The Adoption (41 page)

‘I’m engaged,’ I fired back defensively. ‘His name’s Henry. And we’re going to be wed as soon as I’m twenty-one.’

‘And you’re nineteen now?’

‘That’s right.’ The hum of the hospital had suddenly ceased, or I had grown deaf to it I was listening so intently.

Horseface worked her mouth. ‘Two years is a very long time, don’t you agree, dear?’

‘Not that long.’

‘Your mother tells me that although your father feels compelled to help, her health is so precarious that having you home to live with the baby is not an option.’ She smoothed the crocodile skin of the handbag in her lap. ‘So that means we have to sort something else out.’ She swooped, her hawk eyes locating their prey. ‘An alternative route that
puts
baby first. Although you are of equal importance to us. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Do you know much about adoption, Lucilla?’

I almost burst out laughing but restrained myself. ‘A little,’ I replied economically. ‘I don’t want to go home anyway. We won’t live there, not ever.’

‘Ah, and why might that be?’ asked Margo Keir, smelling scandal.

As if I would ever tell her what my father had tried to do. She would label me a liar and my accusation rubbish, further proof of my unsuitability to be a mother. A respectable couple both holding senior positions in the temperance movement? The father teeming with incestuous desires? Oh yes, this predatory social worker would most certainly deem my tale delusional.

‘Then what
are
you going to do?’ she wanted to know, her brown eyes unblinking.

‘I’m going to move in with Henry, with his family in their house in Bowes Park.’

‘So your boyfriend still lives at home with his parents?’ Gina stirred, sensing my unease. ‘And they are happy to accommodate both you
and
the baby?’

‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Thrilled to pieces in fact.’

‘Is it a large house? Detached? A garden?’

‘End of terrace. Regular-sized but perfectly adequate.’ A second lie and Margo Kier twitched her nose scenting it. There was no room for Henry there, let alone me and a baby. But by now, as the unappetising aroma of lunch infiltrated the stagnant air of the ward, sheer terror had seized hold.

‘It’s not ideal, is it, Miss Pritchard? All crowded together. If you don’t mind my observing, you’re very young. Your mother and I are most concerned.’ I felt such rage I wanted to punch her, and had I not been clasping my baby protectively to me I might have. My mother’s
knowledge
of motherhood and babies would fit on a grain of rice and have room to spare, I brooded savagely. But I kept my temper in check, because I had deduced that a scene from me would be a disaster at this stage. ‘It all seems rather rushed,’ she continued. ‘If you will be guided by me, I would take a few days in hospital to seriously consider your future and that of the baby.’ Her fingers, almost clumsy with their big knuckles, clawed at the crocodile skin, avidity in the gesture. ‘Accidents can be remedied in my experience.’

‘It wasn’t an accident. We planned it, planned the baby.’ My third glaring lie.

Margo Keir repressed a smug smile. ‘Ah, you don’t have to be coy. These things happen, Miss Pritchard. Two hot-blooded young people alone together. You can confide in me,’ she purred. ‘I’m a woman of the world, you know.’ Gazing at her with her hoity-toity air, I calculated that she could not have been further removed from the world, from the dance of desire, from the fragrance of mellow apples grown violet in the warm dusk. She hesitated, frowned when it was clear I would have to be press-ganged into her scheme, then forged unwaveringly on. ‘You made a mistake, went a little too far. Some might condemn you for it. But not us. We at Barnet Social Services pride ourselves on being progressive, modern thinkers. We deal with reality. Your baby is a reality, and we can assist you with making the decision that best protects her interests.’

‘I am her mother,’ I said. ‘I’ll protect her interests.’

‘You have your entire life ahead of you. This mishap needn’t be a disaster for you.’ She leaned towards me, her eyes glittering nefariously. ‘Have her adopted, Miss Pritchard. I believe that is the way ahead for you, and for the baby. Your mother and I are sure that this is the most sensible course for everyone involved.’ I wanted to scream, to tell her to get out, to tell her that my mother was many things, but an authority on motherhood was not one of them. I focused on my breathing, my
baby
and my breathing. ‘I can organise everything. All you have to do is relax, recuperate and consider your future.’

I sat up very straight. I was defenceless confined to my bed, in a state of undress, a milk stain over my chest. ‘Her name is Gina. She is my daughter, mine and Henry’s. We are going to live together and, as soon as we can, we will marry,’ I attested. ‘I am not putting her up for adoption. I will never put her up for adoption. I am her mother!’ With the force of my maternal instinct my register had deepened, and I had gathered up a fistful of blanket.

