‘But I do hope, and I know Clara agrees with me in this, that you will continue to reside here, at number twenty-two, with us. I trust you will continue to think of this house as your home, until such time as you choose to move into one of your own. If you can bear to tolerate our constantly listening to the Third Programme, I believe we can put up with a bit of rock and roll.’
‘Oh, Annie.’ And Patsy put her arms around the stiff figure and even felt it unbend just a little as she kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you so much. You don’t know what it means to me to hear you say that.’
‘There’s more, but I’ll leave all of that to Clara.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
‘I have a confession to make,’ Clara said, as they sat at the kitchen table sipping their tea. ‘Just as you once snooped through my things, while you were in the police cell I looked through yours. In my own defence, I was trying unsuccessfully to find something to prove your innocence, which thankfully is now established. But what I did find was this.’
Clara took Shirley’s letter from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table top. ‘I assume this is from a friend of yours, someone trying to help with your quest to find your mother?’
Patsy nodded, too puzzled to be offended by Clara’s prying. What did it matter anyway? Shirley had found no proof, and all that nonsense about Clara possibly being her mother had been just that, a foolish hope, a silly dream.
‘You never mentioned that you had any connection with Southport, or Felicity Matthews.’
‘She was my grandmother, apparently,’ Patsy said. ‘Not that I knew she even existed until after she was dead. I wasn’t aware I had a relative of any sort.’
Clara again smoothed out the letter, taking a moment before continuing. ‘Actually she wasn’t, a relative I mean. She wasn’t strictly speaking your grandmother.’
Patsy stared. ‘You sound as if you knew her? Oh, of course you did, you lived next door. But how do you know she wasn’t my grandmother? Shirley, who now lives in your old house, believed Mrs Matthews’s son Rolf was my father.’
Clara smiled. ‘And that I was his wife?’
‘The neighbours said you were friends.’
‘That’s all we were. Rolf went to America after his wife left him, and took his baby daughter with him. I was not that wife, nor you that child.’
Despite everything, Patsy once again felt the same keen sense of loss even though this had already been made clear. It was so silly of her. They’d had little more than gossip to base the theory on in the first place. ‘I just wanted to know, needed to know, who I was. Who I am. That’s all.’
‘Of course you do. Everyone has that right. And I think I can tell you that, or at least make an accurate guess.’
Patsy was all attention but was forced to wait while Clara brewed fresh tea, and refilled their cups. Once she was seated again, she began talking.
‘When our first attempt to escape from France failed, and fearing that Louis had indeed been killed attempting to rescue his family from the Gestapo, we made a decision, Annie and I. It was Annie’s idea in the first place, and I instantly agreed with her. She thought it would help my grieving process, as well as being a worthwhile thing to do, if we tried to help others who were trapped and wished to leave France. As I think I’ve explained to you already, it was terribly dangerous even to attempt to leave, but there were many people desperate enough to try. For their children, at least, to give them the chance to escape, to survive.
‘We learned of a movement which organised the travel and transfer of unaccompanied Jewish children. Some were transported to Switzerland, or taken through Spain and even as far as Portugal using secret mountain trails, forged documents and black-market money. Some were sent to Palestine, and many more were shipped to England. Something like ten to fifteen thousand Jewish children were saved in this way from almost certain death. Some were fortunate enough to be smuggled out of internment camps by parents they never saw again. Many were Polish, while some came from Germany itself. There were several such organisations operating in France, England, Holland, and across Europe. And all of these children had to be found homes and shelter.
‘When Annie and I became involved, raising money, smuggling children from A to B, according to our instructions, we also wanted to help secure a new life for them.’
Patsy said slowly, ‘It must have been incredibly difficult and dangerous.’
‘It was. But Annie is so brave, so strong, and I felt I had nothing to lose. I owed it to the memory of Louis, whose family I felt I’d betrayed and damaged.’
‘I think you’re being rather hard on yourself, Clara. He had some responsibility too. He chose to have an affair with you, just as you chose him.’
Clara smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right, and I was very young, but that is how I felt. I needed to put something back, to ease my conscience, if you like, by helping other Jewish children in a similar situation. We couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. Since we were ourselves caught up in the war in France, we needed to play a part. To do our bit, as they say.
‘We contacted many old friends and neighbours in England, whom we thought might be prepared to help, including Felicity Matthews. Felicity, in fact, housed dozens of children for us over the course of two years. She placed many into foster care or arranged for them to be adopted. Annie and I surmise that you must have been one of these children.’
Patsy sat unmoving, hands clasped tight between her knees, saying nothing, her eyes wide, their expression intent.
‘Sadly, it would appear that the Bowmans turned out to be less than perfect parents and, once she realised that fact, perhaps feeling responsible for this mistake, Felicity sent money whenever she could in an effort to make your life a little more tolerable. Such an action would be typical of her,’ Clara said with a smile.
‘She wasn’t supposed to get involved. Once children have been re-homed, such interference can create untold emotional problems. But I believe she did what she could to help out of the goodness of her heart. I suspect that since her own grandchild was so far away across a great ocean, and relations with her son not of the best, she thought of all those young refugees as her special grandchildren. Still saw them as her responsibility.
‘And even though she wasn’t permitted to visit, or intervene in their lives, I know she remained in contact with many of the foster parents, some of whom were not particularly well off. At first, funds would come through the system to assist them to cope with their charges, but when these dried up Felicity continued to use her own money, where necessary, till the day she died, practically in penury, I believe. Not that I think this troubled her in the slightest. Felicity Matthews was a small woman with a big heart.’
