Book Read Free

The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers

Page 14

by Angela Patrick


  This is too soon, I remember thinking on the way down to see them. This was all happening a bit quickly. Much as I liked him, I was in no rush to get serious with anyone till I was sure, and meeting his parents felt like a giant step. Meeting a man, and going out with him, was scary enough in itself.

  I was a naturally honest person and it was bad enough dealing with the amount of subterfuge in my life already; the thought of having to tell my secret to someone important to me still hung heavy. He doesn’t know me, I kept thinking. He doesn’t know who I really am, or what has happened to me. And he would need to. Yet the thought of that happening was stupefying.

  In hindsight, my anxiety about having to open up to Michael was probably an indication that my feelings for him were already much stronger than they’d been for Dave. And there was no doubt that Michael was serious about me – he made that very clear from the off. He wore his heart on his sleeve. He’d told me he loved me and intended to marry me on our second date, and though we both laughed (in my case, in a somewhat shocked fashion) I got a strong sense that he absolutely meant it. I didn’t know how he could be so sure how he felt about someone he’d only just met, but it was one of the most attractive things about him. I loved his impulsiveness, his confidence, his happiness in his own skin, his lack of guile. But it was also terrifying to know just how strong his feelings were, because if there was one thing I didn’t want to do it was to play with or be cavalier with his emotions.

  Only a couple of weeks later, it hit me. I had to end things. I couldn’t bear the weight of my secret, and it was beginning to make me panic. I really liked him, and that was why I needed to finish it. I had to protect myself – and him – and walk away. It never occurred to me that there was an alternative. Once he knew the truth about me, he would obviously want to end it. Better to do it now myself than make things worse.

  We’d just left the pub when I decided I had to do it. It was a place called the Square Rigger, on London Bridge, where we’d met up after work for a midweek drink. It was a chilly night, and I had my coat wrapped tightly around me, my hands clasped together at the neck, keeping the cold out. Michael’s arm was linked through mine, making its presence felt, even though neither of us had spoken for some minutes. I felt determined in that instant. I couldn’t keep this going. I felt too much for him already. And he clearly felt the same about me. Why prolong the agony? I needed to do it now.

  We were heading for Monument Station, and I could see it fast approaching, so I stopped in the middle of the pavement. There were still lots of people around, hurrying to wherever they were going, but the bridge itself was as good a place as any to face the music. I couldn’t look at him. If I did, I knew I wouldn’t be able to say it.

  ‘I think I need to end this,’ I blurted out, before I could change my mind.

  Having delivered the words, I wanted nothing more badly than to run away, but I couldn’t. He stopped too, pulling up sharply beside me. His arm slipped from mine. He looked stunned.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Why?’ His expression was understandably horrified. I’d given him no clue this was coming. But how could I? I’d known myself only moments ago.

  I couldn’t seem to order the next words I needed to say to him.

  ‘Why, Angela?’ he said again. ‘Don’t you like me any more?’ His expression was still one of incomprehension. I had done nothing, said nothing, to prepare him for this.

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ I said, anxious to reassure him. He looked so crestfallen. ‘It’s me,’ I explained. ‘It’s all about me.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Something in my past.’

  ‘What something?’ he began.

  ‘Something I should have told you from the outset,’ I said, ‘but didn’t. I’m so sorry, Michael. Something I’ve done. Some -thing bad.’

  ‘Bad?’ he looked confused now. ‘What can you possibly have done that’s bad?’ His expression shifted then. ‘Is it someone else?’

  ‘No! Not at all!’ I said. ‘Nothing like that!’

  He looked relieved now. ‘Fine, then. So I don’t need to know, do I? As far as I’m concerned, what’s past is past, okay? It’s not going to make any difference to me, trust me.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Michael. You’re wrong. It will. It’s too big. A really big thing—’

  He grabbed my hand. ‘I don’t care, Angela,’ he said. ‘I really don’t. Everyone has things in their past. Everyone.’

