Best Kept Secret

right, was dressed in a pre-war tweed suit and thick woollen stockings. Her hair was done up in a bun, leaving Emma in no doubt that she was
a spinster of this parish, and the set of her lips suggested she didn’t smile that often. The gentleman on the chairman’s left was younger than his two colleagues, and reminded Emma
that it was not so long ago that Britain had been at war. His bushy moustache suggested the RAF.
    ‘The board has studied your application with interest, Mrs Clifton,’ began the chairman, ‘and with your permission, we would like to ask you a few questions.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma, trying to relax.
    ‘How long have you been considering adoption, Mrs Clifton?’
    ‘Ever since I realized I couldn’t have another child,’ replied Emma, without adding any details. The two men smiled sympathetically, but Miss Braithwaite remained po-faced.
    ‘You state on your application form,’ continued the chairman, looking down at his papers, ‘that you would prefer to adopt a girl aged around five or six. Is there any
particular reason for that?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘My son Sebastian is an only child, and my husband and I felt it would be good for him to be brought up with someone who hasn’t had all the advantages
and privileges he has taken for granted since birth.’ She hoped her reply hadn’t sounded too rehearsed, and could have sworn the chairman placed a tick in a box.
    ‘Can we assume from your answer,’ said the chairman, ‘that there are no financial restrictions that might hinder you bringing up a second child?’
    ‘None whatsoever, Mr Chairman. My husband and I are comfortably off.’ Emma noticed this elicited another tick.
    ‘I only have one more question,’ said the chairman. ‘You stated in your application that you would consider a child from any religious background. May I ask if you are
affiliated to any particular church?’
    ‘Like Dr Barnardo,’ said Emma, ‘I am a Christian. My husband was a choral scholar at St Mary Redcliffe.’ Looking directly at the chairman, she added, ‘Before he
went on to Bristol Grammar School, where he ended up as the senior chorister. I was educated at Red Maids’ School, before winning a scholarship to Oxford.’
    The chairman touched his tie, and Emma felt things couldn’t be going much better, until Miss Braithwaite tapped her pencil on the table. The chairman nodded in her direction.
    ‘You mentioned your husband, Mrs Clifton. May I enquire why he isn’t with you today?’
    ‘He’s in the United States on a book tour. He’ll be returning in a couple of weeks’ time.’
    ‘Is he often away?’
    ‘No. Very rarely in fact. My husband is a writer by profession, so he’s at home most of the time.’
    ‘But he must need to visit a library occasionally,’ suggested Miss Braithwaite, with what might have passed as a smile.
    ‘No, we have our own library,’ said Emma, regretting the words the moment she’d uttered them.
    ‘And do you work?’ Miss Braithwaite asked, making it sound like a crime.
    ‘No, although I assist my husband in any way I can. However, I consider being a wife and mother a full-time job.’ Although Harry had recommended this line, he knew only too well that
Emma didn’t believe it, and she now believed it even less after meeting Cyrus Feldman.
    ‘And how long have you been married, Mrs Clifton?’ persisted Miss Braithwaite.
    ‘Just over three years.’
    ‘But I see from your application form that your son Sebastian is eight years old.’
    ‘Yes, he is. Harry and I were engaged in 1939, but he felt it was his duty to sign up even before war had been declared.’
    Miss Braithwaite was about to ask another question, when the man on the chairman’s left leant forward and said, ‘So you were married soon after the war ended, Mrs Clifton?’
    ‘Sadly not,’ said Emma, looking at a man who only had one arm. ‘My husband was badly wounded by a German landmine only days before the war ended, and it was some time before he
was fit enough to be discharged from hospital.’
    Miss Braithwaite still appeared unmoved. Emma wondered, could it be possible that . . . she decided to take a risk she knew Harry would not have approved of.
    ‘But, Mr Needham,’ she said, her eyes not leaving the man with one arm, ‘I consider myself to be among the lucky ones. My heart goes out to those women whose husbands,
fiancés and sweethearts did not return to their families, having made the