Families and Friendships (24 page)

Fiona had not been at the meeting, so she was interested to hear about what had taken place.

‘I've met Mrs Catchpole a few times,' she said. ‘It's a pity she's not of the age to join our Young Wives group. We could argue that she's young at heart, and that's what matters. But it might cause bother. The Mothers' Union women seem to agree that they have their meetings and we have ours.'

‘And never the twain shall meet?' joked Simon.

‘Not exactly, but we each have a different role to play. Perhaps the Young Wives will be able to help with the catering. We'll do what we can, but it's difficult with most of the women going out to work.'

‘Young Wives … and Friends.' Simon reminded her. ‘Don't forget the “friends”.' It had been decided at the start not to limit the group to married women, mainly so that they could include Ruth Makepeace, a local schoolteacher who had been a widow. Since then, however, she had married the headmaster and was now Ruth Saunders.

‘I don't think we have any friends now,' said Fiona. She laughed. ‘No, that's not right, is it? What I mean is that since Ruth got married we are all wives. But we'll leave it as it is; everyone's welcome. It sounds as though the garden party could turn out to be quite a grand affair. Perhaps we could invite your parents to come for that weekend, Simon. They're due for a visit.'

The fundraising campaign for the church roof fund went on apace. The Gift Day proved to be an excellent start with several substantial cheques being presented by members of the congregation, amounting to the first several hundred pounds. Everyone threw themselves wholeheartedly into preparations for the garden party. By that time, Joshua, the new curate, had arrived, keen to prove his worth in all sorts of ways.

The morning of the big day started off cloudy, and everyone held their breath and said a few silent prayers. By midday the sun had appeared, and it was decided that the stalls and games could be held outside as planned.

Afternoon tea was served in the spacious lounge and dining room – dainty sandwiches, scones and fancy cakes – with strawberries and cream as an extra temptation, which hardly anyone could resist. There were games of skill and of chance, as had been discussed at the meeting. Skittles and hoop-la; a tombola stall; a raffle with better than usual prizes; and various guessing competitions – the name of a doll, the weight of a cake, the number of Smarties in a jar, and pinpointing a place on a map of Aberthwaite and district. And numerous stalls selling fancy goods, bric-a-brac, books, and handmade gifts.

The doll was not the usual baby doll but a large-sized clown doll, denoted by Mrs Catchpole. It was dressed in a harlequin costume of diamond-patterned satin, a lavish creation designed to sit on a bed and enhance the decor of the room. To counterbalance this there was also a teddy bear to be named, which was of more interest to the children. The new curate, who was by now becoming well known – and generally well liked – volunteered to be in charge of this stall. It was soon seen as an excuse for him to dress up again, this time as a clown with baggy trousers, a red nose and a comical hat. He drew a good crowd who joined in the fun, and a few adverse comments from the same little group who had objected to his former appearance as the devil.

However, when the pre-arranged selection of names had all been chosen Josh changed into his normal clothes and went to help in the kitchen with the mountain of washing-up. Mrs Catchpole had a dishwashing machine – to the envy of several of the ladies – but there was still a colossal amount of clearing away to be done.

‘A job shared is a job halved, ladies,' he said cheerily, grabbing a pot towel. He won the thanks and the approval of most of the helpers, but just a few remained tight-lipped, ignoring his presence.

When the day's takings were added up and the amount for expenses deducted, the treasurer told the now exhausted, but contented, helpers that more than five hundred pounds had been raised for the church roof fund.

Simon made the announcement at the morning service the next day; he went on to thank everyone who had helped or taken part in any way. There was a round of applause and a few cheers, something that at one time would have been frowned upon in church, but was now becoming acceptable in places where worship was seen to be not just piety and prayers, but a cause for celebration as well. The atmosphere that day at both services was one of unity and friendship.

‘You've got a good church going there, lad,' Simon's father remarked when they sat together in the evening, Fiona, Simon and his parents, with Stella fast asleep upstairs. ‘I had my doubts at first when you told us you wanted to be a parson.' He turned to his wife, ‘Well, we both did, didn't we, love? But we changed our minds long ago. You're doing a grand job, you and Fiona. You should be proud of yourselves.'

