The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  I put my hand out to take his and found his fist clenched. ‘Donald,’ I said, ‘Please. There’s no need to go on. The answer is yes.’

  February 7th, 1932

  It has all passed me by in a blur. I feel as though I’ve been standing outside myself, watching it all happen, like a newsreel in the cinema. The smiles, the chit-chat, the congratulations. Was that really me standing there in front of the vicar at Mount Mary Church in Bombay, Uncle John on one side and the Colonel on the other, saying ‘I do’, all clad in startling white?

  It had to be quick like that, Donald said so. He insisted. Very politely, but insisted all the same. He said he had no more leave from the Regiment, and that he had to be back at the station in Kandaipur. Aunt Nora explained to me that India is like that. Sometimes people marry straight off the boat from England, by special licence. As she was telling me I could see her eager expression; her keenness to get it over with; to dispatch me with the Colonel to his station so she could relieve herself of the embarrassment of having me around.

  I did manage to send a telegram to Mother and she wrote back by return:

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am, Anna, that things have worked out so well for you so soon after you arrived. I’ve been very worried about you my darling, during the past few months. Sending you off to Aunt Nora’s in India was really the only thing I could think of to help you to get away from the scandal and unpleasantness caused by your father’s dreadful deeds. And how right I was! It’s all had such a happy conclusion. Nora writes that Colonel Foster is a wonderful, charming man, and of course you will be very comfortable as the wife of a senior army officer. Cedric and I send you our very best wishes.”

  So that’s the end of that as far as she’s concerned. It must be very convenient for her too, to have me packaged off so neatly and promptly.

  After a short reception at Aunt Nora’s house, indistinguishable from all the other parties I’d attended there, with identical faces and identical conversation, Donald and I were driven to Victoria Terminus to catch the night train to Kandaipur.

  We had a carriage all to ourselves, fitted out like a regular sitting room with carpets and wooden chests and armchairs. At the end of the carriage was a sleeping compartment. As Donald showed me around and I stared at the wide bunk, made up by the stewards with linen sheets and pillows, it finally came home to me what this meant. Donald was right beside me, the stiff cloth of his uniform brushing my bare arm and I couldn’t raise my eyes to meet his. I felt my cheeks burning.

  But there were a couple of awkward hours to fill yet. A uniformed bearer came in and pulled the blinds down as the train pulled out of Bombay, and after a light supper of chicken pie and salad accompanied with champagne, I knew there was no putting it off any longer.

  Donald cleared his throat. ‘Time for bed, I suppose, Anna my dear.’

  I nodded, my eyes on the table. He got up from the chair. ‘I’ll pop through and get things ready.’

  Get things ready? When I followed him into the sleeping car, I saw what he meant. I was unnerved by the clinical way he’d set about it. He had it all planned out. He’d spread a large white towel on top of the sheets. It made the whole thing feel very real and very sordid. Still avoiding his eyes, I slipped through to the cubicle to change. It felt cold in there, despite the steamy heat of the evening, and I was soon covered in goosebumps. The train kept swaying and rocking and I fell over more than once as I got out of my clothes. I kept thinking about that thing that I was about to do, and that there was no getting out of it now. No escape. There he was, sitting on the bunk, probably in his socks and suspenders, waiting for me, getting impatient. I kept thinking that it shouldn’t have been like this, that I shouldn’t feel like this on my wedding night. I took the cold cream out of my vanity bag to remove my makeup and as I peered into the rusting mirror I saw that my face was as pale as death.

  When I stumbled back into the carriage, Donald had turned the gas lamps down very low. He was already in bed smoking a cigar. His eyes were on me as I crossed over to him, and I could see from the high colour in his cheeks that he was as embarrassed and nervous as I was. I sat down beside him, not knowing what to do or say, but he immediately pulled me down beside him and started kissing me, hard painful kisses tasting of whisky and cigars. At the same time, he started yanking off my nightie with rough hands.

