The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (28 page)

To James’s excitement, however, and my subsequent delight, his position meant he could access an up-to-date address for me straight away. Such was his gratitude at having the tools to do
this that he would eventually go on to help Frances Holmes at the Catholic Children’s Society with a number of terribly sad and very urgent cases.

When James saw an Angela Patrick and Michael Patrick at the address given on the database, his immediate assumption – which was reasonable, based on the scant information he had to go on
– was that I was a single mother with another, now adult, child. He was finally decided. What would be, would be. He got back in touch with Frances.

James could obviously have pursued me himself. There was nothing to stop him from simply writing to me directly, but Frances, with whom he’d initially made contact, had strenuously
counselled against it. As an adoption agency, one of the saddest parts of what they did was to help steer a course through the emotional journey adopted children took when they decided to try and
find their birth parents.

As James had told me when we’d got in touch, he was one of the few lucky ones, as almost all of the birth parents who responded (few in themselves) only confirmed what was statistically
proven: that they didn’t want to be reunited with the children they’d given up. It was important to the society that they were there for the adoptees, both to be realistic about
outcomes and to be there for them in the event of bad news.

This was why the letter I’d received, so cleverly worded, so cleverly coded, came from Frances, rather than James himself. It was also part of their policy to encourage further
correspondence before meetings, to give both adoptee and birth parent a time to think things through – allowing for a ‘cooling-off ’ period – before further life-changing
decisions were made.

Both of us agreed, later, that we had been champing at the bit. But Frances had been right: it was only sensible to proceed slowly.

But James and I finding one another was, as it turned out, only the beginning of a new story, one that began around the time, in the summer of 1995, when his marriage to Karen
sadly broke up. He’d met someone else and was by this time also travelling a great deal with his job. He had done well in the police force, moving up steadily through the ranks, and by now
was working undercover much of the time, and out of anyone’s reach for days at a stretch. Understandably, given both his career and his ever-changing locations, it was difficult to find times
to get together. We’d often plan trips and visits and, increasingly often, he’d phone to cancel at the last minute.

I tried hard to be reasonable and philosophical about all this. I would tell myself constantly that having him in my life
at all
was such a gift. It was something I’d hoped for so
much but had never expected, something I had so longed for but knew I had no right to. But no matter how hard or how often I tried to rein in my feelings, they would bubble up unbidden and take me
over.

It came to a head one day, in 1996, during a phone call in which he explained that he had to pull out of a trip to Ireland, which, though nothing major – it was just a couple of days to
visit relatives on my mother’s side – had been planned with his agreement. I had just needed to confirm the flight times, which was why I’d called him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he’d told me. ‘But I can’t make it, after all. I know I should have called sooner, but you know how it is.’

I was devastated to hear this, perhaps wrongly, perhaps irrationally. Did it matter
that
much? It was only a few days away. But on top of so many other instances of feeling let down and
superfluous to him, my emotions got the better of my usual clearheadedness. I’d been longing to show him off to all these members of my family, and I couldn’t seem to get past feeling
hurt.

‘Yes, perhaps you should,’ I’d answered, irritably. ‘All this time I’ve been waiting to hear, and only
now
do I find out—’

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he interrupted, his tone equally irritable. ‘But I do have another family to think about here. I have commitments. I have a sister. I have other people
to see. I have other things in my life apart from you.’

It was all true, and I didn’t need to be told any of it, really. Even so, I felt summarily dismissed when he said that, as if I were just a minor part of his life, and should know my
place.

‘I know that,’ I remember saying to him, full of pique. ‘I
do
. I’m just unhappy at the way you treat
me
!’

And then, those fateful words having finally spilled out, I was too upset to go on. I put the phone down.

It probably had to happen, that phone call that day. Though his words haunted me, and the sense of rejection was so painful, it probably had to happen that I articulated the
feelings that had been simmering away in me since the day we had found each other. Perhaps it needed to happen to help me see beyond myself; to think about our unusual situation logically and
objectively, to admit to the jealous longing I harboured. Hard though it was, I perhaps needed to realise that though I was his birth mother, I wasn’t his mother. And I had no right to expect
him to treat me as such.

Having thought all this through – and it took me some days and weeks to do so – I decided I wouldn’t make further contact with him. It was so hard, but I felt it was the only
thing to do. He knew where I was, he knew how I felt – he knew, without doubt now, just how much I loved him – and if he wanted me in his life again, it must be his choice, not mine. It
was not my place to pressure him to see me.

Weeks passed and turned into months, and still no word came from James. When my birthday came and went with no acknowledgement from him I was wretched.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Michael said. ‘You
must
make contact.
You
must. It doesn’t matter how much you feel it ought to be him that does it, who’s
suffering here?
You
are. And I’d bet anything that he is as well. Don’t forget, this situation is not of his making. And remember, he’s had a lifetime of feeling rejected
by you. And he has a
point
, sweetheart. Surely you must see that? It must be hard for him, don’t forget, having to deal with two families – two
mothers
. So perhaps now is
the time to be one to him. Swallow your pride. Risk him rejecting you. Just like he did. Trust me, it will be your loss if you don’t.’

Michael was right, of course. He always is. But I knew I couldn’t phone James. Couldn’t bring myself to, because I felt much too emotional. So instead, I sat and wrote him a
poem.

And I sent a copy to Katharine, too. She was studying in China by now, and I missed her dreadfully. I was also painfully aware how much all this had impacted on her too. Things not working out
between James and me was very difficult for her; having been introduced to and embraced the big brother she’d always dreamed of having, she now had to accept that he was gone again. So,
unbeknown to me, she decided to take action. Having read my poem, she decided to call James herself, and said much the same thing to him as Michael had to me.
Stop
this.
Mend
this.
Don’t be silly.

And James, to my eternal joy, phoned me.

Adoption, in many circumstances, is right for all involved. But in other cases, such as mine, and many others like mine at that time, it’s the catastrophic beginning of a long, painful
journey, the destination of which is unknown. So how can anyone know how to deal with it? How
do
you make up for all the years you both lost? How do you come to terms with the heartache? How
do you deal with the frustrations of the past and find a way, together, to move on from it? There is only one way: truthfully and slowly.

This time, when we talked, we talked more honestly, I think. James had read my poem over and over, he told me, and had focused on one line particularly. I had written about how I should be
content and give thanks for him, not waste time dwelling on what might have been and dreaming of a different outcome. And, given the circumstances of his adoption and his childhood, I must accept
that his love was conditional.

But he surprised me. ‘
No
,’ he said to me that day. ‘That’s not true. I just needed you to understand my situation, that’s all; how hard it’s been and
how complicated it is now. Finding you,’ he told me, ‘was the best thing that ever happened to me. That blood tie’s unbreakable. I think about you. I love you. And that love part,
I promise, is
un
conditional.’

If ever there was an expression of forgiveness, it was that. So we began again to feel our way together, treading carefully and inching forward slowly.

We are still feeling our way. In truth, perhaps we always will be. But James was right. Whatever happens, our blood tie can never be broken.