  He has no idea what’s coming, I thought. Not a clue; not an inkling.

  ‘Not like this,’ I said quietly, blinking away the tears that had now come. ‘Michael, I’ve had a baby,’ I said, enunciating the words slowly and carefully. ‘I’ve had a baby and he’s called Paul and I had to give him up for adoption. Last year. Last January.’

  I explained what had happened through a mist of hot tears. Michael took my other hand and hung on tightly to it as I told him. His eyes never left my face as he listened. His expression never wavered. ‘I told you,’ he said finally, once I’d finished. ‘It makes no difference to me. It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t ever make any difference to me. You must know that. Surely?’

  ‘But it must do,’ I persisted. ‘Michael, listen to me. I’ve had a baby. You can’t possibly want to be with me now you know that—’

  ‘Angela, you’re not hearing me. Nothing could be further from the truth, okay? Nothing. I love you. You know that. You do know that, don’t you?’ He looked so upset himself now, as if I’d offended and hurt him by even suggesting he’d want to finish with me. Seeing that made me cry more. He’s not taking this in, I thought. The problem is that it hasn’t hit home yet – the enormity of it, the implications – but it will. Once he’s had a chance to sleep on it, of course it will.

  ‘But what about your parents?’ I said. ‘What are they both going to think of me?’

  I had met his parents twice by now, and I liked them so much, particularly his mum, who was so different from mine. She’d seemed so bubbly, so welcoming and so much fun to be with. It wasn’t that my own mother was cold or unwelcoming, it was just that Michael’s mother, so much younger and so much less constrained by religion, seemed as if she came from a different, more accepting generation. But then she didn’t know the truth about me yet, did she? It hurt so much to think she must have thought I was one thing and now she’d have cause to look at me in a completely different, damning light.

  Michael shook his head. ‘This is nothing to do with anyone but you and me,’ he answered. ‘This is about us. Not my parents. Why do they even need to know?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Angela,’ he said, pulling me close. ‘We don’t need to tell them. Not if you don’t want to.’

  ‘But they have to know.’

  ‘No they don’t. Nobody has to know anything. They really don’t. And shall I tell you something else? If you did tell them, it wouldn’t matter to them either. I know it wouldn’t. I know there are people in the world that like to stand in judgement over others, but my parents aren’t like that. And neither am I. There but for the grace of God, frankly . . .’ He looked exasperated. ‘Please don’t tell me we’re finished, okay?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just don’t tell me we’re finished. I love you. I don’t care about any of what you’ve told me. It makes no difference to me, okay? None at all.’

  This was such a shock to me. How could that be? I had spent so long hanging my head in shame, so long carting my status as a fallen woman around with me like a ball and chain. And I’d seen so much evidence of society’s disapproval. I’d had to scuttle away from work, lied and been shunned by so many people. I’d had it drilled into me, again and again and again, that I had sinned, I was a sinner, I’d got myself into trouble, and the world had every right to disown and look down on me.

  How could he stand there and say what he was saying? He couldn’t mean it. He just couldn’t. He wasn’t thinking straight.

  ‘But how can it not
make a difference?’ I said.

  He grabbed my other hand then, and kissed me. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said again. ‘And I’m not letting you go into that station till you promise you believe me.’

  ‘Okay, I believe you. But—’

  ‘No buts. Just promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘In that case you can go and get your train. And I’ll call you tomorrow, and I’ll tell you again. Just don’t end this, okay, Angela. Please.’

  So I promised that, too, and he let me go and I got the train and travelled home, my mind a blur of anxious thoughts. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps right now it didn’t matter. But then, realistically, he probably hadn’t taken it in yet. All I could do now was wait and see.

