The Country Doctor's Choice (16 page)

‘Shall I ring for the undertakers, Maura?’ asked the old GP.

Maura glanced at her niece, and replied, ‘No, thank you, doctor, we’ll keep her here till mornin’. Shelagh and meself will do the last duties for her.’

So Bridget’s daughter and sister carried out the last offices, reverently washing her body, combing her hair and putting on a clean white nightdress. Neither of them spoke, apart from Maura sighing, ‘Sure, she’s finished wid the troubles o’ this world, Shelagh.’

She then made tea, and they kept silent vigil beside the still form until midnight, when Shelagh said they should go to bed. Sleep soon came to her, no longer hurt or humiliated by the events of the evening, but only thankful for her mother’s life and peaceful death.

‘There’s Dr Sykes on the phone for ye,’ said Maura as her niece sat talking with the undertaker, deciding on the wording of the notice in the
Everham News
.

‘Will you tell him that I’m busy, Auntie, and say I’ll ring back when I’m ready?’

‘I’ll tell him that for sure,’ said Maura, hurrying back to the phone with a certain satisfaction. It rang again ten minutes later.

‘It’s Dr Leigh, Shelagh. He says he’ll be here in ten minutes.’

‘Oh, did he? Will you tell him I’m busy right now?’ answered Shelagh, who had finished talking with the undertaker.

‘He hung up the phone, so he’ll be here soon. He says he needs to talk wid ye.’

Shelagh frowned. ‘I suppose it’s to do with that afternoon when I came home and found him here with her, when he ordered me out of the room. He’s got a nerve, inviting himself round at a time like this. I shall tell him that my solicitor will deal with my mother’s affairs.’

Maura pursed her lips. ‘It was your dear mother who sent for him that afternoon, Shelagh. She asked me to phone the hospital and ask him to come and see her, and then she wanted me to get out the strongbox from under her bed. He’ll be wantin’ it again, and I’ll have it ready for him. Ye’ll have to see him, because she trusted him, Shelagh, and asked him to take care of her affairs.’

‘Well, for her sake, then – but it annoys me, Auntie. Mother didn’t have that much to leave, only the house and whatever she had in the Post Office. All right, I’ll see him when he comes, but not willingly.’

Maura hurried off to put the kettle on and get out the biscuit tin. Shelagh stripped the bed on which her mother’s body had lain. When the doorbell rang, she heard his voice speaking quietly to her aunt, accompanied by a kiss. Maura showed him into the front parlour, where she stood waiting for him.

‘Hello, Shelagh. This is a very sad time for you,’ he said, holding out his hand which she briefly shook. ‘You’ll be busy making the usual arrangements,
but first I need to discuss some matters with you, pertaining to your mother’s wishes.’

‘I shall consult Mr Jamieson my solicitor about any legal matters,’ she replied coldly. ‘I suggest you contact him if you have anything to say about her wishes.’

He looked at her pityingly. ‘I can understand how you feel, Shelagh, but your mother entrusted me with a matter about which I must inform you before you see your solicitor – before you register her death. Might I suggest that we sit down with a cup of Maura’s tea, and that you let me tell you what your mother told me?’

‘She should have told
me
,’ she said. ‘I am her daughter, after all.’

‘But she told
me
, my dear, and you must listen,’ he replied, in a voice that was kindly but firm. ‘Shall I go on?’

‘If you must.’

‘Good, so let’s sit down. You’ll know that your mother’s private papers were kept in a strongbox under her bed. I’ve asked your Aunt Maura to bring it in here.’

Maura was already at the door, carrying the box.

‘There we are – thank you, Maura.’ He smiled at her and she left the room, closing the door behind her. He placed it on the table.

‘I have no idea where she kept the key,’ said Shelagh, and for answer he put a hand into an inside
pocket of his jacket; he held out his palm, and on it rested the heavy iron key.

‘She gave it to me for safekeeping,’ he said.

‘Why on earth couldn’t she have given it to
me
?’ she asked in bewildered resentment.

‘I’ll try to explain, Shelagh. Would you like to unlock it?’

‘No,
you
unlock it – you’ve seen it all before, anyway, when you came round here that afternoon, behind my back.’ Her face was flushed, and angry tears stood in her eyes. ‘Just because you visited her when she was in hospital, and amused her with your nonsense – made her laugh and take a liking to you, and then took advantage of that!’ Her voice rose higher.

