The Winter Children

Julia Adams gets out of the taxi and walks up to the front gate of Renniston Hall. She stares through the bars at the old place. It’s so familiar to her and yet it’s been years since she set eyes on it. It’s empty now, but she remember the huge door open, with girls running in and out, staff carrying bags and trunks, teachers greeting parents, the Headmistress regally descending the staircase as though she were Queen Elizabeth the First herself.

‘Yes please. I won’t be too long. Please wait.’ She expects he’s wondering what a white-haired old lady is doing visiting this empty old ruin on her own. ‘I’m just going to take a look around, but I’ll be back.’

The gate is locked, so she starts to walk around the side of the house. She wanders along the eastern side. Out where the playing fields used to be there is a smart housing estate, concealed from the house by a large row of trees. The school must have sold them off before it closed down. Of course it never recovered from the scandal. Julia remembers all the terrible fuss, though it was all so long ago now. A schoolgirl, pregnant by an Irish builder. A precious middle-class English girl, defiled by a working-class Irish navvie! It got into the papers, goodness only knew how, and caused the most awful outcry. The school tried to ride out the storm but the parents took their daughters away in droves. It couldn’t survive.

The path towards the back of the house is there, though, slightly muddy, as though there hasn’t been much rain, but even so, it hasn’t dried out completely. Julia walks down it, a little hesitant in her smart, gold-buckled leather shoes. Ahead of her she sees the empty bulldozers and the abandoned cement mixers of a building site.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ she says out loud, and laughs wryly. They must be knocking down the old gym and pool. Amazing it lasted so long, really.

She walks around the empty, half-demolished building, remembering nights when she stood shivering, waiting to let Alice in after her trysts with the builder. For the thousandth time, she wonders what happened to Alice. Even though she asked many times, she never found out. Later in life, when she thought of tracking her down, she found no trace, partly because she had no record of Alice’s mother’s married name, and the school was long since shut down, its files lost.

She has not been back for many years, not since her parents withdrew her from Renniston and took her to Cairo, where she was taught by a governess for the rest of her education. They said it was for the best, and they were probably right. What, after all, was the alternative? But Renniston Hall cast its influence over her whole life.

She walks around the rear of the Hall, to the broad avenue there. There she takes in the magnificent back of the house, not as showy as the front but still beautiful, even more so in its plain symmetry. It is a Georgian addition to the main house, looking out over what would have once been parkland, and one winter was a caravan park, and is now fields with more housing a mile or so off. She turns to walk along the avenue and notices at once that the hedges have been trimmed into the shapes of animals.

Continuing her walk, she keeps her eyes open for the sight of the old gardener. This journey is because of him. She was watching the television late one night in her flat in London when a documentary about Renniston Hall came on, a late repeat on some secondary channel, but she was gripped at once. Her old school, left to moulder away, and only one man looking after the whole thing. He was interviewed on screen and as soon as he spoke, she knew him, though his accent was softer now than ever after all these years in England.

Julia sees him before he sees her. He is bent over his spade, digging up a border. She stops and stares, her memory replacing his white hair with a dark, oily quiff and the rounded, stooped frame with a skinny rocker’s body.

He freezes. Slowly he turns his head to look at her. She waves and walks towards him. His eyes are faded now and he squints at her. He doesn’t recognise her.

Why should he? It’s been years. And I’m not a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl anymore. I’m an old woman.

And yet, his face clears as she comes closer, astonishment taking the place of suspicion. ‘Is it you?’ he asks, his voice trembly as she nears. ‘After all this time, is it you?’

‘It is. Julia.’ She holds out her hand, smiling. It feels more natural than kissing him. After all, they are virtual strangers now. ‘Donnie. I knew it was you when I saw you on the television. But they called you William.’

‘My first name.’ He takes her hand and shakes it, as stunned as if he is shaking hands with the Queen. ‘William O’Donnell. They always called me Donnie on the site. What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see this old place.’ She looks around. ‘So many memories. And to see you, of course. I had no idea you were here. I thought you left years ago after . . .’ She colours slightly. It isn’t easy to talk about what happened.

Donnie digs his spade into the soil. ‘I left for a while,’ he says brusquely. ‘But I came back. I got a job helping the caretaker and stayed on when he left. I couldn’t bring myself to leave, you see. Not when I was the only one who knew about the wee lad.’

She nods. She knew too. Not everything, but enough. She nods back towards the topiary animals. ‘And you did those?’

