Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (27 page)

At the station, both women looked around nervously before emerging from the car into the freezing morning fog. Mrs Compton insisted on carrying the basket and the suitcase to the ticket office and holding John while Dorothy bought her ticket. Then Mrs Compton bought her a cup of tea from the station cafe.

‘You may not get another chance,’ she said. ‘Have one now, for heaven’s sake.’

Dorothy thanked her and drank the tea hastily, and soon they were making their way to platform three in silence, the click of Dorothy’s heels the only sound. It was early, she was catching the first train out, and there were no other passengers about, mercifully. Yet Dorothy was uneasy, looking around, licking her dry lips, clearing her throat. On the platform, Mrs Compton insisted on waiting with her and stood close to her, too close, like a guard.

‘What’s going on?’

Dorothy and Mrs Compton started as a slight figure in long coat, hat and gumboots stepped out from the waiting room.

‘Aggie,’ said Mrs Compton, moving to stand in front of Dorothy and the baby. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Getting wise to your game, that’s what. What are
you
doing here, anyway? She can’t bloody stand you.’

There was silence on the platform for a moment, then Dorothy gently eased round Mrs Compton and said, ‘Aggie, can we talk?’

‘That’s what I’m here for. That, and to stop you stealing Nina’s baby.’

‘I’m not stealing him,’ cried Dorothy, indignant.

‘What
are
you doing, then?’ Aggie’s expression was fierce.

‘Giving him an opportunity. Giving him a life.’

‘Rubbish. You might be able to fool Nina, but you’re not fooling me. This isn’t right, and it’s probably against the law. I’m going to find out. If you get on this train,’ and indeed it was now entering the station, steam and smoke and grit billowing around it, a low whistle announcing its arrival, ‘I’m straight off to the police. They’ll most probably hook you off at the next stop. Fancy getting arrested, eh, Mrs Sinclair?’

‘I’m getting on this train,’ said Dorothy stiffly, clutching John tightly.

‘Go ahead. But you leave David with me, or just you wait and see what happens. I thought you were a proper person. I really did. But you’re not. You’re selfish and rotten and I hate you.’

Mrs Compton, who had maintained a fretful silence since the two women began arguing, now hurried to open a carriage door as the train halted in a cloud of steam and a spray of black salty grit. Dorothy shielded baby John, from the steam, from the grit, from Aggie, as Mrs Compton picked up the suitcase and basket and climbed up into the train. Aggie stood in front of the carriage door.

‘Come on, Dorothy!’ called Mrs Compton. ‘Get on the train.’

With surprising speed and strength, Aggie reached out and grabbed the baby from Dorothy’s arms.

‘No!’ cried Dorothy.

Mrs Compton leapt from the train, light on her feet for a woman of her age, and rounded on Aggie. ‘You give that baby back.’

‘No. I won’t. She has no right to do this! It’s terrible.’ Aggie’s jaw was set in defiance, her eyes blazing.

‘You stupid girl,’ said Mrs Compton. ‘What do you know about “rights”? What about John’s rights?’

‘His name is David, and he should be with his mum,’ retorted Aggie. ‘She’s not thinking, she’s still in shock. At first, I thought she must have known. But now I reckon she didn’t, and it surprised her even more than it did us. But she’ll get used to it, being a mum. I’ll help her, and so will others. She’ll get by. But you, and
you
, both of you, you’re taking it all away from her.’

‘Please understand,’ said Dorothy passionately, ‘no harm will ever come to this little boy. I love him as my own child. He
is
my own child, and I will love him to my dying day. I beg you, please, Agatha, please do not go to the police. Think about the consequences. Nina will not bring up this child, you know that. He’ll be sent to a home, an institution, at best he will be adopted by strangers. I’m giving him security, and love, a comfortable home. I’ll give him an education. Everything.’

Aggie shook her head, looking down at the baby.

He gazed up at them all, eyes wide and unknowing.

The girl’s shoulders sagged in defeat. ‘What can I do?’ she said, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Go on, then! Take him. But shame on you, Dorothy Sinclair,’ and slowly, sobbing, she handed John back.

Dorothy stepped up on to the train, followed by Mrs Compton. Aggie sank on to a bench, rooting in her pockets for her handkerchief.

