The Morning Gift

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ said Leonie, turning back to her husband. ‘I’m going to take Ruth’s letter to the post office and make them tell me where it comes from and then I’m going to go there and find her. And when I have found her I’m going to bring her back here and look after her and after my grandchild. And if the father’s a chimney sweep I’m going to do it.’ She swallowed. ‘Even if he is a Nazi chimney sweep, because if Ruth gave herself to him it’s because she loved him and she is my blood and yours also, so you will please not –’

A knock at the door and the rodent officer reappeared.

‘I found this under the boards in the back room,’ he said – and deposited on the table a large, square biscuit tin covered in mouse droppings and adorned with a picture of the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose patting a corgi dog.

She had come by bus as far as Alnwick, but there were eight miles still to go before she reached Bowmont. She’d have walked it easily enough in the old days, but not now, and she spent some of her meagre stock of money on a taxi as far as the village. It would have made sense to be set down by the house itself, but she couldn’t face that. She didn’t want to sweep up as a claimant – it was sanctuary she sought at Bowmont, not her rights.

The driver was worried; she had a suitcase, the afternoon was grey and chill, but she reassured him.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I need some air.’

She certainly looked as though she needed something, thought the driver, turning his cab, watching the bundled figure in its shabby cape set off up the hill.

There was nobody about and that was a blessing; there might have been people who recognized her and till she knew her fate she wanted to speak to no one. And her fate depended on a ferocious old woman known for her sharp temper and her strict and old-fashioned views.

‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ she said bitterly, addressing her unborn child. She had fought a long battle, pitting her pride and independence against the creature’s blind, stubborn thrust towards what it considered to be its home, and she had lost. Now, trudging up the hill, she tried to face the consequences of rejection. Where would she go if she was turned away? It was growing dark, she could hardly go back to Penelope whose advice she had ignored . . . whom, in a sense, she had left in the lurch. She was mad, coming here like this at the eleventh hour.

‘Oh God, why did I listen?’ she thought, for the sense of dialogue between herself and the child had been with her from the start.

But she knew why. Even now, in the bitter cold of a raw December day with the storm clouds massing in the west and the light withdrawing itself in readiness for an endless winter night, she walked through a heart-stopping beauty. The wind-tossed trees, the tumble and thrust of the waves against the cliffs and Bowmont’s tower etched against a violet sky, brought a sudden mist of tears to her eyes – and that was not very sensible nor very practical. She had to find her way, not stumble, for she was not alone.

Yet memories, as she made her way up the last stretch of road, came unbidden to weaken her further. The incredible clarity of the stars; the dazzling silver of the morning sea the first time she had walked towards it; the enfolding, unexpected warmth and fragrance of the garden – and she thought that if she was sent away again she would not know how to bear it.

She was on the gravel drive now and still she had encountered no one. Then as she reached the steps and put down her suitcase, she knew with certainty that her quest would fail. Aunt Frances hated refugees, she hated foreigners; she belonged to a bygone age. There was no sanctuary here, no safety, no hope.

She could hear the clang of the bell echoing inside the house. Would Turton even announce her, seeing her state? She belonged at the back door or in one of those dark genre paintings of banished women staggering out into the night.

The bolt was drawn back slowly . . . so slowly that Ruth would have had time to turn away down the steps.

‘Yes? What is it?’

It was not Turton who stood there, not any of the servants. It was Aunt Frances herself, barring the way, showing no welcome, no inclination to move aside – not even when she recognized who it was that stood on her threshold.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she went on, horrified. ‘This is no place for you!’

Ruth drew breath, lifted her head. Not I, but thou . . . She must fight for her child. But the words she brought out were halting, inadequate; she was suddenly so exhausted that she could hardly stand.

‘Please . . . I beg you . . . Can I stay?’

‘Stay here! Stay here in your condition! Really, Ruth, I know all foreigners are mad but this goes beyond everything. Of course you can’t stay.’

‘There is an explanation . . . There is a reason.’

‘Explanations have nothing to do with it. You can’t stay here, absolutely and definitely not, and that’s the end of the matter.’