Broken Places (16 page)

‘And he said, if you agree, we could send out an appeal on the Internet – you know, does anyone remember the “miracle baby” of 1964? Or we could put leaflets through people’s doors in the local Croydon area, or—’

Absolutely not. Having spent his life concealing his past, he had no
intention
of broadcasting his foundling status to the world. None of his colleagues at the library knew about his origins – not even Stella, who was close friend as well as colleague – but if Mandy went full steam ahead, it would soon be the hottest gossip in the staffroom.

She nestled closer; put a protective arm around him. ‘Darling, are you OK? I thought you’d be over the moon, but you seem – well, sort of weird
– almost as if you don’t even want to listen. Yet it’s such a touching story. I actually cried when I read it, thinking about your mum and how she must have felt. I mean, she obviously cared about you deeply, leaving you in the warm like that, in the park-keeper’s cosy little office, right in front of the stove—’

‘
What
?’ He gripped her arm so hard, she flinched. ‘Mandy, what did you just say?’

‘Well, the stuff about your mother. You’ve read it, haven’t you? It’s all here, in black and white.’ Retrieving the printout from the sofa, she pointed to the second paragraph.

He took it from her with shaking hands. Even now, he didn’t dare believe her until he had seen those crucial words with his own eyes.

‘See?’ She pointed over his shoulder. ‘They reckoned she must have slipped in with the baby while the park-keeper was out on his rounds. And apparently that was quite a feat, because the office was behind a wall, with big double gates, kept strictly locked. And, anyway, there’d have been other staff around – gardeners coming and going, and people working in the glasshouses – who would pounce on any trespassers if they were discovered in the private yard. So, of course, the old boy was completely gobsmacked when he came back in and found a new-born baby by the stove. You were wrapped up in three cardigans, it says – not baby-size, but big, warm, cuddly ones.’

‘
Three
?’

‘Eric, what’s wrong with you today? You’re meant to be a librarian, yet you seem to have forgotten how to read! You haven’t taken in a single thing, as far as I can see.’ Shaking her head in bewilderment, she slumped back against the cushions and took refuge in her wine.

He was now struggling to control his tears. Those cardigans, the stove, the little haven of the office – all superseding images that could have been so different: naked infant flesh turning slowly blue in a germy metal
litter-bin
, or decomposing in a clump of thorny shrubs. Mandy had given him treasure; banished his worst fears.

‘I … I’ve taken in absolutely everything,’ he managed to stammer out, at last. ‘And, Mandy darling, I just don’t know how to thank you. I’d never have found this article without you.’

‘Well, it was dead simple, actually. In fact, I’m completely at a loss to know why you didn’t do it yourself, as soon as you left care – or even years before.’

No, she couldn’t understand – nor could anyone. ‘Did you
go
to Park Hill – see the office and everything?’

‘No. I was fearfully late by then. I’d promised Beatrice I’d help out in the café and she kept texting me to see where I was. But surely you must know the place, when you’ve lived in Croydon so long.’

‘I’ve, er, never actually been there.’

‘Why on earth not? Weren’t you curious?’

Curious – of course – but it came back to the same issue of his mother. Why would she choose to leave him in a recreation ground – such a scrappy, unromantic sort of place? If it
had
to be outside, then why not Lloyd Park, which was gracious and extensive, or Coombe Wood, with its historic house and grounds? Better not to know, he had invariably concluded.

‘But you must have been to Mayday.’

‘Never. The only time I landed up in hospital, it was the old Croydon General, to have my tonsils out.’

‘Listen, darling’ – Mandy gripped his hand – ‘why don’t we go on a sort of odyssey together? You know, visit Mayday and Park Hill and take lots of photos and collect anything we can for your Precious Box. I’ve already started making the box and I have to say it’s quite a work of art – just you wait and see.’

As he bent to kiss her, she suddenly leapt up to her feet. ‘Something’s burning, Eric! Either that, or the flat’s on fire.’

‘No, it’s not the flat, it’s dinner! Oh, my God – it’ll be charred to a cinder by now!’

He rushed out to the kitchen, opened the oven, which was belching clouds of smoke, and withdrew the blackened, shrivelled chicken-corpse.

