About the Author

Diana was born and grew up in Germany, where her father was a British Army officer. After a move to London, at eighteen, Diana spent a year living with nomadic people in the remote Pamir mountains of Afghanistan – an experience about which she wrote several stories and accounts. These helped secure her first job, as a copywriter and then as writer and editor of children’s information books for Macdonald Educational Publishers.

A move to North East England meant changing direction. Diana took a degree in Speech and Psychology, and worked for many years as a Specialist in Autism, publishing a professional book on that subject. In 2011 she completed an MA in Creative Writing with distinction at Newcastle University. In 2014 her debut novel, The Loneliness of Survival, a moving family saga, was published. It is now published by HQ Digital, HarperCollins, under the title Beyond the Storm, as is her second novel, Finding Lucy. The Lost Twin is her third book.

Praise for Diana Finley from readers:

‘A thought provoking read’

‘Couldn’t put this book down’

‘I found myself eagerly turning the pages’

‘An enthralling tale of love, hatred, secrets and joy’

‘I absolutely drank it all in and wished there was more’

‘Captivating from beginning to end … the characters were beautifully drawn’

‘Diana Finley is perceptive in her character building and of domestic and everyday situations’

Also by Diana Finley

Finding Lucy

Beyond the Storm

The Lost Twin
DIANA FINLEY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Diana Finley

Diana Finley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © Diana Finley 2020 ISBN: 9780008297756

Version: 2020-08-08

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Diana Finley from readers

Also by Diana Finley

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For my wonderful family, especially Terence, who encouraged and supported me through all the ups and downs.

Chapter 1
1970
Marie

‘Push, girl! Push!’ Sister Bernadette growls like an angry bear, gripping my left leg so tightly her bony fingers press painfully into my thigh. It feels as though I’m being tortured. What am I doing here? I want my ma. How could this possibly be happening? God, how I want my mother. What would she say to this …? What would she say to me? No, maybe I don’t want my mother.

‘Oh, oh, you’re hurtin’ me, Sister,’ I can’t help gasping with the pain.

‘Don’t make such a fuss, girl! Whose fault is it you’re in this mess – you tell me that, you little whoor?’

I turn my head to the right, away from the furious hostility of Sister Bernadette, to look at Sister Aileen’s face. It’s a gentler, kinder face – a soft, rosy-cheeked face. Right now I feel in great need of kindness.

‘Sure now, you’re nearly there, Marie,’ Sister Aileen says quietly. ‘Just a few more good pushes, girl, when the contractions come, and it’ll all be done, thank the Lord.’

I try to focus on the woman’s face, her smile, her soft brown eyes, gentle as a fawn’s. But the pain is fair tearing me apart and I can’t concentrate on anything. Another contraction grips my whole body like a vice. I let out a long, agonised scream. I can’t help it. The sound of it fills the room, echoing as though the very walls are screaming back at me.

‘Ahhhhh! It’s killin’ me! Sisters, can you not give us something to take the pain away? Oh God, oh God, oh God!’

I arch my back and try to lift the great swell of my belly off the bed. Sister Bernadette’s furious face, all screwed up in anger, descends on me. She yanks my leg fiercely up and back.

‘You stop that, you wicked girl! Taking the Lord’s name in vain! The pain’s your punishment for what you’ve done – and fair punishment it is too, to be sure. There’s nothing will take that pain away, Marie Tully. Likely you’ll have it for the rest of your life, and rightly so. You deserve it.’

As Sister Bernadette bends close and hisses those words at me, tiny drops of her spit strike my face like vicious little bullets. The look she gives me is one of total disgust, and her grip on my thigh tightens further still.

‘Now, open your legs and push the poor little bastard out! You were happy enough to open them to get it in there.’

Sister Aileen tuts softly. She wipes my face with a flannel and gently pushes the damp hair back from my forehead. Then she moves down the bed to examine me, peering under the sheets.

‘Nearly there now, Marie – I can see babby’s head! Ooh, here it comes now … yes, the head’s nearly out … just another push, dear … yes, oh yes … here it is!’

I feel an intense burning sensation and a primaeval scream bursts out of me. A moment later a shudder goes through my whole body, and then … a sudden feeling of great release.

Slowly, slowly, the pain subsides. Sister Aileen is gently easing the baby out. It slithers onto the waiting towel like a slippery, wet fish, with no effort on my part.

‘It’s a boy! You have a beautiful little son, Marie!’ exclaims Sister Aileen, smiling broadly.

‘Hmmph! I don’t know about beautiful,’ says Sister Bernadette with a scowl. ‘He looks scrawny as a rabbit, considering the girl’s been the size of a battleship these last weeks!’

She takes the baby roughly and rubs him with the towel. He splutters, sneezes and then finally gives a thin wail that brings tears to my eyes.

‘Oh, he’s crying! Oh poor little baby. Be gentle with him, Sister, please. Oh please pass him to me! Just let me hold him.’

I try to reach for him, but just then my entire body is consumed by a further spasm of pain.

‘Aaah, no more! Please make it stop, Sister. I can’t stand no more!’

Sister Aileen lifts the sheet again. Her soft hands gently feel all over my swollen abdomen. ‘My, but there’s another one coming! It’s no wonder you were so big, Marie – you’re after having twins, girl!’

‘Twins …?!’ Sister Bernadette huffs and tuts, her brow furrowed with disapproval, as if producing two illegitimate babies is twice the sin of one.

Thank the Lord, the second baby is born much more quickly than the first. A few more contractions and it’s out.

‘Another boy,’ Sister Bernadette announces. ‘Even skinnier than the first one. Get the girl cleaned up now, Sister Aileen, and then put the infants to the breast. There’ll be no milk yet of course, but let them suck anyway. Get them used to it. They’ll need feeding up, and we’ll not waste good bought, powdered milk on them, not if it can be helped. Sure, we’ll need to get them looking a deal bonnier if anyone’s going to want to adopt them!’

Sister Bernadette stomps out of the birthing room and it’s as if the sun has suddenly come out. I’m holding both my darling babies close, one nestled in each arm. As I bend over to each side to kiss my sons, tears spill down my cheeks.

‘I don’t want them to be adopted, Sister Aileen!’ I wail. ‘I want to look after them … if I can.’

I hug them to me protectively.

‘My wee children … you’re beautiful, so beautiful … my beautiful boys. I don’t want to give them up.’

Sister Aileen looks at me and shakes her head sympathetically. ‘You’re not much more than a child yourself, are you, Marie?’

‘I’m nearly eighteen. I’m not a child.’

Sister Aileen sighs. She leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘Will your family help you, dear?’

‘Me ma, back in Ireland, knows. She was right mad when she found out I was expecting. Said she’d do what she could to help, but only if I gave it up. ’Course we didn’t know there were two of them then. I can’t ever go home though. Me da doesn’t know. Ma said he’d kill us. She’s the one gave me some money for to come here to London. Said there was plenty of people wanting a baby. But I can’t! I can’t give up my own child … my own children, Sister. That’s why I’m come here to St Agatha’s, when I heard there was this mother and baby home in London. What am I going to do, Sister Aileen? How am I to care for two babies?’

Chapter 2
1970
Marie

My feet ache something terrible from trudging the streets to Kentish Town Council Housing Office. It seems to be miles. My thin shoes are wet through. In the cold, the damp leather has chafed the bare skin of my feet, rubbing it raw in places. I’ve no socks or stockings. Rain dribbles from my hair, soaking through my collar, gathering in a freezing rivulet on my neck and back.

Never mind, I tell myself, trying to be brave, the Housing Office will make sure we have a roof over our heads and a bed to sleep in tonight. I pull the baby blanket closely around Barry, and tuck him further inside my gaberdine coat. He’s wedged in on my right side. There’s a sad space on the left. I’d shoved a jumper down to try to fill it. It’s where Donal should be.

At last we get to the council offices. It’s a dreary, forbidding scene. Barry’s screaming by now, wailing at the top of his voice; he must be hungry, as well as cold. The official sits unsmiling behind his desk, while I stand, holding the baby. No chair for me.

The man raises his eyebrows at the sound of the baby crying, and sighs wearily. He looks at me like I’m dirt.

‘The baby’s hungry,’ I explain. ‘He’s crying because he’s hungry. Is there somewhere I could feed him?’

‘This isn’t a bleeding nursery, love,’ he says. ‘If you want somewhere to stay tonight, we’ve got to get on with filling in this form. You can go outside somewhere now and feed the baby if you want, but then you’ll risk losing this bedsit and it’s the last one I’ve got on my books. Your choice. There’s plenty more folks needing accommodation; you’re not the only girl looking for somewhere to stay in London, I can tell you.’

He glares at me.

‘No, please, mister, I really need this room,’ I say. ‘Please, hurry up and finish the form.’

‘Now you look here, missy, don’t you take that tone with me! I’ll finish the form when it’s finished and not before. You girls don’t know how lucky you are; having babies left, right and centre, and expecting the welfare state to support you. There’s no gratitude in this country no more, no appreciation at all.’

‘Oh no, I am grateful, mister, really I am. I’m just worried about the baby.’

‘Yeah well, the sooner we get this done the sooner you can take the sprog away, and we might all have some peace.’

***

When the forms are finally complete, I thank him and leave. Barry is still howling. A few bedraggled people, mostly women, are sitting on a bench in the corridor, waiting to be seen, to be granted some sort of support from the council. Their eyes follow me enviously as I hurry for the door, clutching my precious piece of paper.

‘It’s all right for you,’ their eyes seem to say. ‘You’ve got through this nightmare; you’ve got your permit …’

Outside, I struggle to arrange Barry inside my coat while holding the carrier bag containing our few possessions – I don’t dare put it down. The main thing is I’ve now got the housing token and the address.

We aren’t allowed to go to the house until six in the evening when the landlord will be there to let us in. That means another two hours of tramping about in the cold and wet. It’s already starting to get dark. I’m exhausted, but never mind, it doesn’t look too far to walk to the accommodation, thank God. The man from the council had shown me on a street map. Maybe under his rough exterior he did have some sympathy.

I’m feeling faint. I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast, and that was just a crust of bread. I know I have to eat or my milk might dry up – and I can’t risk fainting while carrying Barry. Maybe I can find somewhere to shelter and keep warm while we wait for six o’clock.

Kind Sister Aileen had given me five pounds ‘just to tide you over, my dear girl’, when I set off from St Agatha’s, but now I’ve only a few coins left, after paying a week’s rent at the hostel, and buying a bit of food. I don’t know when – or how – I might be getting some more money. There’s an ‘emergency fund’ but I’d have to go back to the council tomorrow and fill out another form to apply for that – there were too many other people waiting, and the office was due to close soon. The idea of standing in that queue of hungry-eyed people yet again, for a meagre hand-out, fills me with dread. I decide I’d better try to find something cheap to eat – if anywhere in London is cheap.

I set off in what I hope is the right direction for the accommodation. It’s an area of small, closely built terraced houses. Some of them look quite old and shabby. After a while I notice the lights of a row of small shops. It looks – and smells! – welcoming. I can see a baker’s shop that appears to be open. We head straight for it and as I step through the door a beautiful fragrance of fresh, hot bread wafts towards me, making my stomach growl with anticipation. The wonderful warmth envelops me and I hug Barry close. A plump, middle-aged woman with a kind face is standing behind the counter. She smiles at me.

‘Hello, my love, nasty night, ain’t it? What can I do for you?’

‘May I just have a quick look at what you’ve got …?’

I hastily scan the price labels of the items in the glass counter in front of me, comparing them with the scant coins in my palm.

‘’Course you can, love. You just take your time – no rush.’

Barry is whimpering and snuffling now, too exhausted to scream. He squirms restlessly inside my coat.

‘Oooh, is that a baby you’ve got in there? Ahh, bless him, let me see …’

At the sudden unexpectedly kind tone of the woman’s words, I almost begin to cry. Sniffing, I open my coat and reveal the tiny, red, protesting face of my son. The woman hurries around to the front of the counter and takes him from my arms.

‘Oh, he’s gorgeous!’ she croons. ‘What’s his name?’

