A Family Secret Read online

  Jock eventually handed Christopher back to me and, as our arms touched briefly, I felt dizzy with confusion. We were brother and sister, father and mother, abuser and abused. It was so, so wrong. And yet, as I cradled Christopher, nothing had ever felt more right. I thought that perhaps I was too young to make sense of it and that as I grew older it would become clearer. Little did I know that there was no explanation, no rationalisation, for what had happened to me, and as the years went on it would only get worse.

  ‘I’ll be off now,’ Jock said awkwardly, his eyes downcast.

  I opened my mouth to say goodbye but no words came. And after that moment, in the living room, there was never anything more from him emotionally towards Christopher. I began to doubt the connection I had seen, the bond so strong I could almost have plucked it out of the air and held it.

  ‘You don’t need a daddy, you’ve got me,’ I told Christopher. ‘I love you enough for both.’

  Jock called round on occasion but he never stayed for long and didn’t pay Christopher much attention. Mum and John Wood always made it clear that he was not welcome. There had never been any love lost between John Wood and Jock and there was less so now. Mum was infuriated by his rebelliousness, too; she had never been able to control him and squash his spirit, the way she did with me. Jock and I both looked so much like our biological father and I wondered sometimes whether that was why they hated us so much. On those brief visits, Jock showed no special interest in Christopher and we certainly never spoke about him, or about what had gone before. Yet that never bothered me in the slightest. Without the rapes by Jock, I would never have had Christopher. Something so good had come from something so bad.

  ‘I would not change you for the world,’ I told Christopher.

  And I meant every word of it. My day-to-day routine was so enjoyable, so filled with love, that I no longer needed to cling to the past and pine after what might and what should have been. I slipped into motherhood like it was made for me. My childhood had gone at the age of nine, so I didn’t miss it now. For a long time I’d felt out of sync and had no patience with kids my own age. They got on my nerves, in truth. Having Christopher seemed to lend weight and validity to those feelings; I was allowed to feel this way; I was a mother now.

  Even though I was made to continue my studies at home, they were now like an afterthought, an inconvenience. My schoolwork had once been the focus of my entire life – now it just got in the way. I would rush through my lessons so that I could take Christopher out in his pram before tea. And whenever I could, I would side-step my schoolwork completely.

  ‘Christopher was up a lot during the night, I need to concentrate on him,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him, just for today. My maths can wait.’

  Truth was, I was finished with studying. That life was behind me now and I did not miss it at all. At weekends we’d go on long walks. I jumped at the opportunity to show him off. Our neighbours were forever stopping me to look in the pram and admire him.

  ‘Well, hasn’t he grown,’ they’d smile.

  ‘Isn’t he bonny …’

  ‘Ooh, such a happy little thing.’

  It made my heart swell with pride. People were very sympathetic and kind – to my face, at least. Everyone knew full well he was mine. Mum’s idea to pass him off as her own had been hopeless. The bond between Christopher and me was so strong, it was undeniable. She could never have claimed him as her son. Perhaps people were fascinated because I was such a young mother, and they wanted to have a nosey at the teenager with the baby, wanted to check how I was coping and pick up any snippets of gossip. Or maybe they felt genuine sympathy for me, having sensed or suspected something of our family situation and my ordeal. I was learning, slowly, that not everyone was as wicked and as cynical as my own parents. Either way, I lapped up the attention, and so did Christopher. I loved discussing his sleeping schedule or his upset tummies or his night-time bottles with other mummies. When he smiled for the first time, I announced it to everyone. I was spilling over with excitement.

  ‘It’s probably just wind, he’s too young to smile,’ Mum said, but she had an indulgence about her that I’d never seen before.

  I didn’t mind whether it was wind or not. Nothing could dent my happiness.

  One day, when Christopher was about three weeks old, I went out on some errands, but my pram was too big to fit inside the shop door. I couldn’t leave him outside, not even for a minute, so I scooped him up and we went into the shop together.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ smiled the lady behind the counter. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting your lovely boy.’

