Come Fly With Me...: English Girl in New York / Moonlight in Paris. Fiona Brand
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room had the potential to collapse like dominoes—probably at the expense of Mrs Van Dyke, who was standing in the doorway.
She pushed her shoulder against the pile, trying to support some of the weight wobbling above her as she gave a final tug to get the box out.
In that tiny millisecond between the boxes above landing safely in place, still in their tower, she saw what was behind the stack and it made her catch her breath.
A beautifully carved wooden cradle.
She should have guessed. With all the other carefully carved items of wood in the apartment, it made sense that Mr Van Dyke would have made a cradle for his children. She weaved her way back through the piles, careful not to knock any with her box, before sitting it at the door next to Mrs Van Dyke. ‘Do you want to have a look through this to see what you think might be appropriate?’
She chose her words carefully. Mrs Van Dyke had already revealed she’d lost one child; there might be items in this box that would hold special memories for her. Items she might not want to give away. ‘I’ll go and try and get the cradle.’
It took ten minutes of carefully inching past boxes, tilting the cradle one way then another, before she finally managed to get out of the room.
She sat the cradle on the floor. Mrs Van Dyke was sitting in a chair with the open box on her lap, setting things in neat piles next to her.
Now that she had the cradle in the light of the room she was able to appreciate how fine the carving was. The cradle actually rocked. Something Carrie hadn’t seen in years. The wooden spindles were beautifully turned, with a variety of ducks and bunnies carved at either end on the outside of the crib. Something like this would cost a small fortune these days.
She ran her fingers over the dark woodwork. ‘This is absolutely beautiful. It looks like the kind of thing you would see in a stately home. Did your husband really make this himself?’
Mrs Van Dyke’s eyes lit up at the mention of her husband. She smiled proudly. ‘Yes, he did. It took him nearly four months.’ She leaned forward and touched the cradle, letting it rock gently. ‘This held all five of my children. Just for the first few months—they quickly outgrew it.’
‘Are you sure we can borrow it? It looks like a precious family heirloom.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby. That’s its job. You’ll bring it back, mind?’
Carrie nodded. ‘Social services have been called—’ she held out her hands ‘—but with the snowstorm it might be a few days before they can collect the baby.’
Mrs Van Dyke handed her a small pile of clothes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t keep too much. There’s some vests, socks and some hand-knitted cardigans. Oh, and a blanket.’
‘These will be great. Thank you so much. I’ll launder them and bring them back to you in a few days.’ She fingered the edge of the intricately crocheted blanket. ‘This is beautiful and it looks brand new. Are you sure we can use this?’
Mrs Van Dyke smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s not new. I made a new blanket for every child. This was the final one. You’re welcome to use it.’
Carrie smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you, it’s gorgeous and I’m sure it will be perfect.’ She sat the clothes inside the cradle and picked it up. ‘I’m sure Dan will be really grateful to you, too. If there’s anything you need in the next few days be sure to let us know. We can ask Mr Meltzer to open his store again.’
Mrs Van Dyke shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. My pantry is well stocked.’
Carrie walked over to the door. ‘Thanks, Mrs Van Dyke.’ She opened the door and gave a little smile. ‘You have a beautiful home here.’
Mrs Van Dyke smiled. ‘And you’re welcome in it any time.’
Carrie juggled the cradle in her hands and closed the door behind her quietly.
Wow. Not what she’d expected at all.
Mrs Van Dyke was lovely, a real pleasure to be around. And she could imagine that Mrs Van Dyke could regale Carrie with hundreds of stories about her life and her family.
She thought of the little carving of a mother’s and child’s hands interlinked. It was heartbreaking—and it was beautiful. It hadn’t felt right to ask any questions about her son Peter. She’d only just met Mrs Van Dyke and that would be intrusive.
But she’d felt the connection. The connection that only another mother who had lost a child could feel.
Obviously she hadn’t said anything to Mrs Van Dyke. The woman hardly knew her. But that little feeling in the pit of her stomach had told her that this woman would be able to understand exactly how she felt.
Their circumstances were obviously different. Mrs Van Dyke had spent seven years loving and cherishing her son, getting to know his thoughts and quirks, growing together as mother, child and part of a family. Carrie had missed out on all that.
She’d spent seven months with her hands on her growing stomach, with a whole host of hopes and expectations for her child. In her head she’d been making plans for the future. Plans that involved a child.
None of those plans had been for a future without her daughter.
Her hands were starting to shake a little. Was it from the weight in her hands—or was it from the thoughts in her head?
A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby.
How true.
She’d loved the white cot she’d bought for her daughter. But it hadn’t been nearly as beautiful as this one. It had been dismantled and packed off to the nearest charity shop, along with the pram, because she couldn’t bear to look at them.
Hopefully some other baby had benefitted from them.
Carrie walked down the stairs carefully, making sure she didn’t bang the cradle on the way. Who knew what Dan would say to her? She wouldn’t be surprised if he let rip with some choice words.
Her ears pricked up. Crying—no, wailing. The baby was screaming at the top of his lungs. Her steps quickened and she pushed open Dan’s door with her shoulder.
‘Dan, what on earth is going on?’
* * *
Dan’s ears were throbbing. Weren’t there environmental laws about noise? No one seemed to have told this little guy.
He changed him over to the other shoulder. This had been going on for the past fifteen minutes. What on earth had gone wrong?
He screwed up his face. Why was he even thinking that? He knew exactly what had gone wrong. The little guy had nearly finished the entire bottle without burping once. And according to what he’d read on the internet—that wasn’t good.
He tried to switch off from the screaming. Tried to focus his mind elsewhere. Who would leave a baby outside in the cold?
The thought had been preying on his mind since the second Carrie had found the baby. Sure, he’d done the cop thing and made a half-hearted attempt to look for the mother—to see if someone was in trouble out there.
But truth be told—he wasn’t that sure he wanted to find her.
Some people just weren’t fit to be parents. Fact.
He was living proof and had the scars to back up his theory.
Even twenty-five years ago social services had tried to support his mother to keep him, when the truth of the matter was they should have got him the hell out of there.
Thank goodness his grandmother had realised what the scars on his back were. The guys in the station thought they were chicken-pox scars, and he wasn’t about to tell them any different. But cigarettes left a nasty permanent burn.
The expression on Carrie’s face