The Last Dance

by Carolyn McCrae

  I’m writing this right at the top of the Table Mountain. The cable railway is absolutely terrifying but, Ted, the view from the top is wonderful. It was signed ‘A’.

  All the earlier letters had been addressed to “Edward Mottram Esq” and signed ‘Alicia Donaldson’.

  ‘A’ wrote again from Mombasa.

  “I am looking forward to Aden as I can buy things there quite cheaply. I will have them sent directly to England, let me know if you have to pay any duty or anything.”

  Two months later, a ship-to-shore telephone call.

  “Ted, can I call you that? We’re old friends aren’t we?” She began. “I’ve got to be short as so many people need to use this wretched contraption. We’re arriving in Liverpool on Saturday 4th July. Will you meet me at the dock? Anchor Line from Genoa the times will be in the paper.”

  Was there any need for me to say I’d be there to meet her? She must have known I would.

  “Thank you Ted, you’re a brick.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure.”

  I think I heard her say “I do look forward to seeing you again” before the line went dead.

  I had been determined to keep my promise to Alicia, the one I had made her as I drove her to the nursing home nearly seven years earlier. From the day she left I had resolved, with my mother’s help, to keep an eye on Charles and Susannah, though what I could have done if anything had ‘gone wrong’ I don’t know.

  My mother was a very good source of information as, despite her illness, she kept up her visits to the fund-raising coffee mornings and ‘bring and buy’ sales that kept her in touch with all the women who would know how the Donaldson family was.

  I had good reason to visit Millcourt regularly to check that Monika was settling in and I had an unexpected ally in Max Fischer who, I soon realised, was finding reasons for me to visit Arnold – to deliver and pick up papers, to obtain signatures on more documents than I ever thought could possibly be necessary however complex his private dealings were.

  And whenever I was there I kept my ears and eyes open for the children and clues to their well-being. I rarely saw them as they were kept in the nursery on the first floor, well apart from Arnold and any visitors. When I occasionally broached the subject of the children openly with Arnold I would never get a straight answer.

  It was easier in the summer; I could see them playing in the garden or they would be at the weekend cricket matches with Kathleen and Carl. I would talk to them, ask them about school, what they enjoyed doing, but I wasn’t very good with children, I had no experience, and so I’m not sure they had any idea who I was or why I was speaking to them.

  The weeks and months passed as Millcourt had settled into a routine. The nursery became Monika’s domain and she ruled it well, with firmness and compassion and Susannah came to love her nearly as much as Charles did. The time Monika spent with her helped Susannah become less withdrawn, responding by becoming a sweeter and less isolated child.

  Carl was often dropped off to spend the day at Millcourt, he spent most of his time with Susannah, they were the same age – they played together, had their rests together, listened to the radio programmes together. When the three children were all together at Millcourt Charles was shut out completely. He was so much older they didn’t need him. Carl and Susannah left Charles to himself.

  When Arnold arranged for them to go the kindergarten together it was probably so he could spend more time with his son but Susannah was happy.

  She could spend even more time with Carl.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had always been the plan that Charles would go away to school as soon as he was old enough but Arnold hadn’t arranged anything until Alicia had been away for nearly four years, and he did so then only because he was forced to.

  Arnold summoned 10 year old Charles to his study, a rare event which Charles looked forward to with dread.

  Charles remembered the key phrases in his interview.

  “You are to go away to boarding school.”

  “I have had to visit your House Master who is unhappy with your progress.”

  “We have agreed that you need to get away from the influence of the nursery.”

  “You are not maturing as you should.”

  “You are becoming weak and you lack ambition.”

  Charles had no way to change his father’s mind. He wouldn’t have dared explain.

  As he always did when he was unhappy, he went to Monika.

  “He’s sending me away!” he cried and burst into tears.

  She tried to calm him down but she knew, far better than his father, how difficult it would be for him.

  No one had ever come up with an explanation as to why he started to wet the bed every night. The problem had arisen the Christmas night after his Mother had left. That first morning Nanny was kind, saying ‘these things happen’ and did not make him feel bad. She removed the sheets and bedding and washed them, replacing them with dry ones.

  But from then on it was every morning that she had to dry the mattress, covering it with a rubber sheet when she could not.

  She had a word with the doctor, asking if it could be because of the whooping cough, but he had said that was unlikely. He would grow out of it, he said, perhaps he’s unhappy because of his Mother, but as far as he could see there was nothing physically wrong.

  Night after night Charles woke up with the dreaded warm wetness around him in the bed. He hated it. He lay on it hoping that the warmth of his body would dry it out, but that didn’t work. It only made him smell more. He knew he smelt. He tried to wash in the morning but he knew that he could not get rid of the smell in the cold water. The boys at school called him ‘Stinky’ and left him alone.

  He hated the wet bed so much he would try to stay awake all night. Lying on the still damp mattress with the sheet gripped in his hands pulled up to his eyes.

  “I will not go to sleep. I will not. I will stay awake”

  But, of course he couldn’t.

