The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  ‘I understand. Look. No hard feelings. We can pretend this didn’t happen. Let’s just go on as before. We can be friends, right?’

  ‘Of course, Matt. I’m sorry. It’s just that…’

  ‘Please. There’s no need to explain.’

  * * *

  Sarah carries on decorating the study at Cedar Lodge, but her progress has slowed down since she started at the bistro. She doesn’t mind, there’s no hurry to finish it, she tells herself. Besides, Ezra Burroughs’ oak bureau needs to be moved out before she can paint the back wall.

  When she has reached the point where she can’t make further progress with the bureau still there, she reminds Terry of his promise. He’s sanding the floorboards in the living room. He puts down the sander and straightens up.

  ‘Of course. Sorry, I’d forgotten. Rodney, come on, mate. Help me move me old dad’s desk will you?’

  Sarah watches as Terry crawls under the bureau with a screwdriver and begins to work on the frame. After a few minutes she hears him exclaim.

  ‘Oooohhh. It’s one of these!’

  She moves forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I knew Dad could do this, but I hadn’t realised this was one of them.’

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘There’s a false bottom to the desk. A hidden compartment.’

  Sarah’s heartbeat begins to race. ‘Really? Can you open it?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Terry grunts as he works the screwdriver. After a few minutes there’s a scraping sound, like a warped door catching. Then more banging and grunting and finally Terry crawls out, red-faced. He kneels down in front of the bureau and pulls out a slim drawer at the front that was revealed by a board that he removed from underneath.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  She leans forward, eager to see. Terry steps back.

  ‘You look. It’s nothing to do with me,’ he says.

  She looks in the drawer. A sheaf of papers and a hardback ledger thick with dust. She takes the ledger out and it falls open. There are three columns of numbers written in flowing handwriting. The first column contains single numbers, the second and third contain blocks of six numbers. She stares at them wondering what they might mean. Then she puts it back, momentarily disappointed. She’s not quite sure what she was expecting, but it doesn’t seem to mean anything.

  Then she picks up the pile of papers. They are yellowing, but thick, of good quality, almost like parchment. They seem to be certificates of some sort. She looks at them closely, puzzled. There’s a crest of arms at the top, and the words “Certificate of an Entry in the Register of Births in the County District of Weirfield, Berkshire”. She stares at the documents for a moment. Then the realisation of what they are hits her and she gasps in surprise. They are blank birth certificates.

  Twenty

  Connie

  Erica is leaning over her as Connie opens her eyes.

  ‘Are you awake? You must have taken a morning nap, Miss Burroughs.’

  Connie stares at her. Erica’s face is so close Connie can see the lumps in her mascara, the foundation applied unevenly on the skin under her eyes. Her breath smells of cigarettes.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s nearly lunchtime, Miss Burroughs. Yesterday we talked about you coming along to the dining room again today. I’ve come to help you get there.’

  ‘I’ve only just woken up. I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Nonsense. It will do you good to get out of your room.’ Connie stares at her and sighs. What is the use of arguing? Erica is stubborn. She’s not going to give up on this one. If the old man who brings back those painful memories is there, so be it. She’ll have to face those ghosts sometime.

  ‘All right. I’ll come I suppose,’ she says, drawing her shawl close to her.

  Erica’s smile is triumphant. ‘Good! I knew you would.’

  Erica helps her out of her chair and holds Connie’s elbow as she makes her way between the pieces of cluttered furniture to the door. Erica opens it to reveal Matron standing there in the corridor holding the Zimmer frame. She’s wearing her encouraging expression, nodding and beckoning Connie forward. I’m not at nursery school, Connie thinks. She takes the frame from Matron. She can walk quite well with the frame now, and resists their attempts to help her along the corridor, but when they reach the double doors to the dining room, Erica darts ahead of her and pushes them open so she can pass through.

  Connie hesitates. The air in the room is hot and fuggy, just as she remembers from before. The noise of conversation and the clatter of pots and pans feels overwhelming. Again, she wishes she was back at Cedar Lodge, hidden away behind those tall hedges, guarding her silence and isolation.

  ‘Come along,’ says Erica, smiling encouragement. ‘There are your friends from the other day. Look, there’s even a space at their table.’

  Elsie, Marjory and Dorothy are waving to her, beckoning her over.

  Connie eases herself into the seat between Elsie and Marjory.

  ‘How are you, my dear?’ asks Elsie. ‘We’ve been worried about you. I wanted to come to your room to see you but Matron said you wanted to be on your own. I hope everything is alright.’

  Connie nods, lost for words, just like the first time.

  ‘I’ve just been feeling a bit under the weather,’ she finally says.

  ‘You had a visitor though, didn’t you? Young woman. Is she a relative? I saw her coming through reception with some beautiful flowers.’

  Connie looks at the other ladies. They’re waiting for her reply, just like the first time she was here. She doesn’t want to talk about Cedar Lodge and get them reminiscing about the old days again. Why did she let Erica force her to come? It would have been far better to have stayed in her room.

  ‘Well?’ asks Elsie.

  ‘She’s the young lady who bought our house,’ Connie says at last.

