I've Got One of Those Gardening Mothers

All contact was forbidden for the first three months. No phone calls. No letters. No visits or play dates. The children needed time to adjust to their new families. Mrs Cuddington made the adoptive parents sign a contract which stated this. Although printed on official looking paper with a proper heading and a crest, it wasn’t a legally binding contract. This did not stop Mrs Cuddington taking great pains to imply that it was. Mrs Cuddington did not give a damn about whether the children were settling in or pining for the other orphans. The no contact clause was there for one reason and one rotten reason only. Once Mrs Cuddington got rid of a child, she never wished to think of it again.

The orphans knew Mrs Cuddington did not love them. The older and more savvy children understood they were not even liked. Granted, Mrs Cuddington wasn’t cruel. She did not beat the children or scrimp on necessities like food and heat. It was in her best interests to keep her charges healthy and reasonably happy. A blooming child was much less likely to be overlooked when prospective parents visited the orphanage. She coached the children in how to look cheerful, but also a little sad round the eyes, as if life was swell but could be bettered if they were only given a loving home.

The children knew what was expected of them. (Mrs Cuddington personally coached them in visitors’ day etiquette). They ignored the fathers and honed in on the mothers. It was the mothers who had the most sway. They blinked up at these women with huge blue eyes and held their little arms up for hugs. They smiled their best gap-toothed smiles and tried to look adorable. All the time they scanned the visiting crowds, pragmatically and objectively assessing the mothers on their merits: what they could offer an orphaned child.

There were so many kinds of mothers. Smiley mothers. Sporty mothers. Baking mothers. Older mothers. Chubby mothers. Mothers wearing expensive coats. It was understood amongst the orphans that a rich mother wasn’t necessarily the best prospect. Rich meant toys and nice holidays and never going to bed hungry or cold. But rich could also mean distant and disinterested; more time spent with the nanny than the people meant to be your parents. Best to go for a middling mother with money enough for necessities. These mothers came with relatively free schedules, allowing for games and cuddles and bedtime stories. Any orphan worth his salt could spot such a mother at fifty paces. They usually arrived bearing bags of sugary sweets.

There were so many kinds of mothers. It was something of a lottery picking which one to go home with. It wasn’t always easy to tell what they’d be like in the privacy of their own homes. For example, a mother could look like a Cooking Mother when she appeared at the orphanage and later reveal herself incapable of cooking anything more complex than toast. Or a seemingly Smiley Mother might -when faced with a naughty child and no Mrs Cuddington there to stop her- resort to the use of the wooden spoon. Which was why the orphans had developed a system for ensuring no one ended up with a cruel mother: a mother who hit or screamed or pinched. The second the contact embargo lifted each child knew to write back to his chums, reassuring the remaining orphans that everything was going ok.

I’ve got one of these gardening mothers, meant life was fine and dandy. Mother was kind and nurturing. They were fed and watered in appropriate measure and blooming in their new home. I’ve got one of these clever mothers meant quite the opposite. Mother was mean and possibly violent, but smart enough to leave no marks. All was not well. Help should be sent with all due speed.

This system was almost foolproof. It had done its job for several years. Ninety nine percent of the mothers turned out to be the gardening sort. The remaining one percent -who were far too clever for their own good- would find themselves bombarded with scores of anonymous letters -we know you’re hitting Wendy. Be nice to Jimmy or we’ll tell on you- scrawled with crayon on cheap construction paper. Sometimes these mothers changed their ways. Sometimes they just ignored the letters and continued to be mean. Mostly, they brought their child back to Mrs Cuddington and told her that they’d changed their mind.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1959 novel, Cat Among the Pigeons