  He stopped eating and drinking, but that simply made him tired and ill. It was no wonder his school work suffered.

  Monika continued to wash and dry sheets, to turn the mattress. She talked calmly to him, trying to reassure him “It is not your fault. Do not worry it will soon stop.” But it went on and on. He knew she was the only person in the world who didn’t hate him.

  “He can’t send me away Nanny! He can’t! How will I hide it? They’ll all hate me! He can’t send me away!”

  But he did.

  Arnold didn’t want to drive the 100 odd miles between the school and Hoylake whenever his son had to be driven to and from school, so I offered. I knew it was to free up time for Arnold to visit one of his girlfriends but it meant that I could keep an eye on Charles and, as we spent hours in the car together, perhaps he would open up and I would get to know him better. I first did the trip in November 1952, after he had been at school for six weeks or so, and I suppose I did it seven or eight times in all.

  He was tall for his age and slender – like both his parents, but he took after his mother in looks, his brown hair had her unruly curls and his eyes the same haunted look.

  It was desperately sad to know how unhappy he was and not be able to do anything about it. I was just so pleased that Monika and Cook looked after him so well when he was at home.

  On the first few journeys he would sit in the front seat of my car with his back straight looking straight ahead through the windscreen, lost in his own thoughts. If I asked a question he would answer it politely but would go no further than the briefest of answers. But after a few months he would be more forthcoming. He would make statements about what he had been doing – not really a conversation, but he was trying to be friendly.

  “There were lots of golfers out on the links yesterday. They disturb the birds.”

  “I saw redstart and whimbrel today, they are on their way north from Africa”

  These were typical comments, not inviting response or con
versation but perhaps trying to be friendly. He didn’t comment on the weather or sport in an effort to make conversation but he liked birds and bird watching – it was something he had plenty of opportunity to do living where he did, near one of the most popular bird watching islands in the country. It suited him too, an activity that he could undertake alone, full of patterns but with challenge and variety.

  He was never talkative, perhaps he was uncomfortable with me, he did not know me that well and I was an adult. I don’t suppose he ever had to get on with many adult men. As far as he was concerned I was just a friend of his father’s engaged to drive him to and from school.

  Even had I no ulterior motive I would never have minded the drive. I loved the journey through the fields of the Wirral, red sandstone farmhouses standing out against the perfect green fields, then the contrast of the narrow roads with stone walls and the sheep pastures of North Wales. Sometimes I would vary the route and go along the coast, past the steelworks along the Dee and then, after turning the corner westwards, the ever-denser caravan sites around Prestatyn and along the North Wales coast to Rhyl.

  After a few journeys he began to open up more and more, telling me a little of how he felt about school, what he had done on his weekends, even what he thought of his father or his mother. He seemed to be relaxing somewhat, less in his own self contained world.

  But as he opened up to me it became obvious how desperately unhappy he was.

  He told me he was in a dormitory of five boys and the other four paired off together leaving him on his own. He had no friends and as he kept losing them house points they hated him even more.

  I only found out years later why he had been so desperate. At the time I knew nothing.

  Matron had been forewarned of the ‘night problem’, but was not sympathetic and did not help, simply telling him, in front of all the other boys, to clear his bed sheets, wash them and hang them out with his mattress in the yard. If they were not dry by teatime, when he had to carry them all inside and make his bed again to the accompanying taunts and jeers of his room mates, he still had to sleep on them.

  Every week he was in front of his house master. “Donaldson. You have disgraced us again. Deduct 2 house points.”

  “But Sir…”

  “You are not a child any more. Matron says you are still being a baby. You will lose 2 house points for every night you are a baby and I shall have to punish you, as long as this behaviour goes on.”

  He pleaded “I don’t do it deliberately Sir, I don’t know how to stop.” But no notice was taken.

  Losing house points so regularly he missed exit weekends in further punishment. He had to find a way to be dry.

  He took to sleeping in the lavatories. He would stay awake until after the prefects had swept the torch around the dorm to check everyone was there, and then he would slip out of bed and down the corridor. Sitting up as best he could through the night he could sleep very little. Before the bell he would creep back to his bed and pretend he had been asleep all night.

  Of course his schoolwork suffered as it had before. Of course he made no friends.

  He had never been so alone. He had never been so frightened. His letters home, written dutifully every Saturday afternoon repeated the call “Take me away from here. I hate it. Everybody hates me. Let me come home.”

  The cry, repeated week after week, fell on deaf ears.

  His father did not read his letters, he kept them unopened in a desk drawer where they were found some years later.

  He had no love for the boy, he did not even like him, he always compared him unfavourably with Carl, with whom he could now spend a lot of time. He blamed Alicia for giving him such a weak child, all this trouble had to be her fault as Carl was growing up so splendidly.

