The Girl You Gave Away: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Jess Ryder

  I hadn’t had the courage to do it before. After Jade gave me the envelope at our second meeting, I’d brought it home and buried it under a pile of shoeboxes at the back of my wardrobe. But now, her birthday seemed like a fitting day to face my demons.

  Once I’d been through all the documents, I decided, I would take the file to the bottom of the garden and burn it. It would be a private act of repentance. I had no priest to confess to and no amount of Hail Marys or Our Fathers would help. I would ask forgiveness of myself. Whether I’d be able to grant it was another matter …

  With a thudding heart, I extracted the envelope from its hiding place. As I closed the wardrobe, I caught my reflection in the mirrored door. Fine lines of worry were dragging my mouth down at the corners and my face was pale and drawn. I looked a lot older than forty.

  I sat down and tore open the seal. My teenage past wafted out, its scent overwhelming. I took out the documents and spread them out on the bed. They were only photocopies but they had lost none of their original power. There were several reports by social workers whose names I barely recognised, a personal statement I had no memory of writing and records of interviews with my parents that I’d had no idea had taken place.

  Jade had warned me it would be an upsetting experience and she was right. I wasn’t your typical pregnant teenager that social workers found it easy to feel sorry for. I was middle class, I came from a good home and a loving family, my father was in work and my mother was a stay-at-home mum. We went to Mass every Sunday and my mother even arranged the flowers for the church. I was a clever child, until recently an A-grade student, tipped for university. My much older brothers had left home many years ago; they had good jobs and were happily married. I was the baby, the blot on an otherwise respectable landscape.

  Then I turned fourteen and for some inexplicable reason decided to throw all my advantages away and bring shame upon my family. According to my parents, I’d indulged in rebellious, attention-seeking behaviour including non-attendance at school, underage drinking, suspected drug abuse and reckless sexual activity. What was more, I’d shown a blatant disregard for the welfare of my unborn baby by not going to the doctor when I first realised I was pregnant. I would be an unfit mother, there was no question about it. More to the point, my parents were not prepared to take on another baby in middle age.

  I blinked back tears of shame. The awful thing was that it was all true, apart from the ‘loving family’ bit. I’d never felt loved by my parents. I was an accident, a mistake, an unwanted gift from God. My behaviour was attention-seeking precisely because I lacked attention. Looking back, I think I was hoping against hope that if I behaved really badly, they would come to my rescue and it would prove that they loved me after all. Sadly, they failed the test. The social workers never stopped to wonder why I’d gone so spectacularly off the rails and I got all the blame.

  I started to cry – for myself, for Jade, even for my parents; for the whole ghastly situation both then and now. There were more reports, but I couldn’t bear to read them. I’d had enough. Then, just as I was stuffing the papers back into the envelope, my eye caught a name at the bottom of another document. Dean Philips. I froze for a second, my brain whirring with confusion. How was this possible? I’d been too scared to mention him to anyone.

  It was the transcript of another interview with my parents. Mrs Coughlin said she’d been told by a reliable source – who was that? I wondered – that the baby’s father was one Dean Philips, that he was about twenty years old and lived on the Hoyden Farm Estate, north Camford. This has not been verified.

  I was stunned. I was under the age of consent when I got pregnant, yet there was no evidence that the social workers ever followed up this lead. I couldn’t remember them asking me who the baby’s father was. They would have assumed I wanted to protect him, when in fact he’d warned me not to tell. But why hadn’t my parents asked me either? Maybe they were too ashamed to go to the police, or were frightened that the story might make the local papers. I guessed they’d just had enough of the wretched business. After Jade was born, they collected me from hospital without her and the subject wasn’t spoken about again.

  I put the papers back in the envelope. My plan had been to burn them in a ritualistic bonfire at the bottom of the garden, but I hesitated. Now that I’d read the file, I understood why Jade felt so negative about me. There was nothing in those documents that even hinted that I’d loved her. I came across as a feckless, selfish teenager who probably would have had an abortion if my parents had allowed it. They made it look like I’d given her up for adoption without a second thought.

