Punished: A mother’s cruelty. A daughter’s survival. A secret that couldn’t be told. (22 page)

W
e moved into a tiny two-bedroom flat in St John’s in the middle of May 1967. John’s mother was sporting a lurid black eye after a last, fierce run-in with his father. She sat in an armchair while John carried our boxes and suitcases up the three flights of stairs. I unpacked crockery in a kitchen the size of a small cupboard and tried to hang all Nelly’s clothes on a rail that was shorter than my arm. There was a strong smell of damp and I could see where it was coming from: orange stains crept up the walls from the skirting board and a grey fungus was growing on the bathroom ceiling. The ancient, faded carpets stank of dust and stale tobacco, and the beds sagged so steeply in the middle that you could make out the exact shapes of the last people who had slept there.

I had already handed in my notice at The Raven and said goodbye to my friends there, promising to keep in touch. I threw myself into cleaning up the flat and making it as homely as I could, thinking that was where my new baby would spend her first months at least. I dragged the carpets down the stairs and out to the dingy back yard and I beat them and beat them, watching
clouds of dust billowing out. I remembered reading somewhere that dust is mostly made up of shed flakes of human skin, so I turned my head away trying hard not to inhale it.

The landlord refused to pay for a few pots of paint and we couldn’t afford any ourselves, but I bought some strong disinfectant and washed down the walls, woodwork and tiles, scraping off the fungus with a knife. I washed the windows and lightshades, the water quickly turning black with decades’ worth of grime, and I aired the mattresses. The flat was still dingy afterwards but at least it was a little more hygienic.

While I did all this work, Nelly seemed struck down by lethargy. She had been hoping that once she left John’s dad, her lover would also leave his wife and ask her to set up home with him, but it didn’t seem as though that was imminent. She sat in her chair and talked to me endlessly about the soap-opera scenario of her marriage and her lover and never once asked how I was feeling. She seemed to take it for granted that I would do all the shopping, cooking and cleaning.

Meanwhile, John and I hardly saw each other. He had his course to attend during the day then he worked an evening shift for a metal castings company, so it was often eleven or midnight by the time he got home. If Nelly was seeing her lover in the evening, I stayed in on my own watching a little black and white rented television and talking to spirits and to the baby in my womb.

‘Hello, little girl. I’m going to give you the best life any child ever had. I’m going to teach you all the things Nan Casey taught me – about pressing flowers and baking cakes and hopscotch and all about love.’

The Clown often urged me to conserve my energy and stop running around after John and Nelly. ‘You will need your strength for yourself and for the little one,’ he counselled.

But I really didn’t have any choice in the matter.

I’d been feeling under the weather since we’d moved in to our flat. I felt very tired and heavy, and I often found it difficult to breathe in the stifling atmosphere of that flat. I was very upset in early July, during the fifth month of my pregnancy, when Nelly announced that she and her lover were going on holiday together for two weeks and then John told me he was heading off for a break with the lads somewhere near Stonehenge at the same time.

‘Can’t I come too?’ I asked. I had thought I was part of the family now but it seemed not.

‘It’s all boys,’ he replied. ‘You wouldn’t enjoy it.’

‘Never mind,’ Nelly soothed. ‘You rest here and we’ll be back before you know it.’

John seemed embarrassed and couldn’t look me in the eye as he packed his case and kissed me goodbye but I didn’t remonstrate with him. I didn’t feel I had any right. Maybe it was fair enough that he had a holiday – after all, he worked hard to support us the rest of the time.

While they were away, I planned to catch up with my friends from The Raven and try to spend a day with Nigel, but I went down with a bad summer cold that settled in my chest. At the same time, I started to suffer from horrible lower back pain, which I attributed to the pregnancy and my rapidly changing shape. Although our little flat
was roasting in the July heat, I seemed to feel cold the whole time. I wasn’t sleeping at night because I couldn’t get comfortable in the bed with the acute ache in my back and if I did nod off I woke myself again coughing. I became so weak that I didn’t dare go out to buy food because I didn’t think I’d be able to climb the three flights of stairs to get back again.

