The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (20 page)

But then my doctor shocked me. ‘Angela,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve been thinking about your options. Have you and Michael thought about adoption at all?’

The question brought me up short, the word ‘adoption’ hitting me with a jolt. When you carry around a secret as big as mine, it makes you feel jittery any time anything to do with it
is mentioned. What was he saying? Did he know something about me giving up Paul? I shook my head, braced for what he might be about to tell me. Of
course
he didn’t mean that, I told
myself. He couldn’t. He meant
us
adopting, surely? He did.

‘I have another patient,’ he explained, ‘a young girl who’s pregnant – impossible circumstances, very sad, very difficult. She’s only nineteen, you see. And
the child’s father is married. She has decided that she wants to give the child up to be adopted.’ He paused, letting me digest this before continuing. ‘And it occurred to me
that, potentially at least, we have, in you and Michael, ideal adoptive parents. Which is why I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to discuss it with him, give it some thought.’

I nodded, trying to clear my head of all the thoughts and associations his words had unleashed. How cruel an irony that would be! Potentially we could end up adopting the child of a young girl
who’d found herself in almost the same circumstances as I’d been in, while my own child – my flesh and blood – was lost to me. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘It’s such a lot to take in, such a lot to think about.’

I wondered, as I spoke, if he’d think and feel differently had he known about Paul. Perhaps not. He was such a decent man, so non-judgemental. But did this mean he held out no hope for us
conceiving naturally? Was he already that sure we’d reached the end of the line?

‘Not at all,’ he reassured me. ‘It’s just another option to consider, as I say. And there’s absolutely no rush to make a decision here. The baby isn’t due
until October. And you’ll obviously need to go home and discuss it with Michael before we could even think about taking things further. It would have to be something you’re both
committed to, obviously.’

So I did go home and discuss it with Michael and, tentatively, we agreed that it might be the right thing to do. Heartbreaking as it was to face the reality of our situation, difficult as it was
to accept the idea that the child would not be ours biologically, we both felt to miss this opportunity might condemn us to a lifetime of childlessness. Time was passing. We had to be
realistic.

‘And it’s nurture not nature, remember,’ my GP reassured us, having got us both back to discuss the matter further the following week. He’d just given us some more
background – she was an office junior, and he was a coach driver – the implication being their lives were worlds away from ours. ‘So you don’t need to worry that the child
won’t
feel
like yours. It will.’

‘I know that,’ I said, a new idea forming in my mind. What did the couple who had adopted Paul think about
me
, in that respect? Did they take a view? Did they think ill of me
for being the sort of girl who ‘got into trouble’? Had Paul been a girl, might they have worried that she, too, had the potential for ‘going off the rails’? It was such a
grim thing to think. I felt a rush of sadness for this child’s mother, and a powerful empathy for the horrible, life-changing, desperate thing she would soon do. It was impossible to detach
myself from it.

‘And you two will make such wonderful parents,’ the doctor added warmly. ‘I can’t think of two people more perfect to adopt this baby, which I know matters to her
greatly. She’ll be so relieved to hear you’ve said yes.’

It was kind of him, but also so hard to hear.

I left the surgery that day with very mixed emotions. On the one hand I now had something tangible to hold on to. Our GP had explained that it was a straightforward process, and all we needed to
do now was to engage a solicitor. Once the baby was born all the papers would be drawn up for the adoption process to take place straight away. Moreover, we’d have the child almost
immediately after birth, so we’d would be in a position, as he pointed out, to bond with him or her in almost the same way a natural parent would.

On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling I was about to be a party to something that girl would have wished not to have happened. I tried not to dwell on it, but it was so hard. I kept
thinking about the birth: what she was about to have to go through, and then the agony of immediately having to give her baby to us. Thank God for those eight weeks I’d had with Paul, I
thought. Thank God I had the memory of them safely locked away.

The following few months were happy ones for me. I not only began to accept that I would not conceive naturally, but I also began to look forward to having the baby we both so
wanted. But eight months into the girl’s pregnancy, we were dealt another blow. My GP telephoned me at home one morning, and delivered the news himself.

