The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting

by Angela Marsons

  She felt lucky that she’d accumulated a little financial independence that enabled her to make this choice but when the money ran out it would be up to her to support herself. The comfort of a full-time job and good salary would not help her to attain her goal. She had to be free of comfort and control.

  She wanted to struggle, for ideas, for inspiration. If she attempted this half-heartedly she would fail. It would become too easy to give in and return to the automated life she had been leading.

  ‘What if you fail?’ asked Geoffrey, as if almost reading her thoughts.

  ‘The only way I will have failed is if I don’t do this. I don’t want to wake up in forty years and think “if only”. My years here will never be wasted, I’ll always be a lawyer. If I have no talent and enough people tell me that then I’ll always have that to fall back on.’

  Geoffrey nodded as though accepting her decision under duress. She shook his hand and left the office.

  She collected her box of personal effects and uncharacteristically hugged Dawn, the one person in the whole place she would be sorry to leave.

  Fran glanced back at the stone and concrete building with little regret. It had never given her anything back and definitely not the love and approval she’d sought.

  She drove back to her flat slowly, her usual high speed of living slowing down. The burning urgency was seeping out of her. She could feel her body and mind decelerating like a gear change.

  She’d come this far and Fran knew she had to find the courage to go through the doors.

  The outside of the huge building was nothing like she’d expected. It was a rambling country house that consisted of four floors. There were no restrictive gates or fences, only trees and fields that seemed to stretch forever. Unknowing onlookers could innocently mistake the building for an old stately home. There were no signposts, no directions for her to follow.

  She sat on a three-foot stone wall that ran in front of the entire length of the building, admiring thick marble pillars and long oval windows made up of hundreds of small panes of glass. She took three deep breaths and stood up.

  The first set of double doors were open, revealing a spacious foyer that she now saw housed direction boards and a phone. Again she backed away from the entrance. It was hard to believe that she was so close to her son. He was in this building, playing, eating or sleeping. But he was here.

  The anticipation of seeing him was almost too much to bear but before she went in she had to compose herself. If she was going to interrupt his life, his safety, then she had to do so devoid of selfish feelings. It was up to her to accept what had happened and see him only as he was, not as he might have been. He didn’t deserve her emotional baggage, only someone who would love him unconditionally.

  She braced herself and picked up the phone after checking the instructions on the wall. A pleasant, efficient voice asked for her name. Fran gave it and waited for the doors to open. They did not open automatically. The left door was opened by a middle-aged woman smartly dressed in an oversized shirt and black slacks. The shirt cleverly disguised the generous figure of its owner; the haircut was short and tidy. She stood with hands clenched before her. Behind her stood a man who towered above her by at least a foot. His casual attire did nothing to conceal the fact that he was security. He looked like a bulldog in jeans.

  The woman’s expression was wary. ‘My name is Thelma Dunn, general manager.’ She quickly appraised Fran’s appearance. Feeling self-conscious, Fran did the same, hoping her loose-fitting trouser suit did not do her disservice. ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have your name on the visitors’ list,’ Thelma stated quietly. She tipped her head to one side, pursed her lips and folded her arms across her bosom.

  ‘No, I haven’t been before…’ Fran paused, unsure what to say next. ‘…Umm, my son is here,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Your son? But then why don’t we have your name?’

  There was no condemnation in Thelma’s tone, only a question.

  ‘I haven’t been before,’ she repeated. The guilt that she’d tried to leave behind evident in her voice.

  ‘If you’d like to come this way, I think we should talk.’

  Fran followed obediently. At the moment this woman was God and if she had to jump through hoops of fire, she would.

  She was led into a room that housed two sofas and a coffee table. She tried hard not to feel that she was on trial as the now officious-looking woman fetched two coffees from a vending machine.

  ‘I’m very sorry but you’re going to have to help me out here,’ said Thelma, placing two plastic cups on the table. ‘All the parents of the children are accounted for and on our master list.’

