Mother
The office was large and austere, with oak-panelled walls and a ceiling like a moonless night. Dorothy hated the feel of the slippery leather seat, fearing it would prove treacherous and precipitate her on to the floor. She was sweating, though the room was by no means warm. The woman opposite her, huddled inside a thick cardigan, smiled at Dorothy.
‘Well, I’m ready now. I need a few details.’
Dorothy gave John’s name, her own name, her maiden name, her address, the father’s name, his address, his occupation. She had written out the night before all that she was going to say this morning. They were newly-weds, she and Jan, she explained. They had rushed to marry before the baby came. It was wartime. People do rash things. Dorothy shrugged.
The registrar – a world-weary woman, by the look of her – did not react. She just wrote everything down, not looking up – except to query the spelling of Pietrykowski, of course. Dorothy had to ask her to spell Jan with a ‘J’, not a ‘Y’. Her jumping bowels were more than ready to propel their contents from her body. She thought, for one awful moment, that she was going to vomit. She breathed deeply, and told the registrar that she had been a little unwell, very tired, since the baby arrived.
‘And when was John born?’
‘On the twenty-sixth of December.’
‘And where was he born?’
‘In a barn.’
‘Good Lord.’ The woman glanced up again at this, sharply, as if suspecting a joke.
‘At Lodderston Hall Farm.’
‘In that case, I’ll put the farm’s address as his place of birth. Heavens above, the poor little thing.’
‘He caught us … he caught me unawares. It was very sudden.’
‘I should think it was. But isn’t that the best way? My poor sister laboured for hours with her children. I know which I would prefer.’
No further comments were made, and Dorothy left the office clutching John’s birth certificate. She ran for her bus, catching it just in time, found a seat at the back, and opened up the certificate. It was there, in front of her, on pink paper, in blue ink. John’s mother. John’s father.
She had broken the law; the certificate was a work of pure fiction. Yet it was unequivocal. It was surprisingly easy.
And Dorothy felt strangely, truly alive for only the second time in her life. She sat on the bus, looking out of the window, knowing she would never make this particular journey again. A new excitement reeled through her, a fear, a huge shudder. She recalled the owl in her dream, fleeing the mobbing crows.
And if thoughts of Jan crept in, she ignored them. She did not want to hear his voice – his wise words, his common sense and, above all, his disapproval. She was going to take this chance, the chance of a lifetime, and nothing anybody could say or do would sway her from the path she alone had chosen.
She would sacrifice anything; she would sacrifice everything. She knew that now. That too was unequivocal.
Back at the cottage, John was asleep in Mrs Compton’s arms. He’d had milk and two nappy changes, and in between he’d slept like a lamb nearly the whole time. He was no trouble, the little dear. Now. It was done?
Dorothy nodded.
‘And tomorrow, you must leave, as we’ve planned. I’ll be here at half past six sharp. Don’t worry how I’ll manage it, just trust me. You be ready to go. All will be well, Dorothy. You must not look back.’
31
Earlier than usual, Dorothy made sandwiches for Aggie and Nina and filled a Thermos flask. Not one each today, unfortunately, she explained. She had broken one of them; it was smashed to smithereens, what a nuisance. She would have to replace it as soon as she could. She said goodbye to the girls as normal, casually, bidding them to keep warm, checking they had their scarves and gloves. Wiping her hands on her pinny, brushing a strand of hair from her face. It was another day, just another day in this, the new realm of ordinary since Boxing Day.
Mrs Compton and Dorothy had decided it was best to say nothing. What if Nina had a change of heart?
Be careful. Tell a white lie. Tell as many white lies as you need to. Young girls can be so fickle. It would be inconvenient, to say the least. It would break your heart, Dorothy. Say nothing. Act normally.
Dorothy stood at her kitchen window and watched the girls pick their way across the Long Acre, two forlorn figures becoming smaller and smaller, finally disappearing. She cried, just a tear or two, feeling she would never see either of the girls again. They had been through so much together, these difficult months of war, such hard work, losses and death all around them, bombs and crashes and heartbreak. Dorothy hoped, sincerely, that both girls would fare well. Somehow, in that part of her where sure and secret knowledge lodged, she knew they would be all right.