‘Ssh, my dear, you’ll upset Maura if she hears you. When you’re ready, perhaps you’ll take a look at these certificates, but you must stay calm.’ He had opened the box, and took out three certificates which he laid on the table. ‘There’s her birth certificate, you see, and yours. Yours gives the date and place of birth, your mother’s name and occupation as schoolteacher, and your father’s as James Hammond, able seaman.’

‘Yes, he was away at sea when I was born. So what are you saying?’

‘There’s no marriage certificate, Shelagh. Bridget was never married,’ he said quietly.

‘
What?
What are you talking about? Of course my mother was married to my father, how dare you say otherwise!’

He drew a deep breath. ‘Stay calm, my dear, let me try to explain, as she explained to me that afternoon. This is just the sort of reaction that she so much dreaded – and why she never told you, poor woman.’

She stared at him wildly. ‘But it’s not true, it can’t be! Her name was Bridget Hammond, and his was James Hammond. What nonsense are you trying to tell me?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Shelagh, just
listen
, will you? Yes, your father was James Hammond, but they were never married. Bridget was a courageous woman, and when he never returned to her, she left Ireland and came to Liverpool where she changed her name to Hammond by deed poll. There’s the certificate of deed poll to prove the legality of the name change, and you were born in Liverpool. She never went back to Ireland, and none of your relatives knew that she never married, not even Maura – and you’re not to tell her, Shelagh. I promised Bridget on my word of honour that her family will never know, but there was no way that I could keep it from
you
.’

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my God – my poor mother.’

‘Yes, Shelagh, your mother sacrificed her whole life to you. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of on her behalf. She was a very brave woman, and only feared one thing – that you’d condemn her if you ever found out. Remember that she grew up in an Irish backwater where unmarried mothers just weren’t accepted, it was
such a disgrace. Think of it, Shelagh – she was a quiet, respectable girl, the eldest daughter of a strict Catholic family. And then she fell in love.’

Shelagh covered her face with her hands. ‘Was he really a sailor, then?’ she asked shakily.

‘Yes, he was, and after he rejoined his ship, she found that she was pregnant and tried to contact him, but without success. She told her family that she was going to meet him in Liverpool, and in due course she wrote to tell them that she was married, and later that she’d got a daughter, but was widowed – she said her husband had been drowned at sea. Oh, Shelagh, what that girl must have gone through during the months before you were born! A most remarkable lady, a mother to be proud of. I know I would be.’

She could not reply, but leant on the table, her head between her hands, utterly confused – sorrow, regret and anger hopelessly mixed. Leigh McDowall had considered offering to drive her to the registrar’s office in the Town Hall, to support her there, but in her present state it was impossible. He tentatively laid a hand on her right shoulder, but her only response was a shuddering sob.

‘Shelagh,’ he said, afraid to put an arm around her in case it would be unwelcome. He stood silently beside her as the minutes ticked by, and they heard the telephone ringing; Maura went to answer it, exchanged a few words with the caller, and came to knock on the parlour door.

‘Come in, Maura,’ said Leigh. Maura stared in concern at her niece’s bowed head, and he added, ‘Don’t worry, my dear, she’ll be all right in a while. Who’s on the phone?’

‘It’s himself, doctor, the other one – Dr Sykes. He says he wants to speak to her, and he’s comin’ round this afternoon, he says.’

Shelagh raised her head. ‘Oh, no, Auntie, I can’t see him, I
can’t
, not yet,’ she begged, her voice rising.

‘All right, Shelagh, you don’t have to – don’t worry, Maura, I’ll come and speak to him.’ So saying, Leigh strode out of the room, towards the receiver lying on the hall table.

‘Sykes?

‘Er, yes, Paul Sykes, wanting to speak to Dr Hammond if possible. It’s quite urgent.’

‘McDowall here, and I’m ordering you to keep away from Dr Hammond. She’s suffered enough, with her mother dying while you were putting on that ridiculous exhibition yesterday evening.’

‘But look here, McDowall, I want to tell her that—’

‘I’m warning you, Sykes, if you come round here pestering Dr Hammond before she’s ready to see you, you’ll regret it – is that clear? Stay away.’ He replaced the receiver, and returned to the parlour, where Maura was comforting her niece.

‘I’m going now, Shelagh – Maura – but I’ll be back if you need me, and maybe tomorrow if you feel up to it, Shelagh, I’ll drive you to the registrar’s office, OK?’

