The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (17 page)

‘I did wonder,’ I said. ‘Plus it occurred to me that just by
going
there to meet them, it would be giving them the impression—’

‘
Exactly
,’ she agreed, finishing the thought for me. ‘Giving them the impression that we’re up for something more than we really are.’

We’d reached the end of the pier now, and the beach was beginning to empty. Ahead of us, the lights along the prom were coming on, punctuating the backdrop with arcs of white
join-the-dots. I tried to imagine myself at the stage door of the theatre at 11.30, waiting to be taken to a cabaret by one of the stars of the moment. Pauline was right. That would definitely be
one to tell my friends back in the office. But it didn’t feel right.

I stopped and turned to Pauline. ‘I think we’d be out of our depth a bit, don’t you? And once we’re there . . .’

‘I was thinking the same thing,’ she said.

We didn’t really need to discuss it any more. We both knew exactly what ‘out of our depth’ meant and what it could lead to. We’d been there and well knew the
consequences.

We went out for fish and chips instead.

W
ith the exception of Pauline, I rarely mixed socially with girls of my own age. I was still just twenty, yet I felt older and, as a consequence,
disconnected from my peers. I had become someone different; someone who carried a dark secret. It seemed better to strike out and find new friends than to keep up the pretence with the group of
people who’d known me and my baby’s father.

Not a day passed in the aftermath following Paul’s adoption when I didn’t think of him, but as the weeks turned into months, and the pain began to quieten a little, I grew less
introspective and once again interested in rejoining the world.

And the world seemed quite happy to accept me. Though I still had the jitters when going out, always dreading the thought of being exposed, there was clearly something about me that boys now
found attractive. I had no idea what it was – a sense of vulnerability? A mystique? I couldn’t understand why, and I wasn’t about to analyse it, but for a while I was constantly
turning down offers; offers, moreover, from really nice boys. Boys who I was sure wouldn’t look at me twice if they knew the truth about what had happened to me.

There was one in particular, a good-looking boy called Andy, whom I’d been interested in for months before the night I’d met Peter, and with whom I’d had no success at all. But
that had changed. I would often see him at the Meads Ballroom once I started going there again, and soon became aware that, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, it was he who’d
become interested in me now. Being asked out by Andy should have been a thrilling moment – eighteen months ago, it would have been – but it wasn’t. Somehow he’d lost his
appeal. Either that, or I’d changed more than I realised.

I’d made another good friend now, a girl called Janice. A couple of years older than me, she was the daughter of my friend Doreen’s neighbour. Our paths had never crossed before, but
I think Doreen sensed we’d be kindred spirits – she’d recently parted from her fiancé after things had gone wrong between them, so, though for different reasons, she too
was ‘recovering’. She knew nothing of what had happened to me – as far as she knew, I’d been out of the country – but that aside, we grew close very quickly. She was
tall and very pretty, but she lacked confidence in herself. She was shy and always easily embarrassed. I suppose, looking back, we supported each other through a time when we were both finding it
hard to socialise again.

But, little by little, we did socialise more. Buoyed up by one another, we started going out regularly to the popular clubs of the day. There were exciting new ones opening all the time. As well
as the Meads Ballroom, we started going to the Rhinegold and the Marquee in London. We weren’t exactly living a hedonistic high life, because that was the last thing I wanted, but I did have
the sense that I was, albeit tentatively, resuming a version of my former life.

We continued to meet boys, and I still loved to dance with them. In some ways life felt as if it was slowly reconfiguring itself. I was finding my feet again, regaining some much needed
confidence. But I turned down all dates – it was almost an automatic reflex – and, like Janice, I invariably went home alone. I still felt I couldn’t get close to anyone of the
opposite sex, because becoming intimate with a boy would mean telling him the truth. To be close to another human being you had to open up, to give your
whole
self – otherwise what was
the point? I couldn’t bear to do that. Not yet, at any rate. My secret felt much too shameful to share.

