The Last Witness (45 page)

But moments later as she left Lorena in the corridor with a ‘Hopefully won’t be long’ and Bernadine ushered her into the room, Elena modified that hope on sight of the woman behind the large oak desk before her: small, no more than four-eleven, mid-fifties – almost twenty years older than Therese – and wearing thick glasses that gave her an owlish, stern countenance, not aided by the scant, economical smile upon greeting.

Bernadine introduced her as Sister Therese. ‘But her English is not perfect – so I’ll translate where necessary.’

Elena eased herself down in the proffered seat, another old-wood upright with faded red velvet seat covering. Elena felt her spirits sag another notch: language as a possible extra barrier between her and Sister Therese. But with a fresh breath she launched into it as best she could. She was careful not to mention she became pregnant under-age – a bad foot-start with nuns – she just said that she was sixteen at the time, very young, and her family and her had made a joint decision because of her studies and college plans at that time. Vocational aims seemed a better bet to get their understanding. She admitted though that she’d suffered guilt years later at what she’d done, and this had led to her working with orphaned children in Romania. Vocation
and
guilt: piling on the empathy stakes. She avoided too the problems with Lorena, she said that her involvement in a heartfelt reunion between one of the Romanian children and her family had finally made her realize that an important part of her life was missing.

‘…And would probably remain so until I find him.’ Despite the lies, just talking about it brought the pain of the separation and the lost years to the surface, and Elena felt the onset of tears welling. She cast her eyes down for a second: more empathy. ‘That’s why the special trip now all the way from England. I was given the name of your orphanage just this morning by my son’s step-uncle at the time – Sotiris Stephanou. I phoned straight after for this appointment now.’

 Elena had aimed her set speech at Sister Therese with only occasional glances towards Bernadine, and hopefully had come across as appropriately humbled and beseeching. It was difficult to tell with the translation at intervals from Sister Bernadine: she translated only selected segments, so either Therese had rudimentary English or Bernadine was heavily editing.

From Sister Therese’s few basic confirming questions in English that followed, it was obviously the former. Elena clarified that Stephanou was the family name before the change to Stevens, then the approximate dates when young Georges had first arrived at St Marguerite’s and then finally left for a new family. 

Sister Therese spent a moment more checking through two files and a large register book on her desk. ‘Yes. George Stevens. I see it now.’ She traced along with one finger for a second before looking up. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think we can help.’

‘I… I don’t understand.’ Elena looked at the register accusingly, incredulous that it might lead to such a blunt assertion so quickly. ‘Don’t you have the information I want?’

‘No, no. We have it all here. It’s not that…’ Sister Therese turned to Bernadine and spoke in rapid French; her English had obviously gone as far as it could. Bernadine explained.

‘In the register we make note of any children who later contact us and express the desire to have contact with their parents. If the parents have also contacted us, or later do so – we then pass that information on to the child. It’s the only criteria we have for putting the two parties together.’

Elena nodded thoughtfully. Similar to the Adoption Contact Register and, for that matter, most orphanages. She more than anyone knew that the child had to make the running. But she’d come too far, leapt too many obstacles and dangers to entertain possible failure at this final hurdle now.

‘But now that I’ve made contact, you could pass this on to my son and still leave the decision with him as to whether he wanted direct contact with me or not. I know he would, I’m quite sure there wouldn’t be any problem with that.’ Just the delay: she’d have to wait on in Quebec another two or three days for his response.

Another burst of French between Therese and Bernadine. Sister Therese spoke this time. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. The system we’ve set up is the only one by which contact can be made.’

Elena couldn’t help wondering if they’d done this before, it looked almost a routine: Therese for blank refusals, Bernadine if any elaboration was necessary. The three-way nature of the conversation put an extra obstacle to fighting back, but having battled through adoption registers, Ryall’s investigator, run the gauntlet with police on two continents and endured the doorstep vigil of the last two days – she was damned if she was going to let herself be defeated by two nuns.

Elena smiled wanly. ‘I’m sorry too. Because I know from my own work that there’s a legal principal by which you’re duty bound to notify my son that I’ve made contact.’ It was a bluff: the principal held only for the ACR, the rules differed between orphanages. But it was the only straw she could think of clinging to.

Sister Therese’s eyebrows knitted heavily as Bernadine translated. Therese fired back sternly in French without looking at Elena: suddenly she was invisible, and Therese was showing her indignation by not gracing her with any more English.

With a fresh breath – awkwardness at getting caught in the crossfire more than impatience – Bernadine translated: ‘Sister Therese says that unfortunately we have our own strict rules. Rules that are explained to both the parents leaving children with us and adopting parents. These become part of our contract with them – the right to bring up that child without later harassment or interference – and we dare not breach that. If your son hasn’t told us of his desire to make contact with his parents, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Sister Therese really is truly sorry.’

Elena was sure that Therese hadn’t offered any apology: her expression was too stern, unyielding, and her French hadn’t extended that long. Bernadine was obviously edge-softening now as well as elaborating. Regardless, it was all slipping away. The light at the end of the chine was suddenly more distant, dull again – and when Elena listened for the sound of the children in the play area, she could no longer hear them. Either playtime was over, or Sister Therese’s office was too distant, remote from the children to hear anything.
Remote from any emotional involvement.

Elena had a sudden image of young George as he was then scurrying in the playground or through the corridors and classrooms of St Marguerites along with the other children. And then when he might have fallen from grace, he was suddenly cut off from them and brought along this same cloister, the noise of his friends receding with each step until he reached this deathly silent, foreboding office to face some predecessor of Sister Therese and know his fate.