‘Just my bit of fun. To make it a bit more of a joyful place. More fit for a child.’ He frowns at her, shaking his white head. ‘I still can’t believe it. Will you have a cup of tea?’

He takes her to a small cottage on the edge of a patch of woods. ‘I used to live in a cottage attached to the house,’ he explains, as they go in, ‘but it was taken over when the place was bought.’

‘Who are the new owners?’ she enquires as she follows him in and takes a seat at his small kitchen table while he makes tea.

‘Oh, a rich couple, American with an English wife. But they’ve never lived here. They started all the renovations and then it all just stopped when they found . . .’ Donnie stops and stares her right in the eye. ‘They found the little chap. I thought he’d never be disturbed. I thought about the forest and the garden but I couldn’t stand the idea he’d be dug up by foxes or discovered later. So I thought . . . well, the ground under the swimming pool is safe enough. But once they’d finished it, filled it with water . . . I found I couldn’t leave the lad there with no one knowing he was underneath it all. And now they’ve found him after all.’

‘I’m not saying anything!’ he says stoutly. ‘It’s all too long ago. No point now. Let ’em wonder. We did our bit for him. What more could we do?’

Donnie fixes her with his fierce gaze, his white brows beetling, and brings over two mugs of tea. Then says shortly, ‘There’s another reason why I came back here. So you’d be able to find me if you needed to.’

She blushes again, harder this time. ‘I tried to find you,’ she says quickly. ‘Many times. But I didn’t know your whole name. And I was looking in Ireland.’

‘When I was here all the time.’ He sits down opposite her. ‘So. Are you going to tell me what happened?’

‘Well . . .’ She knew this was coming. How could it not? It was why she had come here to find him. He deserves the truth as much as anyone. ‘Yes. Of course. You know that once the school found out, there was uproar. And somehow it got into the papers. They forced me to tell them who it was. So I gave them a name.’ She drops her gaze.

She nods. ‘It was wrong. But I had to protect you. I couldn’t let them know that you were the father.’ She looks up a little shamefaced. ‘What happened to Roy? I never saw his name in the papers.’

‘He was back in Ireland by the time it all came out. He was already a sick man – drinking himself to death, he was. He died not much later. They never went after him.’

‘Oh.’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘I’m sorry for him, in a way. But he did wrong, we both know that.’

‘Oh no, it was never the same!’ she protests quickly. ‘What we had . . . It was never like Roy and Alice, you know that. The poor girl was ill, I think, and he was an exploitative, violent alcoholic. We weren’t like that. We were pure and innocent and . . . we loved each other.’

There’s a long silence as they both remember the far-off days in the sun-warmed fields and meadows, the afternoons of bliss together when all the world was just the two of them.

At last William speaks, his voice gruff. ‘You need to tell me what happened, Julia. I’ve never known all these years and it’s been hard to live with. I’ve been here alone for so long, just me and the little dead fellow, wondering where my own child is and if they’re alive or dead.’

‘Oh, Donnie.’ She leans across the table and puts her hand on his. She recalls when his hands were smooth and strong. Now they are craggy, veined and spotted. But they are still his hands. ‘He’s alive. My parents came and took me away, and my mother and I travelled to Switzerland where I had him. They wanted me to give him up, but I wouldn’t. He was so beautiful, Donnie, and he looked like you with your black hair and your eyes. I couldn’t give him up. And my mother could see that I wouldn’t. So . . . we went back to Cairo and she pretended the baby was hers. My parents brought him up as my little brother until he was four years old. I was nearly twenty by then, and my father’s posting in Egypt came to an end. We returned to England and Donald became mine again. We said I’d been married and quickly widowed, left with a child.’ She shrugs. ‘So many lies. We even said that my dead husband was also called Adams, by coincidence. I suppose it’s not that uncommon a surname. No one questioned it – at least, not to our faces.’

Donnie looks bewildered but moved. ‘Donald. It’s good. But he’s . . . how old is he now?’

‘He’s in his fifties! He’s a married man with children of his own. A good man, Donnie. You’ll be proud of him.’ She squeezes the hand that still lies beneath hers. ‘He knows about you. He wants to meet you. I never married, you see. He never had a father.’

‘I’ve got a son,’ whispers Donnie. His faded eyes moisten. ‘And grandchildren!’

‘Yes. You’ll meet them all, if you want to. I wasn’t sure if you would.’

They are quiet for a moment as they both absorb the joyful gravity of the moment. Then Julia lets go of his hand, drinks her tea and says brightly, ‘So tell me, Donnie, is there anyone here now or are you on your own?’

