Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart

by Hayes, Chanelle

  ‘I’m sorry I was so awful to you,’ I told them. ‘But now I know, it won’t happen again.’

  They smiled sadly and both held me for a long time.

  Naturally, I had further questions about the murder and it seemed that Sharon, my babysitter, had only been able to identify my mum’s body by a birthmark on her leg. Who knows the full extent of what the psychotic killer, this loner called Keith Pollard, did to her? I’d actually prefer not to know.

  The only shred of comfort I can take from the tale is that Mum’s body wasn’t left lying there for too long. Pollard handed himself into the police after killing her, which was why they found her so quickly in his flat. She was later cremated in Sheffield – though, of course, as a baby, I wasn’t there for that. My two sisters Maria and Melissa did go, which I know they found totally devastating. I never knew her, of course, but they were the ones with all those memories to lose.

  Although Pollard has served his time after being jailed in 1988, the probation officers say it’s highly unlikely now that he’ll ever be released. We were told that he did appeal a few years ago but that his behaviour has not been good enough and he hasn’t shown any remorse. It’s strange knowing so little – we’ve never even known what prison he was sent to and just assumed it was one of the high-security ones in Manchester. I do thank my lucky stars that he’s still locked up though. Ultimately, they have to think of public safety and the fact that he also murdered that poor old lady. In my opinion, he’s best off where he is.

  I know we’re meant to believe in rehabilitation and all of that but it’s too hard to forgive and forget when it’s your own flesh and blood that’s been snatched from you. I will never simply shrug my shoulders and wish him well, or say that he might be a reformed character, because that would be disrespectful to my mother’s memory. I hate him and I always will do.

  After I came out of Big Brother, there were reports that he was set to be released, so I went to see the prison officers and told them my own safety could be at risk if he was back on the streets. What a disaster.

  ‘He’ll know exactly where to find me if he’s freed,’ I told this stern woman in a starchy white blouse. ‘I have been on TV recently, so he might know who I am.’

  You’d think my concerns were valid but this horribly unsympathetic lady just replied, ‘Well, you chose to put yourself in the public eye by doing your job. That’s not something we can help you with.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘You mean, because I’ve chosen to make something of my life, I am going to be punished for that? I could be an anonymous cleaner and that’d be OK but, because I am famous, it would be my fault if he knew where to find me?’

  I was absolutely incensed but the woman showed no understanding for my situation at all. She said, ‘You could get a restraining order, meaning he won’t be able to approach you, but we can’t have him watched or tracked because that would be against his human rights.’

  ‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘His human rights! What about my rights? Or the rights of my dead mother? He should be in prison forever after what he’s done, never mind his bloody rights!’

  I was so outraged. It seemed like a complete and utter farce and I couldn’t help thinking that things would have been very different if Pollard had killed two little children, instead of a prostitute and a pensioner.

  As I struggled with my disbelief, I asked the woman if Pollard was ever allowed to read newspapers from his cell. I had been doing a lot of modelling and was suddenly horrified that he might have seen some of my pictures.

  ‘I can’t say,’ she said. ‘That would also be an infringement of his rights. But I can confirm that he would be able to buy any newspaper should he so wish.’

  For Christ’s sake, this was just outrageous! Why did my rights matter so little when I was the innocent person here? He was able to know stuff about me if he wanted but he was protected by this web of bureaucracy. Where’s the justice in that?

  ‘Does he have pictures of me on his walls?’ I asked, feeling queasy. But this fell on equally deaf ears. ‘I can’t tell you that either,’ she answered. ‘But he is free to put pictures and photos on his wall, yes.’

  I gave up at that point – I was getting nowhere. But, to me, this was all so very wrong. Not to mention bloody scary.

  Rewinding back to my 15-year-old self, once I’d moved back home, there was another bombshell for me to deal with. Mum came into my bedroom and said, ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, sitting up on my bed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, now you know the truth about your real mum, it’s probably the right time to give this to you.’

  She sat on the bed and handed me an envelope.

  ‘It’s a letter from Annie, your nan. Your mum’s mum. She wrote it when you were given up for adoption and we’ve been saving it for you, along with some other things she and your sisters Maria and Melissa have sent you over the years.’

  Then she handed me a bag containing a whole load of presents, birthday cards and photos from them, which she and Dad had been storing up for all this time. God knows how they kept them all secret from me – I thought nothing went unnoticed by me. I was gobsmacked but comforted to know that they hadn’t forgotten me in all those years. Opening the envelope, I smiled at Mum and said, ‘Thanks. This means a lot.’

  The letter from my nan was written the day after I was given up for adoption and it still reduces me to a sobbing mess every time I read it now.

  It said:

  My dear Chanelle, I am very sad just now, as yesterday I saw you for the last time and had to say goodbye.

  By now you will be grown up and I just know that you will be beautiful. I hope and trust that you have been happy and content with your new parents, and they with you, and always will, as they chose you especially.

  Your real mum will be watching over you because she loved you very much, just as she loved your sisters Maria and Melissa.

