“What’s that, dear?”

“We found the badge,” Lael explains. “We did a …” “…reverse Google Images search on our phones,” I finish her sentence for her.

“And it came up as the badge of the…” “…St Agnes of Lyons Society…” “…which originated in France…”

“…and dedicated itself to service to the poor,” I finish off.

“Well, goodness gracious me. That is an excellent lead. You must certainly pursue it. And please let me know if your research brings you any closer to finding out what happened to the baby – and to poor young Jim Grey.” She shakes her head as we all stand. “What a tragedy that whole thing was. Those young lives lost, and so un-necessarily. Tell me, Miss Luhabe, are things better for young people these days?”

I think of Nosipho and Themba.

“Sometimes they are,” I say. “Sometimes they are much better. It all depends on whether you are rich or poor, black or white. Awful things still happen these days, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

***

To: Zizi Nkomo zizinkomo@investingsolutions.com
From: Nosipho Mamusa nosiphomamusa@gmail.com
Re: Nosiphiwo Mamusa

Dear Mr Nkomo,

They told me not to write to you. They said I must leave it up to the elders to make the first contact with your family, but I know there are things they will not say to you, and I wanted to be the one to say them.

First of all, I want to make it clear that I don’t want or need anything from you. My adoptive mother earns a good salary and I am a learner in Grade Ten at a private school. I get good marks and hope to study chemical engineering at university one day. My name is Nosipho and I am the biological daughter of Nosiphiwo Mamusa who lived in Daveyton sixteen years ago. She was a learner at Tom Boya Secondary School at the time. She left school when she became pregnant, although she always intended to resume her studies.

Sadly, Nosiphiwo was killed by a taxi when she was walking to the shops with her brother when I was just a few days old. Her older sister adopted me and has raised me ever since.
I only recently found out that my mother is my adoptive mother. She never knew exactly who my father was, but after doing some research, she thinks it was most likely to have been you. We can do genetic testing to make sure of this, if that is what you want.

Please understand that I don’t want to cause any trouble for you or your family. If you would prefer not to have me in your life, that is your choice. All I want is the chance to get to know my biological father and my family on that side. I will understand if that is not what you want. If so, I promise never to contact you again. I will, however, leave you with my details so you can change your mind at any time.

Please take some time to think about this and let me know.

Kind regards,

Nosipho Mamusa

***

To: Trinity Luhabe trinityluhabe@gmail.com
From: Obert Nzingane – Proprietor onzingane@nzinganeinvesti-gations.co.za
Re: St Agnes of Lyons Society

Dear Ms Luhabe,

It seems as though the St Agnes of Lyons Society does not exist anymore, or at least not in South Africa. I can find some traces of them in the south of France, but otherwise they appear to have faded away about fifteen years ago.

They were a charitable organisation that ran soup kitchens in small towns across the country in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s. They also gave shelter to the homeless and helped them to find jobs. It seems the South African branch of the society was founded and run by Anglican nuns, known as the Order of St Agnes of Lyons.

I can’t find any evidence of a hospital run by the society, or an order of nurses under their control. I did, however, find records of two maternity homes that they operated for about twenty years. One was in Caledon in the Overberg region of the Western Cape, and the other was in Vanderbijlpark, near Johannesburg. As far as I can tell, these were no ordinary maternity homes, but rather “homes for unwed mothers”, as they were called in those days.

Their records were very strictly controlled back then, and even now they aren’t open to someone like me. The home in Caledon was taken over by the Western Cape Department of Health, and the one in Vanderbijlpark is now owned by the Gauteng Department of Social Development. Please find attached a Google Maps pin-drop for each of these locations so you can find them easily.

Many thanks for your prompt settlement of my account, as always. I look forward to hearing whether I can be of any further service to you.

Kind regards,

Obert Nzingane
Proprietor

***

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here

today,” says Nosipho, gazing at the five of us like the chair of the board addressing a meeting.

“I wasn’t, but please get on with it,” Yasmin says. “My group is getting together to film a scene from Corio-lanus for English in like ten minutes.”

“And I’m supposed to be at choir,” says Amira.

“I have no idea what I’m even doing here, but if you start talking about girl stuff, I’m out of here,” announces Munashe.

I give him a shove in the ribs. “Listen, there are a bunch of pics on Instagram of you wearing a pregnant belly that have over a thousand likes, so you’re in no position to reject ‘girl stuff’ at this point.”

“True, but if Nos starts talking about giving birth, I might just pass out. So you will just have to deal with that.”

“I’ll leave you on the floor where you belong.” Nosipho is standing with her arms crossed and her foot tapping, waiting for us to stop bickering. “Are you guys quite finished?”

We sit up obediently. “Yes, sorry. Carry on.”

“Okay, so here’s the thing. I’ve decided that I can’t do this anymore.”

“Can’t do what?” Lael asks.

“This.” She gestures at her tummy. “This whole thing. The pregnancy. Giving birth. The baby. I just can’t do it. So unfortunately, we are going to have to make another plan.”

“Um…”

“Uh…”

We look at each other in consternation – worried glances flicking around the room like wildfire.

“The thing is,” she goes on. “All that stuff you do when you’re babysitting, Trinity – the bath, the nappies, those weird clothes with the press-studs. I’ve thought about it and I’ve realised I’m not up to it. I’ll just make a huge mess of the whole thing, and the baby will be scarred for life. It will be much better if someone else takes over. That’s why I called you all here today. We need a Plan B, and I’m open to suggestions.”

“Of course, you can do it,” I say soothingly, like I’m talking to a toddler who is having a meltdown. “You actually did some of it, remember? And you coped fine. You’re going to be a great mom, Nos.”

“An awesome mom,” Amira confirms.

“A brilliant mom.” Yasmin nods about fifty times. “But what about the birth, you guys? First, I have to get through that. The thing is, I’ve thought about it and I really can’t see it working. I mean I know the theory behind it and everything, but I just can’t see it happen-ing for me. The logistics don’t make sense. So, like I say, Plan B. Who’s got an idea?”

Munashe’s eyes are rolling around the room. He is so out of his depth here, he must feel like he’s drowning. I must admit, I can relate. It is far, far too late for any Plan B. This baby is coming whether Nosipho likes it or not. But how do we get her to see that?

I open my mouth to speak, then nearly collapse with relief when Lael gets there ahead of me.

She stands up and goes over to where Nosipho is standing, waiting for someone to deliver her Plan B. Then she puts her arms around her and pulls her into a tight hug. At first, Nosipho resists. Then she seems to melt against Lael, and tears start pouring down her cheeks.

Munashe looks longingly at the door.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” I mouth at him. He subsides into his seat.

Lael pats Nosipho’s shoulder as she sobs, and makes soothing noises.

“It’s okay, darling. It’s okay. We’re all here for you. All of us.”

***