I can’t hold back my tears any longer. ‘Barry.’ I gulp. ‘He’s called Barry. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re being so kind. No one else has said nice things to me, not for days and days. It’s just that he’s hungry and I need to feed him, and they wouldn’t let me at the council, and we’re getting a room from the council, but we can’t go there yet … so … so … could I please just have a bread roll? I think I’ve got enough for that.’

‘Oh, you poor love. They’re miserable bastards at that Housing Office, aren’t they? Anyone’d think they was giving you their own house! ’Course you can have a bleedin’ bread roll, love.’ She stands rocking the baby and looking at me. I’m sobbing softly by now.

‘Now, I was just about to close up, so you come through the back and get warmed up, darlin’. You’re wet through, and you look frozen half to death. And this little fella’s got a wet bum. I’m gonna make you a nice hot cup of tea and you can feed baby Barry, and put a clean nappy on him. I’m Sylvia by the way. What’s your name, dear?’

‘Ma-a-rie …’ I sniff.

‘Marie? That’s a lovely name.’

Sylvia bustles me into the room behind the shop: a narrow kitchen with a plain wooden table and two chairs set against the wall.

‘Sit down, Marie love. Have you got any dry nappies?’

I shake my head, tears running down my cheeks.’

‘No,’ I sob, ‘I’ve only got four, and they’re all wet. I’ve not had anywhere to wash or dry them.’

She shakes her head. ‘Oh dearie me. Not to worry. You feed the baby. Then I’ll change him for you. I know I’ve got some old towels out the back, what we can cut in half for a nappy. I know what it’s like to care for a baby when you’re on your own, with no money, believe me. No, it ain’t easy when there’s no man about to help you. Not that they’re much bleedin’ help, are they, love? Once they’ve done their bit, they’re quite happy to bugger off and leave you to it.’

Sylvia bustles about in the cramped kitchen, while I feed Barry. He sucks rhythmically at my breast. What bliss to sit down. I feel the warmth of the room wrap itself gently around me and close my eyes.

***

The next thing I know, Sylvia has put a plate in front of me and is gently squeezing my shoulder. Barry, warm and fed, is fast asleep in my arms, his mouth slack.

‘Here, give the baby to me, love, and get stuck into this – it’s a steak pie and some mash an’ gravy – nice and hot. Do you good, it will. A lot better than a miserable old bread roll, eh love? And there’s some lovely hot tea for you as well. I’ve put two sugars in, for energy. You look like you need it. Now just get that lot down you.’

Sylvia takes Barry, washes and changes him, and then sits down cuddling him on her lap, rocking him back and forth slowly. She watches me as I finish eating, shaking her head.

Relaxing now in the warmth, I remember the good friend I made at St Agatha’s – Elsie – and her warning to me as we chatted in the cold yard of the home, our three babies bundled up in a blanket between us, like a row of sausage rolls.

I tell my new friend – Sylvia – what Elsie had said.

‘You do know they’ll never let ya keep them, don’cha? Not when your mum and dad won’t ’ave them in the ’ouse.’

‘They’re mine; they’re my babies, Elsie. They can’t take them off us. You’re allowed to keep your Milly, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, but that’s just ’cos me mum said she’d support me and the baby. And ’cos me mum’s just down the road in Shoreditch, not away off in Ireland like yours. They’ll not let the likes of you keep them, Marie, not on your own. Anyway, they get a “donation” off the adopting parents, don’t they? Sister Bernadette will make effin’ sure she gets ’er money, I betcha.’

We gazed at our babies in silence for a minute.

‘Mebbe they’ll let you keep one of them,’ mused Elsie. ‘You said you’ve got the milk to feed one at least.’

‘They’re twins, Elsie. They can’t separate twins … can they?’

‘They can do what they flippin’ want. They’re the ones in charge around ’ere. We’ve got no power, no power at all.’

***

It’s dark as I step out into the street again. I turn and give Sylvia a hug.

‘Thanks for everything, Sylvia. You’ve been so generous and kind – how can I ever repay you?’ Tears threaten to flood from my eyes again.

‘Never mind all that, darling … it’s nothing, really. Now, are you sure you know the way to Bailey Street? It’s no more than ten minutes’ walk. Just round that corner, turn left and then right by the post box. And don’t forget where your old Auntie Sylvia is, will you, love? I expect to see you and this young man in the next day or two anyway, but you just come straight back now if there’s anything you need – or if there’s any problem, anything at all.’

I smile to myself as I walk along. Life isn’t so bad after all. Barry and I have full stomachs, a place to stay for the next two weeks, and I’ve made a lovely new friend. If only … no, I remember how Elsie had told me never to dwell on the ‘if onlys’. She was right. I’d done the right thing, hadn’t I? I’d made the right decision? Well, I didn’t have a choice; it was the only decision I could make.

***

Thanks to Sylvia’s instructions I soon find Bailey Street. It’s a long, narrow row of small terraced houses, with another identical row opposite. Most of the houses look a bit shabby and neglected; paint peeling from the doors and window frames. I walk along the side with even numbers, looking for number 22. It doesn’t take long. The front door on this house could certainly do with a fresh coat of paint. The windows could do with a wash too! There’s no bell so I knock loudly on the door. It’s opened by a thin, unshaven man in his forties. He frowns fiercely at me.

‘Yes?’

‘Er … Mr Finch?’ I say hesitantly. ‘I was told you have a room. I’ve come from the Housing Office. Marie Tully’s my name.’

I wave the housing token I’d been given by the Housing Office in front of the man’s face.

‘Oh yeah. Well, you’re late,’ he says, squinting at the token.

‘Oh, I’m very sorry if I’m later than you expected, Mr Finch. They told me not to arrive before six o’clock.’

‘Yeah? Don’t know why they said that. Tell you anything they like, that lot. Anyway, it’s OK – you better just come on in, love. Wipe yer feet. It’s a devil keeping the floor clean; there’s that much coming and going.’

The grey, threadbare carpet is indeed heavily stained. Narrow stairs rise steeply straight ahead of the front door, beside which an even narrower, gloomy passage leads to the back of the house. I notice what looks like a tiny kitchen at the far end.

The man steps aside to let me enter the house. I squeeze past him. He pulls a rope switch, and like a music hall performer, I am suddenly illuminated as I stand in a pool of light from a bare ceiling bulb above my head. Mr Finch looks closely at me.

‘Blimey girl! They didn’t tell me you was bringin’ a baby. That’s not really part of the contract. Oh well, now you’re ’ere love … never mind. You’ll ’ave to keep it well quiet, mind, or the other guests might complain.’

He exhales noisily. ‘Right, now, the ground floor is where I live, so all these rooms are out of bounds – don’t forget that, will you? OK, follow me, I’ll show you to your room.’

He stomps noisily up the stairs and onto a small, gloomy landing, lit by another unshaded bulb. There are five doors that lead off the landing and Mr Finch opens the one at the very end on the right.

‘Bathroom …’ he informs me. ‘It’s every guest’s responsibility to keep it clean. You share it with the other three residents.’

The bathroom is so tiny, Mr Finch has to step back into the gloom of the landing again, in order for me to enter. I wonder briefly whether anyone could actually sit on the toilet and still shut the door, without drawing their knees up to their chin. Next to the toilet is a tiny, stained washbasin, less than twelve inches across. I do a quick mental calculation of whether I could bath Barry in it. I decide we will manage. Opposite the basin is a shower scarcely big enough for a normal-sized human being to turn around in it! The shower is screened from the rest of the room by a plastic curtain, frayed and shredded at its lower edge, and made stiff by age. Patches of black mildew stain the walls and ceiling.

Mr Finch motions to me to come out. He leads me to the door marked ‘4’, furthest from the bathroom. He jangles a set of keys in his hand and produces a separate one for me.

‘Right, come on then, girl. This ’ere is your room. This is your key. I don’t ask for no deposit, ’cos I know me guests don’t have no money. But, it’s ten pounds to pay if you lose it.’ He glares ferociously at me. ‘Ten pounds! So make bloody sure you look after it. And keep your door locked at all times. Fred, over there in room one—’ he lowers his voice and points to the door next to the bathroom ‘—can get a bit frisky when he’s got a few pints inside him, know what I mean? He doesn’t mean no harm, but some of the girls don’t like it.’

He opens my door. The room, like the rest of the house, is tiny. There’s a narrow single bed, a small table and stool, and a tiny chest of three drawers. It looks as if the room was intended for a child. There is just enough room to walk between the bed and other furniture to the window, provided the occupant shuffles sideways like a crab. In fact, the window is only half a window; the other half disappears into a partition wall. Clearly a larger room has been divided into two at some stage of the house’s history, perhaps to squeeze extra guests in.

Oh well, I think, just as well that we have so few possessions. There’s nowhere to put anything.

‘There you are,’ says my landlord cheerfully. ‘Nice and cosy. The bed’s got two sheets and two blankets, and a pillow, and that’s your towel.’

He indicates a faded, greyish piece of material folded on the bed.

‘I see … er … thank you, Mr Finch, but … er … do you have … a cot? For the baby?’

‘No, I don’t. It’s not listed by the council as one of the requirements.’

‘Oh …’ I say, crestfallen.

Mr Finch looks at the baby thoughtfully. He’s not an unkind man.

‘Tell you what though, love. I’ve got a cardboard box downstairs. Got it from the supermarket this morning. Should be about the right size – he’s not very big, is he? You can have that. You might have to put the bedside table on top of the chest of drawers, like, if you want the baby on the floor next to the bed, that is. I’ll bring you an extra blanket too.’

I hesitate for a moment, and then realise there’s no alternative.

‘Thank you, Mr Finch, that’s very kind of you.’

***

Barry is quite snug in his cardboard box that night. I’m relieved to see that the blue blanket Mr Finch has brought is clean. It’s thin and worn, but I fold it carefully, so that part of it forms a soft mattress over the base of the box, leaving a layer on top to serve as a cover. My own bed is hard and lumpy, but after feeding Barry, we both sink into a deep, exhausted sleep. I don’t wake until the baby’s hungry cries penetrate my consciousness a few hours later. It’s still dark. At least it’s easy enough to lean out of the bed to lift Barry from his little makeshift cot beside me and wrap the bedclothes around both of us while I feed him. Still plenty of milk, I note with satisfaction. I must have been given a boost by that wonderful steak pie Sylvia gave me, God bless her. I close my eyes and recall the delicious savoury smell of it, the succulent cubes of meat, the crisp pastry, the rich gravy soaking into the mashed potato. It was more than I’d eaten in all the frugal weeks of my stay at St Agatha’s. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

Barry settles straight back to sleep after his feed, but I’m troubled by anxious thoughts of the future, and the past. Instead of relaxing into sleep, my mind keeps returning to the dreadful scene with Sister Bernadette – the confrontation that led to Donal being taken from me.

I stared at Sister Bernadette across the expansive, hostile plain of her desk. I could see her thin lips moving, but it was as though she was talking a foreign language, or perhaps as if she was underwater, the sounds making glugs, plops and bubbles … not real words; there was no meaning to them – nothing I could comprehend.

‘So you see, Marie,’ she said ‘you should be truly grateful that you’ll be relieved of the care of one of your children. You are indeed fortunate that this very kind couple, with excellent background – well-to-do people from a fine, respectable … Christian family, have chosen to adopt one of your sons. They have been shown photographs of both boys, and perhaps surprisingly, they have chosen the second-born child, who is of course the less robust of the two. No doubt their choice comes from a deeply charitable sense of sympathy, and a wish to help the most needy of the two. Very worthy, very admirable. Thank goodness there are such people are in the world, hmmm?’

She glared at me, as if waiting for some indication of gratitude, which was not forthcoming.

I glanced down at my babies, each sleeping peacefully in the crook of one of my arms.

‘Of course, whether they will retain the Christian name you have given the boy,’ Sister Bernadette continued, ‘is entirely up to them. They may well decide to rename him, to make him theirs. That is their right, you see …’

On and on she went, relentless, merciless. I tried to understand what she was saying, but I felt so faint, so nauseous, I couldn’t take it in. Her words fell like raindrops on a puddle, creating momentary discernible rings and then disappearing, lost for ever – nothing my brain could hold on to.

