The Touch of Innocents

  ‘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.

  It had taken her less than a minute to pack, to throw her miserable collection of belongings into the bag. She had spent the rest of the time before dawn sitting on the end of Benjy’s bed waiting for him to wake. She washed and dressed and fed him with little fuss, slipping into their conversation the mention of an aeroplane. She didn’t want him agitated. Even at his age he was a sufficiently experienced traveller for the prospect to cause neither alarm nor undue excitement; rather he looked forward contentedly to being fussed over by men and women in uniform who would thrust colouring books and his own special tray of food at him and would smile rather than scold if anything spilled.

  Even mention of his father did not perturb him; the man he called Daddy had passed in and out of his life on enough occasions for it to be but part of a familiar pattern, and there was relief for the child that the familiar patterns seemed slowly to be returning. A mother. Now a father. Talk of home. The nightmare fading.

  Daniel had arrived to take them to the airport. She went through the formality of thanking Sally for her help; of Chinnery there was no sign. Then they were gone, past the bloodied fingers of dogwood which led away from Devereux’s house, throwing up a trail of oil smoke as they left Bowminster and Wessex behind, until through the window Benjy was pointing at the lumbering nose-up aircraft coming in to land. She guided Daniel to Heathrow’s Terminal Four by the back doubles which on a busy day could save vital minutes. They weren’t in a hurry but old habits die hard. Daniel dropped them at the Departure level, not even switching off the engine but climbing out of the car to give Benjy a small model aeroplane as a farewell gift in return for a kiss, willingly exchanged, Benjy failing to notice the tight smiles carved on the faces of both his new friend and his mother. He accepted Danny’s hug of goodbye with equanimity, as he had done every day since they had met. Then Danny was gone.

  They had but one bag, a small vinyl grip, and they threaded their way through the controlled confusion of the pre-Christmas exodus to the ticket desk. The briefest of paperwork, Joe’s money in exchange for two tickets. A short walk with the infant to the Customer Services counter. A check of the passports. Everything in order. And already they were being shepherded by a stewardess towards the departure area and its milling crowds.

  She had to struggle with a barely resistible urge to look round. She knew he was there, he was there, could feel his presence, the watery blue eyes, had suspected, rightly, that he would be unable to forgo the temptation of confirming for himself that she was fulfilling the arrangements she had made over the telephone. To savour his triumph. Driven by the need to know she was finally gone.

  That was why, after booking the seats, she had amended the arrangements from a payphone.

  And now it was time. They were at the departure area, she had deliberately left it late in order to reduce to a minimum the opportunity for Benjy’s tears – or for hers, come to that. The area was a sea of waving hands and weeping relatives, and had become a battlefield as overdue passengers fought with overloaded baggage carts, as fond farewells collided with frantic dashes for departure gates. The three of them – Izzy, Benjamin and stewardess – pushed their way towards the far line, squeezing through the crowds. Izzy wanted to get as far away as she could from prying eyes behind, put as much confusion as possible in between.

  Once more she explained in a matter-of-fact tone to Benjy that his father would be waiting for him at the other end. They had arrived at the narrow departure channel, almost at the point where a security officer would check boarding passes, where passengers would be separated from those they were leaving behind. The moment had arrived. She handed over the little vinyl bag and two tickets, one for Benjy and one for the stewardess, the airline ‘Auntie’, who would accompany him. Izzy smiled encouragement. And smiled and smiled until she knew her face would explode in protest. She had dosed the child with Calpol to help him remain calm; there was no means of release from her own torment. Yet even as she screamed inside and cursed all gods, she gave thanks that Benjy was not protesting or imploring – she couldn’t have taken that.

  Now the Auntie had him in her arms, was presenting the boarding passes – a face over her shoulder, a face being carried away in the crowd, a face with a growing look of doubt, of accusation, a face coming to the realization that once again she was deserting him. The lip wobbled, eyes rimmed with tears of uncertainty as his faith in her fought with the evidence before him. But he didn’t cry; he could still see his mother, the mother he loved, the only thing he loved, or trusted, and she was still smiling encouragement. Perhaps it would be all right.

  And his hand had come out, a small, perfectly formed hand with five tiny outstretched fingers, beseeching, wanting his mother.

  She had screamed at herself not to but couldn’t control it and she found her own hand reaching up, stretching out towards him, to grab him back, to protest, to stop the pain, the feeling that something deep within her was being torn by its roots from her womb. And she stretched out to grab him back but instead she was waving, still smiling, and he was biting his lip and believing in her, burying his fears beneath his trust. God, he was a fighter, that one; would he ever forgive her?

  And then Benjy was gone. Back to his father. Out of her life. And she had ducked beneath a barrier and fled in despair.

  She could not tell what the future might hold, what her husband or any court might decide, what the world would think of a woman who could give up custody of her child so brutally and later seek to claim him back, as she had and would. Yet she knew she had no choice. As much as she was unable to live with the possibility of losing Benjy, she had to set that against the certainty of losing Bella. A doubt we
ighed against a certainty.

  Torture beyond reason, to give up one child in the hope, however forlorn, of regaining another. She might end up losing them both.

  There were no tears, no longer any place in this new world of permafrost emotion for tears, merely an overwhelming numbness as she found the far exit of the terminal without once looking back.

  The crass Volkswagen with its rusted paintwork and sagging fender was waiting in the car park. She climbed in beside Daniel.

  ‘Could this car go as far as Kiev?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Didn’t think so. OK, let’s go find Bella.’

  SIX

  They had stopped on the M3 motorway into London for petrol. Daniel came back from the cash kiosk rubbing his wallet ruefully.

  ‘By my reckoning, if we eat nothing and sleep in the park, we might have enough money to get us through, oh – at least until the weekend.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We need to figure out a plan.’

  ‘Already have.’

  ‘I must seem a pretty pathetic excuse as a noble knight come to your rescue. I’ve no job and practically no money.’ He thumbed through the few notes in his wallet. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘At least we’re swimming in it together, Daniel.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’ve no money. And I have no job – at least, I won’t have when I fail to turn up in Paris or Washington next week.’

  ‘Bother.’

  Her eyes lit in amusement at his understatement, but he failed to see the humour. He was troubled, her buccaneer becalmed.

  ‘I’d sell the car, but who’d want it? Never mind, we’ll think of something. I’m afraid we’ll have to slum it.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not on. We have a lot to do and very little time.’

  ‘What do you suggest? A dawn raid on Harrods?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘And I assume we’ll take a suite at the Ritz?’

  ‘At The Stafford, in fact, a very exclusive hotel just off St James’s. It’s already booked.’