  The others exchange looks. She gets the feeling that they have discussed her in her absence.

  ‘How nice of her to come and see you,’ Marjory says. ‘Hardly anyone comes to see me anymore. My daughter lives in America. My son’s busy with his family.’

  The others murmur their agreement and the conversation moves on. There are no questions this time about Father or about the orphanage. It makes Connie uneasy. They must have talked about those days and decided not to mention it to her again. What had they remembered? What was there for them to remember? The people in the town had known nothing about Father’s secrets. Or had they?

  Elsie and Marjory are gossiping amongst themselves about a new resident. Connie listens with half an ear, concentrating on the pasta she’s eating, trying to make sure the slippery twirls don’t skid off her fork and fall onto her lap.

  ‘We should really introduce you to the other new people,’ Marjory says, ‘There’s an old boy who’s quite new too. That one over there in the corner. Far end of that red table. Not been here long at all. Now what’s his name? For the life of me I can’t remember. I know he said he used to run a garage or some such thing.’

  Connie tries to figure out how soon she might politely take her leave and go back to the seclusion of her room. She doesn’t want to be introduced to anyone else. It’s enough of a strain to have to speak to these three ladies.

  ‘What’s his name, Marjory?’ Elsie leans forward and has to repeat her words when Marjory cups a hand to her ear.

  ‘That one in the corner. New one. Says he ran a garage in South London somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, that’s old Tommy. Tommy Braithwaite.’

  Connie freezes. Her heart stands still.

  So it is him after all. The room takes on a blurred appearance, as if time has slowed down almost to a stop and is doing strange things with her vision.

  But how can that possibly be?

  Her heart begins to pump fast and heat floods into her face. She puts up her hand to loosen her blouse. It’s so hot in here. She must get some air somehow. She tries fanning herself with her ha
nd, but it’s no good. She’s getting hotter and hotter. She gulps for air.

  ‘Are you alright, Connie?’ Elsie’s face looms over hers. ‘Matron! Matron! Could we have some help here please? This lady is going to faint!’

  * * *

  Connie is dimly aware of hands holding her arms, lifting her body, but the black dots in front of her eyes are getting bigger. She can hardly see now. A glass is held to her lips. She sips a little water then dribbles the rest down her chin. Now she is sitting in a chair and the chair is moving forward. Someone is propelling her. But the black dots grow bigger, blobs obscuring her vision until she can’t see anything at all.

  She’s walking by the Thames again. That summer’s day in 1940. Her heart is bursting with joy feeling him next to her. Just the touch of his arm against hers sends currents of pleasure coursing through her body.

  She doesn’t want to even imagine Father’s face if he were to discover their secret. She shies away from the thought. But she knows it’s worth risking the terror of his wrath just to feel the way she does now. She has never felt this before. It’s like a fever, an addiction. This boy fills her mind from the moment she wakes until the moment she drops off to sleep at night. She’s distracted constantly and can’t concentrate on anything else. In the schoolroom she finds herself drifting off, thinking about him, dreaming of the next time they’ll be together. She wonders if anyone has noticed. When she looks in the mirror she can see it as plain as daylight in her own eyes. That mysterious secret, that glow, that fever. Is it normal? Does it have a name?

  They walk until they reach the spinney that comes down to the river. They aren’t talking now. They don’t need to. He helps her over the style and their eyes meet as she jumps down into the wood on the other side. She feels the blood rush to her cheeks. Has he realised from the look in her eyes? Does he know how much she cares for him?

  He strides ahead on the narrow earth path, pushing through the brambles and nettles. She has to almost run to keep up. It’s shady and cool here amongst the trees. Shafts of sunlight filter through the high branches. He turns off the path towards the river and Connie follows, her Sunday skirt snagging on the brambles, her best leather shoes getting scratched and grubby. He stops beside a fallen willow tree. He sits down on the smooth trunk and pats the place beside him. She sits down next to him and immediately feels his arms encircling her. He’s pulling her close, his lips on her mouth. She yields and is soon kissing him back.

  * * *

  When she opens her eyes and looks around she realises she is propped up against pillows on her bed and Matron is sitting beside her reading a newspaper. It’s quiet. All she can hear is the echo of the TV from the day room. After a few moments Matron turns and peers at her.

  ‘Oh, you’re awake. Are you alright, Connie? You gave us all quite a fright.’

  It all comes flooding back now. The shock of hearing Tommy’s name after all these years.

  Matron is watching her anxiously.

  ‘I’m quite alright, Matron, thank you.’

  Matron gets up from the chair. ‘Do you need anything? Would you like some tea?’

  Connie shakes her head. ‘I’ll just have some water, please.’

  Matron hands her a glass. Connie senses she’s impatient to leave. Sure enough, Matron says, ‘If you’re feeling better, I’d better get on. I’ll pop back in half an hour or so to see how you are.’

  Connie lets out a sigh of relief. She wants to be alone to gather her thoughts, to work out what to do about this new situation. Will Tommy remember her? Will she be able to ask him what happened to make him leave so suddenly without saying goodbye? What happened to him during the war? She’d always assumed he’d been killed. That she would never see him again. When Matron comes back she’ll ask her if she knows anything about Tommy. Her body begins to shake thinking about all the possibilities.

