The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers

by Angela Patrick

  I stayed in hospital for five days, and how different those days were to those I’d spent in the lying-in room at Loreto Convent. Swamped with presents and visitors, and love and attention, I felt wrapped in a warm bubble of love and gratitude. Here I could properly care for my baby. I could cuddle her at any time I wanted, I could put her to my breast and feed her, I could pick her up and soothe her when she cried. As the roof in the soon-to-be-demolished nursery was leaking, I had her by my side every minute of every day. Some things were similar – the exhaustion, the sore boobs, the painful stitches – but the experience of having her couldn’t have been more different. Despite my great joy, it made my heart ache for my little boy, now thirteen years old, for whom this wonderful start in life had been denied.

  As I write, the early days of Katharine’s life are now the blur of fond memories that such a joyous experience should be. I remember those first precious days of just me, her and Michael, and how we tucked ourselves away, shunning the usual round of Christmas trips and visitors, in order that we could get to know our daughter better.

  I remember Boxing Day, and being so keen to sit down and watch Oliver!, and waking up just as the closing credits rolled. I recall her little nursery, which we’d decorated together for her: the wallpaper dotted with red bunnies, the matching curtains, the Italian cot, the cream carpet (so impractical but at the same time so perfect), the tiny clothes, the white cot bumper, the little mobile.

  I recall the presents, including the twenty-three dresses we were sent as gifts for her. It astonished me, the kindness of people I barely knew. Even the waitress in the restaurant where Michael sometimes had lunch bought Katharine a present – a pink teddy bear, which she still has today.

  I remember our lovely pram – solidly coach built and so stately – and how thrilling it was to go out and push it around Tenterden after so many years of seeing other mothers with other prams, and trying to quell the feeling of desperate longing. I remember how good it felt, now I’d swapped baby-bump for baby, when people wanted to peek in and say hello to our daughter, and I was finally allowed to be a proud mum.

  I particularly recall driving up to Essex to visit my mother and stepfather, and how genuinely thrilled they were to see us. My mother was sixty-nine now, Sam seventy-two, and I knew how much it meant to her to see me happy.

  And I was happy now – the happiest I’d been in such a long time. I often wondered: did this mean that God had forgiven me at long last? It certainly felt that, in giving me this perfect baby daughter, He had decided to give me a second chance. But had He forgiven me sufficiently to answer my prayers? Would He reunite me with her brother one day? I wanted that so very much, but I could only hope and wait.

  And I did wait – for the next seventeen years.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Eighteen

  19 January 1994

  I didn’t know anything about it until much later in the day, but there was something about the letter that dropped on the doormat that morning which stopped Michael dead in his tracks. I was still in bed. He liked to enjoy a quiet five minutes with his newspaper on weekday mornings, so we’d evolved a routine before going to our respective jobs: he’d bring me up cereal, toast and tea, and one of the newspapers, then return downstairs to eat his own breakfast in the kitchen with the other.

  He’d just brought mine up when the postman arrived, and reached the hall as the letter slid through the letterbox. He didn’t know why, but as soon as he saw the unfamiliar handwriting he had a powerful sense of what it might be about. He turned around then, and made his way back up the stairs, brought it to me and left the bedroom.

  Thirty years is a very long time by anyone’s yardstick, so lacking my husband’s impressive intuitive powers, I had no such inkling about what I now held in my hands. Not straight away, anyway. I had never given up hope that Paul might one day try to find me. On his twenty-first birthday I’d even gone back to St Andrew’s church. I’d prayed so hard that day that he might find me. But once that birthday was behind us, my hope had begun to fade. It was still there, but with each passing year it lessened. Had he wanted to find me, surely by now he would have found me? I knew the law had changed to make the process easier for adopted children; they could now have access to their adoption files. Though knowing that had initially filled me with hope, as the years following the legislation had passed without contact, it actually made it harder. I could no longer tell myself that he was trying to find me but couldn’t.

  Now here in my hands was this ordinary letter: this letter with its unfamiliar handwriting, its London postmark and its air of mystery. I put my tray carefully to one side on the duvet, turned the letter over and slipped my finger under the envelope’s flap. I’m not even sure what I might have been thinking as I did this, because every detail of those moments is gone now. They were all swept away in the instant I pulled out the single page inside, opened it out flat and saw the address. For, neatly handwritten in the top right-hand corner, I read the words 73 St Charles Square, London W10.

  People talk lots about hearts skipping beats, don’t they? Or breath being taken away, worlds tilting on their axes, sudden pyrotechnics exploding in the sky . . . I don’t doubt that, for some, there are moments like these. But I can’t adequately describe the emotion that overcame me when I saw that address.

  I read on:

  Dear Mrs Patrick,

  I have been trying to find an old friend of mine, Angela Brown, who used to live in Rayleigh, Essex, and my search has led me to you, so I do hope I’ve found the right Angela!

  I was Frances Whiteley when we first met in Epping in 1963, and of course we had another friend, Paul, whom I’m sure you remember . . .

  I cried out then, involuntarily. I let out a howl of such magnitude that, seconds later, I could hear Michael bounding back up the stairs.