‘Call a doctor,’ the Clown urged me, but we didn’t have a phone in the flat and I didn’t know any of the neighbours well enough to bother them.

Besides, I thought, it’s only a cold and back pain.

By the time Nelly and John got back, I was lying on the sofa unable to move. They told me that my skin was grey and my lips were blue. John rushed out to call a doctor, who examined me and told me that I had a serious kidney infection as well as bronchitis. He wrote a prescription for some antibiotics and sent John out to fetch them. Once he’d left, the doctor regarded me seriously.

‘On top of your other health problems, it looks as though you have an incompetent cervix. It’s opening slightly and you’re at risk of losing the baby.’ He frowned. ‘You haven’t had a pregnancy before, have you? Maybe a miscarriage or something?’

‘No.’ I flushed bright red at the suggestion.

‘It’s just that your cervix looks quite damaged. I recommend that you get as much bed rest as you can for the rest of the pregnancy, to try and keep that baby inside you to term. Where do your parents live?’

‘Shernal Green. In the countryside outside Droitwich.’

‘And how do you get on with them? I presume they know about your condition?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

The doctor looked around him at the stained wallpaper and filthy furniture. ‘I don’t think you should stay here any more,’ he advised. ‘It’s not good for you and it’s not good for the baby. You’re very run-down and that’s another factor that could compromise the pregnancy. Why don’t you go home for a while and let your mum take care of you?’

If only you knew, I thought. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said.

More than anything I was determined not to lose this baby so I decided to see whether Mum and Dad would let me come home. I got John to phone Dad at his office that afternoon and tell him about my illness and he said he would be there within an hour.

As I lay waiting for him, I was thinking to myself that I knew exactly how my cervix had got damaged. Having Charles Pittam’s penis inside me at the age of eight, ripping and thrusting at delicate tissues, had been responsible. It made me even more determined that I was going to keep this baby in my womb safe.

Dad was horrified when he saw the squalor in which I had been living and he helped me to pack my clothes into a little case and supported me as we walked downstairs to the car.

‘This won’t do, Lady Jane,’ he said as we drove back to the cottage. ‘We need to get you well and come up with a proper plan. John’s just a kid and so are you. Neither of you is capable of looking after a baby.’

I was too weak to argue with him. All I wanted was to sleep, somewhere warm and clean and cosy.

Mum was not at all pleased to see me. ‘Quick, get in the house,’ she instructed. ‘I don’t want the neighbours to see your condition. You’ll bring disgrace on us all.’

Dad let me lean on him as I staggered indoors and sat down heavily on the sofa, panting with exertion.

‘You’re not to go outside while you’re here. Stay indoors out of sight,’ Mum told me.

Only Nigel was pleased to see me. We sat for hours that summer playing card games – gin rummy was a favourite – as I gradually grew bigger and got my strength back. John came to visit me once every couple of weeks or so but he never stayed very long. We were never able to be on our own and the hostile presence of Mum hovering around making snide comments wasn’t conducive to any kind of intimate conversation.

I followed the doctor’s advice, spending most of the time resting, and somehow I managed to keep that baby despite my damaged cervix. I just willed it to stay inside with all the strength and determination I possessed.

Two months before the baby was due, Mum and Dad told me that they had booked me in to a mother and baby home in Accocks Green. They drove me there on a rainy Monday morning, along with a suitcase containing my clothes and the few items I had managed to make for the baby. The home was full of other unmarried girls ‘in disgrace’, who sat watching television in their dressing gowns all day, unwashed hair hanging round their shoulders and gloomy expressions on their faces.

‘Aren’t you looking forward to having your baby?’ I asked one girl.