‘Good luck,’ said Dorothy’s unlikely ally, gently stroking John’s cheek. ‘And good luck to this little man too. I’ll take care of her,’ she added, indicating Aggie with a wave of her hand. ‘Perhaps you could send more money once you’re settled?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ said Dorothy. She felt she ought to sound grateful. She
was
grateful, damn it. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Will it be all right, do you think?’ cried Dorothy, suddenly gripped by anguish. ‘What if Aggie’s right?’

‘It’s going to be fine,’ soothed the older woman. ‘Think of the future, forget that silly girl out there. She’ll not tell a soul. She’s not going to the police, I’ll see to it. Nobody will ever know.’ Mrs Compton leaned in, and lowered her voice even further. ‘I will never tell. You have my word. Think ahead, that is what you must do. Don’t look back, ever. You have a glorious life as a mother ahead of you. Good luck, Dorothy.’

The whistle blew, so Mrs Compton hopped off the train and slammed the door shut behind her. Dorothy placed the remarkably unruffled baby on the seat, opened the window and leaned out. The two figures receded rapidly as the train pulled away, and she thought how small Mrs Compton was, how small Aggie was. Nobody waved. Then they were gone, swallowed in the steam and the smoke and the January gloom.

Soon Lincoln was gone too, and the train was in the countryside, passing between flat fields. Then came the first small station, with soldiers, aircrew, sailors. But there were no policemen. She looked around anxiously, sweating, heart thumping. But the train eventually pulled away and on into Nottinghamshire. At each station they passed through, Dorothy braced herself for policemen, but none appeared, just more servicemen. The waits were agonisingly protracted, and she tried to remain patient. Her last train journey, as she had travelled up to Lincolnshire towards Albert and marriage, had been relaxed and easy, and the memory of that long-ago November calmed her, a little. But perhaps the police were waiting at Nottingham, where she would need to change trains.

But no. The change was harried, jostling, chaotic. There were more soldiers, sailors, airmen, an inexhaustible flow of young men, loud and raucous, and some of these young men – young women too – were heading for oblivion and some would still be alive in fifty years, she thought, and it was a horrible, horrible fact but somehow triumphant too, the triumph of life, its rampant arbitrariness. And now there
was
a lone policeman. As she walked past, carrying her baby, her basket, her suitcase, her handbag, he smiled at her, but that was all, a small sympathetic smile. So Mrs Compton must have ‘taken care’ of Aggie, as Dorothy would be ‘taking care’ of Mrs Compton. But she put such bitter thoughts to one side. She needed her mental and physical fortitude to carry her and John through this trial, to endure this long and momentous day. She knew that this was the most significant journey of her life.

But would she always be glancing over her shoulder, expecting to be caught? Would she be afraid forever? Or would it heal over, this crack, this fear, this irrefutable knowledge that John was not truly her child and the whole world would know it?

John slept, milky and contented. The swaying of the train had lulled him to sleep, and she cradled him on her lap. She was glad, because after a while the earlier train had seemed to unsettle him – or perhaps he had just sensed her own discomfiture – and he had cried so much that Dorothy resorted to walking up and down the corridors with him. She had to push her way past servicemen, who were ever swelling into a large homogeneous group, lounging in corridors, leaning out of windows, sitting on kitbags, smoking, making jokes, nudging each other, one or two of them leering at Dorothy. Some were obviously perturbed by the crying baby. She recognised none of the faces on the train. She was anonymous, a freedom she knew she would seek for the rest of her life.

The last train of the journey, boarded at Birmingham New Street, was just as crowded with servicemen, just as smoky and dark and noisy. In the carriages it was stifling, in the corridors icy. Leaving Birmingham, Dorothy was offered a window seat, and a brash but polite soldier placed her suitcase on the rack above. She settled into the corner as best she could, and fed John his third bottle of goat’s milk; the Thermos had enough milk left for one more feed. Dorothy hoped it would be enough to pacify him for the rest of the journey, and prayed he would not need another change of nappy – having already changed three of them on dirty, rocking, cold corridor floors, she did not relish the thought of changing any more. She would not use the filthy toilets.

