COVER Short stories

It’s 1970 and Peggy, now middle-aged, is unable to mourn the death of her mother

As Peggy entered the house, the silence wrapped itself around her. She stood for a moment in the hall, savouring the peace. She supposed she ought to feel grief-stricken as she had just attended her mother’s funeral, but she knew her mother had never loved her. That had finally been made clear to her on the night when Peggy’s baby girl died, only minutes after she was born 30 years ago. No kindness or sympathy had been shown for her loss.

Sighing, Peggy looked around the only home she had ever known. Nothing had changed in all those years and, with a jolt, she realised that it was now hers to do with as she wished. She started by collecting all her mother’s clothes to give to the church jumble sale.

After stripping the bed, she turned to the bureau where her mother had kept all her papers and correspondence. She had never been allowed to open it and even now, although her mother was gone, she felt a stab of guilt. The first items she came across were her parents’ marriage certificate with a photo of the happy couple. Peggy wondered what had happened to turn her mother from a smiling bride to an embittered woman.

Also in the drawer were the deeds to the house and, tucked underneath, her own birth certificate. The smile on Peggy’s face froze as she read it. Although her father’s name was entered as expected, her mother was recorded as someone called Elsie Mary Jennings.

Still holding the certificate, she sank down on the nearest chair, her thoughts racing. She was forced to conclude that her father must have had an affair and she was the unwelcome result. No wonder her mother had never loved the child she had been forced to bring up as her own. But why had her birth mother let her go? So many questions that could never now be answered.

Rummaging in the drawer for further clues, Peggy found a bundle of letters. When she began to read them, her blood ran cold. They were all from a woman in Coventry recording the progress of a little girl called Grace. One of them, dated July 2nd 1942, declared proudly that ‘she was two today’. Reeling, Peggy realised that this must be her own child. The worst shock came when she read the signature, Ellen Wilson, at the bottom of the page.

Ellen was the name of Colin’s mother; her beloved Colin who had never known that she was expecting his child before he went missing, presumed dead, in the war.

The only possible explanation was that her baby had not died as she’d been told by Ethel Platt, who had assisted at the birth. Instead she had been sent to live with her grandmother. Peggy’s head swam as it dawned on her that she had a daughter and that she must be still alive!

Grace would be a woman of 30 now, possibly married with children of her own. Tears blinded her as she tried to read the address at the top of the page. Somehow, she was going to find her daughter, however long it took to track her down.

A week later, with one of Ellen’s letters tucked into her handbag, Peggy boarded the train to Coventry. She was determined to search the streets until

Overcome with emotion, Peggy swayed on her feet. The older woman reached out and steadied her

she located the address in the letter. It wasn’t long before she found herself standing in front of a neat semi-detached house with snowy white net curtains at the windows.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. It was opened by an elderly lady with a kind face who said: “Good morning. Can I help you?”

Peggy stammered: “I… I’m looking for someone called Ellen Wilson.”

“Then you have come to right place. I am Ellen Wilson.”

Overcome with emotion, Peggy swayed on her feet. The older woman reached out and steadied her. “Looks like you could do with a strong cup of tea, love. Come in and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Waiting in the front room while Ellen bustled into the kitchen, Peggy noticed a photograph on the mantelpiece of a pretty young woman with a toddler in her arms. A little girl clung on to her hand.

When Ellen returned with the tea, Peggy held up the photo and dropped her bombshell: “The reason I’m here is because I think this woman is my daughter and those are my grandchildren.”

As the sorry tale unfolded, Ellen listened in horror. She said: “The woman who brought Grace to us – I think her name was Mrs Platt – told us that you had died in childbirth. That was months after you had stopped answering Colin’s letters.”

It was Peggy’s turn to recoil in disbelief. “But I never got any letters from him! When the telegram came to say he was missing, presumed dead, I thought that explained why he hadn’t written to me.”

“My dear Peggy, Colin isn’t dead. That telegram must have been made up by your mother. After the war, he came home and helped to bring Grace up. He never married. You were his one love – for always and forever, as he often said.”

As the two women, stared at each other, lost for words, they heard the front door open. A voice called out: “I’m home!” and a moment later, Colin walked into the room. On seeing who was with his mother, he stood stock still before saying: “Peggy?”

“Yes, Colin, it’s really me.”

“But we were told you’d died, having Grace!”

“There have been so many lies told, I don’t know where to begin,” Peggy said.

Tactfully, Ellen slipped out of the room, leaving the couple to tell each other their stories. When she returned, they were in each other’s arms, laughing and crying at the same time.

Later, Colin said: “Grace is going to be so excited when I tell her. I’ve an idea – this weekend is Mothering Sunday so why don’t I bring them over to Nuneaton for a proper family reunion?”

When Sunday came, Peggy hovered at the window all morning until at last a car pulled up outside. She rushed to the door and opened it to see a young woman who was the mirror image of her younger self. Grace held out a beautiful bouquet of spring flowers and said: “Hello, Mum.”

For the first time in her life, Peggy felt complete as she hugged her precious daughter tightly, crushing the sweetsmelling blooms between them.