Mum put my moods down to my hormones and the fact I was bigger than a whale, and tried to cheer me up. But the only thing that got me out of bed and through each day after I read about his death was the life growing inside me. I had to be strong, for him or her.
I didn’t once give a thought to what his wife and child might have been going through. I suppose I just didn’t care.
And then something happened that I had no chance of ever getting over.
It started on 23 November, 1979. I’d been in hospital for a few hours with doctors monitoring me when suddenly, and without much warning, I went into labour. The pain over those next few hours was worse than anything I could ever have expected, and when it was finally over and my beautiful baby boy was born I couldn’t imagine ever having to do that again. Only I did have to, just a few minutes later. Because there was another baby in there, and she needed to come out.
I was having twins.
I was in too much pain to register the shock, but the moment I was handed these two little bundles wrapped in hospital blankets was the moment I finally felt happy again for the first time in months. It was as though these two tiny people had healed the hole in my heart, and given me a reason to live my life again. I was exhausted that day, though, and kept dozing, on and off. The twins – I called them Samuel and Louisa – spent lots of time in a room at the end of the corridor with all the other babies, but the rest of the time they slept in matching cribs at the end of my bed where I could just sit and watch them. If I’d loved them any more, I’d have burst.
The day after they were born I woke up from a short doze to find the maternity ward buzzing. It was visiting time. Mum was due soon, she couldn’t wait to meet her grandchildren, but I needed a cigarette before she got there so I dragged my sore body out of bed and grabbed the fag packet from my bag. The twins were sound asleep; they’d be OK for a few minutes while I slipped out. I stood at the door to my room and scanned the faces of the people in the corridor. There was a woman in front of me, sitting on one of the benches, her hand on a pushchair with an older child in it. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but her face was so stricken with grief I didn’t feel I could stop and study her for long to work out how or if I knew her. I couldn’t bear to think about what might have happened to make her so desperately sad, and so I turned away from her and scurried along the corridor, away from my babies, and away from her and her sadness.
As I stood by the fire exit, sucking tobacco into my lungs, I thought about how much my life had changed. The smoke made me feel light-headed. My thoughts kept wandering to Ray, to how much I missed him, and I kept trying to drag them back, to think about something else that didn’t hurt so much. I wondered whether I should be letting Barry know about the twins. I doubted he’d care much, and I couldn’t bear the thought of someone not loving them as much as I did. My heart swelled with love just picturing their tiny, perfect faces.
I took one final drag and watched an ambulance pull into the driveway and its doors fly open. I wondered briefly what emergency they were attending. Then I crushed the stub out on the railing and dropped it down five floors to the ground and made my way back inside, desperate to get back to my babies. I walked quickly back through the doors, back down the corridor, and was almost at the door of my room when I heard my name being called. I turned my head and there was Mum, walking towards me, a smile almost splitting her face in half. It was so rare to see her smile like that it made me smile too.
‘Kimberley.’ She pulled me towards her and sniffed me. ‘Have you been smoking?’
I nodded and she looked at me for a moment. ‘Oh well, I suppose you’re a mum now, I can hardly tell you off, can I?’
I grinned. ‘I’ll remind you of that.’
She smiled at me and pushed my hair gently from my face. ‘I know I don’t say it very often, but I am proud of you, you know.’
‘I know.’
She cupped my cheek with her hand for a moment and I felt like a little girl again. I wanted to stay like that forever. ‘Right, are you going to let me cuddle my grandchildren, then?’
‘If they’re awake.’ We turned and walked the few yards to my room. I wish I’d known as we took those steps that that moment was the very last time I’d ever feel happy, because then I could have tried to hold on to it forever. But it was too late.
I knew from the minute we walked into the room that something was terribly wrong.
