Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (26 page)

‘Dorothy. Please tell me.’

‘He’s Nina’s baby!’ yelled Dorothy. ‘All right? Nina gave birth to him. But she doesn’t want him. Nobody is to know. I look after him. She says I can have him, if I want him.’

‘Oh my!’

‘Indeed.’ Dorothy shushed John, who had woken at her shout and was fretting.

‘Nina’s?’ repeated Mrs Compton.

‘We didn’t know she was expecting. She claims not to have realised herself.’

‘I can scarcely believe it. When was he born?’

‘On Boxing Day. I helped deliver him, up at the North Barn.’

‘Born in a barn? Like the good Lord himself.’

‘If you like,’ she replied, wearily.

‘Well, I must say, you gave me quite a fright. I feared the worst, I really did. I’ll get on to Dr Soames. He’ll know what to do. Has Nina seen him?’

‘No, of course not!’ Dorothy was gripped by a new panic. ‘Nobody is to know. Don’t you understand?’

‘You did say. But is Nina well?’

‘I believe so. She’s still bleeding, but she has no pains. She tore a little, but she tells me it feels like it’s healing. And there’s no fever. She’s not particularly weak, just rather tired.’

‘Why don’t I have a look at her?’ Mrs Compton spoke softly, a tremor in her voice Dorothy had not heard before. ‘I’ve sewn up many a new mother. It’s too late now, really. But I could have a look and make sure all is well?’

‘And then what?’

The clock ticked and John began to mewl for milk. Dorothy waited, her heart thumping and her breath coming in shallow pants.

‘That will be between you and Nina,’ said the other woman, eventually. ‘You have your own arrangements in place, I am sure.’

Dorothy was unsure that she had heard Mrs Compton correctly, but the woman’s face was kindly and placid.

‘She wanted me to send him to the nuns,’ Dorothy told her, stroking John’s hair, gently jigging him up and down against her chest. He was becoming more agitated, the hunger of the newborn baby unbearable, edging him towards the point of no return.

‘God forbid,’ said Mrs Compton with feeling. ‘Why don’t you warm his milk? And I’ll look at him properly. He looks well, I must say, but you never know. Is he drinking goat’s milk by any chance?’

Mrs Compton pronounced the baby to be bonny and in no danger.

The goat’s milk was agreeing with him, she could see, and yes, the more she thought about it, the more sense it made to keep all of this quiet. Nina, God bless her, was not the cleverest of girls, not even knowing she was expecting, and she didn’t even want the little chap. She was not maternal enough. Some girls weren’t. How old was she? Nineteen? Well, quite young still. And fond as she was of the good times … and Dorothy, you are, well, you are mature, and capable, and you have had such rotten luck … and any fool can see you love him already, with that love only true mothers have, love for a newborn. The ancient desire to protect. Nina could not be relied upon to have the sense … she might, in time, find a husband willing to accept her illegitimate child, settle down to motherhood, do all right by her son. But the little darling needs that now, as well as in ten years’ time. And Dorothy, you are such an excellent mother. You deserve this stroke of luck, this gift, whatever you want to call it. Just let me know how I can help. I can help.

And the morning gave way to afternoon, and the afternoon wore on, and the fires glowed in the grates and more tea was made; sandwiches were cut. The baby was cuddled, and fed again, and changed. And at three o’clock, Mrs Compton left, to return to the village on her bicycle through the sullen January twilight.

A pact had been made, secrecy assured, an unlikely alliance formed.

Days passed, in which nothing much happened. Each day seemed to remove Nina further from her child, and pull Dorothy closer to him. It was cold, day and night. The winter would last forever, Dorothy felt.

Each day she waited for a letter. They were anxious, long days.

Eventually, the postman came, and a small letter fluttered on to the doormat in the kitchen.

8
th January
1941

Dear Dorothy,

I received your letter with surprise and delight. Dearest, of course you and your baby must come home, regardless of all that has passed between us. I find that this war has softened me rather. ‘Life is short’ is a much-used adage but, nevertheless, it is true. I am alone often these days and I must confess the idea of company, and a grandchild, is appealing. I shall expect you in your own time.

