Pamela Wells launched her journalism career in the late 1950s as a reporter for the Romford Times in the UK. Later as a free-lancer she covered significant labor strikes at Ford Motor. In the 60’s she moved to London’s Fleet Street, where she reported for the Daily Express. Expanding her career in the United States, she worked as  Beauty Editor at Cosmopolitan and Travel Editor at Ladies’ Home Journal. She has freelanced for a wide range of British and American periodicals, building a reputation for versatility and keen editorial insight. Pamela lives now in Kinderhook, New York, where she is at work on a memoir, The Girl Who was Thick as a Plank. Wells is an expert and designer in the field of early American 18th century crewelwork embroidery and has taught and lectured widely.

The Village Foundling

By Pamela Wells 

John never knew his parents. His mother left him, hours old, wrapped in a blue blanket, on the back pew of St. Mary’s church in the middle of World War 11.
A church volunteer, Miss Harper, found him as she methodically dusted the pews.

“Good heavens,” she said when she peeped inside the blanket and discovered a newly born infant. The baby was pink and healthy looking. It slept peacefully in her arms as she cradled him carefully on the way to the vicarage.

“Good heavens,” echoed the vicar, an elderly widower who had never had children, but had baptized many babies.

“Where did you find this infant?”

“In your church, on the back pew.”

“A foundling,” said the vicar. “A war baby abandoned by his mother,” added the vicar dramatically.

“Abandoned by its father too,” said Miss Harper crisply.

“Is it a girl or a boy?” Asked the vicar.

“I don’t know,” said Miss Harper. She blushed. “I have not checked.”

The village was over-run with children displaced by the bombs which had destroyed their London homes, 25 miles away. Many of the children were orphans. Villagers had taken them in on a temporary basis and often ended up adopting them. Some evacuees had a happy life. Others were treated as unpaid slaves. Or worse.

The baby woke up and looked at the pair through its unfocused blue eyes. It was hungry. Ready for its first meal. It began to cry lustily.

“Oh dear,” said the vicar. “What shall we do?”

They called the midwife, Phillipa Watkins–Smith, who arrived on her red upright Rayleigh bicycle ten minutes later. She carried a big black bag.

“What have we here?” she asked cheerfully taking the crying baby from Miss Harper.

“Hello, Baby,” she said to the squalling infant. She opened the blanket, and they all exclaimed, “It’s a boy!”

Miss Harper didn’t offer to look after the baby. She had three cats and knew they would be very jealous of a baby. Heaven knows what they would do to it. The vicar was not even considered. The midwife knew all about babies, but she had raised her own family and wasn’t about to start again in her late fifties.

The vicar baptized him. He was named John Christian. Parents: unknown.

John was sent to White Lodge, a home for mentally-challenged older men. (Some of the less charitable members of the village referred to White Lodge as the home for the “barmy old boys”).

The men adored the baby and took turns pushing him around the grounds in his second-hand pram, donated by a villager. One of the men scattered dandelions and daisies all over the baby blanket in the pram as he slept blissfully under this carpet of weeds.

“That is very pretty,” said the housekeeper, Mrs. Thompson, “but you must not put flowers on his face. He might not be able to breathe. And when he is bigger he will try and eat the flowers. But it is fine for a while.”

They all wanted to give John his bottle. Mrs. Thompson wrote their names on a list and told them when it was their turn.

The years passed and John attended the local school. His numerous “fathers” at home couldn’t help him with his homework, but they liked to hear about school and what he was learning.

He told them about the pyramids in Egypt, showing them pictures from his schoolbooks. They were interested in the camels that people rode instead of horses.

“Oh my,” said Dudley, “I would like to ride on a camel, but it is so tall how do you get on it?”

John thought that was a very smart question.

“You’re smart,” he said to Dudley, who was in his early seventies. Dudley smiled with pleasure at being called ‘smart”. Dudley had twisted fingers and had trouble holding a knife and fork. Sometimes John would feed him.

“A camel bends its legs and kneels on the ground, Dudley. Then you climb onto its saddle. When they are cross camels spit at you, my teacher said. He spent time in Egypt. He said it was very hot and smelly there, but exciting.“

John told them about mummies and Pharaohs.

Dudley listened carefully. “If a camel spits at you can you spit back at it?” he asked.