  I have recently met Paul again, and I thought it would be a nice idea for us all to get together again for a reunion. I know it’s a long time ago and we’ve all moved on, but hope you’ll at least give me a ring and let me know how you are, even if you don’t wish to meet us again.

  Best wishes,

  Frances Holmes

  The paper trembled in my hand now, so I steadied it with my other one. By the time Michael appeared in the doorway – in a matter of seconds – I had homed in on three of those neatly penned phrases, and rereading them caused tears to spring to my eyes. All moved on . . . hope you’ll at least . . . even if you don’t wish to meet us . . . They swam before me, all of them such perfectly formed letters, all of them joined to create perfectly formed words, all of them gently yet earnestly entreating that I would at least consider the possibility of getting in touch.

  I was now sobbing uncontrollably, as thoughts began to clamour, as I imagined the journey Paul must have made to get to this point. Just how much had it taken for this letter to reach my hands? It had been so long now – he would be thirty – how hard must it have been for him to make this decision?

  To think that he might be waiting somewhere, braced for my rejection, broke my heart. If I could have been granted one wish at that moment it would have been that I could be immediately spirited to wherever he was, so I could hold him tight, and tell him, that no, no, no, no! He need not worry for an instant longer. He needn’t doubt he’d done the right thing. That I had not moved on, ever. That he didn’t need to hope. That I did wish – oh, God, I could not have wished harder! For it was so painful, in that instant of rereading, to know somewhere out there my child was suffering the agony of not knowing. That he’d searched for me, and found me – though did he even know he had yet? No, he didn’t. Because he had to wait some more, didn’t he? For me to get the message back to him that I was here and that I loved him and that I had never once stopped loving him. That he need never wonder how much ever again.

  Still unable to speak for sobbing, having read and reread the letter, I passed it over to Michael. He read through it silently before coming to sit beside me on
the bed, putting his arm around me and holding me close.

  ‘Hmm, I was right then,’ he said quietly.

  Michael counselled, wisely – more than once that day – that I must try not to get overexcited. There were so many potential potholes down this road I was about to travel, and he was anxious that I set off forewarned. This man – my lost son – was going to be an unknown quantity, a stranger. Suppose we didn’t click? Suppose we didn’t warm to each other? Suppose the issues he might have about being given up for adoption were so great that we couldn’t get beyond them? There was, Michael also pointed out, every possibility that his curiosity, once satisfied, would abate. How would I feel if, now he’d tracked me down and knew where he came from, he didn’t want any further communication? But no amount of wise counsel, however important it was that I absorb it, could stop my brain from fizzing with questions.

  ‘Oh, what will he look like?’ I wondered both aloud and in my head. ‘What will he sound like? What will he be like?’ Would he be studious? Gregarious? Shy? A jack-the-lad type? Would he wear glasses? Would he be short? Would he be tall? I was so consumed by excitement that I could hardly keep still, and though I kept trying to temper it, and heed Michael’s cautions, I honestly can’t imagine ever feeling such an intense level of emotion or excitement again.

  ‘This is the most wonderful news I could have possibly received ever,’ I told Frances Holmes when I was finally able to call her that lunchtime. I had been trying hard to concentrate on my job at the Town Hall all morning, but had to keep disappearing into the ladies’ loo at regular intervals; I just kept welling up with tears, overcome. I couldn’t seem to stop it, and the clock couldn’t creep round to 1.00 soon enough. When I got home I was like a woman possessed. I flew through the front door, hustled our golden retriever, Monty, out through the back into the garden, pulled off my coat and dumped it, even as I rushed to the phone.

  There was a pause now – quite a long one. ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘Of course!’ I responded, shocked. ‘How could it not be?’

  Her tone was measured. ‘Then you’re very unusual.’

  ‘Unusual?’ I was even more shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s not the response I usually get,’ she explained. ‘That is, if I get one at all. It might seem impossible to imagine but, you know, something like ninety-eight per cent of all the birth mothers I’m asked to write to don’t wish to be contacted by their child.’

  I was stunned to hear this. It had been such an ache in me, such a yearning, for three decades. It seemed unfathomable. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I do find that impossible to imagine.’ I thought back to all the girls who had suffered the agony of loss with me. Would that apply to them? I couldn’t conceive of it. And yet . . .

  ‘There are a myriad reasons, of course,’ Frances continued. ‘But in many cases, perhaps the vast majority of cases, it’s an event in their past that they’ve kept secret ever since. So it becomes complicated; potentially destructive to the relationships and families they’ve built since.’

  I got the feeling she must have had this conversation many times in the years since I’d last seen her. Then I thought again of all those girls who had told no one, who’d travelled to the convent in secret, too terrified to tell a soul. How terrible it must be, then, to have their lost child make contact and feel unable to acknowledge their existence.

  ‘But anyway,’ Frances continued. ‘Let’s talk about you. You’ll be wanting to hear about James, won’t you? He’s a policeman, you know, which is what helped him trace you . . .’