  A feeling of terror shot through Fran. Maybe he wasn’t here at all. Maybe her father had got it wrong. Maybe she’d never find him. Panic showed on her face.

  ‘Now calm down,’ Thelma ordered in a voice of granite. Fran felt twelve years old. ‘It’s probably some sort of misunderstanding. Just tell me the child’s name.’

  ‘Thornton… I don’t know his first name,’ she said apologetically.

  Thelma could not hide her surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

  Fran nodded, her hypersensitive radar alert to the woman’s discomfort.

  She rose unsteadily to her feet. Fran instantly knew that something was wrong. ‘Is he here? He is, isn’t he? Tell me what’s wrong. Is he ill?’ A hundred questions darted through her mind. All of them hungry for answers.

  ‘Please wait here a moment.’

  Fran paced the room. Something was very wrong. When she had said her surname, the woman had appeared shocked. And what did she mean, all parents were accounted for?

  The minutes felt like hours. Even now an unknown hurdle was waiting to send her flying to her knees, putting even more distance between her and her son.

  Before Thelma was halfway through the door Fran cried, ‘Please, tell me what’s wrong with my son.’

  ‘Please sit down. There is nothing wrong with the child you have named. He is safe and well.’

  Thelma again sat opposite Fran, warily. ‘Do you have any identification to prove who you say you are?’

  Fran reached quickly in her bag for her passport and driving licence. She had expected to have to identify herself but she hadn’t expected anyone to show disbelief in her existence.

  She handed the passport to Thelma without words. She checked it once and then again, comparing the serious, unsmiling photograph with Fran and checking her date of birth.

  Fran waited for an explanation. Thelma cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Thornton. We have to be very careful about who we let in here. It appears that undoubtedly you are Jamie’s mother.’

  ‘Who?’ she asked, dumbstruck.

  ‘I’m sorry. His first name is Jamie.’

  Fran swallowed hard. The name she had chosen for him. Thank you, Father, she thought. She fought hard to return her concentration to the woman before her.

  ‘Is it so hard to believe that I’m his mother?’

  ‘Well yes, I’m afraid it is, because, Miss Thornton, you are listed on our records as deceased.’

  Fran’s head spun out of control. ‘Wh… What?’

  Thelma shook her head. ‘I’ve seen many things in my years looking after these children but never a woman raised from the dead.’

  Fran slumped back in her chair. ‘I assume this information came from my parents.’

  Thelma nodded. For her own sanity Fran knew she had to accept what had been done and put aside the hatred that kept building and building. At the moment that was not important, only Jamie was.

  ‘Now that you believe me, can I see him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Fran snapped. ‘Why not?’ Tears of frustration threatened her composure. ‘What the hell do I have to do now, jump through hoops, walk on burning coals? Just tell me and I’ll do it if it means I can see my son.’

  ‘Please don’t try dramatics with me, Miss, because it won’t work. I’m
sure you will appreciate that my duty is to the children within my care.’

  Fran nodded, rebuked. She’d hoped for nothing less.

  ‘That being the case we have to talk about a few things first. Please don’t think I am intentionally trying to keep you from your child but you have to understand that Jamie has had only one regular visitor in the eight years he’s been here.’

  Fran’s heart reached out to the child who was playing somewhere within this huge building and put aside her bitter anger towards her father. At least he had given Jamie a little security. She could not forgive him for the lies but she was grateful for his contact.

  ‘Reasons for that are not my business nor my concern but Jamie’s welfare is,’ Thelma continued. ‘He has watched as many different people visited other children. Some even go out for weekends or holidays. Your son has seen this and accepts it. If your intention is—’

  ‘I have no intention other than to be his mother,’ Fran whispered.

  Thelma smiled indulgently. ‘Please don’t interrupt me. I understand that you have good intentions but if you disrupt his life and open his heart for the sake of a couple of visits, he has that disappointment to face all over again. You see, Miss Thornton, this isn’t about you at all. To be candid, your feelings matter very little here, only your actions. I appreciate at this stage you don’t know what the future holds but please don’t try to make yourself a necessary part of his life if you cannot make that commitment. You’ll do the child no favours.’

