and not be able . . . I know this must all sound sudden and rushed, but I haven’t got time to do it any other way.’
‘It’s all right,’ I soothed.
She relaxed and picked up her story in a dogged, rehearsed way. She’d been practising this in her head, ready for when I came.
‘I found it very hard to manage with the new baby. I only had part-time work and had to pay a neighbour to mind Miranda. It left me almost nothing. One day, I was walking home from work past the hospital. I walked everywhere. I couldn’t afford the bus. There, just coming out of the hospital gates, were Flora and Jerry Wilde. They were both in a terrible state, and when they saw me, Flora set up a great howl. Jerry came hurrying over. He told me their baby had died. They had been warned of the possibility, but for a while she’d done so well that they’d allowed themselves to hope, even to be optimistic. Then, suddenly, everything had fallen apart. I felt desperately sorry for them. It seemed all wrong. Here was I with a healthy baby I couldn’t afford to care for properly, and there they were, comfortably off, longing for a child, Flora unable to have another . . .’
My mother stopped.
My heart in my boots, I said dully, ‘I can guess what you’re going to tell me.’
I supposed she’d had no choice but to give up the baby for adoption.
‘It seemed right at the time,’ she said defensively. ‘It seemed meant. They had registered the birth of their little girl, refusing to believe she’d never come home, so there was a proper birth certificate for a Nicola Wilde. They had no family or close friends in London and they’d had no time to notify anyone further away of the tragedy. No one knew their child had died, and if the poor little soul was cremated quietly in a private ceremony, there was no reason anyone should – not if they brought home an infant of the right age and sex. I explained my circumstances to them and asked if they would like to take Miranda. I knew she’d have the best possible home and loving parents and no one need ever know. She’d just take on the identity of the dead child. Instead of Miranda Varady, she became Nicola Wilde.’
Now just wait a minute! This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. A private, totally unofficial arrangement? A baby just handed over to people who, after all, were as good as strangers? People who’d take away her identity and give her a false one? This was what she’d done? No wonder she couldn’t tell anyone, only me.
‘It was crazy,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you go through the proper channels? They could’ve adopted her legally.’
‘I wasn’t sure of that!’ She was growing animated and it wasn’t doing her any good. Her breathing had become laboured. ‘You know what happens when social services get a foot through your door! They’d have taken Miranda into care, fostered her out with someone I knew nothing about, and there’d have been no guarantee the Wildes would’ve been allowed to adopt her. This way, no one knew. I had to make a decision on the spot. I hadn’t got time to think it over. Once the Wildes had told anyone at all that their baby had died, it would be too late. It was then or never.’
‘But didn’t anyone ask you where your baby, my sister, was?’
‘I was on my own, who cared about me?’ She rolled her head from side to side on the pillow. Then, with an air almost of triumph, added, ‘I moved, several times, to different areas. You know how it is. I wasn’t a council tenant. I rented private rooms. No one cares, Fran.’
Yes, I knew how it was. London is full of single women on the move. A fair number of them have a baby or even a couple of little kids. If the support services were infallible, there’d be fewer tragedies, fewer horrendous court cases, fewer battered or dead babies. Instead, the courts, the social services, the charities and all the others struggling to
‘It’s all right,’ I soothed.
She relaxed and picked up her story in a dogged, rehearsed way. She’d been practising this in her head, ready for when I came.
‘I found it very hard to manage with the new baby. I only had part-time work and had to pay a neighbour to mind Miranda. It left me almost nothing. One day, I was walking home from work past the hospital. I walked everywhere. I couldn’t afford the bus. There, just coming out of the hospital gates, were Flora and Jerry Wilde. They were both in a terrible state, and when they saw me, Flora set up a great howl. Jerry came hurrying over. He told me their baby had died. They had been warned of the possibility, but for a while she’d done so well that they’d allowed themselves to hope, even to be optimistic. Then, suddenly, everything had fallen apart. I felt desperately sorry for them. It seemed all wrong. Here was I with a healthy baby I couldn’t afford to care for properly, and there they were, comfortably off, longing for a child, Flora unable to have another . . .’
My mother stopped.
My heart in my boots, I said dully, ‘I can guess what you’re going to tell me.’
I supposed she’d had no choice but to give up the baby for adoption.
‘It seemed right at the time,’ she said defensively. ‘It seemed meant. They had registered the birth of their little girl, refusing to believe she’d never come home, so there was a proper birth certificate for a Nicola Wilde. They had no family or close friends in London and they’d had no time to notify anyone further away of the tragedy. No one knew their child had died, and if the poor little soul was cremated quietly in a private ceremony, there was no reason anyone should – not if they brought home an infant of the right age and sex. I explained my circumstances to them and asked if they would like to take Miranda. I knew she’d have the best possible home and loving parents and no one need ever know. She’d just take on the identity of the dead child. Instead of Miranda Varady, she became Nicola Wilde.’
Now just wait a minute! This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. A private, totally unofficial arrangement? A baby just handed over to people who, after all, were as good as strangers? People who’d take away her identity and give her a false one? This was what she’d done? No wonder she couldn’t tell anyone, only me.
‘It was crazy,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you go through the proper channels? They could’ve adopted her legally.’
‘I wasn’t sure of that!’ She was growing animated and it wasn’t doing her any good. Her breathing had become laboured. ‘You know what happens when social services get a foot through your door! They’d have taken Miranda into care, fostered her out with someone I knew nothing about, and there’d have been no guarantee the Wildes would’ve been allowed to adopt her. This way, no one knew. I had to make a decision on the spot. I hadn’t got time to think it over. Once the Wildes had told anyone at all that their baby had died, it would be too late. It was then or never.’
‘But didn’t anyone ask you where your baby, my sister, was?’
‘I was on my own, who cared about me?’ She rolled her head from side to side on the pillow. Then, with an air almost of triumph, added, ‘I moved, several times, to different areas. You know how it is. I wasn’t a council tenant. I rented private rooms. No one cares, Fran.’
Yes, I knew how it was. London is full of single women on the move. A fair number of them have a baby or even a couple of little kids. If the support services were infallible, there’d be fewer tragedies, fewer horrendous court cases, fewer battered or dead babies. Instead, the courts, the social services, the charities and all the others struggling to
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