The Willowbrook Home for Foundlings

Cecil pressed his eye against the pupil-sized hole in the wall as he hunched down in the shadows of the west hall at The Willowbrook Home for Foundlings, which had been his home for the past month or so.

While he had preferred the freedom afforded him after that morning he awoke to find his parents gone, he supposed he did not mind having regular meals, baths, and clean clothes.

News of spreading war and illness in the world outside bolstered some sense of gratefulness for his current situation, but still, he longed for the lack of routine he had grown accustomed to.

It was that desire that had sparked his “dangerous game,” Barnaby had put it as he cleaned and put on his glasses and shook a disapproving head at Cecil, of sneaking out after lights out and curfew, and wandering the orphanage in the darkness.

There was no malice in Cecil’s heart. No thought of theft, or, until recently, thoughts of peeping. And it was certainly not every night he slipped carefully out of his bunk, his bare feet stalking like a cat across the wooden floor, and made these little ventures out of the boys’ dormitory.

It had been two weeks before during one of his jaunts, that he had caught sight of light and heard muffled voices from behind the kitchen door. The presence of such was not unusual in and of itself, it was the fact that it was 2 AM, and, after checking over the next week, apparently only on Fridays.

The thought of unraveling some secret, no matter how mundane, of the adults that ran The Willowbrook Home for Foundlings played in his mind like the dancing flautist he had seen with his parents one day at the town square.

Cecil shifted quietly and repositioned himself more comfortably as he peered through the opening he had, by chance, found.

Though still muffled, he was certain he heard the voices of Headmistress Alistair, Chef Pettins, and Miss Tulane, one of the live-in carers and teachers, in serious discussion.

“It’s not much this time, despite twice the number,” Chef Pettins grunted.

“We will have to make do,” Headmistress Alistair responded.

“I wish we did not have to resort to such measures,” Miss Tulane seemed to lament.

“It is not ideal,” Headmistress Alistair agreed. “But with trade and supply lines dried up, I fail to see any other options for the foreseeable future.”

“I suppose you are right, Headmistress.”

“I will leave you both to it then,” Headmistress Alistair said before taking her leave.

“‘Spose we should get to it then,” Chef Pettins remarked as he and Miss Tulane stepped to Cecil’s right and out of view for a moment.

The two returned and placed something on the table before them.

“Could you get me the…” Chef Pettins asked, verbally indicating something out of Cecil’s view.

“Oh. Of course.” Miss Tulane obliged and hastened to the left.

Cecil was left viewing the cold stares of Mabel and Reuben, the frail young twins, who now lay cold and blue on the table.

Just two days ago, Cecil and the other orphans had listened to the bright and cheerful announcement that the twins had been adopted by some lovely couple from Brighton, and that they should all hold the hope that one day, they too may, no, will find a loving home.

Miss Tulane returned, stood side by side with Chef Pettins, and handed him a large cleaver.

“Twice the carcass, half the meat,” Chef Pettins sighed, and brought the cleaver down with a cracking and thunk following.

Cecil reeled back, and felt a hand catch him by his collar.

“Oh, dear Cecil,” Headmistress Alistair slowly shook her head, a true disappointment in her eyes.

~~~

The next morning, Barnaby awoke, rubbed his eyes, and slipped his glasses on.

He glanced at Cecil’s empty bunk for a moment before shrugging. It wasn’t unusual that Cecil was up before Barnaby, who preferred to only rise at the final warning to get up.

As the day went on, Barnaby looked at Cecil’s empty seat as he ate his morning porridge, then again during lessons.

At outdoor activities, Barnaby sat alone.

Suppertime finally arrived, and Headmistress Alistair called for everyone’s attention.

“It has been a blessed week,” she began. “Our dear friend, though he had only been with us a short while, Cecil has been adopted by a couple from Mill Creek. We are happy for him, and you should all hold the hope that one day, you too will find a loving home.”

“Lucky,” Barnaby smiled for his friend, took a bite of stew, and noted that the meat tasted fresher than usual.