‘But … but they’re twins, Sister. They can’t be separated, they’re both my babies. I’m their mother. I can take care of them. I love them, both of them …’

‘Yes, well, of course that is the selfish view I might have expected from you, Marie Tully. If you truly love them as you say, you must consider what is best for them, not for yourself … never mind what you want! These good people are wealthy, respectable, secure; they have a beautiful home. They long for a child to love. Your boy will want for nothing. He will have the best education, a fine future. What can you possibly give him? You haven’t even enough milk for both infants!’

Sister Bernadette snorted and glared at me. She shook her head in scorn and exasperation.

‘A life of poverty and insecurity! A squalid flat somewhere, at best,’ she continued. ‘Just how do you expect to support one baby, let alone two?’

She turned and fixed me with a cold stare.

‘Perhaps, just perhaps, you can manage to care for one child, taking in washing at home, or doing some other lowly work … cleaning floors maybe …’

I was silent for a moment, contemplating the bleak picture of life Sister Bernadette was painting for me.

‘Yes, oh yes, now you can see it, Marie, can’t you, hmmm? That’s how life would be for you. Is that what you want for yourself, for your boys? No, I don’t think so …’

She paused to allow these words to penetrate.

‘I know you’re not all bad, girl, but just think; think of the future. With only one child, and some help from the state, you may be able to manage – though don’t for a minute think it will be easy!’

I looked down at the tops of my tiny sons’ heads. I shook my own head slowly. My lips trembled. Tears cascaded down my cheeks. Sister Bernadette seemed to sense a weakening of my rebellion. Her tone changed.

‘So, just think of this, Marie,’ she crooned softly, soothingly. ‘If, if, you agree to let the baby go – to go to this wonderful home that’s being offered – not today, not tomorrow … but in about four weeks’ time … if you agree to sign the adoption paper – just for the one child – well then, I think we can agree for you to keep the other one. All that would remain, is for the baby in question to have a thorough health and development check.

‘What about that now – hmmm? In fact, we can even give you some help by way of finding somewhere to live, just to start with, of course, for you and the other baby – applying to the council you see, and maybe even getting some support for childcare to enable you to find a little job … Now wouldn’t that be a fine thing? What else can you possibly do, girl?’

So here I am now: living the life Sister Bernadette foresaw for me.

How am I ever going to earn enough money to support us? London is so expensive. Somehow, I’ll have to pay rent somewhere, and buy food to keep us going.

I don’t know a soul in London, apart from Elsie, who lives with her mum and dad in their small council house in Shoreditch, and my new friend Sylvia. I’ll have to find my own place somehow. How is the critical question. I’ve neither qualifications nor experience to apply for jobs, and anyway what work could I possibly do, with the baby to care for?

I try to think positively; if I was an African woman in the bush, I’d simply tie the baby onto my back with a length of cloth, and get on with working in the fields, or cooking over a fire. I rather wish I were an African woman. At least it’s probably warm in Africa.

But I don’t think London has any fields to work in. I’ll have to find something different to do. What am I good at? I have plenty of experience in cleaning, after all that skivvying at St Agatha’s. I could scrub a floor for England and Ireland put together – that’s for sure! I’m not a bad cook either; I helped me ma enough times at home. But the thing I’m best at is sewing. I had a real way with a needle, Ma always said. Maybe somehow I could use that skill … but how?

Chapter 3
1972
Marie

If it hadn’t been for Sylvia, I’d never have met Mrs Goldstein, never have considered the opportunity of working for her. How different my life would have been. We saw the advert for a housekeeper in the paper. It caught my eye, but without Sylvia, I would never have dared to contact Mrs Goldstein about the job. I thought there was no chance that she’d even consider me when she heard I had a baby, now a toddler – an illegitimate baby, who would have to come to live in her house too. It was Sylvia, always an optimist, who encouraged me to ring the number.

‘Go on! You don’t lose anything by giving it a go … Nothing ventured nothing gained!’

I was trembling when I told Mrs Goldstein about Barry. She paused in our conversation, as if she needed to absorb this information. I waited for her to say she couldn’t have a mother with a baby for the position, but she didn’t. After a minute she said, ‘Well, how lovely that you have a little child, my dear! I am very fond of children. Please do come to see me, and we can talk together and decide whether we like each other. I’m quite sure that we will.’

She gave me directions for finding the house. I thought she sounded nice. She sounded gentle and kind. She sounded foreign too.

‘Why don’t you come here tomorrow morning at about eleven o’clock, Marie, and we can have some coffee together? Blackheath is the other side of London, south of the River Thames. You will need to take a bus to Charing Cross or the underground to Trafalgar Square, and then it’s a short walk to Charing Cross. Then from Charing Cross station you take a train to Blackheath station. It’s not very far – maybe twenty minutes on the train.’

Hearing this, I suddenly panicked and couldn’t think of what to say. A soft ‘ooh’ of disappointment escaped my lips, though I hadn’t meant it to.

‘Marie? Are you still there, my dear?’

‘Yes … sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m here. I … I was just thinking about the train … I was just wondering … er …’

‘Ah … I think you are worried about buying a ticket. Am I right?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Mrs Goldstein. I … I was just wondering how much it might cost …?’

‘Marie, can you maybe borrow the money from someone you trust? I will pay you back the cost of the journey tomorrow – whether or not we decide that the job will suit you. Do you think you can do that? I really would like you to come. I think I will like you.’

I looked at Sylvia. She had helped me so much already. Was it fair to ask her for a loan on top of everything else? I absolutely had to try for this job. What other chance of work did I have? Meanwhile, Sylvia was nodding her head madly like a mechanical puppet. She must have understood what was going on.

‘Thank you so much, Mrs Goldstein. I will ask my good friend Sylvia to help me … and then I’ll pay her back as soon as I can. If you’re sure, I’ll come to see you tomorrow at eleven.’

Sylvia started jumping up and down like a dervish, grinning and gesticulating ‘thumbs-up’ at me.

‘That’s good,’ Mrs Goldstein said, ‘and bring little Barry, won’t you? I would have been so disappointed if you didn’t come. You have a very kind friend in Sylvia, I think. Now listen carefully and I’ll explain exactly how to get here. Have you got a pencil and paper?’

Sylvia leapt up and hugged me when I put the telephone down, pulling me into a crazy dance.

‘It’s a real chance for you, darlin’, and they don’t come often, do they?’ she said. ‘Somewhere to live, and a job into the bargain! She sounds such a nice lady. Don’t you worry about the fare money – I’m not bothered about it. I want to see you and Barry settled.’

***

I step off the train and on to the platform at Blackheath station carrying Barry in my arms. We make our way out onto the hectic street, busy with shops and cars, and a crush of people scurrying about. My hand clutches the precious instructions, crumpling the paper into a damp ball, even though I know them off by heart. Barry is alert and curious, turning his head eagerly from side to side, trying to take everything in. He’s starting to walk quite well, but it’s too far to the house and I don’t want to be late. So I have to carry him. He’s getting very heavy now.

By the time we’re out of the bustling centre of Blackheath, and into the quieter streets, twenty minutes have passed. I’m getting tired, but we’re nearly there. We come to a leafy, spacious street. Linden Avenue, that’s right, it’s Mrs Goldstein’s street. The houses are large and detached, quite varied in shape, but each one is set in a verdant garden, with bushes and trees. It’s very different from the tightly built, older terraces I remember of Mr Finch’s area, where most of the front doors opened straight onto the pavements – and even more different from the council houses round my block in Shoreditch.

I check the address on my scrap of paper. Number 19 Linden Avenue. This is the house, a fine, double-fronted brick building. The front garden looks lush and thick with large shrubs. Early spring flowers, like bright stars, dot the lawns. A curving path winds through this foliage towards an imposing front door. I gaze up at the wide windows on the upper floor. There are further smaller windows under the roof, set into the eaves. Barry wriggles, wanting to be put down. He toddles on up the path, stamping his feet.

The house looks quite old, maybe built in the last century, but it looks very well maintained. As we approach, I notice the window frames are all freshly painted white, as is the front door.

I hesitate nervously on the front step, trying to imagine us ever actually living in such a grand house. Before I’ve had time to ring the bell, the front door is flung open by a tall lady, quite old, maybe seventy or even more, with grey hair piled on top of her head. Mrs Goldstein. She’s smiling broadly and reaches out both her arms to welcome us.

‘You must be Marie – and Barry! I’m Erna Goldstein. I am so very pleased to meet you. What a darling little child! Hello, Barry; hello, my sweetheart. Welcome to my home. Come in, come in! Let us have some coffee together, and we will talk – and then I shall show you around.’

She leads us to a comfortable sitting room and tells me to take a seat, then sits herself down on the sofa opposite. There’s a tray with coffee things: a white pot and two cups and saucers, with a plastic mug of juice that she gives to Barry. She points to some toys on the floor in the corner of the room.

‘Those are for Barry to play with, if he would like. Now, tell me a little bit about yourself, Marie. Do you have experience as a cleaner?’

For a moment I had forgotten that this was supposed to be an interview.

‘Yes, Mrs Goldstein, I have always helped my mother at home, being the eldest girl in the family.’

‘Have you now? I’m sure she taught you lots of useful skills.’

‘She did,’ I reply eagerly. ‘I can cook quite well … erm, but nothing too fancy. I can clean windows and hoover and … and scrub the house. I’m used to doing washing and making beds … and I’ll do any other jobs that need doing. I’m good at sewing too …’

I explain I’ve been doing a part-time job as a domestic help and nursemaid for a lady with a small child of three, while she’s at work. That enables me to pay the modest rent in a temporary, small bedsit the council has given us in a block in Shoreditch, near my friend Elsie, but now the council need it back, so Barry and I have to find somewhere else to live.

Mrs Goldstein just smiles and says, ‘Well, I’m so glad you found me! How wonderful to have so many skills and such useful experience. Now when you’ve finished your coffee I’ll show you all round the house. I hope you’ll like the little flat you and Barry will be living in.’

So I guess that means I’ve passed the interview, that I’ve got the job! It seemed to happen without me noticing. Barry and I move into Mrs Goldstein’s house two weeks later.

***

Many mornings, as I emerge from sleep, I wonder briefly if it’s true, that it isn’t a dream. We really do live in the beautiful house – warm, comfortable, and safe.

In the two weeks since we’ve been at Mrs Goldstein’s we’ve already developed a routine. I begin each day by getting Barry up from his cot, and then washed, fed and dressed. Then while he sits strapped into his highchair or plays on the floor with his toys, I make Mrs Goldstein her usual light breakfast of coffee, a boiled egg and a slice of the dark brown rye bread she prefers, and which I have learned to buy at a small delicatessen in the village, run by a Polish couple.

Twice a week I hoover and dust the whole house, each time concentrating on a different room for a more thorough cleaning. Several of the rooms in the large house are unused, except very occasionally when a distant relative or old friend of Mrs Goldstein’s comes to stay. She doesn’t have a lot of washing, but I do it regularly, carefully making up her bed every week with fresh sheets and pillow cases.

She often asks me to join her while she has her mid-morning coffee, or to accompany her on a walk to the nearest shops, or occasionally to the park. I love these times. One of Mrs Goldstein’s friends kindly gave me a pram, which her grandchild had outgrown. It converts into a pushchair, so I can take Barry wherever we go without the strain of carrying him. He’s growing bigger and heavier by the day. No wonder, the amount of food he eats!

In the evening I cook us all a meal. Gradually, I’ve been expanding my repertoire, at first under instruction from Mrs Goldstein, and then by studying her numerous cookery books. She is used to different food from the plain fare I grew up eating and cooking, so I’m learning to make all sorts of unusual dishes – wiener schnitzel, Hungarian goulash, coq au vin, and other foreign-sounding – and tasting – dishes. I love their exotic names, and the ingredients: veal, red and green peppers, spices, garlic, and even wine! I’ve never tasted such things before. Generally, though, we both prefer to eat quite modestly and simply. Usually Mrs Goldstein eats her supper from a tray and listening to the classical music she loves, while I take my share, and Barry’s, upstairs to our warm, cosy little ‘flatlet’ at the top of the house. Up there we have everything we could possibly need.

Mrs Goldstein even bought us a little colour television. It’s a great wonder to me, bringing the world in all its reality into our home. I’d never seen such a thing before – the few televisions I’d seen in other people’s houses back home had had dull black and white pictures, even though we all thought them a miracle at the time. Of course, Barry loves the cartoon shows like New Zoo Revue and the Bugs Bunny Show, but after he goes to bed I watch my favourite programme: Bewitched.

