Clover's Child (22 page)

Dot rocked her baby to sleep and held him close while he dozed, ignoring the nursery rule that baby must be placed back in the bassinet when asleep. She cared little for their rules and gave a look that defied anyone to try and remove him.

‘I want us to run away, Solomon. I want to wrap you up and run far away, but I don’t even have the bus fare to Southend, what can I do? I can’t sleep outside, not with you. And I’m frightened that if they find me, you’ll be taken off me and then I don’t know where you’ll end up. At least this way, my little love, I know you are going to someone that will give you a lovely life.’ She kissed his head. ‘I want you to know, little man, that you have changed my life in the most amazing way. I might not get to be your mum forever, but being your mum for a couple of weeks is something I will never forget. I had you all to meself for nine whole months and it was such a precious time, darling. There was just you and me and no one to disturb us. You are beautiful, Solomon, and I want you to know that even though he’s gone now, your dad, you were made in love, real deep love, even if it was only for a little while. I want you to lock these words away in your head and think about them as you grow up. You are going to be a big, strong boy and you’ll have a wonderful life, but try and remember me, Solomon, try and remember these lovely days that we’ve had together, my love. I know I will, for always.’

Dot fed Solomon and held him against her chest while she rubbed small circles on his back, trying to wind him. She continued to whisper into his ear, desperately hoping that her words would reach his subconscious and be there for recall whenever he needed them.

Sister Mary knocked on her door and poked her head inside the room. Dot knew what the young nun was going to say before she spoke and her tears fell in fat, hot drops down her cheeks. She felt suffocated.

‘The Dubois family will be here in two hours to take baby Simon,’ Sister Mary began. ‘If you could get him ready and wheel him down to the gate house, that would be for the best. Or we could get someone else to take him down for you, if you are not up to it?’ It clearly wasn’t the first time that she had delivered this speech.

An image of Gracie’s mother came into focus; the stoic, dignified manner with which she had performed the last duty for her little girl.

‘No, I’ll do it.’

The two hours seemed to pass in minutes. Dot bathed her boy, cradling him in one crooked arm as he kicked in the warm water. She gently massaged his skin with the muslin cloth and covered him in talc before putting his nappy and rubber pants in place and slipping him into the white babygro as instructed. She fed him one last time and held his face so close to hers that when he breathed out she breathed in, taking his breath down into her lungs.

The fancy Silver Cross pram stood outside her door. She placed him gently on its tiny mattress, where there was the slightest indent from all the other babies that had been laid down there before him – Gracie, Sophie and hundreds like them. She tucked the small blanket around the edges so that he wouldn’t feel any draught. Pulling the hood up, she gazed at his sleeping form, taking mental pictures that she would store away for a lifetime. Dot placed the blue romper suit the colour of St Lucian sky at the base of the pram and set off along the corridor and across the gravel.

She didn’t notice the heavily pregnant girl who raked the gravel outside the main entrance, she didn’t notice anything, but instead concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and staring at the gate house that grew larger with each step. Stopping to adjust Solomon’s blanket, bringing it up to his chin, she bent low inside the pram. ‘Be brave, my little one, be brave. It’ll be okay, mate, just you wait and see.’ Solomon did not stir.

Dot knocked and the side door was opened. She pushed the pram through and found herself in what resembled a waiting room. A couple of functional, office-type chairs stood against the wall, otherwise the place was bare except for a large oil painting of His Holiness Pope John XXIII. There was a door in the corner and to the left of that a grill with a small sliding cover. Sister Mary reached out to take the handle of the pram. Dot caught her wrist, she wanted five more minutes. But then she realised that she would always want five more minutes and she released her and nodded.

‘Make sure they take his little suit,’ she whispered hoarsely, every word taking a supreme effort.

Sister Mary swiftly turned the pram, approached the door in the corner and gave a small knock. It was opened immediately.