  Tears were rolling down my face. It was the saddest thing I’d ever read. The letter continued:

  I am your nan (your mum’s mum). At the time of writing, Maria is 15 and Melissa is 9 years old. How old they will be when you read this will be up to your adopted parents. I am sure they will choose the right time for you.

  We were all devastated at the time of your mum’s death, the circumstances of which you will no doubt by now have been told. It was very tragic and your mum didn’t deserve such a terrible death.

  If by any chance you are wondering why none of the family kept you, it just wasn’t feasible. I wanted to but I was too old to give you a proper life and, of course, your sisters were too young. So we thought the best thing possible for you was to let you go to your adopted mum and dad and pray that you would have a loving and caring relationship.

  I hope and pray that we did the right thing. I am leaving some photographs with this letter in the hope that it will give you some idea of your mum, your sisters and me.

  Your mum didn’t always do the right thing but, whatever she did, she loved all of us and did what she thought was helping us. She had a heart of gold and would help anyone and we miss her terribly.

  As you can imagine, this was almost too much for me to bear. I’d obviously never known of the impact Mum’s death had on those who knew and loved her, so it was heart-breaking to read of their pain and loss.

  She ended the letter:

  Well, love, I know I probably won’t be around when you are of age but I am hoping and praying that you will try and contact Maria and Melissa and, through them, find the rest of the family but it is entirely your decision.

  It has been a rather difficult letter to write but I have done my best. Assuring you once more of our love for you, I will close this letter. I will always be thinking of you and wondering how you are. Goodbye, love, and please try to contact your sisters.

  All my love for always, from Nan xxx

  Phew. What a colossal thing to take in. I felt moved beyond words and sat ut
terly speechless on my bed.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Mum asked.

  I nodded. ‘It’s just so beautiful. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘We knew it would upset you. That’s why we had to wait until you were older. It’s a hell of a lot for you to take in.’

  I took a deep breath and started to look through the photos she’d enclosed with the letter. The first thing I noticed was how much I looked like my real mum. It really was spooky, as if I was seeing old black-and-white pictures of myself from another lifetime. There was one shot of her cradling me as a baby – I can only have been about a month old when it was taken – and it’s one of my most treasured possessions. I keep it next to my bed even now.

  Next, I turned to the letter my two sisters had sent.

  Maria wrote:

  Chanelle, I will love you always.

  I just hope you will try to find me when you want. I want you to keep the photos and locket always (even if you don’t want to find your proper family). I will understand if you don’t want to get to know me, Melissa and your nan because I know how hard it is. Lots and lots of love always, Maria xxxx

  And Melissa had written, ‘Chanelle, yes, I am your sister. I just want you to know I love you very much. Please do not forget me because I love you a lot. Your own sister, Melissa x’

  It was short and sweet but equally touching – especially from a nine-year-old.

  The letters threw me into turmoil because I knew I had to get in touch. I’d never thought about seeing them before because I was so young and they just weren’t on my radar. It’s like being told you’ve got a distant second cousin out there somewhere. You might think, ‘Oh, right. That’s nice,’ but you don’t drop everything and try and find them. Also, I guess, subconsciously, it would have seemed disrespectful to Mum and Dad to open that can of worms.

  But now the invitation was on the table, it was different. I needed to know if my nan was still alive, for starters. She sounded like such a lovely lady from her letter.

  After I had read and re-read all the letters a few times, Mum said, ‘Christine at Social Services was wondering, would you like to meet them all?’

  ‘Um, I think I would,’ I said and nodded. ‘If you and Dad don’t mind.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, we’d never deny you that chance. You have our full support, whatever you want to do.’

  So I discussed it with Christine and told her that I was keen but also terrified.

  ‘What are you frightened of?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve never been part of their family, so they might hate me,’ I admitted. ‘A lot of time has passed since they wrote those letters.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m sure they won’t hate you. The link you have is so strong, it might bring you together.’

  But she also warned me that meeting them could open up a lot of new wounds. ‘As much as you have in common, it may still be very difficult and painful for you all. So much time has passed and you know nothing about each other, so it won’t be plain sailing. This is a decision you have to weigh up very carefully.’

  I thought hard about what Christine said but I knew instinctively it was something I had to do, so I told her to go ahead and contact them. She got back to me almost straight away and said, ‘Right, I’ve approached your sisters and your nan and all three want to see you.’

  ‘Wow. OK,’ I said. This was really going to happen.

  We agreed that to see all three of them at once might be a little overwhelming, so Christine arranged a meeting with Nan first for a week on Saturday. When that day came, I was so nervous I nearly called it off. But Christine picked me up and said, ‘Come on. You can do this. If you hate it, you never need go again.’

  When we pulled up outside her house in Sheffield, she led me to the door and rang the bell. After a couple of minutes, this little old lady opened the door and just stared at me agog, as if she’d seen a ghost. After a couple of seconds, her face lit up.

  ‘So you must be Chanelle!’