  Fran’s heart ached. The harsh words made sense to her. His feelings came first. She knew that Thelma was not being deliberately hurtful but it was her job to protect the children. Fran thought she was probably a mixture of love, discipline and fierce protection.

  ‘I want what’s best for Jamie,’ she whispered.

  ‘As do I, Miss Thornton.’ Thelma’s voice softened. ‘Have you done any reading on your son’s condition? Do you have any idea what to expect when you see him?’

  Fran nodded. She’d read any material she could get her eager hands on. She had an idea what to expect in his physical appearance. ‘I read books from the library, sourced information on the internet, but after a while opinions and facts became blurred and began to contradict each other. I know there are different types of Down’s syndrome, but I don’t even know what type he has.’

  Thelma smiled. ‘Sometimes you can read a little too much. I’ll explain it as best I can from what I know. The most severe form of the disease is called Trisomy 21. This is when three copies of the twenty-first chromosome are present instead of two. This accounts for about ninety-five per cent of all cases and is directly related to the age of the mother—’

  ‘But—’ Fran tried to interrupt. She was rewarded with a stern look.

  ‘Jamie has another type, which is called translocation. That means that a small, extra piece of chromosome twenty-one attached itself to another chromosome.’

  Fran nodded, unsure whether she was allowed to speak yet. Thelma paused for breath.

  ‘The main problems of the condition are the associated disorders such as heart abnormalities, thyroid disorders and the risk of leukaemia. These illnesses are normally contributory factors to the cause of death.’

  Fran had read that. ‘What is the outlook long term?’ she asked. The words came out in a strangled form but she had to know. This was another area where opinions had differed.

  ‘Life expectancy is in the region of sixty years in some cases. There have been dramatic increases since the seventies. Doctors have learned to recognise the associated problems earlier.’

  Fran felt relief flood through her body. She’d learnt more from this woman in a few moments than she had from the countless books and articles she’d studied. Her right foot, which had begun rocking to and fro, hit the leg of the table.

  Thelma smiled. ‘What I’d like to suggest is that we have a walk to the master playroom, where he’ll be. I will point him out to you so that you may see him.’ She tried to soften her next words. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t approach him. As we’ve already discussed, it would draw attention to you.’

  Fran nodded eagerly. She would agree to any conditions Thelma imposed. ‘The children may well approach you. That is fine. You may chat and play all you like but I ask you again not to single Jamie out.’

  After depositing her belongings in a cloakroom, Fran matched Thelma’s surprising speed and agility stride for stride. Every step forward increased her pulse rate. She had to work hard to breathe normally.

  She was led into a huge room with windows that stretched from halfway up the wall to the top and met with the high ceiling. The two walls that had no windows were covered in pictures and paintings of all descriptions. Excited squeals of delight together with unusual chatter filled her ears. Soft toys and mats littered the room. Fran was struck by the sheer brilliance of the room. Foam animal characters around two feet high were resplendent in bright, vivid colours. It was like walking into a cartoon.

  Her gaze eagerly swept the room. She stopped breathing. She didn’t need to be told which child was Jamie; she knew. His features, almost covered with a shock of straw-blond hair, dived straight into her heart to stay.

  He was sitting on a child’s red plastic chair colouring a huge picture with thick crayons in each hand. When Thelma’s hand indicated where her eyes were now rooted, it only confirmed what she already knew.

  She watched with undeniable pride as his small body left the seat. His red T-shirt untidily escaped out of the back of his denim dungarees as he took his picture to one of the adults sitting on a mat reading a story to five or six others.

  The woman smiled, ruffling his hair, and leaned over to ask him about his picture. He dropped it to the floor and threw his arms around her neck, forcing her backward on the mat.

