Though Bunty knew the truth, as did my friends Doreen and June, no one else at the company knew what had happened to me. As far as everyone else knew, I had just returned from my extended spell in Italy, where it was assumed I’d had lots of exciting adventures.
This left me on tenterhooks for weeks. ‘You must bring in some photos,’ demanded Barbara Walton, as soon as she saw me. She was the MD’s secretary, and was always very chatty. I often bumped into her because we both worked on the same floor. It was obvious she wanted to know all about my trip. ‘I’ve been thinking of going to Italy this summer,’ she said, catching me in the corridor. ‘Where did you stay? Can you recommend it? It would be brilliant to see your snaps.’
‘Er, Laigueglia, it was. And I’ll bring them in,’ I told her. ‘Tomorrow, I promise.’
And I kept promising to bring them in, over and over, in what seemed like a constant round of interrogations about why I’d forgotten them yet again. I became expert in the art of bluffing, fielding difficult questions with off-the-cuff fabrications, and ducking out of conversations that threatened to get tricky by suddenly needing to be somewhere else.
It was so hard trying to keep up the pretence and appear jolly, but not as hard as it was to cope with the weight of my loss. Despite my determination to try to get back to normal, I still felt depressed and empty – hollowed out inside – and thoughts of Paul and how he was faring were constantly at the forefront of my mind, but I had no release for them. Apart from Emmie, there was no one I could talk to about him. Though my friends at work were sympathetic, I knew I couldn’t burden them with it. They didn’t want to hear my woes all the time, did they? And, besides, as soon as anyone did talk to me about it, I seemed incapable of preventing the tears from coming.
I was on the verge of crying every time I so much as thought about Paul, so I constantly had to try to shut out those thoughts and keep my head firmly fixed on my work. For that reason, and also because I felt so at odds with the world now that I carried such a big and dreadful secret, I clung to the friendship I’d made with Pauline at the convent. With Pauline, at least, I could talk about Paul without worrying she’d get distressed if I cried. So we’d talk on the phone and we’d sob to each other. The pain was no less, but when I talked to her I felt a little less alone.
But I was alone, in the sense that mattered most to me. I had had a child and that child was elsewhere, with a different family, being loved and cherished by people other than me. But how was he? Was he coping okay without me? One thought that kept surfacing and wouldn’t go away was how bewildered he must be about where I’d gone. Did he cry for me a lot? Did he miss my smell and touch? All those days and weeks of his new life when it had been just me and him – surely he must be feeling my absence?
I also ached – physically ached – to touch and hold him again, and felt so wretched to think he would forget me. I prayed he wouldn’t, but I knew that of course he’d forget me. He was so tiny. I wouldn’t even be a memory for him. Just one more time, I kept praying. Let me see him one more time. Just give me one chance to hold him and tell him that I love him.
I had at least been able to give him one lasting thing: he still had the name I’d chosen for him. I became fixated on knowing his adoptive parents hadn’t changed it, hadn’t taken away that one thing he had from me. And, luckily, I had a chance to find out.
One evening in late February I was visited at home by a Mr Hasler from Middlesex Probation Service. It was Mr Hasler’s job to help me fill in and sign all the legal papers, ready for the adoption to take place formally in the courts at the end of March. He was a nice man, quite formal, but approachable and kind. I didn’t know if it was allowed, but I had nothing to lose, so I asked if he’d be in touch with the adoptive couple himself. He told me that, yes, he certainly could be.
‘So, do you think,’ I asked him, ‘that you could perhaps ask them a favour? Could they perhaps send me a photo, so I can see how he’s getting on?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ he said, noting it down on his pad.
‘And could you maybe also ask them about his name?’
‘His name?’
‘Whether they kept it as Paul? That was what I asked for, before they took him: that they didn’t change his name. Could you check that too, do you think?’
‘Of course,’ he said, smiling sympathetically, as he made another note. I wondered if he had children of his own.
