The Rookery by Deborah Hewitt

Author:Deborah Hewitt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan

Her eyes flew open. She was Reid. Not Alice. And her body was alive with grief and dread, sparking through her limbs like electricity. A terrible fear, smothered by an even more terrible hope, sat in her gullet, waiting to choke her. Keep her safe. Make it count.

‘And here she is.’ That was Tilda. Business-like. Trying to make it quick.

The couple had eyes only for the Moses basket. Their hands were gripping each other so tightly their skin was blanching. They didn’t think she could see it – their naked desperation, their swollen hearts – but she saw everything now: how foolish she’d been, how naive . . . everything.

‘You’ll take good care of her,’ said Tilda. Not a request – a command. Tilda bent down to tuck in the blanket without looking inside; she hadn’t wanted to look too closely on the journey here. Too painful, she’d said, her lined face crumpling. Her hair was so grey. Was it the grief that had aged her?

‘We’ll give her everything we have,’ said the man. A tall man, with broad shoulders – he’d need those – and the sort of face that was quick to smile. Mike, that was his name. He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, squeezing reassurance into her muscles. The woman – Patricia – barely seemed aware of what he’d said. Her eyes were fastened to the baby.

‘The other social worker—’ he began.

‘Retired,’ said Tilda. ‘Uncontactable now, I’m afraid. She’s moved to the south of France.’

‘Oh, how lovely,’ said Patricia, smiling fixedly into the Moses basket.

‘We . . . did have a small complication,’ said Tilda.

Patricia’s eyes shot up, her panic palpable. She was worried they would take the basket away again. Maybe they should.

‘A mistake with the paperwork.’ Tilda gestured at the sleeping baby. ‘Her file was misplaced. We moved offices – you understand, these things happen. Still.’ She smiled tightly. ‘It’s not a problem, is it?’

‘No,’ replied Patricia, the relief clear in her tone. ‘Not a problem at all.’

‘Her mother – her natural mother, that is – is dead. It’s all very sad.’ Tilda turned away to busy herself with the sheaf of papers they’d signed. She stuffed them carelessly into her handbag. Was she hiding her face? ‘Well,’ she said, spinning back with a grim smile. ‘We’d better leave you to it. Catherine?’

A shake of the head. No. Not yet. Not like this.

She saw Patricia tense. Saw the worry written over her face. ‘We’ll take the best care of her. We’ll love her to the ends of the earth.’ She glanced nervously at her husband. ‘Won’t we, Mike?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘She’ll want for nothing – not money, a nice home, love. Nothing.’

‘We’ve been waiting for her all along,’ Patricia said quietly. ‘I knew the minute I laid eyes on her. I’ve waited all my life to love her.’

A pain. In her chest. Take the basket from them and run.

‘We’ve . . . we’ve got some names picked out,’ said Mike, casting around for something to say: a convincing sales pitch to make them leave, and leave the basket behind.

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