Home Is Where the Heart Is (22 page)

‘Who was it from, this one-time friend of yours?’

Cathie met the social worker’s curious gaze with anguish in her own, feeling as if a knot had been tied around her throat, choking her. ‘No, the letter was written by my fiancé. Alex has been badly affected by the war, which is the reason I didn’t rush into marriage with him; and why my mother allowed him to rent a room off us when he developed problems with his own parents. He did apologise for sending that letter, and promised most sincerely he would never make such a mistake again. But one glance at this tells me that he was broken his promise.’

‘Ah, I see.’

The discussion that followed was both lengthy and heart-rending, so much so that the woman’s attitude towards her changed entirely and the social worker became increasingly sympathetic. After several phone calls, it was agreed that once Cathie had resolved these difficulties she probably would be allowed to take Heather home, although
she’d be rigorously checked for a little while to make sure all was as it should be.

‘It’s not my place to advise you, Miss Morgan, but if I were you I’d give the fellow a piece of my mind then turf him out.’

That was exactly what Cathie intended to do. As soon as her shift was over, she marched home, her anguish now turning into a fizz of fury. As usual, she found Alex in the living room happily gossiping with her mother. She whipped the ring from her finger and slammed it on the table before him. ‘How dare you do such a thing?’

‘What are you accusing me of now?’ he asked, lifting his gaze from the ring to consider her with resigned patience.

‘You know damn well!’ She slapped him across the face with the flat of her hand.

‘Hey up, what’s all this about?’ Rona asked, jumping up to grab her.

‘Ask
him
! He was the one who arranged for little Heather to be taken away from me. God knows why he wrote yet another dreadful letter to the authorities, except that he’s a selfish bully who imagines he can control me!’

This time when she collected her things and walked out, Cathie knew it would be for good.

C
athie moved in with Brenda, who welcomed her with open arms, having heard the story in full as they’d stacked boxes of Christmas cards together that afternoon. ‘Men can be such devils,’ she said with a groan. ‘You’ve done the right thing by walking out on him.’

‘But will it help me to get little Heather back, that’s the worry?’

‘She’s your niece, why would you not?’

The very next day Cathie called at children’s services yet again during her lunch break, but Mrs Simpson was out doing calls. Cathie explained to her secretary that she needed to speak to the social worker quite urgently, and finally managed to arrange an appointment to see her on Friday afternoon at six-thirty, after she’d finished work.

‘What do you think I’ll need to do to prove myself?’ she kept asking her friend as the week dragged by.

‘Just be yourself, honey,’ Brenda assured her, ‘and let your love for that little one shine through.’

But once seated before the stern-faced social worker, it
felt so nerve-wracking that Cathie could barely concentrate on a word the woman was saying as she briskly leafed through a file on her desk. She spoke at some length about new rules and regulations, how children used to be accommodated in workhouses but now more care was taken to ensure a better future for them in orphanages.

‘I don’t want Heather put into an orphanage, certainly not for ever,’ Cathie said. ‘She has a family to care for her and, as agreed, I’ve broken my relationship with my fiancé.’

‘So you won’t be getting married, after all?’

Cathie shook her head, suddenly feeling nervous that if she was no longer about to marry she might never get little Heather back. It felt very much a no-win situation. Within moments, she found herself dealing with a whole barrage of questions.

‘Have you built a good relationship with the child?’ the woman asked.

‘Of course! As I explained to you before, she’s my niece and I love her to bits.’

‘Do you have her birth certificate, to prove who she is?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Cathie said, with a sad shake of her head. ‘My sister hadn’t got around to registering the birth by the time she was killed, less than a month later.’

‘Then why didn’t you do that?’

‘I never gave it a thought. I was too shocked over what had happened to my beloved sister. The war was still going on, close to the end as it turned out, although I didn’t know
that at the time. Just looking after the baby was more than enough to cope with, and being swamped by grief.’

Was that a flicker of sympathy in the woman’s gaze? Her next question destroyed such a hope. ‘I understand the infant has been left a large sum of money by her father, could that have anything to do with your wish to foster her?’

Cathie stared at the woman, shocked to the core. ‘How can you suggest such a dreadful thing? My only concern is that the poor child has lost both her parents, her family destroyed. I never gave the money a thought. I haven’t touched a penny of it, nor will I ever, as it is meant to provide a secure future for Heather once she grows up. That is what her parents would have wished.’ A new thought occurred to her. ‘How did you know about Heather’s inheritance? Was it mentioned in that letter Alex sent?’

‘There was a second little note pointing out the money may well provide the motive behind your actions.’

