The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (25 page)

I had chosen a time between 2 and 5 p.m. so that I could be sure that I would be alone when he called. Katharine didn’t return home until 5, sometimes later, so I could be
sure of having the house to myself. But it meant that from the day after I posted the letter, every day between 2 and 5 p.m. I’d be on pins. I didn’t dare go into the garden for fear of
missing his call, and became agitated every time the phone rang and it wasn’t him. As the hours passed, so my nervousness grew.

If the eight weeks I’d spent with my baby son had gone too quickly, these felt like the longest four days of my life. For it was on the fourth day that he rang, at 4 p.m. precisely. It was
a Friday, and my working week done, I’d been in the kitchen, wading through a big pile of ironing, when the phone went. My pulse thudded in my temple as I walked towards the telephone, picked
it up and answered with my number.

‘Hello,’ said a male voice. ‘It’s James.’

Some seconds passed before I was able to compose myself sufficiently to get anything but a squeak out of my mouth. Oh my God, it was
him
. My son was on the other end of a telephone line
and speaking to me! It was such a silly thing to feel awed and overwhelmed by – after all, we’d exchanged letters, hadn’t we? – but that’s how I felt, even so.

I don’t know what I said back to him. Not my name. He knew it was me, of course he did. Was it ‘hello’? Was it ‘hi there’? I don’t know. It’s all gone.
I know I was speechless for some seconds, trying to keep a lid on the fizz of my excitement. Thirty years, thirty
years
. . . I so didn’t want his first impression of his birth mother
to be a high-pitched hysterical babble. But, happily, he took over and began speaking again.

‘I’m at work,’ he said. ‘So I won’t be able to talk for very long, I’m afraid . . .’

‘Oh yes, of
course
,’ I got out.

‘When are you free? So we can meet?’ And then a pause, while he cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on then. ‘I really can’t believe I’m so
nervous.’

He would tell me later that he had felt like he’d been given the phone number of a girl and was ringing her up to ask her out for a date: not sure of her reaction, very keen to impress,
tongue-tied, dry-mouthed – not at all like someone speaking to his mother.

‘Me too!’ I said. ‘Me
too
. I’ve been on pins since I wrote to you! Um . . . the 18th, I was thinking might be a good day, if you can do it. My daughter – no,
Kate – Kate’s
going on a French exchange trip. To Lyon. I have to drop her at school first thing in the morning, then I’m free. I could drive to meet you, so . .
.’

‘Um, let’s have a look then . . .’ I could hear him flicking pages. ‘That might work for me,’ he said. ‘18th . . . 18th . . . Yes. I can definitely do that.
So, where shall we meet?’

He had a deep voice and a London accent. I definitely remember noting the London accent.

‘Maybe a hotel? Or a restaurant? I don’t mind.’
I’m just desperate
, I thought,
just so desperate to see you.

‘How about a hotel, then?’ he said. ‘Then we won’t have to worry about parking.’

I couldn’t have imagined worrying about anything less.

‘I can’t do this,’ I told Monty, as I took him out for a walk half an hour later. He didn’t normally go for walks at this time – Michael liked to
take him out when he got home from work at 6.30 – but I’d been too agitated and excited to stay indoors any longer, and since we’d had another cold snap lying on the hammock
wasn’t an option. I also knew Katharine would be home before long, and if I was going to keep up any sort of façade of normality, I needed to get out, stretch my legs and calm
down.

Now I’d spoken to James, and told James about
her
, I felt even more keenly that it wasn’t right to keep her in the dark about
him
. And having arranged to meet him
– quite deliberately – on the day she was leaving for her trip, I felt worse. How could I drop her, in all conscience, and then drive off to meet him? I couldn’t. It felt all
wrong. I’d been keeping this secret from her for almost two weeks now and, however much I took Michael’s arguments on board, my conscience was weighing heavily on me.

We didn’t have secrets like this between us. She was my only daughter – my only child, as far as she knew – and we had always shared everything. There was nothing she
couldn’t confide in me about, and she knew she could rely on me to be honest with her, always. The thought of this momentous event happening behind her back – when she wasn’t even
in the country, moreover – felt like a betrayal of her trust.

