Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  ‘Carl, is that you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Carl’s not here right now. Shall I take a message?’ Marjorie could hear music and laughter in the background and a woman’s voice.

  ‘No. Can you tell me when he will be back?’

  ‘Oh, anytime now, I should think. Shall I tell him you called?’

  ‘Yes, do that, thanks. Say his fiancée rang.’ She heard him snort and clear his throat.

  ‘Oh, right. Well, OK, ma’am.’ As he hung up she thought she heard him laugh and start to say something.

  She and Avis went and sat in the coffee shop and had a soda. Half an hour later, she tried again. Carl answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, Baby! How are you? Sorry I missed your call before.’

  ‘Carl, I’m so sorry to call like this, but I just had to tell you. I am having a baby.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Marjorie could hear him breathing fast.

  ‘OK. Well, that is news. Are you saying I’m the father?’

  ‘Well, of course you’re the father, Carl. What do you mean by that? Who else would it be?’

  ‘Well now, come on, Marjorie. There were plenty of other men on that boat.’

  Marjorie dropped the phone as her hands flew up to her mouth to stifle the anguished cry that found its way up from deep inside her. She all but staggered from the phone booth into Avis’s arms. Her sister understood immediately.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Marjorie. It’s OK, we’ll manage somehow.’ They just stood there, the two of them, in the growing darkness. The sisters made a plan. It was just like when Marjorie was small and her sister would tell her what to do. Avis was going back to Montreal shortly and Marjorie would go with her, on the pretext of helping Avis look after Sylvia. She would stay for her confinement, have the baby, sort out the adoption and then come home. Their parents need never know.

  Within the week Marjorie was packed and on a train to Montreal.

  MILTON SAT AT the kitchen table and listened to Marjorie’s tale of woe. Milton was rather a stern man and he looked kind of scary to Marjorie now as she talked. He stared at her hard and said little. When she had finished he seemed to gather himself up and then launched into a speech that was both pompous and incredibly insensitive, in equal measures. He said he was sorry that Marjorie had found herself in this unfortunate position, but that she had only herself to blame. He’d like to help, but she must understand that in his position at the oil company, it would be very embarrassing for him to have to explain her pregnancy and lack of a husband, and he felt it was wrong to set any kind of example like this to his young daughter. He was also concerned for Avis’s health, and did not want her to be put under any undue stress. So he felt it was better, in the circumstances, if Marjorie took a room somewhere. He would help her financially, of course, and Avis would always be around to support her.

  Marjorie said she quite understood and thanked him, but she would not take a penny of his money as she would get a job. Avis was silent. What could she say? Milton was her husband and head of the household.

  The next day Marjorie went and found a job. She was a skilled typist so it was not difficult. She found a room and settled down to the next six months. She still wore her wedding ring so everyone assumed she was married, with a husband at home. As soon as she could no longer hide the bump, she asked for some time off. She had enough money saved to get her through her confinement. She did manage to make contact with some old friends of the family whom she knew she could trust with her secret. Once the Cohens had heard her story, they insisted Marjorie go to live with them. She could help out with a bit of housework if she wanted to say thank you.

  It was the perfect arrangement for all of them, and Marjorie was able to concentrate on her other plan: having her baby adopted. She had met a very nice doctor at the local Baptist church and was forming a plan to go and see him with her dilemma. The following Sunday, after the morning service, she approached the doctor and his wife. His name was Dr Gordon and he had noticed the young woman who sat in church and prayed so earnestly. This morning she was looking nervous and intense. Could she have some advice? She glanced at his wife. In private? His wife smiled kindly and left them alone. Dr Gordon led her to a bench and they sat down. Marjorie told her whole story with hardly a pause for breath.

  Dr Gordon had heard similar stories many times before, but he happened to have heard of Dr Ralph Hughes, Marjorie’s father, and he realised just how much this young woman was suffering. Her guilt and her love for her parents were at odds with her circumstances. She had made a mistake. She had surely suffered enough. Marjorie wanted Dr Gordon to help her have her baby adopted privately. Could he find her somebody to take the baby to England? She loved the idea of her child being brought up by a nice British couple in a country village somewhere.

