Orphan of Angel Street (45 page)

The lake seemed to hold secrets, Mercy thought, the unknown spread out in front of them, like their future.

She was acutely aware of Paul close to her, could feel his heart. The city was beating distantly around them, but here it was quiet, serene, a breeze riffling the water.

Paul took a deep, nervous breath.

‘Mercy?’

She turned to him. He looked tense, eyes full of longing.

‘I know things are very uncertain. I can’t offer you much, not with any guarantees . . .’ He trailed off, watching for her reaction. ‘Could you – will you marry me?’

Mercy’s hand shot to her mouth.

‘O-o-o-h!’ She reached out for the support of his shoulders, lest her legs give way. ‘D’you really mean it?’ But she could see that he did. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll marry you, and cherish you with every bit of my heart.’

With a cry of joy he held her tight to him. ‘Thank you – oh God, thank you. My beautiful, beloved Mercy!’

Too happy then, for words, they stared across the water in each other’s arms. Mercy took off her hat and rested her head against Paul’s shoulder.

How lovely everything is, she thought. The New World. A new life, new tomorrow. With this man whom I love. New beginnings are possible, and I’ll make this one the best of my life.

May 1920

Mercy knelt on the linoleum in the Adairs’ bathroom, resting her forehead against the cold rim of the bath and closed her eyes.

‘He said it couldn’t happen!’ The words escaped as a desperate whisper from her lips. She was too sick and exhausted even to cry.

Screwing her eyes even more tightly shut she prayed, ‘God in heaven help me! What am I going to do?’

It had begun gradually, with a slight feeling of queasiness which she put down to something she’d eaten. But it had got worse and for three weeks now she’d been bad in the mornings, and all day long was plagued by exhaustion of an intensity she’d never experienced before. She felt as if she’d turned into an old woman, barely able to get through the day, and it was frightening. Whatever was the matter with her?

The truth was too terrible to think about. If it wasn’t for the way she felt she would have shut it right out of her mind. But she couldn’t pretend to herself any longer. She’d seen the state of Margaret, and while she wasn’t anything like as bad as that, she grew more and more certain that she, too, was carrying a child by James Adair.

She turned slowly and sat on the floor, resting against the bath, shivering, arms hugging her knees. Her head ached, and the small amount of breakfast she’d managed to eat didn’t feel at all safely stowed in her stomach. Nausea rose in her like water filling a bucket.

‘Mercy – are you there?’ Margaret called through the door.

‘Just coming,’ she managed to reply.

‘That’s all right, dear, no hurry. Stevie’s ready whenever you are. You might take him out this morning as it’s such a fine day.’

‘Yes—’ Mercy lurched forward on to her hands and knees, trying to stand up and catching her foot in her pale blue frock – ‘I’ll do that.’

She heard Margaret move away, and got up, feeling dreadfully sick. Her innards clenched and she retched miserably over the basin until her eyes and nose ran and she was panting. But she felt better after and washed the basin thoroughly.

She met Rose on the landing, carrying an armful of dry linen.

‘Blimey – you look bad.’

‘No.’ Mercy pulled her foul-tasting lips into a smile. ‘I’m awright. ’Course I am.’

Rose frowned, watching her as she walked determinedly towards Stevie’s room. Whatever she said, Mercy looked terrible. It was obvious she was putting on a brave face.

‘You’re such a help to me,’ Margaret told her all the time. She was at last beginning to feel better. She had been unwell, in patches, through most of their visit to the United States. For a day or two she might be all right, and then the sickness would return and she was laid up. Mrs Kesler had been kindness itself and the two women grew very close. On days when Margaret was weak and sick, Gerder and Mercy took it in turns to keep her company. When she had the strength to venture out they had taken gentle walks in the city, strolling the avenues and the park. When James and Kesler were there at the weekend they had motored out to Long Island, to a place called Westhampton. It was a long drive, but when they arrived they picnicked by the ocean, the sand piled in heaps behind them and stuck with sharp, papery grass. James Adair did not speak a word to Mercy all day, did not even meet her eyes.