Now Clara looked more intently at Patsy. ‘I dare say this has come as something of a shock to you. You’ll need time to assimilate it, to think it through.’
Patsy tried to find her voice, to express something of the confusion of thoughts and emotions that were rattling around inside her head, but failed utterly. Clara was right. It would take time.
‘And it’s not a total solution, of course. So many children, so many babies. Annie and I, like everyone else involved, did our best to keep control of the paperwork, to learn the name of each child. To learn their origin, their nationality, the names and locality of their parents. But it was not always possible. Sometimes children would be handed over to perfect strangers on the road, or smuggled out with no paperwork attached, for the sake of safety. Desperate women were known to throw their children on to trains as they drew out of stations, or on to boats. That is how it is when you love your child. Their survival is all important, not your own.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that you don’t know exactly who I am, except that I’m one of these refugees?’
A quick, indrawn breath. ‘I’ve searched through copies of the registers we kept, but I can’t, hand on heart, say that I could identify which of those children was you. As I say, they didn’t a
ll have names or identities. Many papers were forged, for the sake of the child’s safety and of those who transported them. And if they were too young to know their own name, it could easily be lost forever. That may well have happened in your case.’
Clara’s gaze was steady. ‘What I can say, however, with absolute certainty, is that wherever you came from, and whoever you once were, we know who you are now. You are Patsy, and we love you. I lost my own daughter, Marianne, and you, through a war not of your making, lost your mother. I am more than ready, would be honoured indeed, to take on that role, if you were willing to accept me as such?’
‘Oh, Clara.’ Tears were rolling unchecked down Patsy’s face, turning Clara’s smiling face to a misty blur. ‘I would be proud to be your daughter. I would really.’
‘Then welcome home, my dear. This is where you belong.’
Also by Freda Lightfoot as ebooks
That’ll Be The Day
9780956811981
‘Husbands, so demanding of wives and yet so flawed themselves. Useless lumps the lot of them, in Betty’s opinion.’
Working on her busy flower stall in Champion Street Market, Betty has lots of opportunities to observe her customers, and to speculate on their lives. Sam regularly buys bouquets for his wife, Judy, so why does she always look so worn out and miserable? Leo comes every week for flowers for his mother, but has never bought so much as a rosebud for his elegant wife. Betty’s own husband went off long ago, so is it any wonder if she and her daughter, Lynda, have such a dim view of men? But all that is about to change…
Candy Kisses
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Romance doesn’t come sweeter than this tale of love and chocolate set in the grimy streets of 1950s Manchester. Lancashire Evening Post
Secrets darker than chocolate …
Everyone loves Aunty Dot’s homemade sweets and chocolates. And everyone loves Aunty Dot: the plump, smiling woman has provided a loving home for many a troubled child. Lizzie Pringle would do anything for her foster mother – even taking on local sweet manufacturer and bully, Cedric Finch. Until she falls for his son, Barney…
Dena can’t believe that Barry Holmes would hurt her beloved daughter: he’s been like a favourite uncle to the little girl. But there’s no smoke without fire. And chocolate can be bitter, as well as sweet …
For All Our Tomorrows
9780956811912
‘An enthralling wartime page-turner.’ Historical Novel Society Review on For All Our Tomorrows.
Overpaid, oversexed and over here …
It might be a friendly invasion, but when hundreds of US Marines arrive at a quiet Cornish town in the summer of 1943 with only two things on their mind, making love and making war, there are bound to be problems. Bette Tredinnick, footloose and fancy free, embarks on a whirlwind romance and finds herself bound for America as a GI bride. But will reality match her dreams? Her sister, Sara, is already married, but Hugh’s jealous attempts to keep her out of temptation’s reach can’t prevent Sara falling for officer Charles Denham. As D-day approaches, the GIs are facing an invasion of a different sort, but by the time the war is won, the lives of both sisters have changed forever ...
Historical sagas
Lakeland Lily
The Bobbin Girls
The Favourite Child
Kitty Little
For All Our Tomorrows
Gracie’s Sin
Daisy’s Secret
Ruby McBride
Dancing on Deansgate
The Luckpenny Series:
Luckpenny Land
Storm Clouds Over Broombank
Wishing Water
Larkrigg Fell
Poorhouse Lane Series
The Girl from Poorhouse Lane
The Child from Nowhere
The Woman from Heartbreak House
Champion Street Market Series
Putting On The Style
Fools Fall In Love
That'll Be The Day
Candy Kisses
Who’s Sorry Now
Lonely Teardrops
Historical Romances
Madeiran Legacy
Whispering Shadows
Rhapsody Creek
Proud Alliance
Outrageous Fortune
Contemporary
Trapped
Short Stories
A Sackful of Stories
Available in print and ebook
Historical sagas
House of Angels
Angels at War
The Promise
My Lady Deceiver
Biographical Historicals
Hostage Queen
Reluctant Queen
The Queen and the Courtesan
The Duchess of Drury Lane
About Freda Lightfoot
Born in Lancashire, Freda Lightfoot has been a teacher and bookseller. She lived for a number of years in the Lake District and in a mad moment tried her hand at the ‘good life’, kept sheep and hens, various orphaned cats and dogs, built drystone walls, planted a small wood and even learned how to make jam. She has now given up her thermals to build a house in an olive grove in Spain, where she produces her own olive oil and sits in the sun on the rare occasions when she isn’t writing. She’s published 40 novels including many bestselling family sagas and historical novels. To find out more about, visit her website and sign up for her new title alert, or join her on Facebook and Twitter where she loves to chat with readers.
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Fools Fall in Love Page 40