But, by increments, the world was changing too – for the better. Out of necessity, I’d spent much of the previous year looking inward, but now I could see evidence
of the dawn of a different era, of a society that was perhaps becoming a little less judgemental. If the period that preceded it had seen the world shocked by John Profumo, 1964 marked something of
a turning point, to my mind.

It was the year the
Sun
newspaper was launched and the death penalty was abolished, and there was a constant sense that the old order was being challenged and swept away. Attitudes to sex
outside marriage had slowly begun to change and, at least for those not hidebound by the rules of the Catholic faith, use of the pill was becoming widespread, as women took control of their
contraceptive needs. It would take many years yet, but it felt like a sea change was occurring all around – confirmed that autumn when thirteen years of continuous Conservative government
ended and Harold Wilson’s Labour party took power. And the soundtrack to
everything
, both here and in America, was provided by that new band we’d been so excited by in the
convent – Liverpool’s greatest export, The Beatles.

It was also the year in which I turned twenty-one, and my mother was determined that we should celebrate. ‘We want to organise a party for you,’ she told me, unexpectedly, when I
returned from work one evening in the September.

I was shocked. My mother wasn’t the party-giving type, and neither was Sam. The last party they’d had anything to do with, as far as I could remember, was when they’d
celebrated their own wedding. But Sam was kind, and I knew he’d do anything for my mother – he adored her – so if she’d decided upon a party, I knew he’d support her.
Even so, it was unexpected. ‘A party?’ I parroted. ‘What,
here
?’

‘No, not here,’ my mother said, shocking me even further. ‘Sam and I have discussed it, and we thought perhaps the best thing would be to see if we could hire the Oakwood Rooms
in Eastwood. What do you think?’

This, too, may have seemed unprecedented, but, looking back, it might not have been such an out-of-the-blue suggestion as it appeared. I knew my mother was anxious to make things right between
us. There was also the small matter of me having a boyfriend at last, my first since Peter, who seemed so very long ago. And he wasn’t just any boy, he was – to use my mother’s
parlance – a very
nice
boy.

He was called Dave, and I’d met him at the Meads Ballroom; he’d made a beeline for me as soon as he’d seen me. This time I’d said yes, because he’d ticked all my
personal boxes. He was tall – very important – and a very smart dresser; as with Peter, my late father would have approved. He also wore his hair, which was dark and wavy, in the way
that I liked it – slightly long and with a quiff at the front. He was a draughtsman, and I’d been seeing him for something like six weeks. My mother and Sam definitely approved of him.
She would comment often, and with increasing regularity, I’d begun to realise, on what a wonderful husband he would make.

I could understand her enthusiasm. Not only was Dave a ‘catch’ in every sense you could think of, but he also represented the potential closing of a very harrowing chapter in my
life. I could see what she was thinking: once I was safely married, she would no longer have to worry about me, which was something, since ‘getting into trouble’, that weighed heavily
and constantly on her mind.

I didn’t mind. Dave was nice, and I enjoyed his company. It was also a pleasant sensation to feel wanted by someone. That he was keen on me wasn’t in any doubt. In our short
relationship we’d even got a song to call our own: ‘I’m Into Something Good’ by Herman’s Hermits, which had come on the radio when he was dropping me home one evening,
and which he declared to be exactly how he felt about me.

‘Really?’ I said to my mother now, genuinely excited. ‘I would love a birthday party, I really would!’

She smiled indulgently, and I wondered how hard she’d had to work to persuade Sam that this was something they should do for me. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then you shall have
one!’

The Oakwood was a lovely venue close to where John and Emmie lived, and everyone chipped in with the preparations. They did wonderful food there, and I have lots of happy
memories of that time, as we gathered as a family to work out all the details: what the buffet menu would be, what music we’d like the DJ to play and exactly which family and friends to
invite. We even had the invitations specially printed, which made me feel very much the belle of the ball, in stark contrast to my twentieth birthday.

I would look the part too, hopefully, after my mother agreed to put money towards having an outfit specially made for the occasion. It was a deep pink dress, made of the fabric of the moment
– Moygashel, a type of heavy Irish linen. It had a fashionably high neck and cut-away shoulders, a keyhole back and a stylish A-line skirt. It was short, so I could make the most of my best
asset, my long legs, and was finished off with a neat boxy jacket. I felt a million dollars in it. When the night of the party came around, it was clear Dave thought I looked a picture too.