Even though she had promised herself that she wouldn’t, Dot slid the little door on the grill and pushed her face up to it. She saw a man and a woman, older than her, probably in their late twenties; they were smartly dressed and smiling. Professor Dubois had his arms around his wife’s shoulders and was gripping her in anticipation; she in turn reached up and placed her palm over the back of his hand. Mrs Dubois wore a cameo brooch at the neck of her blouse, the collar of which peeked from beneath her camel-coloured jersey. Sister Kyna stood behind them with her hands clasped in front of her, looking very pleased with herself. Dot felt a wave of hatred for this woman who called herself a servant of God.

Mrs Dubois placed both her hands under her chin as the pram was pushed into the room and Dot watched as her eyes filled with tears. Dot’s own eyes were strangely dry. Sister Mary lifted the baby from the pram and handed him to the woman. Dot swallowed a wave of sickness.

‘Oh, Simon! Oh, there you are, look at you!’ Mrs Dubois raised his little face to hers and kissed him.

Please don’t cover up my kisses
, Dot thought.
Remember what I said to you, Solomon, remember that I love you, remember me
. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach as though she had been cut. For the first time in nearly seven months, Dot did not ache for the man who had abandoned her; his face no longer appeared behind her eyelids with every blink. His image had been replaced with that of her baby boy, and there her son’s face would stay for the rest of her life.

Mrs Dubois walked towards the grill. Dot shrank backwards, she didn’t want to be seen. The woman spoke into the space, holding Dot’s son close to her chest. ‘It sounds so inadequate, but thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, thank you! I’d be happy to send you photos or a letter—’

Dot pulled the grill shut and sat on the little chair in the corner. There was no point – as if she’d be able to receive photos! Her mum and dad would go berserk. She felt strangely detached, as though she was floating near the ceiling, looking down on herself and watching proceedings from on high. Even though she could no longer see what was happening next door, she could hear the loudest of the coos and exclamations. When her son began to cry, she stuffed her fingers into her ears and placed her head on her knees. She wanted it to be over.

Some minutes later, Sister Mary appeared with the pram. ‘You may take it back to the nursery, Dot.’

Like an automaton, Dot stood on wobbly legs. She laid her hand against the empty mattress that was still slightly warm before straightening up. She pushed the pram outside and onto the gravel. She looked straight ahead and tried not to think about the car that was waiting to whisk her son away to a new life. A better life, a better life than someone like her could ever give him. As the door closed behind her, she heard the unmistakeable, instantly recognisable sound of her son’s cry. He was crying again, fresh tears, and there was nothing she could do.

Dot crossed the gravel slowly and made it back to the confines of the nursery wing, where Sister Agnes was waiting.

‘Here, Dot, let me take that from you.’ The kindly Sister reached over to take the pram handle and in doing so, dislodged the blanket to reveal a small corner of summer’s day blue.

Dot pushed her fingers below the cover and pulled out the romper suit with its perfect hand-stitched seams. She sank down onto the floor and covered her face with the small garment. The sound she emitted was part wail, part sob, like an animal drowning in her own tears.

Sister Agnes knelt on the floor by her side and stroked her hair. ‘Shhh. It’ll all be okay, Dot, it will all be okay.’

‘I want my baby! I want him back. Please, please help me. I want him back!’

‘Goodness, what is all this noise in aid of?’ Sister Kyna stood by the back door, her smile, as usual, fixed in place.

Dot reached behind and, using the wall, levered herself into an upright position. With the romper suit in her hand, she pointed at Sister Kyna. ‘This
noise
is because my heart is broken. Broken! I made him this, it was the one thing he could have had from me, the one thing! But you didn’t give it to them, you knew—’

‘To be quite honest with you, Miss Simpson, do you really think that a couple like Professor Dubois and his wife would want to place their son in a garment like
that
?’