But she was full of excitement and euphoria at the sight of the sea. She and Stevie frolicked on the sand and watched the Atlantic swoosh up on to the beach, hearing the pound of it against the shore, feeling it rush cold over her feet.
Paul, Paul,
the breakers seemed to whisper, and through their roar and mutter she heard his voice, ‘my beautiful, beautiful Mercy’, and she smiled and laughed, running in and out of its lacy edge.

‘Another letter for you,’ Margaret said when Mercy eventually carried Stevie downstairs. ‘Mercy – are you still feeling unwell? Perhaps we should call a doctor?’

‘Oh – no!’ Mercy forced a smile and pretended to be surprised. ‘I’m on the mend, thanks.’ She took the letter and put it in her pocket. The sight of Paul’s sloping, untidy handwriting sent an agonizing pang through her, and she tried to hide her tears, busying herself with Stevie. ‘We’ll go straight away. Get the best of the day.’

She was glad to be out in the fresh air. Stevie sat in his pushchair, left thumb comfortingly in his mouth and his little grey rabbit snuggled up to his face. Mercy pushed him down the hill to the park. She felt weak and lightheaded, but her thoughts seemed to hammer in her mind. Not for one second would they leave her in peace. A babby . . . a babby . . . inside her, and it was going to get bigger and bigger. Margaret Adair was four months gone with child and her belly was already growing. When she grew like that she wouldn’t be able to hide it any more, and then what would become of her? Everything she’d hoped for, a new job, new life, would be lost to her. James Adair had torn into her, made her dirty, a disgrace. Now she was home again, where everything felt different and she could no longer block out what had happened, her shame and regret were enough to overwhelm her. She hated herself. She should have run out of that state room, screamed for help from Paul, suffered disgrace then, instead of being left to live with the consequences for ever.

As for Paul . . . the letter in her pocket nudged against her leg insistently with every step . . . The very thought of him filled her with anguish. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop herself weeping even as she walked down the road, keeping her head down to hide her face under the brim of her straw hat. She felt as if her very soul were pouring out, flooding the street.

She’d been such a ninny, thinking she could start afresh, that she could lift the curse of her beginnings and put the bad things of the past behind her. Everything had seemed possible when she was with Paul, but how could she have forgotten who she really was? That all her fresh hopes had always ended in suffering and loss?

She passed through the park gates with trembling legs and a leaden heart. The beds of bright spring flowers seemed to mock her. She began to sob so hard that Stevie craned round to look at her.

‘Here—’ – She bent over him, trying to sound normal – ‘you can have a little run round now, can’t you?’

He was still at an age when he wanted to keep her in sight. Mercy sank down on a bench and, steeling herself for fresh pain, took out Paul’s letter. Once again it was from Cambridge. Paul had returned to London after his post on the
Mauretania
, but shortly after, Mr Louth had been taken seriously ill and he had been forced to go home. Mercy’s heart had gone out to him. She knew how hard it would be for him to be with his father.

My
dearest
Mercy,

Another week and I’m still in Cambridge. Father has been out of hospital for several days now, but is still very weak and incapable. His right leg is not making the progress they hoped and as yet he can barely utter a word that anyone can understand. The doctor came to see him this morning and said he should be sent back to hospital, that they had allowed him home far too soon. I agree really, but the agony in his eyes when he heard those words! It’s terrible to see him. The horror for a man like my father – a teacher, a linguist – of not being able to make himself understood, is almost beyond imagining. I can imagine enough though, and feel in a constant state of unrest, impatience and sadness seeing it. I looked after men in France in far worse condition, but there’s something impossible about it when it’s your own father. If only you were here. I miss you. Perhaps it would all make sense if I could see you . . .

Mercy broke off as Stevie ran to her carrying a flower.

‘Oh dear.’ She managed a watery smile. ‘Thank you, darling – but you mustn’t pick any more flowers, Stevie love. No more.’

He ran off, wide-eyed. She saw him stop, eyes following the looping flight of a yellow butterfly.

. . . I have had some time to think, Mercy, and I wonder whether, when this is over, the best thing would be for me to come to Birmingham and find work. Not ships of course, but I haven’t gone far down that path yet. Birmingham couldn’t be a better place for an engineer. The more I think of it, it seems the very best thing. As soon as I can safely leave Father.

What I know is that life is very short and fragile and the best things in it have to be carefully cherished. All that matters is that we can be together, and I long for that. Apologies: today finds me in a rather mournful, philosophical mood. Do write soon, my love . . .