‘There’s a man on his own who’s in my old cottage. He had a wife and children here but they left a few months ago and I haven’t seen them since. It’s a shame. I miss the little things wandering about, and the wife was a breath of fresh air. But he must have done something to send them on their way. Ever since then, he’s moped about on his own, shutting himself up most of the day. He’ll be gone soon enough. The place is for sale again.’

Donnie nods. ‘Someone’ll buy it. Some other nuisance who wants me gone, I suppose.’

‘I suppose so.’ She sits back, resting against the chair. She’s a little tired after the journey.

‘That’s right.’ She smiles at him. ‘When we returned to England, I took up social work, specifically for young and unmarried mothers. Alice . . . her experience . . . everything about that night, it stayed with me. I was lucky – my parents loved me and let me keep the baby. But Alice wasn’t. Goodness only knows what happened to her. What you said always stayed with me too – about it taking two to make the baby, but only one being blamed for it. I felt the injustice of it so strongly. It was Alice who was punished, no doubt, but she was just a child. And I thought of all those girls who want their babies but have them taken away. I couldn’t bear the pain they suffered, and the hypocrisy of everyone involved. I remembered how right it felt to us when we . . . we made Donald. Why should people and babies be punished for something so natural? In the end I used a legacy from my parents to buy a house as a home for unmarried mothers, or any women who needed help and support in their pregnancy and a place to live afterwards. It’s been my life’s work. My charity is a large one now. We’re still needed, even with the change in attitudes to unmarried mothers. There are still women, abandoned and alone, who need our help.’

‘Well, well.’ They sit in silence, bound by the lifelong repercussion of that night.

Julia says slowly, ‘This is a big place, isn’t it? Too big for one family.’

‘Lots of people. And children. Some babies, perhaps. Some mothers and babies.’ She smiles at him. ‘Perhaps I should buy it.’

He turns slowly to look at her, a smile creeping over his own face as he understands. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘mothers and babies. It’s a good idea.’

‘It’s a place where children could be happy, isn’t it? There are plenty of children in the cities who might appreciate a place like this to stay in.’

‘Then I’ll think about it.’ She smiles again. ‘There’s no reason why you should stay here alone anymore. Not now we’ve found each other. So. Now. Tell me about yourself since we last met. I want to hear everything.’

Donnie looks across at her, a smile hovering on his lips, as if he still can’t believe she is real. ‘Yes. Let’s go back and we’ll start from then.’

Olivia sits on the veranda gazing out at the bright gardens. The twins are sleeping inside, keeping cool in the afternoon heat underneath the whirring fan in their bedroom. The house is quiet in the hottest part of the day, and Olivia sits alone, a glass of lemonade on the table beside her. She is staring straight ahead but she sees nothing. On her lap is a letter that arrived this morning. It’s taken a long time to get to her. Over two years. It was sent to the London flat, where the tenants are not particularly assiduous at sending on post. From there, it went at last to Renniston, where Dan opened it and read it. Then he resealed it and posted it on to Argentina. Now it is, finally, in her hands.

She sits and stares for a long time. Then, at last, she smiles. It is neither joyful nor sarcastic, but a wry twist of the lips that speaks of amusement at life’s ironies, and all the human squabbling and fuss that amounts to so little in the end.

After a while she gets up and goes inside, leaving the letter on the bench on the veranda where anyone might read it if they choose. A light breeze wafts it up and across the decking where it catches against the railing and flaps there, the text blurring as it moves.

Dear Mr and Mrs Felbeck

It is with regret that we must inform you of a mix-up in the application of your donated eggs. Your preferred donor was not able to supply us with viable eggs but through administrative error, her label was applied to those of your other specified donor, candidate number 121. Therefore, although you were told that your preferred donor, supplied by you, was the donor of your eggs, it was in fact the other donor whose eggs were implanted.

We apologise sincerely for this mix-up which has only just come to light, but we understand that you have carried a healthy pregnancy to term and therefore we are sure you are currently happy with your circumstances

Please contact us with any queries and we reattach the details of your donor for your information.

Candidate number:	121
Donor type:	Frozen eggs
Race:	Caucasian
Ethnic origin:	French
Eye colour:	Green/brown
Hair colour:	Brown, dark
Skin tone:	Light/fair
Height (cm):	168
Weight (kg):	64
Highest qualification:	MSc Biological Sciences

We remain at your service.

Yours sincerely,

Epilogue