Always Remember: I Love You

By Patricia M. Smith

Sarah, a poorly educated but intelligent orphan-girl in the 1930s, is seduced and, being destitute, is forced to leave her precious baby outside a hospital. We follow her struggle to make a life for herself and simultaneously follow the life of the baby, Linda, who is adopted by caring parents. They insist on telling her shes adopted and this creates an identity problem - she only feels happy when pretending to be someone else which results in her becoming a world class actress. Strange circumstances bring the two of them together and we see what happens then.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Aug 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499088410

Patricia M. Smith

Born in London 69 years ago, a widow with two grown-up sons, one of whom lives in America and the other in Devon, she divides her time between the UK and her house in USA where she can write peacefully by Lake Whitmore. After working as a language teacher and living in France, she studied creative writing under Sandie Traveller and at Winchester University, writing short stories at first, one of which was broadcast on the radio, then graduating to novels, of which, to date, she has written four. Patricia also enjoys painting and has travelled widely visiting all five continents.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Sarah

The pain was stronger now. She bit deeply into the piece of wood she’d found. She knew she mustn’t make any noise—she just mustn’t! Gradually, as beads of sweat squeezed their way out on to her forehead, the pain subsided a little and she could breathe deeply again.

Uncomfortable on the dusty floor, Sarah gazed up through the small grimy window. She saw the full face of the frosty November moon staring back at her—distant, and idly curious. It seemed as though it had seen most things during its infinite orbits around this foolish planet but nothing had ever changed its expression. In the brief gap between the pains, her mind sped dizzily back over the events that had led her to this place.

*     *     *

She had been so happy on that morning of her fourteenth birthday - not that any cards, presents or a party were likely. What you’d never had you didn’t miss. But today was the day she’d be free—free from all the constraints of the Children’s Home where she’d been ever since she could remember. She had been called into the Head mistress’s office where she found Miss Beetlestone in her high necked white blouse and long black skirt listening anxiously to a large wooden radio set. A solemn voice was making an announcement of some kind but Sarah could not quite hear it. The Head Mistress switched off the set and shook her head with irritation:

Shocking, shocking, she muttered to herself. Kings just do not abdicate. It should not be allowed—and over some woman too. What is this country coming to? Then she noticed Sarah standing in the doorway.

You know you’re due to leave us today, she said, sounding relieved. We don’t need to keep you after your fourteenth birthday. Take these two bags—they contain all you’ll need. Out you go and make sure you go straight to Slaters’ Restaurant. No dawdling on the way, mind. They’re expecting you so don’t you keep them waiting, do you hear? And make sure you behave yourself, you’re lucky they’re prepared to give the likes of you a job."

Sarah clenched her teeth to avoid making any response, she knew what happened if you dared to query anything, so she kept her questions to herself, but they didn’t go away. She picked up the two carrier bags and nodded. She remembered the only accolade she’d ever earned at that Home. They had once told her that she’d ‘raised dumb insolence into an art form’. She was actually quite proud of that. They certainly didn’t know what went on in her head. She found the rules and regulations of her particular Children’s Home debilitating, turning children into little more than automatons—frightened little robots who jumped to any command.

Don’t answer back! Do as you’re told!

They were not required to think or question anything. She had found just the right word in a dictionary when she sneaked into the library at the Home. A heinous crime, since the use of the library was a prohibited area for the children. The word she remembered was ‘decerebration’ to deprive someone of a brain. The word had been forever branded upon her memory because she had been discovered in the library that day and punished severely. She recalled the hours she had spent standing on a chair in the corner of the classroom with her hands on her head as an example to the others. All the while she stood there she wondered why all the interesting things which must be inside those pristine books must forever be closed up tight—as tight as her own lips were with all the questions buzzing around in her head.

Charities had donated shelves and shelves of books to that Home but, strangely, the children were forbidden ever to set foot in the library. She could not understand that, but then there were so many things she didn’t understand about that place.

But today was the day she was free. Today she could walk through the gates of the Children’s Home with those standard two carrier bags containing one change of clothes, a spare pair of shoes, a winter coat, two handkerchiefs, a small bag of toiletries and an even smaller purse containing a few coins. She remembered skipping through those gates on her way to the small restaurant where they’d found her a job.