Yet, as he stared down at the wreckage, he found himself grinning like a loon. They could always feast on trifle, after all. The only thing that mattered at this moment was the fact that his mother had wanted him to live; had braved high walls, locked gates and even possible arrest, to ensure that her beloved son was left somewhere safe and warm.

‘It’s absolutely nothing like I thought.’ Stopping in his tracks, Eric glanced around at the sweep of grass, stretching as far as the eye could see; the
well-established
trees and glossy shrubs – a green oasis, tucked peacefully away from the soulless office-blocks. ‘So much larger, for one thing. And nicer altogether – more like a proper park.’

‘Well, they changed the name from Park Hill Recreation Ground to Park Hill pure and simple.’ Mandy was busy taking photographs, snapping away from every angle. ‘And you’ll never guess when – 1964 – the very year you were born! I reckon they wanted to upgrade you.’

He laughed, although the sound was almost jarring in his present state of mind. It was incredibly emotive coming here for the first time in his life – the very place his mother had left him; cutting the cord, for ever. Was it as cold then as today, he wondered, picturing the unhappy girl not only terrified and weakened after the birth, but also frozen stiff? All the years he’d lived here, he’d been desperate to believe that she had deliberately remained in Croydon, so she could watch her son grow up – brushing past him in the street; sitting next to him on the bus; mouthing a silent goodbye as he went into school each morning; a silent hello when he emerged again, at four. And while he’d imagined her observing him, he, too, was seeking her. Any red-haired woman, at least fifteen years his senior, invariably attracted his attention. Could
that
one be his birth-mother? And should he pretend to trip and fall, so that she would pick him up, console him, reveal herself, at last?

‘Look!’ said Mandy. ‘Roses in bloom. Amazing in mid-January!’

He was tempted to pick one and twine it in her hair – although one would be poor recompense for the sheer trouble she had taken today. She deserved a whole nursery-full of roses, not only for arranging what she called this ‘pilgrimage’, but for coming with him and giving him support.
Without her, he would never have found the courage to venture here at all.

A flurry of seagulls went soaring overhead; their white wings a reproof to the leaden greyness of the sky. Just minutes ago, they had seen a couple of parakeets, and several self-important crows were strutting around, calling to each other with deep-throated, rasping caws.

‘It’s almost like a little wildlife sanctuary.’ Mandy took a photo of two squirrels, chasing each other up a tree.

He nodded, profoundly relieved that he could ditch his long-feared image of some crummy recreation ground and replace it with this charming pleasure-garden. He was also glad it was so central. OK, Lloyd Park might be better known and larger, but it was further away from vital public
services
, so a tiny infant might well have died while waiting for the ambulance.

‘And we seem to have the place to ourselves. I suppose most sensible people are indoors in the warm.’

‘Look,’ he said, suddenly anxious on her behalf, ‘we can call a halt now if you’re cold.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! I want to see absolutely everything, especially the place where you were found. It’s such a shame the actual building was demolished.’

Not a shame – a tragedy, he felt. Everything connected with his mother should be preserved for ever, as vital monuments.

‘Mind you, that Polish guy I spoke to in the Parks Department gave me a pretty good idea of what it used to be like. He hadn’t a clue himself, of course, because he’s only in his twenties. But he made a few enquiries and managed to track down an old chap called Ken, who’d worked at Park Hill as a gardener in the old days, and remembered the original office really well. It was called a bothy, then, apparently, and, although it was fairly basic, the old cast-iron stove made it incredibly warm, Ken said, and could have kept a whole brace of babies alive!’

‘Lord!’ He clutched her arm. ‘You mean, he was actually there when I was found?’

‘No, unfortunately not. He left in 1963, although, of course, he heard about it later, on the grapevine. But what he couldn’t understand was how your mother ever smuggled you in, in the first place, when the office was barred to the public and behind a high brick wall.’

Because, thought Eric, I meant so much to her, she was willing to brave anyone and anything – a tiger fighting for its cub.

‘Anyway, the present ranger’s office is on roughly the same site, so I’ll take some photos of that, to go in your Precious Box, along with all the rest.’

