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Still in denial, I didn’t tell any of the girls at work what was happening. Nor did they ask. All they knew was that I was going away to a special home for the final months of my pregnancy. The worst part was telling Peter. He was finally well enough to come home for a weekend from the rehabilitation centre and Mum, who’d kept it all from him until then, broke the news. He was very upset and worried for me. I guess when he’d last been around I’d been a child. It was a shock for him to accept that I was old enough to have a child of my own. Happily, once he’d calmed down he finally became the big brother I’d always wanted, protective and kind whenever he was home from hospital. We have been close ever since.
As my time drew near the girls at work grew more and more excited. They clubbed together and raised enough money to buy me some maternity clothes. Miss Jones took me shopping to the posh department store Brown’s of Chester and helped me choose three beautiful outfits, a pencil skirt that expanded at the top and some smock tops. ‘You’ll be the best-dressed girl there,’ she told me with a hug.
The closer the date came to me going into St Bridget’s, the more nervous I grew. I’d heard stories about those sorts of places: former convents where unmarried mothers were regarded as bad girls. Up until now I had been treated with nothing but kindness. There had been little stigma to what I had done mainly because everyone knew I was a good girl. The story had gone round that the man who’d ‘got me into trouble’ was married and had then ‘run away’, which I guess protected me in many ways.
Having said my farewells to the Quaintways Girls, I packed a small suitcase and went with my mother to St Bridget’s, a bus ride away. We hardly said a word on the journey, which was just as well because I could barely swallow. Mum just held my hand tightly the whole way. When we arrived, we found the place was more like a church than an institution. It had cloisters and was deathly quiet. Nuns padded silently by, heads down, in long black robes. I was terrified. We were led down a long corridor to the main office and if I hadn’t been so pregnant I think I might have turned and run.
I needn’t have worried. Mother Superior was warm and friendly as she welcomed me to St Bridget’s and offered to show us both around. She led us into the kitchens first where I was relieved to find several pregnant girls, some much bigger than others, all smiling at me and waving shyly. I’d had no contact with any other pregnant women before and seeing one who looked as if she could have her baby any minute I stopped in my tracks. Oh my God! I thought, staring at her huge tummy. That’ll soon be me!
Mother Superior then took us to the nursery, where crib after crib of newborns lay sleeping, closely supervised by nuns. It was like a room full of perfect baby dolls, their tiny hands and feet just like the gorgeous one I had at home. Then we were taken to the laundry where we found more pregnant girls ironing and folding sheets. My mother was impressed with how clean and neat everything was. As we were led along the cloisters towards the chapel I found myself shivering. There’s bound to be a ghost here, I thought. I was almost more frightened of the ghosts at St Bridget’s in those first few hours than of what might happen to me and my child.
When it was time for Mum to go, I could tell she was as upset as me. We hugged and said our goodbyes and she promised to visit every weekend. I dried my eyes as a nun led me to an upstairs dormitory and my metal-framed bed, one in a room of twelve. I was given a locker and began to unpack my case. Slipping into my new brigkt red pyjamas which did up to the neck, I felt a little embarrassed as fellow dormmates wandered in to introduce themselves and admire my clothes. They seemed terribly nice, though. There was no cattiness as I had feared and everyone was happy to help each other because we were all in the same boat. After a supper that was surprisingly good, we retired to the dorm until lights out when I lay shivering under my blanket as some of the girls told scary stories in the dark. ‘There’s definitely the ghost of a girl in the laundry,’ one announced. ‘Oh, yes, and several ghostly nuns who walk the cloisters at night!’ piped another. I didn’t sleep a wink.
Over the next few days, the other girls became curious about my story and I about theirs. Some, it seemed, had been too promiscuous and were paying the price. Others were the victims of sexual abuse, which horrified me. Two girls had been raped by their fathers. I had only ever known kindness and love from my dear old dad and I couldn’t imagine what they had gone through. Strangely, though, they still defended the men who’d abused them. I found that even harder to understand. Most of the girls were relieved to be giving up their babies for adoption but a handful were taking their infants home to be cared for by their relatives, something I was still convinced would happen to me.