“Of course,” said John and Dudley walked away smiling.

John loved working in the garden at White Lodge. Several of the inhabitants were skilled gardeners. They taught John how to cut hedges and prune trees. They gave him his own garden before he was ten and he spent hours tending it, growing peaches, apples and plums. In the spring he had a beautiful display of daffodils and tulips with a bright blue border of grape hyacinths. He decided he would be a gardener when he grew up.

John was a happy young man; he had been raised with love and attention. He didn’t excel at school, but it didn’t matter as he knew he wanted to work on the land.

He was tall and well-built with thick dark curly hair. He was proud of his hair.

After leaving school at 15, John went to work on a local farm.

He loved being outside all day in the fresh air. When it rained, he didn’t care, wearing an old raincoat, Wellington boots and a battered felt hat.

He loved the countryside and could identify a bird from its song. Sometimes he would whistle back at a bird, and it would answer him. He knew the names of the wild-flowers and could identify any animal by its scat.

One day John was herding the cows into the barn for milking when he suddenly felt strange. He shut his eyes and the next minute he was on the ground thrashing around. The farmer found him and called for an ambulance.

“You’re epileptic,” said the doctor, by way of explanation. “You had a fit. I’m afraid it will happen again. There is no cure.”

After this diagnosis, John was prohibited from operating farm machinery. He could never drive the tractor again. No electric hedge shears. He would have to cut the hedges by hand.

“Never mind, John” said the laidback house-keeper at White Lodge. “You will work round this problem. Remember, worse things happen at sea.”

John pictured himself at the wheel of a trawler, having a fit. It wasn’t a good thought. But he didn’t worry about it for long as he had never been on a boat. Why, he had never seen the sea!

The years flew by and White Lodge closed. All the inhabitants died, leaving John on his own there. The local council could not decide whether to turn it into a YMCA or tear it down. Mrs. Thompson came in once a week to check on him. She was an old lady now.

“John, you will have to find a place to live,” she said. “I’m afraid my cottage is too small.”

Every evening John went to The Running Mare, a local pub, to have a pint with the locals. He had dinner there too. Bert English, The Running Mare’s boss, kept an eye on John. He only allowed him to have two pints and made sure freeloaders didn’t take advantage of him.

Every Friday John would give his wages to Bert, who would handle his money for him. The locals were his friends and family.

John told Bert he had to find a place to live. “They are shutting down White Lodge.”

“I have a shed at the back,” said Bert. “You can clear out all the junk. You can use the bathroom at the pub to take a bath.”

John moved into the shed at the back of The Running Mare. He left the scythe hanging on the wooden-slated wall as it was useful. He had a thick army sleeping bag and a canvas army duffle containing his clothes. He slept in his clothes. Bert reminded him to get a haircut.

“You’re looking like a buffalo,” he would say to John. “Time for a haircut.”

Locals donated him clothes. Housewives dropped off biscuits and cake, which he kept in biscuit tins as the mice enjoyed treats too.

The years passed. John had a list of clients. He was known for his beautifully trimmed hedges. His pruning was in much demand.

When the weather was warm he would cook outside on a small grill. Bangers and baked beans was a favorite. John cooked the sausages in a frying pan with tomatoes and mushrooms.

One spring evening John was cooking. The ground was muddy from the constant rain which he didn’t even notice. As he went to tip the food onto his tin plate he slipped and poured hot fat down his Wellington boot.

The hot fat was painful, but John ignored it and carried on serving his meal.

A week later Bert noticed John was limping.

“Why are you limping, John?” asked Bert

“Slipped and poured hot fat down me boots, Guv.”

Bert walked over. “Let me look at your leg?”

John took off his boot and tried to peel off his sock. It was stuck to his leg from the weeping burns. The leg was swollen.

“My God,” said Bert. “I have to take you to the hospital. Your leg is infected. It must hurt.”

“I’m used to it,” said John. “I tried to take off me socks, but I couldn’t.” He smiled. “I never take off me socks until they fall off!”

Bert took John to the hospital. They dressed his wounds and took some tests.

John had advanced cancer. He never left the hospital and died two weeks later in a clean bed.

His funeral was well attended. All the villagers came. The local funeral home donated the coffin. The villagers paid for his gravestone.

John Christian
1943-1985
A good man.
Returned to the
Soil he loved