My housekeeping tasks only keep me busy for part of each day; for the rest of the time I’m free to play with Barry or take him out. I’ve also been developing my dressmaking skills, and have been using them to earn some extra money. Mrs Goldstein has recommended me to her friends. At first just repairs and alterations, and with the money I saved I managed to buy a second-hand electric sewing machine.

Now I’ve also been asked to make an outfit for one of Mrs Goldstein’s friends, for her daughter’s forthcoming wedding. She asked me to make up a pattern she’d bought, together with the material: a fine blue silk. I know how important the dress is for such a special occasion so I want it to be perfect.

Dear Erna Goldstein. How I bless the day I answered that advert for a housekeeper to care for an elderly lady. I learn she was a refugee from bad times in Europe. I know that she had escaped to England more than thirty years before, but I know little else of those times. Perhaps one day she’ll tell me about just what happened to her all those years ago.

On more than one occasion Mrs Goldstein insists that this is ‘my home’.

‘You must do exactly as you want, Marie; you don’t need to ask permission for anything you want to change in your flat. You should feel free to ask your family members round if you like. Or invite friends – perhaps for tea or coffee. In fact, you could ask them to visit, if you want. It’s your home remember.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Goldstein, thank you. But all my family are still in Ireland, and I don’t really have any friends here in London yet – apart from Sylvia, of course, and my friend Elsie who lives with her baby in her parents’ house in Shoreditch.’

I tell her all about Sylvia, how kind she was, and still is, to me. How she helped me when I was all alone and that we have been friends ever since.

‘Ah, Sylvia! She’s the special friend you were with when you rang me, isn’t she? She sounds so nice. Why don’t you invite her round for lunch one of these days? Or even to stay for a night or two if you like?’

A few weeks later, on a Saturday, Sylvia comes for a day and we have a lovely time, walking around Blackheath, with Barry in his pushchair, exploring all there is of interest. We walk to Greenwich Park, so Barry can have a run about, chasing the birds and squirrels. While he’s happy and absorbed, Sylvia and I have time to talk. She and Elsie are the only people in London, apart from at St Agatha’s, who know about Donal, how his loss tortures me.

‘You look well, Marie,’ she says.

‘I am well … and happier than I’ve been in a long time, thanks to you mostly, Sylvia. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here. My life is transformed, because of you.’

Sylvia looks straight into my face. ‘Oh really, don’t be so silly. I’m just glad all’s going well for you.’

‘As well as it could possibly be without Donal.’

She nods her head and reaches out to hug me. ‘I know, love, I know. Come on, Marie – let’s have a go on that roundabout! Give me a spin!’

She picks Barry up and swings him in the air. We race to the little playground nearby. It’s the happiest time Barry – or I – have had for a long time. We stay in the park all afternoon.

Then we head back to the house and all have tea together. I can tell Erna Goldstein enjoys Sylvia’s company too. After that visit Sylvia comes to stay for a weekend every two or three months. Mrs Goldstein is always very welcoming.

Sylvia and I love to walk on the heath together. Barry loves it too. He seems mesmerised by the sky, leaning his head back and gazing upwards.

I understand why he is drawn to the sky. In the peace of Blackheath, in its open spaces and vast skies, my heart gradually settles. It has become my home, although I still miss my family back in Ireland.

‘It’s good to see you like this, Marie,’ Sylvia says.

‘I love to walk on the heath,’ I tell her. ‘That’s what local people call it, anyway. It’s not what I understand a heath to be, not at all like in my homeland. After all, there’s no heather, no bracken, no shrubby golden gorse bushes. Just this great wide, manicured stretch of grass, an endless grassy meadow – with neither sheep nor cows to graze it!’

Sylvia laughs. ‘Yes, and with roads and cars criss-crossing it.’

We stand and stare up at the sky, rising huge and dominant, sometimes steely grey and forbidding, but more often a great swathe of blue, and gentle. I get Sylvia to stand with me in the middle of the grass and we stretch our arms out to the sides and up to the heavens above. Then little Barry watches us with a cross face on him. He frowns at me, as if he thinks I’m a crazy woman – which perhaps I am!

‘You know, Sylvia, sometimes I’m almost happy,’ I tell her. ‘There’s just the one area of my life causing me pain and anxiety, and I can’t stop it. That feeling of loss eats away at my soul every day and every night – and the sadness never seems to lessen. If anything, it consumes me more and more as our separation wears on. Sure, I chide myself for not being satisfied with my perfect, adorable Barry. Just look at him! Isn’t it a disgrace – a sin even – not to be grateful for the life I now have, and especially with my fine, lovely little boy?’

‘It’s not a sin to mourn your missing child, Marie, your Donal. Your love for Barry can’t wipe out your love and longing for Donal.’

She squeezes my arm.

‘There’s another shadow hanging over me …’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s hard to put my finger on it, Sylvia, but I feel a concern about Barry. Oh, he’s beautiful, healthy and thriving, yet, yet … I wonder if there isn’t something not quite right with the child. As a baby, you know, he was forever looking around for no apparent reason, kind of looking over his shoulder, as if he expected to see someone there. Often his little face would suddenly crumple and he would cry inexplicably.’

Barry ran round us laughing and whooping.

‘Well, he looks lively and happy enough just now,’ Sylvia says with a smile.

‘Yes, anyone who saw him now would say that. But, as he’s grown into a toddler, he has a peculiar little game that he often plays by himself, holding out one of his toys, as if to some imaginary child, and then snatching it back, saying something like “No not you!” or “You not having it!”, with a glowering look of fury on his little face. It really worries me, Sylvia.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Well, at first I thought it amusing and quaint, but as time goes on he often repeats the game, and it just seems a bit odd. It’s as if there’s a terrible anger in the boy, which neither I, nor even Barry himself, can understand. Sometimes Barry’s anger expresses itself against me, his own mother, Sylvia. It happens particularly when we have quiet times together, Barry and I. I suppose it’s when thoughts of the dreadful empty gap in my life surface and preoccupy me. I really do try hard to control them, for fear of upsetting Barry, but I can’t always hold those thoughts at bay.’

I can’t stop the tears starting. When Sylvia hugs me, a deep sadness, a desperate longing, winds itself around my heart like a snake, squeezing it so painfully that my tears start to flow. Then Barry frowns and narrows his eyes and watches me closely. Of course, I reach for him and try to draw him into an embrace to reassure him, but his small body just stiffens and resists me with amazing strength.

‘On two occasions,’ I tell Sylvia, ‘his hard little fists pummelled me and he shouted, “No! Shadow boy there!” Whatever could the child be thinking? Such an odd little boy.’

‘He’s a lovely boy, but he’s very sensitive, Marie. Maybe you shouldn’t make too much of these behaviours. He notices if you’re upset or preoccupied.’

I know Sylvia is right. So I decide I’m right never to mention to Barry that he has a brother, a twin. It would only upset him further. He isn’t ready for this information. He wouldn’t understand the terrible choices I had to make, that in the end I made the only choice I could. Surely it was the right choice?

Maybe I’ll never tell him. Or perhaps when he’s older, much older … perhaps then I can explain.

Chapter 4
1972
Robert

‘These things take time, Mrs Carlton,’ the social worker assures Clarissa soothingly. ‘You may need to be patient. None of us know just how traumatic early separation from the birth mother can be. And remember, your Robert had a twin brother. They had nine months in the womb together. Being parted from such a close sibling can affect a child in all sorts of ways, even one so young. Also, you have to understand that some children take a long time, perhaps even years, to settle, to feel fully secure, to attach themselves to a new parent.’

Clarissa glances at her husband, who sits at a slight distance, watching Robert in the play area. She is not prepared to be fobbed off by such platitudes, not this time. The child had been less than two months old when they’d adopted him, for heaven’s sake! It’s now two years later. She and Simon aren’t ‘new parents’. Surely Robert had barely had time to attach himself to his birth mother? He probably hadn’t even noticed a change in mothers, let alone been traumatised by it! Nor is she impressed with Miss Phillips’ half-baked theories on the emotional effect of sharing a womb with his brother – such twaddle! Does she think they were happily playing ‘uterus hide-and-seek’ in there?!

It isn’t as though she and Simon haven’t tried – tried time and time again. Have they not committed themselves totally to the welfare of their adopted son? All right, maybe she isn’t the most lovey-dovey sort of mother … a brief hug and kiss at bedtime, or a little cuddle when drying him after his bath; that’s how Clarissa shows her affection, and that is surely enough. Have they not devoted over two years to the child’s every need? She has no intention of allowing this young woman, a mere slip of a thing, with her fake smile and condescending expression, to patronise her. Absolutely not.

‘Do you have children, Miss Phillips?’ Clarissa asks through gritted teeth.

‘Er … no. Not yet …’ The young woman smiles a little nervously. ‘But actually, I’m getting married in the new year, and we hope to start a family soon after that.’

‘I’m sure you do … as we did ourselves. But in our case it wasn’t to be. So we had no alternative but to choose adoption. We really did expect to love and care for a baby in need of just that – love and care. We had hoped to adopt another child too in time, perhaps a little girl. To make a real family one day.’

Miss Phillips nods her head vigorously, as if this is exactly what’s to be expected, to be encouraged.

Clarissa regards her icily. Does this woman – this girl – think she needs her approval, that it means anything at all to her?

‘However,’ she continues, ‘we haven’t started a family with this child,’ she says. ‘It’s almost as though we have started a siege, a battle! Every morning we pray that this day will be different, but it never is. In fact, it seems to get worse day by day. Sometimes it feels as if he’s in mourning. Although of course that’s ridiculous. Yet … I don’t know … perhaps he is. Maybe unconsciously he still misses his “birth mother”, though I can’t imagine why. What did she ever do for him?’

A muscle beside Clarissa’s mouth begins to quiver. She struggles to control her voice. Simon is watching her steadily.

‘Sometimes it’s almost as if he hates us. Most days he cries and whimpers from morning ’til night. If I try to cuddle him, he arches his back, shrieks and struggles until I put him down. All he wants to do is play – not with us, you understand. No, on his own and in his own way – with toys, bricks or trains or some other objects on the floor. If Simon or I try to play with him, he turns his back or pushes us away. It’s so very disheartening, so very dispiriting. Do you understand?’ Her voice seems to break and fade away.

Miss Phillips nods.

‘Yes, I do,’ she whispers.

Clarissa appears not to notice. She carries on as if she has not heard.

‘His play seems repetitive and without purpose; just making lines of toys, or sorting them into odd groups,’ she continues. ‘If I try to intervene, to actually play with him, he screams, or even pushes my hand away. If he doesn’t get his own way he has the most almighty tantrums, which really frighten me. I don’t know if he’s unhappy, or if there’s something wrong with him? Could he be … damaged, do you think? Or perhaps he’s autistic?’

‘Well, no. I don’t think so. He was fully assessed just before you received him, and again six months after,’ Miss Phillips replies, consulting her notes. ‘His development was found to be normal, if not advanced,’ she says with emphasis, gazing at the Carltons with wide blue eyes, as if they must surely see that advanced development in a child is something to be welcomed, something to be celebrated.

‘Well, we’ve tried and tried for over two years now, but I’m sorry to say we both feel we’ve reached the end of the road as far as this little boy is concerned.’ Clarissa Carlton’s voice is weary.

Miss Phillips looks aghast. ‘You mean, you mean … you want us to take him back?’

Simon Carlton stands up abruptly and speaks for the first time. ‘We do not want you to “take him back”, as you put it, Miss Phillips. He is not an electric kettle to be returned to the manufacturer when found to be faulty! We wanted him to be our son. We gave him a new first name, Robert, and our family name because we believed he would be part of our family. We still want a child desperately – a baby to bring up in our home, as our own. We don’t expect a perfect child – we know there’s no such thing as a perfect child. However, there’s nothing more we can do. We feel this child is not happy with us.’

He pauses, looking desperately sad. ‘And I’m afraid we are certainly not happy with him.’

Mr Carlton draws in a deep breath and sighs it out again. For a moment he looks as though he might break down in tears, but he clasps his arms around his body and shakes himself slightly, as if to gather his emotions in deeper, to push them out of sight.

