Different Genes

  “Have you looked in her handbag for an address? I presume she has a handbag?”

  “Yes, she’s gripping it tightly. I didn’t like to try and go through it.”

  “I’ll send a police constable in a car. Can you stay with her until he arrives?”

  “The wife will be worried, but of course I’ll stay.”

  The police car arrived fifteen minutes later, and a uniformed constable got out and sat next to Cathy.

  “Are you alright love? Have you had a fall?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cathy, Cathy Makepiece”

  “It’s cold out here and dark. Do you live in Rochester?”

  “Rochester, yes, I live in Rochester.”

  “Can you tell me your address?”

  “Oh, I’ll think of it in a minute. It’s just slipped my mind.”

  “Let’s have a look in your handbag, shall we?”

  The constable took her bag and opened the catch. He found a post office savings book with an address on the inside cover.

  9, Penhurst Crescent, Rochester, Kent.

  “That’s a nice part of town. Climb in my car, and I’ll run you home. The park keeper said you live with a lady called Louise. Is that right?”

  “It’s dark. Louise will be in bed.”

  The policeman drove the five-minute journey to Cathy’s house.

  “You stay in the car, love. I’ll go and knock on the door.”

  It was dark, and there was no reply. He turned on his torch and peered through the patterned stained glass in the front door. The house appeared to be empty. He noticed the front room curtains were open. He shone his torch through the net curtain. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a young child lying on the floor.

  He hurried back to the car. “Cathy, how old is Louise?”

  “She’s three.”

  “Stay in the car.”

  The policeman smashed the glass on the front door with his truncheon and turned the inside latch. He shone his torch into the front room and saw the child asleep on the floor. Thankfully she was breathing.

  Cathy recognised her own home, climbed out of the car, and walked into her house. She instinctively opened the hall cupboard door, emptied the money jar on the shelf and fed the electricity meter. The house lit up. Louise woke with a start.

  “Nana!”

  Cathy cuddled her granddaughter. “You should be in bed. It’s late!”

  The constable used the house phone to call for help, while Cathy hugged the sobbing child. Within half an hour two more uniformed officers arrived, followed by an ambulance.

  “Cathy, we are going to look after Louise for you tonight. You have to give her to us.”

  Cathy held onto Louise and refused to let her go.

  “I wouldn’t let the nuns have her, and you’re not having her either!” Cathy shouted aggressively at the policeman. The ambulance driver began to untangle Louise’s fingers from her grandmother’s clothing. He managed to take hold of the girl, and handed her to one of the policemen. The hysterical screaming child was held tightly in the back of the car, while his companion drove directly to the child welfare centre in Chatham. Back in the house, Cathy began to lash out with her limbs. She tried to kick the remaining policeman. “You can’t steal my Louise! She’s mine.”

  It took two strong men to pin Cathy down and strap her into a straight-jacket. Eventually, the ambulance delivered the young grandmother to Rochester General Hospital. A policeman was despatched to Mrs Phelps’ address, which had been found in Cathy’s address book.

  When Mrs Phelps visited Rochester General the following day, Cathy was heavily sedated and unable to communicate. Mrs Phelps gave the ward sister contact details for Ruby and left the hospital knowing that she had probably lost contact forever with a charming and unusual child, not to mention a lucrative part-time job.

  Ruby met with child welfare three days later at Cathy’s house. She was asked if her own family could take Louise in. Ruby explained that she was the oldest of seven. Taking in another child would not be possible.

  Ruby asked if she could visit Louise. This, said Child Welfare, was not advisable. Louise would most likely be adopted and needed to forget her past. At three years old, Louise was young enough to make a fresh start with a new family. Ruby showed the official into Louise’s nursery and packed a small suitcase with her most precious items, a few clothes, paintings, paper and crayons, her favourite doll, and a photo of Nana outside the house in Penhurst Crescent. Ruby hurriedly wrote the word Nana on the back of the photo. She tucked it into a side pocket of the case. The official drove away from the house leaving Ruby to deal with the legal implications of an empty house and a grandmother taken into care.

  Twenty

  Adoption

  The end of the Second World War in 1945 presented unexpected problems for employment. Whilst there were plenty of jobs for the lower military ranks, who were generally physically fit with much needed skills in basic engineering, building and manual labour, career opportunities for commissioned officers were less plentiful. Many had grown accustomed to the privileges of their rank, and they had inflated expectations of their potential income. Most wanted to stay in the forces, but were not allowed to do so. Peter Watson was one of the more fortunate ex-officers. As the eldest son of a high-ranking diplomat, he had spent his childhood in Singapore and had acquired a basic fluency in Malay. In 1946 he was offered a placement in Singapore, as an executive officer in the Diplomatic Service. He was part of the British team which supported Singapore’s transition to a Crown Colony. He travelled out to the Far East, aged just twenty-six years old, and was placed in the care of the local Assistant Secretary. Trips back to the UK were allowed annually to visit family and meet up with Civil Service colleagues. On his UK visit in 1948 he met a pretty eighteen-year old shorthand typist, named Joan, at the foreign office. Joan was petite with curved, rounded hips, which Peter found very attractive. Joan and Peter began to correspond, when he returned to Singapore, and he later wrote to Joan’s father to ask for her hand in marriage, requiring her parent’s consent, as she was then under-age. Joan’s parents were well aware of the benefits to their daughter of such a match and readily agreed. Peter obtained special leave to return to England for his wedding and took his new young wife, now aged nineteen, back to Singapore where they set up home together until the Spring of 1958. Having lived on her parents’ Essex farming estate all her life, Joan was accustomed to a combination of affluence and physical hard work. She easily adjusted to the heat and social demands placed upon an expat wife. She enjoyed entertaining, and her upper-middle-class accent fitted well in diplomatic circles. Learning to manage a household of Malaysian servants was more of a challenge, but, with Peter’s support, she soon learnt to run her new home with a mixture of authority and kindness. She missed England, rarely saw her parents, but enjoyed her new life. Lack of children was her one real regret. Despite a loving relationship with her husband, the babies never happened.

