Mary tries every argument, tells Joan she has no special clothes, even embarrasses herself by saying she can’t afford it, is ashamed when Joan offers to lend her money.
By the height of summer, Joan’s stopped asking. Mary feels almost invisible. Barely anyone speaks to her at work and she hardly lifts her eyes to meet those of anyone else. She knows people talk about her, knows she’s perceived as strange, sees herself as they must see her – half withered inside like a crone. Sometimes when she’s alone in the canteen, clearing tables after the rush of hungry workers, or mopping the floor, she has a sense of foreboding, as if a shadow has crossed her soul. She sees herself speeding towards death, feels herself being watched, feels the tick of death’s heart close to her own.
She has to give herself a good talking to on more than one occasion. Such a drama queen! Wasn’t that what Pat always told her?
She writes letters and postcards daily, begging for news. Four months old now and what can Caroline do? Can she sit up yet? Reach out for toys? Recognize faces? And at last, at last, she gets back from work one night to see Pat’s meticulous handwriting on an envelope. Someone’s placed it on the hall table and she sits on the stairs and holds it to her breast. Perhaps it will be an invitation – come quick, she misses you – or perhaps a photograph or some funny anecdote about her daughter. No. When she eventually dares open it, it’s a rather dull note from Pat detailing the weather and the price of things. The only news of Caroline is that she’s ‘a good girl’ and is ‘doing well’. Much as it’s a relief to hear anything at all, it’s the detail that Mary craves.
2nd July, 1954
Dear Pat
Thank you for your letter. Will you let me telephone you? A chat would be so much better. There’s so much to say and a letter doesn’t seem enough. And you write so rarely, Pat – you, who used to keep that diary so religiously. I tell myself that you’re busy keeping house for your new little family.
I’m sure you can imagine how I’m feeling. She was such a darling and I miss her so much. Can you assure me that you haven’t changed her name? Also, I’d treasure a photo if you had one. Could we come to some agreement about me visiting soon? You don’t need to be afraid of me, Pat. I’m not out to make trouble.
I know I did the right thing for the future happiness of my child. You know how grateful I am for your kindness.
Mary
She buys a book and studies the stages of development. She discovers that Caroline should quieten to the sound of a voice and turn towards it, that she ought to be able to follow a brightly coloured object with her eyes if it’s held eight inches away from her. She will have been smiling for weeks. And children have more bones than adults, does Pat know this? If Caroline falls badly, she’ll be more likely to bend a bone than to break it because her periosteum is stronger and thicker.
What’s a periosteum?
Mary borrows a medical encyclopaedia from the library, takes it home to bed and traces with her finger the diagram of a baby’s skeletal structure, the spine like a string of pearls. She learns that the skull of a new-born consists of five main bones and there are soft spots on a baby’s head allowing the plates of the skull to flex during birth.
She studies the blood system, the respiratory system. She learns the names of every bone. It’s like a whole new language. Neurocranium. Cartilaginous. Olfactory. She can even make up sentences that make sense with words such as these.
‘Did you know,’ she asks Joan, ‘that the neurocranium has cartilaginous supports and olfactory receptors?’
Joan frowns, ‘Are you swearing at me now?’
‘No,’ Mary says. ‘It’s simple – it means in your head there’s a nose. That’s all.’
She continues to write daily letters, spending a fortune on stamps. She asks if Caroline can sit up yet. Has she started to crawl? Is she babbling any recognizable sounds? How long is her hair and has Pat bought ribbons or bands? Should Mary send some, would that be welcome? She also tells Pat that the most common fractures to look out for in children are the incomplete ones such as greenstick or buckle. The former involve a bend on one side of the bone and a partial fracture on the other. Is Pat aware of this?
The letter that comes back is curt. Pat would find it a great relief if Mary could stop sending letters. Pat is a busy woman and doesn’t Mary have better things to do than give unsolicited lectures on child welfare? In fact, it would probably be better if all correspondence was limited to birthdays and Christmas from now on.
7th Sept, 1954
Dear Lionel
I write to you, not to go behind Pat’s back, but to ask you to speak to her on my behalf. I would very much like to have news of Caroline more regularly than twice a year. I cannot believe that Pat really means this.
I think of the babe often and I hope you know I am being truthful when I say I will not do anything that will jeopardize her happiness. I’m sure her new mummy and daddy love her very much and that she is happy.
Will you please also ask Pat to let me visit? Our original agreement allowed for regular news and contact and neither of these have been forthcoming. You can never know how much it would mean to be able to have one small peek at Caroline. It would give everything meaning.
With very warm regards
Your sister-in-law Mary
10th September, 1954
Dear Mary
I was greatly surprised at your cheek in writing to my husband. Lionel and I are in complete accord about things and have no secrets, so please don’t assume that you are able to persuade him of anything.
It seems I have to remind you of our formal agreement. These are the actual words you signed to:
‘“I hereby covenant that I will not nor will any other person or persons on my behalf at any time molest, disturb or in any way interfere with Patricia or Lionel Dudley in the upbringing, maintenance, education or otherwise of Caroline.”’
