The war ended and Dad returned home. It was his decision that we should move away. He said it was a good time for a fresh start. I know he did not want me to bear the shame of everyone knowing the truth but he never said so. At that time, I was indifferent to the idea and let him make all the arrangements. I didn’t even tell anyone I wasgoing. We just left, like thieves in the night.
We ended up in Norfolk in the tiny village of Hopeham. Dad found a job on a farm and I gave birth to you. You were a beautiful baby, with gorgeous red gold curls. I fell in love with you straight away and we were happy. For two wonderful years, we were happy.
Then my wonderful Dad, the Grandpa you adored, died of a heart attack. He was only forty-one. I have to admit that I fell apart after that. First Billy and now my Dad. I suppose, looking back on it, I had a bit of a breakdown once his funeral was over. On top of that we had been living in tied farm accommodation and were given notice to leave. I remember feeling completely desperate, no money, nowhere to live and somehow, I had to support you too. I couldn’t cope. That was when I received a visit from the vicar, a man called Father Richard. It was all a bit hazy to be honest with you. I remember breaking down completely and you were crying and I told him I couldn’t go on looking after you when I couldn’t look after myself. He just listened - didn’t say much at all. The next day he returned with a well-dressed couple in their late thirties, I would guess. They were leaving for India – I think he was in the army – the next day and offered to take you with them, give you a secure home and a future I would not be able to provide for you. They were childless and the wife was desperate. I remember screaming at them. How dare they try to take my child! They were very persuasive though. They asked me how I couldbear to put myself before my child and why I was being so selfish. Then they talked about your future – a good school, everything that moneycould buy – and I was so tired, so weary of life. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps I was being selfish to deny you this chance. After all, I could offer you nothing but my love and that was not going to keep you from going hungry.
It all happened so quickly after that. I signed something which said I would not seek to claim you back or make contact with you and they took you away with them that day. They gave me money and I have been forever ashamed that I took it. When you had gone, I realised what I had done but it was too late. The money they had left sickened me. It felt like I had sold my own daughter. Then I tried to take my own life. The doctor had given me some pills so I took the whole lot and lay down ready to die. If it had not been for my mother, I am sure I would not have survived. That might seem peculiar to you but the spirit of my mother, Norah, was always with me, watching over me. At the time, I was renting a room in a boarding house. I clearly remember locking the door before I took the pills but, when I was found, the door was wide open. Without that, I would not have been found in time, would not have been writing to you now. I can think of no explanation other than my mother’s intervention- far-fetched as it may seem to you.
Anyway, now I am grateful for I have had a good life. Less than two years later, I met another wonderful man, Charles Miller, who became my husband. We bought a home in the village of Heverton and, shortly afterwards, I gave birth to another daughter, your sister Susan so, you see, no matter how bad things are, life has a way of righting itself in the end.
As I said before, my only regret is you but I have always hoped that the decision I took was right for you. I never saw you again but I woke up every single morning after that fateful day thinking about you and reliving the pain of losing you. The only person whom I ever told the whole of this story is my good friend, Hannah Brewer and I leave this letter in her safe keeping. I am a coward, I know, but I never told Charles when he was alive (he died a few years ago) and I cannot bring myself to tell Susan now. I should have told her years ago but somehow the time was never right and I cannot bear to spend my final weeks on this earth enduring recriminations and heartache.
The only other people to know that you were born Elizabeth Fletcher, not Bainbridge, are Louisa and Thomas Bainbridge themselves. I truly hope and pray that you had a happy life with them and that they provided you with all the opportunities that you deserved.
Please know that I have always loved you,
Your mum Iris x
Exhausted, she laid the pen down. There - it was done. Would Elizabeth ever read it? She had to believe she would. It was hard to face dying with the thought that her daughter may believe she had been unwanted.
She had kept her promise to the Bainbridges and made no attempt to find her daughter. Always, deep down in the secret part of her, she had hoped that Elizabeth
