Child on the Doorstep. Anne Bennett
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never been any sign of a baby and so she had presumed the baby had died too.
‘You haven’t got four elder sons any more, have you, Granny?’ Connie said. ‘Mammy said two died but wouldn’t say how. She said how they died wasn’t important.’
Mary sighed. ‘I suppose she’s right in a way,’ she said. ‘Knowing all the ins and outs of it will not make any difference to the fact that they are dead and gone. They died trying to join their brothers in New York, but they travelled on the Titanic.’
Connie gave a gasp and Mary said, ‘Do you know about the Titanic?’
Connie nodded. ‘We were told about it at school. They said it was the biggest ship ever and it was her maiden voyage and she sank and many people died.’
‘Including my two sons, but there were whole families, men, women and children, even wee babies, lost.’
‘I know,’ Connie said. ‘It must have been really awful to have to deal with that.’
‘I didn’t think I would ever recover,’ Mary admitted. ‘And your granddad was never the same after. Officially he died from a tumour in his stomach, but I know he really died from heartache. It wasn’t just that the boys died, though that was hard enough to bear. It was the way they died too, for they would have suffered, they would have frozen to death. It said in the paper most steerage passengers – that’s what they call the poorest travellers down in the bowels of the ship – didn’t even reach the deck before the ship sank and, even if they had, there were not enough lifeboats for the numbers on the ship.’
‘I know,’ Connie said. ‘The teacher told us that. I thought it was stupid to build a ship with too few lifeboats for all the passengers.’
‘And so did I, Connie,’ Mary said. ‘And now that’s one mystery cleared up for you and it’s time for bed. You finished that cocoa ages ago.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Yes but nothing and don’t forget your prayers.’
‘Granny, there’s loads more I want to know.’
‘Maybe but that’s all you’re getting tonight,’ Mary said. ‘I’ll tell you some more tomorrow night.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ Mary agreed and then, as Connie opened the door to the stairs, she said, ‘And Connie, while the things I have told you and may tell you yet are not exactly secrets, if your mother wants to keep the past hidden she’ll not want all and sundry talking about it.’
‘All right. I can tell Sarah though, can’t I?’
And as Mary hesitated, Connie pleaded, ‘Please, Granny, she’s my best friend and she’ll not tell another soul if I tell her not to.’
Mary remembered Angela and her best friend, Maggie, the pair of them thick as thieves and always sharing and swapping secrets. Connie and Sarah were the same and so she relented and said, ‘All right, but just Sarah, mind.’
‘I only go round with Sarah,’ Connie said. ‘I wouldn’t share things with anyone else.’
Mary knew she wouldn’t. Some children growing up had a wide circle of friends, but with Angela and now Connie they had just one best friend.
Connie told Sarah the following afternoon after first extracting a promise that she wouldn’t tell anyone else.
‘It’s like a story, isn’t it?’ she said to Connie.
Connie nodded happily. ‘It’s nice knowing about your family, even if bad things happened like my uncles drowning in the Atlantic Ocean when their ship went down. Anyway Granny said she’ll tell me more tonight after Mammy’s gone to work.’
‘Chapter Two tomorrow then,’ said Sarah.
That night Connie rushed through her jobs and had only just got settled before the fire when she said, ‘Granny, did Mammy miss her own mammy?’
Mary shook her head. ‘She was too young,’ she said. ‘I know sometimes as she was growing up she felt bad she couldn’t remember her family. She used to study the picture – you know, the one on the sideboard.’
‘The one of my grandparents on their wedding day,’ Connie said. ‘Mammy told me that much. They wore funny clothes.’
‘It was the style then,’ Mary said.
‘It was a shame Mammy couldn’t remember anything about either of them,’ Connie said. ‘I know a little bit of how that feels because I can’t remember my daddy. I’m glad as well that I have a picture so I know what he looked like. But that’s all, so it’s good that Mammy at least knew what her parents looked like.’
‘Yes, that’s why she was so taken with the locket.’ Mary stopped suddenly and Connie watched a crimson flush flood over her grandmother’s face. She had never intended to mention the locket because it brought back that distressing time when Angela was forced to do that almost unforgivable thing. Maybe Angela was right and the past should be left in the past.
However, Connie didn’t connect her grandmother’s odd behaviour with anything she said, she thought rather that she was having some sort of seizure.
‘Granny,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’
And when Mary didn’t answer she put her hand on her grandmother’s shoulder and said again, ‘Granny, is anything the matter?’
Connie’s touch and anxious voice roused Mary, who knew that now she had mentioned the locket she had to give Connie some explanation. She looked at her beloved granddaughter and said, ‘No, I’m fine. Sometimes memories crowd in my mind and just then I remembered how upset your mother was when she lost the locket, for it meant so much to her.’
‘I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘That would be why,’ Mary said. ‘It was beautiful and bought by your grandfather and given to your grandmother on their wedding day. Your grandmother gave it into my keeping when I took charge of Angela and said if anything happened to them I was to give it to Angela on her wedding day.’
‘And you did.’
‘Of course,’ Mary said. ‘Your mammy was moved to tears to be holding something in her hand that had once belonged to her mother.’
‘And she lost it?’
‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘Maybe the clasp was faulty or something. But, however it happened, she lost it on the way home from the munitions one night.’
‘Oh, I bet she was upset,’ Connie said. ‘Did she look for it, or inform the police or something?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember the details of what she did now,’ Mary said somewhat vaguely. ‘But I believe she tried all ways to recover it.’
Mary thought of the locket, left in the care of the tiny baby on the workhouse steps, the only reminder of the mother who gave her away.
‘Ah, someone will have picked it up and pocketed it with no idea what it means to the person who lost it,’ Connie said. ‘Was there anything inside?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mary. ‘There was a miniature of the picture on the sideboard, your grandparents’ wedding day, and in the other side some ringlets from your mammy’s hair tied tight with a red ribbon, for she had perfect ringlets just as you do.’
‘Oh, I wish she still had it.’
‘It was supposed to come to you on your wedding day.’
‘Oh,’ said Connie, surprised at the disappointment she felt that this wouldn’t happen now. It wasn’t as if she remembered ever even seeing the locket.
‘Don’t ever mention the locket to your mother though,’ Mary warned.
Connie shook her head.