Remember? I know you are upset, but it was what we agreed.
You had every chance to keep the child yourself, although I imagine if you had gone down that road, you would be sleeping rough by now and forced to wash at the railway station out of a fire bucket.
I promise I will send word twice a year at birthday and Christmas. You will have to trust me. I will also enclose photos at that time. This is more than you would have if you’d had her adopted through an agency and you know it.
I feel as if you are unwilling to move on and let us have our time with her.
Best wishes, Pat
13th Sept, 1954
Dear Pat
You have broken your word. This is not what we agreed. You said I could visit and now you have changed your mind.
You are acting as if I have no feelings at all, as if I am dead to you. I am not dead! If I were, I would come and haunt you. I would throw your furniture around and never leave. I would scare the living daylights out of you!
If you don’t formally agree a time for me to come and see Caroline, I will get a train and come and knock on your door. What’s to stop me sitting on your gatepost and telling your lovely new neighbours that you are refusing to let me see my own daughter when we agreed that I could?
I beg you to reconsider.
Mary
Less than a week later, she gets a letter from Dad. She sits in the hallway staring at his handwriting on the envelope. It stuns her. This man, who has pledged never to talk to her again, has written. It’s a good sign, surely? Perhaps he’s intervened and spoken to Pat. But no. It’s a formal little note. He hopes she’s well. He’s finding the weather very hot. He finds it hard to breathe sometimes and the doctor thinks he might have a touch of asthma. But aside from that, he wants her to know that Pat, Lionel and the baby have moved. Lionel applied for a promotion and has been successful and his new job has taken them many miles away. Jean from next door is kindly doing his suppers now, so he’s managing all right. For now, he’s unable to forward Pat’s new address.
Unable? Unable!
; Mary lies on her bed and wishes an answer to come hurtling from the ceiling. The pain in her chest is overwhelming. She wants her own mother back to advise her, to rock her and hold her and tell her what to do – the right thing to do. Should she get the train up and make Dad tell her where the baby is now? Should she hire a lawyer?
She goes over the details. She kissed her daughter goodbye. It was six in the morning and daylight was just beginning. Pat had already fed and changed her and Caroline should’ve been asleep, but when Mary bent over the cot, her daughter was awake and smiling.
‘Not old enough to smile yet,’ Pat said when Mary told her.
But Mary knew what she’d seen.
She also knew that she wouldn’t see another smile from her daughter for a while. And yes, she’d signed an agreement, she didn’t deny it. As Pat had so clearly explained – if you love someone, you must do what’s best for them and put yourself second. And what was best for Caroline was two parents and a mother who knew what to do.
But Mary had never imagined she would be barred for so long.
20th Sept, 1954
Dear Dad
Every part of me hurts. I don’t know what she looks like. I have no idea of her. It’s as if she haunts me. I see her everywhere in every child. Since you won’t tell me where she is, I’m going to hire a detective. And then I’m going to fight to get her back. I don’t think the agreement we signed was legal, and since I was under a great deal of pressure from you all at the time, I think I have a very strong case. Please could you inform Pat of my intentions?’
Mary
PS I am sorry you are ill. I hope you feel better soon.
24th September, 1954
Mary
I am not going to respond to blackmail or threats. I am not going to respond to further letters, although I will (I am a creature of my word) send you an occasional package containing a photo and a report of progress.
I will remind you that it will hurt Caroline very much to be told the truth of her origins when she firmly believes herself to be mine and Lionel’s child. I would also like to warn you that we would fight back harder and with more financial clout than you could ever muster should you choose to go down a legal path.
You are selfish and had your chance. You are young and can have more children (although I suggest you find a husband first). Stop trying to take away what I have.
Growing up, you had the best of everything. I gave up all hope of a bright future when I became your surrogate mother at twelve years old. You got to swan about looking pretty and being Dad’s special girl while I cooked and washed and tidied and asked for nothing. I was a home body, remember? And you had all the fire.
Well, now I have something I want – a husband and a child – and I thank you for them both. But they are not yours to have any more.
Please leave us alone.
Yours sincerely,
Pat
The detective’s office is seedy and Mary isn’t sure he’s any good. How do you tell? What’s to stop him only pretending to look for Caroline, but taking Mary’s money anyway?
He asks her to explain the circumstances under which she’s left her baby. He asks to look at her copy of the agreement along with Pat’s letters. He asks why she wants the child back so badly.
‘I’m her mother,’ Mary says. ‘I should never have left her.’
‘You can’t just take her back. You’ll get yourself arrested.’
‘I’ll think about the particulars when I know where she is.’
‘It’s hard to bring up a kid on your own,’ the detective says. ‘Let’s say I find her, how will you manage?’
But Mary doesn’t want to think about the practicalities. She wants her baby back. And she’s offering to pay this man, isn’t she? She doesn’t want his questions, just his skill at finding missing children.
‘I don’t require a lecture on parenting, thank you,’ she says. ‘Now, do you want the job or do I need to go elsewhere?’
He smiles. ‘I see what your sister means about fire.’