She lived quite happily above that restaurant with the two other girls who also worked there, Gladys and Bronwen. They too had come directly from another Children’s Home, somewhere in Wales. There weren’t many rules to follow at the restaurant.

OK girls, they were told, as long as you start on time, keep neat and clean, do your work efficiently and be polite to the customers, we’ll be happy with you.

Think I can manage that, she whispered to Gladys, who grinned and nodded.

All that was easy. After work and all day on Sundays, Gladys told her later, we can do whatever we like—our time is our own.

Can we stay in bed late on Sundays then?

All day if you like. You can go to Church or not. No one will say anything. It’s great isn’t it? We were forced to go to Chapel every Sunday for hours in Wales.

It took her a while to adjust to that. But she did. She remembered the happy times she spent with Gladys and Bronwen. What a trio they had been!

Yes, she thought, I really was happy then. How did it all change? She knew what happened. Eddie happened.

His face now danced and flaunted itself mockingly in her brain as it had done since the first time she saw him in the doorway of Slaters’ Restaurant. She thought him so handsome in a brooding, gypsy way - dark wavy hair above a pale face and penetrating, mocking dark brown eyes. It hadn’t taken him long to notice her either. He usually came in about lunchtime with one or two of his mates and they would all joke around with whichever waitress took their order. Before long he was making sure they always sat at one of Sarah’s tables.

Where you been all my life, gorgeous? he quipped.

Don’t suppose I was born for the first half of it, she parried and flounced off into the kitchen, smiling to herself. She knew he wasn’t that much older than she, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to take him down a peg or two. When she returned, she knew her barb had hit home. He was combing back his hair and shrugging his shoulders.

"Go on then, girl, so how old do you think I am then?

Old as your tongue but younger than your teeth I should say, They all laughed and he flashed her such a smile that she had to laugh too.

So, what time do you finish here tonight?

I finish at eight but I might have plans.

I’ll see you outside at eight-thirty. he said with all the confidence in the world and she knew she’d be there.

She didn’t have anything really nice to wear. Her meagre wages didn’t permit much in the way of new clothes but Gladys said she could borrow her clean white blouse and she kept to her plain black skirt. She brushed and brushed her dark brown hair until it shone. Somehow she always felt better once she had given her hair a good brushing. It seemed to give her confidence a boost.

I won’t go down dead on eight-thirty, she said to herself, don’t want him to think I’m too keen, do I? So she peered through the lace curtains until she saw him swagger up. He was five minutes late anyway. She waited another five and then rushed out as if she’d been unavoidably delayed by something.

Sorry she lied, The boss kept me talking.

In the beginning those evenings together were fun. He seemed to like her witty comments and the friendly banter kept them laughing. He walked her back to the restaurant and gave her a friendly peck on the cheek. She had never felt so important. Just walking along the street with him by her side made her feel so proud. Someone so handsome had chosen her—little Sarah from the Children’s Home. She had absolutely no previous experience of anyone—male or female - actually liking her and she floated on a rosy cloud of happiness. But it wasn’t long before he expected more of her.

One day he walked with her to a little patch of woodland, known locally as ‘the Dell’ and asked: Do you love me, Sarah?

She replied at once: Yes, Eddie, of course I do—why do you need to ask?

I need you to prove that you love me

How can I do that?

I’ll show you.

He fumbled with her clothing and clumsily ran his hands over her body. She’d only ever heard one or two sexy jokes in her life and had only the vaguest idea of what he was doing. But if it made him happy, and it certainly seemed to, then she supposed it was alright. Over his shoulder, she looked up at the night sky where the pale face of the moon stared back at her with its usual vaguely curious expression. She actually found the whole experience quite tedious and uncomfortable but she didn’t say as much to him.

Wasn’t that great? he asked, triumphantly.

Oh, yes Eddie, she lied.

So every evening finished the same way from then on and he always had to leave her quite soon afterwards ‘on business’, though he never explained just what that ‘business’ was. In fact she never had discovered what he did for a living but he always seemed to have money in his pocket.

Her little romance didn’t last long.

One day Gladys happened to ask her if she had a spare sanitary towel and she replied that she had plenty, as she hadn’t needed them for quite some time.