  I wanted to push him off, but there was no point in that. It was his right, and there was no going back now. I felt no flicker of desire as he pawed at me, kissed my breasts and finally moved on top of me. I felt marooned, and dreadfully lonely. And moments later, the pain! It felt so dry and tight and so unnatural. But fortunately, it didn’t last long. A few grunts and thrusts and it was all over. He rolled off me and the pain subsided. But I could feel the warm blood trickling between my legs onto the towel.

  He turned over and lit another cigar and said, ‘I thought you’d probably be a virgin.’

  The words sounded so blunt I could hardly reply. ‘Didn’t you expect that?’ I asked finally.

  ‘One never knows nowadays,’ he said.

  I lapsed into silence, allowing the rattle of the wheels on the tracks and the swaying of the carriage to numb my mind. Finally, he stubbed out his cigar and pecked my cheek.

  ‘Well, good night then, Anna my love,’ he said and turned over.

  After a few minutes he began snoring. I lay down and shut my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep. There was so little room and his body was hot beside mine. I slid out of bed and crept to the open window. I lifted the blind and through a slit in the shutters I could make out the sweep of the great plain stretching for miles beneath the soft blanket of the night sky. Here and there were pinpricks of light that must have been villages. It made me feel so small and insignificant in this great alien continent. Here, in this tiny moving capsule of cosseted comfort, snaking its way across the dry, barren land. A sense of desolation descended on me as I wondered what on earth I’d done.

  Ten

  Connie

  Connie’s never been in a wheelchair before. It’s strange being pushed across the stable yard and towards the back door of Cedar Lodge. She feels out of control and vulnerable, a bit like when she and Evie went on a fairground ride in Henley all those years ago.

  Mr Squires collected her from the nursing home in his Range Rover this morning. Matron had lent the wheelchair after a lot of discussion. It’s now ten days since Connie first asked to go back to visit Cedar Lodge – it has taken her all this time to persuade Matron that she’s well enough to make the short journey.

  Over the past week she’s been taking hesitant steps with the help of the Zimmer frame, and yesterday managed to walk all the way down the passage to the day room by herself. Even so, it took a long time for Mr Squires and Alfie, one of the carers, to manoeuvre her out of her chair, onto the wheelchair, and finally into the front seat of the vehicle. Longer even than it had taken Jonathan Squires to drive the short distance across the town to Cedar Lodge. She’d felt helpless, like a baby. On the short journey, she’d tried to talk to him about the house.

  ‘I don’t want it to be pulled down, Mr Squires,’ she’d said. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

  He’d carried on staring straight ahead. ‘There isn’t much choice as I understand the situation Miss Burroughs,’ he’d said in a hard, even voice, ‘The developers have offered a very good price and we need a quick sale.’

  ‘But there’s a deed. A deed my father signed. Didn’t Peter tell you?’

  He was driving through the gates to Cedar Lodge at that point, making a show of concentrating on getting the wide car through unscathed.

  ‘Did you not hear me, Mr Squires? About the deed.’

  ‘Peter didn’t mention anything about that to me, Miss Burroughs. You’re in safe hands with him. I’m sure he’s done all the necessary checks. Now, here we are. Let’s get you out of the car…’

  Jonathan has left her now and is standing at the back door, fumbling with the bunch
of keys. The icy wind whips around her, blowing litter and papers about the yard, stinging her cheeks. Such a contrast to the fuggy warmth of her room. She tucks the tartan blanket around her lap and does up her top button with trembling, arthritic fingers.

  Jonathan is taking such a time with those keys.

  ‘It’s the one with the red fob,’ she says, but her thin voice carries away on the wind and he keeps on trying the different keys in the lock methodically one by one.

  By the time he has opened the door and manoeuvred Connie up the steps and inside the house her teeth are chattering. The house feels different now, echoing and bare, not at all like the home she remembers. It smells strange too; of bleach and disinfectant. He pushes her along the passage into the front hall. Her eyes flit around the room. The fireplace has been swept clean. And the furniture has gone; there are faded rectangles on the walls where the pictures used to hang.

  ‘Please could you get the walking frame from the car and help me out of this wheelchair Mr Squires? I would like to walk around downstairs.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll pop back to the car. One moment.’