But what to do with the soiled nappies? They were in her basket, and they reeked. She wished now she had had the forethought to dispose of them in a rubbish bin on a platform when changing trains. She would have to do something about them now, so she smiled at the servicemen who looked her up and down as she pushed past them into the corridor, carrying John and the basket of dirty nappies. She put down the basket and forced open a window with her free hand. The blackening air whistled past her like a sudden wish for death, and one by one she threw the wet, filthy nappies from the window as the train rattled and swayed through the darkening afternoon.

At three minutes to five, the train at last pulled into Oxford station and Dorothy was able to disembark for the final time, carrying her suitcase, her basket, her handbag and her baby. She felt that now the journey was almost over, now that she and John had reached Oxford and were a long way from Lincolnshire, from Aggie and Nina and Mrs Compton – the people who knew her secret – he
was
finally hers. Trembling with fatigue and anxiety, Dorothy found a seat in the ticket hall, where she sat for a few moments, composing herself. John was asleep, and she held him gently.

A minute or two later, she left the station and entered her home city for the first time in seven years, marvelling at its old familiar grandeur, its air of insistent superiority. It was dark, cold, and the dastardly blackout had settled over the early evening. Dorothy knew she would have to walk home. She estimated it would take an hour or more to get to her mother’s house in the north of the city, carrying everything. She was so tired, but she would avoid the buses. She could not bear the thought of another smoky and overcrowded journey. There was less snow here, she noticed with some relief, and the evening was milder than she had been used to in recent days. She walked past the Ritz cinema on George Street, with its queue of cold and war-weary people waiting to get inside its warmth and be transported to an altogether lighter, more sparkling world. She walked past shops, some of them familiar to her, all of them closed now. The shop workers were making their way home, as she was.

She walked. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

Be in the moment, she told herself. Be here, and now, and be thankful for it.

The house just off the Woodstock Road still looked the same, as far as Dorothy could tell in the dark. The front door, she thought, was still blue. She stood a minute or two, breathing deeply, preparing herself for this final hurdle, then rang the bell. John began to whimper. Her arms burned with the burden of holding him for so long, one-handed, with the suitcase in the other, and the basket and her handbag hooked over her elbows. It might be nice, Dorothy thought, to lay John down. It would be a relief to have that weight lifted from her, just briefly, to hand him to somebody else. She felt that, any moment now, everything – including John – would tumble from her.

Her mother answered the door. She peered through the gloom at her only daughter, seemingly without recognition. Had Dorothy changed so much? Then, suspicion clouded her mother’s face. Yet the bitterness around the mouth was gone, although the lines were deeper. Her mother looked tired. Perhaps lonely. Definitely old.

‘Hello, Mother.’

‘You came?’ gasped Dorothy’s mother, a wrinkled hand held to her chest. She stared at the baby, who was mewling like a kitten, his little restless movements becoming stiffer, angrier.

Dorothy knew the mewling would soon become screeching. He needed milk, quickly. They had come so far. And he had been so good.

‘This is your grandson, John. Mother, we’ve come home. Like I said we would.’

Dorothy’s mother held out her arms and took John, and Dorothy slowly lowered the suitcase, bag and basket on to the doorstep. The shock of suddenly empty arms made her feel light and insubstantial, as if her arms were floating, and she found herself in the queerly painful state of emptiness, after hours of burden.

‘I’m in the soup, rather,’ she began. ‘But John’s father is a good man. Make no mistake. He flies a Hurricane. He’s a squadron leader, like Douglas Bader. Only he’s Polish. He had an injury and he carried on flying. He’s a brave man and he’s very honourable. I was asked to leave the cottage. Like I said in my letter.’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was babbling.

Her mother had been ignoring her, cooing and shushing at the baby. Now she looked up at Dorothy quizzically. ‘The house is not, perhaps, as you remember it,’ she said slowly. ‘Have you really come home? There are no more servants. There is not a great deal of money any more. Your room is as you left it, though possibly a little dusty. But nothing you can’t manage.’ Then she seemed to realise where they were. ‘But what on earth am I doing!’ she cried. ‘Come in out of this cold, child! Whatever next!’

‘Mother—’

‘You’re exhausted, my dear. The fire is lit and tea is on the hob. Perhaps I was expecting you? That’s it, in, in, let’s close this door … it still sticks, do you see? Oh, Dorothy, let’s not mind what has passed between us. Mothers and daughters should never talk over the threshold.’