A Baby’s Cry

by Cathy Glass

  He was now able to sit unaided without toppling over and he soon became enthralled by the activity, as the brightly coloured decorations appeared around him. At five months old he had a wide range of sounds and his gurgling had developed into babbling, which would eventually lead to words. Each time Adrian and Paula took a Christmas decoration from the box and before they hung it on the tree they showed it to him and said the word a couple of times: Star, star; angel, angel; holly, holly; bauble, bauble and so on. With each new word Harrison grinned, pursed his lips and then made a noise as he tried to repeat the word, at which we all clapped.

  By three o’clock the house was looking very festive. I returned the empty boxes to the loft and then made dinner. After we’d eaten we grouped around the television and watched a Christmas film, which had become a little family tradition. Although we were now in the Christmas spirit I was aware that the children had school the following day, so at seven o’clock, despite protests and requests to stay up later, I began the bath and bedtime routine. Adrian and Paula were still very excited – counting the days to Christmas Eve and reminiscing about last Christmas. Eventually the children were in bed; by eight o’clock Paula and Harrison were sound asleep, and Adrian was finishing a chapter in his book before switching off his light. I went downstairs and made a cup of tea, which I took into the sitting room. I sat on the sofa and admired the decorated room; it looked very pretty. I knew I was tired, but I hadn’t realized how tired I was, or that I was nodding off to sleep, until I came to with a start, woken by a noise.

  My eyes shot to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was 9.10. I was immediately on my feet, going out of the sitting room and down the hall, assuming one of the children had woken and called out and I’d subconsciously heard them. But at the foot of the stairs I jumped as the front doorbell rang – one short sharp press. I realized then it must have been the doorbell that had woken me, for it was still all quiet upstairs. I wondered who could be calling at this time. I wasn’t expecting a visitor and it seemed too late for a door-to-door salesperson or charity collector; possibly it was carol singers but I couldn’t hear any singing. As a woman living alone I was cautious about answering the door late at night and always checked the security spyhole first. If it was someone I didn’t know I didn’t open the door.

  Still slightly light-headed from having woken with a start and then rushing down the hall, I was also a little anxious, for like many people I worried that a late phone call or a visitor could bring bad news – of a road accident or even a death in the family. All manner of thoughts flashed through my mind as I took the few steps to the front door. Although it was pitch dark outside, the porch light, which I left on all night, would allow me to see the caller through the spyhole. I slid the circular flap to one side and peered through. It took a moment for me to focus and to see the woman at my door. She was wearing a headscarf and looking down, so I couldn’t see her face. It wasn’t until a second later when she looked up that I saw it was Rihanna.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Honour

  My heart thudded and all manner of anxious thoughts rushed through my mind as I looked into the security spyhole and at Rihanna. She couldn’t see me – the front door was solid wood – but she could see the hall light shining through the small window above the door. As I watched she moved her gaze from the door and looked down again so that I couldn’t see her face. But there was no mistake: it was certainly her. I watched her for a second longer and then took a step back.

  What did she want? What should I do? Not answer the door and hope she would go away? Call the police or open the door and tell her she had to go? Although Harrison was on a Section 20 I had the right to refuse Rihanna entry to my house – she couldn’t just come in. I didn’t know what to do. Had she been an abusive violent parent whose child was in care under a Full Care Order I would have called the police. But Rihanna had been cooperating with the social services, so they hadn’t seen the need to apply for a Full Care Order, which would have given Harrison greater security and meant she couldn’t remove him without a court order. And while I knew that if Rihanna tried to snatch Harrison, the social services would apply for such an order, that didn’t help me now.

  With my heart still thumping loudly and my thoughts whirling I went up to the door again and peered through the spyhole. Rihanna hadn’t pressed the bell again but she was still there, now looking at the door. I could see her face illuminated by the porch lamp and it showed no signs of anger (I’d never seen her angry), just a blank, expressionless gaze. She waited a little longer and then turned from the door and began to walk away – down the path and towards the front gate. In that moment I made a decision, based not on rational thought but on instinct and empathy.

  Placing my hand on the doorknob I turned it and quietly opened the front door. Rihanna stopped at the end of the path and turned to look at me. In a heavy coat to protect herself from the cold and a dark headscarf, she was silhouetted against the street lamp. I held the door open with one hand, and she stood looking at me from the end of the path with the same expressionless gaze. Then I said quietly: ‘Rihanna, what do you want, love?’

  I was expecting her to say she wanted to see Harrison, in which case I would gently tell her that she needed to speak to Cheryl to arrange contact and hope she accepted this and left. I waited by the door, but when she spoke she didn’t ask to see Harrison. Taking one step up the path she said quietly: ‘I need to talk. Will you hear what I have to say?’ It was said rationally, but with a sadness that came from the very depths of her soul.

  Taken aback, I looked at her for a moment without replying. I had three children asleep upstairs whose safety was paramount. Had Rihanna appeared irrational and distraught, I would have sent her away without hesitation and closed the door. But she didn’t; she seemed calm and in control, and not angry or upset.