Dorothy made sandwiches for herself, wrapping them in brown paper, and hurriedly cleaned up the kitchen. She gathered up her essential items. In the suitcase she packed John’s birth certificate, his clothes and blankets, and Jan’s shirt. (She had sewn the final button on, but as yet she had not laundered or pressed it, wanting to preserve the scent of the man she loved. She could not bring herself to forget him, reject him, swap him completely for the baby who had taken her now for his own. She never would send the shirt to Jan.) She added the bundle of his letters, along with minimal toiletries and a change of outfit for herself. She packed her sandwiches in her shopping basket, along with John’s Thermos of warm milk, the one glass bottle she had room for, some bibs, nappies, pins and powder, and his washcloths, wrapped up in a knitted nappy cover. Her purse was in her handbag, and she could at least sling that over her shoulder. She had two pounds, loaned to her by Mrs Compton. Once she was settled, she would repay the older woman. They had discussed money at length, of course.
At least she had no cumbersome gas mask, because she had not gone along to any of the fittings. Regrettably, she could not take the perambulator, impossible on such a journey; it would have to stay where it was. She wondered if she would be able to free up her hands enough to buy, hold and drink a cup of tea at the stations on her journey. It seemed unlikely.
Other worries assailed her: What if her mother had changed her mind? What if she were to turn her away? Dorothy hoped her mother would remain softened, upon seeing her little grandson, and allow her ‘widowed’ daughter to take up residence once again in the Oxford home Dorothy had been so relieved to escape from seven years before. The whole plan was pinned on this. This was the heart of the matter. Going home. Returning to her mother. A simple plan, an obvious plan. She could but hope that her mother had not reflected too much and had a change of heart. Dorothy knew she would have to tell her mother everything, in all probability, in the end. But she would think about that when the time came.
Mrs Compton, true to her word, arrived at Dorothy’s cottage early, carefully timing her arrival to ensure the girls had left for work. She was driving Dr Soames’s car. How she had procured it, Dorothy had no idea, and she didn’t ask. Mrs Compton and the doctor were pretty thick. Perhaps she had concocted a story about needing to go further afield in all the ice and snow – complaining, perhaps, of the relentless cold of January, and a woman labouring and in need of help.
Before leaving the cottage, Dorothy wandered from room to room for the last time, looking at all the things she would be leaving behind, which was almost everything. She imagined that Aggie and Nina would continue to live in the cottage, at least for a while, perhaps with another couple of land girls, and wondered how they would find time to cook and clean and launder. She lingered over the music box, wiping off a thin layer of dust, lifting and lowering the lid. It was a borrowing, always that, not a gift. She should find a way to return it. But she could not. She would have to leave it for the girls to take care of. And continue to enjoy, she hoped. Until it could be collected by its true owner.
In the feverish days since John’s birth, Dorothy had tried hard to give no thought to Jan. Yet he was there, in her mind, her body, trying to get her to notice him
. He was impossible to forget. She could not conjure up for herself his face, his voice, the feel of his firm brown arms, she could not recall clearly the blueness of his eyes or the blackness of his hair. Already he was a memory from some long-gone era. She was sad for him, this dear man who had given her so much in the brief months of their acquaintance. He was her first and only lover in the true sense of the word. And if the baby had not entered her life in his haphazard, squalling fashion, she would have taken her future with Jan, probably marriage, a life together. There would have been no babies, certainly. She felt her body was now done with trying to bear children. This terrible atrophy would have panicked her just a few days ago. But now she had John, and nothing else mattered.
Jan and John. Jan or John.
The choice, if it had to be a choice, had been made.
Mrs Compton said little in the car on the way to Lincoln, concentrating on her driving. She did volunteer that she had taught herself to drive, many years ago, against her late husband’s advice. She thought she was a good driver, she told Dorothy, but she didn’t like it, especially in the winter. Still, it was proving useful now. And Mrs Compton smiled sidelong at her, a slow smile of conspiracy.