  It was extraordinary that she’d had the courage to contact me in the first place. And how had I responded? I’d told her she was a dark secret, that I couldn’t introduce her to her brother and sister because the timing wasn’t right. I’d behaved appallingly; I’d insulted her. And she’d decided that if she couldn’t have my love, she might as well have my money instead. I remembered the relief I’d felt when I’d handed it over. What a tawdry deal we’d made. I felt sick with shame.

  I put the adoption file back in its hiding place and went downstairs. My laptop was on the dining table. I flipped open the lid and fired it up. It was time to send my daughter that long-overdue email. I no longer cared about the money I’d given her. I owed her a full explanation and a heartfelt apology. If I was going to receive forgiveness, she was the only one who could give it to me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Erin

  December 1994

  The reality of my situation can no longer be denied. Extreme tiredness, swelling stomach and tender breasts are all screaming at me to go to the doctor. The sickness has subsided but there are times when I feel so hungry I could eat the carpet.

  Mysteriously, another part of my brain is insisting the symptoms will disappear of their own accord. But this isn’t an illness; I don’t have a sore throat or a broken limb. A human being is growing inside me. Somehow, I know it’s a girl. She quivers and flutters, brushes gently against the walls of my womb. I imagine her face, eyes huge like an alien, long fingers clasped in prayer.

  What are you going to do with me? she asks, but I have no answer.

  Now that Dean has abandoned me, I’m back at school – on report, which means the teachers have to sign my card for every lesson. The head of year is apparently keeping a watchful eye on me, and I’ve already had a tedious lecture from her about wasting my potential. I sit in lessons, blocking out the teacher’s voice, making angry doodles in the margins and staring blankly out of the window. The perky hand-raising student I used to be is now a sullen non-cooperator. I do the very minimum, handing in work late or so badly executed it receives Ds and Es. Very disappointing … This is not up to your usual standard, Erin … Please speak to me after class. Some of the staff are genuinely worried about me. They try to catch me at break times for a heart-to-heart, but I slip away and hide in the toilets.

  Friends are very thin on the ground. I still spend time with Asha and Holly, but it’s not the same. They seem very young to me, all wide-eyed and innocent. They drool over movie stars and gawky boys in the sixth form, swap make-up tips and plan what to wear at the weekend. Sometimes they collapse in hysterics over some stupid little joke, and I just stare at them and think, was I like that once? I guess I must have been, but I can’t remember what it’s like to be so fresh and innocent. I feel old and jaded. In the last few months I’ve had a lot of sex (although only with one guy), been paralytically drunk countless times, taken ecstasy and smoked weed.

  I think Asha and Holly have worked out I’m not with Dean any more and possibly feel a bit sorry for me. We never talk about what happened in the summer. I don’t want their sympathy, and I can do without their smug told-you-so attitude too. A part of me wants to confess that I’m pregnant, but I daren’t. They’re bound to be horrified and tell their parents, who will tell my parents, and then the shit will really hit the fan. I don’t think I’ll be forced t
o have an abortion – we’re Catholics, for God’s sake – but I can’t risk it. I have to keep it a secret until it’s too late.

  It’s strange that nobody seems to notice I’m putting on weight. I wear my coat all the time, sit right up against the desk and carry my bag over my bump, but to me the pregnancy is still obvious. I make excuse after excuse not to take part in games – feeling unwell, a twisted ankle, forgotten kit – but no one suspects it’s because I daren’t undress.

  After school, I wander the streets, taking cover in bus shelters if it’s raining. The days are short and it’s getting colder. I ask older lads to buy me cans of piss-cheap beer from the supermarket with money I’ve nicked from home. Every evening when Dad comes back from work, he puts the small change from his pockets into a jar by the front door. I regularly sneak a few coins out of it and even take cash from my mother’s purse, although that’s a riskier strategy because she usually knows exactly how much money she has.