‘Goodness, that man is beyond belief! More likely it was
his
motive for choosing to marry me, and not that he loved me at all.’ The thought filled her with fresh anguish. He could have planned this all along in order to force her into a hasty marriage. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to the pressure he’d applied on her to release that pot of money, as he called it? Once he was her husband with full control over her and the child, he could easily have helped himself to Heather’s inheritance. Why had she been so naïve as to keep on trusting him? Was it out of love or
foolishness on her part? There seemed to be so much about Alex’s behaviour that she hadn’t understood, possibly not as a result of war at all, but a difficult childhood or simply a flaw in his nature.

‘Can you afford to support and bring up this child all alone?’ the woman was asking her now.

‘I certainly can,’ Cathie proudly stated, straightening her spine as she explained about her job at the Christmas card factory, with its crèche facility, and a decent wage coming in with every possibility of increasing it.

After further grilling, which covered pretty well every aspect of childcare, the child’s daily routine and diet, as well as Cathie’s entire family history, Mrs Simpson finally sat back and closed the file with a snap. ‘Very well, you may now pay the child a visit.’

‘Oh, thank you so much. Can I take her home?’

‘That depends on how the child responds to you. She seems to be a very quiet little girl.’

Cathie frowned. ‘Not really, I always find her to be very lively.’ But a part of her was worrying over whether her niece would even remember her after being apart for over two weeks. She was but a toddler, after all. Little Heather was a child of some intelligence and with an increasing sense of independence, who might well blame her aunt for allowing her to be taken away by a stranger. Her resentment could well show itself in sulks or a tantrum, which surely wouldn’t go down well.

With some trepidation, Cathie climbed into the Ford
motor car, as ordered by the social worker, to be driven to the orphanage. They rode out past the flattened warehouses in Piccadilly, along Market Street and Blackfriars, her mind in such turmoil that even the bright sunny June day failed to warm her.

On arrival, the matron led the pair of them along the passage to the playroom, Cathie’s gaze lighting upon little Heather the moment they entered. The toddler was sitting in a corner all alone, her arms wrapped about her knees and her plump little face a picture of sadness. Hearing the door bang shut behind the visitors, she glanced up to gaze across at her aunt in startled wonder. She at once jumped to her feet and came running across the room, squealing with delight.

‘Mummy, mummy, mummy!’ she cried, and flung her arms around Cathie’s legs.

Never had Heather called her by that name before, and the feel and sweet smell of the beloved child as Cathie sank to her knees to gather her in her arms made her weep with joy.

Mrs Simpson, along with the matron and the rest of the staff, stood watching with huge smiles on their faces.

‘Mummy has come to take you home,’ she announced, and Heather buried her face into Cathie’s neck, clinging to her so tight it was as if she never meant to let her go.

Alex had been keeping a close eye on Cathie ever since she stormed out, his rage increasing as he silently
stalked her from a safe distance. He needed to check what exactly the stupid woman was up to. He watched as she visited the office at children’s services time and time again, eventually to be driven off in a car by that social worker person. Irritated that he couldn’t follow, not yet being able to afford a car of his own, he hung around by the River Medlock instead, in case she returned home. Eventually, it dawned on him that he was waiting in the wrong place, but by the time he reached the area around Brenda’s flat, it was almost dusk. Losing patience, he took himself off to the Pack Horse for a pint of bitter.

If only women would do as they were told, life would be so much simpler. He was infuriated that she’d discovered his ploy. That flaming social worker had no right to show her his letter, which was quite obviously what the woman had done.

As he spent the next morning lying in late, due to an indulgent evening with his mates at the pub, it was late afternoon when he finally spotted her. She came walking out of the Christmas card factory with her friend, holding the child by a rein, as she trotted along beaming with happiness. That was exactly how the kid should be treated, like a dog on a lead.

Holding out her arms, she cried, ‘Carry, carry,’ and laughing, Cathie picked her up to sit the child astride her hip as she walked away.

So now Cathie had managed to get the baby back without
marrying him, which meant all his efforts had been in vain. His rage escalated all the more.

He’d never intended to keep the child for ever, just long enough to get his hands on her bloody money, which he was far more in need of than some waif and stray. Once Cathie had fallen pregnant he would have used that as an excuse to pack this alleged niece off to some orphanage or other. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen now, so he’d need to devise some other plan to get his hands on the cash. Ever a man with ideas, he was quite certain he’d think of something. In the meantime, he would continue to keep a close eye on her every move.

And he could at least sell off that diamond ring she’d tossed back at him.

It was as the two girls were sitting down to supper one night that Brenda brought up the question of Davina. ‘Did you ever find out what happened to her?’ she asked.