Mother

The office was large and austere, with oak-panelled walls and a ceiling like a moonless night. Dorothy hated the feel of the slippery leather seat, fearing it would prove treacherous and precipitate her on to the floor. She was sweating, though the room was by no means warm. The woman opposite her, huddled inside a thick cardigan, smiled at Dorothy.

‘Well, I’m ready now. I need a few details.’

Dorothy gave John’s name, her own name, her maiden name, her address, the father’s name, his address, his occupation. She had written out the night before all that she was going to say this morning. They were newly-weds, she and Jan, she explained. They had rushed to marry before the baby came. It was wartime. People do rash things. Dorothy shrugged.

The registrar – a world-weary woman, by the look of her – did not react. She just wrote everything down, not looking up – except to query the spelling of Pietrykowski, of course. Dorothy had to ask her to spell Jan with a ‘J’, not a ‘Y’. Her jumping bowels were more than ready to propel their contents from her body. She thought, for one awful moment, that she was going to vomit. She breathed deeply, and told the registrar that she had been a little unwell, very tired, since the baby arrived.

‘And when was John born?’

‘On the twenty-sixth of December.’

‘And where was he born?’

‘In a barn.’

‘Good Lord.’ The woman glanced up again at this, sharply, as if suspecting a joke.

‘At Lodderston Hall Farm.’

‘In that case, I’ll put the farm’s address as his place of birth. Heavens above, the poor little thing.’

‘He caught us … he caught me unawares. It was very sudden.’

‘I should think it was. But isn’t that the best way? My poor sister laboured for hours with her children. I know which I would prefer.’

No further comments were made, and Dorothy left the office clutching John’s birth certificate. She ran for her bus, catching it just in time, found a seat at the back, and opened up the certificate. It was there, in front of her, on pink paper, in blue ink. John’s mother. John’s father.

She had broken the law; the certificate was a work of pure fiction. Yet it was unequivocal. It was surprisingly easy.

And Dorothy felt strangely, truly
alive
for only the second time in her life. She sat on the bus, looking out of the window, knowing she would never make this particular journey again. A new excitement reeled through her, a fear, a huge shudder. She recalled the owl in her dream, fleeing the mobbing crows.

And if thoughts of Jan crept in, she ignored them. She did not want to hear his voice – his wise words, his common sense and, above all, his disapproval. She was going to take this chance, the chance of a lifetime, and nothing anybody could say or do would sway her from the path she alone had chosen.

She would sacrifice anything; she would sacrifice everything. She knew that now. That too was unequivocal.

Back at the cottage, John was asleep in Mrs Compton’s arms. He’d had milk and two nappy changes, and in between he’d slept like a lamb nearly the whole time. He was no trouble, the little dear. Now. It was done?

Dorothy nodded.

‘And tomorrow, you must leave, as we’ve planned. I’ll be here at half past six sharp. Don’t worry how I’ll manage it, just trust me. You be ready to go. All will be well, Dorothy. You must not look back.’

E
arlier than usual, Dorothy made sandwiches for Aggie and Nina and filled a Thermos flask. Not one each today, unfortunately, she explained. She had broken one of them; it was smashed to smithereens, what a nuisance. She would have to replace it as soon as she could. She said goodbye to the girls as normal, casually, bidding them to keep warm, checking they had their scarves and gloves. Wiping her hands on her pinny, brushing a strand of hair from her face. It was another day, just another day in this, the new realm of ordinary since Boxing Day.

Mrs Compton and Dorothy had decided it was best to say nothing. What if Nina had a change of heart?

Be careful. Tell a white lie. Tell as many white lies as you need to. Young girls can be so fickle. It would be inconvenient, to say the least. It would break your heart, Dorothy. Say nothing. Act normally.

Dorothy stood at her kitchen window and watched the girls pick their way across the Long Acre, two forlorn figures becoming smaller and smaller, finally disappearing. She cried, just a tear or two, feeling she would never see either of the girls again. They had been through so much together, these difficult months of war, such hard work, losses and death all around them, bombs and crashes and heartbreak. Dorothy hoped, sincerely, that both girls would fare well. Somehow, in that part of her where sure and secret knowledge lodged, she knew they would be all right.