‘He’s a good man,’ said Maura as he closed the front door behind him. ‘And ye mustn’t grieve too much for your dear mother, Shelagh. She’s at peace now.’

‘Oh, but what she must have gone through, Auntie – and I never knew,’ wept Shelagh.

Maura drew her closer. ‘Is it what Dr Leigh told ye, dear?’

‘Yes, but – I can’t tell you, Auntie, you don’t know it all – oh, my poor mother!’

‘Who says I don’t know, Shelagh? I’ve been close to me sister all these weeks, and I’ve got eyes and ears. And when she sent for Dr Leigh that afternoon – well, I couldn’t help but guess, ye see. She was a good woman, and wanted to spare ye till after she’d gone.’

‘Aunt Maura! You knew all the time, then!’ said Shelagh, lifting her head and looking straight into her aunt’s eyes. ‘You
knew
!’

‘Not all the time, dear, nobody told me, it just came into me mind. And I never told her that I knew, because it would’ve troubled her, after keeping a secret all these years. As if I would’ve blamed her!’

‘And as if
I
would have blamed her! When I think of what she suffered, going through the pregnancy alone, betrayed by that damned sailor. The thought of an illegal operation would never have crossed her mind; did she think about adoption? Perhaps she did, until she saw her baby in her arms –
me
! All that
she had left of – oh, Auntie, when she was coming round from the anaesthetic, she asked me to forgive her, and I didn’t know why – dearest Mother, there was nothing to forgive!’

‘Maybe she knows that now, dear – her troubles are over, God rest her soul.’

Miss Gladwell was doing an evening visit, so as to meet the husband as well as the wife. Such a nice couple, she thought, so deserving, it would be a pleasure to bring them good news. So often in her job as a social worker, she had to bring disappointment, of mothers who changed their minds, of medical reports that dashed the hopes of eager couples; this time, Miss Gladwell thought, there would be no reservations, no obstacles to be overcome.

They were waiting for her as she drew up outside their semi on the new estate to the north of Everham. They saw her from the window, and the wife opened the door before she reached it.

‘Miss Gladwell, good evening, nice to see you, do come in. Would you like a cup of tea?’ Jenny hoped that she was not babbling, but could not control her emotion.

‘No thank you, Mrs Gifford, I’d rather get down to business, as I’m sure you would. Good evening, Mr Gifford,’ she nodded to Tim who was smiling nervously.

They showed her into the living room, and sat down. Miss Gladwell had her briefcase on her lap, and opened it; the couple stared at it as if it held news that would change their lives, as indeed it did.

‘As you know, you impressed the adoption panel, and are considered eligible as adoptive parents,’ said Miss Gladwell, taking a document from the briefcase. ‘And I’ve now come to tell you that there is an available child.’

‘Oh, Miss Gladwell!’ Jenny sat upright on the edge of her chair, her hands tightly clasped together. Tim smiled at her, and held up a forefinger to advise her to listen.

‘Go on, Miss Gladwell,’ he said. ‘We are all ears.’

‘Right. Well, I’ve got a photograph here of a little boy born just before Christmas, which means he’s now around five and a half months old. He’s at present with a foster mother who has had him since he was hardly a week old. His medical report is entirely satisfactory, he can sit up and smiles a lot, as you can see. He’s been fed on formula milk, and has started taking solids—’

‘Oh, let me see, let me see!’ cried Jenny, getting up and taking the photograph, which she showed to her husband. They both exclaimed in delight.

‘Did you ever see such a dear little fellow, Tim? Look at that smile! How soon will we be able to have him, Miss Gladwell?’

‘First you must meet him at his foster home to
see how you all react, yourselves and the boy. We’ll arrange an appointment, shall we?’

‘Yes, please, as soon as possible,’ said Jenny, looking at her husband with tears of anticipation.

‘That’ll mean travelling quite a distance, then,’ said Tim.

‘No, the foster mother lives at South Camp, a bus journey away. I have the address, and I’ll meet you there.’

‘So he must have come a long way,’ said Tim. ‘We know you don’t place children too near to the birth mother.’

‘He was born here, at Everham Park Hospital, actually,’ replied Miss Gladwell.

‘Oh, no! We’ll be
much
too near,’ said Jenny in dismay. ‘The mother might come round here trying to see him, or some other relative might decide to snoop!’