The Adoption (14 page)

We nod. Merfyn mumbles something about how perceptive Miss Mulholland is, that we will trust entirely to her experience in matters such as ours. She offers tea, and although neither of us really feels like it we accept. A tray is brought, the beverage is sipped, biscuits are nibbled. I determine not to let my impatience show. Miss Mulholland keeps disappearing. She gives no explanation of these frequent absences, only reiterating that she will be back in a moment. But I have the distinct feeling that she is a go-between, scurrying down the corridor to another room where Miss Haverd, her mother and our soon-to-be daughter, Lucilla, are huddled. They are also probably drinking tea they don’t want and eating biscuits they have no appetite for. An hour limps by. We are entertained with tapping feet approaching and departing outside the closed door of the room we are in, distant phones ringing, typewriter keys rat-tatting, when Miss Mulholland reappears wearing a positive smile.

‘They are saying their final goodbyes now. It’s preferable that they do this by themselves, don’t you think?’ She clasps and unclasps her hands in a gesture resembling a slow-motion clap, as if applauding the stage we have finally reached.

‘Oh yes, no doubt about it,’ agrees Merfyn, fearing an outpouring of embarrassing womanish sentiment, I hazard inwardly.

I suppress a sigh and incline my head. There follows a briefing as if we are about to go over the trenches. ‘What’s going to happen is this. Miss Haverd will bring Baby in. Somewhat unusual but she has insisted. She will put Baby –’ She breaks off in a self-deprecatory titter. ‘
She
will put
Lucilla
in your arms, Mrs Pritchard, and then without dawdling she will go. I have taken the liberty of applying a condition to this personal delivery. I have told her that there is to be no conversation. That’s safest, I think. We don’t want this to be a drawn-out process, do we?’

I resist the temptation of commenting that it has already been more drawn out than Neville Chamberlain’s unsuccessful peace negotiations with the tyrant Hitler, and can we please get it over with. ‘Like pulling off a plaster. So much less painful if you’re quick,’ approves Merfyn with unwarranted joviality.

‘So, Mrs Pritchard, if you’re ready?’ Miss Mulholland checks, pencilled eyebrows rising quizzically.

I am not terribly sure what the apposite response to this should be, so I improvise. ‘Oh yes, quite ready,’ I respond putting down my teacup and making a cradle of my arms in preparation.

Merfyn looks as if he has suddenly been seized with a fit of stage fright and, hands on knees, rumples up the fabric of his trousers. But oddly I am not averse to the idea of seeing
her
, the birth mother, giving her a surreptitious appraisal. Who knows what clues she may hold as to the kind of butterfly that will in due course hatch from the pupa we are collecting. In fact, in that instant I am more curious about her than I am about the baby. ‘Well then, if we are all content I will go and fetch Miss Haverd, and … and Lucilla.’

We nod yet again. It is another ten minutes before the door opens hesitantly and in
she
comes, gripping on to a woolly bundle like a lifesaver it seems. She is shepherded by Miss Mulholland. It goes without a hitch. No civilities are exchanged, for we are all struck dumb. The girl, she appears no more than that, eyes modestly downcast, approaches me. I give her an encouraging smile, but I’m not sure if she sees it. Her focus is riveted on the baby swathed in knitted blankets – garter stitch. And I trace the woolly worms of two runs. I take stock
furtively
. We will not meet again, and I decide that I want to take a mental photograph of her … for … for posterity?

She looks absurdly young, making me feel somewhat staid, like a maiden aunt. I have to grant though that she is tolerably pretty, with the most unusual turquoise eyes. Her hair is a light shade, I think they call it strawberry-blonde. She has on, of all get-ups, trousers cut in some coarse cloth – as if her farm is only five minutes from us and she has just left off minding her sheep. And really they look most unattractive on her slender frame. Her blouse is buttoned to the neck, and over it she wears a scruffy beige cardigan, stockinette stitch. There are two holes in the elbows. She is transparently ill equipped to raise a child. Why she is no more than a child herself. I restrain a sneer. In advance of today I am gratified to see that I summed her up correctly. She is a simple, ill-educated creature in whom the baser appetites of woman hold sway.

