A week later, Lael and I get summoned to another meet-ing with Ms Waise straight after school.

“What are you girls doing this afternoon?”

“Djembe drumming class and then homework,” I say. “Well, there’s no tennis match today because I have a bye, but I should go to practice,” says Lael.

“Fine. I’ll excuse you from both. We’re going to the De-partment of Social Development in Vanderbijlpark today. I’ve got an appointment with someone who works there.”

Lael and I are a little stunned.

“What … like, right now…?”

“Yes, why not? It’s Wednesday, so you finish early. We’ll have just enough time to get there and back by late afternoon. I checked Google Maps. If we leave right now, we’ll get there in one hour and fifteen minutes. All you need to do is get permission from your mom, Trinity, and from Matron, Lael – and we can be on our way.”

About twenty minutes later, we are in Ms Waise’s car being driven to Vanderbijlpark. We both feel like we’ve been run over by a steamroller. How could I have thought she wasn’t serious about following up on this? She is clearly super-serious.

We grabbed toasted sandwiches and drinks from the tuckshop on our way out, so we munch in silence for a while. Getting out of Joburg in the early afternoon traffic is a nightmare, but once we are clear of the city, the road opens up and we cruise along at a good pace. It ends up taking us an hour and twenty minutes, but it is only a quarter past three by the time we arrive at the Depart-ment of Social Development.

Ms Waise pulls up in the dusty parking lot and we stare at the old government building. Could this have been where that photograph was taken? Is this where Amelia had her baby fifty years ago? In this bleak building? I know women give birth every day in much worse places, but there is something about this place that gives me the creeps. There is an air of misery that hangs over it.

Ms Waise lifts her remote to lock the car and I notice that her hand is shaking. Perhaps she feels the atmos­ phere here, too.

“Spooky place, isn’t it?” says Lael in my ear.

“It sure is.”

Ms Waise takes a deep breath. “All right, girls. Let’s go in. I managed to find an administrator who used to work here back when it was a maternity home. She is very close to retirement, but she said she was willing to speak to us.”

This is why grownups are useful. A government de-partment official would not have agreed to speak to us. No way.
“Is Mrs Letwaba available?” asks Ms Waise at recep-tion.

“She is expecting us. My name is Jenny Waise from Brenthurst College, and these are two of my Grade Ten learners.”

We are shown to a sort of waiting room. There are tea- and coffee-making facilities, but they don’t look very tempting. The cups aren’t clean, for one thing. It’s all part of the depressing atmosphere that pervades this place.
A few minutes later, an older lady comes in to greet us. She looks to be about seventy. She introduces herself as Mrs Letwaba, and we all sit down around a rickety table.

“So, you are interested in the history of this place, from back when it was a maternity home in the sixties and seventies?”

“That’s right.” Ms Waise’s voice sounds slightly odd, like she is on the verge of coughing.

“Can you confirm that this was the maternity home owned and run by the Order of St Agnes of Lyons?”

“Yes, it was. They were a group of Anglican nuns, and they ran this place as a mother-and-baby home for near-ly ten years.”

“We’ve heard that it was specifically a home where unwed mothers could have their babies. Can you con-firm that that’s true?”

“Oh, certainly. It was kept hush-hush at the time be-cause of the neighbours. This was a residential area back then, and the neighbours might have objected if they’d known that there were girls ‘of that sort’ having their babies here. But it was an open secret. Families knew that if they had a daughter who was ‘in trouble’, they could deliver their babies safely and discreetly here with the nuns.”

Ms Waise holds out her copy of the photograph for Mrs Letwaba to look at. Her hand is shaking quite no-ticeably by now. Lael and I share an uneasy glance. What we are going to do if our teacher falls apart? What if she has a fit or something? How will we get home? I suppose we could always Uber.

“Do you think this baby could have been born here?” Mrs Letwaba feels in all her pockets for her glasses.

When she finally finds them, she takes the photograph over to the window and holds it up towards the light.

“It is very possible. That is certainly the uniform the nurses used to wear back then. I was a cleaner then, and I’m an administrator now, but I remember the nurses’ uniforms. The only problem is, this wasn’t the only ma-ternity home the nuns used to run. There was another one in the Cape somewhere…”

“Caledon.”

“Yes, that’s it. So, it’s really a fifty-fifty chance whether this photo was taken here or there. I can’t see anything in the picture that would narrow it down. Do you have additional information for me?”

“Just that the family lived here – in the Transvaal. We thought it was more likely for them to have come here for their daughter to have her baby than to have gone all the way to Caledon. They were farmers, you see.”

“I see, yes.”

“What about records?” I blurt out, unable to stay quiet any longer. This visit is not going to be another dead end. I won’t let it.

“What do you mean?” asks Mrs Letwaba.

“The nuns must have kept records of the babies that were born here, Mma. Do you know what happened to those? Are they still here?”

“Yes, I believe they are in our basement archives.” Ms Waise sits up.

“Could we have access to them? We know the name of the mother who gave birth here, and the approximate date. Surely we could search under her surname or something?”

Mrs Letwaba shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid those records are not open to the public. People may only access them in very specific circumstances. You see, adoptions were done from here, as I’m sure you have realised. We cannot release any information to members of the public.”

Lael looks as disappointed as I feel, but Ms Waise sits even straighter. Now her whole body is trembling.

“What circumstances?” she asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said people may access your records in very specific circumstances. So, I’m asking what those circum-stances are?”

“Well, if you were the parent of a child that was born here, for example, or indeed if you were one of the chil-dren born here. Then we would certainly open up our records to you.”

Then Ms Waise does something so shocking that Lael and I can only stare. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out an envelope. She hands it to Mrs Letwaba and says, “I have reason to believe that I was born here fifty years ago. I believe that I am the child of Amelia Lucite and Jim Grey.”

Lael and I gasp so loudly that Mrs Letwaba actually jumps.

“What is it?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“You, Ms Waise?” I say. “You are Amelia’s baby?” “Why didn’t you tell us?” asks Lael. Ms Waise turns to us, tears in her eyes.

“I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I’m still not sure. I joined Brentwood College as a History teacher at the beginning of this year because I knew my birth was somehow connected to the school. I wanted to be able to check the records and look through old documents. Then I found out that you girls were looking into the same mystery as I was, but for different reasons.”

“Wait a second…” I say, confused. “Does that mean you’re not actually a History teacher?”

She laughs. “No, no. I am absolutely a History teach-er – and a museum curator too. I applied for the job and got it in the normal way. But my reason for coming was to find out more about my birth parents. It was a closed adoption, you see. My adoptive parents got me from an intermediary organisation, and the records were sealed. I have documents here that I believe will prove I have the right to request access to the file on Amelia Lucite.”

Mrs Letwaba is looking through the documents in the envelope now, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“This seems to be in order,” she says.

“Now, we must just hope that the girl’s parents brought her here under her own name. It wasn’t unheard of for people to use assumed names in those days, even though it was against the law. Please wait here while I go and see if I can find the relevant file.”

As she disappears, my mind is spinning. I’m remem-bering how fascinated Ms Waise was to hear that I might have met
Jim Grey, or at least what was left of him. How she wanted to know what he was like. I would never in a million years have guessed that it was her own father she was asking about. No wonder she seemed so interested!

***