Chapter Forty-Seven
I looked at Jake.
‘So that’s how it started,’ I said. A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Have you traced Nicholas?’
‘I… know where he is,’ he said cautiously.
I gulped. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of Nicholas in decades. Not properly. Obviously, my thoughts had occasionally strayed that way. I’d wondered where he was living. If he’d met someone. Married. Had a family. Ever given our own child a thought. But as fast as such thoughts had entered my head, another part had quickly shut them down. And as for looking Nicholas up on social media – that was a no. Mentally, for me, it was too iffy a path.
But now a can of worms was being opened. Jake knew where Nicholas was. And my curiosity was piqued. How could I not find out more about Nicholas given that our son was here at my place of work?
‘So, you haven’t spoken to him?’ I whispered.
‘No.’ Jake shook his head.
‘How did you find him?’
‘The same way I found you.’ Jake’s eyes were unblinking. ‘So many people do those DNA things. You know, find out your heritage . People buy them as gifts for their loved ones. After all, they make unique presents. A simple swab of the mouth. Then wait to find out if you’re distantly related to Prince William.’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘It makes interesting reading. It makes comparisons to others who have posted off their samples. Consequently, you know exactly who you’re related to. Once I knew you were likely my birth mother, it was simply a case of tracing your whereabouts. In today’s world, that isn’t hard.’
‘Does Nicholas still live in Brighton?’
Jake shook his head.
‘No, and for now, I’d like to hear more of your story. You’ve told me how my biological mother met my biological father, but nothing else.’
‘What bit do you want next?’ I asked, as fresh tears slid down my cheeks.
‘All of it,’ he said simply.
And, head bowed, inwardly dying of shame, I continued my story.
How, after an evening of consuming cheap burgers in a bun, Marie and Callum had splintered off leaving me and Nicholas alone. We’d gone back to his place. Except, of course, it hadn’t been his place. It had been his parents’ place. They’d been away overnight. Visiting relatives. They’d entrusted Nicholas with the keys to the house. To feed the cat. Take the dog for a walk. Not to throw a wild party.
Once back at his place, he’d showed off. Poured gin and tonics from his parents’ cabinet. We’d got drunk. He’d pushed me down on the sofa. Asked how many men I’d slept with. I’d quaked upon hearing that word. Even in my gin-sodden befuddled state, it had registered that I was in dodgy territory. There was a world of difference between a teenage boy and a man . I’d told him the truth. That I was a virgin. And not nineteen. Instead, I’d told him I was seventeen. He’d done the same. Said he was a seventeen-year-old virgin.
We’d giggled, as if we’d shared the naughtiest secret ever. He’d then taken my face between his hands and gently kissed me. And then he’d suggested we fool around . See what happened… if anything… no pressure. And so, we had.
But, fuelled by gin and teenage hormones, we’d ended up doing an awful lot more than fooling around.
I’d stayed the night. Very little sleep had been had. We’d discovered sex. And we’d stayed up all night long indulging in it.
The following morning, exhausted, we’d given each other lingering kisses good-bye. We’d exchanged phone numbers. Secreted the bits of paper away in back pockets. And we did see each other again. Although we both quickly rumbled each other’s true ages.
After that, there was little chance to be together intimately. His parents didn’t go away again, and mine never went away without taking me with them.
It was only when I didn’t have a period for about three months, that I felt a frisson of alarm. But I didn’t tell a soul. Not even Marie. In my head, confiding in someone would have made the problem real. Whereas ignoring it meant the problem might go away. Such was a frightened fourteen-year-old’s logic.
I wore baggy sweatshirts over my school uniform. My fifteenth birthday came – and still no period. At weekends I took to wearing my dad’s unwanted denim shirt. It was so enormous, two of me could have fitted within its frayed seams. Until, of course, there was undeniably two of me in the tummy area.
I can still remember my mother one day looking at me. Making a comment about my weight gain. Suggesting that I stop snacking. She’d playfully poked me in the stomach. But her finger hadn’t disappeared into a soft roll of puppy fat. Instead, she’d prodded a round, firm abdomen.