  The beer doesn’t make me drunk any more, but it passes the time and dulls the emotional pain. I return to the house at the very last minute, just before Mum dishes up the evening meal. I refuse to answer their questions about where I’ve been. My tongue is coated white with peppermint as I try to disguise the smell of alcohol on my breath, but she sniffs it out all the same. I use the argument as an excuse to storm off in outraged denial. After that, I take my plate upstairs and eat in my bedroom.

  My world is shrinking. I have no social life. I no longer attend Mass, or go anywhere near church, although sometimes, alone in my room, I pray to Our Lady for a miracle. Holy Mary, mother of God, please don’t let them take her away from me. I imagine the heavens opening and a shaft of heavenly light wrapping around my stomach, protecting the two of us. But I know that miracles only happen in the Bible, never in real life.

  One Sunday, Auntie Theresa and Uncle Declan are coming over for lunch. My mother is very competitive with her older sister and always makes a huge fuss. She over-caters on principle and cleans the house until it sparkles. It’s usually my job to get out the best mats, glasses and cutlery and lay the table with her finest Irish linen cloth, but today I’m hiding in my bedroom, pretending to have a homework assignment to complete.

  Auntie Theresa is a clever woman and nothing gets past her beady-eyed gaze. I’m wearing my biggest, baggiest jumper, but I suspect it’s not going to fool her for a second. The baby is moving properly now, digging me with her elbows, prodding with her feet. I won’t be able to keep this secret much longer; maybe for no more than a couple of hours.

  A feeling of dread starts to spread through my body. I can’t see Auntie Theresa, I just can’t. If I go downstairs, Mum will give me a job to do, she won’t let me go out. I cross to the window, opening it as wide as it will go. My room is at the front of the house, above the porch. If I can climb onto the windowsill and squeeze through the gap, maybe I can drop onto the sloping roof and from there jump to the ground. I don’t want to kill myself or damage the baby, I just want to escape.

  My legs are halfway out when I see my aunt and uncle’s car turning into our cul-de-sac. Damn! I’ve left it too late. Quickly withdrawing, I sit on the bed, cursing my stupidity, while the baby gives me an unusually hard kick. The doorbell rings.

  ‘Erin! Will you come downstairs right now?’ my mother bellows up the stairs. ‘They’re here!’

  The moment has arrived; my fate is sealed. I rise and walk towards the door, pausing briefly to look at myself in the mirror. My hair is lank, and there are grey shadows under my eyes. I rub my stomach and whisper, ‘Wish us luck.’

  Auntie Theresa looks up at me as I descend the stairs. ‘Was that you leaning out of the window?’ she says. ‘I said to Declan, that girl is going to fall if she’s not careful, didn’t I now?’

  ‘It’s true, you did,’ my uncle replies, giving me a wink. I hold out my arms for their coats, anxious to avoid a close hug.

  I position myself as far away as possible from my aunt, but I’m sure she keeps looking at me. Can she tell from here? I feel naked and exposed. The baby nudges and kicks and I have to stop myself from touching my bump in response. She watches me all through lunch as I hoover up chicken and help myself to extra potatoes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finishing a second helping of apple crumble, ‘but I’ve got a lot of homework to do.’

  ‘It’s eleven subjects she’s taking,’ adds my mother, but Auntie Theresa doesn’t acknowledge the boast. She’s too busy staring at me as I quickly gather the dirty bowls and take them into the kitchen. From here, I can get to my bedroom without having to go back to the dining room. If I make my move now, I think, I should be safe.

  Auntie Theresa knows exactly what I’m up to. She leaves the table and stands in the hall, blocking my way. ‘Mother of God – the child’s expecting!’ she cries, lifting up my jumper.

  ‘What? What! How can you say such a thing, Theresa? She’s put on a bit of weight, ’tis all.’ My mother is at her shoulder, glowering indignantly. The men of the family stay at the table, staring at each other, not knowing what to think or say.