The nuns kept us busy, running and managing our own little kingdom. There were strict routines and everything was well organized. We went to chapel every morning and evening but we were never preached to and were mainly left to quiet prayer and contemplation. If we weren’t washing, ironing or cooking, we were cleaning the walls and floors, but we didn’t really mind and soon got into the swing of things. I liked working in the kitchen best. The cook was a lovely woman who used to tell us to strain the cabbage water and drink it for the extra iron. Her food was good and wholesome. It reminded me of my mother’s cooking, and we all gained weight as our babies thrived.
There were six nuns under Mother Superior, each in charge of a dorm. Sister Joan Augustine was in charge of mine but for some reason she didn’t take to me. I think it was because I had more visitors than most. My mother came every weekend, often taking me out to the pictures, but Miss Jones and some of the girls from Quaintways would sometimes come too, always fussing me and bringing me nice things. Sister Joan Augustine clearly thought I was rather spoiled, especially as I kept going back and forth to the laundry to wash and iron my new clothes, determined as always to look my best.
When she showed us the cream and grey Silver Cross pram that had been donated to the home as a Christmas present and told us that the first baby born in our dorm would receive it, my heart sang. Looking around the room, I knew that there were two other girls as close to giving birth as me and I prayed I’d be the first. I was due at the end of December but I knew babies sometimes came early and I did all I could to make that happen. I even volunteered for floor-scrubbing duties, thinking of what Sister Joan Augustine had told us when we were on our hands and knees with a scrubbing brush and Vim. ‘This helps get the baby’s head into position,’ she’d insisted.
Beyond the former convent walls, life went on as usual. The American film star James Dean had just been killed in a car crash. Princess Margaret had announced that she wouldn’t be marrying Group Captain Peter Townsend. People who could afford televisions were able to watch a new commercial channel called ITV with its advertisements for soap powder between festive programmes. For us, Christmas came and went, and none of our babies showed any signs of arriving. On New Year’s Eve, I took part in a little show we put on for each other as we counted in 1956. Even though I was so heavily pregnant, I did a full Fred Astaire tap-dance routine that had been one of my dad’s favourites in the hope that it might bring something on. As midnight struck and the most momentous year of my life drew to a close, we were each handed a mug of celebratory cocoa.
I couldn’t help but wonder what the New Year would bring. It was less than three years since I’d lost my father and in that time my brother had almost died and my mother had suffered terribly with her hand. It was two months before my seventeenth birthday; I was still so young, physically and emotionally. I had no idea what to expect in the coming days and months and instead of dwelling on how painful the birth might be or how I might cope afterwards, I could only focus on beating the other girls in my dorm to win my prize.
It was the early hours of 2 January and I was lying in bed when my waters suddenly broke, drenching my nightdress and the sheets. My immediate reaction was one of elation. ‘This is it! I’m going to get the pram!’
Then the pain began.
Hearing my cries, one of the girls ran to get Sister Joan Augustine, who called an ambulance. She came with me to Chester City Hospital, the place to which my family’s fates seemed inextricably entwined. The contractions were getting stronger and stronger and I’d never known pain like it. With only the nun who least liked me for company, I lay on a bed in the labour ward feeling so frightened I thought I might die.
I longed for my mother through wave after wave of contractions, but I tried to be brave. The sisters had explained what would happen during the birth but none of what they’d told us prepared me for the reality. Someone clamped a rubber mask over my face for gas and air but it reminded me of the Mickey Mouse gas mask I’d had during the war and I began to panic. The gas it pumped only made me feel more nauseous. As I retched and writhed, I tried not to engage in eye contact with the doctor and at least six nurses around me. My ankles were tied with bandages to metal poles at the end of the bed. I’d always been such a shy and private person. I had only ever shown myself to one man. Now everyone was seeing everything – and there was so much blood.
‘It’s a big baby but you’re doing really well,’ the doctor told me encouragingly. ‘Push when I tell you.’
There was no anaesthetic, no epidural. The pain was excruciating and became worse and worse as the hours progressed. Where was my mum? Where was Jim? He should have been there, waiting in the corridor outside for our son or daughter to be born. I wept with pain and bitterness.
