Rescuing Rose (44 page)

'You've lived with this for over twenty years, ' he said softly, 'and never told anyone?' I nodded. 'Oh, Rose. It's tragic, ' he said simply.

'It is for me. '

'It is for her too. Poor woman, ' he murmured. 'To have felt so desperate. She must think of you every day. So did your adoptive parents read about you in the newspaper?'

'Yes, ' I whispered. 'They lived in Ashford, which is about thirty miles away, but someone had left a copy of the
Chatham News
in my dad's shop, and in it was the story about me. And my mother worked for the council and she knew the woman at Kent social services so they applied to adopt me, and they did. And the reason they did it was because they felt it was their "Christian duty", as they put it. And when I read that, in that letter of my father's, I just felt something in my heart shut off. '

'And your birth mother never came forward?'

'Never. They gave her four months, but she never did. '

'She must have felt too ashamed, or too confused. '

'I have no way of knowing what she felt. '

'Gosh, Rose, you were a foundling, ' he said wonderingly. A foundling. For some reason, it sounds so much better than 'abandoned'.

'Yes, ' I croaked. 'I was. I was a foundling, Theo. I was found. And I feel I've been lost all my life. ' We sat there saying nothing for a minute or two, the silence broken only by my stifled sobs.

'How were you found?' he asked quietly. I pressed the hanky to my eyes then looked at him. 'I mean, what was with you when you were discovered?'

'After my parents died I found out. Because in that file I found the newspaper report in which it said that I'd been wrapped in a cotton blanket—it was August so it wasn't cold; and there was a note pinned to it asking whoever found me to take care of me, and saying that my name was Rose. There was also a small blue plastic box. '

'What was in it?'

I looked at him, then took a deep breath. 'I'll show you. I've never, ever, shown a soul. ' I went up to my bedroom, opened my jewel case, took it out then went downstairs. 'It's probably all she had, ' I said as I showed it to Theo. 'One gold charm. ' It was an Aladdin's lamp. I'd sometimes rub it, in the hope that a genie would appear and bring her back. 'That's how I'll know, ' I added quietly. 'That's how I'll know for sure that it's her, and that's how she'll know for sure that it's me. That's what Victorian women used to do, ' I went on, calmer now. 'When they left their babies at the foundling hospitals they'd leave something—a piece of embroidery, or a necklace, or a playing card— even a hazelnut—in case they ever saw their child again. Then they could ask them what was with them when they were left, so that they could identify them beyond doubt. ' I glanced at the clock. It was midnight. Mothering Sunday had arrived.

'Poor Rose, ' Theo whispered, shaking his head. 'You've carried this for so long. I understand so many things about you now. I understand that business with the newspaper for a start. ' I looked at him. 'And I think I understand why your marriage didn't work. '

'It certainly didn't. It was a mess. He loved me and left me, ' I said bitterly. 'Just like she did. '

'I think you
made
him leave you. ' There was a pause, just a beat, like a rest in music, silent and yet redolent, while I thought about what he'd just said.

'I made him leave me?'

'From what you've told me, I think you did. It's as though you were trying to create a situation whereby you'd be rejected again. As though, deep down, you think that rejection is what you really deserve. '

I looked at him. 'Maybe I do think that. '

I bit my lower lip and sniffed, then I heard Theo say, very gently, 'Look for her, Rose. It's not too late. Try and find her. '

'I would Theo—but I can't. There's absolutely nothing to go on; no records, so she has to look for
me
. Abandoned babies are hardly ever reunited with their birth mothers. '

'Well, I still think you should try. I'll help you, Rose. ' I looked at him and smiled.

'Will you?' I sniffed.

'Yes. I will. I lost my mother when I was nine, so I'd love to help you find yours. You could put an advertisement in the local paper, in Chatham. '

'Hmmm. '

'It's worth a shot isn't it?'

'Maybe. '

'I think you'd like to try at least, wouldn't you, Rose?' I looked at him and felt my eyes fill again.

'Yes, ' I whispered. 'I would. '

'I've always noticed the stories in the newspapers of course. You'd be surprised how many there are. The baby boy abandoned on a golf course, the baby girl found in a carrier bag. Infants found under hedges, in shop doorways and church porches, and one recently found in a skip. It's not a Grimm tale, but a grim reality and, strangely, there are more now than ever before. Sixty-five are found every year in this country, a quarter of whom are never claimed. It often happens in late December, so at least I was spared the cold. The newborn bundles are usually named after the policemen who find them or the nurses who revive them. Then there are all the foundlings in fairy tales and plays. Perdita in
The Winter's Tale
, or Hansel and Gretel left in the wood. Baby Moses found by the Pharaoh's daughter; Romulus and Remus suckled by the wolf. I know all these characters and their stories inside out, and I've identified with them all.