Even now, he couldn’t quite believe that she should care enough to remake that box – and remake it in such splendid style: silk-lined,
velvet-covered
and decorated with glass beads and fabric flowers. The original, he suspected, would have been plain and functional.

‘Oh, this must be the walled garden.’ Mandy pushed open a small metal gate beneath a yellow-brick arch. ‘The Polish chap told me it was used for growing medicinal plants. And, look, more flowers in bloom – primula and winter jasmine. I’m sure that’s a hopeful sign, Eric – you know, that spring is on its way, and better times for you.’

‘They’re so much better already.’ He stopped to kiss her, as he had been doing all the morning. ‘I can’t tell you what it means that you should involve yourself in all this stuff.’ She probably didn’t realize that, never before, had another human being taken such an interest in his past.

‘It’s so quiet in here,’ she whispered, pausing for a moment to listen to a chaffinch tuning up, ‘we could be in the country. Did I tell you this whole area used to be a deer park? And used by the Archbishops of Canterbury, no less, who apparently hunted here for yonks. You’re getting grander by the minute, Eric!’

‘Right, that deserves another kiss!’

‘Get away! You’ll have to wait till tonight.’

She pranced off through the gate, he running to catch up with her, and they walked arm in arm up the hilly path. The beeches, birches and cherry trees were now giving place to evergreens and firs, and even a cedar and an impressive-looking monkey-puzzle tree. Yes, he liked the grandeur.

‘Hey, there’s the ranger’s office!’ He stopped dead; took in the scene: a flat-roofed, featureless building, positioned beside a long green metal barrier, with a gate set in the middle. ‘Could that be the gate my mother went through?’

‘No, the old brick wall was pulled down, and all the buildings behind it, including the bothy, alas. If only the ranger was here, he might have unlocked this entrance for us, so at least we could see the site, but, if you like, we can come back when he’s on duty. What’s important, Eric, is that your mother must have stood here, on this exact same spot, preparing to sneak in with you.’

He shivered at the thought, but, although his hands and feet were numb,
his mind was white-hot with emotion, as he pressed close against the barrier, picturing it as a high brick wall and admiring her determination in allowing nothing to stop her. He maintained a solemn silence, to pay homage to her memory, yet wordless words kept forming on his lips; things he longed to say to her: how he understood her desperate situation and how alone she must have felt; how he didn’t blame her; never had and never would, and, if she could bring herself to get in touch, the long gap didn’t matter; they could bridge it in a trice, if she would only seek him out.

His natural inclination was to stay here the whole day, soaking up her traces, communing with her silently, but he was aware of Mandy beside him, stamping her feet to try to warm them up. She must be freezing cold and also ravenous. They’d been out since early morning, first visiting the old wing of Mayday Hospital, and then the streets and houses where his various sets of foster-parents had lived. Mandy had urged him to knock and introduce himself, in case any were still there, but he had resisted the idea. Not only was it more than likely they would have died or moved away, but he had no desire to risk arousing painful memories, and had only gone in the first place because she was so keen to see his home-ground.

‘OK, time for lunch now, Mandy, before you die of hypothermia!’

They strolled back down the hill; his mind still on his mother, wondering by what cunning means she had gained entrance to the bothy, and where she’d gone and what she’d done, once she’d left him there. Was she totally alone in the world? Did she have money or a job? And what about—?

‘Eric, are you sure you don’t want to see Grove End? I mean, if we’re making a record of all your early life, shouldn’t we include it?’

‘No!’ he said, more brusquely than he intended.

‘But it’s been turned into an old folks’ home, so it’ll probably feel less threatening now.’

Determinedly, he shook his head. Whatever the iniquities of foster-care, living in an institution had been infinitely worse – that sense of being a ‘
charity
’ child, often hungry, always bullied; with nowhere to go in the holidays and nothing much to do except envy all those other kids who could go back to their families for Christmas, or the lucky few who were taken to the seaside in the summer. If he and Mandy visited Grove End, the horrors would surge back: those countless times he’d cried himself to sleep – or failed to get to sleep at all – because a kid in trouble was being brought back late by the cops, or the whole house being searched for some other child who’d gone missing. In fact, the memory alone had rekindled the experience of
lying wide awake, while tramping feet and angry voices re-echoed through the corridors. His only consolation then had been the fantasy that he was living in a
real
home, with a real mother sleeping just across the landing.

