Escape From Evil Read Free Page B

first few words told me it contained what I needed to hear.
    My hand was shaking as I clutched the letter. It was neatly typewritten and dated November 1969 – the month I was born. The text barely covered half a page, but in those few words my life had been decided.
    According to the letter, Mum, Dad and both their sets of parents were strongly advised that the best course of action would be to have me adopted. But they’d refused. Mum had refused.
    They’d stood up to officialdom and hung on to me. This silly young schoolgirl and her older boyfriend, probably without a penny between them, had decided, ‘No, you’re not taking our baby!’
    It’s incredible how much power that tiny scrap of paper held over me. Now I knew the truth, I could relax. In the space of a few minutes I’d felt the bottom fall out of my world and then discovered it was all a mistake. A few minutes and two tiny pieces of correspondence from the past. No wonder I’d ignored that box for so long.
    Gradually, I pieced together the true story. With a baby on the way and having pledged that they would be married as soon as legally possible, Mum and Dad moved in together. If they hadn’t, then it wasn’t just my future that was hanging in the balance. According to Grandpa’s correspondence, there was talk of a criminal prosecution of my father because he’d had intercourse with a minor. Like a lot of cases today, though, the authorities took a view that Mum and Dad were in a relationship. Yes, at fifteen she was too young, but they loved each other. At that age you think you’ll spend the rest of your life together.
    Even though I’d discovered that Mum had fought to keep me, I still couldn’t stem the tears. She must have felt so vulnerable. Granny and Grandpa were obviously not her biggest fans at that moment, her boyfriend had his own problems with the possible police action and here was some outside agency, some stranger, deciding whether Mum could keep her baby or not. Just thinking of her going through all that on her own made me feel awful. Mum must have felt so alone. Unfortunately, not for the last time.
    Her problems didn’t end there. Another note revealed that I wasn’t the only one the authorities had their eye on. Mum herself was considered as a potential victim in all this. I’ve actually read, in black and white, how some stranger had judged her poorly brought up by Granny and Grandpa, to the extent that they considered making her a ward of court. Only once I’d read further did the ramifications of this sink in. Becoming a ward of court essentially means handing over control of your life to the state. You become their responsibility, their child almost. If you can’t make the right decisions yourself, they seem to be saying, we’ll make them for you.
    So not only was Mum fighting for me, she was fighting for her own freedom as well. Knowing that just made me feel even worse for judging her.
    Even without the letters, I should have known the truth. At fourteen I knew, in my heart, that my mum would have done anything to keep me. In the short time we were together I saw some of the things she would do to shield me, the vile tortures she put herself through to keep me out of harm’s way. This wasn’t a woman who would give her child up.
    How dare I even think it! I’m sorry, Mum, for doubting you.
    The pressure on her must have been immense. Still, if there is one memory of my mother that I have above all others, it’s that she was a fighter. She never gave in. No matter what the cost. Something I saw again and again and again . . .

TWO
Toast with Margarine
     
    One of my earliest memories is of performing for the mayor of Brighton. I sang and I played and at the end he applauded loudly. Not bad, considering my start in life . . .
    Unfortunately, it wasn’t as grand as it sounds. Fisher-Price was launching a new range of musical goodies at the local toy fair and they ran a competition at my nursery school to find