Rev. W. F. Buttle, M.A.)
Telegrams
4A BLOOMSBURY SQUARE
,
BABICHANGE, LONDON
LONDON, W.C. 1
Telephone HOLBORN 3310
21st April, 1948
Dear Mr and Mrs Pritchard
,
We have heard of a little girl, although we do not have her full documents in our possession, and we are wondering if you would feel interested in her. If so, we could arrange for you to see her in the very near future and take her home if she appeals to you
.
The baby is Lucilla Haverd, born on 14th January, 1948. She weighed 7lbs 6oz at her birth and is now about 9lbs 7oz. Her medical report is satisfactory and Wassermann blood tests are negative
.
The baby’s mother is 20 years old, unmarried and lives at home helping on her father’s farm in Wales. The baby’s father is 26 years old and has been working on the farm for the last few years. He was a German prisoner of war. Both parents are said to be in good health. The baby has fair hair and blue eyes
.
We look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible, letting us know whether you are interested or not. We have to find Lucilla a home in the very near future, and it would be a great help to us if you could telephone your decision
.
Yours sincerely
,
Valeria Mulholland
Secretary
I HAVE READ the letter in so many frames of mind, analysing every word, every comma, every full stop. What made me sob when I first saw it was not learning that my father was a German prisoner of war, a POW, but that they had concealed this from me all these years.
Henry was a tonic, telling me that deep down he had sensed a tantalising foreign allure in me that he found altogether irresistible. As if in testimony, he made love to me so tenderly and attentively that I began to wonder if he was telling the truth, that my interesting ancestry gave me added sex appeal. The fact of it, far from distressing me, made me timidly curious. Already my mind was preoccupied with this new German father; blond, blue-eyed, I hazarded. And I pictured him in a dark grey trench coat, leaning over the deck rail of a ship (I’m not sure why), his cap at a rakish angle, smiling out at the wide, wide ocean and the broad, broad sky. The problem was not with me. I rather liked the thought of distant relatives across the seas. It was the family, my family. They had known, my adopted parents, my grandparents, my aunt Enid and very probably my cousins too. If as children Frank and Rachel were kept in ignorance of this sooty sheep in their midst with her part Teutonic ancestry, they had certainly been informed later on. The war is all history to me, if not ancient then out of my realm. It was over by the time I arrived. I harbour no hatred, no prejudice. I have no one to grieve. But my mother’s parents were both killed in the great wars, and my aunt Enid’s husband grew ill and died as a result of battle fatigue and a weakened constitution. Even my grandmother had harboured hatred, a dark residue left over from the First World War.
‘So much of it makes sense to me now,’ I tell Henry, as we sit together at the dining table that overlooks the small garden, enjoying our coffees after a sandwich lunch. That’s one of the nice things about working and living on the estate. Henry comes home for lunch and we pool our morning’s events, his of the vagaries of gardening, mine of customers and tourists. ‘She often relayed to me in gory detail the fate of her own parents.’ Henry has heard this before, but repeating it now with my newly acquired knowledge gives it fresh meaning. ‘A mother who had died in a Zeppelin bombing raid in the First World War, and a father who had perished in a car accident during the blackout in the Second World War.’ I shake my head ruefully.
Henry blows on his coffee then sets down his cup. ‘Mmm … your mother, with her dislike and mistrust of anything foreign. Now it all falls into place.’
‘My mother who blamed the wars for depriving her of her parents,’ I contribute.
‘Your mother who believed the
Telegrams
4A BLOOMSBURY SQUARE
,
BABICHANGE, LONDON
LONDON, W.C. 1
Telephone HOLBORN 3310
21st April, 1948
Dear Mr and Mrs Pritchard
,
We have heard of a little girl, although we do not have her full documents in our possession, and we are wondering if you would feel interested in her. If so, we could arrange for you to see her in the very near future and take her home if she appeals to you
.
The baby is Lucilla Haverd, born on 14th January, 1948. She weighed 7lbs 6oz at her birth and is now about 9lbs 7oz. Her medical report is satisfactory and Wassermann blood tests are negative
.
The baby’s mother is 20 years old, unmarried and lives at home helping on her father’s farm in Wales. The baby’s father is 26 years old and has been working on the farm for the last few years. He was a German prisoner of war. Both parents are said to be in good health. The baby has fair hair and blue eyes
.
We look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible, letting us know whether you are interested or not. We have to find Lucilla a home in the very near future, and it would be a great help to us if you could telephone your decision
.
Yours sincerely
,
Valeria Mulholland
Secretary
I HAVE READ the letter in so many frames of mind, analysing every word, every comma, every full stop. What made me sob when I first saw it was not learning that my father was a German prisoner of war, a POW, but that they had concealed this from me all these years.
Henry was a tonic, telling me that deep down he had sensed a tantalising foreign allure in me that he found altogether irresistible. As if in testimony, he made love to me so tenderly and attentively that I began to wonder if he was telling the truth, that my interesting ancestry gave me added sex appeal. The fact of it, far from distressing me, made me timidly curious. Already my mind was preoccupied with this new German father; blond, blue-eyed, I hazarded. And I pictured him in a dark grey trench coat, leaning over the deck rail of a ship (I’m not sure why), his cap at a rakish angle, smiling out at the wide, wide ocean and the broad, broad sky. The problem was not with me. I rather liked the thought of distant relatives across the seas. It was the family, my family. They had known, my adopted parents, my grandparents, my aunt Enid and very probably my cousins too. If as children Frank and Rachel were kept in ignorance of this sooty sheep in their midst with her part Teutonic ancestry, they had certainly been informed later on. The war is all history to me, if not ancient then out of my realm. It was over by the time I arrived. I harbour no hatred, no prejudice. I have no one to grieve. But my mother’s parents were both killed in the great wars, and my aunt Enid’s husband grew ill and died as a result of battle fatigue and a weakened constitution. Even my grandmother had harboured hatred, a dark residue left over from the First World War.
‘So much of it makes sense to me now,’ I tell Henry, as we sit together at the dining table that overlooks the small garden, enjoying our coffees after a sandwich lunch. That’s one of the nice things about working and living on the estate. Henry comes home for lunch and we pool our morning’s events, his of the vagaries of gardening, mine of customers and tourists. ‘She often relayed to me in gory detail the fate of her own parents.’ Henry has heard this before, but repeating it now with my newly acquired knowledge gives it fresh meaning. ‘A mother who had died in a Zeppelin bombing raid in the First World War, and a father who had perished in a car accident during the blackout in the Second World War.’ I shake my head ruefully.
Henry blows on his coffee then sets down his cup. ‘Mmm … your mother, with her dislike and mistrust of anything foreign. Now it all falls into place.’
‘My mother who blamed the wars for depriving her of her parents,’ I contribute.
‘Your mother who believed the
Similar Books
