Meredith’s eyes were filled with misery and her face was so bleak, Patsy’s heart went out to her friend. For a moment she was speechless. She swallowed hard and replied in a gentle voice, “I don’t know, Meredith, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“She sent me away because she didn’t want me.” After she had said these words Meredith was so shaken she went and leaned against the wall, biting her lip. For a moment she was floundering; her senses were swimming.
Noticing her distress, Patsy took charge. “Listen to me, if your mother’s alive, which she must be since there’s no death certificate, then we are going to find her. Whatever it takes, we’re going to do it. Come on, let’s go back and look for your birth certificate.”
“Why?” Meredith asked miserably. “What for?”
“We’re going to get a copy of your birth certificate. If you were born in this country, as you think you were, and not Australia, then your birth will be registered in one of those red books.”
“How will my birth certificate help us to find my mother?”
“There’s a lot of information given on a birth certificate, Meredith. I know from my own and my children’s. The name of the father, his occupation. The married name of the mother, and her maiden name. Place of birth of the child, residence of the parents, date and year of birth, obviously. We’ll have enough to start with. Besides, I would have thought you’d like to have a copy of it . . . just for yourself, your own edification. And peace of mind.”
Meredith nodded but said nothing. She was reluctant to start a search for her birth certificate. What if it wasn’t there? She would feel even worse than she already did.
Patsy coaxed her a little more, drew her slowly back to the aisles of ledgers. This time they went down the one on the right-hand side, where all the red-bound books were stored. Fifteen minutes later she discovered that she had been born in Great Britain. Her birth was registered.
“You see, I knew you’d find your name in one of those lovely red books,” Patsy exclaimed, smiling at her, wanting to cheer her up. “Now let’s order a copy of the birth certificate. Maybe they will be able to have it ready for us later today” Patsy pulled an order form out of the Lucite pocket attached to the end of the reading stand, handed it to Meredith, and said, “Fill this in, and then we’ll take it over there to one of those windows, to order the copy.”
Meredith nodded and pulled out a pen. After completing the form they went to a window. She was able to get priority service for twenty pounds. The copy of her birth certificate would be ready at the same time the following day.
On Friday afternoon, promptly at four, Meredith and Patsy returned to St. Catherine’s House. Within minutes she was holding a copy of her birth certificate in her hands.
The two women went out into the street, got into the waiting taxi, and headed back to Claridge’s.
Settling back against the seat, they pored over the certificate. Meredith saw that her mother’s full name was Katharine Spence Sanderson. Her father’s name was Daniel Sanderson and his occupation was listed as accountant. Was it from him that she got her head for figures? she wondered. The address given for her place of birth was 3 Green Hill Road, Armley. Her parents’ residence was listed as Hawthorne Cottage, Beck Lane, Armley, Leeds. Her date of birth was shown as the ninth of May, 1951, and her birth had been registered on the nineteenth of June by her mother. Her name was Marigold Sanderson.
“You know quite a lot about yourself now,” Patsy said, turning to Meredith, squeezing her arm affectionately.
“More than I’ve ever known, Patsy.” Meredith cleared her throat, and went on, “I never had any sense of identity when I was young. Not knowing who you are and where you come from is very frightening. It’s almost like being a non-person. Since I didn’t have an identity, I invented myself.”
“Getting your birth certificate must mean a great deal to you.”
“It does. It’s . . . well, it’s a kind of validation of who I really am.” Meredith forced a small smile. “At least I’ve been celebrating my birthday on the correct date. The orphanage did get that part right.”
“What are you going to do next? Oh, stupid, stupid question, Patsy Canton.” Patsy looked at her intently. “You’re going to Leeds, of course.”