At seven in the morning, my eight-pound baby boy finally pushed his way out into this world. He was a little jaundiced and covered in blood but they laid him on my chest straight away. Completely overwhelmed, more exhausted than I had ever felt in my life, I cradled his warm body in my arms.
‘Congratulations, Pauline,’ one of the nurses said. ‘What are you going to call him?’
‘Timothy Paul…’ I gasped, barely able to speak.
Unfurling Timothy’s perfect little fingers until they curled around one of mine, I looked down at my baby boy and splashed his face with tears of joy and sorrow.
Four (#ulink_08a4e2be-472a-5353-a798-86eb75686ba5)
THE FIRST TIME MY MOTHER SET EYES ON TIMOTHY PAUL, HER REACTION was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. ‘Oh, he’s beautiful!’ she cried when she came to visit. ‘Here, I bought these for him.’ From out of her handbag came a lovely little set of clothes. ‘I’ve been saving in a club. I got them from that shop at the end of the road.’
I could have cried with relief. She’d said her grandson was beautiful and she’d saved for some baby clothes. I knew it: she was going to let me bring him home after all. I didn’t dare ask her there and then but the indications were good. Now that I’d had Timothy Paul, now that I’d held him and nursed my beautiful boy, I couldn’t possibly give him up.
Mum came to see me when she could after work in the week I remained in hospital with Timothy Paul but she was often delayed. Every night at visiting time, I used to slide down the bed and pretend to be asleep until she got there. I was the youngest in a ward of twenty women and the only one who wasn’t married. Through half-closed eyes, I’d spy husbands fussing over their wives and couldn’t help but feel sad. I wished with all my sixteen-year-old heart that Jim would stroll into the ward just like the other men, laden with flowers and beaming with pride. I wrote to him again to tell him that he had a son. My mother contacted his base with the same news, but still there was no word. When she registered my son’s birth for me at the council offices, her voice must have wavered as she told the registrar to put down his father as ‘US airman’ but Timothy Paul’s surname as ‘Tilston’.
After a week, I was returned to St Bridget’s. It was good to be back in what felt like my safe haven and to show off my gorgeous baby to the other girls. Thrilled at having beaten the two who’d had their babies after mine, I couldn’t wait to be presented with the beautiful new Silver Cross pram Sister Joan Augustine had promised. That gleaming buggy had been the one goal my childish mind had focused on. It was all my missed Christmas and birthday presents rolled into one. Whatever the future held for me and my baby—and I knew it would be a struggle—I wanted him to have that pram at least.
Sister Joan Augustine told me then that she’d given the pram to someone else: a tall girl called Mary who’d given birth a day after me but who’d come back to St Bridget’s earlier. ‘Hers was the first baby back from hospital,’ she said. Instead she presented me with a shabby little second-hand pram with wobbly wheels and dodgy brakes. I wept buckets over her decision. I immediately hated the horrid pram I was given; I loathed it even more when I came out to where I’d parked Timothy Paul in it one afternoon only to find the wind had blown it down a slope in the garden. One more inch and my precious baby boy might have been tipped over a verge.
My happiest times in those first few months were those spent with my son. As was the routine, all new mothers would wash our babies together and then sit in a row to feed them. Timothy Paul, dressed in the clothes my mother bought for him, clearly loved that moment best because he’d be so contented at my breast that he’d fall asleep and take longer to finish than the rest.
‘Tilly, you’re always the last,’ Sister Joan Augustine would complain. I certainly made a fuss of my baby, and my fussing seemed to upset her routine, but I didn’t care. I was growing increasingly attached to Timothy Paul and was determined to squeeze in every extra minute with him that I could. My stubborn streak cut in and I’d insist that he be allowed to finish at his own pace.
Every week I’d be summoned to Mother Superior’s office to discuss the future of my baby. ‘Now, Pauline, have you decided for adoption or will you be taking your baby home?’ she’d ask, peering at me over her spectacles.
Mrs Cotter, my social worker, would often be there, along with Sister Joan Augustine. ‘Your mother says neither of you can look after the baby,’ my social worker would remind me. ‘There are plenty of childless couples who’d give him a better life.’