‘Pride doesn't come into it, Dad,' replied Simon. ‘At least it shouldn't do. We have a splendid congregation there who all support us – well, almost all – in what we try to achieve. And now … I believe we have a good curate as well. You didn't hear him tonight, Dad, nor you, Mum, but we thought he was great, didn't we, darling?'

‘Yes, I think most people were pleasantly surprised,' smiled Fiona.

‘It's been a lovely weekend all told,' said Simon's mother. ‘The garden party – that was so enjoyable – and hearing Simon preach this morning. And seeing you all again, of course. Stella's growing up fast, isn't she? And now you have the next one to look forward to; that's wonderful news. Don't do too much and tire yourself out though, will you, dear?'

‘I'll try not to,' said Fiona, ‘but it's not easy. There's always something to be done.'

Simon's parents departed quite early the next morning in a flurry of hugs and kisses and goodbye waves.

‘Now, remember what you've been told, and try to take it easy today,' Simon told his wife.

‘Yes, I probably will,' said Fiona. ‘I must admit I do feel rather tired after that hectic weekend.

She had a mainly quiet day, finding time to read and do some knitting whilst Stella was having her afternoon nap. The little girl had an early tea at five o'clock, whereas Simon and Fiona dined later after she had gone to bed. Stella had finished her tea and was playing quietly with her dolls, when the door bell rang.

‘Now, I wonder who that can be?' said Fiona. It was her usual – though fatuous – response to an unknown caller.

‘Shall I go?' called Simon.

‘No, it's OK, you stay there,' she replied. Her husband was enjoying a few minutes' relaxation with the evening paper.

She opened the door. There was a girl standing here. Fiona didn't know her, at least she didn't think she did, though she looked, somehow, familiar. The girl stared at her for a moment, then she said, ‘Excuse me, but are you … Fiona?'

‘Yes, that's me,' she answered brightly. ‘And you are …?'

‘My name's Debbie,' answered the girl. Then she burst into tears. ‘I think you might be … my mother.'

Fiona gasped, feeling her heart miss a beat. She reached out a hand and touched the girl's arm. ‘Come along, dear. Come inside, and tell me about it.' The girl looked at her unsurely, her brown eyes brimming with tears.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘Perhaps I shouldn't have come …'

‘Well, you're here now, aren't you?' said Fiona, putting an arm round her and leading her over the threshold. ‘Come along in. Try not to cry, dear … We'll sort it all out.'

She led her into the room they called the living room; the family room at the back of the house, as opposed to the more spacious lounge where they entertained guests and groups from church. The living room was a more intimate place, and Fiona felt that she needed the support of her husband.

‘This is Debbie,' she said. Simon looked up from his paper, and Fiona nodded at him in a meaningful way. She could tell from the look on his face – of surprise, bewilderment, then of gradually dawning realization – that he knew what she was trying to convey to him, and that he had guessed who this girl might be. ‘She's come to tell us something. Debbie, love – this is my husband, Simon, and our little girl, Stella.'

‘Hello,' said Debbie timidly, trying to smile through her tears.

Simon sprung to his feet. ‘Take your coat off, dear, it looks rather damp. Now, sit here …' He coaxed her into a small armchair. ‘Just relax and calm down, there's a good girl. You don't need to worry about anything at all. Just … take your time.' He patted her shoulder consolingly.

Stella got up from the hearthrug where she was playing with her dolls. She looked curiously at the visitor, then she went across and put her little hand on Debbie's knee. ‘Don't cry, lady,' she said. ‘Why you crying?'

It made Debbie give a loud sob, although she had been trying to stem her tears. But she smiled as well. ‘Aren't you a little darling?' she said, stroking the child's hair. ‘Don't worry, pet. I'm just being silly.'

‘I'm Stella,' said the little girl, ‘and this is Betsy.' She placed a soft-bodied doll, rather grimy with much loving on Debbie's knee. ‘And this is Growly Bear.' An equally loved teddy bear, rather bald in places.

‘Now leave Debbie alone,' said Fiona. ‘I expect she's rather tired. I think we'd better all have a nice cup of tea.'

