Trio

  Table of Contents

  Principle Characters

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Epilogue

  TRIO

  by Cath Staincliffe

  Other titles by Cath Staincliffe

  Witness

  The Kindest Thing

  Blue Murder Novels

  Blue Murder: Cry Me A River

  Hit & Run

  Sal Kilkenny Novels

  Crying Out Loud

  Missing

  Bitter Blue

  Towers Of Silence

  Stone Cold Red Hot

  Dead Wrong

  Go Not Gently

  Looking For Trouble

  Cath Staincliffe is an established novelist, radio playwright and the creator of ITV's hit series, Blue Murder, starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis. Cath’s books have been short-listed for the Crime Writers Association Best First Novel award and for the Dagger in the Library and selected as Le Masque de l’Année. Looking For Trouble launched private eye Sal Kilkenny, a single parent struggling to juggle work and home, onto Manchester’s mean streets. Crying Out Loud is the eighth and latest title. Cath’s newest novels, The Kindest Thing and Witness, examine hot topical issues and tell stories of ordinary people, caught up in the criminal justice system, who face difficult and dangerous choices. She lives in Manchester with her partner and their children. Cath is a founder member of Murder Squad see www.murdersquad.co.uk.

  This eBook edition published in Great Britain 2011 by the author.

  First published in Great Britain 2002 by

  Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  First published in the USA 2002 by

  Severn House Publishers Inc.

  Copyright © Cath Staincliffe 2002

  The right of Cath Staincliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I was adopted as a baby and in the last few years I have been re-united with my Irish birth family, including seven full brothers and sisters. Of course, I have drawn on my own experience of adoption and that of my families and friends in writing the book, as well as using anecdotes, stories and accounts I have come across over the years – it would be impossible not to. But Trio is not my story: it is fiction not fact, the characters here are invented and their adventures imagined.

  This book is dedicated with love to my parents: Evelyn and M.J. and Margaret and David. And with thanks to After Adoption in Manchester and NORCAP, who do so much to support people involved with adoption.

  In 1960, thousands of babies were placed for adoption in the UK. This is the story of three of them . . .

  Principle Characters

  Caroline - Birth mother of Theresa.

  Theresa – Adoptee.

  Kay/Adam - Adoptive parents of Theresa - also Dominic, Martin & Michael.

  Paul - Caroline’s husband.

  Davey / Sean - Caroline and Paul’s children.

  Joan - Birth mother of Pamela.

  Pamela – Adoptee.

  Lilian / Peter - Adoptive parents of Pamela.

  Penny - Joan’s partner.

  Megan / Brenden - Birth parents of Nina - also parents of Francine, Aidan & Chris.

  Nina – Adoptee.

  Marjorie / Robert - Adoptive parents of Nina & Stephen.

  Prologue

  ‘Stop your noise,’ the nurse said. ‘Remember your dignity.’

  She felt like laughing at the reprimand. Dignity? How could this ever be dignified. Lying here with her legs apart and everything leaking and she’d even dirtied the bed. She had been mortified, the smell alerting her to what she’d done. She felt nothing beyond the fist of pain that kept squeezing at her, pulling at her insides, sticking its nails like knives into her spine and bruising her bowels. Making her scream to her God, to her mother. Why have you abandoned me?

  The baby inched a little further down the birth canal with the next contraction. One fist was pressed between shoulder and ear, the other tucked under the chin. The ripples of muscle shifted the baby, twisting it a little, squeezing the head, which was cone-shaped from the pressure and from the last couple of weeks spent lodged tight in the cup of bones. As it moved forward the plates of the baby’s skull slid together, reducing the circumference. The baby could still hear the familiar drumbeat that had marked its time in the womb and feel the vibrations that rocked its world. Though the sloshing and roaring of the placenta was more distant now and there were new sounds, fast and high-pitched, that quickened the baby’s heartbeat.

  ‘Give a good push,’ the nurse said. ‘Push from your bottom.’

  She didn’t want to push. She wanted to die instead. To be anywhere or nowhere. Not to be here. If she pushed she would split wide open, bleed to death. She’d rather die before the push than after it. Spare herself more agony. The ring of pain sickened her and she tried to swallow.

  ‘No,’ she managed.

  The nurse tutted at her loudly, cast a look of contempt.

  ‘It hurts,’ she whimpered. Wanting her mother, wanting a cuddle, someone to gather her close and make it all better.

  ‘You should have thought of that, shouldn’t you?’ The nurse snapped. ‘I’ve other girls to see to. I can’t spend all night with you. The baby won’t be born by itself you’ll have to push.’

  She lay back as the contraction faded, weak, her limbs trembling, eyes closed.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. You’re not the only one having a baby, you know. All that fuss.’

  She heard the door close. Gave in to sudden hot tears.

  Please God, she prayed, help me – please, please help me. She was cold now. Shivering and too weak to reach the blanket folded just so at the bottom of the bed. She felt a roll of nausea, a sour wash in her mouth and throat but nothing came.

  I hate you, she cursed the nurse. She was too young for this, barely a woman. She wanted her childhood back. To run home to her mother and show her the pain. Help me.