There were still two cribs at the end of my bed. But there was only one baby. The other crib was empty, the sheet stretched smoothly over the mattress as though nobody had ever been there. As though my little girl had never existed. It was as though the world stood still for a moment as I took it in, and tried to work out what was going on. Beside me, Mum was still talking, but I didn’t hear a word she said. My eyes flicked left and right and I took in the whole room in a matter of seconds. My baby wasn’t there. My head whirled and I grabbed the door frame.
‘Where is she?’ I whipped my head round and Mum must have seen the panic in my eyes because she gripped my arm and said, ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’
‘My baby . . . Louisa . . . ’ I pointed to the empty crib and felt Mum’s hand stiffen.
‘It’ll be OK, try not to panic. I’m sure it’s fine, one of the nurses will have her.’ She raced away then and left me standing there alone while she spoke to a midwife. They were talking for a while, looking round, dashing off, talking to colleagues. But it didn’t matter, because all the time I knew.
I knew she wasn’t with a nurse.
I knew she wasn’t with a doctor.
I knew she’d gone.
I just knew.
My legs collapsed beneath me and I fell to the floor in the doorway. I felt hands under my arms lifting me and helping me to the bed and I heard voices around me, getting louder, the pitch rising as realization dawned.
I lay on that bed for what could have been seconds but could also have been hours while bodies, faces, people floated around me; voices came at me, soft and kind, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. At some point I must have moved and picked up Samuel because he was by my side asleep or feeding while all around me panic ensued. I stared at my baby boy’s face, at the cute little snub of his nose and his shock of dark hair peeking out from under his tiny woolly hat, and I tried to focus on nothing but that, to block out everything else that was happening. I needed to dampen down the sense of panic that kept threatening to engulf me, and the only way I knew to do that was to go inside myself, and stay away from the outside world.
I can’t honestly tell you how the events of that day unfolded after the moment that I realized my baby girl was missing. I know the police arrived because they came to talk to me, to ask me some questions. Nurses fussed around and Mum looked strained, her face lined and pale. For the first time in my life she looked old.
At some point I was taken home and tucked up in bed, baby Samuel asleep in his crib next to me. When he cried I fed him, and sometimes I woke up from a fevered sleep to find Mum holding him, his lips sucking greedily from a bottle. But mostly I tried not to sleep. I tried not to take my eyes off my precious boy in case I lost him too.
And all the time I kept asking myself, how could I have done it? How could I have left them there, even for a few minutes, without me? If I hadn’t gone for that cigarette, if I’d just stayed there in that room with them, then none of this would have happened.
Days passed in flashes of grief, when I’d wake screaming, or find myself on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably, until Mum led me gently back to bed. Other days I’d have long periods of calm, when I felt nothing and just sat, perfectly still, utterly numb, staring into space. I think Mum found the shouting and screaming easier to deal with; she knew what it meant, and she knew how to help. But when I was gone, vacant, away from myself, she struggled, unsure how to get through to me. I was too far gone even to try to help her.
I spoke to journalists, I gave statements to the
police. They asked me if I had any idea who might have done this but I couldn’t think of anyone and that made me feel even worse, as though I was letting Louisa down. I felt bad when I gave them Barry’s name, but I knew he had nothing to hide, so it was best to tell the truth.
If you’d asked me a few days ago, I’d probably have said that I knew from the moment I saw Louisa’s empty crib that I was never going to see her again. But the truth was, I always had a flame of hope. It slowly diminished until, by the end, it was almost completely extinguished. But deep, deep down somewhere in my heart, it was always there, burning gently.
It’s been a tough ride for me and my boy, and there have been times when I didn’t think I was going to make it. But every time I’ve hit rock bottom I’ve had to drag myself up and out of it, for him.
And now here we are – and here she is, standing in front of me in my very own kitchen: the girl that everyone else gave up on so many years ago.
My girl. My Louisa.
Finally, for the first time in thirty-seven long, painful years, the flame is burning brightly again, and maybe I can believe that, at last, everything is going to be OK.