  Michael called me when I got home from work the next evening, just as he’d promised he would. The phone was ringing as I walked through the front door. ‘I’ve been awake half the night,’ he said, without preamble. ‘I nearly called you at five this morning before I left for work. I’ve been going mad all day, Angela. Mad.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. My stomach lurched, hearing his voice. ‘I hardly slept either. I wouldn’t have minded if you had called.’

  ‘I wish I had! Because I kept going back to the same question,’ he went on. ‘How could you think that? That’s what I kept thinking.’

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘Think that about me – that I’d treat you like that. That what you told me would make the slightest difference to how I feel about you? I’ve been running it round and round my head, and I’m still in shock. How could you think of me that way? That I’m someone for whom something like that would matter? I feel the opposite, if anything. Just thinking what you’ve been through. I’m so angry for you, Angela. I really am.’

  I felt so chastened, hearing that, almost as if I’d compounded my original sin. At the same time, my heavy weight had been spirited away from me. I realised then just how anxious I’d been about hearing from him, despite trying so hard to convince myself that I wouldn’t, that he’d be the one walking away.

  ‘I obviously don’t know you as well as I thought I did,’ I suggested meekly. ‘I’m so sorry, Michael. I—’

  ‘Exactly,’ he interrupted. ‘Exactly what I thought. So you obviously need to get to know me a lot better, don’t you?’

  And now I would. I could. I put down the phone that evening feeling different. Feeling that, actually, my life might turn out okay after all. But mostly, as the days passed and turned into weeks, I felt something new and wonderful. I had that bubbly feeling in my tummy every time I thought of him. I would wish away the hours between the times that I’d see him. I was oblivious, suddenly, to the world trundling on around me. And I knew why. I’d found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with and it was Michael.

  I had fallen in love.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Michael and I were married on 12 March 1966, in Our Lady of Ransome Catholic Church in Rayleigh. It was a place with connections to both of our families, as the priest who married us had gone to school with my brother Roy, and his sister was one of Michael’s work colleagues.

  We had nothing when we married and we couldn’t have cared less. We had a roof over our heads, albeit a cramped and grotty one. It was the back half of the top floor of a terraced house in Ilford, and we shared a bathroom and toilet with the young couple at the front. The owners, who lived downstairs, weren’t old, but they were old-fashioned: bedtime was 11 p.m., and if we made any sort of noise after that, we would invariably get a sharp rap on the door. In fact, we spent most of our time there creeping around very carefully, as the aged floorboards protested at our every step. We had no proper kitchen either, and used to do our washing up in a washing-up bowl, perched awkwardly on the sink in the bathroom.

  For all that, it was a time I recall with much joy. I had left home and, in doing so, had separated myself from all the bad things that had gone before. On the surface, life at home had already returned to normal. Indeed, my mother was very happy to see me married to Michael. She genuinely liked him, and I knew she was relieved, because she no longer needed to fear that I might ‘get into trouble’ again.

  I’d also separated myself, if not from the constant yearning for my lost baby, at least from the stigma of the event that had caused me so much unhappiness. I had a future now, so I could look forward without fear.

  Our honeymoon, out of financial necessity, was short. But we didn’t care about that either. We were just happy to be together. We packed up Michael’s Ford Cortina and embarked on a mini road trip, spending our first night in Cambridge, then driving on up to the coast to King’s Lynn, before returning to London. Our last treat – and my favourite – was a visit to the Ideal Home Exhibition, where we drooled over all the things we couldn’t yet afford. We agreed we’d definitely have some of the teak furniture – it was terrifically fashionable at that time – and, naturally, we’d accessorise in lurid oranges, olive greens and purples, those colours being the height of sophistication. And we did make a start, with what little money we could spare; we bought a teak salad bowl with stylish matching servers, together with a bread knife and bread board that we still use today. But mostly we just looked, and dreamed of our future.