Mum had stopped dead in her tracks. She’d glared at me. Demanded I undo my father’s shirt. I’d refused.
‘Do it!’ she’d roared. ‘NOW!’
‘I will not,’ I’d retorted, defiant. ‘How dare you insinuate I’m fat. And how dare you demand me to strip. I’ve a good mind to ring Childline.’
She’d gone ballistic. Lunged at me.
For a moment I’d thought she might hit me. I’d instinctively thrown up my hands to cover my face. Instead, she’d grabbed the opening of the shirt. Yanked it apart. Buttons had pinged off in all directions and bounced across the floor. And my very established baby bump had been revealed in all its glory.
She’d inhaled sharply. Taken a shocked step backwards. I’d slowly lowered my hands and seen the colour drain from her face. She’d moved her head from side to side, unable to believe what she was seeing.
‘Oh my God, Tilly,’ she’d quavered. ‘What have you done? You stupid, stupid, child.’
The brief remainder of my pregnancy had passed in a blur. Nicholas’s parents had been informed. We were banned from seeing each other. Shortly afterwards, his parents had moved away, taking Nicholas with them. My parents eventually did the same. But not before I’d given birth at Brighton General Hospital.
My school had been informed. Well, the headmistress. I’d ended up being home schooled. Marie and my classmates were told that, due to unforeseen circumstances, I would not be returning to school. Phone calls from friends were intercepted. I remember Marie once coming to the house and my mother turning her away.
A social worker had been assigned to me – supposedly to provide support and counselling. Ultimately, she’d facilitated the adoption process. For make no mistake, my parents had told me I could not keep the baby. Mum was insistent.
‘You’re still a child yourself, and we’re not raising it. It’s not right, Tilly. You must put this behind you. Dad and I will help you to do that. To move on. To get your life back on track. Thank God there are people out there who can’t have kids. Who are desperate for a baby to love and raise as their own.’
Ever since my missed period, I’d been in denial that a tiny human being had been growing inside me. Even when I’d felt the baby moving, I’d told myself it was wind.
I won’t lie. I will admit that it was a relief to have the situation taken out of my hands. To comply. To do as I was told. To think of it as a blip. A child-woman who, afterwards, would have a clean slate. A shiny new future.
Labour had passed in a haze. I remember the pain. Of gulping gas and air. Afterwards, a sweet midwife had placed my newborn in my arms.
‘Congratulations, Tilly. You have a beautiful little boy.’
I’d looked down at the darling little face. My son’s eyes had opened. Tried to focus on mine. I’d marvelled at his shock of dark hair. The perfect nose. The rosebud mouth. The soft curve of his cheeks. The tiny arms and legs. The perfect fingers and toes. The miniature shell-like nails. The social worker – furious with the midwife – had snatched my baby away.
‘No bonding!’ she’d exhorted. ‘I’m thinking of you, Tilly.’
I’d left the hospital emotionally numb.
Dad had been at the wheel of the car. Mum in the passenger seat. I’d sat in the back, slumped over – body language like any other teen.
What the outside world hadn’t known was that this teen had a linea nigra on her stomach and wore padded knickers to absorb lochia .
My parents had chatted throughout the journey to our new home in Kent. The conversation had been a little forced but determined. Nothing chaotic or scandalous had ever happened. They were starting over in a new area. Nobody knew the history of Malcolm and Sylvia Thomas or their daughter Tilly. We were a respectable family. Hurrah!
As far as Mum and Dad were concerned, my pregnancy was a subject never to be discussed again. And it wasn’t.
The years passed. I grew into a young woman. Privately I always felt as if there were two of me in one body. The old Tilly – the girl who’d had a baby while still a child herself – and the adult Tilly. The latter went on to marry Robin Jameson. Tilly Jameson longed to settle down and start a family. But her longing was never fulfilled.
Periodically, my mind would whoosh back. Back to a sunny day in July where, terrified, lonely, and in pain, I’d delivered a tiny human being. When I’d briefly held my baby boy, I’d been flattened by an overwhelming sense of love. And when that social worker had whisked him away, it was as if I’d been bereaved.