‘Are you kidding? It’s supposed to be like passing a melon. It splits you wide open then you need stitches and
you can’t walk properly for weeks. Why would I be looking forward to that?’

I stroked my huge belly and smiled. ‘I don’t care about the pain – it’ll be over within hours. I just want to meet my little girl.’

‘I’ve asked not to see mine at all. I’ve told them to take it away and not even tell me the sex. It’ll be easier that way.’

‘You’re having your baby adopted?’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘How can you face that when you’ve been carrying it inside you for nine months?’

‘Better that than looking after it on my own for another eighteen years.’

The next girl I spoke to was also planning to have her baby adopted, and the next. I became suspicious and asked one of the nursing staff why so many girls were giving up their babies.

She gave me a curious look. ‘Because they’re not married. That’s why you’re all here – so you can avoid prying eyes spotting your condition in these last months of pregnancy. You can give birth, hand the baby over and go back to your normal life, more or less scot-free. You’re being given a second chance to find a nice husband and do things right next time.’

‘But I don’t want my baby to be adopted.’

‘Look, love, that’s what this place is for. Think about it before you do anything foolish. It will be better for the baby to go to a nice, stable married couple somewhere rather than you struggling to bring it up on your own with the world frowning on you.’

I shook my head. There was no way I would ever do that! How could anyone be sure that my baby would end up with
a ‘nice, stable couple’? Look at what happened to me, and the adoptive mother I ended up with, for goodness sake. I could never risk that happening to another child, and certainly not to my precious girl. I was going to keep my baby and give her all the love and devotion that I never had.

I felt a terrible sense of betrayal. Dad had known what this place was for and he’d sent me here, even though he knew how much I longed for the baby.

I phoned him at work that afternoon.

‘Hello, Lady Jane. How are you?’

‘If you don’t come and collect me from this place at once, I’ll run away,’ I said in a low and serious voice that contained all the fury I felt. ‘This is not just a mother and baby home – this is a place for unmarried mothers who are having their babies adopted. You tried to trick me into giving up my baby!’

I’d never spoken to him like that before but I was furiously angry. Already I was having to fight tooth and nail to protect this child and she wasn’t even out of the womb yet.

‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll come for you later.’

Dad came to pick me up in the early evening. I was standing in reception with my bag packed, waiting. He lifted my belongings into the boot of the car, and as we drove off he said: ‘Vanessa, you only have two choices and I want you to consider them very carefully. Either you give up this baby for adoption, or you and John will have to get married. I will not countenance a baby in my family being born out of wedlock.’

‘But John hasn’t asked me to marry him.’

‘This is not about romance and proposing on bended knee. John will marry you if I talk to him man to man and
explain his responsibilities. We’ll have to get a special licence because you’re under age but I will arrange that, and your mother and I will help out financially until you find your feet. Is that what you want?’

‘I want to keep my baby,’ I said stubbornly.

‘Very well. Call John and ask him to come over to the house tomorrow.’ He glanced at my swollen belly. ‘From the looks of it, there’s no time to be lost.’

O
ver dinner the following evening, John sat very subdued as Dad outlined the reasons why he had to marry me.

‘This baby is being born into a Christian household and it will be at a huge disadvantage in life if it is illegitimate. Do you really want to do that to your own flesh and blood? Vanessa’s mother and I are very religious and it would bring scorn upon us in our own community. This is not how we do things in our neck of the woods.’

‘Of course I’ll marry Vanessa if she wants me to,’ John mumbled, hopelessly outnumbered.

‘Will you explain to your parents? We can’t risk one of them turning up and objecting at the wedding.’

John looked petrified. ‘I haven’t seen Dad since I helped Mum to leave him. He’ll kill me if I go back.’

‘I suppose we could just keep it quiet and hope he doesn’t find out.’