And less than a week later, true to his word, he had done it. I now had another photo of my precious baby. It was only a head and shoulders shot, but I could see he was already much fuller in the face. I was grateful to see evidence that he was being fed properly and no longer had to survive on the convent’s meagre rations. It was also such a comfort to know that my wishes had been heeded and he still had the name I’d given him.
After that, I could only wait for the formal adoption to take place, and while I did so I tried hard to move on. I could remain trapped in misery or I could try to move forwards. I resolved to try to halt the tide of despair that kept threatening to drown me. No longer was I going to lay bare my emotions about Paul. Instead I would consign him to a safe private place in an innermost sanctum of my mind.
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
‘You know what I think we should do?’ said Pauline. ‘I think we should go to Blackpool for a holiday.’
It was the beginning of May 1964, a Saturday, and she’d travelled up to London so we could spend the day shopping and doing a bit of sightseeing. We’d been spending a lot of time together lately, and had a really close friendship. We both found comfort in the fact that, for the two of us, Paul and Alexander were able to exist. And though we consciously tried not to dwell on our losses, it was such a relief to be able to talk about our babies instead of pretending they’d never been born. We were in Regent’s Park today, wandering among the throng of weekend crowds, many of whom flocked here to meet Guy the gorilla, one of London Zoo’s most popular attractions.
‘Blackpool?’ I said. ‘Really?’ The thought of going somewhere like Blackpool would never have entered my head. I’d spent most of my childhood going on caravanning trips to the quiet spots my parents preferred, such as St Osyth and Clacton and Jaywick Sands, but after my father had died, there’d been no further family holidays. Bar the trip to Italy, in recent years the only place I’d been was Ireland, to stay with my mother’s relatives. And right now the thought of going away anywhere hadn’t occurred to me. I was just living day to day, getting through.
‘Yes, Blackpool,’ Pauline said, grinning at me. ‘And don’t look so shocked. It’s brilliant there, such fun. And it would be such a tonic for us both. I can probably find a good place we could stay, as well – nothing too expensive, obviously. My parents will know somewhere, I’m sure.’
Pauline’s parents ran a bed and breakfast in Cromer, and apparently knew lots of other people in the trade. ‘Wakes Week, I was thinking,’ Pauline went on. ‘Because it will be really lively then, won’t it? What d’you say? Do you think you could get the time off from work?’
Wakes weeks were still quite common in the 1960s. They were designated weeks during which all the mills and factories in an area would close so the workers could go on holiday. The late May one was common in the north-west of England, particularly Lancashire, and crowds would flood to the coast, mostly to Blackpool, because of the beach and the famous funfair.
I thought for a moment. Why not go to Blackpool? No, it had never occurred to me before, but at the same time I couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
‘I could try,’ I said. ‘As long as I’m quick, I expect I can. It’s not a particularly busy time at work, I think.’
‘That’s settled then.’ She squeezed my forearm. ‘Oooh, how exciting! Trust me,’ she added, ‘you will love it.’
I don’t know what I expected to find in Blackpool. I had only the usual stereotypical ideas about what it might be like: fish and chips, stripey rock, donkey rides
, ‘Kiss me quick’ hats and so on. As soon as we arrived, almost all the stereotypes were confirmed. I didn’t actually see a ‘Kiss me quick’ hat that first day, but I certainly saw donkeys, fish and chip bars and sticks of Blackpool rock aplenty. There were also typical British holidaymakers in droves: men with trousers turned up so they could paddle in the sea, and elderly ladies, their stockings rolled down, huddled in deckchairs, hunched low to avoid the fresh wind that blew in off the North Sea.
It was everything I had anticipated, but also something more: it felt happy and alive and inclusive and full of warmth. As we made our way from the North Station to the bed and breakfast Pauline had found for us, I knew it had been the right decision to get away somewhere like this. It felt so good to be away from everyone and everything familiar, and had done the minute our train had rolled out of King’s Cross.
Pauline’s parents had put us in touch with a couple who ran a small place a short walk from the seafront, where they’d stayed, years back, when they’d first gone into the business themselves. It was one of a row of almost identical Edwardian terraced houses, with a neat front garden, enclosed by a low, whitewashed wall. There were heavy net curtains at the double-fronted bay windows, in one of which hung a plastic ‘No Vacancies’ sign. The whole house, you could see, had been recently painted sunshine yellow – perhaps an optimistic nod to the coming season.