As she is putting Lucilla into my arms our eyes do meet and lock for several seconds. I know what you are, is the thought at the forefront of my mind. What does she think, if the chit is capable of cognitive reasoning? I honestly couldn’t say. If she has any common sense she should be feeling thankful that Merfyn and I have come to her rescue. After all, we have been willing to put aside the less than savoury aspects of her unmarried liaison, to shoulder the responsibility of its inevitable outcome. We are giving her back her life and taking the by-blow of her sin off her hands. She very nearly runs from the room. Miss Mulholland hastens after her. Merfyn stands and, hands quivering, bends from the waist and brushes a crooked finger over Lucilla’s round cheek. The baby blinks up at us with her birth mother’s unsettling turquoise eyes, and gives an involuntary start.

‘Hello, Lucilla,’ says Merfyn in a funny voice I have not heard before, twee as Annette Mills joshing with Muffin the Mule. ‘We’re your new mother and father.’

Later, riding home on the bus with the baby on my lap, Merfyn tucks an arm about my waist. ‘Oh, Mother,’ he says beaming down at Lucilla, ‘isn’t she grand?’ Like a schooner in the doldrums my sails sag. I realise suddenly that he is addressing me.

Chapter 10

Bethan, 1948

6th August, 1948

Dear Miss Haverd
,

We are enclosing herewith the ‘Consent to Adoption’ form for you to complete and return to us, if possible, by Wednesday, 11th August, so that the case may be heard in the next session of court. It will be necessary for your signature to be witnessed by a Justice of the Peace, and you should complete the Declaration at the foot of the page in his presence
.

We are happy to say that Lucilla is progressing very well indeed, and thriving with her adoptive parents who are devoted to her
.

With best wishes
.

Yours sincerely
,

Valeria Mulholland

Secretary

10th Aug, 1948

Dear Madam
,

I am very pleased to hear that Lucilla is getting on well, and that her parents dote on her. I only wish that I could have kept her. But I am happy to know that she is definitely in a very good home. I am afraid it is not possible for me to attend court in London for
the
adoption. But I have signed the form and enclosed it
.

Thanking you for your great kindness
,

Yours sincerely
,

Bethan Modron Haverd
.

18th August, 1948

Dear Miss Haverd
,

I am afraid the form you sent will not do. It is necessary for you to attend the court hearing personally for the Adoption of your baby. Will you let me know by return if there are any days on which you could not be present? We will give you good notice of the date settled on
.

If you have nowhere to stay in London overnight, I will try to make arrangements for accommodation for you. Are you in a position to pay your own expenses?

Yours sincerely
,

Valeria Mulholland

Secretary

20th Aug, 1948

Dear Madam
,

Received your letter this morning. I was surprised in reading it. It is impossible for me to journey to London as I am a land worker on the farm. I could not have leave for an hour because the corn harvest has just commenced. I am at my work from 6 am in the morning till nine o’clock in the evening. Every person here’s the same and each one at different jobs
.

So I hope you will quite understand my position
.

Yours truly
,

B. M. Haverd

2nd September, 1948

Dear Miss Haverd
,

Thank you for your letter. I am very sorry to inform you that the adoption cannot proceed unless you attend the court in person. The Justices are adamant in this regard, and they will not make any exceptions. The court is being held on 14th September, 10 am at Highgate. You will be kept there no longer than 12 noon. It would be possible for you to catch the night train from Newport and return the day of the hearing. Mr Johnston, who is acting for the Justices, is writing to you to explain these conditions. The Justices will not dispense with your attendance
.

We shall be only too pleased to meet you and accompany you to the court, as well as booking your accommodation should that be necessary
.

Please write by return
,

Yours sincerely
,

Valeria Mulholland

Secretary

6th Sept, 1948

Dear Madam
,

Thank you for yours of the 2nd Sept with instructions. I trust that my daughter will be able to carry them out. She understands punctuality is of the utmost importance. Once again I would be grateful if you could see that her expenses are covered, as we are not in a position to pay for her
.

Faithfully yours
,

Ifan Havard

THORSTON DIDN’T ANSWER
my letter, so there wasn’t a miracle after all. I have to believe that he didn’t receive it, that it’s at the bottom of
a
sack in the sorting office with all the other undelivered letters. I can’t live with the possibility that he did get it. But by then, what with the scene and my father punching him, and the dogs, he may have made the decision that I wasn’t worth it, worth the suffering our relationship would inevitably entail. No, I won’t have that. My letter has gone astray, the way we did, diverting from paths that our heritage had laid down for us. So please have some compassion for me, some forgiveness. The doors were slammed behind me, and not merely slammed but locked and bolted. I had no other option. God of mercy I had no other option.