‘A different home, different parents, may be much more successful than we have been. We really do hope so. He is clearly a needy child; needy in some way we appear unable to fulfil. Of course, we care about him. We wish him a happy life – but it seems it is not to be with us.’

Clarissa Carlton watches her husband with admiration.

Simon is now gazing at the little boy, who is absorbed in some activity arranging bricks on the floor in the ‘play corner’ of the room. He remembers how at first he had approved of the orderliness of the child. Hadn’t he been a bit like that himself as a small boy? But no, he’d been deeply attached to his mama. He loved the few occasions his mama and papa chose to play with him.

He turns back to Miss Phillips. ‘Please set in motion whatever procedures are necessary in this situation,’ he says briskly, ‘and let us know when to sign the paperwork.’

He strides towards his wife and helps her up from the sofa. She is sobbing quietly. Putting his arm around her, he leads her towards the door. He pauses briefly to pat Robert on the head. Clarissa looks down at the child. Without a further word they open the door and leave.

The small boy glances up momentarily from his game on the floor and then looks down again. The departure of his adoptive parents seems to have little effect on him. Miss Phillips gazes at him and shakes her head.

‘Oh, you poor little beggar,’ she says under her breath, ‘what’s going to happen to you now?’

***

That same evening, Miss Phillips drives Robert Carlton to an orphanage on the edge of the town. All he brings with him from his adoptive parents is a carrier bag of clothes and toys, and the name they had given him.

Robert is placed in a dormitory in the Pre-school Unit along with eight or so other ‘difficult to place’ infants. The programme is highly regimented, the theory being that young children respond to predictable punishment or reward – training in other words – rather like dogs. They need routine, firm handling, and to know exactly what is expected of them. The staff enforce the rules rigorously, and sometimes harshly, although not all are without care and kindness.

It is noticed that Robert is an attractive child, and carers in the orphanage feel he would be likely to be accepted by foster parents. Immediate efforts are made to identify a suitable foster family with whom Robert can be matched. It is felt that, ideally, Robert should be placed with a family where he is the only child, or the youngest child.

After a few weeks in the children’s home, during which Robert does not really settle, a placement is arranged with the Collins family, consisting of mother Brenda, a part-time nurse, father George, a builder, and their daughter Lacie aged six. They had previously fostered two small sisters aged five and one. After a largely happy and settled year, the little girls moved on to a permanent home with adoptive parents. George and Brenda are confident that their new two-year-old foster child will be just as successfully integrated into their family.

For the first week of his stay with the Collins family, Robert screams almost continuously. He strains furiously at the harness of his highchair at mealtimes, shaking and rocking so violently his foster carers are afraid he will topple over. One of them has to hold firmly on to the chair at all times. When food is placed in front of him, Robert sniffs it and then flings the dish onto the floor.

‘Poor little love,’ says Brenda, ‘he must have been that disturbed by being rejected by his adoptive mum and dad, no wonder he’s upset.’

She tries to tempt him with a range of foods, and decides maybe he’s missed out on some vital early baby experiences, and needs to revert for a while. She places him facing outwards on her lap, crooning softly to him, while George tries to insert a plastic spoon loaded with sweetened milky semolina into his mouth. Robert squirms violently, shrieking, arching his back and screwing up his face in fury, while George patiently pursues his open mouth, awaiting the chance to empty the spoon inside it. At last the spoon deposits its contents on Robert’s tongue. His eyes open in surprise and rage. He takes a deep breath and blows the entire mouthful of semolina straight into George’s face.

The semolina is abandoned and Brenda prepares a modest but varied feast of small pieces each of rusk, banana, cheese, apple, chocolate, and bread and butter. Her theory is that Robert needs to be reassured by giving him choice. She places a spread of these foods on the tray of the highchair.

‘There you are, Bobby love, you just see what takes your fancy.’

Robert eyes the scattering with a suspicious frown. He fingers them and sniffs them. Brenda nods knowingly. ‘Exploring,’ she mouths to George.

Robert pops the piece of chocolate into his mouth and sweeps the rest of the food onto the floor.

That evening, Robert allows George and Brenda to feed him the remainder of the bar of chocolate piece by piece, despite Lacie’s outraged objections.

‘You said too much chocolate’s bad for me. I thought you said it would make me sick? You never let me have more than two little squares. How come he’s allowed to eat a whole bar? It’s not fair!’

‘It’s just to try and get him to settle, love. He’s a sad little boy. He’ll not always need chocolate, you wait and see.’

For the next few weeks, Robert survives on almost nothing but chocolate. The Collins family have to endure his frequent screaming and his hitting, biting or spitting at anyone within reach, his destruction of toys and tearing up of books. By the end of just over a month, they reluctantly admit defeat, and return him to the children’s home. Brenda and George decide to have a break from fostering.

***

Throughout the coming years in the care of the local authority, several further attempts are made to place Robert with foster parents, but none of these placements last for long. Each time, the foster carers report a range of worrying behaviours: persistent bed-wetting, destructive behaviour, stealing, tearing clothes and books, flinging toys and other objects, aggression towards other children and adults, swearing, stealing, spitting, soiling, screaming … the list goes on and on.

In time, Robert progresses from the Pre-school Unit to the Primary Wing. The staff and other children in the home address him variously as Robert, Robbie, Bobby, Bob or Rob. He comes to expect this variability of his name. It appears to him to reinforce an absence of clear identity, a failure – of himself and others – to know exactly who he is. He isn’t sure whether it matters.

Chapter 5
1972
Marie

Local people refer to Blackheath as ‘the village’. But it’s hardly what I think of as a village. To me, a village is a little cluster of houses, with a church of course, and perhaps a small shop, and with luck, a pub – in the middle of the countryside – such as I remember from back home, and often think about and still miss terribly.

There’s certainly no rural feel to this ‘village’, what with its cafés and shops of every description, most of them noisy, crowded and expensive. And always the restless press of traffic. There’s any number of pubs and bars and restaurants in the village. In the evenings they heave with young people, who spill out onto the pavements, smoking, drinking, and talking with the loud, confident voices of the well-off.

Although I suppose I myself am also still young – considerably younger than many of these merrymakers no doubt – I feel no part of their groups. I feel no connection. It’s my friends back home I miss the most – the girls with whom I chatted in the school playground at break times. We talked about periods, about which boys we fancied, about the records and clothes we loved but could never afford, and about sex, when we could finish a sentence without collapsing into nervous giggles. We discussed what life might be like for us when we left school. My special friends – Deidre and Gwen – and I would try to envisage life as adults, as women. No way did we want our mothers’ lives – but then, what else was there for us? It was unimaginable. The thought that I might end up here, in London, in a grand house, with a little son … and without another … never occurred to me.

What with motherhood and responsibility, with the sadness of leaving my home and family – and the memory of the trauma that never leaves me – I think I have aged before my time. I’m barely in my twenties, yet I feel I’ve become a mature woman, almost middle-aged. Today we’ve been for a gentle walk, Erna and I, with Barry toddling or in his pushchair. It’s too soon for lunch when we get back. Erna squeezes my arm as I shut the front door.

‘Come and join me for a cup of coffee, Marie. I enjoy your company. Let’s have a chat. I’d love to hear more about your life in Ireland.’

So I bring in the tray and we sit amicably together, while Barry plays with his little heap of toys in the corner of the sitting room, chattering to himself.

‘So tell me, my dear … I’d love to hear more about your life in Ireland and your family.’

I begin with the easier part: my home and family. I close my eyes and think back to our little farmhouse – set in a small valley, with meadows and streams low down, and heather and bracken on the hills all around. It was a mile or so to the village, but with all my brothers and sisters, and Ma and Da of course, it never seemed remote to me, just homely.

‘Well, I guess you might think our house was picturesque, um … Erna, for all we were poor and me da had to scratch a living from the earth. That was how he always put it – “scratch a living”.’

Erna nods her head and smiles encouragingly.

‘I was one of seven children in the family. I was a “middle child”, and the oldest daughter, you see. There were two lads older than me, and four younger sisters.’

‘Oh you were quite a tribe then,’ she says.

‘Yes, you could say that. Da always hoped for another son, but each time Ma gave birth it was another girl. He never reproached her, mind. We were a close family. Although he was a gruff man, not one for soft talk, he loved Ma. He loved all of us, even us girls. That is, until I disgraced myself, becoming pregnant – and me not married, nor even engaged.’

Erna tuts and shakes her head. ‘No, no, Marie. You mustn’t say that. You’re judging yourself far too harshly.’

I decide to be quite open with Erna about what had happened. It’s the first time I’ve told anyone the whole story. Well, apart from Sylvia, but this feels different, Erna Goldstein being my employer and all. Once I start I can’t stop. I tell her everything; I don’t hold anything back.

‘Well you see, Erna … a travelling fair came to the village near my home – that was such a rare and exciting event in our little quiet backwater, you can’t imagine. It filled all of us young people with huge excitement. I went with my friend Deidre. We were both just seventeen and innocent. The fair was such a great thrill.’

‘Oh, I can imagine – it must have been!’

‘Well, we couldn’t afford more than a couple of rides. We just loved wandering arm in arm around all the stalls and rides. We were so excited by the atmosphere, the smell of the candy floss, so sweet and fragrant. We swayed and jigged to the blaring loud pop music; we heard it so rarely. The men working the rides give us winks and grins. We couldn’t stop giggling at them!’

Erna smiles and nods.

‘We got talking to a couple of the young fairground workers. I was completely bowled over when one of the men – he said his name was Billy – offered me a free ride on the waltzer. Billy was definitely the handsomer of the two. He came to whizz my car round lots of times, and he laughed when I screamed and said I’d be sick …’

I pause, uncertain whether to continue, whether she’d think me bad.

‘Go on, Marie. It’s all right.’

I take a deep breath. ‘He asked me if I wanted to see his caravan. Of course I said yes I did, but that I hadn’t the time just then – I had to get back home to help Ma with the tea. “OK, come back tomorrow then,” he says, putting his arm around my waist. I was melting, Erna, honestly I was. I nearly fainted with the thrill of it.’

‘Of course. You were so innocent, my dear.’

I nod. ‘Deidre said she couldn’t go back with me the next day; she had to go to the market with her ma. She said I should be careful, but I laughed at her, told her not to be such a fussy old biddy, and that she was just jealous. She didn’t like that – not at all. It was a bit mean of me, wasn’t it, but secretly I was pleased I was going back on my own.’

‘So did you go back?’

‘Yes. The following day I walked around the fair, terrified I might not see Billy, that he might have forgotten about me, or found another girl he liked better. But suddenly, there he was! He’d crept up behind me and kissed the back of my neck. I turned and he smiled and stroked the hair off my face. He had such a way with him. The sun made golden flecks in his dark eyes. I felt I was dissolving, Erna, I did really. Billy reminded me he’d promised to show me his caravan, if I wanted. I said yes, I did want. No hesitation. What a silly girl I was!

‘The caravans all looked so quaint and exotic, with their colourful decorations. Billy was kind and funny, and charming. He told me I was beautiful. No one had ever said anything like that to me before, Erna, no one. It was “love at first sight” for me, that’s what it was.’

She smiles and shakes her head gently. She reaches out and takes my hand. I’m starting to cry, but I carry on.

‘Such an exciting life I imagined for myself: travelling around the country in the pretty caravan with this dark, handsome, young man who adored me. He’d said so, clear as anything. I believed him.

‘That was where it happened, of course – in his gypsy caravan. For the rest of that week we met up every day after he’d finished his work on the rides. Then we’d creep back to the caravan. Billy bought me drinks I’d never tried before. They made me feel warm and dizzy and excited. Billy told me I was his special girl. I felt special.’

‘Oh, you poor child,’ Erna says.

I take some deep breaths and continue talking.

‘After Mass on the Sunday, I walked from my home the mile to the village to see Billy. The plan was, I was to go away with him the following morning. That’s what Billy had said.

‘I knew I would have to tell me ma that night. I was a bit nervous about that. Sure, Ma might be upset, about me joining the travelling fair and all, but she’d understand once she saw that we were in love; she’d come around to the idea in the end. I was sure she would. Besides, Billy had said he’d take me back to visit the family regularly so I needn’t worry. He’d explained everything.

