The Touch of Innocents (21 page)

‘You make a persuasive case, Mr Pomfritt.’ The voice was subdued almost to a whisper, the eyes misted. ‘The whole world seems set against me, even my own Government. Very well, I’ll return home, as soon as I can. Sadly I have no money but I’ll get in touch with my husband. Today. Get him to send the money for the tickets. Back home to the States. Should only take a few days.’

‘A wise decision, Miss Dean.’ The moustache wobbled in imitation of a victory salute. ‘I’m sorry it came to this.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

Frostbite, frostbite of the heart; it was scarcely a new sensation with her. How often she had fallen into bed while on assignment, between clean, starched Sheraton sheets, exhausted, afraid of the world she had momentarily left and would visit again in the morning. You never got used to it, no matter how many times you were there. A few hours’ tormented sleep before climbing out of bed and into stale dungarees and yesterday’s knickers, swapping the security of the hotel for the sewage of war which lay beyond the front door. To save yourself, you tried to stop feeling.

Izzy cared, how much she cared, but in order to go on caring and doing her job she needed to freeze her emotions, place them in cold storage, until she got back home. It was the only way. Forget about your own life, your own children, because as soon as you started equating the mutilated carcasses and tiny corpses which lay around in the flowing gutters and rat-gnawed piles of rubble with your own children, it was the end. You would never go on. So you froze inside.

She was frozen now, she must allow nothing else to matter. Close off the heart so that nothing else penetrated.

She was solid ice by the time Daniel arrived to pick her up, shortly after Pomfritt had flapped his way out of her life. Daniel noticed the change, but said nothing.

They set off in his smoking Volkswagen Beetle, coughing across the cobbled courtyard and past the stable door behind which she knew Chinnery was lurking. They headed for Weschester, through the December rain that clung in the air and which the primitive VW wipers moved inefficiently around the windscreen, mixing with the road spray until it had
formed an opaque mask of rural muck. She couldn’t see where she was going. She felt vulnerable, exposed in this noisy, rudimentary metal box with its battered springs and sagging fender. She preferred the Rolls, and wondered if it were following.

The ‘Mission of Mercy’ burned with light. There was life. At their knock the door was opened by two tiny figures, old ladies, with bright faces and chirping voices who hopped excitedly from foot to foot, but whose garb, by contrast, was unostentatious and even dull. Grey and brown cardigans, oversized and out of shape. They reminded Izzy of two rain-drenched sparrows.

‘Welcome to the “Mission of Mercy”. Come in, come in.’

They were led into a large room, once used for dining, with views over an unkempt garden down to the river, and high shelves along the walls which sagged with assorted paperwork and files. There were long cracks in the plaster ceiling and signs of damp, with flower-embossed wallpaper which wilted in several places. Yet the room, like its occupants, was impoverished rather than uncared for; the window glass was clean, the floor swept, the two oversized desks polished and neat. The two elderly women appeared to share one desk, the other stood unattended.

‘Sit you down, my dears. Now, how can we help you here at the Mission?’

‘We are interested in your work,’ Izzy responded cautiously.

‘Oh, pardon my rudeness. I’m Sister Agnes. This is Sister Faith.’

‘Nuns?’

Sister A nodded cheerily. ‘And you are Mr and Mrs …?’

‘Appleton,’ Izzy responded quickly. Instinct told her the truth would only complicate matters. ‘And Benjy.’

‘Mr and Mrs Appleton. And Benjy. Lovely,’ chirped Sister F. ‘You’re foreign, Mrs Appleton.’

‘Canadian.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t necessarily make a difference. The Mission provides quite a few children for adoption abroad.’

‘Adoption …?’

‘Yes, of course. The “Mission of Mercy for Children’s Aid and Adoption”. You want to adopt another child, that’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ She felt her chest rising and falling as she sucked in the air. ‘Tell me, please. A little about your work. The children you have available. For adoption.’

‘Well, my dear, as you probably already know the Mission is the official adoption agency for this area.’

‘Official?’

‘That’s right. For the last few years the local authority has contracted out all their adoption work to the Mission. The cuts, you know,’ she whispered, as though invoking the Devil. ‘The Mission has been operating since Victorian times – only in a small way, you understand, but when the council discovered that as a charity we were able to handle the work much more cheaply than they could, they closed down their own adoption office and gave us all their business and an annual subsidy. And still saved money.’

‘Ah. The cuts.’

‘Terrible. Terrible,’ twittered Sister F.

Izzy’s lips felt heavy and ponderous as she formed her next words. ‘Do you have many children? For adoption?’

‘Quite a few nowadays, yes, really quite a few,’ Sister A responded. ‘A lot through the convent network, you know. Good Catholic girls, in other parts of the country, in Ireland, on the Continent, who’ve got themselves in trouble. Our Order spends a lot of its time trying to persuade them not to have abortions. So they come here – it’s lovely near the coast, isn’t it? – where they can have their lovely babies in peace and quiet—’

‘And privacy,’ Sister F added.

‘Yes, and privacy. And we help them have their babies, then help place the babies with good families. Just like yours, I expect.’

‘You know, it’s terrible, terrible,’ Sister F interrupted again. ‘So much ignorance. So many back-street abortions. Babies born in the fields and abandoned. This way we can give both the mother and infant the love they need.’

‘And, of course, there are children from the local community around Weschester. Babies who’ve been neglected, or whose parents aren’t capable of looking after them. But there aren’t many of those, of course, not in these parts. This isn’t London, you know,’ Sister A squawked.

‘Not London. A terrible place, terrible.’

‘How many children do you have?’

‘In the course of a year? About twenty. Wouldn’t you say about twenty, Sister Faith?’

‘At least. At least twenty.’