Dorothy was trying to resist the urge to cry. Leaving her cottage, her home of six years, was not easy. It had been the scene of the major events in her life – in this cottage she had lost her virginity, conceived several babies, given birth to one. She had lost her Sidney, fallen in love with Jan and taught herself to sew and to cook. Above all, it was the house in which John had been given to her. She knew she would never see the house again; she would never even set foot in the county again.
At the station, both women looked around nervously before emerging from the car into the freezing morning fog. Mrs Compton insisted on carrying the basket and the suitcase to the ticket office and holding John while Dorothy bought her ticket. Then Mrs Compton bought her a cup of tea from the station cafe.
‘You may not get another chance,’ she said. ‘Have one now, for heaven’s sake.’
Dorothy thanked her and drank the tea hastily, and soon they were making their way to platform three in silence, the click of Dorothy’s heels the only sound. It was early, she was catching the first train out, and there were no other passengers about, mercifully. Yet Dorothy was uneasy, looking around, licking her dry lips, clearing her throat. On the platform, Mrs Compton insisted on waiting with her and stood close to her, too close, like a guard.
‘What’s going on?’
Dorothy and Mrs Compton started as a slight figure in long coat, hat and gumboots stepped out from the waiting room.
‘Aggie,’ said Mrs Compton, moving to stand in front of Dorothy and the baby. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Getting wise to your game, that’s what. What are you doing here, anyway? She can’t bloody stand you.’
There was silence on the platform for a moment, then Dorothy gently eased round Mrs Compton and said, ‘Aggie, can we talk?’
‘That’s what I’m here for. That, and to stop you stealing Nina’s baby.’
‘I’m not stealing him,’ cried Dorothy, indignant.
‘What are you doing, then?’ Aggie’s expression was fierce.
‘Giving him an opportunity. Giving him a life.’
‘Rubbish. You might be able to fool Nina, but you’re not fooling me. This isn’t right, and it’s probably against the law. I’m going to find out. If you get on this train,’ and indeed it was now entering the station, steam and smoke and grit billowing around it, a low whistle announcing its arrival, ‘I’m straight off to the police. They’ll most probably hook you off at the next stop. Fancy getting arrested, eh, Mrs Sinclair?’
‘I’m getting on this train,’ said Dorothy stiffly, clutching John tightly.
‘Go ahead. But you leave David with me, or just you wait and see what happens. I thought you were a proper person. I really did. But you’re not. You’re selfish and rotten and I hate you.’
Mrs Compton, who had maintained a fretful silence since the two women began arguing, now hurried to open a carriage door as the train halted in a cloud of steam and a spray of black salty grit. Dorothy shielded baby John, from the steam, from the grit, from Aggie, as Mrs Compton picked up the suitcase and basket and climbed up into the train. Aggie stood in front of the carriage door.
‘Come on, Dorothy!’ called Mrs Compton. ‘Get on the train.’
With surprising speed and strength, Aggie reached out and grabbed the baby from Dorothy’s arms.
‘No!’ cried Dorothy.
Mrs Compton leapt from the train, light on her feet for a woman of her age, and rounded on Aggie. ‘You give that baby back.’
‘No. I won’t. She has no right to do this! It’s terrible.’ Aggie’s jaw was set in defiance, her eyes blazing.
‘You stupid girl,’ said Mrs Compton. ‘What do you know about “rights”? What about John’s rights?’
‘His name is David, and he should be with his mum,’ retorted Aggie. ‘She’s not thinking, she’s still in shock. At first, I thought she must have known. But now I reckon she didn’t, and it surprised her even more than it did us. But she’ll get used to it, being a mum. I’ll help her, and so will others. She’ll get by. But you, and you, both of you, you’re taking it all away from her.’
‘Please understand,’ said Dorothy passionately, ‘no harm will ever come to this little boy. I love him as my own child. He is my own child, and I will love him to my dying day. I beg you, please, Agatha, please do not go to the police. Think about the consequences. Nina will not bring up this child, you know that. He’ll be sent to a home, an institution, at best he will be adopted by strangers. I’m giving him security, and love, a comfortable home. I’ll give him an education. Everything.’