Margo Keir got up slowly, not a lacquered hair out of place. Languidly, she picked up her handbag and gave me the kind of smile that might, had I possessed a gun, have driven me to use it. ‘Early days, Miss Pritchard, early days. You are naturally a fraction overwrought. Childbirth is traumatic enough without you having to decide this now. And what with all those hormones, you are bound to be feeling addled.’ She smoothed her skirt and drew back the curtain in fits and starts. ‘But we shall keep in contact. Trust me. Plenty of opportunity to change your mind.’

‘I won’t,’ came my oath as Gina woke and blinked startled blue eyes up at me.

‘Ah, there’s the lunch trolley. Enjoy your meal, Miss Pritchard. You need to keep your strength up.’ And off she went, her crocodile handbag hanging from her wrist, her broad bottom swinging unflatteringly. I realised, as gristly meat and potatoes and some sloppy dessert was set before me, that if I was determined not to go the way of my birth mother, this would be war.

Luckily, Henry’s parents welcomed me and their granddaughter, Gina. Aunt Ethel smothered her great-niece with affection. She sang nursery rhymes I had never heard of to her, and bounced our enraptured baby on her plump arthritic knees. My mother- and father-in-law, Carrie and Bernard, proved a tolerant pair, bearing the
disruption
stoically. I had two more visits from Margo Keir. When Gina was six weeks old she hammered on the door one chilly afternoon. The hospital had given her my address. I was about to take Gina for her afternoon constitutional. Busy negotiating the brute of a pram we had purchased at a pawnshop through the narrow hallway, I had just knocked over the umbrella stand. Crouching down levering the brolly out of the spokes of a front wheel, I jumped at the knocking. My face must have dropped when I pulled open the door and set eyes on that dread mane of hair. It made her look like a hairdresser’s mannequin, her face just as immobile.

‘Hello, Miss Pritchard. Sorry to drop in without warning. I would have called if Mr and Mrs Ryan had a telephone. Your mother asked me to look in on you. She hasn’t heard from you in some while. Her devotion is very moving. You’re a lucky woman.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient at present. As you can see, I’m about to take Gina for a walk.’

‘A breath of fresh air. I’m all for that ordinarily, but don’t you think it’s a mite cold for a newborn today,’ she observed critically, glancing over her shoulder at the pall of grey that hung over the street.

‘She isn’t a newborn,’ I shot back, fussing over Gina in the pram. ‘And you can see for yourself that she’s well wrapped up.’

‘Everything OK, Lucilla?’ came Carrie’s anxious voice from the front room.

I popped my head around the door and told her it was fine, only a friend come to see Gina. When I wheeled back, Margo was bent over my baby retying the bow of her knitted bonnet. ‘I told you she’s fine.’ As I spoke, I elbowed her out of the way. But to my consternation she did not go and, dismissing my protests, she accompanied me on my walk. Gone were all vestiges of a relaxing stroll with my precious daughter. As I rushed along in the vain hope I would lose her, she drilled me with questions. Was I still breastfeeding? Oughtn’t I to wean
her
now? What were the sleeping arrangements? Was Henry working? Was Gina sleeping through? How often did I feed her? Did I bathe her every day? Had she been examined by the doctor? Was she gaining weight? And how was I managing? How did I feel? Was I depressed? Tearful? Did I miss work? Had I made any friends in my unusual circumstances? Were Henry and I getting on? Was I still set on marriage? Had I had any more thoughts about her proposition? About adoption?

I replied with as much politeness as I could dredge up. My heart was thudding so loudly I was sure that she could hear it, that she was taking a sadistic pleasure in how frightened I evidently was. I wished, how I wished, that I had an enormous house full of convenient gadgets, and a nursery all for Gina, daubed in bright murals. I wished I had an expensive crib made up with hand-embroidered linen, and not a drawer laid on the lino floor with a folded blanket for a mattress. I wished I had a washing machine that whirred all day, so I didn’t have to hand launder nappies in the bath. I wished I could go to the shops and buy expensive clothes for our daughter, instead of unpicking the few knitted garments she had, and asking Aunt Ethel to remake them in larger sizes. I wished that I had a gold band on my finger, not because I particularly wanted to be married, but because I wanted to strip them of their ammunition. Gina was mine, all mine. My birth mother, Bethan, might have bowed to private and public pressure, but I would not. I loved my baby and no one was taking her from me. Meanwhile her lists of questions seemed endless. More grievous still, she appeared dissatisfied with my answers. She would come again, she presaged at last.