  Twenty-One

  Sarah

  Sarah heaves a box of china off the kitchen table and straining with the effort carries it along the passage and into the dining room. It’s Saturday morning and Terry and Rodney are due to start work on the kitchen on Monday, so she’s moving everything out. They’ve already knocked the wall down between the kitchen and the conservatory, installed a joist in the opening.

  She glances out through the gap in the kitchen wall into the conservatory. Already she can picture what the room will look like when it’s finished. Huge and light, opening out onto the garden and making the most of the beautiful ornate windows. After much debate with Terry and her father, she’d decided to have the conservatory floor raised to the level of the kitchen to avoid having steps in the middle of the room. Terry and Rodney have taken up most of the tiles in the conservatory and stacked them in a pile outside. There are just a few in front of the door left to remove on Monday.

  She has taken the day off from the bistro to give her time to clear out the kitchen. She sighs as she looks inside the old cupboards, amazed at how much stuff she’s managed to accumulate over the few weeks she’s been in Cedar Lodge. She makes herself a coffee, turns on the radio and hums to the music as she works. Her aim is to clear the room and to have set up somewhere to cook and eat in the dining room by the time she needs to head over to Dad’s.

  As she works she worries about Dad. He’s looking thinner and weaker by the day. More often than not when she arrives in the evenings he’s still lying on the sofa in the sun room, looking drained and exhausted. The last time she took him to the hospital for a check-up the doctor had taken her aside and said, ‘Your father is doing really well, Mrs Jennings, but I’m afraid the illness is beginning to progress more quickly now. It will only be another month or so before he’ll need to come in for some aggressive treatment.’

  She is angry that his life is slipping away so quickly, that she is powerless to stop it. She’s frustrated too that she’s made so little progress with the search for clues about his real mother.

  She’d told Dad as gently as she could that Connie Burroughs didn’t remember his name.

  He’d shrugged and smiled, but she could tell from the downcast expression in his eyes that he was disappointed.

  ‘Oh well. It was only to be expected. It’s a very long time ago.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s still hope though, Dad. A foundling. It must have been something people would have remarked upon. Perhaps Miss Burroughs will remember something, in time.’

  She’d held back from telling him about the old lady’s strange, hostile reaction to her questions. Neither had she told him about finding the blank birth certificates in Ezra Burroughs’ bureau. She’s still puzzling over that herself, wondering what it could possibly mean. Why on earth would there be a stash of them in the desk? Did Ezra Burroughs act as the Registrar of Births for the district? She has tried to do some online searching, but that hasn’t given her any answers yet.

  It’s after midday by the time she’s moved all the boxes of kitchen stuff through. She’s just puzzling over how to move the table by herself, when the back-door bell rings.

  Matt is standing on the doorstep, holding a tray with a cloche-covered plate. Her mouth drops open.

  ‘I guessed you might not have time to make any lunch so I brought this over. Courtesy of chef,’ he says.

  She feels her cheeks heating up.

  ‘Really, Matt! I don’t know what to say. You shouldn’t have done that.’ She holds the door aside. ‘Come on in.’

  She realises he’s never actually been inside the house, despite her talking about it a lot at work. She’s been intending to show him round for some time now, but he always seems so busy with the restaurant. And besides, there has been a slight awkwardness between them ever since he asked her out.

  ‘I’m just moving stuff out of here,’ she says showing him into the kitchen. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a drink. Or I could show you around the house first?’

  ‘I’d love to see round. I’ve never been inside here before. I used to peep over the wall with
my mates when the orphanage was still there.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. We’d play in the grounds behind it where those modern houses are now. Sometimes we’d creep along the alley at the side and spy on old Ezra sitting out on a deckchair in the garden, puffing on his pipe.’

  ‘Really? What was he like?’

  ‘Scary. You wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’

  ‘Really, Matt…’ she began with a shudder, then saw the twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Not really, no. He was just a frail old guy. For some reason we kids were terrified of him, though.’

  ‘Come on. I’ll show you round the house.’

  She leads him from room to room. The house is beginning to shape up. Terry and Rodney have installed the central heating and finished decorating the living room. She has invested in two white sofas, a teak coffee table and an Indian rug. The room looks stylish and comfortable now. She shows him the study, now elegant with pale walls. The shelves have been opened out and display the Indian ornaments. The bureau is newly polished and still in pride of place at the end of the room. The wooden floor and panelling in the hallway have been stripped and restored. The whole house smells of fresh paint.

  ‘There’s not much to see upstairs yet, but I’ll show you anyway.’

  He follows her up. Two of the bedrooms have been decorated, including her own. Cream linen curtains hang at the bay window. She’s glad she made the bed and picked up her dirty clothes this morning.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Sarah. I can’t believe how much you’ve done already.’

  ‘Well, I’m not doing it alone. Terry and Rodney are amazing.’

  Back in the kitchen she explains how she’s hoping it will look once the builders have finished. They step out into the conservatory as she talks.