  He was on half term over his 11th birthday. He had said that he was glad he had been born at the end of May as he would be on holiday on his birthday. I suspect there was an element of self-protection in this attitude. If he were at school he would have had to go through the embarrassment of having no friends to share a cake with. Charles had told me of the ritual whereby, on their birthdays, boys sat at high table with two friends of their choice. No-one ever wanted to do this as it meant talking to the masters and being the butt of jokes in the common room afterwards – Charles would have had no friend to join him. So he was very pleased he was on half term and at home.

  He was quite talkative on the trip back to school – he seemed less unhappy about returning, which I saw as a good sign. He told me that he had had a lovely weekend. He had had two birthday teas – one with chocolate cake and 11 candles with Monika and Susannah in the nursery, the other with his father in the library. He was given a proper bicycle as a present, he had wanted binoculars but a bicycle was OK, he said.

  When we neared the school Charles asked if I would leave him in the town instead of dropping him at the front door of his House. He wanted to buy some stamps and he could easily walk the mile or so back, and he didn’t have to be signed in until 7pm. I believed him and I trusted him so I waved cheerily as I drove off, seeing him standing on the pavement with the small brown suitcase at his feet. He didn’t normally have a suitcase but, had I thought about it, I probably would have assumed it contained presents.

  It took me nearly three hours to drive back to Birkenhead and as it was a lovely evening I drove the inland route, through the mountains and forests of North Wales. As I drove, I thought about the boy and tried to think of something I could do to help. Maybe he was getting over his home-sickness. I hoped so, because I didn’t see how he could carry on the way he was going. As I pulled up in front of my house I concluded there was nothing I could do except hold a watching brief. I couldn’t write to Alicia, and wouldn’t interfere with the way a father dealt with his son. Why did I feel I had any responsibility?

  I was very surprised to see the familiar Daimler parked outside the house I shared with my mother. Arnold was inside drinking a cup of tea, sitting uncomfortably at the square oak table in the front room – a room we never normally used.

  “Where is he then?”

  “Good evening. Where is who?”

  “Charles of course, man. He hasn’t returned to school.”

  So that was what he had been up to.

  “He was fine when I left him.” I couldn’t help but sound defensive.

  “Where did you leave him, you didn’t return him to school did you?”

  “Well not quite, he wanted to buy something.”

  “So you did what exactly?”

  “I left him in the town, he said he would walk back to school. He had plenty of time to get back to school before curfew.”

  “Well he didn’t go back. His housemaster called about an hour ago to ask what time he would return. I said he should have been there and I would find out from you what the story is.”

  “He had some money didn’t he?”

  “Of course. £10 for the rest of the term.”

  “Well he can’t get far on that. What is the school doing?”

  “They have alerted the police and are keeping me informed.”

  “Do you want me to go back with you?”

  “He will turn up somewhere when he realises that he is making a fool of himself.”

  I should not have been surprised at his attitude. But perhaps it was a little more serious than just missing curfew. Should I say anything or not? I didn’t want to get him into trouble, but I didn’t want him to get into any trouble on his own.

  “He had a suitcase with him.”

  “What? Why?” Arnold was still angry “Why the hell would he have a suitcase?”

  “I supposed it contained his presents.”

  “He planned this.”

  “Yes, I rather believe he did.”

  He got up and went into the hall.

  I have frequently thought that only hearing one side of a telephone conversation can be misleading. It is normally very difficult to get the complete gist of the exchange. But
what Mother and I were listening to was all the conversation, the person on the other end had little chance to say anything. Detailed instructions were given, only once did he wait for a reply – that was to the question “Are any of his clothes missing?”

  He had enough money to buy food, clothes would have been essential as his school uniform would be very conspicuous.

  “Blast it!”

  It appeared he had taken clothes.

  “The weather isn’t too bad, but it is getting dark” contributed Mother tentatively.

  “He should be alright even if he has to sleep rough tonight.”

  Arnold had replaced the receiver and lifted it again, he was now talking to the school. In this conversation he spent a little more time listening. He replaced the receiver again and left the house without saying “Good Evening” or “Thank you.”

  We were all worried in our own ways. Arnold kept making telephone calls to his contacts in the Police force to make sure they were doing all they could; to the school to confirm Charles had not yet returned him. Then he would telephone me to berate me for not delivering him to the school.

  In the days that followed Kathleen spent a lot of time with him at Millcourt because he really couldn’t go to work. Henry joined them in the evenings. Susannah and Carl had not been told but they knew something was wrong because Nanny was distracted and absent minded, not listening to what they said and telling them off when they hadn’t really done anything wrong.

  I got in the car and drove the roads we travelled to and from the school in case he was trying to hitch-hike home.

  It was a worrying time.

  In the end Charles was missing for ten days.

  He turned up back at the school none the worse for wear having, he had told them proudly, walked around the Isle of Anglesey.

  I was called upon to go and fetch him immediately.

  It was an entirely different Charles that I picked up from his headmaster’s study. He was excited, confident and talkative.

  “I had an absolutely super time, Uncle Ted, it was worth the telling off. Really it was. I don’t care what Father does, I’ve had a wonderful time.”