  Happily, a matter of months later, we had a stroke of good fortune. My brother Ray, whose business had been growing steadily, opened a new shop in Seven Kings. He already had a shop selling car parts in Chadwell Heath. With the phenomenal popularity of the recently introduced and now ubiquitous Mini, he’d spotted a gap in the market. The new shop would deal exclusively in parts and accessories for Minis; it would go on to do well for many years, expanding into a successful export business.

  But it was the spacious flat above the shop that meant so much to Michael and me. Having agreed terms with my brother, we took it on to rent, travelling there every evening after work, over a period of several weeks, to make it liveable. Yes, we were miserable having to go back to our 11 p.m. curfew, but like any young couple we were also thrilled beyond belief at the thought of finally having a proper place to call home, even if, for the moment, we would have to be patient about that teak and make do with a few sticks of hand-me-down furniture.

  Hard up as we were, Michael and I were like-minded. One thing we were determined to save up for was a proper foreign holiday, and in August 1967 we headed off for a fortnight in Ibiza, my first time abroad since my teenage trip to Italy.

  The Mediterranean back then was just becoming fashionable as a destination for British holidaymakers, and I was really excited at the prospect of flying somewhere so exotic. Michael, being three years older, was more travelled than I was: whereas I could count only Italy and Ireland as my other ‘foreign’ holidays, he’d already been to several places in Europe, including Luxembourg, Holland and Belgium.

  Even so, we were happy to be shepherded by a tour operator – in this case, Clarksons, one of the main companies selling package holidays, at that time an increasingly popular way to travel. We left from Southend Airport, by charter flight, on an overcast Saturday morning, and though the hotel was a bit grotty and our room was without a view, Figueretas, where we stayed, had everything we wanted: lots of sunshine, a lovely beach and a chance to relax properly.

  Not that we wanted to spend the whole time on sunloungers – we were also keen to get out and explore the island. There were apparently empty beaches to be discovered all over, even at the height of the season. Our first plan when we arrived was to go and see if we could hire a scooter to venture a little further afield.

  The first night, however, we stayed close to home, sitting outside a bar, chatting to another couple till the early hours – a novelty in itself – before going on to a nightclub, where we danced almost till dawn. We were up late the next day, and it was only then that I realised that I’d forgotten to pack something fairly fundamental.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I said to Michael, after a protracted and fruit
less search through the jumble of our belongings. In the rush to go out, we’d unpacked a bit haphazardly the evening before. ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve forgotten to bring.’

  He groaned theatrically. ‘Oh no! Not the toothpaste!’

  I couldn’t help but smile, for our pre-holiday advice had been clear: toothpaste was one thing we mustn’t forget to bring, as for some reason it was difficult to come by. I shook my head. ‘No. But actually it’s worse: my contraceptive pills.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael, coming in off the little balcony and adopting a thoughtful expression. ‘So what can we do about that, then?’

  Michael being a practical sort – and I could see his mind working now – would, I imagined, have some sort of practical solution. Doubtless he’d suggest that we go and find a farmacia somewhere and attempt to make our pharmaceutical needs known, though this was Spain, a Catholic country. I didn’t fancy our chances, even with the help of the big English/Spanish dictionary that I had obviously been much more conscientious about packing.

  ‘Well . . .’ I began, about to suggest, but then dismissing, the most obvious solution: a fortnight of abstinence. I smiled ruefully at him. ‘Not a lot, I think,’ I finished.

  But he surprised me. ‘So,’ he said, plopping himself down on the bed beside me. ‘It’ll just have to be a case of qué será, será, I suppose, won’t it?’

  ‘Really?’ I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because he put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed it.

  ‘It would hardly be the end of the world, sweetheart, would it?’

  I brightened. ‘It wouldn’t?’

  I was surprised, because we’d already talked about this. We knew when we wanted to start a family: when we could afford it; when we’d bought a house; when we were ready, which wasn’t quite yet, and we’d both agreed to that. However much my heart craved the joy of holding a child of my own in my arms again, this time I wanted the circumstances to be perfect.

 

‹ Prev