‘And don’t forget what I said,’ came her parting remark. ‘Adoption may well be the ideal solution all round. I’ll send you some of the forms to read through.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I shot back.

‘We’ll see,’ I heard her say under her breath as I closed the front door.

Gina was nine months when she next showed up, an armful. She was crawling and into everything. It was winter 1967. If she was thriving, I was not. I had dark crescents under my eyes and I had lost weight. My hair was unwashed and tangled, and I was having one of those ear infections that I was prone to, especially in periods of stress. The problem was not our darling Gina, or the strains of motherhood, or the pressures of living with Henry’s parents and his aunt. It was Henry. The company he worked for was having to make staffing cuts to survive in the tough economy. Henry had been one of the casualties. He went conscientiously through the job ads each week, but so far he had not even been called for an interview. We were broke. We had nothing to live on but the shillings Aunt Ethel kept thrusting into our hands.

I don’t know how she discovered that Henry was unemployed, but she did. Margo Keir blew in like a blizzard from Siberia. Aunt Ethel opened the front door, puffing on a cigarette. I was coming down the stairs with Gina in my arms. Henry was out, though he was far too congenial a man to stand up to that viper.

‘Visitor for you,’ called Aunt Ethel, her cigarette wagging. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Margo Keir. Social Services,’ said the blizzard, howling past her and positioning herself at the bottom of the stairs, as if ready to catch Gina when she clinched the deal.

‘Thank you, Aunty. You get back to your tea with Mum. I’ll look after the guest.’

Aunt Ethel shuffled off, casting a sour look in the direction of Margo Keir’s back. She was nobody’s fool. I might not have told her who this lady was, but judging by her expression I’d have said she had a shrewd idea. I made the witch a cup of tea. She took it weak without
sugar
. She perched on the edge of a chair at the kitchen table, as if she thought the seat was grimy.

‘Do you think the baby ought really to crawl on the kitchen floor? Hygiene is very important when they’re so little.’ She hurried on not pausing for my reply. ‘Tiny ones do put everything into their mouths, don’t they?’

I put the mug of tea in front of her, scooped up Gina and sat down at the chair furthest from her. She took a sip of tea, swallowed, and her brow lifted and lined. ‘Miss Pritchard, it has come to my attention that your fiancé is unemployed.’

‘It’s only temporary.’ I returned service without breathing, frantically wondering which department she had foraged this information from.

‘I’m sure you’d like it to be, but that’s not the reality of the situation, is it, dear?’

My eyes narrowed at the condescending liberty. ‘He’s looking for work. Something’s bound to crop up.’ Gina, studying my mouth, ran her fingers over it, chuckling in delight when it moved under them.

Margo Keir sighed and fingered her hair, which lay unyielding as a stair brush. ‘It’s tricky, I know. But the truth is that an awful lot of men are in the unenviable position of being unable to secure employment. It’s tragic really. They simply can’t support their families.’

‘How sad,’ I mumbled, as Gina pinched my cheek.

‘Mmm. And how are you affording to live, Miss Pritchard?’ She had set down her mug but now she picked it up again, her little finger crooked as if she was drinking Earl Grey out of a bone china cup. ‘Babies are expensive.’

‘We’re getting by,’ I hedged.

‘This tea is lovely by the way. So few people make it exactly how I like it.’ I made no response to this, wanting very much to pour scalding fluid over her head to deflate her reinforced hairdo. ‘Miss Pritchard, I
hope
you don’t mind my saying, but you look rather weary. Are you getting sufficient rest?’

‘I’ve had a cold,’ I said, pathetically.

‘Oh dear.’

‘But I’m recovered now. Would you like a biscuit?’ I tried to divert her with a garibaldi. I should have known better.

‘No, thank you. Watching my figure, you know.’ She pushed her cup aside. ‘It is my job to find out how you are supporting the baby. Mr Ryan is no longer bringing in a wage. I’m afraid you have to satisfy us that you are not impoverished. Our overriding priority is the wellbeing of the baby, you understand.’ Then as an afterthought, delivered so unctuously you could skid on it: ‘And yourself, of course. We are also worried about you. As the baby grows, her needs will be many, and I have to be persuaded that you will be able to afford to keep her.’