Acknowledgements
This book would never even have come to be if it hadn’t been for the person who gave me the inspiration in the first place. Lisa Beith, my lovely sister-in-law; the words you uttered after darling Megan died never left my mind and it’s those words that, many years later, helped shape the idea for this book. So for that, I thank you. I hope I’ve done justice to how you truly felt.
Many people helped me with the research for this book and I’d like to thank them from the bottom of my heart for giving up their time and knowledge. Firstly, a lovely midwife called Jackie Auger who, amazingly, not only worked in the Norfolk and Norwich maternity hospital during the 1970s but could even remember which floor everything was on! The details you provided were invaluable, and any mistakes are, clearly, mine – plus a bit of creative freedom, of course. Another midwife, Emily Balch, also helped me understand exactly what could and couldn’t happen during a late miscarriage and, although I asked her some rather disturbing and upsetting questions, she provided me with excellent answers to which I do hope I’ve done justice. I also need to thank Gary Oborne, who provided some great details about police procedures during the seventies and, even though much of the detail didn’t get used in the end, I hope that knowing it helped make the whole thing more authentic.
My mum, Pam Swatman, also helped me with lots of the everyday detail from the time. Thanks Mum.
I spent quite a long time researching dementia and Alzheimer’s and found many useful books and papers on the subject, not least Keeper, a book about memory, identity, isolation, Wordsworth and cake by Andrea Gillies.
There are no doubt many people I’ve forgotten to thank, and for that, I’m sorry. But your help is always appreciated.
I also, of course, need to thank the brilliant Judith Murray. Again, you helped me shape this story into what it is now, and you never stopped believing I could do it. It’s amazing to have someone as great as you in my corner. Everyone at Greene and Heaton is a joy to work with.
Thanks also to Victoria Hughes-Williams at Pan Macmillan for your ninja editing skills. It wouldn’t be half the book it is without your brilliant ideas. Thanks to the rest of the team at Pan Macmillan too, not least Jess, Abbie and Jayne.
And finally, friends and family. I’ll never be forgiven if I don’t mention my lovely little brother Mark here, and the truth is, he’s always supported me in everything I’ve done, and especially this book-writing business. Mark, you’re the best.
Thanks also to my usual early readers, Serena and Zoe, who give me honest feedback and make great cups of tea.
And thanks, as always, to my frankly amazing husband Tom, and brilliant boys, Jack and Harry. It’s all for you.
If you enjoyed The Mother’s Secret, then you’ll love
before you go
This story starts with an ending.
But this ending is just the beginning.
You find your soulmate . . .
Some people stare love in the face for years before they find it. Zoe and Ed fumbled their way into adulthood, both on different paths – but always in the same direction. Years later, having navigated dead-end jobs and chaotic house shares, romance finally blossoms. Their future together looks set . . .
Then the unthinkable happens.
One morning, on his way to work, Ed is knocked off his bike and dies. Now Zoe must find a way to survive. But she’s not ready to let go of the memories. How can she forget all of the happy times, their first kiss, everything they’d built together? Zoe decides she has to tell Ed all the things she never said.
Now it’s too late. Or is it?
the mother’s secret
CLARE SWATMAN is a journalist for a number of weekly women’s magazines. The Mother’s Secret is her second novel. Clare was Features Editor for Bella and has written for Best, Woman’s Own, Take a Break and Real People. She currently writes for her local magazine. Clare lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two boys.
Also by Clare Swatman
Before You Go
First published 2018 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2018 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-2487-8
Copyright © Clare Swatman 2018
Cover illustration by Mel Four, Pan Macmillan Art Department
The right of Clare Swatman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication page
Contents
Prologue
Part One Georgie
1
2
3
4
Part Two Jan
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Part Three Georgie
12
13
14
15
16
Part Four Kimberley
17
Acknowledgements
Before You Go
About the Author
Also by Clare Swatman
Copyright page
The Mother's Secret Page 27