‘I’ll go and talk to him,’ I heard myself volunteering. ‘Surely he’ll agree it’s the best thing to do when he sees my condition. It’s his grandchild after all.’ I patted my belly. The baby was moving, her little foot kicking
upwards into my diaphragm. I’d have walked over hot coals for that child, so confronting John’s father didn’t seem too daunting.

So by the end of the evening, I was engaged to be married. It wasn’t exactly a young girl’s dream of being proposed to – having her father threaten the man involved until he agreed to do it – but if it meant I could keep the baby, then I didn’t care.

I went round the next evening to the Droitwich council house where Fred spent his leisure time drinking bottles of beer in front of the telly. I knocked on the door and waited but there was no reply, so I walked round and rapped on the window. I could see him sound asleep in his armchair so I knocked more loudly until he wakened with a start and looked up to see me waving at him.

Cursing, he staggered through to the hall and opened the front door. ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’

‘I just need to have a word, Fred. Do you mind if I come in?’

‘Look at you. Size of a bloody house. You probably won’t fit through the door.’ He stepped back to let me in all the same.

I sat down on the sofa, which was so low that I worried I was going to have trouble getting up again. There was a hissing noise as Fred pulled open a can of beer.

‘It’s good to see you,’ I lied. ‘I just wanted to pop in to let you know that your grandchild is due in a few weeks now.’

‘The little bastard,’ he interrupted.

I ignored him. ‘John has asked me to marry him and I’ve agreed. We’d like to get married before the baby’s born and we wondered if you will come to the wedding.’ I’d decided on this tactic, sure that the promise of some free booze would win him round – but I was wrong.

‘My John’s way too good for you. You’ve trapped him with your woman’s wiles and wrecked his career prospects, and now you’ve got the cheek to ask if I’ll come to your sodding wedding.’ He snorted and took a gulp of his beer.

‘Please. It’s what John wants as well.’

‘Why didn’t he come and see me himself then?’

‘He’s so busy with his course and he’s working in the evenings as well so he asked me to come. He’s a credit to you – really he is.’

Various spirits were warning me: ‘Watch out, Vanessa.’ ‘Take care.’ ‘Leave now – he’s dangerous.’ Fred’s aura was getting stronger and more terrifying but I didn’t want to go without his blessing.

‘It would mean so much to us if you would come to the wedding,’ I said.

Suddenly Fred flew from his seat and grabbed me by the throat, squeezing hard. I struggled and tried to prise his fingers off but he squeezed tighter until I couldn’t breathe.

‘Stupid little slut,’ he hissed in my face. ‘It’s probably not even John’s kid. You’ve probably been screwing all and sundry, a girl like you. If I kill you now, my son will be free of you and your sodding brat.’

I was terrified the baby was being harmed by the lack of oxygen or that the violence might trigger labour. I could-n’t get Fred’s fingers off my throat so I positioned my knee and brought it up hard into his groin. He yelled and
let go of me immediately, doubled over with pain. I seized my chance and ran into the kitchen, hoping to escape through the back door but it was locked and there was no sign of the key. Roaring with rage, Fred rushed through and wrestled me to the floor.

‘I know – I’ll gas you and the kid,’ he yelled. ‘That’ll get you out of the way.’

He opened the oven door, grabbed me by the hair and dragged me towards it. I knew that domestic gas wasn’t supposed to be poisonous any more but I was still petrified that it would harm the baby so I struggled with all my might. Fred kicked me in the stomach and I curled myself into a ball, trying to protect my belly, while screaming as loudly as I could. Where on earth were the neighbours? Why didn’t someone come to help?

‘Shut up, bitch!’ He kicked the base of my spine. I saw my chance and while his foot was raised I grabbed it, causing him to overbalance and fall heavily backwards, cracking his head on the kitchen units. I hauled myself up and ran through the sitting room, out the front door and down the street. I didn’t stop running until I reached the main road, where shoppers milled round with their carrier bags.

I bent double, out of breath, desperately feeling my belly for signs that the baby was still moving and was overwhelmed with joy when she kicked my hand. This one was definitely a survivor.

