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Chapter Four
Margery Trent
"Are you sure you want to do this now?"
"Yes Edwin. I'm fine now, honestly. I just… had a funny turn."
Emmi turned the car into what had once been a council estate. Of course, it was all housing associations now.
She'd insisted on driving the two miles into Ashwell, but had allowed the others to talk her into stopping to eat at a café. She really did feel much better now. She still wasn't sure what had happened back at the Ash Well, though. All she remembered was getting dizzy, and then Rick helping her up. Perhaps she'd been overdoing it lately. If there were any more trouble, she supposed she'd have to see a doctor and get it checked out.
Anyway, she wasn't going to put this off again. Events seemed to be conspiring to keep her from this meeting, and she wasn't about to let them win.
The gang piled out onto the grass verge, and Emmi checked the house number before marching up to the door of a neat little semi with a small but cheerful Christmas tree in the window, and an impeccably kept rose garden, though the bushes were bare at present. Better to get it over with quickly before she lost her nerve. She ignored her quivery stomach, took a deep breath and rapped three times on the door.
After a minute or two, which seemed much longer to Emmi, it opened to reveal a trim, elderly lady in a sensible cardigan. She peered dubiously over her glasses at Emmi. Then she looked beyond her. Emmi turned and discovered that the others had followed her to the door. Oh well.
"Good afternoon," she said, and tried to smile brightly. "Are you Mrs Margery Trent?"
"Yes dear." Mrs Trent peered at them again. "Are you carol singers, or Jehovah's Witnesses?"
Emmi smiled in spite of herself, and she heard George chuckle behind her.
"Neither, actually," she said. "I think I need to talk to you, Mrs Trent, but first I have to check—" Emmi's heart thumped brutally. It had to be her, it had to be. "—Are you—were you—the Margery Fisher who found an abandoned baby twenty-six years ago?"
In the tiny living room, Margery had insisted on supplying each of them with a cup of tea and a biscuit before proceeding. Now, they all sat or perched wherever they could find a seat. Janie seemed quite happy cross-legged on the floor.
"I didn't exactly find a baby," Margery said. "One was given to me."
Emmi's heart was still beating hard, but she disciplined herself to be patient and polite. After all, this lady had trustingly taken five strangers into her home—and given them her hospitality. And it looked as though Emmi might well owe her a good deal more than that.
"Who gave her to you?" She took a sip of tea. The cup rattled in the saucer as she replaced it.
"He was quite a big fellow," said Margery. "Blond. Foreign. He kept trying to tell me something, but I didn't understand a word."
"And he didn't give his name?" Emmi already knew the answer to this. She had read all the newspaper articles written at the time, painstakingly tracking them down in the archives of local libraries. Still, she had to ask. She'd never forgive herself if she didn't.
"No, dear, I told you, I couldn't make out what he was saying; except that he kept pointing to the baby and saying 'Gers-e-mee' – or something like that. I couldn't say for certain now. It was a long time ago, dear."
Yes. Yes it was.
"And what happened then?"
"Well, he pushed the baby into my arms, and then ran off. I didn't see where he went, it was dark."
Emmi drooped a little. Exactly the same story as in the papers. Of course. What else could she have expected? Then her mouth set in a hard line. She'd come this far.
"Mrs Trent, please try to remember—was there anything unusual about the man? Anything odd? Any… distinguishing features?" She heard herself using the same phrase Constable Harris had used.
"Well, it was a dark night, and it happened very fast… and it was so long ago now, dear."
"Please, Mrs Trent." For a second, Emmi thought she might cry. She swallowed back the tears.
"You were the baby, weren't you dear?"
"Yes," said Gersemi Jones. "Yes I was. I am. And it's really important to me to find out… where I came from." Where I belong.
Margery looked at her kindly. She sipped her own tea, then sharply lifted her head.
"There was one thing dear."
Emmi's hope rose once more. Please, God. Please.
"He had… something…" she waved her hand vaguely, "Pinned to his shoulder. Could have been a badge, but it looked more like jewellery. I thought at the time that it was odd for a man to wear jewellery." She took another sip. "But then again… it was the eighties, you know."
Emmi bit her lip; then said, "Did you get a good look at it?"
"Not very, I'm afraid. It looked orange, but then, under street lights, everything does, doesn't it?"
Emmi could see that Margery was trying to remember. She forced herself to wait, to keep from interrupting the flow of thought with silly questions.
Finally Margery said, "I'm afraid I'm still not certain, my dear, but I think it was a cat of some kind." Another sip. "I quite liked it, actually."
Emmi reached a trembling hand into her pocket, and withdrew the Keepsake—the one thing the nurses had found, hidden amongst the cloths she was wrapped in, when the police had taken her to the hospital to be kept until claimed like a parcel or lost luggage. The one thing, growing up, that she'd really felt was hers. She carefully untied the string that now held its wrapping in place—she was done with elastic bands—and lifted the felt covering.
"Did it look like this?"
She almost held her breath as Margery scrutinised it over her spectacles.
"Yes dear," she said. "I believe it did."
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