offers.
‘Not just now.’ I drum my fingers lightly on the letter. ‘Mmm … the baby has blonde hair and blue eyes.’ I pick up the teapot and rise to my feet. ‘I’d have preferred a brunette with brown eyes. Like my own.’ I adjust my glasses and wrinkle my nose. I smell mildew. I’ll have to give this sitting room a spring clean. ‘Blue eyes and blonde hair. A frivolous combination I’ve always evinced.’
‘Exceptionally pretty is my verdict,’ Merfyn chuckles, a sparkle in his eyes.
‘I fail to find this humorous,’ I rejoin. ‘Adoption is not a laughing matter.’
‘Absolutely not,’ concurs Merfyn, sobering in a second. Then he spoils it by digging about infuriatingly in the toffee tin.
‘You shouldn’t have too many of those, Merfyn. There’s still rationing, you know.’ He ignores me and helps himself. ‘If we take her back with us tomorrow, how can we be sure she’ll be fine? In the long term I mean.’
‘There are no cast-iron guarantees with anything in life. You should know that,’ Merfyn points out equably, sucking and chewing alternately. ‘But we’ve done our research. And we’re going to provide her with a stable, secure home. She’s sure to flourish. It will be splendid.’ He folds his paper and lays it on the table, his manner suddenly conciliatory. ‘Look, the room’s all ready. The cot’s made up. You’ve knitted her an entire wardrobe. If she’s what we’re looking for then tomorrow we’ll buy formula, feed and nappies. It’s going to be tremendous. In under twenty-four hours we may be picking up our brand-new daughter. Aren’t you tickled pink? I am.’
I take a deep breath and contemplate the German and the farm girl rutting like beasts. Why pretend it was otherwise? Might as well accept the fact now. The baby’s natural father is a member of Hitler’s tyrannical brigade. There’s no evading this. I reflect, only fleetingly mind, on my deceased parents. How would they have viewed a half-German grandchild? ‘Yes, yes, I am pleased. You know I am. I only want to make sure we’ve covered everything. Once we’ve adopted her, there will be no turning back, no returns, no refunds for faulty goods.’
‘What a thing to say, dear. If I thought you meant it, I’d be shocked. It’s the same when you have your own child,’ Merfyn says still on an even keel. ‘No different.’
He doesn’t seem to have a handle on the risks that may be involved. ‘You could be right. But it’s a colossal decision.’ I speak up more emphatically. ‘We’d do well to remember this.’
‘It is. And we have made it,’ he retorts in a tone bordering on glib, considering the irrevocable circumstances that lie ahead. He stands up and pats my shoulder. ‘I’m going to be a father and you’re going to be a mother. Lucilla Pritchard. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?’
I smile, regardless. It really is a lovely name. Only time will tell if she does it justice though. Later, in bed, I am wakeful. Merfyn is a good sleeper. It takes quite a rumpus to arouse him, especially when he’s just dozed off. I close my eyes and have a go at visualising our baby. One of the things about this that’s bothering me is the dearth of selection. We shall have no yardstick to measure her by. How are we to rate her? How can you gauge quality if you have nothing to compare her with? I am vexed. If we were acquiring a puppy the science would be more exact.
I haven’t had much experience with babies, well, any really. So how can I rely on my own discernment? Merfyn seems convinced that babies do little more than eat and sleep in the early days. I hope she won’t be restless, up nights and so forth. I shouldn’t think this chit of a girl has got Lucilla into any kind of routine at all. The vital thing is to establish a pattern immediately, set perimeters. I’ve got the house to run, the temperance meetings to attend. I don’t want anything to upset our equilibrium. She’s going to have to learn to fit in. Simple as that. If we have a few rebellious days, a squall of crying and kicking, well then, we shall have to block our ears and muddle through. I’m not dashing about at the beck and call of a spoiled baby. I’m far too busy.
The day we become a family dawns optimistically bright and crisp. Merfyn has taken a holiday from work. We’re both edgy in the morning. He makes a show of sitting at his desk, getting on with some paperwork for the Sons of Temperance. I tackle some overdue housework, make inroads into my regime for annual cleaning, take down the net curtains, scrub the skirting boards, give the light bulbs a dust. Industrious action – the only antidote for anxiety. We have an early lunch, cods’ roes on toast and very moreish too, then set off. We
’ve both dressed smartly for the occasion. Merfyn wears a suit, a waistcoat and his temperance tie. I wear my navy crepe dress with the plaid design and scarf collar, purchased from Debenham & Freebody in Wigmore Street. We don’t want them thinking we’re not respectable. We take the bus and then the tube to Holborn. We don’t run a car. Far too expensive, and really more of a handicap than an asset in London. It’s quite a posh area when we come to it, Bloomsbury Square, so it’s just as well we spruced ourselves up.
We’re greeted at the front door by the Church Adoption Society’s secretary. She’s a tall woman, her short, straight, silver hair drawn back off her face in quite a severe manner. She has a dark streak in it that I’m not sure I like, and a beauty spot by her mouth. Adorning her neck are some rather lovely beads that trail very nearly to her waist. Her dress looks like silk, a William Morris print in peacock blues and greens and yellows. Goodness knows where she bought it. I haven’t seen anything so lavish since well before the war.
‘Mr Pritchard, Mrs Pritchard, welcome. I am Miss Mulholland, the society’s secretary.’ She shakes both our hands. She sounds as if she has spent a lifetime having elocution lessons her diction is so perfect.
In replying, I wish that I had, and attempt to mimic her faultless articulation. ‘Oh yes, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Mulholland.’
‘I expect you’re both feeling quite nervous?’ I nod and Merfyn waggles an index finger in his ear, something he does when he’s feeling self-conscious. It is a foible of his that reminds me of riddling a poker in a dying fire, and one that I have advised him may not create a favourable impression. However, if Miss Mulholland is dismayed by its vulgarity, she disguises it seamlessly. ‘Well, you really don’t need to be. Won’t you come this way?’ She leads us to a room that resembles the waiting room on a train platform. It is in almost every respect nondescript: beige walls, a lead-grey cord carpet and utilitarian furniture. There are chairs and a low table. The seat covers are bottle-green plastic, their arms little more than wooden struts, so it all feels very formal.