  A fierce contraction tore through her thoughts, catapulting her upright. She tried to press her fingers deep into the flat bones at the base of her back, trying to match the pain with more of her own, but it didn’t help, she couldn’t push deep enough. She would move when the pain stopped. She moaned, her mouth apart, her lips cracked, a long, slow, deep sound. The pain ebbed away. Shakily she pitched forward, shuffling to get where she wanted. Simple movements demanded such concentration, as though nothing was working right anymore. She managed to get on to her hands and knees, facing the end of the bed.

  The baby hiccuped twice, its head only a couple of centimeters from the opening. The roaring sound was fading, the drumbeat went on. The baby’s heartbeat speeded up.

  Then it came. Relentless, like a log rolling through her, an overwhelming compulsion to push. She was amazed at the power of it. She hadn’t wanted to before, didn’t even know what she was supposed to do, though some of the girls had said you just pretended you were bunged up and going to the toilet, but now it was all happening. Her body knew exactly what to do. She closed her eyes, aware how her breathing had ch
anged; she was panting now like a dog in the sun. Appalled and energised by the sensation, she began to make a curious growling sound deep in her throat. Like a wolf, for heaven’s sake. She felt herself stretching, opening, the unstoppable force bearing down through her and on and on. Then it receded and she hung, quiet, hearing only the harsh stuttering of her breath.

  It came again, before she was ready – faster, wilder. She made the noise in her throat, shifted her knees a little further apart, gripped the sheet and wound it tight in her hands. Stretching wider, feeling her mouth stretching too to let the howling out. Feeling the hard, round, solid lump forced through her vagina, gristle against gristle, bone on bone. A stabbing, stinging pain in the midst of it all.

  As the baby’s head was born, the upper torso swiveled so that one shoulder presented itself for the next push.

  She lowered her head to rest between her arms on the bed. She gazed back but could not see anything beyond the swell of her belly and behind that her knees. Summoning all her strength she pushed herself back up, kneeled higher, steadying herself with one arm she reached back between her legs with the other hand. She felt a thrill of shock as she felt the hot, slippery hair of the baby’s head, the scalp loose and wrinkled under her fingers.

  ‘Oh God,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, God.’

  The next contraction rolled in. She shuffled forward before it built, and clutched at the metal bed frame for leverage. Pushing it to counteract the force. She felt the new friction of the mass forcing its way from her, stretching her body, bursting her open.

  The roar she made grew louder and culminated in a gasp as the weight slithered from her with a sucking sound. She knelt, her muscles twitching with spasms, and looked beneath the bridge of her body to where the baby lay. A coil of life, shock of black hair, red skin streaked white, as though it had been dipped in dripping, eyes, nose, mouth. One fist tucked under an ear, as if it was considering something. The other fist moving, waving to and fro. Long, curving cord like something from the abattoir, snaking from its belly.

  She looked at the baby.

  The baby looked back.

  The door swung open.

  ‘Lie down,’ barked the nurse, ‘you’ll fall, you silly . . .’ She faltered as she neared the bed and saw the infant. ‘You could have crushed it,’ she scolded. ‘What on earth were you thinking of? Turn this way, carefully.’ She issued instructions until the woman was lying on her back again. She raised the baby and slapped it on the bottom. A thin wail cut the air. The woman wanted to cry too. The nurse proceeded to cut and clamp the umbilical cord, wipe the mucus from the baby’s face and wrap the baby in a cloth.

  A second nurse came in. A younger one, who had been more sympathetic when she had been admitted. She looked at the baby. ‘A girl,’ she observed. ‘Bless her. Have you got a name?’

  ‘She’s for adoption,’ the other interrupted.

  ‘Can I see her?’ the mother asked.

  ‘You’re not finished yet. You’ve still to deliver the afterbirth. Then you’ll need examining and see if there’s any stitches required. You probably tore yourself leaping around on the bed like that. You’ll need cleaning up and Baby needs to be checked and weighed. Sister will take her to the nursery.’

  ‘I have a shawl,’ she said, hating the tears in her voice.

  ‘I’ll take it with her, shall I?’ The younger nurse offered. The simple kindness robbed her of speech. She nodded quickly.

  ‘In your bag, is it?’ Another nod.

  The nurse took the wool-and-silk shawl and the baby and left.

  She felt a fresh contraction, leant her head back against the metal bars of the bed, eyes squeezed tight shut, lips compressed. A ring of grief swelling in her throat, choking her. Theresa, she thought, remembering the black pools of the baby’s eyes. That’s her name, Theresa . . .

  . . . Outside the door, poised for flight. Her heart was bumping too fast in her chest, fingers clenched. She could just go. Turn and walk away. Cruel, yes, but not impossible. This side of the door there was still room for fantasies, for dreams of what she might be like, for scenes of happy ever after, of coming home, of finding peace. But in there, once across the threshold, there would only ever be reality: stark, unrelenting, unchangeable. No going back. No escape. Her ears were buzzing and her skull and back felt tight with tension. She couldn’t breathe properly.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, fighting the rising panic. Don’t think. Just open the door.