Dad and I drove to the magistrates’ court the next day and lodged an application for me to get a special licence and we were given a hearing date of 15 December. This was
quite tight given the fact that the baby was due on Christmas Day but it was the best they could do. We then drove to the registry office and booked a ceremony for the afternoon of Saturday 16th.

Dad didn’t say much as we went about this business. It wasn’t what he had dreamed of for his only daughter’s wedding. As a committed churchgoer, he would have loved to walk me down the aisle, but that was obviously out of the question now. After we’d booked the registry office, we drove to a restaurant attached to a local pub and booked a table for dinner straight after the ceremony. I was touched at this and gave Dad a quick hug. He kissed my forehead.

‘I want the best for you, Lady Jane,’ he said, his face sad. ‘I only want to see you happy.’

‘I will be, Dad, I promise.’ I smiled to show him how positive I was but it didn’t seem to lift his spirits at all.

The entire weekend of 15–17 December 1967 passed by in the blink of an eye, but changed my life profoundly. On the Friday afternoon at 2 p. m., Dad, John and I filed into Droitwich magistrates’ court. The elderly magistrate looked sternly at my impossibly immense belly then directed his questions at me.

‘Are you sure you understand what you are taking on, young woman? You want to marry this man and you’re not under any duress?’

I agreed that I did and I wasn’t.

‘And you, sir,’ he asked Dad. ‘You agree that this is the best thing?’

‘Obviously, in the circumstances,’ Dad said, nodding his head towards me.

I stared at my lap, feeling like a leper. The magistrate stamped and signed the special licence and we were back outside again by 2.20 p.m.

The next morning was my wedding day but I don’t think I had any of the usual emotions of a young bride. I was mainly concerned that I’d been getting twinges and worried that I was going to go into labour in the middle of the ceremony. The local doctor was called but he assured me they were false contractions, known as Braxton Hicks.

I got dressed in a huge emerald-green brocade smock – virtually the only garment I owned that I could still fit into. Nigel surprised me by bringing me a beautiful bouquet of white roses bound in silk ribbon as a wedding present from him. Mum was dressed to the nines in a pale blue Jackie Kennedy dress, matching jacket and pillbox hat – far be it for her to miss out on any opportunity to dress up. Dad and Nigel wore their suits and ties.

As we drove to the registry office, Mum couldn’t resist a few little jibes. ‘I hope he turns up and doesn’t jilt you. It must be very depressing for him to be taking on such a burden.’

I ignored that so she continued, trying to get a reaction. ‘Other brides are radiantly beautiful, whereas you just look fat and frumpy. If he turns up at all, I wouldn’t be surprised if John runs a mile when he catches sight of you.’

‘Leave her alone, Mum,’ Nigel butted in. I gave him a little half-smile. I wasn’t nervous at all. I knew John would turn up because the spirits had told me. I also knew that my delivery was near; it wouldn’t be long before I could hold my baby in my arms for the first time.

John and Nelly were waiting on the steps outside the registry office. John gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezed my hand. Mum and Nelly said hello, eyeing each other’s outfits, and I could tell Mum was pleased that hers was much smarter.

We were called in to stand in front of the registrar, a kindly woman with a lacquered blonde helmet of hair. Seeing my condition, she asked that a chair be brought for me and a glass of water positioned on the desk where I could reach it. As she began reading out the service, I looked round at John, who was picking the skin by his nails, and I realized that I hardly knew him at all. A stranger and I were linking our futures to each other, just so that the child in my belly could never be called a bastard, the way I had been.

‘Do you, Vanessa Annette Casey, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?’ the registrar asked, and I said, ‘I do.’

John consented as well and I heard Nelly sobbing behind me but no one voiced any objections and soon we were being pronounced man and wife.

When we walked out of the registry office, it was perhaps telling that I was holding Dad’s hand rather than my new husband’s.