‘There’s no easy way to say this, Angela,’ he told me, ‘so no preamble. The fact is that she’s changed her mind. She’s decided to keep her baby. I’m so
sorry. I know this will be such a blow to you both.’

I cried and cried then, sitting at home alone, crying my heart out. To be so close and for this to happen felt like the cruellest of things. There was no one to blame here. It was just life, and
we’d have to deal with it. And we persuaded ourselves it was all for the best. What else
could
we do? It wasn’t meant to be, we agreed. It wasn’t right. And it was surely
best for the child that its mother was going to keep it. In my heart I admired her for her strength and determination, even though I couldn’t help but envy her ability to make that choice.
Yes, the world had changed since I’d had to part with Paul, thank God, but it was a brave decision and a hard road to travel nevertheless; although it was the early seventies, single mothers
were still vilified. So how could I be anything but supportive of her courage?

As for ourselves, we’d have to put on a brave face and carry on.
Qué será, será
, as Michael had said all those years ago, even if it meant I was never to fall
pregnant again. It certainly looked that way. Another year passed, another round of tests failed to uncover reasons. By 1974 I had come to accept the inevitable, when surgery for a tilted womb made
me begin to wonder what damage my previous pregnancy and the birth might have done.

Shortly after that I gave up hoping. Another night, another function – this time with other friends, Jim and Jean. They were the only couple we knew who were still childless like us. My
secret burned in me by now, a constant corrosive force in my life. I had had a child; I had voluntarily given him to others. Was that it, now? Had that been my one chance at motherhood? And what
about Michael? He’d married me, accepting me and the past that came with me. When Jean announced her pregnancy that night I had to flee the room. Now it was me sitting in the ladies’,
sobbing my heart out.

My punishment, it seemed, must continue.

S
t Andrew’s Catholic Church stands on the busy A28 Ashford Road, just a short walk from Tenterden’s High Street and town centre.
It’s small, as churches go, and not particularly inspiring to look at, having been built post-war in a redbrick, utilitarian style. But like any church, it was a place of worship, of gentle
light, of still air. Just entering St Andrew’s always gave me a sense of peace, calm and comfort. Despite feeling that my faith had handed me such cruel justice, I could not give up on
it.

So 1975 found me praying. I would regularly come here, though not for services; I never went to mass. The Catholic community was a small and close-knit one, and I didn’t feel a part of it
any more. I would just come to sit and pray, to have some quiet time.

Michael and I had recently returned from a holiday in Ireland. While we were there we’d spent some time staying with my cousin Mary, who was the loveliest, kindest and saintliest person I
have ever known.

Mary knew about my difficulties conceiving, and spending time with her was good for my soul. But she also told me that if I prayed to St Anthony and Our Lady, she felt sure they would listen. I
had no difficulty coming to this church and following her advice, not just because her own faith was so strong and persuasive, but also because, with everything physical and medical having been
done now, I truly felt my only hope of getting pregnant again would be through divine intervention.

Cousin Mary didn’t know about Paul, of course. So she didn’t know how strongly I felt the weight of God’s displeasure. But if God loved me, then surely He’d realise that
I had atoned for my sins and was worthy of forgiveness by now?

My baby, my little Paul, would have been twelve. No, not
would
have been,
was
twelve. Twelve years old: a young boy on the cusp of adolescence. Was he tall or short? Was he
big-boned or skinny? Was he sporty? Artistic? Full of confidence? Shy? I tried to imagine him, to visualise him in my mind’s eye. Where did he live? What did he love? What were his favourite
things now? How much did he know about where he came from? Who
I
was? Did he fret about it? Wonder about it? Think nothing of it? Did he ever pause to wonder where his lovely olive skin came
from? Did he want to know the origins of that glorious head of hair?