  ‘Do you know England then?’ asked Dr Gordon.

  ‘Oh no, but I’ve read so much about it and my brother-in-law has told me all about life there. Please can you help me?’

  Dr Gordon said he would do his best. Then he told her not to worry and to concentrate on keeping healthy and safe until the baby was born. This she did, and on 31st May, 1948 at St Paul’s Hospital in Montreal, Marjorie Hughes (Bond) was delivered of a baby girl. She called her Meredith Lee Hughes. She thought her heart would break with love as she held her in her arms.

  Then the nurse took the bundle away and she was left alone, bereft.

  The nurses in the ward knew that Marjorie did not have a husband, and the ward sister seemed to take delight in her unhappiness. She was informed it was policy, where a child was to be adopted, that the baby was removed from the mother as soon as possible. She had visiting rights once a week, until she had to take her baby to the doctor in charge of her case for private adoption. Her baby, her little Meredith, was in a big house just on the outskirts of town, being looked after by a very jolly lady from Yorkshire, England. That seemed like a good omen to Marjorie. All she had to do was be patient and trust that Doctor Gordon would find her baby a good home.

  Every Saturday, after a long week back at work as a typist, she took the bus out to the house to visit. She wasn’t allowed to be left alone with the child. Marjorie found herself longing to look in a mirror at herself and her baby, to see and remember the sight of the two of them together, but it was never possible.

  After six weeks, she got a call from Dr Gordon. He had found a suitable couple to adopt Meredith. One of his other duties was as the Medical Advisor for BOAC and its staff, when they were stationed in Montreal. He had recently seen a young pilot and his wife who were newly married and wanted to make sure they could have children as they had been trying for a year. He had been happy to tell them that all was well and that they just had to be patient. The young woman was desperate, and he suggested adoption, because he did happen to know of a baby that was in need of a home. He knew the family history and felt that the baby would have all the same physical attributes as their own children. He suggested they went to see the child. They were entranced, and the adoption would go ahead. Mr and Mrs Donald Bellingham were to become the proud parents of a baby girl.

  Marjorie collected Meredith Lee on that fateful morning and climbed into the taxi with her bundle. She kept whispering to the child, ‘I love you. Remember, I will always love you. You must know I love you.’

  She took the baby to Dr Gordon’s surgery and handed the little girl over to him. She did not shed a tear and she held her head high. She gave him a letter addressed to ‘The Mother’ and asked him to pass it on. Then she turned and left. She made her way across the road and waited. She watched the couple come out with her baby and get into the car and drive off. She ran into the street after it, as her tears flowed, howling like a wounded animal. A passer-by stopped and took hold of her as she crumpled to the ground. Once she recovered, she took a taxi back to work but they had to send her home because she was in such a state.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Marjorie?’ they kept asking
her. ‘Has someone died?’

  Someone might just as well have done, as far as Marjorie was concerned. She had lost her baby as surely as though it had died. She knew she would never see Meredith Lee again. Until she picked up the phone forty years later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘WHEN I DISCOVER WHO I AM, I WILL BE FREE’

  (RALPH ELLISON)

  ‘IS IT REALLY you, dear?’

  I cannot put into words what my feelings were at that moment. Maybe relief. She did exist. I would get some answers.

  We talked for half an hour. Her first question to me was, ‘Are you a Christian?’ Yes.

  My first question to her was, ‘Do you have any other children?’ No.

  Marjorie’s sister, Shirley, was in the room with her and all through our conversation Marjorie kept shouting to her, as she was obviously deaf. I explained how I had found her and she was aghast because she thought she had covered her trail pretty well. But she had not taken into account that her father had been quite a celebrity in his own way and worthy of press coverage, so quite easily traceable.