‘When I got to the village, the shock nearly killed me, sure it did. There was nothing there, Erna. The village green was there all right, but it was empty, completely empty. The roundabouts, the coconut shies, the helter-skelter, the bumper cars, the waltzer and the gypsy caravans – all gone. Just a few old cans lying about, and lots of rubbish blowing in the dust. The whole fair had disappeared, moved on, and Billy with it. It was as if it had never existed; as if it had been a dream, which perhaps it was. But I soon found that the dream was to become a nightmare.

‘Oh dear, I can believe that,’ says Erna.

‘It was some weeks later I realised I hadn’t had the “curse” for the past two months. Sure, why do they call it the curse, do you think, when it’s not having it is the true curse? I waited one more month to be absolutely certain. There was no doubt about it, I was pregnant. I told Ma. She’d suspected. She’d heard me being sick in the privy. She slapped my face straight off, when I told her, and called me a wicked girl. Then she cried and she hugged me, and called me a foolish, silly baggage, and she cried and cried, and so did I.’

‘Oh dear, what a situation. Your poor mother was frightened for you, Marie. What happened next?’

‘Ma and I concealed the pregnancy for as long as possible. Eventually, she gave me the money for the fare to England, “to sort myself out”. She advised me to have an abortion – and soon – before me da noticed. My skirts were already getting tight. I couldn’t fasten them. Ma gave me a couple of “safe” addresses in London to go to. Women knew about these things; sure, I wasn’t the first in this predicament in our area, Ma said. No way was I to return home with the baby, she told me. It’d be different if there was a father for me to marry. As it was, Da would never have me back in the house – I had to get rid of it. But I couldn’t bear the thought of killing an innocent child – my own child. Never.

‘I made some enquiries of my own, and found out about a mother and baby home in London instead – St Agatha’s. It was run by nuns – so surely they’d be sympathetic? They’d be bound to look after a good Catholic girl, despite my wickedness. That’s what I thought. But it wasn’t like that. Not at all. I had twins you see, Erna. Barry is a twin. The head nun forced me to give my other baby away, my darling Donal. I had to give him up to be adopted. I never wanted to. I miss my Donal so much.’ I’m sobbing bitterly. I can’t speak for several minutes.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

‘There,’ I say. ‘That’s my whole story, Erna, my whole shameful story. God only knows what might have become of Barry and me if it hadn’t been for Sylvia – and you.’

I wait for Erna’s response. Yet she doesn’t seem shocked, not at all. She never even mentions the word ‘shameful’.

‘Thank you, Marie, for telling me your story so honestly. I knew you must have had a very difficult time. You’ve been through a terrible experience, and at such a young age. But you did everything you could to keep your children safe and well cared for. You thought first of them, and not of yourself. You should feel proud of that, and not guilty.’

I can’t speak. A lump rises in my throat and sticks there.

‘We all make mistakes,’ Erna continues. ‘You were only seventeen, innocent as a child. You must not blame yourself. You knew little of the world, still less of men – and you were looking for love. We all seek love. It does not mean you are wicked. You are a good mother – always remember that.’

I think Mrs Goldstein is a wise woman, and a lovely, kind woman, but I don’t think me da would agree with her.

Chapter 6
1976
Barry

I like going to school for lessons. I love my teacher. Her name is Miss Lamb. She understands about me. She knows how much I like to learn things like reading and writing, and number work. Reading is easy. I love books. The words make pictures and stories in my head. Lots of the other children struggle over the words, but it’s so easy! You just have to look and the words jump out of the page.

It’s the same with numbers. The other children are so slow. They must be really stupid. They take ages to count the apples and oranges in the pictures Miss Lamb holds up. Even then they can’t just see that if you put three oranges and five apples in a basket, it makes eight fruits altogether! Sometimes it gets so boring waiting for other children to tell Miss Lamb what they can see, that I just have to shout out the answer. I know you aren’t supposed to do that, but I can’t help it.

Sometimes Miss Lamb says, ‘Well done, Barry,’ in her gentle voice. ‘You’re very good at the numbers, aren’t you? But try not to shout out the answers. You have to give Milly a chance to answer, even if it takes her a bit longer.’

I know Mammy is pleased when Miss Lamb tells her how clever I am. She’s proud of how quickly I learn new things.

Today, at the Mammy and Daddy time, when they come to talk to the teachers, I can hear what Miss Lamb says to Mammy. I don’t have a daddy.

‘He’s the sort of child who soaks up new information like a sponge,’ Miss Lamb tells Mammy. ‘He’s racing ahead with reading and number work. It’s just taking him a bit longer than most children to make friends, but that will come in time with encouragement, I’m quite sure.’

Mammy looks very happy, so maybe she will stop telling me to ‘give other children a chance to answer’ when she can tell I already know the answer? Grown-ups don’t make much sense – and when I ask them what they mean they tell me to shush.

‘What did you do at school today, Barry?’

Mammy always asks that question when she comes to fetch me.

‘At playtime, I mostly walk or skip around the outside of the playground. I like walking on the blue line best,’ I tell her, and she smiles at me.

I don’t tell her about another good game I sometimes play. I don’t think she would like it. It’s where I stop to stare at one of the other children. They don’t always like that, but I do. I like it when they look scared of me. I know Mammy would tell me I shouldn’t play that game.

I don’t like it if someone else is standing in my way on the blue line, when I run round my favourite route. So, then I bend my knees and lift up my arms to look like a monster. I put on a fierce monster face and roar at the person in my way. This makes them move out of my way, which is good – but sometimes the other child bursts out crying and runs to tell Miss Lamb or another teacher on duty in the playground. Then I get told off, when it isn’t my fault.

Once, Miss Lamb asked Mammy to come into the classroom after school to talk to her about my game.

‘Of course, he means no harm by it,’ Miss Lamb told Mammy, ‘but perhaps you could talk to him about good ways to approach other children and make friends? For example, with a “smiley face” rather than a monster face?’

Miss Lamb must have thought Mammy didn’t know what a smiley face was because she was smiling a lot at Mammy, to show her. Mammy started doing her smiley face too and said, ‘Yes, of course, I’ll talk to Barry about it at home.’

I don’t like it when Mammy or Miss Lamb tell me off about things that aren’t my fault. It makes me cross. Sometimes I get in a rage. Mammy doesn’t like me getting in a rage. She says, ‘Calm down, Barry,’ but I can’t calm down, because the angry feeling is there, inside me, bubbling away, like tomato soup boiling in a pan.

***

When we get home Auntie Erna gives me a hug and says, ‘Hello, Barry my dear.’ She’s always kind. I really like Auntie Erna and she likes me. Mammy says that makes her happy because Auntie Erna is a bit like a granny to me, and Mammy is sad that I can’t see my own Granny and Grandpa, because they live far away in a place called Ireland. I’ve never met them, so I don’t really mind not seeing them. I like just having Auntie Erna.

I heard Mammy tell Miss Lamb about Auntie Erna, and that she thinks I get on so well with her because we’re both ‘intellectuals’. Mammy says she wonders if she isn’t clever enough herself, or that maybe she didn’t work hard enough herself at school to be clever like me? But Auntie Erna always tells her off when she says that – she says Mammy is clever.

After dinner – it was spinach and I don’t like spinach – I go down to Auntie Erna’s sitting room on my own. I love to do that. I walk up to her and stand in front of her ’til she notices me. When she looks up at me I say, ‘I’ve come to see you, Auntie Erna.’

‘So you have, Barry my dear. Come and sit down with me.’

She always says that.

Auntie Erna reads books to me that Mammy thinks I’m too young to understand. Long books like Treasure Island, Moby Dick and Oliver Twist. They do have some hard words in them, but Auntie Erna explains what they mean. I love listening to stories. Today we’re reading Oliver Twist. I sit on the floor at Auntie Erna’s feet and rest my head on her knee, looking up at her whenever she shows me a picture.

Stories are a bit like dreams. In my head, I can see the desert island, or the huge whale swimming in the waves, or the hungry little boy called Oliver, with his empty bowl, asking for more gruel. Gruel is like porridge. I can hardly wait for the next chapter.

I love Auntie Erna’s sitting room. There’s a big piano near the window. It’s called a grand piano because it’s so big. In one corner there’s a chessboard on a shiny wooden table. I love looking at the figures. One of them is like a horse. There’s a king and a queen too. Auntie Erna has been teaching me how to play chess. It’s quite a hard game to learn, but Auntie Erna says I’m picking it up really well. She used to play chess with her poor dear boy, Aron, but he died long ago. I think Mammy said he’s in heaven.

Auntie Erna is starting to show me how some of the music notes are written. I can find lots of those notes on the piano. The part of the piano with white and black notes that you press is called the keyboard. One day I might be able to play real music like Auntie Erna. She used to play concerts, but she can’t do that so well now because her fingers got hurt. They’re too crooked to play as fast as before.

When it starts to get dark, Mammy comes in to say it’s time for my bath.

I shout ‘No!’ because I’m having a lovely time, and it’s not fair.

‘Be a good boy, Barry,’ Mammy says. ‘It’s getting late. Auntie Erna must be tired. We have to let her have some peace and quiet …’

Mammy tells Auntie Erna that she worries I might be disturbing her or being a nuisance. That makes me very cross because I know I’m not being a nuisance. I start to cry and shout. Auntie Erna speaks to me in her gentle voice.

‘Now, Barry, Mammy knows what’s best. You need to have a bath and a good sleep, so we can have more fun tomorrow. You know I always enjoy your company, but tomorrow is another day. We’ll have more time for reading and chess, and the piano, tomorrow.

‘But I’m not tired!’

‘Good. That shows you can come back again tomorrow. Will you do that?’

‘All right …’ I say, but I still feel a bit cross with Mammy.

Chapter 7
1976-82
Robert

The regime at the children’s home is rigid and stern. Robert is considered a deeply troubled and troublesome child. He is frequently punished, sometimes severely. It’s noticed at the home that however severe his punishment, he never cries. It is also recorded that at times, when he thinks he is not being observed – for example when alone in bed at night – Robert cries bitterly to himself under the covers.

Robert is intelligent, but his severe emotional and behavioural problems manifest themselves in all environments – in the orphanage, at school and in foster homes. One after another, the foster placements break down due to Robert’s challenging behaviour. Almost without exception, the foster parents reach a stage – usually quite soon after his arrival – when they announce they can no longer cope with the child.

In school, Robert is also often in trouble – for swearing or defiance towards his teachers, and for aggression towards other children of his own age or older. Yet he can show moments of kindness too; for example, comforting younger children who hurt themselves, rescuing and feeding abandoned young animals, or offering to help some of the older carers in the home with difficult or heavy tasks.

At times he demonstrates subtle humour and understanding; he can apply himself to subjects he enjoys at school with great concentration. Gradually, he succeeds in many areas of schoolwork, sometimes showing exceptional ability. Yet his behaviour continues to be highly unpredictable and fiery. There is concern about early signs of potentially criminal characteristics.

At eleven, Robert is moved – without notice or explanation – to a bleak children’s home in rural Northumberland, in the far north of England. It is a home specialising in accommodating the most troubled and difficult of ‘cared-for’ children. He becomes increasingly withdrawn, rarely speaking to other children in the home or to the staff. He spends most of the time when not at school reading books, but his behaviour becomes increasingly unpredictable.

The following year, when Robert is just twelve years old and in his first year at a nearby secondary school, older and highly experienced foster parents are approached and asked to take him on. This is seen as a last-ditch attempt to save the boy from slipping into further delinquency and possibly a life of crime. He already has a record for occasional shoplifting and pickpocketing, as well as being regarded as aggressive.

Many of the other children in school are scared of Robert, though in fact his acts of aggression are only in retaliation to attacks on him, usually by older children, who often target him to see his response. He never hurts smaller children, and in fact, often protects them. Yet, from his first days at secondary school, he acquires a reputation for fighting

Chapter 8
1976
Marie

It’s Saturday and Sylvia has come for the day. It’s such a joy to have her company. She’s so funny and warm, but also wise in her down-to-earth way. Barry loves her too; she’s one of the first grown-ups he got to know, from when he was a baby in fact. She acts like a big kid with him; of course, he loves that.