  When Peter was informed about the closure of his section in Singapore, he was offered a senior post in the Foreign Office in Whitehall. Joan and Peter decided to return to the UK and to adopt a baby. They would aim to live within commuting distance of central London, but in a reasonably rural setting as close as possible to Joan’s parents. They rented a house in the little town of Sawbridgeworth in Hertfordshire. Joan had visited the town because she had a cousin who lived there. If they settled, the couple decided that they would purchase a property as soon as possible. Joan was excited at the prospect of finally owning their own house and embarked on a property search with enthusiasm. She understood Peter’s traditional taste, and soon found a large well-appointed detached Edwardian house with many original features. Subject to agreed guidelines, Peter was more than happy to leave dome
stic arrangements to his wife. He readily agreed to her choice of property, and the purchase was rapidly completed.

  Joan and Peter had applied by letter from Singapore to adopt a baby when their return to the UK was imminent. Joan was now twenty-eight, and they had been trying for a family for seven years without success. Peter was ten years older than Joan, and they didn’t want to wait any longer. In the 1950s there was a ready supply of parentless babies seeking new homes. The screening procedure for potential adopters was uncomplicated. Most childless couples were approved, as long as they had an income, home and no criminal record. Generally speaking, babies would be allocated to parents ‘out of area’ to protect the biological mothers from an accidental encounter with their child.

  Joan had requested a girl, and had indicated her willingness to take a child up to the age of three years, though, in her imagination, she always assumed that she would be given a baby. Once back in England, Joan resisted the temptation to buy baby clothes, but she and Peter employed a decorator to wallpaper one of the spare bedrooms in their newly-purchased house with patterned rosebuds in anticipation of their possible new arrival. When the phone call came, it was an invitation to visit a children’s home in Kent.

  “The child is just three years old, bright, pretty and from a loving middle-class home. She is already potty trained, speaks clearly and likes drawing pictures. We are not allowed to give you any background details, but we would like to place her as a matter of urgency.”

  Peter took a day’s leave, and the couple drove to Chatham.

  Peter filled his car with petrol just South of the Blackwall Tunnel and then steered his Austin Cambridge through the more rural roads south of the river. Joan had the Ordnance Survey map on her lap and would occasionally issue instructions.

  “Left here, after the pub.”

  “Look for a sign to Rochester.”

  “Less than three miles now, it might be signposted.”

  And sure enough, two miles later, a small white sign with black writing indicated the turning to Hellingham House. Peter stretched out his right arm and signalled left through the open window. He turned the steering wheel sharply. The children’s home was approached via a lengthy, tree-lined gravel drive. The impressive entrance, however, did not disguise the rotting wooden window ledges and badly-pointed brickwork. Peter parked his car under a tree, and the couple walked to the front door. Joan heard children’s voices and felt a flutter of excitement. A smart middle-aged woman opened the door.

  “Mr and Mrs Watson, my name is Mary Clancy, and I work for the Kent Child Welfare Service. Welcome.”

  She led the couple into a comfortable lounge with leather chairs. A box of toys was discreetly tucked in a corner. Once seated, a pot of tea was placed before them. Mrs Clancy spoke as she poured the tea.

  “Louise is an unusual case.”

  ‘Louise,’ thought Joan, ‘She has a name. Her name is Louise.’

  Mary Clancy continued, “Unlike many of our older placements, Louise has been well nurtured in a caring and disciplined home environment. She comes from a middle-class, educated home background and should fit easily into your family. Her last few weeks before joining us were troubled, but will soon be forgotten. I am not authorised to share any more with you. If you decide to take her on, then I strongly recommend that you do not tell her she is adopted. Some questions are better not to be asked.”

  Mrs Clancy rang the bell, and an older girl with plaited hair and a white apron appeared.

  “Sheila, can you please ask Matron to send Louise down?”

  Sheila left, and Mary Clancy explained, “We like to give some responsibility to our older girls.”

  A few minutes later the lounge door opened, and a woman in nurse’s uniform stood in the doorway. Holding her hand was a small blonde-haired child in a waisted frock with embroidered bodice. Her hair had been plaited with pink ribbons tied at each end.