Their son… Their son!
Dot was silent for some seconds, gathering her strength, ordering her thoughts. She spoke slowly. ‘I don’t know what a couple like that would think, cos I ain’t no university professor, but I do know this. I may not have any education, but I do have a life, I’ve had a life! You hide away up here, Sister Kyna, passing judgement on every girl that steps inside the doors, girls that need your help, girls that have no choices, girls like me. And yet you can’t pass judgement, cos you don’t know anything! You talk about things that you have no idea about, things like love and pregnancy. I feel sorry for you, I do. You’ll never know what it’s like to lie in the arms of the man you love on a blanket in front of a fire and feel safe and happy. You’ll never dance in front of Etta James! You’ve been so horrible to me, and if it wasn’t for Sister Agnes, this place would be hell on bloody earth. I hope you’re right about your god being a god of forgiveness, cos when you step up for judgement, you are going to need a lot of forgiveness. You are one wicked cow!’

Sister Kyna was not used to being addressed in this way. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she looked ruffled, thrown off balance. When she found her voice, there was only the slightest tremor to betray her. ‘Sister Agnes, would you please be so kind as to help Miss Simpson pack her things and escort her to the main gate. She has more than outstayed her welcome.’

An hour later, the unlikely pair of friends stood at the gate of Lavender Hill Lodge. Sister Agnes looked straight ahead and delivered her words into the middle distance. Anyone looking on might have judged from her straight back, clasped hands and remote stance that she was delivering a rebuke, or at the very least a cold farewell.

‘I want you to try and remember that this is not the end of your life, Dot.’

‘It feels like it.’ Dot looked up with swollen eyes.

‘Of that I am sure, dear. Of that I am sure. But trust me when I say that you have a lot of years ahead of you and you must fill them in a positive way. Don’t turn your back on God through anger; he is there for you if and when you need him. You have brought a beautiful baby boy into this world and the gift you gave to that family makes you forever an angel in their hearts. To give a child such a start is an incredible thing and you are an incredible girl.’

‘He was beautiful, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, my dear, he really was. And it has been my privilege to be part of your journey. I wish you nothing but the very best of luck, love and happiness, Dot Simpson.’

Dot nodded through her tears and grasped Sister Agnes’s hand. ‘Thank you. I won’t ever forget you.’

‘Do you know, Dot, I rather hope that you do.’

9

Dot sat on the bus that took her to Waterloo station with her suitcase wedged between her feet. It felt strange to be in the outside world. Lavender Hill Lodge had been quiet, almost removed from the real world, and the shouts, beeps and engine growls of everyday life made her jump. She was out of practice being in a crowd, but at least she was anonymous; that suited her just fine.

Boarding the 278, nearly two hours after leaving Battersea, Dot gazed through the bus window as familiar landmarks rushed by. She stared at the Merchant’s House, counted the steps up which she had trotted some seven months earlier.
‘I thought he might have informed you. He is not coming back. He’s gone home for good.’
It was quite a novelty for Dot to be able to recall his mother’s words and feel nothing but numb. She now knew there were far bigger things in the world to be lamented.

Standing at the end of Narrow Street, she hesitated, burying her chin in her scarf to ward off the November chill. These were the streets that she had wandered her whole life, she knew them in all seasons and could navigate them with her eyes closed, and yet today she felt like an imposter. The girl that used to play stick in the mud with the kids from the neighbouring streets, the teenager that used to trot along the cobbles in her mum’s best shoes, stolen for a night out – she no longer existed. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes and she now saw the harsh reality of her life in every grubby, soot-filled corner that she looked at. Truth was, she had rather liked seeing the world through the flimsy gauze that had diluted the grime, watered down the poverty and smudged the disadvantage until it all seemed quite comfortable. Now that it had gone, she was left with the stark truth of life in Ropemakers Fields.

Picking up her suitcase, she turned into the street that meant home, or at least had used to. Nothing much had changed. The clever boy from Number 29 was still driving his pretty little Mini. The same street lights flickered into life as dusk bit on the day. The same dogs behind the same doors barked at the sound of her footsteps on the pavement and the same voices shouted ‘Shudddup, bloody dog!’ as they did several times a day.

Mrs Harrison was in situ, as if no time had passed at all. She still displayed the sign that made Dot’s stomach shrink. A sign that meant there would be no ten-pound ticket for someone like her, for a baby like hers. She shook her head to rid herself of the image; she couldn’t think about him, not now.