  The back door bangs behind him and Connie is alone in the house. The past closes around her. The air is heavy with the weight of so many memories. From her wheelchair she can see her younger self sitting impatiently on the bottom step, waiting for Father to come in through the front door at the end of the day. Then there’s Mother stooping at the tiled grate to build the fire, the sun streaming through the stained glass, colouring her hair red and yellow. Evie, old and thin, comes in from chapel on a winter’s day, hanging her threadbare grey coat carefully on the coat-stand, rubbing her dry hands together to warm the chilblains on her fingers.

  Connie puts her head on one side and listens carefully, expecting to hear voices, but all she can hear is the rumble of traffic passing on the road. She had expected, no, dreaded, Father’s voice to come to her here, the quiet one he used when he was beyond rage. The fear of it had made her sweat and tremble all week. It had almost put her off coming back to the house. She’d gone over and over it in her mind. Constance, the voice in her head had said, What have you done with the house? Where is the furniture? All my precious belongings? My clothes? My papers? I trusted you to look after them Constance, and you have disappointed me more than I can say. The thought of his being here, concealed in the shadows, waiting for her, watching her, made her shiver, but she knew she had to come back to the house somehow. She had to make sure.

  The back door creaks and Jonathan Squires’ footsteps approach along the tiled passage. The images of Mother, Evie, and her former self dissolve into nothing. It strikes her that she will never be alone here again.

  ‘I’ve brought your Zimmer frame, Miss Burroughs. Shall I help you out of the chair now?’

  His hands are on her arms, pulling her to her feet. He’s not used to this and nor is she. Having him touch her is humiliating. How undignified can life get? She hardly knows Jonathan Squires. What she does know though, is that he’s only doing this for his commission on the sale of the house. She has no one else to help her.

  Clutching the Zimmer frame, she inches it forward towards the door to Father’s office.

  ‘Could you open the door for me Mr Squires?’

  He darts ahead of her and pushes the door open. With tottering steps, she inches towards the opening. Her bad leg throbs and the good one feels weak. She stops in the doorway and stares into the room. It’s empty apart from the bureau at the far end.

  She has a vision of the room as it was when Father entertained. Three or four men would be sitting around in their shirt sleeves, smoking, talking. Father would ring for the housemaid to bring glasses for his whisky and brandy. Connie would wait in the hallway when the girl took the tray of glasses inside. Smoke and alcohol fumes would engulf her from the open door.

  Mother would purse her lips and draw herself up tall during these visits, but she would say nothing. Male voices would rumble on in the office for hours, sometimes raised in anger, sometimes laughing. Angry or amused, those voices always frightened Connie. She knew they frightened Evie too, by the way Evie would grow pale and take her hand silently. They would creep upstairs to their bedroom under the eaves and snuggle in their beds, hiding from the voices. Sometimes they would look out of the front window when they heard the visitors leaving and see men in dark coats and hats striding away from the house towards the station with their briefcases and umbrellas, but they would never see their faces.

  With a shudder she moves forward onto the carpet. It’s more difficult to push the frame here than on the parquet flooring of the hallway. She moves with great effort across the room, breathing heavily. Sweat trickles down her forehead and into her eyes. She blinks it away. She notices deep depressions in the carpet where Father’s bookcases have been taken away, and although someone must have vacuumed the room, the carpet is still grey with ingrained dust where furniture once stood.

  Above the marble fireplace is a huge patch of faded wallpaper where the picture of Kandaipur church hung for decades. Connie manoeuvres herself across the room and stops beside the far wall. She stares at the patterned wallpaper. She takes her hand off the Zimmer frame, now slippery with sweat, and fingers her filigree necklace. She glances back at Jonathan Squires. He’s standing in the doorway, tapping on his mobile phone. She moves closer to the wall and runs a hand over the surface. It feels perfectly smooth at first, but then her fingers touch the tell-tale ridge under the wallpaper. She sighs. If she’d had a chance to sort things out before the house was put on the market she would have had time to do something about it. But she can’t do anything about it now. She will just have to put her faith in the Lord. She moves slowly and painfully across the room and stares down at the carpet beside the grate. If only she could get down on her knees and run her hand over that too.