‘Welcome!’ said the proprietress, opening the front door wide to usher us both in with our cases and giving us a warm, ruddy-cheeked smile. ‘I can see you two girls have brought the weather with you, too. Come on in. That’s the way. Let me show you upstairs.’
Having booked so late, all that had been left was a cramped bedroom at the back of the house, but it would do us fine; we didn’t plan on spending much time there, after all. And it was a lovely afternoon, so we didn’t linger, just staying long enough to change out of our travelling clothes of capri pants and sleeveless blouses and into light cotton summer dresses. We then headed straight for the pleasure beach and pier, drinking in the sweet scent of candyfloss.
The place was packed, as Pauline had predicted, the promenade crowded with smiling holidaymakers. In the throng it almost felt as if we were exactly what we looked like: two carefree single girls out to have a good time, which – for small pockets of time anyway – we were.
And we didn’t go unnoticed. By lunchtime on the fourth day, after a leisurely morning sunbathing, we’d decided to go bowling on the pier. We’d already sampled some of Blackpool’s more famous attractions: we’d been to the funfair, climbed the tower, ridden donkeys on the sand. We’d also made a special point of visiting the vast Tower Ballroom, not to dance but to take in the awe-inspiring enormity of it; up till now we’d only glimpsed it on Come Dancing on television. But we particularly enjoyed the bowling alley when the sun got too hot, and we were both getting quite good at it.
We’d only just taken possession of our lane and got settled when Pauline nudged me hard in the ribs. ‘Angela,’ she hissed, putting her face close to my ear. ‘Look who’s over there! See? To your right!’ She jabbed a discreet finger towards a nearby lane, where two young men had just arrived. ‘Isn’t that Jimmy Tarbuck over there?’
I turned and looked. It was Jimmy Tarbuck. Or at least it certainly looked like Jimmy Tarbuck. I recognised the trademark gap in his front teeth. But like anyone seeing a famous person in the flesh, especially somewhere you didn’t expect to, I wasn’t sure I could believe my eyes. And he was famous – unquestionably. He was one of the new rising stars of variety at that time, and seemed to be everywhere you looked. Plus (and here I realised that, of course, it was Jimmy Tarbuck) I remembered he was appearing in Blackpool that week. We’d both seen the posters – even commented on them. And here he was, going bowling, it seemed. I didn’t recognise the other guy he was with, but just then he looked across the lanes and caught me staring.
I quickly went to pick up my first bowling ball. ‘Yes, it is,’ I told Pauline, feeling my cheeks begin to redden. I took a run up and launched it down the alley.
‘Ladies!’ called a male voice from over to our right, as I watched it roll. ‘Hello!’
Pauline and I turned around simultaneously to see Jimmy Tarbuck now gesticulating at us. I was conscious that in the lanes between us – there were three of them – all activity had stopped. At the same time a rumble of whispered conversation had begun. ‘I’m Jimmy,’ he called obligingly, ignoring it. ‘And this is my friend Roger,’ he added, gesturing to the other guy. ‘We were wondering – would you two like to make a foursome?’
Pauline and I glanced at each other.
‘How about it?’ he continued. ‘We thought it might be fun – what do you think?’
‘Hi there,’ called Pauline, always slightly bolder than me. They were making their way around the back of the lanes to where we were. ‘I’m Pauline,’ she said. ‘And this is Angela. Pleased to meet you. And, well, yeah, why not? What d’you think, Angela? Shall we?’
Roger, Jimmy told us, was the stage manager at the theatre where Jimmy was performing that evening – one of several along the pier – and they were whiling away a few hours before getting ready to do that night’s show. Needing no further encouragement, they joined us in our lane. After losing graciously to us, the two of them suggested we take a stroll back to the theatre with them.
