Rescuing Rose (61 page)

Somehow I found my way back to Mrs Wilson's house, and unlocked the door, and I thought, 'what have I done? What have I done?' I knew that by now someone would have picked you up, and called the police. So I quickly stuffed my things into my bag and wrote Mrs Wilson a short note telling her what had happened to Ian, and saying that I'd taken the baby to the adoption society, and that I was leaving now. I signed the note, locked the front door, posted back the keys and then ran. I had only one thought in my head. I had to get out of Chatham because I knew that what I'd just done was a crime. I had abandoned my baby. I was a wicked girl. A common criminal. I'd be punished. I'd go to jail. I'd read about a woman who'd done it to her baby, and she'd been spotted by someone and then arrested, and sent to Holloway. And on the other side of the road was a bus stop so I stood at it, with my bag, my heart still pounding, and in a few minutes a bus turned up. It said Gravesend on the front, so I got on, and I did feel that I was going to my grave. Ian was dead and my parents weren't going to help me, and I'd just abandoned my child.

So I sat on that bus for two hours, too shocked even to cry, totally terrified. And I kept thinking about you, Rose. I knew that by now you'd have been taken to the hospital, and checked over, and that someone would be taking care of you. I felt insanely jealous at the idea of someone else holding you, and feeding you, but despite the terrible emotions I was experiencing, I knew I couldn't go back. Because if I went back I believed I'd be arrested
—
and then I'd lose you anyway. Rose, when I think of how quickly the world has changed, and how a girl who did what I had done would be treated today, I feel so angry and resentful. She'd be helped, and counselled, and given welfare payments, and a place to live, and she'd receive compassion and support. But it wasn't like that then. Oh no. It wasn't like that at all
.

So that's what happened that day. Perhaps I abandoned you, in a way, because I felt that I'd been abandoned
—
by Ian and by my mum and dad. That doesn't excuse it, but all I'm saying is that I didn't set out to do it in the way that I did. I meant only to hand you over to the authorities, who I believed would look after you, because I knew there was no other way. Instead, I was panicked into leaving you in a shopping trolley in a carpark. How unbelievably callous that must have seemed
.

I was aware of Theo sitting quietly at the end of the table. I could hear his gentle, regulated breathing as I read on.

I was so terrified that I might have been seen that I decided it would be best to get out of Kent altogether. So when the bus stopped at Gravesend I got the ferry across the Thames to Tilbury. It was getting dark by then, so I found a boarding house, and it seemed all right so I just stayed there, laying low for a few days, never leaving my room. But I knew my dad's money wouldn't last more than three or four weeks and that I'd have to get some sort of job. But I had no training for anything. I didn't want to go to the employment office in case they'd find out my name, and what I'd done. Anyway, I was walking past a cafe one day and there was a sign in the window saying that they needed a waitress, so I went inside. I hadn't a clue how to do waitressing but they showed me how to set the tables properly, and how to take the orders, so that's what I did. All I needed was breathing space
—
I was too distressed to make any plans. It was very hard work, but I was glad about that because it gave me no time to think. I wrote to my parents
—
without giving them my address
—
telling them that I'd given you up for adoption, that I was safe, and had a job, but that I didn't want to come home. I told them that I couldn't face seeing Ian's parents
—
which was quite true. And I told them I'd write to them again when I was 'settled' somewhere, and not to worry about me. I was functioning on automatic pilot, just working my shifts, and sleeping
—
hardly eating
—
and trying not to go mad
.

One day, about a month later, I was bringing this man the bill
—
he seemed to me so much older than I was, but he was only twenty-three. Anyway, he struck up a bit of a conversation with me, and he asked me if I'd go to the pictures with him sometime. And although I was wary, I was also so lonely, and sad, and he seemed very nice. So something made me say yes. I just wanted to have someone to talk to, as much as anything, as I felt so unhappy and alone. He said his name was Dennis Thornton. I didn't tell him what had happened to me
—
I didn't even tell him about Ian
—
and he had the decency not to ask. He told me, much later, that he'd thought my sadness was because I'd been disappointed, or maybe jilted. He'd also wondered whether I'd had a backstreet abortion. It's only recently that he's learned the truth. Anyway, Dennis told me that he'd just finished his National Service, and that he'd done some odd jobbing but that he was sailing to Australia, from Tilbury, in six weeks' time. He said that there were wonderful opportunities 'down under' and that the passages over there were very cheap. Over the next month or so he asked me out a few more times, and he was always very considerate and gentlemanly and I was beginning to feel quite sad that he was leaving. He'd been a very nice friend. And we were sitting on the harbour in late September, watching the boats sailing in and out when he suddenly asked me whether I'd consider going to Australia with him. It gave me an almighty shock. He said he'd pay for my ticket, and we could see what we thought of it out there, and if we didn't like it, we could always come back
.

I thought of all the terrible things that happened to me. I had lost my fiance and my baby and my future; I was also still worried that I'd be arrested for abandoning you if the authorities ever found out. The idea of starting my life over in a new, warm country, far away suddenly seemed very, very appealing. So I took a deep breath, and said yes. We sailed on the S. S. Ormonde
—
it took nearly seven weeks, and was far from luxurious
—
in fact at times, in rough seas, it was hell. But on December first we sailed into Adelaide
—
I felt as though I was being reborn
—
and that's where we've been ever since
.

