The Last Witness

again, suddenly realizing.

‘Taking you away?’

Oh God. She should have been there. The pressure on Lorena must have been insufferable. Elena would have probably decided to throw in the towel and bare all to Lowndes, felt that it was all too much for Lorena to face alone. But once again she’d put her own quest first and left Lorena forgotten.

‘Yes, my… my mother asked Eileen to take me away one day to see her house and the nearby chine and beach — but in fact it was to talk about my problem with my stepfather. My stepfather found out and was very angry about it, told on Eileen to the social services.’

Elena couldn’t resist hissing ‘Yes’ under her breath: Lorena’s Bucharest street-wiliness obviously had its uses.

‘Right… I see.’ Lowndes had little choice but to accept it, but the lingering doubt was evident in his voice.

He went back for a moment to the dreams and her stepfather, as if seeking one last affirmation that she remembered absolutely nothing on that front while awake — then he closed the session.

Lowndes’ summary notes merely went through in more detail the concern he’d voiced earlier, now with the benefit of the tape for almost point-by-point illustration. But listening to Lowndes, Elena couldn’t help wondering as she looked across at Lorena — so innocent while asleep, but perhaps her life so far had made her wily and complex rather than just confused and vulnerable — whether Lowndes’ assessment might be right: after all, her bond with Lorena was far more acute than he even realized. Lorena’s bond with Nicola Ryall was almost non- existent, so even long before this makeshift role-play now, Elena had been filling both roles: mother and helper. Saviour. It was a powerful combination.

St Marguerita’s became progressively quieter, the atmosphere heavier as Elena started along the cloister- style corridor away from the main front building — a flat-fronted gothic stone edifice three-storeys high. Elena suspected the children’s dormitories took up the top two floors, with the classrooms and playrooms on the ground floor.

Elena spotted a playground area to the side of the building as she’d parked, and at 4 pm it was quite active and noisy. Beyond the play area was farmland, with the warehouse units and sawmills on the edge of Baie du Febvre visible half a mile away. Elena had stood for a moment taking it all in: not too bad an environment and view, and possibly the warehouse units had only appeared in the last ten or twenty years. When little George had been here, probably the… She shook her head and turned abruptly to head in. No more mental compensating after the event.

Flanking the left of the cloister corridor were four arched windows — interspersed one stained glass, one clear — looking onto a small courtyard with a statue of St Marguerite at its centre. Elena could see a Grey nun reading on a bench under St Marguerite’s outstretched palm.

Elena and Lorena were led the way by Sister Bernadine, who two-thirds along the corridor indicated towards three upright chairs to the side. ‘If you’d like to wait there. I won’t be a moment.’

Sister Bernadine walked to a door a few yards further along, and with a light knock and a small tight smile back at them, went inside.

The silence was intense as they waited. The sound of the children in the playground outside was muted and distant, barely audible. This section wrapping around the courtyard was two-storeys on one side and single-storey the remaining three. Elena got the impression that this was the nun’s private quarters, cut away from the noise of children so that they could concentrate on administrative paperwork and prayer.

Elena glanced back towards the door. Bernadine at least appeared helpful, keen to please and had a ready smile. Elena knew that orphanages could be strict about passing on information; hopefully Bernadine’s seeming compliance was an encouraging sign.

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.