The Woman in the Notebook

The morning’s flurry of activity had exhausted him; this morning was like all others. But now began one of his favorite rituals: reading the morning paper. He sighed heavily as he took his seat on the commuter train and quickly opened his newspaper so that no one would strike up conversation. It was such a disappointment when someone chatty sat beside him and he felt obligated to engage. “Monday, June 3, 1935...”— and he was lost to his surroundings. He timed his reading perfectly; he could read the entire front page before the train would arrive at Paddington Station. However, an article detailing a volatile but rallying stock market grabbed his attention. As a bank president, he had been consumed by the global depression, and he was hungry for good news. He glanced out the window while deep in thought. Almost too late, he realized the train was at the station. Swiftly, he swung his legs out of his seat, tripping a young lady who was hurrying to exit the train. She could not brace her fall and fell facedown. Overcome by embarrassment, she avoided looking at anyone, and quickly she straightened her hat, grabbed her handbag, and scurried to the platform. Try as he might to apologize, the gentleman could not catch her. At the end of the aisle, an elderly woman grabbed the sleeve of his coat, and said, “Here, Mister. She dropped this.” In his hands, the woman placed a little black notebook.

“Thank you,” he replied.

Upon reaching his office, Mr. Knightley was bothered all morning as he recalled the clumsy incident on the train. He finally decided the only way to put an end to his distracted thoughts would be to return the notebook and apologize. Surely, he could find the woman’s identification inside. His first instinct was to hurriedly fix this situation the way he had to fix problems at the bank. But, as he held the tattered notebook in his hands, he paused. The idea occurred to him that he was about to peer into someone else’s life--uninvited. That deserved attention and respect. He closed his office door, sat down in his chair, and slowly opened the cover. To his dismay, he saw no name, address, or telephone exchange. He flipped to the back cover—nothing. His only resort was to read the pages to find clues to the owner’s identity. He had his secretary hold calls and reschedule meetings, and he immersed himself in the life of a stranger.

When James Knightley looked up from his desk, the sun had set. He had lost an entire day inside the life of a nurse, one who had served in the Great War at the age of eighteen and who worked beastly hours at Royal London Hospital, inside the life of someone who loved poetry and music, who never married, who had a child whom she couldn’t keep and who wrote prayers for that child every single day. He closed the book with a great sense of self-loathing. He had lived a life of affluence, that alone was nothing to feel guilty for. But his life of self-absorption—that is what caused the lump in his throat. He had to find this woman!

As he re-opened the diary, he saw the edge of a scrap of paper tucked in a hidden pocket inside the back cover. He slid the paper out, and to his disappointment, it contained only “Andy, 132 Stage Street, Bloomsbury, London.”

“A boyfriend— I should have suspected that,” he thought to himself and was surprised by the wave of jealousy that came over him. “How silly, you don’t even know her,” he said aloud to himself. In truth, he felt as though he knew her better than he knew himself. If he hurried, he could return the diary to Andy, catch his evening train, and be back to dine alone on the usual fare at The Draft House. This had taken enough of his time. He donned his hat and coat, grabbed the notebook, and proceeded to hail a cab.

James Knightley rushed up the steps at 132 Stage Street, an opulent residence even by a bank president’s standards. He was confident that this would only take a moment—hand off the diary, make an apology and he would be off. A maid answered the door and seemed taken aback when he asked for Andy. Out from behind her suddenly appeared a little boy with brown hair and big brown eyes.

“I’m Andy. What’s your name, sir? Are you from my school? Am I in trouble?” The boy’s hair was tousled, and it appeared that he had been chasing the dog on his stick horse.

“No, you are in no trouble, I can assure you. My name is Mr. Knightley, and I’m pleased to meet you.” He found himself practically giddy upon discovering that Andy was about eight years old, best he could tell. Then Mr. Knightley made the connection: this child, this Andy, was the child whom the nurse had given up for adoption.

“Would it be possible for me to speak with Andy’s parents?” Mr. Knightley asked, turning to the maid. No sooner had he posed the question than appeared this attractive blond whom he recognized as one of his bank’s customers.

“Mummy, I’m not in any trouble. This man is not from my school,” Andy quickly chimed in.

“Andy, why don’t you and Geneva go to your nursery and read a story before bedtime. I’ll help Mr. Knightley and be up to tuck you in. Thank you, Geneva.”

Turning to James, she said, “Mr. Knightley, please come in. Roger is out. He will hate that he missed you. Can I be of help?”

