Georgia (59 page)

He got really hung up on those old papers, making his way to the library almost every day, collecting scraps of information that were useless to him, but riveting all the same. He knew what was on at the movies. Men that got sent to prison, weddings, births and deaths, but nothing relating to an orphan. Time was slipping away. It was February already and he was due to leave on March 1st.

*

‘Anything?’ Miss Brice noticed immediately when something caught his eye.

‘Just reading this about a woman who was an Army nurse taking up a position in Stepney,’ he said. ‘Her life reads like a novel. She had travelled in China, Africa and India, nursing, then in field hospitals during the war.’

‘That’ud be Miss Hammick,’ Miss Brice smiled. ‘She was a regular Tartar. The kids used to shake in their shoes when she came along. She wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. She ran the department like a battle campaign.’

‘What department was she in then?’ Sam looked up. Just the mention of children made him take notice.

‘I can’t remember what they called it then. She was like the forerunners of today’s social workers.’ Miss Brice came over to him at the table looking over his shoulder. ‘She handled all sorts of things. Truants, child neglect. Unmarried mothers, family disputes. She wasn’t noted for her diplomacy, but she got a lot of problems sorted while she was around here.’

‘She’s not here any longer then?’ Sam’s spark of hope died as quickly as it was fired.

‘No, she retired a few years back. She must be at least seventy. But I think we may find out something more about her because they had a retirement “do” for her.’

‘I’ve got to go now,’ Sam said reluctantly. ‘I’ve got someone to see before going on to the club. But I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘I’ll dig around Sam,’ she assured him, making a note of it on a pad. ‘This might be a real lead for us.’

When Sam met Clive later he filled him in with this news.

‘Don’t go building up your hopes Sam,’ Clive said over a pint. ‘Even if Miss Hammick knows something, this girl’s grown up now. She may be married. She might not even be in England. Suppose after all that you find you aren’t her dad?’

‘I’m sure I am,’ Sam growled. He couldn’t explain why exactly, but the more he dug into the events of the bombing, the more convinced he became.

‘Even if you are, she may have been brought up by white people. The shock of a black six-foot Yank may be too much.’

‘No daughter of mine would have those hang-ups,’ Sam laughed. ‘Her mother had too much guts to create a little dim-wit.’

Whatever he said to Clive, he did have the same worry. How would Jasmine react to finding her mother years from now? And they were the same colour. The person who brought the child up was the one that counted surely? Could any girl find room for a father who left his pregnant girlfriend and never came back to look for her?

He knew Miss Brice had found something just as soon as he got in the library.

‘I’ve got it,’ she said, almost jumping with excitement. Her hazel eyes glistened behind her glasses. She twitched at her strand of beads round her neck. ‘I was so excited I telephoned her last night.’

‘Well ma’am, you are a surprise,’ Sam chuckled. ‘And they told me you Brits were cold-blooded.’

She was bursting with it, her lined face flushed salmon pink, contrasting vividly with her saxe green sweater.

‘She said to send you over there. She did remember a child of the right age. Last night she needed time to think it out.’

‘Where is she?’ Sam said, ready to run out the door.

‘Buckhurst Hill,’ she said, picking up the address and telephone number and pushing it into his hands. ‘Please phone me and let me know.’

‘I’ll do better than that,’ he leaned forward and kissed her soft cheek. ‘If I find her I’ll bring her to see you.’

Sam straightened his jacket and rubbed his shoes on his trouser legs before pushing open the gate. It had seemed an interminable journey on the tube and he wished he had smarter clothes to see this Tartar.

It was a small bungalow, painted white with green shutters, set in a lawned garden. Everything was bare now, but it was the sort of garden he knew would be beautiful in summer. The door opened before he even reached it.

‘Mr Cameron I presume?’ she said.

Sam wanted to laugh. She was the type of lady he had seen in British films. Snooty, tall, grey hair cut very short and a masculine set to her features. Her body was encased in men’s cord trousers, with a thick navy sweater, through the thick material he knew it was large and muscular rather than fat. Even at seventy she looked formidable.

‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am,’ Sam held out his hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

He couldn’t make out what she was thinking. A woman of her age and background probably loathed black men, especially ones who impregnated young girls and left them alone to get killed.

‘Come in,’ she said crisply. ‘Wipe your feet.’

Sam followed her down the passage. She walked straight-backed, head held high. She turned into a room and he followed.

It was a beautiful room. Big French windows looked on to the garden. A green thick carpet which seemed to make it harder to see where the garden began or ended. A stone fireplace with a roaring log fire and fat comfortable-looking chairs. He could see no television or even radio. Just hundreds of books on shelves and an artist’s easel standing by the window.

‘Do sit down,’ she said, making a gesture to a chair. ‘Last night when Miss Brice telephoned me I couldn’t remember much. But I’ve thought it over and a little more has come back to me.’

‘Where is she?’ Sam leaned forward in his chair.

‘I couldn’t say now,’ she said haughtily. ‘I suggest you just listen to me and I’ll tell you all I know.’

The way she barked out her orders reminded Sam of a woman he once worked for in New Orleans. She was German with an English husband, but she never let him get a word in edgewise either.

‘I did take a child away from foster parents. It was in 1946 and the child was around twenty months. She had been in Billericay war orphans home, and she was coloured.’

‘What was her name?’

‘I can’t recall her Christian name, though I do remember it was the only thing which seemed to really belong to her. She took the surname Barlow from the people who fostered her. Whether she was abandoned or the same child as was found in Hughes Mansions I can’t say for certain. I wasn’t working in England during the war.’

Sam frowned. Miss Hammick read his mind.

‘It’s no good you looking like that,’ she said tersely. ‘England and particularly the East End took a frightful hammering during the war. I know you Americans think you did it all, but I know better. People were buried hurriedly, records weren’t kept that well. We had to conceal disasters to keep up morale.’

Sam nodded. ‘I was here ma’am, I do understand, it’s just painful to think a baby gets stuck in a home without anyone knowing how or why.’

‘If wouldn’t have happened if I’d been there then,’ she said with more than a hint of pride.

‘You say you took her from foster parents? To where and why?’ Was she too old to remember clearly? Was this another wild goose chase?

‘She was too much of a handful for them,’ Miss Hammick sniffed disdainfully. ‘I can vouch for that in the one day I had her in my car. She never stopped moving.’

‘What did she look like?’

Again that strange haughty look.

‘Brown of course. With black curly hair. Half-caste I’d say,’ she withered him with one glance. ‘Anyway, I had an awful job placing her. No one knew anything about the child. Everywhere was full. I ended up at St Joseph’s in Grove Park.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘South London,’ Miss Hammick sniffed again. ‘Unfortunately that home has closed since. Not before time too as I believe, most of the nuns were totally unsuitable for child care.’

Sam blanched. If a woman like her thought someone was unsuitable they must have been fiends. This woman showed no emotion at all. Not even real curiosity.

‘How?’ he had to ask.

‘Children were beaten. I dare say some of them merited it. Appalling diet, little medical attention. Had I known that then, of course I wouldn’t have taken the child there. You have to understand there weren’t the same standards in child care in those days. I made it my business to root out all those types of homes later on.’

‘Did you see her again after that day?’

‘No, I never did,’ Miss Hammick spoke thoughtfully. ‘When it was closed I believe most of the girls left were sent to Dr Barnardo’s. But of course this child would have been thirteen or fourteen then. She might have been fostered out.’

‘Is there any way I could find out?’

‘Well,’ she paused, as if she knew something but wasn’t sure if she should reveal it. ‘I rang Downham’s children’s department this morning. They told me all the names of girls taken over by Barnardo’s, but they had no record of a girl called Barlow.’

‘Oh,’ Sam’s face fell. He wondered how a society could lose a child so easily.

‘But I did discover the whereabouts of one of the younger nuns from St Joseph’s. In fact she was there the night I handed over the baby. She is with a convent in Hampstead.’

All these names of places were confusing Sam. Was Hampstead in London?

He looked blankly at Miss Hammick.