Then I remembered Frances Holmes’s comment, in her letter, about getting in touch with her if I needed advice. That was what I needed to do – I needed to call her. She might not have
the definitive answer, but at least she could talk it through with me. I checked my watch then, and realised it would be too late to call now – so it would have to wait until after the
weekend.

I felt a little guilty that I called Frances Holmes while Michael was at work on the Monday, but as I dialled the number and waited for the call to be answered, I think I
already knew what I should do. Even so, it would be good to hear if she considered my choice to be the right one. All that had happened – James finding me, the prospect of him becoming a part
of our lives – was not, after all, just about me. And immediately Frances made me feel better.

‘I’m so glad you called,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ve been thinking about you and James. How are things going?’

I told her about our phone call and our forthcoming meeting. Even relating this to her, it felt like a dream. I then outlined my uncertainty about when to tell Katharine. ‘Oh, sooner
rather than later, in almost all cases,’ she told me. ‘That’s what we advise.’

‘That’s so good to hear,’ I told her. ‘I’ve hated keeping it from her.’

‘I’m sure,’ she agreed. ‘It’s such a big thing to happen to you all. But you know what I would advise first? That you call NORCAP as well. They’re the
experts. Talk it through with them. And anything else you’re concerned about. They’re tremendously helpful and have lots of experience. Of course it’s not just about the initial
revelations and how you handle them; it’s also the ongoing adjustments that you’ll all need to make. Do speak to them, if you can. I know you’ll find it useful.’

NORCAP, it turned out, was the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents, and as soon as I’d taken down their number and said goodbye to Frances, I called them too. They
were as helpful and reassuring as she’d predicted.

‘You should definitely go ahead and tell her,’ the counsellor told me. ‘Teenagers are remarkably resilient about these kinds of things, much more so than you probably imagine.
She doesn’t have the emotional investment in your son at this stage, remember, so even were things not to work out for you all, she will easily adjust. Far better that than keeping it from
her, because the latter course – if she finds out – is likely to upset her so much more. There will be an adjustment for her to make, of course, once it sinks in that she’s not
your only child. If she has any sense that she’s been excluded along the way, it will actually make that transition harder.’

I worried then about the damage I might have done already. ‘Should I have told her before, when she was little?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t because there didn’t seem to be
any point; not if he was never going to be a part of our lives.’

‘Not at all. You did right,’ she reassured me. ‘What’s important is how you handle this
new
situation. That you make sure she’s part of the process of you
all being reunited. That’s what matters: how you take things from here.’

I put the phone down feeling that a great weight had been lifted from me, and resolved that, whatever Michael said, I
was
going to tell her. I was going to tell her, I decided, that very
night.

Michael still didn’t agree, and I had to respect that. I could understand why; after all, he wasn’t swept up in my euphoric state, was he? So he was much better placed to see the
potential pitfalls. But he could also see I was determined. Now I’d actually spoken to James, he was reassured and feeling more optimistic about the outcome. We agreed that, at a prearranged
time after dinner, he’d call Katharine down to come and talk to me – she’d invariably be upstairs revising on weeknights – and then take Monty out while I told her.

It’s the right of every mother to be subjective about their offspring, so I make no apology for saying that my seventeen-year-old daughter had become a beautiful young
woman. She was beautiful on the outside and on the inside. She was thoughtful and caring, and always sensitive to others’ emotions; she was personable, engaging and true to herself. She had
been a joy to raise, a delight to us both, in every way, and barely a day went by when I didn’t count my blessings that I had been lucky enough to have her. I couldn’t imagine life
without her, and trusted she felt the same.

I hoped, I
so
hoped, she’d understand. That was my principal emotion as I sat in the living room waiting for her, the package of letters and photos on my lap – hope that
she’d understand, and forgive me.

Michael had by now got Monty’s lead out and clipped it on. He poked his head round the door and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up.

‘I’ll give you an hour,’ he said. ‘Might do a quick detour to the pub . . . Kate!’ he called then, up the stairs. ‘Can you come down a minute? Mummy’s
got something important that she needs to talk to you about.’

I heard her bedroom door open, and fingered the battered manila envelope nervously. Up until now, it hadn’t contained very much, my precious package, but the few tangible things I
did
have of my son, I had kept and cherished for three decades. Now it also contained James’s letter, as well as the photographs he’d sent me.