  She reached out for me and gave me a hug. I felt like a plank of wood and, when she finally let me go, she was crying. She was really frail and seemed quite weak.

  ‘I’ve dreamed of meeting you for years and years,’ she whispered, clutching my hand and holding it firmly. ‘You look exactly like your mother. It’s just unbelievable.’

  She studied my face again. ‘I had no idea you would be the spitting image of Andrea. I’m so shocked.’

  As she led us into the lounge, I noticed old black-and-white photos of my mum, in which she did look astoundingly like me.

  Over a cup of milky tea, Nan and I took the first tentative steps towards getting to know each other. It was so nice to meet her but I couldn’t get my head round the fact that the elderly woman before me was my own flesh and blood. This was my nan – someone I should have visited every weekend during my childhood and drawn pictures and bought endless bottles of sherry for. But I had been denied all of that. Could we even begin making up for that now?

  We talked for an hour or so and she was genuinely so sweet – asking about my studies at school, what my hobbies were and that kind of stuff. When it came time to leave, she took my hand again.

  ‘Please come and see me again soon, Chanelle. I’m not getting any younger and we’ve a lot of lost time to make up for.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come back soon,’ I promised. In retrospect, I only wish I could have realised the significance of her words then and how little time we actually had.

  As Christine drove me home, she asked me what I’d made of Nan. I thought for a while.

  ‘It was really hard.’

  ‘Why? Didn’t you like her?’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ I stammered. ‘She’s adorable. It’s just, well, I just don’t know how I’m meant to react.’

  Seeing Nan cry upon meeting me had left me feeling so confused – should I have cried too?

  A couple of days later, my mixed feelings made a little more sense to me. ‘I know what’s really bothering me,’ I told Christine. ‘Nan loved my mum to pieces but I can’t share that love because it’s for someone I’ve never known.’

  ‘Go on,’ Christine urged. ‘Keep talking.’

  ‘I just feel a bit cheated really. I’m gutted that I didn’t get to spend any time with my mum, and both my sisters and my Nan did. It’s not fair, is it?’

  ‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head,’ Christine said, nodding. ‘But you mustn’t feel guilty about it. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’

  Two weeks later, she accompanied me to Maria’s house so I could meet my sisters. Nan was there too and, when we arrived, Maria and Melissa ran to the door and both burst into tears as soon as they saw me.

  ‘Oh my God, she is just like our mum!’ Maria choked.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said Nan, reaching out for me.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ Melissa added, staring at me intensely.

  I swallowed hard and said politely, ‘Hi. It’s very nice to meet you both.’

  As Nan ushered us into the lounge, I realised we were not alone. There was a baby sleeping in one corner of the room and another little boy playing with his toys on the floor.

  ‘Meet your nephews, Chanelle,’ said Maria. ‘This is baby Euan and my other son, Luke. Say hello to your aunty, Luke.’

  They were so cute but it was a lot to take in. Suddenly, I had two sisters and my own nephews! My brain felt like it was spinning.

  ‘Hi, Luke,’ I managed. ‘How old are you then?’

  He was more engrossed in his toys than talking to his new aunty, so we all sat down. It was lovely to hear all about their lives and I felt a surge of empathy for Maria and Melissa as they recounted the pain of having me taken away from them.

  Melissa said she’d been in bits when I went into foster care. ‘I had to cope first with losing our mum and then you, all in a short space of time,’ she said.

  God knows how shattering it must have been for them both and Maria told me, �
�Every time I passed a little girl in the street, I’d check if it was you.’

  As for their memories of me as their new-born sister, Melissa said I was a very content baby. One of her most vivid memories of me was when our mum asked her to check on me and she said I was just lying in my cot gurgling, wriggling my hands and feet but not making any noise at all.

  They were both so emotional at that meeting and I was unbelievably touched but I felt so guilty that I wasn’t in floods of tears too. You see long-lost relatives meeting up on TV on shows like Surprise, Surprise and it’s like, ‘Wow! I’ve dreamed of meeting you all my life! I’m so happy we’ve found each other!’ But in reality, it churns up a lot of painful memories and sentiments that are hard to handle.

  Later, when I got home, Mum and Dad asked me how it went. I was still trying to process the whole encounter and said, ‘Yeah, it was nice – but I feel bad that I wasn’t more upset too.’

  ‘That’s understandable, Chanelle,’ Mum said. ‘You were only a tiny baby when you were split up and you didn’t know any different. So of course, coming together again was going to affect them more. They’ll understand that though.’

  Mum and Dad were both so generous in how they dealt with it all. It can’t have been easy for them to see me, who they’d raised as their own, swan off to meet these new relatives. I’d always felt so loyal to Mum, Dad and David, so the fact that I now had another family racked me with guilt. But, as I wrestled with these feelings, I had no idea that fate would deal us yet another cruel twist in the coming weeks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Old Habits

  With recent events constantly running through my mind like it was stuck on a loop, I made the bad move of turning back to Scott. He was now renting a terraced house in Wakefield and begged me to move in with him.