She wished she’d been there to hold his hand but, pathetically, she couldn’t even put a face to that lone figure. She hadn’t asked Sotiris for any photos, nor had he offered any: probably he had none. But she had no idea what her son looked like at
any
age.

She felt a sudden tight knot in her chest – anger, frustration, or her sinking spirits as it dawned on her that a whole lifetime of images and memories were lost to her, never to be regained.  But the rest of her just felt numb: it seemed so unreal, unjust that it could all possibly end here, now.

‘You have no idea what I’ve been through to get here.’  Suddenly she was on remote scramble in the hope of striking a more poignant chord. ‘I’ve even brought my daughter with me all the way from England to see him. How do you think she’s going to feel when I tell her she can’t see her older brother? The brother she’s never seen. She’s so built up this moment in her mind hoping to finally meet him.’

The tears were suddenly welling again, threatening to brim over this time. Of course the lost hope was all hers – but that was almost too painful to voice, would probably have made her break down in racking sobs on the spot: much easier and more likely to evoke sympathy to transpose it all to a ten-year old girl.

Sister Therese and Bernadine looked more concerned at this, and some more rapid French flew between them. Absolutely everything hung by a thread on what was said next, Elena realized. Her hands started to shake, and she pressed them firmer into her lap. In the moments on the drive when her mind had drifted to how to approach everything and how she might handle the unthinkable of them saying no, she’d found herself becoming nervous. She feared that would be counter-productive, so she’d blanked her mind to it; still a trace of nerves remained, so half-an-hour before the meeting she’d downed two more valerian pills. Now those were beginning to wear off or the intensity of the moment was pushing her agitation above even their effect.

‘Sister Therese says that she’s truly sorry.’ Bernadine cast her eyes down, as if she was consoling over bereavement or found it difficult to meet the plea in Elena’s eyes head-on. ‘She fully appreciates the time and trouble you’ve put in coming here now. But there really is nothing we can do to help. Our hands are tied.’

The finality of the words, the immovable brick wall she’d suddenly run into, hit Elena with a jolt. It was as if the pressure had been quietly building up for the past twenty-nine years, then suddenly it became too much and she’d been shot like a champagne cork through the drama of the past days: search agencies, abducting Lorena, customs, ducking the police, her grinding door-call vigil with a seemingly endless succession of frowns and head-shakes, a diet of valerian and whisky just to keep her going, and finally the breakthrough with Sotiris – but she’d been gathering momentum all along, not seeing, not preparing herself for the possible dead-end ahead. And as it came now it hit her with a jolt, took her breath away, and its surreality made her slightly dizzy: surely she couldn’t have gone through all of that only to hit this brick wall now? She
had
to fight back. But she felt tired, oh so tired, and her scrambled mind couldn’t grapple onto what might be left to fight back with. Nothing left but to beg.

She leant across the desk. ‘Please…
please.’
She slid one hand across to make contact with Therese’s hand, added weight to her imploring; but Therese’s hands were almost out of reach, and she pulled them tighter into herself and looked alarmed. ‘…If you have an ounce of compassion left in your heart.’

Elena felt her tears brimming over, running cool down her cheeks, and her trembling ran deeper, now gripping her whole body. It was clearly visible in her hand reaching across the desk – and from the shock on Sister Therese’s face she probably did in that moment look like the half-crazed heroine addict she’d viewed earlier in the mirror.

Some more words between Therese and Bernadine before they turned to her again: a defensive tone, but it was suddenly quieter, more distant, she could hardly tell if it was French or English being spoken. Their figures too were now more distant, like two apparitions in the last fading light at the end of the chine. And as the greyness behind her eyes washed through, she watched their figures slowly tilt as the floor rushed up to meet her.

Voices. Distant voices, high-pitched, excitable. The voices from the playground were back again. Then suddenly they were closer: Elena could hear the clatter of footsteps at the end of the cloister corridor. A group of children were looking on at her, their voices now muted to hushed whispers.

  Young George was among them, and he broke free and ran towards her. He put one hand on her shoulder, gently shaking.

‘Are you okay now… are you okay?

  Then another voice: ‘I’ve brought you coffee.
Coffee.’

  And as it all finally fell into focus, Elena saw that it was Lorena shaking her shoulder.

  ‘Are you okay now, Elena? Are you awake?’ And Bernadine was standing to one side looking equally as concerned as she held out a cup.

  She was back sitting next to Lorena in the cloister corridor. She shook the last woollyness from her head and took the proffered cup.

  ‘Thanks.’ She noticed her hand still shaking holding the cup, but the aroma and the first warm liquid cutting the dryness in her throat felt good. She closed her eyes for a second in appreciation. As she opened them she noticed a group of small children looking on from the end of the cloisters where it joined the classroom corridors. They were quickly ushered away by a Grey nun following behind.

  She was sure she saw one of them smile, probably things hadn’t been so bad here – but the fact was she was never going to see him again now. The emptiness she felt inside at that realization was overwhelming, but at least there was one compensation: she didn’t have to battle on any more and try and find him. She felt she hardly had the energy left to continue anyway, she was so battle-worn and weary; so as a result, perversely, she felt a strange sense of serenity: a feeling that she could finally let loose her breath, let it all wash away from her and say ‘It’s over’. No more door-calls, obstinate nuns and ducking from the police. Just home with Gordon, Christos and Katine, her warm and familiar bed, her studio and paintings, the chine and the fresh sea breezes, and life as it was before the nightmare started.

  And as for Lorena…
Oh Jesus.
She bit lightly at her bottom lip between coffee sips at the thought of what might happen there. Lorena so concerned about her, as if she was the only person in this world she felt close to or cared about – which sadly was probably true – and yet even if the nuns had told her where George had gone, she was about to betray Lorena, send her packing back to England.