The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (19 page)

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.

M
ichael 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 fruitless 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.

‘No. I mean it wouldn’t be
ideal
, obviously,’ he agreed. ‘We don’t have our own home yet, for one thing. But we’d manage. I’m sure we would. How
hard can it be, after all?’

He had a twinkle in his eye and I loved him for it. John and Emmie had just had their first child, a little girl – she’d been born on the day after our first anniversary, in fact
– and it had been both moving and funny to see how Michael was with her. As an only child, he’d had little experience of babies, and just as I’d been when I had Paul, he was very
nervous. He’d eyed her warily, then picked her up as if she was a piece of expensive china or an alien – one who might do something terrifying at any moment. I no longer had that
beginner’s anxiety. And the thought of being related to this perfect tiny human had not only filled me with joy, but also confidence, because holding her and caring for her felt as natural as
breathing. Yes, Michael was right: it wouldn’t be ideal for us to start our family just yet. Though it would be a struggle financially, as far as ‘managing’ went, I had no worries
whatsoever. We’d be
fine
. I said so.

‘And can you imagine how thrilled my parents would be?’ He rolled his eyes. We both knew how much it would mean to them. ‘To get their hands on their first grandchild?’
He smiled broadly at the thought. ‘Trust me, you’d be having to beat my mum off with a stick!’

This was to be a thought, and an image, that would stay with me for a long time. What a wonderful notion – to have a baby who’d be so loved by all the family.

‘It’s all hypothetical anyway,’ I said, though I’m not sure whom I was trying to reassure most. ‘It’s not like it’s a given . . .’

‘Exactly,’ Michael agreed. ‘So we’ll not worry about it, eh?’ I nodded. He stood up. ‘That’s henceforth the official plan, then,’ he said.
‘If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.
Qué será, será
. Lap of the gods. Come on. Let’s go hire that scooter and get this holiday
properly underway.’

But I didn’t return home pregnant, and I wasn’t sure what to feel. I stopped worrying about it, certainly, once we’d had this conversation; instead I’d thrown myself into
having a lovely time. Though it did cross my mind at odd moments – we were on holiday, so it felt romantic – it would be a lie to say I had started consciously hoping that it would
happen. The timing wasn’t right, and we both accepted that quite happily.

Even so, when my period came just after we returned, I felt an unexpectedly powerful pang of disappointment. It would have been nice, we both agreed. It wasn’t to be, but it would have
been
so
nice to start our family. I went back to taking the pill, as per our original plan, and we put all our energies into saving for the house we both so wanted. Once we’d achieved
that, we agreed, we’d start trying properly. I’d get pregnant, I remember thinking confidently, soon enough. After all, I thought, look how easily it had happened to me before.

But God, it seemed, wasn’t done punishing me.

We’d found our new home the following summer, in the pretty little town of Tenterden in Kent. It was a gorgeous mock Georgian house, detached, with three bedrooms. Once
we’d moved in, I stopped taking the pill, just as we’d planned. I had a new job as well, working for a local branch of Lloyd’s Bank. While Michael commuted up to the City each
day, I settled into a slower, more suburban existence, and dreamed happily of the family we were about to create.

But it didn’t happen. 1968 became 1969 and then, somehow, it was the seventies; 1970 passed and 1971. Though we couldn’t have been happier with our lives and each other, I was
becoming increasingly convinced that the events from my past were conspiring to deny me a second chance at motherhood. I was now twenty-eight years old and we’d been trying to have a baby for
four years. Nothing had happened. I had yet to conceive.

As a consequence I was becoming more and more distressed. It seemed such a terrible waste for this to happen to us, and so unfair. I tried to be rational. These things
did
happen; they
could happen to anyone. It was probably just random bad luck. But I couldn’t help seeing it as a punishment, which felt so wrong. We weren’t bad people. Did we deserve this? And even if
I did, I’d paid my price, hadn’t I? As a consequence, I felt angry and increasingly bitter about having to give up Paul. I also felt such guilt and such sadness for Michael. He’d
taken me on, and I’d failed him.

By the spring of 1972, on advice from my doctor, Michael and I were being tested to see if they could work out the reason why we were having such difficulty conceiving. It seemed my whole life
was now dominated by having one test or another, and then walking to the doctor’s, as I was this morning, only to be told the next lot of bad news.

I was feeling particularly low, having been out at a function the night before with some close friends of ours, David and Joan. We’d married at the same time – David and Michael had
been each other’s best man – and Joan already had two little ones under three. She had been really upset, she’d confided tearfully when we were both in the ladies’, on
realising she might be pregnant for a third time. ‘I can’t bear it!’ she’d cried. ‘I really don’t think I can bear it! If I am, I’m putting my head in the
bloody gas oven!’

I’d said nothing, of course – or, rather, I made all the right noises – but now, with my GP, who was a kind and caring man, I couldn’t seem to stop my tears from flowing.
There had been yet another test, yet another frustratingly inconclusive result. If they couldn’t work out why I wasn’t getting pregnant, what hope, realistically, did Michael and I
have?