“Tomorrow, Patsy. We were going to Ripon on Sunday anyway, so I’m going to make it a day earlier.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Patsy exclaimed. “For one thing, you need my help, my expertise. I know Leeds very well, and the rest of Yorkshire, and you’re going to require a guide. Besides that, I care about you, Meredith. I wouldn’t let you embark on a search like this alone. The whole situation is too emotionally fraught. You’re going to look for a long-lost mother, and who knows what you’re going to unearth in the process. You really do need a friend with you.”
“Especially a good and dear friend like you, Patsy. Thank you. Thank you for helping me.”
“We’ll set off at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and get to Leeds in about two and a half hours. Maybe three. The motorway is pretty fast moving. I think our first stop should be Hawthorne Cottage in Armley.”
“Do you know this place?”
“Oddly enough, I do. I had an uncle who owned a woolen mill there, and he lived in Farnley which is nearby. Farnley Lee House, lovely old manor it was. Well, anyway, I used to go there with my parents, and we usually drove through Upper Armley to get to Farnley. Do you have any recollection of Hawthorne Cottage?”
“Vaguely. The cottage was near a river. There was wildlife on it. . . ducks, I think.”
“The more we talk, the more you’ll remember, I’m sure of that,” Patsy said. “Isn’t this what your psychiatrist said?”
“Yes, it is.”
As they got out of the cab in front of Claridge’s, Patsy linked her arm in Meredith’s. “Let’s go and have a drink. Celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
Patsy laughed. “I always said I’d make a Yorkshirewoman of you. Now I don’t even have to try, because you actually are one by birth. I’d like to drink a toast to that.”
The phone was ringing as Meredith came into her suite at Claridge’s. As she picked it up and said “Hello?” she heard Luc’s voice saying, “Chérie, comment tu vas?”
“I’m fine, darling. I was just going to call you in Paris. Guess what happened today? I found out that my mother is still alive.”
“Mon Dieu.” There was a moment’s silence, and then he asked, “But how did you find out?”
She proceeded to tell him in great detail, then added, “We’re leaving for Yorkshire tomorrow instead of on Sunday as planned . . . to begin the search.”
“Do you want me to fly over and go with you?”
“No, no, that’s not necessary. I’d love to see you, darling, but I’ve got Patsy to help me. She knows Yorkshire like the back of her hand.”
“All right, I understand. You want to concentrate. But I will be thinking about you. Call me tomorrow, chérie. I’ll be anxious. I love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They left for Yorkshire very early on Saturday morning and arrived in Leeds in record time. Patsy circumvented the busy city center and took Stanningley Road to Armley. After asking directions a few times, she soon found Beck Lane.
As she pointed the Aston-Martin down the lane, she glanced at Meredith and asked, “Does anything seem familiar to you?”
“Not really, not even Beck Lane. It looks so short, so ordinary. But then again, when you’re a small child things always appear to be so much bigger, more impressive. And also more frightening, of course.”
“That’s quite true,” Patsy agreed. “We’re almost at the bottom of the lane, and it looks to me as if it ends in a cul-de-sac.”
Meredith peered out of the car window, her eyes scanning the scenery “What I don’t understand is why we’re not seeing the river.”
“I’m sure we will in a minut
e. When I looked up this area on a map of Leeds last night, I noticed that the River Aire and the Leeds and Liverpool Canal are adjacent to each other, run parallel. We learned that at school, but I’d forgotten. Those two waterways are ahead of us, Meredith, you’ll see.”
Beck Lane came to an abrupt end at a partially demolished brick wall, which cut the lane off from a large field beyond. It was here that Patsy stopped, turned off the ignition and parked.
“Let’s go investigate,” she said, opening the car door, and getting out.
Meredith followed suit.
The two women glanced around. They were standing in a deserted area; there were no houses, no buildings of any kind in sight. But back down the lane a few yards there was an old gate set in a ramshackle wooden fence, and Meredith suddenly noticed this.
“I didn’t see that gate as we drove past,” she said, “and it must lead somewhere.” As she was speaking she began to walk down the lane toward it.
Patsy followed her.