  She put her hand out and grasped the handle. Turned and pushed. Stepped into the room. Saw the woman on the couch rise unsteadily to her feet. Smiling. Moving towards her, mouth working with emotion. Little exclamations popping softly, hello, oh, hello. Arms opening, eyes drinking her in.

  The two women embrace.

  The younger started to cry, noisy sobs and sucking sounds.

  ‘Twenty eight years,’ the other said, her voice muffled with emotion. ‘I never thought I’d see you again. Come on.’

  She led her daughter to the couch and sat with one arm around her, listening to her weep. She smelled her hair and felt the smooth skin of her fingers and waited for the crying to gentle and cease. There was no hurry after all. Years lost; but now they had all the time in the world. Forever.

  And the daughter in her hot, damp sea of tears, felt them emptying out of her, on and on like when they change the lock gates on the canals. Made no effort to control them. Holding the hand, strong and bony like her own, hearing the drumbeat in her ears. Till she is all cried out. Feeling the wheel turn. Finding herself in a new place. Tender and bewildered and brave.

  Part One

  Birth

  Caroline Joan

  Megan

  ‘It’s not just morning sickness,’ Megan complained, ‘it’s morning, noon and night sickness.’

  ‘You look like you’re wasting away,’ Joan remarked drily.

  ‘G’wan.’ Megan was pleased with their new room-mate: older, more sophisticated, shorthand-typist no less. She had more about her than Caroline, who was kind but really shy and desperately unhappy.

  ‘And you should put your legs up,’ Joan instructed Caroline.

  Caroline kicked off her shoes and carefully swung her legs round and on to the bed. There was little definition of the ankles left, the flesh was puffy and mottled red from calf to toe.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Joan asked.

  Caroline nodded. She looked tired, dark circles under her rich brown eyes. She had a wide face, a sallow complexion and wore her shiny dark-brown hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail.

  Megan was brushing her hair. It had grown and she liked it long and bushy, springy red curls like Rita Hayworth. The brush wasn’t much good though, the soft bristles created more static electricity than anything else. Joan wore her black hair in a beehive, but hers was straight to begin with. She back-combed it and used sugar and water to set it. Joan was tall anyway, but with her hair up like that she looked even leggier, like some film star.

  ‘You should tell Matron,’ Megan said to Caroline.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But it looks worse today.’ Megan told her. ‘They shouldn’t still have you doing the laundry, with feet fit to burst.’

  ‘Megan!’ Joan’s inky blue eyes narrowed in warning.

  Megan shrugged and put her brush down. ‘Suppose it’s better than the kitchen though,’ she added. She foraged in her cupboard and came out with a knitting pattern and a pair of needles stuck into a ball of soft white wool. She rubbed the wool against her cheek. It was so soft. They’d lots of new stuff like this coming in, a million miles away from the scratchy wire that Mammy had used to knit all their stuff.

  ‘At least you can sit down to peel the vegetables,’ said Caroline. ‘I’m standing all the time in the laundry.’

  Megan waved her needle at her. ‘If you’ve morning, noon and night sickness, the odour of cheese pie and liver stew tips the balance. And that’s not all that tips.’

  The girls smiled.

>   ‘What are you knitting?’ Joan asked.

  ‘The layette.’ Megan passed her the pattern. Black and white photographs of babies wearing the various outfits adorned the front cover. ‘White, of course, to suit a boy or girl and I’m doing the longer coat.’

  ‘I can’t knit,’ said Joan.

  ‘G’wan,’ said Megan, ‘everyone can knit. You can knit, can’t you, Caroline?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ said Megan. ‘How come your mammy never showed you?’

  ‘Oh, she did. I was always dropping stitches or getting the wool so tight I couldn’t budge it.’

  ‘Tell us about being a secretary. Was it hard at secretarial school?’

  ‘The shorthand’s the worst. And the teachers.’

  ‘Does it cost a lot?’

  When Joan told her, Megan thought she was kidding her for a moment. ‘Flippin’ ’eck,’ she said, ‘you can count me out.’ Then she had a thought. ‘Tell you what, I’ll teach you to knit and you teach me shorthand.’

  ‘What about the typing?’ Joan laughed. ‘I don’t want to learn knitting anyway.’

  ‘Suit yourself!’ Megan tossed back her hair, pretended to be offended. She began to knit, the needles clicking in a steady rhythm. ‘I’ll just have to go back to the factory.’

  ‘But you said you were getting married,’ Caroline said.

  ‘I am, as soon as I’m old enough. Daddy won’t give his permission. Anyway, Brendan’s got to do his apprenticeship and he’s not meant to get wed till he's done. We wanted to,’ she said to Joan, ‘we wanted to get married and keep the baby.’ Her hands stopped moving. She gripped the needles.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Joan.

  Megan could feel Joan’s eyes on her but didn’t want to catch them. There were tears stinging in her head but she would not cry. ‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘Who said life was fair? They had that wrong. Still –’ she forced practicality back into her voice, carefully wound the wool round the needle – ‘there’s no budging them and I can’t run off to Gretna Green the state I’m in, so it’s the best of a bad job.’ She slid the stitch over, drew the wool around for the next.