‘That you and Harry love her enough for all of the Berkowiczes.’
Now, Adela’s words echoed in Joyce’s ear as she sat in the library van and gazed out through the window at the blur of gold and green.
Joyce tore her gaze from the countryside and looked down at the bundle in her lap. Suddenly, it hit her, the total power she had over this helpless infant. The deep sense of responsibly flooded through her, making her feel light-headed. Joyce wondered if Harry was thinking the same thing. They drove in silence, as if afraid that if the other spoke they might talk themselves into another alternative, but truly, what would that be? Hand this baby over to the state? Another illegitimate wartime baby to be held in a home until fostered out and never seen again? Instead, Joyce reminded herself again and again that this baby was Dorotha’s niece. A new life, born in the midst of such horror and chaos. And, more importantly, she was Adela’s baby. The child of her brave, fierce, beautiful friend, who had stood by her and supported her through it all.
In 1939, she had vowed to act as a guarantor for Adela, to care for her and keep her safe in her new adopted country, andadmittedly there was a tiny part of her that blamed herself for what had happened to the young woman.
In her lap, the baby stirred and yawned, then opened her dark liquid eyes and gazed up at Joyce. It was like a punch in the guts. For in that moment, she looked so extraordinarily like Dorotha. Joyce’s breath caught in her throat and emotions rushed over her, along with a powerful realisation. Dorotha, Adela. The Secret Society. They were all chapters of the same story,herfamily of choice, formed by providence, instead of blood.
Gently, she lifted the infant to her face.
‘I choose you,’ she whispered, tenderly nuzzling her soft, peachy cheek.
‘And we will love you for all the Berkowiczes.’
Harry looked at his new family with a smile that seemed to fill the whole library van.
Somewhere around Salisbury, though, another realisation dawned.
‘What’ll we tell everyone in Swiss Cottage?’ Joyce asked Harry. ‘We can’t risk anyone guessing she’s Adela’s baby. I won’t have her reputation sullied.’
Harry tapped the steering wheel, his chin thrust forward in a determined manner, and she could see he had already thought it through.
‘Do you remember that baby boy that was found in the public shelter on Giesbach Road?’
She nodded. She had felt it in rather poor taste when the ARP wardens who’d found him had named him John Anderson, after the shelter, as if it were a pithy joke.
‘Yes, wasn’t he given to the St John’s Institution in Highgate?’
Harry nodded.
‘Who’s to say a similar thing didn’t happen here? Except, instead of handing her over to an institution, we’ve decided to adopt her.’
‘Who’d believe that?’
‘It’s happened once, surely it can again? Stranger things have happened in wartime.’
They lapsed back into silence as Joyce let the idea wash over her. Stranger things had indeed happened in wartime. She thought back to the red bus embedded in Mitsy’s bedroom. An entire community sleeping underground on the Bakerloo line. Tube trains delivering Bovril at bedtime. In wartime, nothing was where it should be.
‘Look, it doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Harry persisted. ‘We know her real identity and we have a duty of care to her. Someone has to love her.’
‘And therein lies the problem. What do we tell her when she grows up? What happens when, please God, this war is over, and Dorotha comes to find her sister? What do we tell her?’
He sighed, so deeply it seemed to penetrate her bones. ‘We cross that bridge when we come to it.’
Back in Swiss Cottage, Harry parked the mobile library outside the Tube station and looked at Joyce. For the first time in days, she was reminded of the loss of her beloved creation. The mobile library was out of action. The library was closed.
‘What do we do first?’ Harry asked. ‘Go and buy baby clothes and formula, or start packing up the library?’ The demands of work and motherhood at once began to crowd her mind, and Joyce figured she might as well get used to it.
But before she had a chance to work out the answer, a knock on the window startled her. She wound it down.
‘Joyce, thanks heavens, you’re finally back. I’ve been waiting for ever,’ Dore said, bristling with impatience.
‘Dore, I’m ever so sorry, we were delayed in Devon...’
‘Never mind that, the most wonderful thing has happened. Wonderful and miraculous. Come and join me in the back. Quick.’
Joyce waited for Dore to mention the sleeping baby nestled in her arms, but he was so excitable, hopping from one foot to the other, he seemed not to notice. Harry helped Joyce and the baby down and they followed Dore.
