How can the earth bear such mothers! She sent her child off to an orphanage because she didnt want to care for him, and the boy is only four.
All this unravels in a foggy blur, like it ought tomy oldest friend in the world is called Jane. Thirty years of friendship, running through the brambly orchards of memory. Jane is splendid, and in another world she wouldve been the most loving mother, but for her and her husband, it simply never happened. Providence held back, and children never came, but their bond remainedanchored, perhaps, by the depth of their love for one another.
I, on the other hand, have children of my owntwo daughters. Naturally, Jane is their godmother. She lives just a stones throw down the lane, of course. Why ever not? I often recall how Jane would tumble about with my girls in the garden, or sit with them while I darted off for something or other. There were evenings wed sit together at my kitchen table, whispering and weeping that she never had a family of her own.
One peculiar afternoon, somewhere between tea and twilight, a crackling telephone call spilt into Janes lifea voice from her fathers side, some cousin once or twice removed, announcing, strangely, that their own child, a little boy, would soon be left at an orphanage. The doctors, apparently, had spoken gravely; the boy needed treatment, and there simply wasnt any money. The mother, lost amid the chase of men and dresses and London parties, wanted nothing more to do with the child.
Jane spun this story out to me, her eyes dreamy and unsettled. She felt, inexplicably, that she had to go and see the boy. Later, her own confidante told me that the moment Jane beheld the childthose wide, searching eyesshe knew, in the way you know you are dreaming, that she had to take him home. Her husbandsteadfast, no nonsenseagreed.
The year that followed buckled and folded under hospital lights and endless appointments. The boyhis name was Henrywas autistic. Even so, Jane and her husband did not give up. They pressed on, through all the fog and thorny hedgerows of rehabilitation, never allowing the shadows to swallow them whole.
You wouldnt believe it, but now Henry is twenty-foura proper young man, with a degree from university, medals glinting on his mantlepiece from athletic feats.
Yesterday, I drifted back from his wedding, the confetti still caught in my hair.