Aggie shook her head, looking down at the baby.
He gazed up at them all, eyes wide and unknowing.
The girl’s shoulders sagged in defeat. ‘What can I do?’ she said, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Go on, then! Take him. But shame on you, Dorothy Sinclair,’ and slowly, sobbing, she handed John back.
Dorothy stepped up on to the train, followed by Mrs Compton. Aggie sank on to a bench, rooting in her pockets for her handkerchief.
‘Good luck,’ said Dorothy’s unlikely ally, gently stroking John’s cheek. ‘And good luck to this little man too. I’ll take care of her,’ she added, indicating Aggie with a wave of her hand. ‘Perhaps you could send more money once you’re settled?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ said Dorothy. She felt she ought to sound grateful. She was grateful, damn it. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Will it be all right, do you think?’ cried Dorothy, suddenly gripped by anguish. ‘What if Aggie’s right?’
‘It’s going to be fine,’ soothed the older woman. ‘Think of the future, forget that silly girl out there. She’ll not tell a soul. She’s not going to the police, I’ll see to it. Nobody will ever know.’ Mrs Compton leaned in, and lowered her voice even further. ‘I will never tell. You have my word. Think ahead, that is what you must do. Don’t look back, ever. You have a glorious life as a mother ahead of you. Good luck, Dorothy.’
The whistle blew, so Mrs Compton hopped off the train and slammed the door shut behind her. Dorothy placed the remarkably unruffled baby on the seat, opened the window and leaned out. The two figures receded rapidly as the train pulled away, and she thought how small Mrs Compton was, how small Aggie was. Nobody waved. Then they were gone, swallowed in the steam and the smoke and the January gloom.
Soon Lincoln was gone too, and the train was in the countryside, passing between flat fields. Then came the first small station, with soldiers, aircrew, sailors. But there were no policemen. She looked around anxiously, sweating, heart thumping. But the train eventually pulled away and on into Nottinghamshire. At each station they passed through, Dorothy braced herself for policemen, but none appeared, just more servicemen. The waits were agonising
ly protracted, and she tried to remain patient. Her last train journey, as she had travelled up to Lincolnshire towards Albert and marriage, had been relaxed and easy, and the memory of that long-ago November calmed her, a little. But perhaps the police were waiting at Nottingham, where she would need to change trains.
But no. The change was harried, jostling, chaotic. There were more soldiers, sailors, airmen, an inexhaustible flow of young men, loud and raucous, and some of these young men – young women too – were heading for oblivion and some would still be alive in fifty years, she thought, and it was a horrible, horrible fact but somehow triumphant too, the triumph of life, its rampant arbitrariness. And now there was a lone policeman. As she walked past, carrying her baby, her basket, her suitcase, her handbag, he smiled at her, but that was all, a small sympathetic smile. So Mrs Compton must have ‘taken care’ of Aggie, as Dorothy would be ‘taking care’ of Mrs Compton. But she put such bitter thoughts to one side. She needed her mental and physical fortitude to carry her and John through this trial, to endure this long and momentous day. She knew that this was the most significant journey of her life.
But would she always be glancing over her shoulder, expecting to be caught? Would she be afraid forever? Or would it heal over, this crack, this fear, this irrefutable knowledge that John was not truly her child and the whole world would know it?
John slept, milky and contented. The swaying of the train had lulled him to sleep, and she cradled him on her lap. She was glad, because after a while the earlier train had seemed to unsettle him – or perhaps he had just sensed her own discomfiture – and he had cried so much that Dorothy resorted to walking up and down the corridors with him. She had to push her way past servicemen, who were ever swelling into a large homogeneous group, lounging in corridors, leaning out of windows, sitting on kitbags, smoking, making jokes, nudging each other, one or two of them leering at Dorothy. Some were obviously perturbed by the crying baby. She recognised none of the faces on the train. She was anonymous, a freedom she knew she would seek for the rest of her life.
Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase Page 21