What do you mean ‘for quite some time? Gladys sounded horrified.

I just mean that I haven’t needed them.

Yes, but for how long?

Oh I don’t know. I think it was around Valentine’s Day because Eddie was quite annoyed at the time.

"My God Sarah, it’s the middle of May. Don’t you realise what that means?

No. What should it mean?

It means that you’re up the duff, that’s all!

But how can that be?

Well, you’ve been doing ‘it’ with Eddie haven’t you? He’s given you a baby, the bastard!

Life really changed after that revelation. Eddie called her a ‘stupid cow’ and told her to get rid of it. Then he went away ‘on business’ again and she didn’t see him anymore.

Gladys said that she knew a way of getting rid of babies, which involved drinking a bottle of gin and sitting in a hot bath. The three girls put their money together and purchased the gin. Then one Sunday afternoon when the restaurant was closed and the owners had gone out for the day they filled the bath with water as hot as she could bear it and plied her with glass after glass of the fiery liquid. All she could remember of that afternoon was becoming more and more giddy and slowly sinking down into the water.

Quick, pull her up by her hair or she’ll drown. screamed Bronwen. She remembered giggling uncontrollably and sinking back down again.

How they got her into bed she couldn’t imagine but the next morning her head was pounding and she felt sick but Monday morning was Monday morning and she had to dress and go down into the restaurant to work. The smell of the food was nauseating but she managed to do her work and was glad to go straight back to bed afterwards.

How will I know if it has worked? she asked Gladys.

I don’t know for sure. Gladys was puzzled, I suppose you will get your period back.

But she didn’t.

All through the rest of the summer she struggled to hide her ever-increasing waistline from her employers. The girls were helpful and made sure that she always worked the tables furthest from the till where the owner’s wife invariably sat. Her white overall was a useful cover-up too, but she knew the dreaded day would come and she began to make plans as to what she would do.

You ought to go and see a Doctor, Gladys told her, but when he knows you’re not married I’ll bet he’ll send you to a Home for unmarried mothers.

What would that be like then she wondered

Don’t think they’re very nice places, Sarah. Usually run by nuns and they think unmarried mothers are wicked and sinful. They don’t treat them too kindly, so I’ve been told. Make them work hard and say lots of prayers for forgiveness and all that.

The very mention of the word ‘Home’ was enough for Sarah to decide against it. No, she made up her mind that she would find another way. No form of authority was going to take over her life again—not ever.

Saving every penny of her meagre wages against the day that her employment would cease, she kept her things packed in the same two carrier bags that she’d arrived with so that towards the end of September, when the inevitable day came that Mrs Slater realised what was going on, she was ready. She closed her ears to the screaming and name-calling, picked up her bags, said a hasty and tearful goodbye to Gladys and Bronwen and boarded the next bus. She stayed on that bus until it came to its terminus many miles away.

As her heavy winter coat covered her sufficiently well, she was able to rent a room for a month without any problem and spent most of her time there, out of the way of prying eyes.

Her own ignorance appalled her. Why had they not educated her better? It was so unfair.

What I need now, she thought, is information. I need to find out all I can about babies and how they get born.

Still hiding her condition beneath her coat, she found her way to a local library. She hoped this was the place where she’d find all she needed. She went up the steps and through the glass doors and was faced with the stacks and stacks of heavily laden shelves, almost up to the ceiling but still within the reach of all but the shortest human being. Then there was the special smell—almost a perfume—a sweet mixture of paper and bindings. She closed her eyes and breathed it in deeply, as if by doing so she could absorb all the knowledge it contained.

However, she didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself by asking for precisely what she wanted. Instead she searched through all the shelf titles until she found ‘Human Biology’.

I’m sure to find all the information I want there, she thought. And she did.

Every day she chose a book and read thoroughly the section on childbirth and babies. Some of them she read through several times and made notes on a scrap of paper that she found and a pencil that she borrowed. She made a list of all the items that she felt she would probably need. There weren’t all that many really—a couple of towels, some handkerchiefs, scissors, string, a baby’s feeding bottle —

I’ll have to get some boiled water from somewhere, she thought, but I’ll think about that later.

Then there were those peculiar herbs mentioned in an ‘Old Wives’’ book which were recommended for drying up milk. She wasn’t too sure what that entailed but she set about finding them anyway.