‘You can meet Mike and Bernie,’ Jimmy added gaily. It wasn’t necessary to add ‘Winters’ when he said this: at the time, the brothers, who performed as a comedy double act, were almost as well known as he was.
We set off in pairs, though it soon became obvious that being famous was something of a full-time job for Jimmy. He walked slightly ahead of us, smiling and waving, acknowledging each ripple of recognition and adulation not with any arrogance – he didn’t seem like that at all – but certainly with a great deal of pleasure.
That we had paired up was clear, and flattering, though the concept of pairing up with anyone didn’t come naturally to me any more. I hadn’t ‘paired up’ with anyone for over a year. The last boyfriend I’d had was Peter, Paul’s father, and the whole business was one I wished only to forget. Though I felt a little nervous and apprehensive about being flirted with so energetically, not to mention slightly awed by it being by someone so famous, I found myself quite enjoying the sensation.
Equally enjoyable was walking along the pier that afternoon and getting something of a taste for what fame might be like; warmth and affection seemed to accompany Jimmy everywhere. Not that, up close, it seemed in the least surprising; he came across as a friendly and approachable star. And perhaps now, I mused, I’d have some real anecdotes to tell everyone at work. It wasn’t every day you got chatted up by a television personality, after all.
And there was little doubt that I was being chatted up, as was Pauline, because once we’d said hello to Mike and Bernie Winters in their dressing room (where Mike Winters was strolling around, rather disconcertingly, in a pair of arrestingly tight Y-fronts) Jimmy suggested I go back to his dressing room with him for a while. ‘I want to be out of the way before Norman bloody Vaughan turns up,’ he whispered, as he steered me by the elbow down the long corridor. ‘Can’t stand the man.’ By this time Roger had already disappeared with Pauline to take her on a ‘short tour of the theatre’, or so he’d said. It was therefore either that or, well . . . that. And I was having fun, so why not?
Jimmy’s dressing room was fairly spartan, and not at all starry. There were none of the embellishments I would have expected: no light-bulb-rimmed mirror, no chaise longue, no cards and flowers. Not that I would have noticed much – I was too overawed and preoccupied. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, after I’d deflected several enthusiastic attempts to kiss me. ‘How about you girls come back after the show? There’s a cabaret starting at 11.30, straight after. We could go together. The Bachelors are playing. I could get you and your friend put on the guest list, if you fancy coming along. What do you think?’
He grinned h
is gappy grin and attempted another kiss. I didn’t doubt he could have any girl he set his sights on. But I didn’t mind. He was entertaining company.
‘I think that sounds great,’ I told him, deflecting the kiss. But I did really mean what I said – he was nice, and I liked him, and I was enjoying the attention. It meant nothing, I knew, but it seemed like such a long time since I’d felt anything remotely like the young, unattached girl I was, such an age since I’d last felt pretty. I was carrying around so much heartache, it weighed me down.
‘Brilliant,’ he said, angling in for another kiss and smiling broadly. This time I decided I would let him.
‘So what do you think?’ Pauline asked, once we’d said goodbye to the guys and were ambling back along the pier after our unexpectedly interesting afternoon. She’d had the same invitation from Roger, she told me, and we both wondered, giggling, if they had been in cahoots.
But back out in the sunshine I was beginning to have reservations about the wisdom of meeting up with them again later. It was one thing to be kissed, quite another to get involved in late-night trysts.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, tentatively, trying to assess Pauline’s feelings. ‘I mean, in some ways, I’d like to, wouldn’t you? You know, go and hobnob with the stars . . .’
We both laughed. ‘I can’t believe I’ve seen Mike Winters in his pants!’ Pauline said, grimacing. ‘Not a sight I shall easily forget. And it’ll certainly be one to tell them back in college!’
‘And I can’t believe I’ve been kissed by Jimmy Tarbuck!’ I agreed. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
‘But it’ll be pretty late . . .’ Pauline said. ‘And it’s not like they’ve invited us to the show even, is it?’
‘I was thinking that, too,’ I agreed. ‘Though it’s probably already sold out. So we’d just be hanging around all evening, wouldn’t we? And then . . .’
The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers Page 12