He takes a deposit. He explains that he’ll require expenses plus his weekly fee in advance each Friday. He promises to keep his costs as low as possible. ‘I’ll stick lunch on someone else’s budget,’ he says. He requires a final payment when he hands over proof of the child’s whereabouts. He imagines this won’t take long since he assumes Pat still makes visits to their father.
Mary cuts down on spending. She moves into a smaller room and turns down the heating. She wears a hat to bed. Apart from the detective’s fees, her major expense is stamps. She still writes letters to Pat every day, sending them via Dad. She has no idea if he ever forwards them. Or if he does, if Pat ever reads them. She tries to keep them chatty, newsy, friendly. She doesn’t want Pat getting suspicious and moving house again.
Weeks pass, then one morning two envelopes come at once. The first contains notification that the detective has found Caroline. She’s living in North Bisham, a small town not far from the coast. It’s not a place Mary has ever been. Bisham, she mouths. She wonders if there’s a railway station. The detective goes on to say that if Mary would like to come into the office he’ll be glad to pass on the full address once he’s received payment for the enclosed invoice.
The second envelope contains a brief note from Dad. We had the christening last week and Pat asked me to forward the enclosed photograph of the baby surrounded by her pretty cards.
Caroline’s sitting on a lace coverlet with a cushion behind her. She isn’t smiling, but is looking up at the camera with such intelligent curiosity that Mary clutches a hand to her heart. It’s as if she has a window into her daughter’s soul. She sees possibilities in that gaze – of a toddler, of a girl, even of a woman. Her hair looks golden (hadn’t Mary’s own hair been light until she was older?) and her arms are beautifully chubby. She wears a christening bracelet on her left wrist and behind her, on the mantelpiece, a row of cards is clearly visible. Mary counts them – seven! Dad will have sent one, of course, and maybe the neighbours. The rest must be from Lionel’s family. Mary’s never considered them before – his parents are dead, but perhaps there are aunts or cousins?
Mary sits on the edge of her bed and feels anger leak out of her. Here is Pat’s new lounge – the mantle with its clock and its cards, the hearth with Lionel’s pipe and ashtray. There are some rather nice curtains at a sparkling window. Here is a coffee table with a neat stack of coasters. On the carpet by the fireside is a magazine rack, and isn’t that the button jar sticking out of Pat’s sewing basket? So much is familiar, and yet dotted about are items that suggest new routine – a basket of toys, a teddy slumped on a cushion, a cot blanket folded over the arm of a chair.
None of this is posed, none of it for effect. This is how they live, what they do – this is the detail, the ordinariness of their lives. It isn’t something Mary can offer – cards, christenings, aunts, mantelpieces. It’s very clear to her now.
That afternoon she goes to see the detective, tells him she no longer wants the address, but when he insists (she might change her mind and he’s gone to a lot of trouble) she slips it into her purse. Her daughter looks just like her, he says. Had he actually seen her? Oh yes, he had to make sure she was the right kid.
She sits on a chair, weak at the knees. This man has seen her daughter with his own eyes. ‘Tell me,’ she breathes. ‘How was she?’
‘She seemed very well.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What was she doing?’
‘Lying in a pram being pushed about the place.’ He shrugs. ‘What else do babies do?’
Mary asks what she’d been wearing and had there been toys in her pram? She asks if Caroline’s hair is long enough for ribbons now, or had she been wearing a bonnet? Where had Pat been taking her, did he think? The shops? The park? To feed the ducks?
For a detective he isn’t very observant. All he knows is what he’s told her. The baby had been with Pat, he’
d watched them leave the house together and followed them only a few yards before tracking back to speak to neighbours and then off to the town hall to check official records. He hadn’t realized Mary wanted him to make notes on clothes or hairstyles.
‘The neighbour said they seemed a nice family,’ the detective says. ‘Decent and quiet.’
‘That’s no surprise,’ Mary says.
Why is nothing ever enough? Why does she crave the detail?
Perhaps he feels sorry for her, because he accepts only half his outstanding fee before shaking her hand and wishing her all the luck in the world. ‘Should be an actress with your looks,’ he says. ‘I could fix up a meeting if you’re interested.’
She tells him she’ll think about it.
When she gets home, she sits down and writes Pat a letter.
Dear Pat
I am sorry for any distress I have caused. I appreciate the photo very much. It has made all the difference in the world to me – to see Caroline’s beautiful face and to have a glimpse into your life together.
I am sorry if I scared you by being too forthright. I would like us to get back on track. I would like to accept your original offer of a package every now and then. If you could include photos or anecdotes, even a lock of hair, I would love that.
I enclose a separate note. Would you be so good as to read it out to Caroline? She won’t understand, I know that, but I want her to know how dearly I love her.
I look forward to your next package, and please be assured that if you ever felt it appropriate for me to visit (I could be Aunty Mary and very well-behaved!), I would get on the first available train.
Very best wishes
Your loving sister, Mary
Darling Caroline.
This is a message from your first mummy. Yes, you have two! Aren’t you lucky! I will always be your first mummy. Always. Even when the world is a million years older. But I have to do what is best for you, sweet girl, and I can’t offer you all the things children need to grow up and be happy.