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CHAPTER 15
It was a very modest house, right next to a Spar store and opposite a meandering stream lined by trees in full leaf. But the small garden leading to Morag MacIntyre’s front door was pristine, with rows of pink and purple hyacinths.
Rosie pushed open the wooden gate and walked along the path, breathing in the sweet scent of the flowers. Their perfume was delicate, unlike the powerful smells of citrus and baked earth that she’d grown used to abroad. It was funny but she wasn’t missing those brasher scents at all.
Rosie rapped on the door with its gleaming brass knocker and waited. Midwife Morag appeared middle-aged and weighed down by life in the photo Rosie had found, so she wasn’t prepared for the sprightly white-haired woman who answered the door.
‘Hello, are you Mrs MacIntyre?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?’
‘I hope so. My name’s Rosie Merchant and I live at Driftwood House in Heaven’s Cove.’
‘Driftwood House, up on the cliffs?’ There was the faintest hint of a Scottish accent.
‘That’s the one. I think you might have delivered me twenty-nine years ago.’
‘Rosie Merchant, you say.’ She hesitated and wrinkled her nose before her face broke into a huge beaming smile. ‘Rosie! After all this time. My, you’re all grown up.’
Before Rosie could reply, she was pulled into a hug, and it was so unexpected, so comforting, she relaxed and let herself be held for a few seconds.
‘How marvellous to see you after all these years,’ breathed Mrs MacIntyre in her ear. ‘I do so love meeting my babies. Come in, and please call me Morag. We’re both adults now.’
She released Rosie and beckoned for her to step inside, straight into a stuffy living room. A gas fire was pumping out heat in the corner, even though the day was overcast and mild.
‘Take a seat, won’t you, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs… Morag. I wasn’t sure that you’d remember me. I really am who I say I am. I brought my passport in case you need proof.’
‘Oh, I rarely forget a baby,’ said the elderly lady, gesturing at Rosie to put her passport away. ‘I remember your delivery well, and your mother too. How is she?’
‘I’m afraid she died recently.’
‘But that’s terrible news! She can’t have been very old.’
‘She had a stroke. It was very sudden.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that. I moved away from Heaven’s Cove many years ago, so I’m not very up to date with village news.’ She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses further up her nose and gazed at Rosie, her brow furrowed. ‘So what brings you to my door so soon after the death of your poor mother? No, don’t answer that! Let me get you a cup of tea first and then we can chat.’
While Morag disappeared into the kitchen, Rosie took a proper look around the room. It was cluttered and cosy with a sofa, a squashy armchair, side tables covered in crocheted cloths, and china knick-knacks on every available surface. Not a speck of dust could be seen.
A small sideboard was covered in silver-framed photos of Morag in her younger days, holding a succession of tiny babies. She must have delivered them all. Was Rosie among them? She scanned the pictures but wasn’t sure she’d recognise herself anyway. All babies looked much the same to her.
‘Here you go, my dear,’ said Morag, walking back into the room carrying a tray. She placed it carefully on a table and gestured for Rosie to sit on the sofa, before taking a seat in the armchair opposite. ‘Tell me, do you still live at Driftwood House? It’s such an interesting house and in such a marvellous location.’
‘I’m staying at Driftwood House at the moment but I live abroad most of the time.’
‘How exciting.’ Morag poured a dash of milk into a china cup before adding tar-dark tea from a pretty teapot. ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘So why don’t you tell me why you’ve come to see me after all this time?’
Rosie took the cup, wondering where to start. She’d planned to move into this slowly, via a little chit-chat about the old days and Morag’s work as a midwife. But it seemed that the woman who delivered her preferred the direct approach.
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘Since Mum died, I’ve discovered that she hadn’t always been completely… truthful with me. I don’t mean that she lied, just that she didn’t always tell me everything. She kept secrets from me and I don’t understand why.’
‘You know, people often keep things secret for a good reason,’ said Morag, with a definite Scottish lilt.