  ‘Please, Cathy,’ she said. ‘I won’t ask to see Harrison or wake your children. I just need to talk.’ She spoke quietly and slowly but with the same dreadful sadness. I had to make a decision.

  I knew I was taking a chance, but the same instinct that had made me open the door in the first place told me Rihanna didn’t pose a threat to the children or me, and I said: ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said; then with her head lowered and concentrating on the ground she came slowly down the path.

  I opened the door wider, stood aside to let her in and then quietly closed the door again after her. She stood in the hall, her head slightly bent, and avoided my gaze.

  ‘We can go through to the sitting room,’ I said quietly, pointing down the hall. It was still quiet upstairs, so I guessed the children hadn’t heard the doorbell ring or the front door open and close.

  I led the way down the hall and into the sitting room, where she stood nervously in the centre of the room. ‘Sit down,’ I said gently.

  With her head still slightly lowered as though she was ashamed to meet my gaze, Rihanna took off her headscarf and then sat on the edge of the sofa. I didn’t offer to take her coat, as it might have created the impression she was staying longer than I anticipated. I would hear what she had to say but that was all. I sat in the armchair, at a right angle to the sofa, looked at her and waited. Her expression was downcast and she kept her eyes trained on the floor. The gaily coloured Christmas decorations we’d hung that morning seemed a cruel contrast to her sadness.

  ‘Harrison is asleep,’ I said awkwardly, after some moments.

  Rihanna raised her head and gave a small nod; then her gaze went to the photographs of Harrison on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ she said quietly, so that I wondered if she’d come here to ask me to adopt him again, although Cheryl had already made it clear to her that wasn’t possible.

  ‘He’s a very good baby,’ I said.

  Rihanna nodded again and then met my gaze. ‘Cathy, I’m sorry to arrive here like this. I would never normally behave so badly. But I’ve carri
ed the burden of what I’ve done around with me for so long, and I can’t do it any longer. I need to tell you why I can’t keep Harrison. I need you to understand. But you must promise me you won’t tell anyone. My life could be in danger if you did.’

  I was taken aback, both by her directness and that she now wanted to tell me what had been a closely guarded secret. It was a moment before I replied. ‘Rihanna,’ I said carefully, ‘as a foster carer I can’t promise I won’t tell anyone. If you tell me something that could affect Harrison then I will need to tell my support social worker, who will pass it to Cheryl. I’m sorry.’

  She hesitated and I wondered if she was going to stand and leave, which in some ways would have been easier and was what part of me hoped she’d do. Yes, I was intrigued to know what Rihanna wanted to tell me, and yes, I felt dreadfully sorry for her, but I certainly didn’t want to place my children, Harrison and myself in danger by learning something I should not have known.

  Rihanna didn’t stand and leave; she stayed on the sofa, sitting stiffly upright with her coat buttoned up and her headscarf in her lap. She concentrated on the floor as she began to speak. ‘I will tell you and then you can decide what you should do.’ She paused, as though gathering her thoughts. For some time all that could be heard was the ticking of the clock and the faint movement of the Christmas decorations on the ceiling as they stirred slightly in the warm air.

  ‘My family and my work colleagues believe I am a respectable single woman,’ Rihanna began. ‘A woman who has chosen a career over marriage. They did not know I was pregnant or that I now have a baby. I hid my pregnancy from everyone. Only the social services knew. Towards the end of my pregnancy, when I could no longer hide it, I took extended holiday from work and away from my parents. I told my work colleagues and my family I was going to India, in search of my roots, which they accepted. I didn’t attend the antenatal appointments, although I did have a scan. I monitored my pregnancy myself. I knew everything was progressing as it should because of my medical knowledge. I am a doctor, though not in paediatrics. Then, at the end of my pregnancy, Cheryl arranged for me to be admitted to hospital, maintaining the strictest confidentiality. I live and work in a neighbouring county, which is why I came here to have my baby – in secret.’

  Rihanna paused and I waited, my mouth dry and my senses alert. She took a moment, as though composing herself, and then looked at me in earnest. ‘Harrison is not the product of a casual relationship,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve never had a casual relationship in my life. I have known Harrison’s father for twelve years. We met at university. He is also a doctor, but does not live or work near here. We loved each other dearly, but we can never marry, Cathy. If Harrison’s existence became known one of my cousins would kill him and very likely me too. You see, Harrison’s grandfather is Jamaican. He settled here and married an Englishwoman. Harrison’s father is mixed race.’

  She fell quiet, looked away and wrung her headscarf in her lap, while I stared at her and tried to make sense of what she was telling me. I consider myself reasonably well educated and not usually slow to grasp a point, and I live in a culturally diverse community, so I’m aware of different customs and beliefs, but I sat there, looking at Rihanna, without any idea of the problem she was trying to describe.

  ‘Yes?’ I said eventually, expecting more. ‘Harrison’s father has dual heritage?’