“Please, call me James, and yes, I hope so. First, let me say that I have not seen your son since you and Roger first brought him to the bank years ago as an infant. He has certainly grown. The years pass too quickly, don’t they?”

“Yes, they certainly do. I am thankful every day for that little boy,” replied Mrs. Pembroke.

James continued, “It is a delicate matter that brings me here this evening, and one that I want to handle discreetly. However, I believe I have something that belongs to Andy’s birth mother. I want to return it, but I don’t know her name nor where to find her. I was hoping you could help. She dropped a book on the train, and I want to return it to her personally. She never needs to know that I have seen you or even know you. She will never know that I have any connection to your family whatsoever. You have my word. I simply want to return what belongs to her.”

Mrs. Pembroke could see the notebook which he held in his hand.

“How did you even connect us to her?” Mrs. Pembroke asked.

“I found this worn slip of paper inside. It’s hardly readable,” said James as he presented the note.

“That’s my husband’s handwriting. He gave this to Sarah when we adopted Andy. It was her condition for the adoption, that she know the name we would give the little boy and where he would live,” explained Mrs. Pembroke. “You know that I hesitate to give you any information concerning her. We have worked to protect Andy and to ensure that he knows that Roger and I are his parents—no one else. You understand that, don’t you? If you give me your word, I will trust you to simply make the return and divulge no information whatsoever about us.”

“You have my solemn promise. I am in the business of keeping secrets at the bank. You have nothing to worry about, I can assure you.”

“One moment and I will get that information for you from the desk in the library.”

Mr. Knightley waited in the drawing room. He counted numerous photos of Andy—on holiday, at Christmas, with cousins, riding horses. Would Mrs. Pembroke notice if one were missing? He furtively looked for the smallest and least noticeable one he could find, and he slipped it into his coat pocket, just as Mrs. Pembroke returned with her head down, gazing at the slip of paper in her hand.

“Here you go, Mr. Knightley. Please destroy this as soon as you make the return. I cannot stress enough how we are relying on your discretion. Although, I assume you could look at our bank records and find this information if you really wanted to.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Pembroke, I would never entertain such an idea. I appreciate your trust and will guard this information and keep it only as long as is necessary. No other person need know that I was even here tonight. Thank you again, Mrs. Pembroke. I’ll see myself out. Good evening.”

Mr. Knightley had forgotten all about his return train and his usual fare at the Draft House. One thing, one thing only, mattered now: delivering the notebook—and the photograph— to Sarah Kirkpatrick, 11 B Orchid Lane, Dagenham, London.

As he arrived at Sarah’s tenement house, he couldn’t help but notice the different life she led, compared to his own, but especially to the life Andy would lead. He knocked on her door and was relieved when the young woman from the train opened it.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman peering from behind the door. Words escaped him. “Sir, are you alright? Are you looking for someone?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Mr. Knightley absently replied. He then continued, “I have something of yours that I would like to return,” and he held out the notebook.

She grabbed it quickly and held it to her chest. “I can’t ever thank you enough! I lost it this morning. Please come in, and I will at least make you some tea before you leave.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Mr. Knightley replied. “By the way, my name is James Knightley, and I also owe you a most sincere apology for tripping you.”

“Oh, that was you! I should have been watching where I was going. I was in such a hurry. I really don’t blame you. It was very embarrassing,” said Sarah blushing.

“It was completely my fault. I also have a confession,” continued Mr. Knightley so as not to allow her to stop him. He must get out all he intended to say. “I looked for your name and address in the notebook and couldn’t find them anywhere. I traced you through a little boy named Andy—.”

At the sound of the name, Sarah dropped the teakettle in the sink and turned to face Mr. Knightley.

“It was the only identification I could find. I’m sorry to cause you any distress.”

“You saw Andy?” Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Andy is the reason I was on the train this morning. My father in New York died a month ago, and he left his savings of $20,000 to me. I want Andy to have it. I was going to the lawyer’s office to try to get the money to Andy. What does he look like? Has he lost his baby teeth? Does he tilt his head when he’s thinking? Does he have freckles across his nose?” Sarah eagerly asked.

“You can see some of those things for yourself, Miss Kirkpatrick,” and he handed her the picture from his pocket.

Sarah gazed at the photo with intense love and longing. She fell into James’ arms sobbing, “I want Andy to have the money so one day he will know about me — that I never forgot him, not for a minute. All I’ve ever wanted was to love and to be loved, Mr. Knightley.”

“That makes two of us, Sarah.” But James Knightley had never known that until today—until he came to know the woman in the notebook.