Maddie drove the car in silence. She didn’t feel like speaking about any of
it, about either the meeting with the young man who called himself her son,
or the way her friend Gertie had forced her into this trip to St Agnes. To the
house that held such potent memories for her.
She found his extraordinary story far-fetched, hard to believe.
Travelling to Germany from Cornwall and him only fourteen years old?
Searching for Rudi in Bavaria? Fiction, she thought. A vivid imagination at
work. Yet there were parts of his story that seemed credible, like the fact he
had been given away by his mother at birth and had lived much of his
young life under the brutal regime of a heartless orphanage.
His claim that he had finally traced his birth back to Rosemundy House
might of course be true. Lots of babies had been born there. Maddie had
seen many of them. And his date of birth! If it was true, it was the very
same day her baby had been stillborn. But then several mothers had given
birth that day. She’d heard their screams as she lay next door in the lying-in
room, tears for her lost baby choking her, her body shaking with the shock
of it.
But one part of this young man’s story was so obviously untrue that it
convinced Maddie the whole thing was simply a fantastic tale he’d pulled
from his imagination. A fantasy he’d wanted to believe. Why had he done
that? A sad young man living in an orphanage looking for someone to love
him… you could understand, perhaps, that he needed a family to replace the
one that had rejected him.
The weak link was so glaring, in fact, that she hadn’t even wanted to go
to Rosemundy to find out, but Gertie had pushed her into it. For the young
man had spoken in such glowing terms about the matron that it was obvious
to Maddie he had never set foot in the place – ‘A wonderful, sensitive and
caring woman,’ he’d said. They’d spoken for a long time, he claimed. He
made the dreadful woman sound like a saint.
That was when Maddie had told him to leave her house.
Gertie produced a loud, theatrical sigh. ‘Nearly there, are we?’
Maddie didn’t answer. She had a mind to turn back and forget the whole
stupid business. The last place she wanted to visit was a home for
unmarried mothers in St Agnes. That’s if it even still existed.
‘What you make of it?’ Gertie tried another tack. ‘The lad. What he’s
calling himself, I mean.’
‘Anybody can call themselves what they like. That doesn’t mean
anything.’
‘Yeah, but Charlie Brady?’
‘He picked my name out of a hat, Gert. Who knows what his game is?’
‘I know, but… well, he seemed such a nice young man. Not like a
fraud.’
‘You’ll see. Once you meet Miss Robertson, you’ll understand,’ said
Maddie.
‘Who?’
‘This saintly woman he claims he met in St Agnes. She doesn’t exist.
Only in his head. The matron,’ she added bitterly, when Gertie looked
confused. ‘The place was grim. And it was her fault. She was the one in
charge. Miss Robertson believed in punishment, not kindness. A religious
zealot, the Old Testament kind. But she was the devil, not a saint.’ The hate
exploded from Maddie’s lips and surprised her. Her face reddened with
embarrassment and shame. How could the woman still make her this angry
after all these years? Maddie was upset, mostly with herself, that such an
ancient hurt still had the power to wound her.
‘Blimey!’ said Gertie. ‘She sure did a job on you, Madds.’
‘Sorry. No point going off like that.’ Maddie shrugged her shoulders.
‘But it’s hard to forget. Even harder to forgive.’ Maybe she never would.
‘So, they were all witches, like her?’
‘No, not all. Some of the girls were nice, others were real bitches. But
looking back, I guess they had their reasons. Many of them were just scared
at being pregnant and lonely. Away from home for the first time. Some had
parents who threw them out, disowned them.’
‘And the staff?’
‘Sister Bennett! She was the midwife, not a friendly woman.’ Maddie
gave an ironic shrug.
‘No?’
‘Vindictive. Sadistic. Pick one,’ said Maddie. ‘I guess she was even
worse than Matron, because she made it her business to make you suffer.
Especially when you were in labour. “Pain is cleansing.” That was one of
hers. She thought we all deserved the pain. We were sinners, had brought it
on ourselves by being so wicked.’
‘God Almighty! They were the wicked ones.’
‘Not all of them. There was one angel.’
‘There was?’
‘Sure. One special angel. A nurse. A young girl, around eighteen. She
was better than the whole lot put together. A really sweet girl. Ethel, her
name was.’ Maddie screwed her face up, tried to remember the girl’s last
name. ‘Nurse Ethel Ryder, that was her,’ she said in triumph. ‘She never
judged you like the others. And she was kind – sometimes she got in trouble
for it, but it didn’t stop her. We talked for a long time, the two of us. About
our lives, our families. People we loved. And she used to sneak food into
me when I’d been confined to my room as punishment. Sister Bennett
believed in punishment; did I tell you that?’
A plump tear suddenly made its way down Maddie’s face, stung her
cheek. Stupid, silly woman. She hadn’t meant to cry.
‘Blimey,’ said Gertie with passion. ‘I’m sorry, Madds.’
‘What for? You didn’t do anything.’
‘For pushing you to come here. If I’d known how grim it was, well – I’d
never…’
‘No apology needed. We’re mates. You did it for the best. And, who
knows, maybe it’ll work out fine and I can lay this bloody ghost forever.’
‘We’re here?’ asked Gertie. ‘Pretty place. I’ve never been to St Agnes
before.’
‘Nearly there,’ said Maddie.
She turned the car into Rosemundy Hill, past the cottages and granite
homes that looked the same as she’d last seen them. And a weird feeling
worked its way through her. A powerful sort of déjà vu. But not a good
remembering: it took her to an upsetting and eerie place in her head that had
nothing to do with logic or reasoning.
And there it was at the bottom of the hill. She didn’t know what she’d
been expecting. That a bomb had fallen on it? That the place had been
demolished?
Maddie drove the car in through the entrance and stared up at the
building in front of her in disbelief.
Gertie let out the breath she’d been holding onto. ‘This it? This the
place?’
Maddie could hardly speak. The trauma of being there again, and the
surprise at the change in it. She grabbed her friend’s hand as they headed to
the huge front door. Her own hand was trembling.
‘Yes, this is it. But it’s not the same,’ she said.
‘Things change, I guess,’ said Gertie. ‘The war and everything.’
‘It’s beautiful. Majestic,’ said Maddie. She breathed in the cool air, the
scent of pine trees.
The old house was no longer a crumbling wreck, and the grey stone that
had been so depressing had transformed into a sparkling white. Tubs of
winter flowers splashed their colour against the gleaming white walls, vivid
yellow pansies vied for attention with the red and purple of cyclamens. The
change was breath-taking.
‘There aren’t any prams on the lawn. They used to always put the babies
out in the air every day after their feeds. Spring, summer, autumn, even
winter. Didn’t matter, long as it wasn’t raining. Matron reckoned it was
good for them. Hardened them up.’
‘What, like putting your seedlings outdoors to harden off, you mean?’
Gertie laughed.
‘The laundry,’ said Maddie, and she tugged at Gertie’s sleeve. ‘I worked
in there.’ She pointed at a spot on the far lawn where the lean-to for the
laundry had been. ‘It’s gone,’ she said in amazement.
‘But this is definitely the place?’ asked Gertie.
‘Rosemundy House,’ she said, reading the brass plate on the front door.
‘That’s new, but this is the place, all right.’
‘Right then,’ said Gertie, and she pushed the front doorbell.
Then it was too late. There was no turning back, even if Maddie had
wanted to