Sister Joan Augustine would add, ‘You must make the decision now before he gets too old.’
I’d sit on my hands and shake my head. ‘I just need more time,’ I’d tell them. ‘You said I’d have three months. After that, we can look at other options. He can go into a nursery somewhere close by maybe? I could visit him every day until I’ve worked out what to do.’
They were clearly frustrated with me and did their best to persuade me otherwise but I stuck to my guns. Every time my mother came to visit it was the same story. I’d plead with her to help me find a solution but she’d just repeat that it would be cruel to Timothy Paul to try to keep him. ‘Adoption is the only option,’ she’d say firmly. There seemed to be no way to make her change her mind.
I was dreading the day when our three months would be up. I kept trying to put the date to the back of my mind. I hoped beyond hope that something would happen or that someone would save us. There was still no word from Jim. My mother was sick of me asking if there had been a letter or a call. ‘You have to forget about him, Pauline,’ she told me testily. ‘He’ll never send for you now.’
I had Timothy Paul christened in the chapel at St Bridget’s, with my mother at my side. ‘I name this child…’ the vicar said, marking his forehead with the sign of the cross. Bless my tiny son, he didn’t even cry. He just lay in my arms looking up at me with that placid expression of his, the one that said he trusted me to take care of him. I could have wept.
Three weeks before my deadline was up, Sister Joan Augustine suddenly announced that I had to stop breastfeeding and wean my baby on to bottles of formula milk. I looked at her in shock. ‘B-but he’s too little!’ I protested.
‘He’ll be just as happy with a bottle, Tilly. Now, don’t make a fuss.’
I wept as I fed him that bottle for the first time. It was a horrible day. This was one step closer to the time when I knew I wouldn’t be able to see him every day, to change him and wash him, to cuddle him and feed him myself. He took to the bottle quite well but I never did. The next three weeks were a living agony.
As the date approached when I was due to leave St Bridget’s and Timothy Paul would be sent to a nursery, I became increasingly anxious. Mrs Cotter came to see me one morning to tell me what arrangements had been made. ‘The state will help you pay the nursery fees but the rest will have to come out of your wages, I’m afraid. We’ve found him a place. I’ll come with you to settle him in tomorrow. We’ll have to leave early to make the journey.’
‘Journey? Why, where are you sending him?’
‘The Ernest Bailey Residential Nursery for Boys. It’s in Matlock.’
‘Matlock?’ I asked, my panic rising. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Derbyshire.’
‘But how far away is that?’
‘About eighty miles.’ Registering the look of shock on my face she added, more softly, ‘It was the only place that could take him.’
‘E-eighty miles?’ I could hardly get my words out. ‘That’s too far! It’ll take me a day to get there and how much will it cost each time?’
Her expression was as stiff as her resolve. This was her job: to figure out what was best for babies like Timothy Paul. He couldn’t stay at St Bridget’s. He couldn’t come home with me. What else could she do? Shattered, I realized that I had no say in the matter. To this day, I don’t know if that nursery really was the only one that would take Timothy Paul or whether the authorities chose to make it as difficult as possible for me to keep him. At the time, I must say, the decision felt unnecessarily harsh.
The following morning, I washed and dressed my son, fed him and wrapped him in a shawl. Walking to the railway station with Mrs Cotter, I realized that this was the first time I’d been outside the home with him since I’d brought him back from the hospital three months earlier. If it wasn’t for the circumstances I would have been wildly happy: the proud young mum showing off her gorgeous baby boy to anyone who cared to notice. I wanted people to coo and sigh over him as I did. I’d look at other young girls and think they didn’t yet know the joys of motherhood: the smell of him, the softness of his skin, the little gurgling noises he made in his mouth, the look of sleepy contentment in his eyes as he suckled at my breast. Then I remembered where I was and why. Sitting in the carriage, cradling him in my arms as I soothed him above the clickety-clack of the train, I stared at a dozing Mrs Cotter in the opposite seat and contemplated jumping off at the next station and running away.
