Escape From Evil Read Free Page A

was one of the unlucky ones. At some point shortly after her fifteenth birthday, she had to admit to herself that she was pregnant. I can’t imagine how scared she must have been, but that was the easy part. Next she had to admit it to her parents.
    Like so many of their time, all Granny and Grandpa wanted from life was respectability. Mum knew this better than anyone. She’d heard enough lectures. So, terrified at how her news would affect them, she did what so many young girls in her position do: absolutely nothing. It was only by chance, when Granny spotted a bikini-clad Jenny sunbathing during the summer of 1969 and said, ‘Your tummy looks bigger than usual,’ that the subject came up at all.
    It’s fair to say that Mr and Mrs Beavis weren’t happy. The whole Yellow Dollies affair had been bad, but at least it had blown over. I’m sure plenty of people told them that today’s headlines are tomorrow’s fish wrappers and I’m sure they didn’t believe it – I know because I hate it when people say it to me. But it’s true. Mum left hospital, switched schools and got on with her life. That feeling of everyone knowing your business, imagining strangers staring at you wherever you go, would have stayed with Granny and Grandpa for ages. But there came a point when even they had to admit the only people still talking about the scandal were themselves.
    On the other hand, this new family catastrophe could not be so easily ignored. In a week or two people would start to notice Mum’s size. Then, at the end of the year, there would be an actual baby. This was just not the way things were done in 1969. Not the way nice people did things, anyway.
    I feel for my grandparents, I really do. They must have felt their world was crumbling when Mum presented this latest bombshell. But, unlike the newspaper headlines about the drugs, this was one family embarrassment that could not be swept under the carpet. Or so I thought.
    Once I came to terms with the fact that I was actually present at my own sixteen-year-old mother’s wedding, I assumed I knew the rest of the story. Okay, my parents had been a bit careless – I accept that I probably wasn’t planned! – but they were in love, so of course marriage was something they were going to do anyway. My arrival had just sped up the natural course of things, that’s all. How naïve.
    When I sat down to write this book I forced myself to open the treasure chest of letters again. As soon as I’d read the first one I instantly remembered why I hadn’t finished them all those years before. Just a couple of lines in, even skimming over the words, and I began to choke up. It wasn’t a treasure chest. That little wooden container held my kryptonite. It was the only thing I still had from my parents’ life – and it had so much power to hurt me.
    Flicking through the contents was like opening Pandora’s box. Every note, every scrap of paper inflicted another wound. I wanted to learn as much as possible about my mum’s life. At least I thought I did. But when I came across the letter stamped with the adoption agency’s address, I knew I’d seen too much.
    Adoption agency?
    Just two words, but enough to strike fear into anyone – whatever your age.
    No, it’s not possible. She wouldn’t have done it!
    She couldn’t have, could she?
    I’ve spent thirty years trying to come to terms with the idea that my mother abandoned me. Yes, I know she died. Yes, she would have done anything to stay with me – and often did. But grief isn’t logical. She died and I was suddenly alone. Those were the facts. She’d gone and I was left behind. Alone and abandoned. That’s how I felt.
    At least I’ve always known it wasn’t her choice. But adoption? That’s a very different story. I had to prove it wasn’t true.
    Tears streaming down my face, I tore through the box, pulling out sheet after sheet of all that remained of my mother’s life. Then I saw it. It wasn’t much, but the