Nuns were something he feared, he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with one who’d beaten him as a boy.

‘It’s not a closed order or anything like that,’ she said briskly. ‘An unmarried mothers’ home. From what I understand about Sister Mary you’ll find her helpful and kind-hearted. It was she alone who kept any kind of standard in St Joseph’s. She’s still young enough to remember the details I may have forgotten.’

‘Can I go there now?’ he said.

‘No, that wouldn’t be prudent,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Write to Sister Mary giving her all the information I have given you. She’ll arrange to meet you somewhere away from there.’

She paused again. ‘Of course, it’s very likely this child isn’t yours. There is an even greater possibility that Sister Mary knows nothing of the girl’s whereabouts. There were a great many war orphans. I don’t know the percentage of coloured ones. But she wasn’t the only one. Before you go claiming her, remember this. I’d hate to think I started something that ultimately brought disappointment.’

‘I’m very grateful to you ma’am,’ Sam said. He knew the interview was terminated. He was even amused that she thought it unseemly for him to go to a home for unmarried mothers. Was she protecting him, or the girls?

‘We only call the Queen “Ma’am”,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Miss Hammick is sufficient.’

She picked up a piece of paper from her writing desk.

‘The address in Hampstead,’ she said. ‘I’d be pleased to hear the outcome of this quest. For both your sakes I hope it will have a happy ending.’

It was torture waiting for Sister Mary to reply. Should he have suggested a meeting place, told her more about his background? Would he find his child was one who’d been ill-treated?

On Friday morning at nine, he stumbled down the stairs hopefully, as he had each morning for four days as soon as he heard the click of the letterbox.

Endless bills for other tenants, an air letter for the woman below him. But amongst them was a blue one addressed to him. Thin, spidery writing that could only be Sister Mary, he tore it open and pulled out the single sheet.

‘Dear Mr Cameron,

Thank you for your letter. I do remember the child you spoke of and I would be happy to meet you to discuss this further.

I usually go to Hampstead village on Saturday afternoons for some shopping. We could meet in the Half Moon tea shop up near the Heath. Shall we say at three thirty? I look forward to meeting you.

Yours sincerely,

Sister Mary

It was a temptation to go out and get roaring drunk, but reason got the better of him. Better to phone Miss Brice and Clive to share his news, than to risk a hangover when he met the nun.

She was already in the tea shop when he got there. A slight, dark little figure sitting at a table by the window, her eyes downcast in front of her.

‘Sister Mary?’ he said, feeling too large and clumsy for such a small, quaint place.

Delicate pink and white walls, dainty lace curtains on a brass rail. Snowy white cloths and a glass cabinet at the back of the shop piled high with home-made cakes.

‘Yes, Mr Cameron,’ she looked up at him and took his outstretched hand. Hers was tiny, her eyes a bright blue set in a pink and white face which matched the decor.

‘I imagined you old,’ he said awkwardly.

‘I am,’ she laughed, like a trickle of water over pebbles. ‘The Lord saw fit to give me a youthful face. But do sit down, I took the liberty of ordering tea.’

He could see at closer inspection she was well over fifty. Tiny lines round her eyes and mouth and her hands were veined and reddened from rough work. Her starched wimple gave her an ethereal look, enhanced by the lovely eyes.

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything you know, quickly.’

Her soft, small mouth curved into a smile. She said nothing, just looked at his face.

‘Well?’ Sam felt a blush creeping up his neck, but still she studied him.

‘Just the way you are in such a hurry makes me sure we have the right child,’ she said. ‘But describe her mother please.’

Sam hadn’t expected this. Once he’d had a photograph of her, but Ellie had destroyed it.

‘Small, slender,’ he said. ‘Dark shiny hair and eyes. Her face was kinda heart-shaped. You know, with one of those little pointy chins. She had long legs and a tiny waist. And a dimple here,’ he pointed to his right cheek.

‘The chin and the dimple are enough,’ she said. ‘The rest I can see in your own face.’

A sharp pain stabbed at Sam’s heart. He hadn’t felt anything like that since losing Katy.