Dorothy made sandwiches for herself, wrapping them in brown paper, and hurriedly cleaned up the kitchen. She gathered up her essential items. In the suitcase she packed John’s birth certificate, his clothes and blankets, and Jan’s shirt. (She had sewn the final button on, but as yet she had not laundered or pressed it, wanting to preserve the scent of the man she loved. She could not bring herself to forget him, reject him, swap him completely for the baby who had taken her now for his own. She never would send the shirt to Jan.) She added the bundle of his letters, along with minimal toiletries and a change of outfit for herself. She packed her sandwiches in her shopping basket, along with John’s Thermos of warm milk, the one glass bottle she had room for, some bibs, nappies, pins and powder, and his washcloths, wrapped up in a knitted nappy cover. Her purse was in her handbag, and she could at least sling that over her shoulder. She had two pounds, loaned to her by Mrs Compton. Once she was settled, she would repay the older woman. They had discussed money at length, of course.

At least she had no cumbersome gas mask, because she had not gone along to any of the fittings. Regrettably, she could not take the perambulator, impossible on such a journey; it would have to stay where it was. She wondered if she would be able to free up her hands enough to buy, hold and drink a cup of tea at the stations on her journey. It seemed unlikely.

Other worries assailed her: What if her mother had changed her mind? What if she were to turn her away? Dorothy hoped her mother would remain softened, upon seeing her little grandson, and allow her ‘widowed’ daughter to take up residence once again in the Oxford home Dorothy had been so relieved to escape from seven years before. The whole plan was pinned on this. This was the heart of the matter. Going home. Returning to her mother. A simple plan, an obvious plan. She could but hope that her mother had not reflected too much and had a change of heart. Dorothy knew she would have to tell her mother everything, in all probability, in the end. But she would think about that when the time came.

Mrs Compton, true to her word, arrived at Dorothy’s cottage early, carefully timing her arrival to ensure the girls had left for work. She was driving Dr Soames’s car. How she had procured it, Dorothy had no idea, and she didn’t ask. Mrs Compton and the doctor were pretty thick. Perhaps she had concocted a story about needing to go further afield in all the ice and snow – complaining, perhaps, of the relentless cold of January, and a woman labouring and in need of help.

Before leaving the cottage, Dorothy wandered from room to room for the last time, looking at all the things she would be leaving behind, which was almost everything. She imagined that Aggie and Nina would continue to live in the cottage, at least for a while, perhaps with another couple of land girls, and wondered how they would find time to cook and clean and launder. She lingered over the music box, wiping off a thin layer of dust, lifting and lowering the lid. It was a borrowing, always that, not a gift. She should find a way to return it. But she could not. She would have to leave it for the girls to take care of. And continue to enjoy, she hoped. Until it could be collected by its true owner.

In the feverish days since John’s birth, Dorothy had tried hard to give no thought to Jan. Yet he was there, in her mind, her body, trying to get her to notice him. He was impossible to forget. She could not conjure up for herself his face, his voice, the feel of his firm brown arms, she could not recall clearly the blueness of his eyes or the blackness of his hair. Already he was a memory from some long-gone era. She was sad for him, this dear man who had given her so much in the brief months of their acquaintance. He was her first and only lover in the true sense of the word. And if the baby had not entered her life in his haphazard, squalling fashion, she would have taken her future with Jan, probably marriage, a life together. There would have been no babies, certainly. She felt her body was now done with trying to bear children. This terrible atrophy would have panicked her just a few days ago. But now she had John, and nothing else mattered.

Jan and John. Jan
or
John.

The choice, if it had to be a choice, had been made.

Mrs Compton said little in the car on the way to Lincoln, concentrating on her driving. She did volunteer that she had taught herself to drive, many years ago, against her late husband’s advice. She thought she was a good driver, she told Dorothy, but she didn’t like it, especially in the winter. Still, it was proving useful now. And Mrs Compton smiled sidelong at her, a slow smile of conspiracy.

Dorothy was trying to resist the urge to cry. Leaving her cottage, her home of six years, was not easy. It had been the scene of the major events in her life – in this cottage she had lost her virginity, conceived several babies, given birth to one. She had lost her Sidney, fallen in love with Jan and taught herself to sew and to cook. Above all, it was the house in which John had been given to her. She knew she would never see the house again; she would never even set foot in the county again.