‘Sorry, did you call, Daddy?’ I heard Katharine say to Michael. She’d been listening to music, no doubt, and hadn’t heard him clearly. He repeated his request, and then I
heard her coming down. ‘Mummy’s in the living room,’ he said to her, then he was gone.

‘What’s happened, Mummy?’ she asked as she came in, eyeing my battered envelope warily. She was followed by a swirl of cold air. ‘Are you okay?’ She looked worried.
No – more than that, frightened.

‘I’m
fine
,’ I reassured her, patting the sofa beside me. ‘But I have something to tell you that is going to change your life.’

She blinked at me, her eyes filling with tears as I said this and, seeing it, I felt flustered, not really knowing where to start. In the end, I didn’t try. I just reached into the
envelope and pulled out Frances Holmes’s letter, and then, as she read that, the dog-eared cardboard cot tag that I had untied the day my baby and I had both left Loreto Convent.
‘
Paul Brown
,’ it said on it. ‘
Weight at birth: 8 lbs 12 oz
.’

I handed the card to her as she lowered the letter. I had toyed with trying to explain Frances’s carefully coded message, but my daughter was a bright girl; with the card in her hand,
she’d soon work it out. I was right. When she looked up at me, I could see comprehension dawning.

At last I could tell her my story.

K
atharine’s initial reaction was one of relief. And the reason for those tears was now obvious. Why had I been so naive? Of
course
she’d have known something was up. And how stupid had I been not to realise her first thought would be that I was keeping something terrible from her?

‘I thought you were ill,’ she confessed, through huge, racking sobs. We were both crying freely now, albeit for different reasons. ‘I really thought you were going to tell me
something devastating. You looked so
serious
. And all Daddy’s pointed remarks about taking Monty for a long walk. I thought you had
cancer
, Mummy—’

Oh, God, I thought. My poor, poor daughter. ‘Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry . . .’

‘I thought those’ – she poked a finger towards the offending brown envelope – ‘were
X-rays
, some horrible X-rays you were about to pull out. Honestly, Mummy,
I’ve been
so
worried about you! You’ve been so strange. So not
you
.’

I hung my head, chastened. ‘I know. And I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to be. I didn’t
want
to be. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when the letter
came from Mrs Holmes. I just didn’t want to tell you till he got in touch with me himself. Until I knew for sure – till both Daddy and I did – that it was all really going to
happen, that I hadn’t dreamt it.’

She threw her arms around my neck then, scattering the little pile of treasures on my lap. ‘Oh, but Mummy, I can’t believe it. I have a brother! Photos . . . you said you had photos,
a photo of him now . . . yes? I’m dying to see what he looks like!’

I leaned down, scooped up the photos and handed her the one of James. He was standing alone, somewhere foreign – the Mediterranean, perhaps, was my guess. He looked tanned, and was in
shorts.

She stared at it without speaking for some moments. How weird it must be, I thought, to think yourself an only child and then to be presented with a picture of a brother you didn’t know
existed. I hoped it would be weird in a good way. I certainly knew she couldn’t fail to see the likeness. ‘Oh. My.
God
,’ she said slowly. ‘He looks just like you,
Mummy! And me! Look . . . the same eyes, the same hair, the same skin . . .’ She grinned at me, her expression incredulous.

‘And Uncle Ray, I thought. Don’t you think he looks so much like Uncle Ray?’

‘God,
yes
! Yes he does! Amazing . . .’ She shook her head. ‘This is my big
brother
! I can’t believe how lucky I am – I really can’t!’

But this wasn’t just something to get excited about. It was also, for my sensitive teenage daughter, something beyond reason or comprehension. Once she’d absorbed the reality of
having this new big brother, and had asked me all about him, her thoughts returned to the circumstances of his birth and adoption, both of which perplexed her. Why on earth was I made to give him
up? How could society have been so backward? How could girls be treated so appallingly in the name of religion? Why could I
not
have been taken care of? Why couldn’t a solution have
been found? She quizzed me at length about this, her expression thoughtful. And, as I tried to answer her questions, she became increasingly angry on my behalf.