all around the neighbourhood. In the end, though, politics was all they had in common.
Not long after we’d started dating, John’s parents announced that they were getting divorced after twenty-five years of marriage, which was quite something in those days. After years of trying to keep the peace between them, John was the head of the family now and Phyllis came to rely on him ever more. She even asked him to be a witness in the divorce case between her and Bert, but he refused, not wanting to be disloyal to either parent. Maybe because she and I now shared a social stigma, we seemed to get on better after that, even if she was always rather controlling and extremely protective of her son to the end of her days.
My visits to see my son became more and more infrequent owing to my long working hours, my shortage of money and the time I was now spending with John. I found myself speaking of Paul less and less, which felt like a betrayal, but I never stopped thinking of him, and I repeatedly refused to sign him over to the state. Perhaps having cropped my hair for a more sophisticated gamine look gave me the courage to stand firm.
My widowed mother, who was still courting Harry, never stopped working and couldn’t have helped me care for Paul even if she’d had the time or the energy. Harry worked full-time too and, even though he was a kind and generous man, wisely never tried to intervene. My brother Peter had emerged from his years in hospital and returned to work at BICC but had since moved to London to work in their overseas sales department. He’d write sometimes and send birthday presents but he’d never even set eyes on his nephew and Paul was never spoken about. I found myself thinking back to my father and wondering if things might have been different if he’d still been alive. Surely Dad would have found a way for us to keep his only grandchild?
Not long after I’d met John, I’d saved up enough money to go to Matlock again but my mother said she couldn’t go with me. To be honest, I don’t think she had the heart any more. She found it as upsetting as I did. I didn’t want to go alone but couldn’t think whom else to ask. Then I thought of John. The eldest of five children, John had a brother Ray, sisters Dawn and Vivian, and a little brother called Adrian who was born with a harelip and a cleft palate. I’d seen how kind and thoughtful he was with Adrian. He protected him and played with him so sweetly and that gladdened my heart. Nervously, I told John that I was going to see Paul and asked if he’d come along.
He didn’t even flinch. ‘We could make an outing of it,’ he replied. ‘There’s some pretty countryside round Matlock.’ He’d never once asked me about Paul’s father or what had happened between us. He just said he knew all that he needed to know. Part of me would have dearly liked him to have bombarded me with questions. My time with Jim, the lonely pregnancy, being at St Bridget’s, Paul’s birth and everything that had happened afterwards had been virtually erased from my life. John’s family certainly never brought it up. My mother rarely spoke of it and if I raised the subject, it only gave her an opportunity to tell me what I should do next. The girls at work no longer asked after Paul or what my plans for him were.
And so my innocent young son remained the elephant in the room that nobody dared discuss. Yet he was always on my mind and everywhere I looked there seemed to be reminders. John and I would often spend days off at Chester Zoo, and I’d see a mother and son wandering along holding hands and wonder why that couldn’t be Paul and me. I’d flick through racks of clothes in the children’s department of Brown’s and wish I could afford to buy some of them for him. I marked each anniversary privately in my heart: the day I first met Jim; the day I found out I was pregnant; Paul’s birthday on 2 January; the date I had to take him to Matlock and then leave.
There were times when I wanted to scream Paul’s name from the bottom of my lungs and tell everyone who’d listen how much I loved and missed him and thought about him night and day. ‘He’s my son and I want to keep him!’ I longed to shriek but instead I confined the screaming to inside my head.
Going to see Paul with John would be quite different from going with my mother. Ours was a new relationship and I knew I couldn’t blub all the way there and back as I normally did. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do: hold myself together when I walked into the nursery and realized that Paul didn’t know who I was any more. At two years old, he was wearing clothes I hadn’t chosen for him and was playing with friends I’d never met. He was clearly very attached to one particular nursery nurse, and was calling her ‘Mummy’. That broke my heart anew.
John must have picked up on how I was feeling because he was marvellous with Paul. He picked him up and cuddled him and cheerily suggested that we take him out for a walk. He bought Paul a lollipop from a sweetshop and didn’t flinch when my happy-go-lucky, gorgeous little boy tried to force it into his mouth. He brought his camera and took lots of photographs, which are among my most cherished possessions: images of me and Paul, of John kissing Paul, and a few of Paul on his own, gurgling and laughing happily at these two kind strangers who had come to make a fuss of him for a few hours.
Travelling home on the train, I pressed my head against the cold glass of the window and fought back the tears. John sat next to me saying nothing. I was growing increasingly fond of this kind young man who seemed to accept me for who I was, regardless. I couldn’t believe how gentle he’d been with my son. We were a long way off making a commitment to each other; we were both still young, John was away travelling much of the time, and I wasn’t in a hurry to rush into anything again the way I had with Jim.
But could I – dare I – even dream that there might be a brighter future for Paul and me after all? That he and John and I might end up together as a family in the sort of happy home I’d grown up in, the kind I’d always dreamed of providing for my son? Turning and resting my head on John’s shoulder, I squeezed his hand and let out a sigh.
Not long after that journey to Matlock, Mr Guifreda called me into his office and asked me to sit down. ‘Dors’ Jones had left Quaintways by then, to be replaced by Val Pyeman, who was just as nice and who sat in on the meeting too.
‘Our managing director has heard of your problems…er, you know, with Paul,’ Mr Guifreda told me hesitantly. ‘He’d like to help.’
Like Mr Guifreda, the managing director of Lewis’s was a real gentleman who cared for his staff and always took an interest in their welfare. I wondered what he could possibly do to help. A pay rise perhaps? A word with social services to get them to move Paul closer to Chester? I hardly dared hope.
‘He’d like to adopt Paul,’ Mr Guifreda said, as my heart skipped a beat.
‘No!’ I gave my knee-jerk reaction.
Mr Guifreda pressed on. ‘He has three daughters and would love a son. He knows you want what’s best for your boy, and he wants you to know that he and his wife would give Paul a marvellous life in the bosom of a loving and wealthy family.’
I shook my head. I didn’t know what else to say. My mind was in turmoil. I’d resisted adoption for so long, why would I relent now? And why had the managing director waited all this time to ask? Had John’s parents orchestrated this to get my Paul out of the way? After all, Nick Guifreda was a close friend of John’s father. Then I had to remind myself that the managing director was a good man. For a moment, I allowed myself to speculate that if he did adopt Paul, he might let me stay in touch. I might even get to see more of him, being that much closer. Realizing that would be impractical and feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I told Mr Guifreda that the answer was still no.
‘Think it over. Talk to your mother. Remember,’ he added with a smile, ‘everyone just wants what’s best for Tilly’s baby.’
‘Me too,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. The trouble was that – confused, isolated, and pressured from all sides – I didn’t really know what the best for Paul might be.
I can’t now remember how the Derbyshire hospital got in touch with me. I think I must have blanked that particular memory from my mind. But the news they gave me left an indelible mark. Paul was seriously ill. It was meningitis, they believed. I should go to him straight away.
John, who’d taken a job in a butcher’s shop between voyages, kindly offered to take the