Debbie looked up and smiled. ‘That sounds like my mum; she always says that … Oh dear!' She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I'm sorry … but you know what I mean.'

Fiona smiled. ‘Of course I do, my dear.' The words had certainly slipped out unintentionally, and it proved to Fiona that the girl had a loving mother, despite the fact that she had landed on their doorstep. ‘That's what mums always say, isn't it?' She laughed. ‘A nice cup of tea's an answer to everything.'

‘I'll make the tea,' said Simon. ‘Come on, Stella; you can help me. We'll let Mummy have a talk to Debbie.'

Fiona sat down opposite the girl. ‘Now, my dear,' she said. ‘Why do you think that I might be … No …' she said, shaking her head. ‘I'll rephrase that, because I've no reason to doubt you. What I mean is … how did you find out? How did you know where to find me? To start with, where do you live, Debbie?'

‘In Whitesands Bay,' Debbie replied. ‘You know, up in Northumberland. I'm called Debbie – well, Deborah Mary really – Debbie Hargreaves.'

It was no surprise to Fiona to hear that she was from up north. She had that sing-song way of speaking, common to the people known as Geordies. She still remembered it from her time in Burnside House, and it was the way that Ginny and Arthur spoke.

‘And … I've got this.' Debbie reached for the bag at the side of her chair and rummaged about in it. Then she drew out a little pink teddy bear and held it out to Fiona. ‘My mum gave me this when I was a little girl. She said that you … I mean, the lady whose baby I was – she didn't know it was you, did she? – that she had left it with me, and that it showed that she – that you – had loved me …'

Fiona took hold of the little bear. ‘Oh … yes!' she breathed. ‘I remember …' Her eyes filled with tears, too, as she looked at the pink bear, recalling how she had tucked it into the baby's shawl when she handed the child over to the nurse; recalling, too, how she had first been given the teddy bear. ‘I'm so pleased you've kept him. I'm glad your mother gave him to you.'

Debbie smiled. ‘Actually, I always thought it was a girl bear, with it being pink. I called it Rosie. I didn't play with it very much, though, because Mum said it was special.'

‘It was special to me as well, Debbie,' said Fiona. ‘I'll tell you, later, how I came to have it. Now tell me … how did you find out?'

‘Well …' Debbie frowned. ‘It's complicated. My parents told me – at least Mum did – when I was only a very little girl, that I was adopted. So I always knew, and I didn't mind, because they said I was special, you see, because they'd chosen me.'

‘Yes, I see …' Fiona nodded. ‘I understand.'

‘Do you remember Claire Wagstaff?' asked Debbie.

‘Claire? Yes, of course I do,' said Fiona. ‘She was one of the helpers at the home. She was very kind to me. Do you mean … Claire told you?'

‘No, she didn't,' answered Debbie. ‘She wouldn't tell me anything, really, 'cause she knew she wasn't supposed to. But I went to see her because Mum had told me I was born in that place, Burnside House.'

‘I see …' Fiona was beginning to realize now what must have happened way back in 1952. ‘So Claire … she had something to do with your adoption?' She had thought it strange that the girl lived in Northumberland, so near to the place of her birth. She had imagined that the child would have been taken much further away.

‘Yes, it was Claire who told them, the adoption people, whoever they were, that my mum and dad – Vera and Stanley, they're called – that they wanted to adopt a baby girl. And that they'd be good parents. Claire knew them, you see.'

‘And they are, aren't they?' asked Fiona. ‘They're good parents? You've not come here because you're unhappy at home, have you, Debbie?'

‘No,' said Debbie. ‘I'm not unhappy. But I had this urge to find out; it was driving me mad. And I couldn't ask Mum anything else.'

‘They don't know you're here, I take it?'

‘No … I just got on a train and came here, well, I managed to get part of the way. I didn't know where Aberthwaite was, really. There's not a station here, so I was going to get a bus. But the bus had gone, and then a nice lady – she says she knows you – gave me a lift here. She saw me when I was waiting at the bus stop in … where was it? Oh yes, in Northallerton.'

‘Oh deary me! It sounds as though you've had quite an eventful journey. Look, here's Simon with the tea.' She poured it into three cups. ‘Sugar, Debbie?'