But I was seventeen years old. I had no money; no home of my own. Where would I go? I was a good girl from a warm, loving family. How could I contemplate a life on the run? Tempting as it might seem, it wasn’t an option. Instead, I did the only thing I could think of to let my son know how much I wanted him close to me. I told Mrs Cotter that from now on, I would like Timothy Paul to be known simply as ‘Paul’.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘It will make him more personal to me – to my name,’ I replied, pushing my forefinger into my son’s open palm so that he clamped his own tiny fingers around it.
All the way to Matlock, I had been trying to convince myself that my son would be safe and warm there, fed and well cared for until I could figure out what to do next. When we walked into the imposing stone building, though, I recoiled against the idea of him being there at all. He wasn’t a waif or stray. He was mine and he was dearly, besottedly loved.
Shivering, I laid him in a high-sided cot in a room full of similar cots and stepped back. Even though the staff seemed very nice and everybody was ready to welcome him, Paul took one look at my face and screwed his own into a tight ball. Somehow he knew that I was leaving him. I listened to his first howl and watched as he geared himself up for his second. Unable to bear the wrench of our impending separation a moment longer, I fled. I could hear his cries all the way down the street, my little-girl heart jolting with each step that took me further and further away from my son.
Paul was to remain in that nursery for the next two and a half years. As Mrs Cotter had assured me he would, he settled in well and the staff continued to be kind and understanding. I visited him whenever I could but the realities of my situation meant that was only every few months at best. His nursery fees were debited directly from my wages, leaving me with little spare. The train fare was expensive and near impossible on a Sunday. I had to take a day off work each time. The journey left me emotionally drained.
Each time I saw my son I couldn’t get over how much he’d grown. He, meanwhile, seemed to be less and less aware of whom I was. After a while, he began to favour one of his young nursery nurses, which cut me to the quick. My mother, who came with me when she could, would walk alongside as I pushed Paul’s pram through a local park, clearly loving every minute of being with her grandson. I always hoped that she’d come up with a plan on those visits; that she’d tell me she’d thought of something and we could take him home with us after all, but she never did. She just told me, time and again, that my visits were doing no good. ‘You have to let him go, Pauline,’ she’d say as I sobbed in her arms all the way home. ‘This isn’t fair on either of you.’
It was true that leaving him each time was a new wrench, but I just couldn’t bring myself to give up my son. Foolishly perhaps, I was still hoping for something to come along and save us. Was it really too much to wish for?
Five (#ulink_59e5be80-0cd2-5824-a839-36a03ff3e59e)
I WAS STANDING AT THE BUS STOP UNDER THE FAMOUS EASTGATE CLOCK IN Chester waiting to go home after a long day working at Quaintways. Having progressed to an improver in the salon by then, I’d been on my feet all day cutting and setting hair.
It was a fine evening and I checked my watch. The bus was late and so was I. Mum expected me home for supper at six. It was shepherd’s pie. I was always amazed how she could eke out a pound of mince until the end of each week.
A voice at my elbow startled me. ‘Hi there. It’s Pauline, isn’t it?’
I turned and found myself face to face with a man I knew only as the ex-boyfriend of a girl I worked with at Quaintways called Barbara Hill. He was a steward on the Cunard and White Star shipping lines, one of the young men known at the time as ‘the Hollywood waiters’ because they were all so well dressed and suntanned. To my surprise, Barbara, who looked like Kim Novak, had dumped him recently for an American airman called Harry.
I smiled shyly. I’d always thought this chap of Barbara’s was rather nice. He was certainly very handsome and, although not very tall, he had the strong physique of a sportsman. I learned later that he was a prizewining boxer among fellow stewards on the ships. It didn’t surprise me. He reminded me of Dirk Bogarde in Doctor at Sea. He had the same pleasant smile and gentle way about him.
Having recently dated a steward called Chris I knew that he and the boy at the bus stop had both just returned from a three-month voyage to New Zealand. As I turned to say hello I remembered his name. It was John – John Prescott.
‘Hi, John,’ I said brightly. ‘You’re back then?’
‘Yes, we docked a few days ago.’ He smiled and his suntan made his teeth look really white.
There was an awkward pause.
‘I was so sorry to hear about you and Barbara,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Oh, thanks, but that didn’t matter,’ he replied, stoically. ‘I had another girlfriend in New Zealand anyway.’ He paused. ‘Are you still seeing Chris?’