  It took a moment for this to sink in. Michael’s earlier words of caution now had some resonance for me. It had been Paul in my thoughts and heart these last thirty years. That he was called James was upsetting, a jerk back to the reality of a person unknown and a life lived without me. He was a stranger, just as Michael had said. But I put that to one side. When we met, it would be different. When I saw him, I just knew, I’d see myself.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I asked Frances. ‘Should I write to him? Phone him?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ she said. ‘The next step is for me to go back to him, convey the details of our conversation – and I know he’ll be so pleased – and invite him to write directly to you, though via this office. I normally suggest that they enclose a photo or two with the letter, and perhaps some idea of when and how you could meet up. That can even be here, if you like. That’s what some people do. And let’s hope it won’t be too long,’ she finished. ‘Though given you’re so pleased to hear from him – which is lovely, Angela, I truly am so pleased for you both – it’s going to seem it, I’m quite sure!’

  I nearly blurted out ‘And tell him how much I love him!’ but then I thought again of Michael. This was a time to be calm, to temper my excitement. I must try, and try hard, not to get my hopes up too much.

  As I put the phone down, memories of that day at the Crusade of Rescue came flooding back, assaulting my senses and making me cry all over again. They were tears of relief this time, but also a metaphorical deep breath. I had not been able to say goodbye to my infant son that afternoon, and the pain of that loss had never left me. I had waited thirty years to tell him how much I loved him. I could manage to wait a few more days.

  If I could wait, though only just, to speak to my son, I was desperate to tell my daughter right away.

  ‘I don’t think you should tell her. I really don’t. Not yet.’

  It was the evening now, and Michael was speaking. Once dinner had been cleared, and Katharine was busy upstairs revising for her A levels, we’d gone out to take Monty for a walk. It was a job that on most days Michael tended to do alone, but we needed a chance to talk privately and this seemed the most logical way to do that.

  ‘You don’t? But surely I must?’ I said, surprised. ‘I don’t think I can bear to hide it from her. It feels wrong to exclude her. I feel like I’m going to burst as it is.’

  Michael squeezed my hand. ‘But sweetheart, you have to. At least till you’ve made contact. It’s an awful lot for you to expect her to take in, whatever happens, but suppose it doesn’t work out? Suppose it all comes to nothing—’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. I just can’t see that – not from what Frances said, I really can’t, Michael. She has met him, remember. And she said he would be so pleased to hear that I was—’

  ‘But it still might,’ he persisted, gently but firmly pushing his point home. ‘You haven’t met him yet, remember. You can’t know. You can’t read his mind, can you? For all you know, he might have no interest in having a relationship with us [I was so touched by that ‘us’]. How do we know it’s not just that he’s going to have a baby or something, and wants to find out a little more about his genes? How do you know – and I’m not trying to seem negative, I’m really not, just playing devil’s advocate – that he hasn’t already got a child, say, and that there’s some sort of hereditary medical problem, something that he wants to find out about? Suppose it’s something like that?’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, then, well, it doesn’t preclude us also trying to—’

  ‘I’m not saying it does.’ He stopped on the path while Monty investigated a tree. ‘Look, poppet,’ he said. ‘All I’m asking is that we wait. Just until you’ve heard from him. Just until you know a little more about him. I think that, what with her exams so close and everything, it would be better to be sure what we’re dealing with than to land her with this bombshell and then have it come to nothing. I mean, look how painful it’s been for you, knowing he’s been out there but not knowing anything about him. Can you imagine how big a thing it would be for Kate? To know she has a brother and then have the exact same thing happen?’

  I nodded. He was making perfect sense, as always. And his words were spot on. Our daughter had always hankered after an older brother. Not a little sister or brother – which, sadly, had never and was never going to happen – but an older brother. That had always been her wish wh
en she was smaller: to have a big brother like several of her friends had. So, yes, it would mean such a lot to her. Michael was right. I shouldn’t tell her, not till I was absolutely sure that Paul – James – really did want to know her. And yet . . .

  ‘Look,’ Michael said, as we walked on. ‘It just seems the safest thing to do. If it does come to nothing – and, God, I so hope it doesn’t, you know that – then surely it’s best that things remain as they are? There’s no point in her knowing if she doesn’t need to.’

  And he was right. I knew that. Why burden her with it? It made so much more sense to wait a bit and see what happened. Oh, but it was going to be so hard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was half demented with anxiety.

  For the next two weeks I lived in a kind of personal hell, preoccupied, stuck in this horrible limbo of knowing he was out there and had taken that life-changing first step. Not knowing what would happen next, and having been so bombarded with them by Michael, my mind couldn’t help but keep focusing on all the negatives. All those cautionary comments he’d made, and which I’d tried to ignore, were now lining up to make themselves clear to me. It had been sane and sensible of Michael to prepare me for the worst, but as a result, Paul – no, James – had become this unknowable power in whose hands rested so much of my future happiness.

  Would he change his mind about wanting to meet me now? Having satisfied himself that he now knew where and who I was, would his curiosity have been satisfied after all? Would he have had second thoughts about the emotional can of worms he might open? Might he have now told his adoptive parents that he had found me and, having done so, been faced with a reaction so powerful that he decided that to pursue it would be too painful for them?