The Love of My Life(57)

Jeremy didn’t say anything for a while. ‘I can’t answer any of those questions,’ he replied, eventually. ‘Janice and I were up nearly all night discussing the things that could go wrong. David says he’d be fine with the arrangement, but there’s no guaranteeing how he’d feel when he met the child. You’re right to ask, and I’m right not to pretend I have the answer.’

Even Jill had nothing to say to that.

‘All I know is that this feels like an arrangement that would make perfect sense. The baby is family. We’d be able to take him or her at birth – I mean, if you agreed, which might never happen, and that would be fine, of course . . . What I mean is, we’d be getting a baby we felt we knew. And after the time we’ve had, that’s appealing.’

‘You don’t know me,’ I said, childishly. I was out of my depth now.

‘I don’t! But I liked you, that night. I thought you were bright, and very kind. You told me a bit about your father.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Not much, but it sounded like you cared for him beautifully when he was in the grip of the drink. I suppose I just got the impression I was talking to a decent young woman.’

‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ was what I said, eventually.

‘Of course. Which is why I think I should go, and let you mull it over. Unless it’s a flat no, in which case, please say.’

He waited, but I didn’t say anything. Then he gave me his email address, so I could send a Flat No if a phone call felt too intimidating.

‘Or, if you’re open to the possibility, we’ll arrange a time to talk further. I’m sure you’d have many questions. There wouldn’t be any rush to start talking to social services, or the adoption agency.’

They’d thought this whole thing out already. They knew exactly how it would work; what would have to happen. How they could take this baby in my womb and make it their own.

‘I . . . OK.’ I said, and then I started to cry, and Jill took the phone and told Jeremy it was time to end the call.

He didn’t sound surprised someone else had been listening in. ‘I’m glad she has a friend in her corner,’ he said, before ringing off. ‘Do take care of her.’

I liked that. And I liked him. Not many public figures would be so open about their personal lives.

But appreciating someone’s honesty was a long way off handing them your child.





Chapter Thirty-Six


There was a young woman called Erica whom Dad used to visit, back before the Marines when he was just a parish priest. She was a single mother, nineteen years old and alone in the world, entirely dependent on state benefits. I was only two or three at the time, but I read about her in Dad’s diaries after he died.

Erica’s life as a single mother seemed to break my father’s heart. In the pages of his diary he often asked God how he could better be of service. He wrote about taking her to the supermarket, about topping up her electricity meter with his own money, and about the way he’d see her sitting in the park sometimes, eyes blank with unhappiness.

But what really got to me was a line he wrote about how her baby cried all the time. That image of a sweet baby – my sweet baby – stuck in a damp bedsit with a mother who had no idea how to look after her (I was certain my baby was a girl) kept me awake at night. A baby who could otherwise have lived in a warm, comfortable house with proper grown-ups like Jeremy and Janice Rothschild.

Jill said I was being ridiculous, that young single mothers on benefits had babies all the time, and these babies were perfectly happy and did not cry all day long, any more than they lived in damp bedsits. And she was right, of course, but it was easier for her. She hadn’t read my dad’s diaries, and she had a whole family to lean on.

She reminded me that Jeremy had promised he’d get David to pay me an allowance if I decided to keep the child. He and Janice had already sent me a mobile phone – I knew they wanted to help.

But what if David didn’t want to pay me an allowance? What if he just said no? He was a lawyer, he’d find a way out of it if he wanted to; Jeremy couldn’t force him. And I was a twenty-year-old with no backup; no more able to take him to court than I was to swim the Pacific.

The Rothschilds had a holiday house in Northumberland, Jeremy told me, when I finally called to ask more questions. A village called Alnmouth, near where Dad and I had stayed when I was a kid. One of Dad’s lads at the 45 Commando had a static caravan in Beadnell Bay, a few miles up the coast.

I imagined a little girl running around on that wide, shimmering beach with a bucket and spade as I had once done; her dad showing her how to look for blennies and prawns in rock pools, teaching her about dahlia anemones and sponges and seaweeds, just like Dad had me.

Janice and Jeremy would watch as she played, smiling, explaining, guiding – maybe adopting another child, so she’d always have a sidekick. They would have a car, a fridge full of food, and they’d give her that basic, cellular sense of safety that comes with a healthy bank balance.

Jill gave this short shrift, too: she said there was nothing to stop me taking my daughter to the beach myself. ‘You’d be a brilliant teacher!’ she insisted. ‘Your dad was just an amateur rockpooler; you’re on your way to being a pro!’

She would help me, she said, the day she took me out for a 99p baguette to try to persuade me not to give the baby away. ‘We can turf Vivi out and have a nursery in her room. We can ask to be in separate tutor groups so I can look after the baby while you go to seminars. And I’m sure you could take a baby into lectures!’