  Susan Armstrong at the Missing Children’s Network, and her work associate, Marcele La Marche, had read the newspaper piece that said that Dr Ralph Hughes had died leaving two daughters, Shirley Hughes and Marjorie Moorhouse. Further investigation showed a family burial plot in Calgary. Avis had died, leaving her widowed husband, Milton Moorhouse. The girls put two and two together and surmised that Marjorie had married Milton. They had found Milton Moorhouse in the phone book and rung him.

  Susan had made up a story that she had been at school with Marjorie and lost touch and would it be possible for him to tell her where she could find her? Milton explained that she was his wife now, and that she was with her sister, Shirley, on holiday in Victoria. He gave her the number and wished them well. Milton told Marjorie afterwards that he somehow had a feeling that the story did not ring true.

  I asked Marjorie if she would mind if I came to visit her. She was very excited by the idea but said she would have to discuss it with Milton first. I could not believe she had married the man who had virtually thrown her out of his house when she was pregnant, but I thought it best to leave all that for another time. We agreed I would ring her in three days’ time when she would be home in Edmonton.

  I put the phone down and burst into tears. I went into the bedroom, looked at my two little cherubs fast asleep, and wondered what the hell I had done.

  I RANG THE GIRLS at the Missing Children’s Network and arranged to come and see them on my way to Edmonton. I also agreed to attend a big charity event they were having; it was a way of saying thank you. Then I rang Marjorie to make a plan. We were both much calmer now and more guarded. She started to back off the idea of me visiting, saying she wasn’t sure they had the sort of place in which they could entertain an actress. I explained that I wasn’t Sophia Loren or anything, just a working actress. Then Marjorie said that All Creatures Great and Small was one of Milton’s favourite TV shows, and I actually think that that was the key that opened the door into their lives!

  I told her about the girls and their charity. That made her very nervous because she didn’t want anybody to know who I was. She had never told a soul about the adoption except a minister from England she had met, and even Milton didn’t know she had told anyone. I got the distinct impression that it was Milton who wanted to keep everything under wraps, suggesting that his attitude hadn’t changed much since the day she got pregnant. I didn’t think I was going to like Milton.

  Marjorie finally agreed and we set a date. Then I had to go and break the news to my parents. They were shocked at how quickly events had happened, but they were supportive, as always. I told them the story so far and said that Marjorie had mentioned she wanted to thank them for looking after me so well. My dad just said brusquely, ‘She doesn’t have to thank me. You’re my daughter and always will be.’

  One thing we talked about was how Dad had driven away that day they picked me up at Dr Gordon’s surgery.

  ‘The trouble was, Lynda,’ my father explained, ‘I saw her in my driving mirror, running after the car, crying, and I had to make a split-second decision. Whether to step on the brake or the accelerator; I chose the accelerator. Please say to Marjorie I hope I made the right decision.’ I also asked Mum about the letter that Marjorie had given the doctor. She told me she destroyed it because she really felt at the time it was better for all of us to make a clean break. She did write a letter to Marjorie, a few months later, and I was to see that letter when I went over to Canada. They also agreed with me that it was very strange she ended up marrying a man who had had so little respect for her.

  And so the stage was set. The boys were to stay under the watchful eye of our lovely nanny, Natalie, and our flight awaited me and Nunzio. I was very nervous and Nunzio seemed very jumpy, because he hates flying. We had a great flight over, though, and we were upgraded to Club Class because the head steward recognised me. We drank lots of champagne and talked about what was going to happen when we met Marjorie. But the first stop was Montreal.

  The girls from the network charity met us at the airport. They were lovely and so excited. Marcele had brought her husband, and Susan was a single mum with a daughter. We had Sunday brunch, and they told us more about the charity and filled us in on what would happen at the do the following night.

  We spent the next day touring the city. It was a strange mix of old and new. All the shopping malls were underground and were so characterless and dull, with piped muzak and strip lighting. But up above, outside, there was a vibrant quarter of the town with little restaurants and markets. It was autumn, just like when Marjorie had given me away and, as I walked the streets, I imagined what she must have been feeling. I went back to the hotel feeling a bit weary and emotional as the jet lag set in.