The gate was open, hanging off its rusted hinges; Meredith went through it and realized that there had once been a pathway there. Now it was overgrown with weeds and grass, barely visible. The partially obscured path led toward a tumbledown building, in reality several large piles of bricks, stones, wood, and other rubble.
“Could that be Hawthorne Cottage?” Patsy asked, catching up with her.
“Possibly,” Meredith replied quietly. Suddenly, she felt deflated, sad. During the drive from London she had begun to believe that Hawthorne Cottage was still standing, that her mother still lived there. But this had been wishful thinking on her part, she accepted that now. How foolish I am, she thought, expecting things to be the way they were almost forty years go. Everything changes.
Arriving at the demolished building, Meredith circled it several times, then she turned to face the River Aire, which was visible from this vantage point. She could see it gleaming in the pale spring sunshine, and, just behind it, flowed the canal. She wondered why she had never noticed the two waterways running parallel when she was a child.
Turning to Patsy, she voiced this thought.
Patsy said, “But you were so little, darling, only five or six. You wouldn’t have paid any attention to something like that. Or maybe you’ve simply forgotten.”
“I guess you’re right.” Meredith half smiled. “Also, I was much shorter then, I might not have been able to see that far.”
Patsy laughed. “True enough.”
Meredith remained standing in front of the mounds of stone and rubble, still gazing thoughtfully toward the River Aire. She was endeavoring to move backward in time, concentrating hard on the past, in the way Hilary Benson had told her to do.
Unexpectedly, in her mind’s eye she saw a neat little lawn and flower beds, and, beyond the garden, a white gate set in an old brick wall, rambling roses growing all over it.
Hurrying forward, she walked through the desolate garden, heading for the river, and as she approached the bank she saw, behind a clump of overgrown bushes, the wall and the remnants of the gate. The wall had been reduced to a crumbling pile of brick, but the rambling rose bushes still spread themselves over it, and she supposed that in summer the roses would be in full bloom.
Her heart gave a small leap. She recognized this place, knew it well. Then she saw the rock and she stood perfectly still. A memory came rushing back, almost knocking the breath out of her with its clarity and vividness.
She saw herself as she had been as a small girl, sitting on that rock, always sitting there daydreaming. It was her favorite place, that rock high up on the river’s bank. It was her view of the world.
She went and sat down on the rock; her eyes were moist as she gazed out at the water flowing past, splashing and tinkling as it fell down over the dappled stones of the river’s bed. There was wildlife on this river, and she remembered how she had loved to watch the antics of the ducks, the plovers, and the other birds on the water.
Hugging her knees with her arms, she rested her head on them and closed her eyes . . . memories . . . memories . . . they were coming back.
The mother was there. The mother with the red-gold curls and very blue eyes. Eyes so supernaturally blue, they were almost blinding. The mother loved the child on the rock, loved her to distraction. The child was the mother’s whole world.
Then why did she send me so far away from her? Why?
Meredith had no answer for herself. Only Kate Sanderson could answer that question. If she and Patsy ever found her, which was most unlikely in her view.
The pain came back all of a sudden, the pain of her childhood, the constant she had lived with as a little girl. “Mam, Mam, where are you?” she heard the small girl cry, and Meredith’s heart tightened. How she had dreamed of that face, the mother’s pretty face. How she had longed for her, longed for those soft arms around her, longed for the warmth of her love, the soothing voice, the comfort of her presence. Meredith’s heart held the memories intact, held them inviolate . . . the pretty face, the sparkling eyes of blue, the love, the tenderness, the scent of her . . . the mother she had never stopped loving or longing for . . . her mother. Kate Sanderson.
Meredith squeezed the tears back and swallowed. Her throat ached.
“Are you all right?” Patsy asked softly, sounding worried.
Unable to speak for a moment, Meredith did not answer. She sat up straighter and flicked the tears away from her eyes with her fingertips.