  ‘I know a pregnant girl when I see one,’ Theresa insists. ‘How far gone are you, Erin? Twenty weeks or thereabouts?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumble. ‘Something like that.’

  My aunt raises her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God! She’s only fourteen. Who did this to you, child? You must tell us!’

  I shake my head and back away. ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t? Don’t you know who the father is?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  My hand is on the latch, ready to open the front door. I don’t know where I’m going; all I know is that I have to run, to get away from the family as fast as I can. Then I hear a crashing sound behind me. My mother has fainted clean away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Erin

  April 2020

  I spent hours on my laptop, pouring out my heart to Jade. The words refused to flow at first, and I had to delete whole paragraphs. Either my tone sounded too defensive or it was too self-pitying. At times I gave the impression that I’d suffered more than she had, which I knew would make her angry. Justifiably so. It wasn’t a competition to see who’d been damaged the most. I’d never had to write such a difficult email. After editing and re-editing, I decided to remove all the emotive words and stick to the basic story.

  Attempting to put myself back in my fourteen-year-old shoes, I told her what had happened from the moment I’d met Dean to the last time I saw him – that final humiliation I would never forget. I described how upset I’d felt when I had to say goodbye and leave her behind in the hospital, but how I’d been assured that I was doing the right thing, that she would be better off without me. I told her that I’d always loved her, that I was deeply sorry for all the hurt I’d caused her. Finally, I promised I’d always be there for her, come what may.

  My heart was in my mouth as I pressed ‘send’, but as soon as the message left my outbox, a massive wave of relief broke over me. I felt wrung out and exhausted, but I was quietly satisfied with my efforts. It was a strange kind of birthday greeting and I had no idea how she would respond.

  Tom came home from work earlier than usual. I was in the kitchen, trying to rustle up a meal. Trying to pretend it was a normal Wednesday, no different to any other.

  He hung up his coat, then came and stood in the doorway. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go away this weekend,’ he said. ‘Bill’s wife is ill again. He’s had to pull out of the geography field trip. If I don’t take his place, we’ll be down on our student–teacher ratio and will have to cancel the whole thing.’

  I groaned. ‘Are you kidding? You went last time. It must be somebody else’s turn.’

  ‘Sorry, love. I’m the only one available. Besides, what could be more fun than spending two days in a youth hostel with a bunch of sex-obsessed fourteen-year-olds?’ He laughed. ‘Speaking of which, where’s Chloe?’


  ‘Chloe is not sex-obsessed. At least, I hope not. She’s at Miranda’s, working on a homework project.’ As I said it, I had an instant vision of my pregnant self wandering the streets after school, desperate to be anywhere but at home. ‘Oli’s upstairs, revising.’

  He nodded approvingly. ‘Jolly good. He deserves to do well.’ He put the kettle on for a cup of tea. ‘I hope Chloe makes it back in time for dinner. She keeps pushing her luck.’

  She did come back in time, although only just. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked excited. When I enquired about the homework project, she put me off with a vague answer. Was I being naïve? I of all people should know the signs.

  ‘Mum! Stop staring, will you?’ Chloe said, mashing gravy into her potatoes. ‘You’re creeping me out.’

  ‘Just wondering why you’ve got make-up on when you’ve only been at Miranda’s,’ I said coolly.

  ‘You want me to look like I’m twelve, do you?’

  ‘No, I want you to look your age.’

  ‘Erin …’ Tom said gently, trying to warn me to back off, but my past self was nagging at me, telling me not to be a fool like my parents had been.

  ‘Those eyebrows are far too heavy – they don’t suit you.’

  ‘Mum! For fuck’s sake, get off my back!’

  ‘Language, please,’ admonished Oli in a mock-parental voice. It was the first thing he’d said all mealtime.

  ‘Oli, that’s not helpful.’ Tom shot him a look. ‘Please don’t interfere.’