  I decided the best thing to do was just to keep going so I had a bath and started to get ready. Nunzio, of course, went to sleep and I couldn’t get him to wake up. He complained he had a headache and he was not interested in going out. I spent the entire time trying to chivvy him along while preparing myself for the charity ball that night. It was work as far as I was concerned.

  We had a terrible evening. We had too much to drink just to get through the night. At eleven we made our excuses because we had to be up at 5 a.m. to get an internal flight to Edmonton, which was going to take five or six hours. Nunzio was already panicking about the flight. As we left I gave Susan a cheque for £500 for the charity. It was the least I could do: they had done such marvellous work.

  As we rode the lift to our room, however, Nunzio started on at me. How dare I give away our money without consulting him? I explained coolly that actually it was my money. Well, that was it. He was off, ranting and raving at me. I think it was a combination of alcohol and nerves about the upcoming flight.

  Then suddenly, in the middle of this tirade, there was an earth tremor. Unheard of in Montreal! We were on the seventeenth floor (an unlucky number in Naples I later learned), feeling the earth move. Back in our room, Nunzio was a wreck. He completely went to pieces and hid under the sheets. He said he was not coming on the plane and that he was going to stay in Montreal. I pleaded with him but to no avail. So I got up and dressed in the morning, and set off for the airport. The next thing I knew, Nunzio was running after me, screaming for me to wait. To think that I had hoped for some support from him!

  We arrived in Edmonton completely wrecked, having had no sleep during the flight. It was a very weird feeling as I scanned the Arrivals lounge for someone who looked like my mother. I suddenly felt a hand on my arm, and looked down into the brownest eyes I have ever seen. The face was long, and framed by white fluffy hair. It had never occurred to me that she would have white hair. I was looking at a little old lady and trying to see myself.

  Behind her, tall and stiffly straight, was Milton. He stuck out his hand to shake mine as I rushed into his arms for an embrace that felt like I was holding a tree trunk.
We stood there, the four of us, looking at each other, while people swirled around us. Nobody said anything, then Marjorie broke the spell: ‘Oh, Lynda dear, you look so darling. You’re much too pretty to belong to me.’ We all laughed and Milton turned and strode out of the airport towards his car. Marjorie took my arm and urged me forward with Nunzio following on behind. For once he was speechless.

  IT WAS A difficult few days, made even more difficult by Nunzio and Milton. Both men seemed to feel threatened in some way. I worked very hard to thaw Milton: I talked about farming and my dad being a pilot and tried to show him that actresses were human. Nunzio spent the whole time complaining of jet lag, just enough each day to stop me relaxing.

  And Marjorie and I? Well, we talked and talked. She lived in a bungalow in acres of bungalows. Edmonton is completely flat and from a tall building you could see for miles, if there was anything to see. The house was spotless with lots of knick-knacks from travels abroad. In a way, it was too tidy, like so many people’s houses who do not have children or grandchildren. We talked about my boys and I showed her photos. She told me about Avis’s daughter, Sylvia’s children. She was married but was now divorced, and had two adopted boys. So my sons were the only blood relations in this extended family, which was interesting.

  Perhaps understandably, Marjorie only talked about my father, Carl, out of earshot of Milton. She seemed very embarrassed at first but then, as the memories flooded back, she became much more animated. She had a wicked sense of humour and could tell a good story. She showed me the letter from Ruth Bellingham and it made me cry. My dear mum was always so caring of other people and had obviously wanted to make Marjorie feel better about giving up her baby. It was kind and caring and very sensitive.

  We all went out for dinner each night, and that had its comic moments. Marjorie suffered from deafness like her sister, Shirley, but whereas Shirley was profoundly deaf owing to a burst eardrum in childhood, Marjorie simply had a hearing aid due to old age. However, it did make conversation difficult, especially if we were talking about me and the adoption. We all had to shout to be heard above the hubbub of conversation, and I was still meant to be a secret!