“I just don’t know why she did it,” she said to Patsy at last. “A moment ago I thought we’d never find her, but now I know we must. Just to ask her that question. Why?”
Patsy was silent; she simply nodded, affected by Meredith’s emotion, the pain reflected on her face.
Finally, Meredith got up and looked at her friend, met her steady gaze. “You see, Patsy, my mother loved me very much. The way I love Cat and Jon . . . and that’s why I can’t fathom why she did what she did. It’s a mystery.”
Patsy put her arm around Meredith’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, I promise you that.”
Together they walked back through the weed-filled garden, heading for the car. As they passed the mounds of rubble, Patsy asked, “Do you think that is Hawthorne Cottage?”
For a moment Meredith did not answer. She stood staring at the mass of old stones, but she did not really see them. Instead, she saw Hawthorne Cottage as it had been thirty-eight years earlier. She saw the sparkling windows, the fresh white-lace curtains, the copper pots gleaming in the kitchen. She saw her neat little bedroom with the rose-patterned quilt. And she heard that mellifluous voice. “A wizard sells magical things at this stall, astonishing gifts you can see if you call . . . ” The voice faded away.
“Yes,” Meredith said softly, “that’s Hawthorne Cottage. What’s left of it.”
“This is 3 Green Hill Road,” Patsy said, slowing the car, indicating the big Victorian building set behind wrought iron gates. “You were born there, Meredith. For years it was a maternity hospital. Now that I see it, I recall coming here with my aunt, when my cousin Jane had her first child. They used to live at Hill Top. I’ll show you where on our way into town.”
Meredith stared at the building with interest, and then asked, “You said used to be a maternity hospital. Isn’t it anymore?”
“I don’t think so,” Patsy replied. “I vaguely remember that it became a general hospital, or perhaps a home for the elderly, I’m not quite sure.” Glancing at Meredith, she finished, “Do you want to get out, go over there and have a closer look?”
Meredith shook her head. “No, no, that’s fine. But I can’t help wondering where I was christened though.”
Turning on the ignition, driving on, Patsy said, “Probably at Christ Church in Armley Do you want me to take you there?”
“I don’t think so, I’m sure I won’t remember anything. But thanks, honey.”
“What about Leeds Market? Would you like to stop off, see whether or not it triggers any other memories? It
was rebuilt in the seventies, after it burned down in a fire. But fortunately it was rebuilt in the same Victorian style it had always been. So it’s the same now as it was when you were five or six.”
“I doubt I’ll have any significant recollections there, Patsy. I think that we ought to go to Ripon. We’ve quite a lot of things to review, and to discuss with the Millers. By the way, that was good news that they’re going to stay on as the managers.”
“Isn’t it just,” Patsy exclaimed, a smile flashing on her face. “I was thrilled when they first told me last week. I hope you’re not angry that I didn’t pass it on then, but I wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you when you arrived.”
“No, I wasn’t angry, and it was a marvelous surprise. Now we don’t have to search for a good management team or interview anyone.”
“True, but we do have to interview the various chefs. The Millers have done a lot of weeding out, as I told you, and we’re down to three.”
“That’s not too bad, but hiring a chef is always a tricky business; you know that, Patsy. They usually do a lovely meal to impress, but invariably that happens only once . . . disaster frequently follows.”
“The Millers have tried out these three off and on for a couple of weeks. One’s a man, Lloyd Bricker. The other two are women, a Mrs. Morgan and a Mrs. Jones. So we’ll be eating well this weekend, that’s a certainty. However, I tend to agree with you, hiring a chef is dicey.”
“We should be able to open the inn in May,” Meredith remarked. “You don’t foresee any problems, do you?”
“No, and I told you that when you arrived. It’s just this chef business that nags at me. It’s going to be fine, let’s not worry.” Patsy threw her a quick glance, then focused on the road again. “By the way, when are you planning to leave for Paris?”