  She handed me a bag with a knitted cardigan and bootees inside. I was so touched that my eyes welled with the ready emotion of a new mum. She hardly knew me, we had never spoken before today, but she had clearly heard about Christopher and wanted to show me some kindness. It was just a small gesture, but I knew I would never forget it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I beamed. ‘I really appreciate it, we both do.’

  From being someone who did not matter a jot, I had been fast-tracked to a position of meaning and substance, where people went out of their way to show they cared. It was more than just a fresh start or a new chapter. It actually felt like a whole new me. The joys of becoming a mother were somehow helping to wash away the stains of evil in my childhood, and I felt cleansed and new.

  ‘You started all of this,’ I told Christopher as we walked back home, with the pram squeaking proudly. ‘You’ve made all of this happen for me.’

  If it was warm enough I would sit outside, in our small front garden, either with Christopher on my knee or wrapped cosily in the pram. I was so proud of him, and I wanted to share him with the world. Our lollipop lady lived opposite, and she had always been so lovely towards me, right through my childhood. She had twin daughters the same age as me, and privately she was probably devastated at the thought of a child like me having a baby. But she never judged or criticised. She would always pop her head into the pram and comment on Christopher’s beautiful outfits or his soft blankets.

  ‘You’re doing a fantastic job, Maureen,’ she smiled. ‘You should be proud of yourself.’

  Incredibly, Mum showed Christopher what seemed like genuine affection. Though it amazed me, I welcomed her change of heart. I wanted a calm and loving environment for my baby. And I was grateful that she was so accepting of him. Often when I went out she would come with me. Perhaps she was keeping me in check, in case I said something I shouldn’t, but she seemed to really care. She adored Christopher in a way that she had never loved any of her own children. I had never thought she had it in her.

  Even John Wood seemed to like having him around. He would happily take his turn with a cuddle. I could not fathom it, but I took it for what I hoped it was. It occurred to me that perhaps John Wood thought the baby was his. Or maybe he was trying to win me over, through Christopher, to make sure I didn’t spill my secrets. But my explanation was that Christopher had brought magic into our home. He had brought with him purity, innocence, happiness and love. His birth was like fairy dust sprinkled on each of us.

  Chapter 7

  It was 2 November, and Christopher was three weeks and six days old.

  ‘You’ll be four weeks old tomorrow,’ I told him with a smile. ‘A whole month!’

  The time had flown by, and yet, in many ways, I could not remember what life was like before his arrival. The day was uneventful; I did some washing and pegged his tiny bibs and babygros across a makeshift washing line in the kitchen. We had a walk outside, though it was grey and chilly, and so Christopher was well wrapped up. Early in the evening we found ourselves alone in the house, and I fed and winded him, and changed his nappy, before laying him down in his pram in the living room for a sleep.

  ‘Mummy’s going for a bath,’ I told him with a smile. ‘I won’t be long, my beautiful angel.’

&nbs
p; Christopher gurgled contentedly. He settled well, as he always did. I’d already run a bath whilst he was feeding so I wasn’t long upstairs at all; twenty minutes at the most. As I made my way back downstairs to check on him, I was already looking forward to seeing his sleeping face and his tiny, curled-up fists. But as I reached the bottom of the stairs I was struck by the deathly silence. There were none of the baby bird sounds Christopher always made as he slept. No grunts. No soft murmurings. And I knew there was something dreadfully wrong.

  My throat tightened. A feeling of icy dread, starting at the base of my spine, crept up the back of my pyjamas. Standing in the doorway of the living room, I froze for a moment. My hand gripped the door handle. The silence was so powerful, it was almost like a wall, pushing me back. I was too scared to move. And too scared to stand still. But in the next minute I was running over to his pram, saying his name, over and over.

  ‘Christopher, Christopher,’ I pleaded. ‘Wake up, angel, wake up.’