We've had a good life here, Rose, and Dennis has been, well, just the most wonderful man. He's blushing now as I dictate those words, but it's true, and I want you to know. I often used to think that he'd rescued me. We got married in 1965, and he'd worked in a hardware shop to start with, and then he got into the travel agency business which was just starting up then, and he's done very well. He's ended up with his own travel agency, New Horizons, and I did secretarial training and helped him out. And no-one, not even Dennis, ever knew what had happened, and what I'd done nearly forty years before.

I'm so sorry, Rose. I never meant to abandon you in the way that I did. I never told Mrs Wilson the truth
—
although we kept in touch
—
and nor did my parents ever know. As far as they were concerned, the matter was closed. You'd been 'given up for adoption, ' and, unable to face living in Kemsley again, I'd run away to the other side of the world.

I have just one other thing to tell you, Rose, and I hope you won't be hurt, but I have another child. She's a lovely girl, and her name is Laura…

I felt my eyes suddenly fill with unshed tears, which made my mother's words bend and blur. I've got a sister, I thought, my throat constricting. I have a sister. Her name is Laura.

Laura is 32 now, married to a nice man called Alan, who works with Dennis, and they have a sweet little girl, Alice, who's six.

I've got a niece too! I'm an aunt! To my amazement I realised that I felt only happiness, not resentment. I pressed a tissue to my eyes then read on.

We adopted Laura in 1971
. Adopted?
I'm sure you'll find that very strange. But you see, Rose, I couldn't have any more children. They knew it wasn't Dennis's 'fault, ' so then they investigated me. Of course the doctor could tell that I'd had a child already
—
although I swore him to secrecy
—
and he said that my infertility was 'unexplained'. But I could explain it perfectly well
—
though I couldn't tell Dennis. I felt that I'd been punished for abandoning you. I had done something wicked and unnatural and so Nature had struck back. That's how I saw it. And Dennis was keen to be a father, so he suggested we adopted, and as he'd done so much for me how could I say 'no'? And in a strange way I felt that adopting an unwanted baby girl would atone, in some small measure, for what I had done to you
.

Anyway, Rose, there it is. That's the story of what happened, and of why I did what I did. I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. And I'm sorry above all, that we shall never meet. But I'm so glad to have taken this chance to talk to you in this way. And although I have no way of knowing whether you will ever read this, I pray with all my heart that you do. With loving thoughts, your mother, Rachel.

I looked at the clock—it was ten past twelve. Then I picked up Dennis's letter again.

Rose, I am so glad that you have searched for your mum, and so desperately sorry that the trail has ended in this way. But I know how very, very happy it would have made Rachel for you to meet us
—
your family. We are waiting for you. Please come
.

Brancaster Beach, North Norfolk,

Two months later, August 1st

'Lost and found, ' said Theo gently. 'Then lost again. '

'Yes, ' I whispered. 'She was. She was lost for forty years. And so was I. '

'But you're not lost to each other any more. '

'No, although in one way, we still are. But maybe we'll meet again. In some other universe. '

'Yes. Maybe you will. '

Theo and I lay on our backs, in the sand dunes, gazing at the sky, a vast, curving hollow, stretching to infinity. It was as black as anthracite and dense with stars, like gems flung upwards by some unseen hand.

'You must feel so different now, Rose. '

I listened to the distant waves breaking over the sand with a long, sad
Shhhhhhh
… 'I do. I feel… complete. I know where I come from now. '

'You come from Camberwell. '

I smiled and dug my fingers into the cool sand.

'It's funny to think of my origins being there—it's as though I'd gone back to my source. But at long last I feel as though I actually
belong
to someone. '

He reached out his hand.

'You do. You belong to me. '

'And I belong to Rachel's family—her family in Australia, and her family here. I've got
so
many relations, ' I said. I shook my head in wonderment. 'So many'

'You have. '

'I've got a stepfather, and a sister. '

'Half-sister, ' he corrected me.

'That's true. And I've a niece. ' I thought of the daisy-strewn letter I'd had from Alice last week, and the poem she'd enclosed.
I've got a new auntie called Rose, I've never met her. But when I do, I know my life will be better
. Not bad for six and a half.

'Alice, ' I said with a smile. 'And Laura. My sister, Laura. And my stepfather, Dennis. They're my family. Not a shared gene among us, but you know, Theo, it doesn't matter—it just doesn't matter—because they're my folks. ' For water can be just as thick as blood, I'd discovered. And blood can be as thin as water—I mean, look at Ed.

'And Susan's family were great, ' Theo said.

'Yes, ' I murmured. 'They were. ' I thought of our visit to Susan, her husband and three kids, and of how overcome she'd been. She'd smiled at me politely at first, then her face had suddenly crumpled and she'd hugged me, crying, and just wouldn't let go.

'I've wanted to meet you for so long, ' she'd wept.

Susan had always known that I'd been born of course, but, like her parents, she believed I'd been adopted, in the normal way, after Ian's death. After Rachel had died she'd even done a search to try and find me, and couldn't work out why she'd drawn a complete blank. Now she understood.