I set off on a train rattling through the night, the beginning of what seems an unending journey. Stiff as a rake I am, in my seat in the carriage. My spine feels as if I couldn’t bend it if I wanted to. I am by the window but there is no advantage to it. The lights reflect on the glass making it extremely difficult to see anything at all. Exhaustion overwhelms me, bodily exhaustion. But I can’t sleep. It’s a weird sensation, my head spinning with tiredness, and me riding in a pod rocketing through space. Outside is nothing. Inside is nothing too, so they match. There is a man, a middle-aged man I’d guess, with a briefcase, sitting by the compartment door. He has a drooping moustache and I think it must be tickling his nose because he keeps wiggling it, then blowing it noisily into a big white hanky.

Opposite me is an elderly woman with a worn face. Her hair is thin and grey, and tidied into a bun that looks like a hedgehog there are so many hairpins sticking out of it. Her skin looks grey too, like elastic with the twang gone out of it. Her eyes are dull as juniper berries, and the whites don’t look white at all but tinted blue. She has whiskers like a man’s growing from her chin and her nose. She’s wearing a tweed skirt and jacket. And there’s a silver brooch of a sailing boat pinned at her neck. Both her and the man start their journey reading, him, papers from his briefcase, her, a journal. Then after an hour or so the lady
nods
off, her mouth dropping open so that I can see the few yellow teeth she has left. Minutes pass and the man falls asleep as well. But he’s very tidy about it, crossing his arms over his briefcase, and pushing the hat he is wearing down over his eyes. It’s weird but when I stare at the lady it’s like looking at myself. I’m being dotty, I know. I’m young and she’s old. All the same, it’s my reflection.

I am altered. I can’t really say how because I’m no longer sure of the way I was before. The girl who went to London and stayed in a flat in Rochester Row, growing fat as a beer barrel day by day until she burst open, well … she’s someone else. And this is healthy really, this division. No, it is. So don’t feel pity for me. I have no feelings any more. Honestly, if you took a hatpin and pushed it into me, my leg, my arm … I don’t believe I would feel a thing. I am anaesthetised. As for my heart, I am as certain as I can be that it stopped beating months ago.

That other Bethan – you might like to know that she gave birth in New End Hospital, Hampstead, in January of this year, the 14th. She was very frightened. The pains began on one of her walks. They weren’t bad at the outset, something like chronic period pains, and she was so relieved. If it continued at this level she thought that she would breeze through it. She would be like the sheep that dropped their lambs in the field and then went on grazing. But it didn’t stay like this. Rapidly it doubled, then trebled, then quadrupled, until it was as though the agony was a masochist within her. And it had its own rhythm as it bit into her. Then, when she was on the brink of fainting, when she wanted to die it was so excruciating, it paused in a kind of menacing manner. And even those pauses were horrid because she knew they would end soon, and that those teeth would again become fangs locked on her innards. They weren’t very charitable to her at the hospital. They knew that the baby she was giving birth to was not like the others, that it was illegitimate. Her mam was kind to her when it came to it. She stayed with her all through that endless hard labour, held her hand, spoke
about
how she was as a little girl, skipping around outdoors all weathers, a wild child.

What she did not expect, what she had not figured into this equation, was how the birth would turn her anguish into exultation. It was magic. If the love she felt for Thorston had been forbidden, then she knew the savage immediate love that possessed her for his baby, for their daughter, was outlawed. Over the next three months she starred in the theatre of the absurd. The baby must be fed, but not breastfed. Her mam was adamant about this. The infant would be given the bottle, formula milk. The less contact Bethan had with the baby the safer for all of them. So her breasts were swollen and sore. When she heard the baby whimper, they leaked milk. Weeks it took for the supply to finally dry up. Her mam dictated that she would be the baby’s carer, changing and feeding her, getting up to her in the night, rocking and cuddling her. They should take every precaution to prevent a maternal bond developing, she told her. So Bethan left her mam with the baby and ambled the streets alone, out nearly all day sometimes.