  “Louise, say hello to Mrs Watson.”

  Joan rose to her feet and approached the child. She then dropped to her knees to achieve face-to-face contact. She touched one of Louise’s pink ribbons.

  “You have such pretty hair. Do you like pink ribbons?”

  “My favourite colour is purple, but I quite like pink.”

  Joan was taken aback by Louise’s confident response.

  “You know your colours then,” Joan thought quickly, “I have a bedroom at home with pink flowers on the wall. I am hoping that one day a little girl like you will come and stay there.”

  “I like drawing flowers,” responded Louise. “Can I draw you some flowers?”

  Matron produced some paper and crayons and sat Louise down at a little table. Louise carefully selected the different colours and produced an image of green stems and purple petals.

  “That’s a beautiful picture, Louise, may I keep it?”

  “It’s for you. I will draw another one later for Nana.”

  Joan glanced at Matron, “Are you sure she is only just three?”

  “She is tall for her age, and bright, but, yes, we are sure. We have her birth certificate.”

  Peter stood up and walked towards the child. Louise left the table and clung to Matron’s legs.

  “Louise’s experience of men is somewhat limited, I’m afraid. And her last encounter with a man was with the police constable who brought her here.” Joan dared not ask for details. Instead she enticed Louise back out by looking at one of the toys in the box. After fifteen minutes of play, Louise was taken away by matron for her tea.

  Mary Clancy spoke frankly to Joan and Peter.

  “Louise should not be here. She is a stable, talented child who will benefit from a loving home. I am going to leave you alone with your husband for a short while. When I return, I will offer Louise to you for a six week stay, at the end of which we will suggest that you make a donation to Hellingham House. We will then sign the adoption papers.”

  “What will you tell Louise?”

  “That she is going on holiday to stay in the room with pink rosebuds. Young children have very short memories, Mrs Watson. Louise will soon forget she was ever here.”

  Mary Clancy left Peter and Joan alone. Joan felt her eyes fill with tears.

  “Why so emotional?” asked Peter. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

  “I can’t believe that they are giving us this delightful child.”

  “Possibly not ‘giving’, a donation was mentioned,” grinned Peter.

  “And we can take her today? I’ll have to sit in the back with her. We will need the travel blanket to keep her warm. I don’t have anything suitable for tea. Did we make up the little bed?”

  “I take it you want her,” said Peter.

  Joan’s eyes welled up, “I want her so much.”

  As if she had been listening, Mary Clancy re-entered the room.

  “Have you made a decision?”

  “We’ll take her. Will she be afraid of the car?” asked Peter.

  “She’ll probably sleep, but, if not, I suggest you stop on the way back for a snack. She likes her food.”

  Louise appeared fifteen minutes later in her woollen tailored coat carrying a doll and a small suitcase. Joan pulled out Louise’s recently crayoned picture of the flowers from her bag.

  “I am going to pin this on the wall of the bedroom with the pink roses, but I am not sure where exactly to put it. Matron has said you can come home with us to help us decide, and then stay for a holiday.”

  Peter looked fondly at his wife. He was astounded at how good she was with the child. They left Hellingham House as a family of three. Peter quickly took a few photos, then Louise took Joan’s hand, and they walked to the car together.

  Twenty-One

  Meeting Grandma

  Joan’s family was small, but close knit. Her father a
nd uncle were farmers who owned a large estate in northern Essex about an hour’s journey from Sawbridgeworth, where Joan and Peter had recently bought their house. Only one cousin lived nearby. Once little Louise had fallen asleep on the polished leather seat in the back of the Austin Cambridge, Peter and Joan began to discuss how to keep Louise’s adoption a secret.

  “I don’t see how we can do it,” said Joan. “They’ll all want to visit, and they’ll gush all over her with kisses and cuddles. The word ‘adoption’ is bound to be heard by Louise.”

  “Then we won’t tell them,” announced Peter, “Though I think we can trust Karen. She’ll understand.”

  “True, but what about my parents?”

  “And Uncle Jack,” added Peter.

  “Oh, god, I’d forgotten about Uncle Jack,” Joan covered her face in mock horror.

  “How important is it that Louise never knows about her adoption?” questioned Peter.

  “Mary Clancy said it was very important. I wish she had given us more information about Louise though.”

  “Sometimes things are best left in the past, Joan. How long have we got, before your parents visit?”

  “I’d guess, we have until Christmas.”

  Peter was used to being in charge. He saw his role as the solver of family problems. “Let me think about this, Joan.”

  It was dark by the time their car drove up to their house in Sawbridgeworth. Peter unlocked the front door and switched on the hall light. He climbed the stairs and moved a bedside light into Louise’s bedroom. Joan lifted the sleeping child from the back of the car and carried her upstairs. She removed Louise’s coat and shoes and tucked her under the sheets and blankets.

  “We’d better leave the small light on,” Peter whispered.

  Peter and Joan stood in the bedroom doorway and watched the little body moving gently with each breath under the bedclothes. Peter put his arm around Joan, and she felt a rogue tear trickle down her cheek. Peter produced a white handkerchief and wiped his wife’s face.