  Desperately, I tapped his foot and touched his face. I leaned over him, pleading with him, begging him to stay with me. But his lips had a bluish tinge and the warmth was already draining from his skin. And I knew that I had lost him. I knew that my own heart, like his, was lost. In terror, I ran screaming from the house, across the road, to hammer on doors. No answer, no answer, it felt like a lifetime, it was taking me hours to find help … But at the next one, the door opened.

  ‘Christopher isn’t breathing!’ I gasped. ‘Help me!’

  I was hysterical. Betty, our neighbour, called an ambulance and ran into our house to begin CPR. I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to be there, didn’t want the stomach-turning confirmation of what I already knew was true. I was aware of flashing blue lights in the street, of my family arriving home, of people crying and shouting and screaming.

  ‘It can’t be true! He can’t be dead! Not Christopher!’

  Even John Wood sat at the dining table, with his head in his hands, and wept. It was the only show of emotion I had ever seen from him and this was confirmation, not that any was needed, of the cataclysmic impact of Christopher’s passing.

  ‘So sorry, so sorry,’ everyone said.

  But nothing could ease my pain. The hours passed in a blur. I felt as though I had been torn in two. As though my heart itself was sobbing. Christopher’s tiny body was taken away but I wasn’t allowed to go in the ambulance.

  ‘Let me go with him,’ I pleaded. ‘He’s my boy.’

  I felt as though my own internal organs were being wrenched from me. I couldn’t bear to see him go, all on his own. A doctor was called and I was sedated, and I slept fitfully, in tortured fragments, for the next few days. Each time I awoke, with a start, I would stare at the empty Moses basket beside me and the full horror would come flooding back.

  The hospital said they would need to do a post-mortem, and I couldn’t bear to consider that someone – a stranger – was cutting into my perfect little boy. It didn’t seem dignified or respectful. Yet I also desperately wanted to know how he had died.

  ‘It was cot death apparently,’ Mum said, in a voice laden with doubt and accusation.

  I didn’t know what she meant at all. I didn’t know what a cot death was either. He had seemed so perfectly well and healthy just minutes before his death. It was completely senseless. Later that week she insisted that we go to the Chapel of Rest to see him, even though I begged not to. I couldn’t face it. I needed to remember my boy as he was before.

  ‘You’re coming and that’s that,’ Mum said. ‘You’re the one who insisted on being a mother. You can take the flack now.’

  When we went inside, my baby boy was lying in a tiny coffin, alabaster pale and still. So still. He was dressed in a white outfit, which I hadn’t chosen and didn’t even recognise.

  ‘Hello, angel,’ I whispered softly.

  Around his neck he wore a necklace that I recognised as belonging to Jock; one side was a medal of St Christopher, the other a picture of Mary with the baby Jesus. Again, that must have been Mum’s decision. It certainly hadn’t been mine. In that moment I had a violent flashback to the medal dangling over my face, glinting in the sunlight above the tall ferns, as Jock grunted and thrusted above me. And now the same medal was around my baby son’s neck. Our baby son’s neck. It was madness. Madness in its purest form. Yet what was pure about it? I leaned forward, with my hand outstretched, and in a split-second of insanity I was almost persuaded that if I could touch Christopher I might be able wake him.

  ‘You can’t go near him,’ Mum barked.

  I froze and then watched, numb, as one of my sisters leaned forward to stroke his face. I didn’t understand why she was allowed to touch him, and not me. Why did I have no say in what he wore? And why on earth was he wearing a necklace belonging to the man who had raped me?

  The power had shifted back to them now. I had no voice, no opinion. Without Christopher I didn’t matter any more. Not one bit. My sister moved his hat a little and it revealed a fresh scar on his head, from the post-mortem. It broke my heart to think of anyone hurting him, and especially on his poor little head.

  ‘My angel,’ I whispered.