The more she visited the library the more interesting it became and it was so easy to make the days fly by. There was a whole world within all those books just waiting for her to discover and she promised herself that one day she would. She was sure that no one had ever studied so hard or with such an urgent need.

October came and went and her meagre supply of money was all but exhausted. She managed to calculate, as best she could, that the baby should arrive about mid-November. She couldn’t afford to pay rent and eat, so she wandered around the town until she came upon a street of houses that were boarded up ready for demolition. Most of them were too well nailed up but eventually she found one where a window round the back was covered by a board which was hanging on one nail and, by sliding it sideways, she managed to get inside.

She looked about her. There were strange patterns on the walls where dampness had stained the faded wallpaper. The house smelt musty from disuse and the downstairs looked as though someone had been there before her.

I’d better have a look upstairs, she decided and ventured up the creaking and broken staircase where she found a room. It was dusty, and full of piles of newspapers tied up with string.

What on earth would anyone want to keep them for? she wondered, but decided that she could use some of them to make a reasonable bed for herself in one corner.

Every morning she crept out carefully and wandered through the small town until she reached the market where she knew from experience that she could find all sorts of discarded food, especially at the end of each working day when the traders got rid of the over-ripe or stale food that would no longer be saleable. She managed quite well and the old Victorian water fountain in the centre of the market place supplied all the water she wanted. With a small bag constantly by her side containing all the articles she felt she would need, she spent much of her time resting on that bed of newspapers. There was just one more item that she needed—that boiled water for the baby’s feeding bottle.

How on earth am I going to get that? she thought and set herself to thinking hard about how she might get it.

A strange feeling of urgency came over her one morning so she tidied herself up as much as she could and, scraping together the last of her coins, took herself off to a small café where she ordered a pot of tea for one. She had just enough money to pay for it and spent a long time enjoying the warmth and sweetness of the liquid. Somehow she managed to pour the extra supply of boiled water, which was meant to top up the teapot, into the baby’s feeding bottle and wrapped it in a clean handkerchief. She meant to keep this tucked away close to her heart where it would at least maintain body temperature.

The next morning, however, Sarah awoke stiff and still feeling very tired indeed. Her rain-soaked clothes had dried on her overnight. She remembered how she searched for food the day before, after the street market people went home. It was raining drearily and, at over eight months pregnant, she felt heavy, weary and miserable. The few pieces of over-ripe fruit and the couple of stale buns that she managed to pick up fell through the bottom of the soaking paper bag she’d found and splattered on to the wet pavement. She knew there was no point in picking them up—even if she could have managed to bend down that far.

During the past few months she had felt positive about her pregnancy and how she would try to deal with it, but just lately she was beginning to have doubts. Why was she so tired all the time? What if something was wrong?

She heard church bells chiming in the distance.

It must be Sunday she thought, still, what difference does that makes to me? Every day feels the same, depressing and gloomy. Never anyone to talk to.

She felt lonely too. Her mind didn’t seem to want to function anymore. Here she was at the lowest level she could possibly sink to and normally this would arouse her fighting spirit. She would try to think of ways to improve her situation but today… today… somehow she couldn’t raise enough energy to get up from her bed of crumpled newspapers. No, today, she would stay where she was. She breathed out a long, deep sigh of acceptance, closed her eyes, and drifted off into a restless sleep.

It was dark when she awoke but something had disturbed her.

What was that noise? she thought, immediately alert. It came from downstairs—footsteps and muffled voices. She sat up and held her breath in fright. There was some scuffling, clinking of bottles, slurred singing and then, gradually, silence. She waited quietly until the early light of dawn crept through the cracks in the boarded-up window. Then she quietly gathered up her things into the two bags and slipped in a few of the newspapers, which she felt might come in useful. Slowly, and on tiptoe she went down the stairs, keeping to the wall side, stopping and holding her breath at each creaking floorboard. Then she saw them, the two tramps, slumped untidily across the floor. They were snoring loudly and there was a strong smell of urine. She managed to slip out of the house easily without disturbing them.

Where on earth can I go now? she wondered, baffled by this setback.