‘No. He found another girl. They’re getting married.’
‘So is Barbara. She’s moving to the States.’
‘Oh.’ I stared down at my shoes, trying not to think what might have been.
‘Do you fancy going to the pictures one night, then?’
I looked up. My mind raced ahead of itself. If John knew Barbara and he also knew Chris, whom I’d been introduced to through my cousin, then he probably knew my history and yet he was still asking me out. He was certainly smiling warmly enough.
‘Yes, OK,’ I replied, on a whim. My bus pulled up just as I spoke, so I opened my handbag and fumbled with my purse. Stepping on to the bottom step, I turned and smiled back at him.
‘See you outside the Regal on Saturday night,’ he called out as the bus pulled away. ‘Seven o’clock?’
I gave him a little wave. His hand came up in a sort of salute and I couldn’t help but laugh. All the way home, I hoped that he did know about Paul so that I wouldn’t have to tell him. Not that I was ashamed – I was never ashamed of my son – but it was always a little awkward telling someone for the first time. John seemed a nice enough chap, though. I smiled at the thought of an evening in his company. I was eighteen years old. It would do me good to have a boyfriend again.
I’d always liked men in uniform, which probably stemmed back to seeing my dad in khaki during the war. The Cunard and White Star stewards not only had smart uniforms, they were especially sought after by all the girls in Liverpool and Chester for other reasons. Having experienced the finest luxury the world’s greatest cruise ships had to offer, they knew just how to treat a girl. They earned good money, especially on their longer voyages, and there was something terribly romantic about a man in a navy jacket and black bow tie sending you postcards and messages from around the world.
A few days later, John took me to the Regal to see a film I don’t now recall a single thing about. My uncle Wilf, the husband of my father’s sister Jane, was probably playing the organ as usual, rising out of the floor on the Wurlitzer, but I don’t remember what he played. We sat quite near the front but after a few minutes he suggested we move to the back row. ‘You’re talking too loudly,’ he said, which I’m sure was just a ruse.
I liked John right from the start. He was funny and he made me laugh. ‘You remind me of someone famous, now who is it…?’ he said.
‘Elizabeth Taylor?’ I asked hopefully, always flattered when the comparison was made.
‘No – Joyce Grenfell!’ he replied with a grin.
Chatting over a drink afterwards, I discovered quite a lot about him and what life was like at sea. He told me about one steward on their last voyage who’d kept them awake playing the guitar and singing all the time. His name was Tommy Steele. I learned of John’s strong political convictions and his dedication to improving conditions at sea, even if it made him unpopular with his employers.
I was surprised to discover that John’s father, a disabled railway signalman from Liverpool known as ‘Bert’, was a friend of my boss Mr Guifreda. John’s mother Phyllis was a Quaintways client. I wondered if I knew her and that – if I did – whether she knew about Paul, too.
I found out soon enough because John took me home to meet her a week or so later. I recognized her straight away. She was a striking, terribly smart lady who was also a professional dressmaker and always wore the most beautiful clothes. I thought she was quite posh. Like my mother, she’d been in service. Like my parents, she and Bert had met by chance, although he’d spotted her on a railway platform instead of across a rooftop. We should have got on like a house on fire because of our common interests but straight away I picked up that Phyllis Prescott wasn’t very keen on me. I could guess why. A short time afterwards, my fears were confirmed. Chatting to a neighbour of hers, Phyllis complained, ‘My John’s taken up with a young girl who’s had a baby, you know. I’m sure he could do a lot better.’
‘Oh, what’s the girl’s name?’ the neighbour asked suspiciously.
‘Pauline Tilston.’
Unbeknown to John’s mum, the neighbour was my auntie Jane and she leapt to my defence. ‘Pauline Tilston is my brother Ernie’s daughter and she was brought up extremely well,’ she told her, bristling. ‘She’s a good girl and John’s lucky to have her.’