  On one of our happy outings (and how long ago they seemed now), I had saved up and bought Christopher a baby rattle – one big round ball with three or four balls spinning around it, all of different colours. It was the only thing I had ever bought for him myself, and as we were leaving the Chapel of Rest I slipped it discreetly into the coffin, with him. It was the only thing he would have from me. My only contribution to his entire funeral. Saying goodbye was like handing over my own heart. I felt as though I would never feel whole again. Outside, I broke down, and I wept all the way home.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re crying,’ Mum spat. ‘We all know you did it. He was fine when we went out, and dead when we got home. Doesn’t take a brain box to work out what happened.’

  I was reeling. There was no sense at all to her accusations. The post-mortem had clearly shown there was no foul play, no evidence I had harmed him. I could never have hurt Christopher. I adored him. She had simply reverted back to her usual vicious, twisted self. Back at home, she continued to spout bile about me, and the rest of the family followed her lead, as always.

  ‘You’re a horrible bitch,’ they said. ‘You smell. Get a bath.’

  I could not leave my bedroom without someone making a jibe or throwing in a nasty remark. Mum’s allegations hung over me, circling my head like black crows, waiting to swoop down and pluck out my eyes. But their cruelty did not hurt as much as it might have. I was so locked in grief, so overpowered by my loss, that I hardly heard their words. It was as though everyone around me was talking under water; little made much sense. And they had never supported me anyway. So why start now?

  I was totally cut out of the funeral plans. Mum went to see the priest on her own. The Catholic priest refused to bury Christopher because he was born out of wedlock and had not been baptised. I had wanted to have him christened, but he had passed away before it could be arranged. Mum came home and downloaded all her anger onto me, as though it was my fault I hadn’t been married when I was raped.

  ‘See the mess you’ve caused, you filthy little cow,’ she hissed.

  The next day she went to see the Methodist minister instead, and he proved to be more obliging. Mum was not a churchgoer, and now, I think, the funeral was more about her saving face than following any religious beliefs she had. She wanted to be seen to be doing the right thing. And that was as far as it went.

  There were added complications with the burial, too, because there was a gravediggers’ strike on at that time, so members of the army were drafted in to help out digging graves. But again, that was none of my business, according to Mum.

  ‘You keep your nose out,’ she said.

  She chose his flowers: a blue and white wreath with a picture of St Christopher in th
e centre. I could not even choose the flowers for my own son. My boy’s funeral was planned as though I didn’t exist. I comforted myself that he had his rattle, but that was the only decision I had made, and even that was in secret. The little rattle, hidden under his blanket, was the only reminder that he was mine. On the morning of the funeral, Jock arrived at the house and announced with his usual arrogance:

  ‘I would like to carry the coffin.’

  ‘I don’t think so, lad,’ replied John Wood.

  They began arguing and I walked into the next room and stared desolately out of the window. But in the background I could hear them shouting and swearing. It didn’t seem right, on the day Christopher was being laid to rest. Where was the respect for his short life? As usual with them both, it was about one-upmanship. It was all about being top dog.

  ‘I’m the man of this house,’ Jock yelled. ‘I should carry it.’

  ‘I’m the head of the family,’ John Wood shouted. ‘You don’t even live here.’

  It grew nasty and I could tell they were shoving each other about. By now, Jock was taller than John Wood and much stronger. I knew a fight would end badly for John Wood. I wondered whether the real trigger for their clash was the issue of Christopher’s paternity. And if Jock was so insistent on carrying the coffin, surely he had realised, as I had, that he was Christopher’s father? Yet, as usual, I simply listened and kept my mouth shut. But then my mother came downstairs and silenced them both.

  ‘Keep your mouths shut,’ she told them. ‘People will talk. You’re not carrying the bloody coffin, Jock, don’t be ridiculous.’

  In the end, the undertakers carried the coffin, a tiny little wooden box with a simple cross on it. The church was unfamiliar to me; usually I associated these places with calm and healing, but today I had to force myself down the aisle, with leaden feet. There was one hymn, but no readings. There was nothing to mark how special Christopher had been, and how monumental his death would always be for me. I felt as though he had been cheated, let down.