In the wake of the recent royal wedding, and the dissimilar dynastic backgrounds of the participants, my thoughts were unavoidably channelled towards my own rather forbidding family roots – or lack of.
A mysterious rendezvous around D-Day between a 16-year old girl and an unknown soldier set the scene for my unsolicited conception. Who knows what traumas transpired during the 9-month gestation period, but it was incontestable that I would be transferred from my biological mother to a different mother upon birth – something similar to the children’s party game «pass-the-parcel». One has to remember that the term «illegitimate» was so taboo at that time, that the very whisper of the word relegated the unfortunate mother to the ranks of the most unpardonable slut.
With soldiers returning from WWII, the world was heralding a hitherto fore unknown and animated activity of pollinating the local footloose maidens. So, a well-intentioned member of the local Baptist Church, felt that speed was of the essence in redistributing the rather less coveted of the new arrivals to more appropriate locations. Thus, I was speedily reassigned to a fellow member of said Church, directly from the maternity home and for the price of £1, the paperwork was hastily completed. Strict controls were neither possible nor opportune at that turbulent stage in history, but my new owners certainly got their pound of flesh, at age 14 days old.
Hence, the dream of finally completing the prevailing family of four was realised by the 40-year old adoptive parents. Not that the barren «mother» needed children, per se, but she was anxious to appear as though she were the natural mother, normal and capable of procreation. The son who had been adopted nearly three years beforehand had been divinely assimilated into her life, and was in fact her pride and joy. It would be true to say, that he even replaced the dog in the pecking order of her highest affections.
One can never be sure, whether she had truly thought it through when signing the adoption papers for a little girl. She had agreed to the adoption before the birth and the gender of her future nipper was, as yet unknown. After all, she had a manic aversion to females of all ages, and whilst she had enjoyed a most rewarding relationship with her own mother, her dislike of girls and women was irreconcilable with the transaction she had undertaken. Her highly moral and pious husband, Frank, just complied with her instructions, and accepted benignly Elsie’s new acquisition, if it made her happy and he had his peace.
Thus, it was that a new direction through my life was tracked out on my behalf, without the remotest insight into my genetic footprint – not that Elsie had any intention of disrupting her life for me. However, one aspect of my brief history never escaped her stringent control, which she implemented with passion, exclusively for me. She would never forget the fact that I was born to parents «out of wedlock». This would implicate that they were not in control of their rampant passion, which would indicate that I was genetically predisposed to be a wild little hussy too. For this reason, a regime of strict domestic rules had to be observed at all times – «because it’s in the blood». Converted into everyday procedure – no friends, no freedom and plenty of household chores to eliminate the danger of going astray. I never understood what was supposed to be «in the blood» but at the age of 12, I was enlightened as to the circumstances of my birth. It was complemented with a lecture on the virtues of modesty and chastity, and warned me of impending rigorous restrictions in my life – for my own protection. In the meantime, it had just emerged that brother John, who was not subjected to these restraints but had materialised from a similar background, had managed to impregnate his 15-year old girlfriend.
The quintessence of the famous talk, was an indescribable feeling of liberation and, despite the enormous restrictions, I felt relief that Elsie’s robust genes could not have infiltrated my organism. I remember dancing on the way to school the next morning, to spread the good news.
A new life is like a seedling. It needs to be in the right hands, watered, fed and nurtured with love and care, otherwise it wilts away. All my life I wished that fierce discipline had been replaced by love, care, security and interest in me, rather than feeling like the unwanted misfit.
Photo: Pixelio.de /Grace Winter