It’s a fine day, so we make a picnic lunch and head for the nearby play park. Sylvia reminds me to bring a bag with stale bread to feed the ducks on the pond. We let Barry have a good run about, let him climb on the climbing frame, push him on the swings and spin him round on the roundabout. The playground is busy with lots of other children. After a while Sylvia and I find a seat and sit drinking our tea from a thermos.

‘He’s a little watcher, isn’t he?’ she says. I follow her gaze to Barry. He’s standing with his back to us, looking at two children hanging upside down from the climbing frame, singing at the tops of their voices.

‘Mmm, I suppose he is. Takes him a while to join in. Actually, he sometimes acts like he doesn’t really like other children.’

‘Oh no, Marie. He’s just a bit shy.’

Barry turns to look in our direction. Sylvia and I both give him a little wave. He smiles and heads for a small roundabout. A mother and her twin girls are playing nearby. They are barely more than toddlers, a couple of years younger than Barry, maybe three or four years old.

‘Ah, look at them, Marie. Pretty little things. Look at that great fluff of fair hair!’

It gives me a start to realise they are identical twins. My heart starts to pound as I immediately think about my twins. They should be here together too. They should be playing together. Sylvia must know what I’m thinking. She squeezes my hand in hers.

The little girls are racing about, chasing each other, giggling and having a whale of a time. Barry is very interested. He watches them. I’m delighted to see him join in their chasey game, running around them in a circle. That really pleases me – I so like to see him playing sociably. He picks up a bit of speed and catches up with the wee girl nearest to him. Suddenly he seems to bump into her and give her a little push. She’s sent flying down to the ground. She sits up slowly, looking shocked, her eyes searching for her mum. Then she starts wailing. Her mum and I both jump up and hurry towards the children. Barry is standing watching the little girl, his finger in his mouth.

‘Oh, Barry,’ I say, ‘you have to be more careful. What do you say?’

‘Sowwy …’ he says in that kind of sing-song voice and looking at me, a little smile on his face. Maybe it’s embarrassment. Then he says, ‘Didn’t mean to.’

I turn to the girls’ mum. ‘I’m so sorry. Is she all right?’

She’s picked her up her little daughter and is cuddling her. ‘Oh don’t worry,’ she says, ‘she’ll be fine.’

She gives Barry a kind smile. ‘Accidents happen, don’t they?’

‘But, Barry, you’re getting to be a big boy now. You should be more careful.’

He gives me another little knowing look.

***

Later, when Sylvia has gone home, I talk to Erna about it.

‘It upset me, Erna. I know he’s just a little boy, and the child’s mother was very understanding …’

Erna looks at me closely.

‘So everything was all right then; just a little accident?’

‘Well, I wasn’t sure … I just wondered … whether it really was an accident. It seemed a bit … mean.’

‘Hmm? Children can appear to be unkind sometimes, when they are just trying out behaviours. It can be satisfying for them to see what reaction their behaviour causes. Maybe Barry was just experimenting? I’m sure he didn’t intend to be mean.’

Chapter 9
1981
Barry

If only it would rain, then it would be indoor playtime and I could go inside, maybe stay in the library and read a book. No chance of that today. There’s hardly a single cloud in the sky. The sun is making sharp dark shadows from the tall, red-brick school buildings across the playground. We’ll have to go out. As usual a group of boys are playing football, thumping the ball into a goal area chalked on a tall wall at one end of the school building, yelling to each other to ‘pass!’, ‘shoot!’, ‘kick!’ at the tops of their voices.

I walk along the outside of the pitch, which is marked by white lines painted on the asphalt. A football rolls past just in front of me.

‘Here! Barry, pass it over! Come on – kick it here!’

I take no notice. What a stupid activity, kicking a ball from one goal to another.

‘Barry! Come on, you creep! Kick the fucking ball!’ yells Guy Robbins. Immediately a piercing whistle brings the footballers to a sudden standstill. Mr Lawless strides over towards Guy.

‘We’ll not have language like that in the yard, or anywhere else in school, Guy Robbins,’ he says. ‘Inside, now, and an hour’s detention tonight.’

Guy groans and slouches towards the entrance, deliberately banging into me on his way and muttering, ‘That was your fault, you moron. Just wait … I’ll get you for this.’

‘Make that a two-hour detention, Guy,’ calls Mr Lawless.

All the boys who were playing football are looking at me with fierce, angry faces. They’ll be after me on my way home. I’ll have to leave sharpish after the bell, and run all the way. At least Guy will be out of the way.

It’s double maths in the afternoon. The other kids always moan at that, but I love it. Maths is a language I understand. Most people seem to find it boring. I love the patterns, the logic and order of numbers. Mr James, my maths teacher, is the only one who understands.

We’re doing algebra today. Mr James has written a long problem on the board. It’s wonderful, like a mysterious puzzle to unravel. My heart starts beating with excitement. I get straight down to it. The rest of the class grumble and groan, but it doesn’t take me long. I raise my hand.

‘Well, surprise, surprise,’ Mr James says with a smile. ‘Have you worked it out already, Barry?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well done, son. Come and write it up here on the board.’

I take the piece of chalk from Mr James, and write the algebraic problem out in numbers, explaining each bit as I go along, trying to help the others. Then I write the answer.

‘Correct, as usual, Barry,’ Mr James says. ‘Good boy.’

He pats me on the back and gently nudges me back towards my desk at the back of the room. On the way I stumble twice over feet deliberately stuck out to trip me. As I pass through the rows of desks, I hear the muttering of ‘swot’, ‘teacher’s pet’, ‘Mummy’s boy’ and other insults hissed at me.

That afternoon, after the bell goes, it takes me a while to pack up my bag. I know I’ll never be quick enough to beat the bullies, so I decide to borrow a couple of books from the library. Maybe by the time I leave, the others will have got fed up and gone home. But that plan doesn’t work. A group of boys and girls are waiting at the school gate for me to emerge.

‘Nancy boy!’ one yells. ‘Weirdo!’ ‘Cissy!’

‘Youuu, got no dad no more – thaaat, means your mum’s a whore!’ someone sings.

Sean, a friend of Guy’s, suddenly leaps out from behind the school gate. He sticks his foot out in front of me and I go flying. The metal bolt on the gate catches my forehead and my chin crashes to the asphalt. There’s a moment when everyone is frozen in shock, including me. Then they start flinging mud from the flower bed at me. I get to my feet and run round the corner as fast as I can. I keep running.

When I get home I pull the front door open and slam it shut behind me, panting. Mum is just taking a cup of tea to Auntie Erna. They both look up in alarm as I fling myself on the sofa. I can’t hold back the tears. My clothes are all muddy and my face must be mud-smeared too, and now the tears will make even more of a mess of it. I have a large bruise and graze on my chin, and a deep cut on my forehead.

‘I hate it! I hate it!’ I shout bitterly.

‘Barry, sweetheart, whatever is the matter?’ Mum asks. ‘What’s happened?’ She gasps. ‘Your face!’

‘I never want to go back to that school.’

Mum rushes over to me, gently touching my face and peering at the torn knees of my trousers. ‘Oh no! Oh, Barry! Oh, you poor love!’

Auntie Erna gets up and sits next to me on the sofa. She pats my leg. ‘Has someone at school been unkind to you, my dear? Children can be very cruel sometimes, can’t they?’ She speaks softly and calmly.

Auntie Erna always seems to know why things are difficult for me. She understands. That makes me feel better. Mum just seems to fuss.

‘The others hate me because I’m cleverer than they are. They don’t want to learn. They think I’m weird because I like learning. I wish I could go to a different school.’ My chest is heaving and I’m trying to hold back tears.

‘Oh, Barry love, you know that’s not possible,’ Mum says. ‘It was the only local school that had a place. I know some of the children are a bit rough, but I’m sure they don’t really hate you. Maybe I should go and talk to the head teacher,’ she says, looking at Auntie Erna.

‘No!’ I shout. ‘That would just make it worse – they’d hate me all the more for being a sneak!’ Why couldn’t Mum see that?

‘Do you know,’ says Auntie Erna, ‘I have an idea.’ She pauses. ‘But first, let’s think about this, Barry. I know that you are a clever boy and you are quick to learn your lessons at school, but you need to learn another lesson – and that is not to talk about being cleverer than the other children.’

‘But it’s true, Auntie Erna!’

‘It may well be true, but other children won’t like to hear you say it – it might upset and annoy them. They might think it’s a little boastful, Barry.’

I look down at my feet. I think about this, and nod.

‘But now listen, both of you. This is my idea.’

Chapter 10
1982
Robert

The social worker is called Mrs Wilson. She’s quite nice – she actually talks to me.

‘Now, Robert, I’ve known the people who have offered to foster you for many years. Mr and Mrs Carter, they’re called, and they are truly lovely. They may let you call them Len and Betty,’ Mrs Wilson says as we’re driving along.

We seem to be travelling miles through the Northumberland countryside. The council must have decided to put me in the back of beyond, where I won’t cause any trouble.

‘Yes,’ she continues, ‘they’re very experienced. They’ve fostered dozens of children over the last thirty years or more.’

Thirty years or more! I reckon that means they must be very old, probably over sixty. I’m not too keen on the idea of living with such old people … but it can’t be worse than the children’s home. I hated it there; it was like living with total strangers who didn’t give a toss about me. So I decide it can’t hurt to give it a try. Len and Betty Carter? Yep, definitely old fogey names. Oh well, let’s see what they’re like …

Mrs Wilson drives me for what feels like hours down narrow, twisty roads through countryside and one or two villages. Nothing except hills and woods, and fields with loads of sheep, and occasional villages. At long last we come to a row of small houses on the edge of a village.

‘Used to be miners’ cottages, these,’ Mrs Wilson tells me, ‘but now that nearly all the pits have closed, it’s a mixture of people living in them. Pretty, aren’t they, Robert?’

‘Hmm … dunno.’

‘Nearly there …’

We follow the road around a corner and up a small hill, with a row of about a dozen cottages at the top. Mrs Wilson stops the car in front of the end house.

‘Here we are, Robert,’ she says. ‘This is going to be your new home.’

She turns round to look at me. ‘Try and make the most of it, love, won’t you? Len and Betty are really nice, and I know they’ll like you.’

How on earth can you know that? I think. I’ve not met many people who like me. My heart is racing and butterflies are swirling in my stomach. I feel a bit sick. As we approach the front door, I can see a woman watching us through the front window. I’m scared, but don’t want to show it, so I hunch my shoulders, look down at my feet, and slouch moodily behind the social worker. I glance up at the window again for a moment. The woman has disappeared.

Suddenly the front door is flung open and an oldish woman rushes out and steps onto the path towards me. She’s short and has grey hair. A tall man who also has grey hair appears behind her.

The woman hurries straight towards me and before I have a chance to think of resisting, she presses me into her bosom and gives me a huge hug. I bet I’ve gone bright red. I push my hands deep into my pockets. I shuffle my feet and look at the ground. The man hovers behind her as if he’s waiting for his turn. I push my hands further into my pockets and hunch my shoulders even further.

‘Hello, Robbie, my darling!’ the woman says. ‘My name’s Betty and this is Len. We’re so glad you’ve come to live with us, pet. This is your home now.’

‘Aye, laddie,’ says Len, now joining in the hug. ‘Welcome, welcome.’

‘Now, my darling,’ continues Betty, taking no notice of my reluctance to respond, ‘if it’s all right with you, we’re going to call you Robbie, because it suits a young lad like you. Mebbes in the future you’ll want to be Rob? That’ll be for you to decide later, if you want to, pet. But for now, we’ll just stick with Robbie, shall we?’

She doesn’t pause for an answer.

‘Eeee, Robbie, what a bonny lad you are! Isn’t he bonny, Len? Clever too, I’ll be bound. Well, the world’s your oyster, Robbie, my darling. You could do anything you set your mind to, am I right?’

I’m so astonished at the warmth of this greeting, and that these friendly, elderly people seem to think they know immediately who I am, and might become, that I remain speechless, silent, looking from one to the other. I can feel an uncertain smile waxing and waning on my face, like the sun disappearing and then reappearing from behind a cloud. Their smiles are anything but uncertain. They positively beam at me, as if I’m the best thing that could have happened to them.

I feel suddenly as though I’m a real person for the first time in my life. It’s the most extraordinary feeling I’ve ever experienced. It’s as if they really want me. I feel I can tell they actually want me. I have a struggle to hold back tears, and they aren’t tears of sadness.