Sometimes I've been tempted to tell the twins, but a deep sense of shame held me back. I felt I must have been a very bad and unappealing baby for my mother to do what she did. So why then did I choose to tell Theo? Why
did
I… ? I don't really know. Maybe because Mother's Day was looming, when it always weighs on my mind, or perhaps because I find him so sympathetic; or maybe he just wore me down. But I don't regret it. I feel lighter. I feel lifted. At last, at
last
, someone knows.

From what I've read, few foundlings feel any animosity towards their mothers, just a desire to understand. But I always harboured a real hatred towards mine; not because she abandoned me, but because she kept me for those eight weeks first. If she'd given birth to me in a hedge and left me there I'd have been able to forgive her, and even pity her. But she looked after me with evident care, and
then
she ditched me. That's what I just don't get.

In my situation you find yourself clutching at straws. I don't know my true date of birth for example, but at least I know my Christian name really is Rose. The social services people gave me a temporary surname, Stuart, after the man who first found me and picked me up. There was one baby I read about who was discovered wrapped in a tea towel in a lay-by in Yorkshire. He was called William Daniel Redhill. William after Shakespeare, whose birthday it was; Daniel after the ambulance man who attended him, and Redhill after the road in which he was found by a couple on their afternoon walk. All things considered, that's not too bad. He could easily have been William Daniel Tooting Broadway, for example, or William Daniel B105. And then there was the baby found in the doorway of a Burger King. Imagine…

Today I showed Theo the box file of my stuff. In it were the papers from the children's home where I'd been kept for three months while my parents applied to adopt me, and the note which my mother had left.
Please look after my baby
, it said, in large, faded, slightly wobbly, round handwriting.
Her name is Rose
. There were the clothes I'd been dressed in, and the edition of the
Chatham News
in which I'd made page two.

'"Baby Left In Car Park, '" Theo read out loud from the brittle and yellowing newspaper. 'That's probably why you became a journalist, ' he added; 'because you began your life in the news.

"The baby was found gurgling happily where it had been left, in a shopping trolley, aged about eight weeks. " I don't like you being referred to as "it, "'he said pulling a face. '"The baby was found at 4:30 p. m. on August 1st by the Co-Op's assistant manager, Stuart Jones. " August the first, ' he repeated. 'So
that's
the significance of August the first for you. ' I nodded. 'I remember from New Year's Eve. I thought it might be your birthday. '

'No, it's my Founders Day, ' I quipped.

'"The baby was found in a healthy condition, '" he read on, '"and was wrapped in a cotton blanket. It was wearing a white pram suit and had a bottle of milk with it. Police are appealing to anyone who was in the car park at the time and who saw a woman carrying a baby to contact them. "'

'No-one ever did. '

I picked up the pram suit and buried my face in it, as though I might sniff some faint aroma of my mother; some lingering residue which might lead me to her, like a bloodhound, forty years on. But all I could detect was the musty smell of old cotton and the dry scent of dust and age.

'Have you worded your ad properly?' Theo asked. I showed it to him.

'"On August 1st 1962, '" he read, '"an eight-week-old baby girl was found in the Co-Op supermarket car park behind Chatham High Street. Do you know anything about the circumstances of this baby's abandonment? If so please write in total confidence, a.'s. a. p. , to Box number 2152". '

Theo phoned the
Chatham News
and placed it, using his credit card and I paid him back. I didn't want anyone there recognising my name and running a story on me. The replies were to be addressed to Theo, and he asked them to send him a copy of the paper. It arrived within the week. Thirty thousand people would have read my notice—surely
one
of them might know. Someone must have known that my mother was pregnant; but then on the other hand, maybe not. I've had letters from distraught schoolgirls, six months gone, who'd had not the faintest idea. It seems incredible, but it does happen.

'Someone knew something, ' said Theo, as he looked at the advert, 'but the question is whether they'll tell. Your mother might have sworn them to lifelong secrecy. '

'She might well. Can I swear
you
to secrecy, Theo? I don't want anyone else knowing about this until I hear something, if I ever do. You won't tell Beverley will you? I'm fond of her but I just don't want her to know. '

'Of course I won't. I'm very discreet. I mean, have I ever repeated to you any of the things that she's told me?' I shook my head. 'Anyway, I think we should keep the ad in for at least a month, ' he added firmly. I smiled at the word, 'we. ' I was touched by his determination to help me find my mother; it was as though he took a personal interest in sleuthing her down.

For the first week I was on tenterhooks. I'd wake early, sick with anxiety, waiting for the loud clatter of the letter box. Then I'd rush downstairs to see if Theo had any letters with a Chatham postmark, stamped 'confidential'—but so far, he didn't. During the day my heart would race at the thought of what I'd started. It was like awaiting the results of some critical test.

'Are you all right, Rose?' Beverley asked me on Wednesday morning as we went through my mailbag.

'What?'

'You seem a bit distracted, that's all. '

'Oh, no, no. I'm fine. '

'It's as though your mind's not quite on the job. '