Walking slowly until she came to the local park, she sat wearily on a bench for most of the day watching the small children playing on the swings and roundabouts. She also watched their mothers and found herself wishing that her life could be different.

Later in the afternoon she wandered on and found herself in front of the local railway station when it happened. What was it? It felt like she had spilled something warm and wet down her legs and into her shoes. Hastily she sat down on a seat outside the station and did her best to clean herself up with one of the newspapers, which she quickly put into a nearby litterbin. Now she really must find some kind of refuge, her back was aching and she felt sure that the baby must be on its way.

Towards the edge of the town she found herself in a street of small houses. There were lights in the windows and inside looked warm and welcoming.

I wish I could just go and knock on one of those doors and ask for help, she brooded. Perhaps the people would be kind and take me in. But she knew she didn’t dare.

Trudging on in the failing light, she came across a large allotment garden area. It was getting dusk now and through the damp clinging mist the unwanted, overgrown plants drooped sadly in their uneven rows. She felt as though she were one of them—unwanted and overgrown - but then she noticed the small huts dotted here and there. She tried several doors but they were securely locked. In desperation she shook one of the padlocks fiercely. It was rusty and eventually came away in her hand. She stepped quickly inside and closed the door.

It was quite dim at first but as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she could make out one small window which, although grimy and covered in cobwebs, did let in a little light. There were strange looking garden implements hanging on the walls. She’d never seen such things before and couldn’t imagine what they might be for. She touched one, only to find it felt rusty as it went clattering to the floor. Guiltily, and with great difficulty, she bent and picked it up, managing to find the hook on which it had been hanging. She shuffled around the small floor space, knocking over several flowerpots as she did so. Dried earth spilled out causing dust to rise which made her sneeze. Then she found a large damp smelling sack which felt lumpy.

H’mm, she thought, potatoes.

It didn’t take kindly to her moving it around and promptly fell on its side in protest, releasing several of its contents in the process. Managing to prop it back up, Sarah found she had just enough space to sit down and lean against its knobbly surface. She had never felt so weary. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. However, whilst it was still light enough for her to see what she was doing, she spread several newspapers around and then carefully emptied the contents of one of her carrier bags, setting them out where she would be sure to find them if it got completely dark—the two towels, the handkerchiefs, the scissors and string.

She leaned against the mouldy smelling sack and closed her eyes. All was silent now except… except…. what was it? A slight scratching, scurrying sound. She didn’t care to think what that might be.

Her mouth was dry and all she could taste was the dust but she daren’t drink the precious bottle of water that she was keeping warm close to her heart, she’d need that later for the baby.

Then as the pains worsened, and the breathing spaces between them shortened, she managed to lie down. She had read about there being these things called ‘contractions’ and she knew it meant pain of some sort but nothing had prepared her for this. Surely, it could not get any worse—could it?

CHAPTER TWO

Sarah

As the breathing spaces grew shorter and shorter, the pains seemed to get worse and worse. Panic began to creep in, slowly at first, then getting stronger as the pains increased. Had she overlooked some vital point? What if something was drastically wrong? What if I died? she asked herself, here in this tiny shed? The baby would die too. No one would find us until the Spring. If I called out for help, the houses are too far away for anyone to hear. No way could I get up and seek help. What could I do? Please God, what could I do?

Although her mouth was dry she was sure she could taste blood, and then it happened. Everything changed. The pains became a strong desire to push. She didn’t resist what Nature seemed to be compelling her to do. She pushed with all her might. Again and again. She could actually feel the baby emerging now until; with one squelching rush, it arrived. She lay back and took several deep breaths before leaning forward to look. A little girl—she actually had a tiny daughter. What was it she had to do now? Oh, yes, the cord—she had to cut it. Where were those scissors and the string? Her slippery fingers located them and she tried desperately to tie off the cord, as tightly as she could, as near to the baby as possible. It was so hard to tie a knot with her hands shaking so. Then another knot several inches away from the first. It seemed to take an eternity but she managed it somehow and prayed that she’d done it correctly. Now for the scissors. It wasn’t possible! The cord just slid away from the blades. It might just as well have been made of rubber. No doubt doctors or nurses had much sharper tools but she just had to manage it somehow. The scissors rubbed against the ball of her thumb as she tried and tried. She knew her hand was bleeding now but