‘What about the other place – the Haven?’

‘That was demolished a good ten years ago – thank God!’ However sympathetic Mandy was, there were limits to her understanding. ‘Haven’ was more the word for her own childhood home, where she and all her sisters had each had a room to themselves, and were allowed friends to stay and sleepovers, and where they would invite whole tribes of relatives for big, jolly family Christmases.

‘Well, you just have to show me the library. You can’t say no to that.’

‘I shan’t – don’t worry. The library’s the best place in Croydon, as far as I’m concerned! But how are we doing for time?’

Mandy consulted her watch. ‘Fine. We’re due at Violet’s at three, and it’s almost half-past one now, so if we find somewhere quick for lunch, we should be quite OK.’

‘Let’s settle for a pub, then, and grab a pie and a pint.’ He needed a drink before this next emotional encounter. In fact, he had put up some resistance to the idea of meeting Violet, since it sounded just too highly charged. But Mandy had insisted, on the grounds he needed solid, factual memories, instead of baseless fantasies, to give him a more rooted sense of identity.

None the less, it was all he could do not to order a double Scotch along with his pint of bitter, just to ratchet up his courage.

‘Cheers!’ he said, nudging Mandy’s leg with his, as they sat side by side on the tatty brown banquette, gradually thawing in the fuggy warmth of the pub.

She grimaced, as she inspected her cider. ‘Ugh! This glass is smeary.’

‘Want me to get you another.’

‘No, don’t worry. There’s such a crush at the bar.’

‘It’s funny you like cider,’ he said, letting his hand creep up her thigh. ‘I haven’t touched it since I got filthy drunk on a huge bottle of the stuff. I was barely fourteen and being physically held down by a bunch of kids at Grove End, who forced me into swallowing close on half a gallon.’

‘Honestly, every time you talk about that place, it sounds more like a Borstal! But perhaps I’m just naïve. I mean, I’ve never met anyone before who’s ever been in care. I presume there are fewer of them, anyway, these days, if so many homes have closed?’

‘Well, there must be a good seventy thousand still going through the
system. They’re called “looked-after” children now, but that’s really only window-dressing. I’m sure most of them don’t feel properly “looked after” – or “cared for”, come to that.’

‘The whole thing’s so unjust! I mean, from what you say, they need more help than anyone, yet they end up getting zilch.’

‘Yes, but don’t forget some are pretty tough nuts – villains, rather than victims. Although even the victims often end up as villains – ironically, as the result of being in care. And I’m not sure villains is the right word anyway, when you think what a rotten start they’ve had, with
parents-from-Hell
who neglect them or keep them away from school. Almost no one in care leaves the system with any qualifications.’

‘And yet
you
got – what was it – nine O-levels? Twice as many as me, yet I had it really easy.’

The difference, he refrained from saying, was that Mandy didn’t need to prove herself. With her secure and loving background, she could afford to be easy-going and unambitious; try her hand at a whole range of different jobs: waitress, nanny, florist, artist’s model. And if none of them worked out – well, she had doting parents to tide her over a tricky patch or support her next venture, be it jewellery-making or speciality cakes.

‘I’ve told you, darling, it was all down to Miss Mays. If she hadn’t kept my nose to the grindstone, I’d have probably landed up on the dole – or worse. It’s not exactly easy to study in a children’s home, let alone revise for exams. There’s so much noise and chaos, and the other kids would punch you up, if they found you with your nose in a book. But I had the refuge of the library and could study there in peace. Miss Mays even supervised my work and set me mock exam-papers, to give me
confidence
. But, more important still, she treated me like a
normal
child – one who had feelings and should be taken seriously. And she made it clear that I was worth some time and energy, so I felt I had to make some effort in return.’

‘But I thought you said you were continually moved from pillar to post, so how come you stayed in touch?’

‘Oh, I was only moved within the borough, so
she
remained a constant. And that meant all the more to me, because the staff at the home seemed to be always coming and going. And, even when they were there, they spent half their time filling in forms, rather than interacting with us kids.’