Despite once being a maid, Pbyllis was always a bit of a snob, although she was proud of her social aspirations. She’d happily recount the story that her neighbours in Rotherham called her ‘Lady Muck’ because she had the cleanest house and the finest clothes. She had a Royal Albert tea service and wore Chanel perfume. It used to embarrass John how his mother would dress – or ‘overdress’, he’d say. He had a special aversion to her hats, especially the frothy ‘jelly bag’ ones that sat on top of her hair. ‘She came to meet me one time with what looked like a pair of knickers on her head,’ he complained. He’s never liked hats since.
Having learned flower arranging, cake decorating and dressmaking to the best of her considerable ability, Phyllis entered her family into a national newspaper competition as the ‘Most Typical Family in Britain’. Much to her indignation, they came second. Soon afterwards, Bert, who’d lost a leg at Dunkirk, received a grant from the British Legion to buy a new semi-detached house in Upton, which – once again – became the smartest in the street. A staunch socialist, a keen fundraiser for the Labour Party and a huge influence on John politically, Phyllis was a force of nature. Nobody would ever be good enough for her eldest son John. She hadn’t dragged her family from Prestatyn via a Rotherham terrace with a lav in the yard and coal dumped in the alleyway for him to take up with a girl who’d had a baby out of wedlock.
Fortunately, John didn’t share her view and after a while – perhaps because of Mr Guifreda singing my praises as well – his mother began to soften towards me. She offered to run me up a couple of nice outfits and was perfectly pleasant to me, even when her own marriage was in trouble.
As well as working on the railways, John’s father Bert was a magistrate, Labour councillor and loveable rogue who’d had several affairs. When John was just a lad, he’d spotted his father on the Chester Walls kissing a woman and was so shocked that he ran to the police station to report him. ‘I want you to arrest my dad!’ he told a sergeant on duty.
‘Go home, son, and don’t tell your mother,’ the sergeant replied, ruffling the hair on his head. John always laughed when he told that story but he felt terribly let down and still does to this day.
Bert was a big man with a big personality; everyone knew him, this gigolo who never paid for anything and only ever took his family on holidays to places like Bridlington and Scarborough to a trade union conference or to bluff his way into the Labour Party conferences and get a free drink. Phyllis didn’t seem to mind at first. Coming from a Welsh mining background, she was highly political too, hosting local Labour meetings in her home and delivering pamphlets all around the neighbourhood. In the end, though, politics was all they had in common.
Not long after we’d started dating, John’s parents announced that they were getting divorced after twenty-five years of marriage, which was quite something in those days. After years of trying to keep the peace between them, John was the head of the family now and Phyllis came to rely on him ever more. She even asked him to be a witness in the divorce case between her and Bert, but he refused, not wanting to be disloyal to either parent. Maybe because she and I now shared a social stigma, we seemed to get on better after that, even if she was always rather controlling and extremely protective of her son to the end of her days.
My visits to see my son became more and more infrequent owing to my long working hours, my shortage of money and the time I was now spending with John. I found myself speaking of Paul less and less, which felt like a betrayal, but I never stopped thinking of him, and I repeatedly refused to sign him over to the state. Perhaps having cropped my hair for a more sophisticated gamine look gave me the courage to stand firm.
My widowed mother, who was still courting Harry, never stopped working and couldn’t have helped me care for Paul even if she’d had the time or the energy. Harry worked full-time too and, even though he was a kind and generous man, wisely never tried to intervene. My brother Peter had emerged from his years in hospital and returned to work at BICC but had since moved to London to work in their overseas sales department. He’d write sometimes and send birthday presents but he’d never even set eyes on his nephew and Paul was never spoken about. I found myself thinking back to my father and wondering if things might have been different if he’d still been alive. Surely Dad would have found a way for us to keep his only grandchild?
Not long after I’d met John, I’d saved up enough money to go to Matlock again but my mother said she couldn’t go with me. To be honest, I don’t think she had the heart any more. She found it as upsetting as I did. I didn’t want to go alone but couldn’t think whom else to ask. Then I thought of John. The eldest of five children, John had a brother Ray, sisters Dawn and Vivian, and a little brother called Adrian who was born with a harelip and a cleft palate. I’d seen how kind and thoughtful he was with Adrian. He protected him and played with him so sweetly and that gladdened my heart. Nervously, I told John that I was going to see Paul and asked if he’d come along.