  Tearing her eyes away, she edges towards the bureau. Peter Cartwright said he had emptied it out, but she still needs to check. She positions herself beside it, runs her palm over the tooled black leather top, then with her hands shaking awkwardly she lifts the lid. She gasps as the smell of Father’s spicy pomade wafts towards her from the interior. She hooks the lid up and peers inside. There’s nothing there except an ink stain and a couple of paperclips. One by one she opens the drawers on either side of the lid. Nothing in them either. Peter was right. He had been thorough. Anything Father had left is now in the vaults in Peter’s office.

  Of course, she and Evie had never disturbed Father’s papers. They’d been too fearful to do that, even after his death. Even when after Evie had gone, Connie had had the room decorated, she’d watched the men move the bureau from one side of the room to the other, but never once had she had the temerity to look inside it. She’s glad it was Peter Cartwright and not she who’d had the task of emptying it.

  She reaches up to unhook the lid from its catch. It slips from her trembling fingers, falling shut with a slam.

  ‘Are you alright, Miss Burroughs?’ Jonathan Squires hurries over. He’s peering at her face. She feels flustered. She knows she is shaking. The lid must have been slammed down for a reason. Her heart is hammering so hard. She should have left well alone. Father would have hated her peering into the interior of his desk, checking through the drawers, even if it was empty, and he himself had been lying in his cold grave in the chapel graveyard for twenty-five years.

  His voice comes to her now; the thin, stretched, painful voice, the one she remembers from his deathbed. She and Evie had sat with him for hours, days even, as he wasted away. They had hardly dared to leave him for a moment, even to prepare food, even to sleep. But once when Evie had slipped away to visit the bathroom, he’d grabbed Connie’s hand. He held it in an unnaturally strong grip for a dying man, so strong that she’d been afraid he would crush the bones. She’d stared at his bloodshot eyes, terrified.

  When I’m gone, Constance, you must look after my belongings as if I was still here. Make sure that no meddling hands get hold of
my papers. Don’t let anyone into the office. It will remain private, just as it has been for all these years. You will remember that, won’t you? Constance? Constance? I’m relying on you.

  She’d nodded. Her mouth had been so dry that she couldn’t reply.

  ‘Are you done here, Miss Burroughs?’ Jonathan Squires is glancing at his watch, tapping his foot in the doorway. ‘I really need to get back to the office, if you don’t mind.’

  She nods mutely and turns away from the desk.

  ‘Come on then. I’ll help you back into your wheelchair and get you back to the nursing home in time for lunch.’

  The wind has dropped as he pushes her outside into the stable yard. She hears the back door slam behind her and feels a sudden rush of regret that she’s leaving here forever. Leaving the old place to its fate. As Jonathan pushes her across the yard towards his car, she looks up at the blank coach house windows. It could be a trick of the light, but she could swear she sees a shadow move behind the glass. Or perhaps it’s her memory playing tricks on her? Perhaps she’s expecting to see something there, some reminder of what happened there, back in the past she has tried so hard to forget.

  Eleven

  Sarah

  ‘You sure you’re OK, Dad?’ Sarah asks for the umpteenth time, glancing across at him as she drives along the main road towards Weirfield. He sits in the passenger seat with a rug tucked around his knees. She can’t help thinking that his face looks pale and drawn.

  ‘Of course. I’m quite alright, darling. There’s no need to keep asking,’ he flashes her a benign smile.

  Now she knows he’s seriously ill she feels guilty. Thinking back to the first few days of her stay with him she had registered vaguely that he looked rather pale, that he occasionally crept off quietly to lie down for the odd half-hour. She’d been so preoccupied with her own worries, though, that she’d hardly given it a second thought. He hadn’t mentioned the crippling headaches once, and she knows now that he’d been trying hard to hide it from her; sneaking off for tests and medical appointments without a word.