Cathie shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. Why?’

Brenda was silent for a moment as she tucked into her sausage and mash, then gave Cathie an apologetic little smile. ‘I appreciate the fact you may not be interested, but in view of what Alex has done to you, I’m wondering if he had anything to do with the fact that Davina has vanished.’

Cathie felt something lurch inside her, like a shaft of guilt or fear grasping her heart. ‘I did wonder where she might be, and if she’s safely given birth. But what are you
suggesting?’ Was Brenda hiding something from her? she wondered. ‘What have you found out?’

Heaving a little sigh, her friend said, ‘Actually, I called on her landlady to ask if she knew where she was living, and discovered that Davina had been taken to a home for unmarried mothers.’

‘Oh, well that’s all to the good, isn’t it? At least she would have been somewhere safe and protected when the baby was born.’

‘Those are not always terribly friendly or happy places to be, often ruled by a rod of iron, and they allow women little say over what happens to their child once they do give birth.’

Cathie wondered how Brenda knew this. She had once mentioned losing a child, but not quite how that had come about. She’d rather assumed it had been stillborn, but what if it had been adopted? It didn’t seem her place to ask. Cathie was all too aware there were some matters her friend preferred to keep secret. ‘She surely wouldn’t stay there fore ver though, so why are you so concerned for her?’

‘I wondered if perhaps she might be regretting having fallen for Alex’s charms, as much as you do. Also, Cathie, wouldn’t you like to know exactly what happened between the two of them, and how she ended up in such a place even though she’d been led to believe they were about to be married?’

‘I believed I was to marry him too, until she told me otherwise,’ Cathie said, a swell of worry starting to grow
within her despite the devastation that had caused. ‘It’s certainly possible that Alex may well have used Davina too, if in a different way. Maybe we should check that all is well with her.’

Brenda smiled. ‘What a lovely, kind person you are. I have the address, so why don’t we pay her a visit?’

‘Yes, let’s.’

Strangely, the nuns did not welcome them. ‘That young lady is no longer with us,’ said the sister, rather tartly when they asked to speak with Davina.

‘Oh, she has left then. Where did she go?’ Brenda politely enquired.

‘We have no idea as the silly girl did a bunk with a friend. A most foolish thing to do with the baby due only a few weeks later.’

‘I wonder why she did that. Wasn’t she happy here?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ came the sharp reply. ‘She was certainly showing little remorse for her sins.’

Cathie quickly interjected, sensing Brenda could say something she might later regret. ‘So who is this friend? Do you know where she lives?’

‘She lived here,’ snapped the nun. ‘Now they’ve both left and are no longer our responsibility,’ whereupon she closed the door in their faces.

They looked at each other in dismay. ‘“Curiouser, and curiouser,” cried Alice,’ Brenda remarked dryly.

Life settled into a pleasant and orderly routine with Cathie and Brenda working happily together at the factory, sharing the housework in the flat, as well as the cost of rent and shopping. They enjoyed little in the way of a social life, apart from the odd Saturday matinee at the flicks, as Cathie devoted herself to the care of her beloved niece.

‘Do feel free to go out with other friends. There’s no reason for you to be tied to this little one,’ Cathie assured her, but Brenda would generally shrug her shoulders and insist she was quite happy. ‘After all the harassment my brother-in-law has given me, right now I feel in dire need of a little peace and quiet.’

The pair of them would sometimes walk by the Rochdale or Bridgewater canal, enjoying a lovely day out in the summer sunshine, as they were doing today, being a Sunday.

As they strolled along the towpath, smiling at the waterhens bobbing about, Cathie said, ‘Did you know that the building of this canal began way back in 1759 by the third Duke of Bridgewater? He employed a famous engineer, James Brindley, to build it for him, as he needed these waterways in order to transport coal from his mines. It crosses the River Irwell, and links up with the Manchester Ship Canal as well as with the Rochdale Canal and others. It was the first of many. So began the start of the canal age and a profitable industrial period for Manchester.’

‘I’m aware the canals have a rich history, but how do you know so much?’

‘My dad told me endless stories when he used to take me out in his barge. His job was to transport goods from the docks to the warehouses. More and more warehouses had been built, although on occasions they’d be damaged by fire. He always had a fire in the bow of his barge, which he would put out when he sailed underneath a warehouse to unload. Not good on a cold January morning, but it was the rule. You had to be safe. After he left, I missed going out on such trips with him,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘I bet he’s still sailing a boat some place or other. And I still love walking along the towpaths, and looking at barges and narrowboats. Perhaps it helps me to remember him.’