‘You know, there’s never a problem finding a good home for them. Not nowadays. It was different when I was young but now … oh, dear, what with contraception and abortion and the like, there are just too few children to go round, it seems. They’re like gold dust.’

‘Sister Agnes, how would I … how would we go
about adopting? Another child? I don’t seem to be able to have any more …’

A touch belatedly, Daniel reached over to grasp Izzy’s hand.

‘Would the fact that I’m Canadian count against me? Do I have to be local? Would it be a problem already having one child?’

‘Well, my dear, that’s not exactly up to me or Sister Faith. There are guidelines, of course, but at the end of the day at the Mission we are allowed to use our common sense in each individual case to decide what’s in the best interests of the child. So what the Adoption Officer is looking for is a couple who will be good parents. That’s the main thing. Don’t have to be local, not all the time. The right parents for the right child. Although normally there’s a cut-off age of forty.’ She peered at Izzy. ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

‘No. Not yet,’ she responded tightly.

Daniel squeezed her hand once more.

‘And which of you is the Adoption Officer?’

‘Oh my, not either of us. Dear me, no. We’re just here to help.’

‘So who is the Adoption Officer?’

‘Miss Paulette Devereux. Her name’s Paulette Devereux.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Granted, I’m sure. Paulette Devereux is the name. She’s responsible for handling all the adoption matters in this area. Lovely girl.’

Daniel was squeezing her hand until she thought it might crack.

‘And may we see Miss Devereux?’

The two nuns exchanged glances and looked towards the empty desk.

‘You might have to be a little patient, Mrs Appleton.
I’m afraid Paulette is rather unwell just at the moment.’

‘Not for very long. She’s never been away for much longer than a couple of weeks before,’ Sister F encouraged.

‘May I ask what’s wrong with her?’

‘Oh, it’s her nerves, I think. Don’t you, Sister A? Paulette never complains, says she’s not sick at all, but you can tell just by looking at her. Under a lot of strain, poor thing. Terrible, terrible. Works so hard, we couldn’t do without her. It
must
be her nerves. She can’t concentrate, can’t sleep, so she gets into the office late. It all builds up until she has to take a little time off.’

‘She’s away now?’

‘We’re simply filling in for her, holding the fort until she gets back.’

‘My wife and I … we’re so keen to get things moving. Could you let us know where she is, perhaps we could visit her, gently get the ball rolling? I have to go abroad on business very shortly.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, young man, she’s not here. In London, I think. But I’m not sure.’

‘No address?’

‘None. And there’s no one else who can really help. Paulette is responsible for all the paperwork, both for the children and the parents. She’s the only full-time staff the Mission can afford.’

Izzy’s disappointment was palpable. The good Sisters took pity on her.

‘Look, my dear, I know how impatient you young things get. If you’re really in a hurry, perhaps you ought to have a word with the Chairman of the Mission Trust. He’s a local person, lovely man, buries himself in good works while he’s here but spends
quite a lot of time in London on business. That’s where he is now, I think. Here’s his card. Wonderful, wonderful man. His name is Gideon Fauld.’

The bones of Izzy’s hand cracked painfully in Daniel’s grip. She turned to protest, but cut herself short when she noticed the taut, censorial expression in his eye. He uttered not another word until after he had all but physically dragged her from the Mission, the blessings of the entire angelic community floating in their ears, and they were seated back in his car.

‘Daniel, what on earth’s wrong with you?’

‘It’s Gideon Fauld.’

‘What about Gideon Fauld?’ she demanded. ‘You know him?’

‘Only by his other works. Gideon Fauld is the Coroner who had the baby cremated.’

Her hand was shaking, she couldn’t control it. At last she forced herself to pick up the phone and the number connected. It had barely passed six in the morning on the East Coast, but Joe was an early riser. He worked damned hard, she had to give him that.

‘Michelini.’ His voice was gruff, still full of sleep.

‘Joe, it’s me. Listen, don’t hang up.’ A catch in her voice. ‘I want to bring Benjy home.’

A silence.

‘You still want him, don’t you?’

‘He’s my son. Of course.’

‘Then I want your help in bringing him back home. I need you to send me the money for the fares, Joe.’

He considered for a moment. ‘OK. But don’t misunderstand me, Izzy. I still want custody.’

‘I hear you. But maybe we can talk about this more
sensibly when he’s back in the States, rather than shouting at each other down the phone.’

‘I’ll telex the money straight away. It can be with you close of play this afternoon, tomorrow latest.’

‘Fine. There’s one more thing, Joe.’

‘Why is it with women there’s always one more thing?’

‘Listen, if we’re going to argue about custody—’

‘We sure as hell are.’

‘… then I think it’s important we don’t do so in front of Benjy. Let’s not get at each other through him.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I want you to be at the airport, Joe, so that when he gets off the plane he sees his father. Not a lawyer, not a writ, not a dogfight, but his father. I’m still going to be his mother and you his father, no matter what we manage to do to each other. Let’s not tear up his life along with the marriage.’

‘Sounds too reasonable. What’s the catch?’

‘No catch, Joe. I love my son too much to start playing games with him. Just be at the airport to greet him like a normal father.’

‘OK, Izzy. When?’

‘Friday afternoon. British Airways flight 223. Gets in around four thirty in the afternoon. Take an early break from work.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Just be there, Joe. Be there.’

And inside the ice melted a little beneath tears which fell without restraint. She vowed they would be her last.

Within three minutes she had booked the tickets, to be paid for on arrival. Everything was completed.

She looked out from Devereux’s office across the valley, a scene of great beauty and peace, a tranquillity
she could not share. For this place had cheated her of her child. She tried to tell herself for the thousandth time that it was the only solution, yet no matter how insatiably the frost gripped her soul she could not persuade herself that it was any solution at all. She was going to turn her back on her child.