He finished the letter with more loving greetings that started Mercy’s tears afresh. She put her hands over her face. ‘Oh Paul, Paul . . .’ If only he were here! If she could only weep in his arms and tell him all her pain and troubles. But he was the very last person she could be with now or confide in. She was racked by a multitude of emotions. Everything was wrong. It should have been his child that she carried, he who should have touched her and bound their lives together. But no. It could be no more. He’d said he could forgive her anything that had gone before. But this wasn’t before – it was now and for the future. No one could forgive her that.

‘Oh,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t have a child! I haven’t the strength to do it all on my own.’ For she would have no help from James Adair. He and Margaret must never, ever know. His knowing would only compound her shame and humiliation, and Margaret would find out that she had been betrayed by both husband and friend. She knew that from now on, she was alone.

Stevie toddled up to her and patted her knee when he saw her crying. The sight of his sorrowful brown eyes made her sob even harder. For he, dear, lovely little boy, would be lost to her too. She would have to leave him as completely as she left his parents and the thought broke her heart.

‘It’s awright, bab.’ She scooped him up into her lap and held him tight, resting her wet cheek against the top of his sun-warmed curls. ‘Mercy’s awright, don’t you worry.’

She clung to the soft, warm flesh in her arms, kissing him. For a moment she was overcome by utter astonishment. Inside her, another child was growing. It was part of her and she was its mother. Joy passed through her, just for a second, like a fork of lightning. She was going to have to survive, to struggle alone, and at this moment she had no idea how. But however hard it was, she was going to do right by this child. With burning determination she thought of her own mother.

I will never desert you, she pledged. I’ll never abandon you as my mother abandoned me. You’ll be mine and I yours, and whatever it takes, come hell or high water, we’ll stay together.

Every day, for the rest of that blossom-filled week in May, she did her jobs for Margaret Adair, and hid her sickness. At night she tossed and turned in her attic room, rigid with fear and worry. Her mind spun round and round. How much longer can I stay here? Where can I go?

On Saturday evening she made a bundle of clothes. She lay on her bed fully dressed, knowing she was never going to sleep. Late on in the night she slipped down into Stevie’s room, her heart hammering so loudly she felt it might wake the household. It was still very dark and she had to feel her way across the room towards the sound of his breathing. She couldn’t reach far enough over the side of the cot to kiss his face, so she kissed her palm and stroked it against his warm cheek, held his curled hand for a moment. She had cuddled and kissed him that night for a long time before he slept. Now the time had come she had to be quick.

‘Goodbye, darling Stevie. Mercy will always love you, wherever you are. Have a happy and blessed life.’ With one more kiss, she left him.

The clock downstairs chimed four thirty. Almost dawn. With great care she drew back the bolt and turned the key of the door. She took a last look into the hall, just able to make out the shadowy shapes of its furnishings. Already, with the leaving of it, the place felt distant from her.

‘Goodbye, Margaret,’ she whispered. Her throat ached with unshed tears.

Carrying her bundle, she stepped out into the misty garden.

Light began to finger the edges of the city as she walked down the Moseley Road and the mist slowly cleared. She didn’t hurry. No one was awake, she wouldn’t be missed, and besides, she hadn’t the strength. She pulled her coat round her in the cool air. She hadn’t been able to bring all the clothes Margaret had generously supplied her with, but she kept the blue overcoat.

Down the hill she walked, into Balsall Heath, and how much it felt as if she was sinking down! As the light grew firmer it highlighted the grime and delapidation of the place, the filthy cobbled road, the smoking chimneys which coated everything in muck. The buildings shrank to small, menial dwellings, shops and workshops, houses with yards squeezed in behind. She had left her temporary dream life of the big, well-appointed house, and as her feet trod the road towards Birmingham, she felt as if the streets were closing in on her, claiming her. A slum child, returning to her rightful place in the slums. She found herself thinking of Yola Petrowski, the kinship she felt as if they were sisters, even though they hadn’t a single word of language in common. They were two of a kind: poor and needy. She remembered baby Peschka and felt a moment of exaltation – she too was going to have a child! – followed by a sinking desolation. She had no Tomek. There was no one for her.