‘You look amazing,’ he told me, as we jigged around the dance floor together. I had by now, as ever, taken my shoes off. ‘And you know who you remind me of?’ he said.
‘Sandie Shaw.’

I smiled at this, even though it was a bittersweet moment, as I remembered a similar conversation a long time back. But Dave, unlike Peter,
did
have a point. Sandie Shaw was the latest
‘big thing’ girl singer, and her recently released single, ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’, was currently storming up the charts. Like me, she had long dark brown hair
and a fringe, and was generally seen barefoot.

But it wasn’t really Sandie Shaw who was on Dave’s mind that evening. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said, as the song we’d been dancing to ended. He
gestured to the DJ, who gave him a nod, and then Herman’s Hermits came on. I could see my mother sitting at a table at the edge of the dance floor, and her expression as she watched us spoke
volumes. She was sitting with Sam, of course, as well as John and Emmie, and my auntie, and I could tell they had been commenting on the two of us dancing – conspiratorily, as they were all
beaming. And as Peter Noone began warbling, I had a moment of real panic. Oh, no, I thought. He’s not going to propose, is he?

Dave didn’t propose; he was just pleased that he’d arranged for the DJ to play ‘our’ song for us. But it was at that moment that I think it really hit me: as much as I
liked him – and I did because he was so nice – we were probably going nowhere as a couple. Dave was lovely, and I knew my mother had plans for him, but in that moment of panic at the
thought of a declaration, I also knew the spark wasn’t there. However suitable, however much
he
thought he was into something good, Dave wasn’t going to be the man for me.

I knew it was going to take a very special kind of person before I would even
think
about sharing my dreadful secret, before I would contemplate allowing someone else to know my pain at
losing Paul. Dave wasn’t that person. That person might not even exist. The truth was that I might
never
find him, and if I didn’t so be it. It had to be the right man or no one.
Dave and I finished seeing each other not long after.

B
ut potential happiness lay just around the corner.

My brother John often went to Catford Cricket Club at the weekends. A friend of his from the Stock Exchange, called Terry, lived in South London and was a member there. John and Emmie would
often go with him to the social evenings they put on, and they would talk about them often – how much fun they were, and how much I’d enjoy them. Eventually I was persuaded to join
them, along with Janice, on one of their Saturday night outings. More often than not they were themed in some way: Caribbean, perhaps, or French, with similarly themed food and entertainment, and
people would be encouraged to dress up for them. On this occasion, however, there was no theme and, as it turned out, no occasion either.

It was 6 February 1965, a bitter night. And suddenly we were all dressed up with nowhere to go. ‘Cancelled?’ said John, when we arrived at the club to find the car park almost empty,
no sign of Terry and the door to the function room shut.

‘Yes, sorry about that,’ said the man manning the reception. ‘All a bit short notice, I’m afraid; one of those things. Though there’s a band playing in the pavilion
a bit later.’ He spread his hands in apology. ‘If you’ve nothing better on, that is.’

Not too enticed by this lukewarm endorsement, John turned to us and spread his own hands. Terry, it seemed, had been off work sick on the Friday, and the news about the cancellation, as a
consequence, hadn’t filtered through. But we didn’t have anything better on, and we were now in Catford, a long way from our usual haunts. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘What
shall we do instead, then?’

Emmie, always the optimist, headed for the door to the pavilion. ‘Well, we might as well at least go in for a drink, mightn’t we? Who knows? The band might be brilliant.’

We followed her and poked our heads through the open door. It was the standard issue cricket pavilion of its day: a long bar, wooden floor, some chairs and tables. The four members of the
promised band, who looked as if they were probably drawing pensions, were setting up their equipment in the corner. ‘Hmm,’ said John, voicing all our thoughts about the evening’s
prospects. ‘Okay, then. One drink and we’ll make a new plan.’