‘Come on, Robbie, pet. Let’s not wear the doorstep down! Come on in and I’ll show you your room.’

Len picks up my bag. ‘Aye, up you go with Betty, lad. I’ll bring your stuff.’

Betty leads the way up a narrow staircase. She points out the bathroom and toilet, and opens a door.

‘In you go, pet.’

She stands to one side to let me past. The room isn’t large, but it’s flooded with golden light from the sun, just starting to go down in a clear sky. There’s a double window looking out onto green fields and heather-covered hills beyond.

‘Best view in the house, this room!’ says Betty, squeezing my arm.

‘It’s a nice room, er … Betty.’

She beams at me. ‘We want you to be really happy here, Robbie,’ she says. ‘What sort of thing do you like doing best, sweetheart? What did you like doing at the children’s home?’

‘I didn’t like much. I liked reading, because then I could be by myself.’

‘Oh, that’s a bit sad. Sounds like you must have been lonely? Well, you can read as much as you like here, Robbie, but there’s plenty else to do, and Len’ll not let you get away with not seeing his allotment! It’s his pride and joy!’

She gives me another squeeze. I don’t pull away this time. I guess I’ll have to get used to the hugs.

‘Now you get settled in, pet, and then Len will take you for a wander about – and to see his allotment,’ she says with a smile.

She turns to look behind us and then whispers confidentially in my ear. ‘Just tell him how grand it is, Robbie, even if you don’t give a toss. It’ll make his day.’ She giggles and gives me a wink.

***

That first evening is quite hard work for me. Len and Betty are lively, talkative people. I’ve never experienced being included in a conversation before. I like them all right. I like the house and especially my room, I like Len’s allotment, I like the ‘toad in the hole’ Betty makes for supper. But I sense that they want me to be happy with them and act like ‘one of the family’. That feels quite a strain at first. I’m not used to it.

‘So tell us something about the children’s home, Robbie,’ Betty says at teatime. ‘Did you get on all right?’

‘I … I hated it. We had to share a bedroom, four of us boys. The others were OK, but they weren’t friends of mine. Some of the staff were all right, but they were like … strangers. That was how it felt. Living with strangers. They weren’t cruel or anything, but they could be hard. There was no fun there.’

I was finding my thoughts difficult to put into words, yet I wanted to try; I wanted to tell them.

‘There was no warmth, no understanding, no personal feeling, no …’

‘Eee dear, Robbie. Sounds like they took basic care of the bairns, but mebbe didn’t give them any love. Am I right?’

‘I suppose so,’ I muttered.

How could she know straightaway exactly what’s on my mind, but I’m too embarrassed to say?

***

When I wake the following morning, I’m glad to remember where I am. The bedroom – my bedroom – looks sort of friendly. It needs something on the walls though. Some posters maybe. I don’t think Len and Betty would mind if I put some up. I’m also pleased to remember it’s Saturday, and that I won’t have to face starting at the new school for another couple of days. I go downstairs. Len’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper.

‘Morning, Robbie, did you sleep all right?’

‘Yes thanks.’

‘Well, there’s no school today or tomorrow. What do you fancy doing, lad? Will I take you for a tour of the village? Not that that’ll take very long – there’s not a lot to it!’

‘Yes, OK, and then can we go back to the allotment?’

Len’s face creases with pleasure.

‘I liked it there …’

‘’Course we can, lad, ’course we can.’

Betty comes in from the garden, holding a large empty basket. I guess she’s been hanging out some washing. She puts the basket down and puts her arms round my shoulders and gives me a hug, the first of the day.

‘Here he is, the bonny lad!’ she says, smiling broadly at me.

‘Now, what’ll you have for breakfast?’

Whatever Len and Betty might have been told about me, and even though they’re quite old, from the very first day, they just seem to accept me for who I am. Most people are quite scared of teenage boys, I’ve discovered – and I’m nearly a teenager. Not Len and Betty. They treat me with affection and humour such as I’ve never experienced before.

***

I’m really nervous about my first day at the new school, but I try not to show it. In the end it’s not too bad. Len walks to the bus stop with me. There are two other lads waiting, one about my age and one a bit older, and a girl also about my age. They all greet Len in a friendly way, looking at me with interest, but no hostility.

‘This here’s a new pal for youse kids,’ Len tells them. ‘Robbie’s his name, and he’s starting at your school today.’

I feel my cheeks start to burn, but the other kids just grin at me.

‘Hiya, Robbie, welcome to Hartland High. I’m Danny by the way,’ says the boy of my age.

‘Yeah, Hi. I’m Buzz,’ says the bigger lad.

‘Hi, Robbie! My name’s Paige,’ says the girl.

I’m amazed at how friendly they are. Maybe the arrival of a new boy is a big event in this area.

It’s the same in the school itself. Hartland High’s not very big, being in a small country town. The teachers and the kids all seem keen to talk to me.

Over the coming weeks, I settle quite well and begin gradually to make some friendships, though it’s still hard for me trust other kids enough to get really close. Len and Betty always encourage me to bring any friends home ‘for tea’, like we’re all little kids! I don’t mind, and the others seem to enjoy it too, especially Betty’s baking!

Len and Betty ask me loads of questions about my time at school: what lessons I’ve had, who I sat next to, which ones do I like best, are the teachers nice … that sort of thing. They expect me to talk back to them as well. I can’t get away with being moody and silent. Over the coming months, any grumpiness on my part is greeted with concern and understanding, and often with good humour, but they’re never fazed. If I come home from school looking upset or angry, there’s no question of stomping up to my room to spend time on my own, as I’ve often done in the past. No, they’ll have none of that! They always insist that I sit down and talk to them, while they try to prise the reason for my unhappiness from me.

‘Come on now, Robbie, my darling, out with it! You tell your auld Auntie Betty what the problem is … go on. Now, let’s see … have any of those bad lads at school been nasty to you? No? Well then, have you fallen for one of the gorgeous girls? But mebbe she’s not interested … Is that it? Doesn’t fancy you like you fancy her, hmm? Though I can’t think why she wouldn’t, handsome lad like you – it’s her loss, the daft lass!’

So gradually, the cause of my bad mood is coaxed from me, and they either comfort or reassure me, or we all end up laughing uncontrollably together.

***

For the first time in my life I feel a part of a family. Even Len and Betty’s adult children greet me warmly when they visit.

‘It’s good for them to have a youngster to care for at their age,’ their eldest son, Harry, tells me, patting my shoulder confidentially. ‘It’ll keep them young, like.’

‘Aye,’ adds their daughter Shirley. ‘I’m right glad there’s a sensible lad like you living with them; keeping an eye on them an’ all, Robbie. Anything wrong, anything worrying you, just give us a ring. You’ve got me number.’

No one had ever considered me good for other people or anything else before, and least of all sensible! But I like their genuine faith in me. I like Len and Betty in a way I’ve never liked anyone before. I feel a closeness, which warms and softens my heart. I feel I have to live up to the family’s positive opinion of me. I want to be liked by them. It’s the first time I’m conscious of caring what anyone else thinks of me. It’s the first time the concept of love has any real or special meaning for me.

***

In the second year, we have a new form teacher, Mr Lewis, who takes a special interest in me from the start. He also teaches English and drama, my favourite subjects. I really like Mr Lewis, perhaps because I can tell he likes me. Mr Lewis tells me I have ‘great potential’. Nobody has ever said that to me before. Mr Lewis discovers how much I like reading books. I’d never told anyone about it – he must just have noticed I spend a lot of time with my nose in a book. He takes trouble to find out what sort of books I enjoy, and helps me to make selections from the school library. Mr Lewis encourages me to ‘research’ topics in my schoolwork, like in history or geography, by finding relevant books in the school or public library.

Mr Lewis meets with Len and Betty regularly on parents’ evenings too – they never miss an opportunity to attend. I’m always included in the conversation, and I’m surprised to find that Mr Lewis has an amazing amount to say about me. I don’t understand how Mr Lewis could know so much about me, when I don’t even know it myself! I wonder if perhaps he just makes it up as he goes along.

‘Robbie’s an exceptionally bright lad,’ he says, nodding at me, ‘especially when you consider his past. He’s really blossoming this year in all his work, but in particular, he’s showing outstanding ability in English and drama. I’m sometimes astonished by how wide his vocabulary is for a lad his age. He reads widely, and has a real talent for writing, whether stories and imaginative accounts, or factual descriptions. He’s got a truly vivid imagination. My one main concern is that his confidence is still so fragile.’

He looks at me sympathetically as he says this. He reaches out and clasps my shoulder. I probably turn beetroot-red. I can feel my cheeks burning.

‘You’ve got to believe in yourself, Robbie. Try to think the best of yourself and what you can do. Be ambitious. Always expect the best, rather than expecting the worst.’

I shuffle uncomfortably on my chair. Mr Lewis nods and smiles at me, as if this is just what he would expect. Then he turns to Len and Betty.

‘Robbie doesn’t always realise just how good he is, how able – but he is. I’ve been amazed to see how he can hold an audience – in drama, for example. He’s got a really special talent. He could be an actor; he’s such a fantastic mimic. He can copy any accent, maybe because he’s moved around a lot. He has the other children in stitches sometimes.’

‘Eeee, Robbie! D’you hear that? Isn’t that grand, son?’ Betty squeezes my arm affectionately.

‘Aye,’ says Len, ‘he’s got a funny way about him all right – but you’ve got to apply yourself too, lad.’

‘That’s right,’ says Mr Lewis, ‘the fact is there’s no limit to what Robbie is capable of, if he does apply himself. He can go on to do his GCSEs, and then his A levels. In fact, there’s no reason why he can’t go to university one day.’

Len claps me on the back. ‘Just listen to that, Robbie me lad. There’s a great future for you. Never mind if the past has been tricky. The past is past and gone; it’s now and from now on that matters. Work hard at all your schoolwork, even the bits that aren’t your favourites – your greatest interests, like. Could be “Professor Robbie” one day if you put your mind to it!’

***

I soon get to know Len’s two great interests in his life since retiring from the pit, one being fishing and the other being working on his allotment. Over time I learn to love sharing both these activities with him. Len teaches me how to set the bait on the rod, how to identify the best places along the river to catch different sorts of fish, how to hold on when the line jerks and pulls – and then how to draw it in carefully, smoothly, always steadily, though I’m wild with excitement. Actually catching fish for us all to fry with chips for tea is the ultimate joy for me, but most of all I love sitting quietly at the riverbank, listening to Len’s stories of his life down the mine. It’s like stories of another era to me. No other adult has ever talked to me of things that mattered. All around them, the mines have been closing down.

‘They’re tekkin’ the heart out of the communities,’ Len tells me, shaking his head sadly. ‘Soon there’ll be no work for lads round here, no jobs at all.’

Beyond the village, the beautiful Northumberland countryside stretches for miles. Despite living half his life underground, Len is a countryman at heart and he knows about every aspect of it. He teaches me to recognise birds by their plumage and their song, and to be quiet in the countryside; to listen to the sounds around me and distinguish one birdcall from another.

Betty’s great love is flowers. At each time of year we bring her armfuls of whatever blooms are in season and I learn the names and characteristics of plants I’d never even heard of before. Len and Betty’s fireplace or windowsill is never without a colourful vase of flowers to brighten it in the spring. As well as decorating the house, we gather plants for food, like young nettles or wild garlic to make soups or flavour stews.

As the year progresses into the later summer and autumn we bring wild blackberries, raspberries and damsons for jam, bottling and making tarts. Later in autumn we find edible mushrooms, which Len helps me to identify, using a much-fingered guide dating from the long-gone days of wartime rationing. At first, I’m scared to eat them, convinced we’ll all drop dead from poisoning. But under Len’s confident guidance, I soon learn to recognise the edible field mushrooms, big boletus, and the curly, yellow ones that they call ‘scrambled egg’. More importantly, Len shows me how to recognise and keep away from the poisonous ones!

At home Betty and I wash the mushrooms carefully without bruising them. Then we pat them dry gently with a clean tea towel, and fry them for tea with onions, eggs, and a bit of rosemary from the bush next to the kitchen door. From that day to this, the smell of rosemary is always enough to set my mouth watering, like a Pavlovian dog.

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