But all my imaginings were just that – things I conjured up to keep him real for me. I knew nothing at all about him in the flesh, did I? No, that wasn’t true. I
did
. I knew
the blood that ran in his young veins was
my
blood. That the feet that kicked footballs, the legs and arms that hauled him up tree trunks, the hands that carefully formed the words he wrote
in his schoolbooks, carried
me
with them, because they carried my genes. So what if my imaginings didn’t quite match the reality? Those young limbs, that heart and soul, were connected
to me.

These thoughts, and the attendant hurt, were for me only, however. On the outside, the lack of a child of our own notwithstanding, our lives were full and happy. Since giving up work to improve
my chances of becoming pregnant, I had become a keen gardener and spent countless hours working on ours. I was also secretary of the local Conservative Association and an enthusiastic fundraiser
and organiser of events. We had lovely friends, a full social life, lots of blessings to count, but there was still this huge void that I needed to fill.

I didn’t want to replace Paul – I could
never
replace him – I just wanted to be a mother again. I wanted that so badly. I had all this maternal love inside me and
nowhere to bestow it. How could God not see that and forgive me?

‘Please,’ I prayed. ‘Please God. Let me have a baby.
Please
God. Haven’t I paid my price now?’

By this time, Michael and I had begun an official adoption process with the local council. The law had changed, making private adoptions a thing of the past, and we had to go
through a long complex series of interviews and screenings in order to be accepted as potential parents. It was a comfort to be moving forward, but despite my outward acceptance that this was to be
our future, in my heart I simply couldn’t give up hope that we might still have a child of our own.

I had plenty of things with which to occupy myself. We had moved again, to a house that was just around the corner; one we’d both fallen in love with long ago. It was another Georgian
property – a real one this time – that stood in several acres, on a rise, at the top of a long drive. We would walk past it often, commenting on how forlorn it looked, and discuss all
the things we’d do to make it lovely once again, should we be lucky enough to own it.

Naturally, when it came onto the market, we’d been to view it, only to find it was in an even worse state than we’d thought. But we’d seen beyond that and bought it, packed our
belongings, leaving behind the bedrooms that had never seen babies, and set to work on our new home with vigour. It was an enormous project and, with Michael still working in the City, much of the
hard manual work fell to me, but I didn’t mind. If nothing else, at thirty-two I was still young, fit and able. Now we had a realistic hope of adopting a baby, I had a deadline to work to,
and I was determined to meet it. If we were accepted as parents, I wanted our home to be ready.

And there, at least, my prayers
were
answered. In the spring of 1976, having been formally approved to adopt, we were told that the council had a baby for us that was due in November. I
continued my renovations with renewed energy.

And then, in mid-April, I missed my period.

I’m going mad, I thought. I’m having a phantom pregnancy – that’s what it is. It might sound ridiculous, but that the pregnancy could be real didn’t once enter my
head. After being unable to conceive for nearly a decade, it didn’t seem possible. Instead, I felt quite sure it was my body playing tricks. I was so convinced of this, after being obsessed
with getting pregnant for such a long time, that I didn’t say a word about it to Michael.

When I missed a second period, I was even more sure I was right: it was symptomatic of the extreme nature of my desire to have a child. I had read extensively on the subject, and I knew these
things were relatively common. The mind could play all sorts of tricks on the body, and periods could stop for any number of reasons. It was to put my mind at rest, then, that I made an appointment
with the doctor. My suspicions were confirmed: the pregnancy test I’d asked for came back negative.

The promised period did not appear, however. So I called the doctor again, because I was becoming anxious about having some sort of medical condition. If I wasn’t pregnant – and I
had just had it confirmed that I wasn’t – then what exactly was happening to me?

‘Give it a week,’ he advised, seeming completely relaxed. ‘Then come back and we’ll do another test.’

I didn’t tell him that I was being sick in the mornings, because I felt certain he’d start questioning my mental stability. I was worried that the authorities in charge of the
adoption would have grave concerns if they thought I was unhinged. I waited the allotted week, then had another test, only this time, when I called to find out the result, I was told something I
was convinced I’d never hear.