  Fran watched as his previously inexpressive face dissolved into smiles. The other children now joined in the fun and Jamie was lost in a mass of laughing children tickling the storyteller. Fran had never envied anyone the way she did that woman who had the pleasure of holding or touching Jamie any time she wanted to. She mentally checked herself: if not for women like her, where would Jamie be? Fran chastised herself severely for the thought.

  ‘As you can see, he is happy,’ Thelma whispered.

  The breathless attendant indicated that she could take no more of the merciless tickling. The children moved away, anxious to find more fun elsewhere.

  Fran didn’t take her eyes off Jamie. He was small for his age and his movements were slightly forced. She looked deep into his face as he sat on the rocking horse. His skull was smaller than it should have been. An extra fold of skin was obvious beneath his eyes. His nose, which was definitely hers, was flattened at the bridge. Her brain registered his physical distortions but her heart reached out to the most beautiful child she had ever seen. She felt an immediate and fierce surge of pride and love at the sight of him. Her arms longed to hold the small, frail body and protect him from all the bad things.

  ‘He speaks quite well,’ Thelma murmured kindly beside her. ‘Sometimes his speech worsens when he’s tired but other than particularly difficult words, he stumbles along quite well. His favourite activities are drawing and painting,’ she added.

  Fran nodded and fought the lump in her throat.

  Definitely her son.

  Her arms were becoming agitated. She linked her fingers together for something to do with them. They ached to be occupied.

  Thelma passed Fran a book with buttons down the right-hand side. ‘Sit down on the mat and look at it,’ she suggested.

  Fran cautiously did as she was told. She pressed the top button, which was decorated with a pig. A mechanical snort issued from the book. Fran chuckled. She pressed the sheep and was rewarded by a low ‘Baa’.

  A couple of children stopped what they were doing and glanced inquisitively in Fran’s direction. Slowly, three children began moving towards her, aware that she was fresh blood.

  Fran
was surprised to realise she had a growing audience. She began to talk and laugh with them as she impersonated the sounds of the animals. A few more children approached, wondering at the source of the laughter. She continued to press the buttons and impersonate the sounds, to the delight of the children. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie dismount the rocking horse and move slowly towards the group that surrounded her.

  She tried to keep her concentration on the game she was playing but he was no more than three feet away. Her voice shook as she mooed for the audience. Jamie stood slightly away from the others and watched silently.

  A couple of the children had wandered off, losing interest after hearing each animal five times. Fran knew that if she reached out she could almost touch him. Thelma’s words jumped around in her head. Every ounce of effort she had was focused on holding the book. He inched a little closer. Her faltering impersonation of a duck raised a smile that lit up his face. Again he inched closer until she felt the fabric of his dungarees brushing against her bare arm. Goosebumps appeared although she wasn’t cold. Another three children left the group when her noises began to lack conviction. Jamie sat next to her and laughed openly at the sound of the dog. His face creased in joyous laughter. She joined him in his merriment. Fran didn’t know how much longer she could confine the arms that were eight years late in holding this little boy.

  Jamie inched towards her on his bottom. She held her breath. It was just the two of them. He forced his little body sideways against her arm, leaving her no alternative but to raise it. He nudged himself inside the circle of her arm and rested comfortably against her ribs. Fran raised her eyes imploringly to Thelma.

  Thelma nodded, smiling, as she watched Fran’s arm snake around Jamie’s body and pull him closer.

  ‘Do you have far to go?’ Thelma asked as they ate macaroni cheese in the canteen, although Fran’s was barely touched.

  ‘A long drive to Birmingham, unfortunately,’ Fran replied, crestfallen. She knew she had to leave but it was hard to tear herself away. All afternoon the children had besieged her, then left her, and then besieged her again, bringing other books and toys for her to play with, but Jamie had barely left her side. Could he possibly know that she was more to him than the others? Might he sense that she wished to pick him up and run, run until she couldn’t breathe, to a place where she could hold him, soothe him and make up for the last eight years? Did he know that she never wanted to let him out of her sight again?