  ‘And my family is traditionally Asian,’ Rihanna added.

  Slowly the light began to dawn. ‘And your family would be opposed to you marrying Harrison’s father because of his culture?’

  ‘More than that!’ Rihanna cried, becoming agitated for the first time. ‘If my parents found out they would never speak to me again. I would be ostracized from them for life. I would have no family. My name would be banned from the house and all the photographs of me, my clothes and my belongings would be burnt. It would be as though I didn’t exist. I have cousins who are stricter and more narrow-minded than my parents and would see killing Harrison’s father and me necessary to save our family’s pride and honour. You’ve heard of honour killings?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I said, shocked to the core. And as I began to grasp the horrendous implications of what Rihanna was telling me my next thought was: ‘Does Harrison’s father know he has a baby?’

  Rihanna shook her head. ‘No. How could I tell him and put his life at risk? He is a good, kind man who loved me dearly; maybe he still does. I love him. If I’d told him he would have wanted to marry me, and my family would never have approved. My cousins would have tracked us down. We would never have been safe, ever. That’s the truth, Cathy. The police can only do so much. I knew I couldn’t go through with a termination, so when I was four months pregnant I told Harrison’s father I didn’t want to see him any more. I told him I had met someone else. I hadn’t, but I thought it was the kindest way to let him go. He cried. I felt dreadful, but what else could I do? It was for his own good, for his own protection. We kept our relationship secret for twelve years and I will always love him. But now he is safe and free to find someone new to love.’ Rihanna fell silent and her face was creased in pain.

  While I’d heard of honour killings – from the newspaper and on television – those cases had seemed distant; so far removed from my life that the implications hadn’t really touched me. Now, in my living room, sat a decent, intelligent, kind and hard-working woman whose life had been ruined and put in danger simply because she loved the wrong man. I was shocked, not only by the culture that allowed this but by Rihanna’s family, who were upholding this dreadful attitude.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ I asked quietly after a moment, seeing her discomposure.

  ‘No thank you,’ Rihanna said. ‘I will tell you my story and then go. I want you to know.’ She gave a small sniff before continuing. ‘I was living with my parents when I found out I was pregnant; it is not unusual for a single Asian woman to live at home and contribute to the household budget. When I discovered I was pregnant I began looking for a flat to rent. I couldn’t risk my family finding out. My sister is engaged to be married to a man from a highly respectable family and if it came out – even if the father wasn’t known – he would view my pregnancy as bringing shame and dishonour on his family as well, and break off the engagement. My sister would never find another suitor and her life would be ruined too because of my actions. So I moved into a flat, and when I visited my parents I wore a sari, which hid my bulging stomach. I never normally wore a sari and my parents were pleased I was now doing so. Ironic, isn’t it?’ Rihanna said with a small sad smile. ‘The only reason I wore the sari was to hide the child they would never have accepted.’

  I nodded, sad and serious.

  ‘Right from the beginning I knew I would have to give up my child,’ Rihanna continued. ‘I contacted the social services and Cheryl agreed to meet me. She has been very good to me; I couldn’t have managed without her. She told me she had come across a case like mine before – an Asian teenage girl who wanted to marry an English boy. It’s more common than you think. Although I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my baby I took much pleasure in choosing clothes for him.’ Rihanna gave a small wistful smile. ‘When my bump became too big to hide I told my family and my work colleagues that I was going to India. I stayed in my flat and only went out in the evening to buy food. I watched a lot of television and read many books – anything to pass the time. It was lovely feeling my baby grow and move inside me. Yet the bigger my baby grew the closer I came to losing him. I knew I would have to part with him at birth. Cheryl found me a solicitor and also arranged my admission to hospital, so that when I went into labour the hospital was expecting me. As you know I had my baby and then came away.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘A week later I returned to work and continued visiting my family as though nothing had happened. No one noticed anything different about me or if they did they didn’t say. Inside I was destroyed and weeping. I was hurting so badly but I couldn’t t
ell anyone. I was a mother who would never see her baby again.’ Rihanna stopped as her face finally crumpled and tears fell – quiet, stifled tears that made my heart ache for her.

  I stood and went to sit beside her on the sofa and took her hand.

  ‘Losing my baby hurts so much,’ she said through her tears. ‘I thought the pain would ease and eventually go. I thought if I got on with my life and didn’t see Harrison I would forget him. But I can’t forget him and the pain of losing him grows worse each day. I thought if I saw him with you it might help reassure me, so I stood in your street and caught a glimpse of him, but it didn’t help. I accepted Cheryl’s offer of the photographs but those didn’t help either. I thought maybe if I met you it might help, so I asked for that meeting. I was also hoping that perhaps you could keep Harrison; I had this idea that if you kept him I could visit him at weekends.’ Rihanna turned to look at me, her eyes and cheeks wet. ‘In some countries if your baby is adopted and someone else brings them up you can still see them when you want,’ she said, ‘but you can’t here.’