Chapter 31

I had suddenly become a public figure. Yet my fifteen minutes of fame were unwanted. It was an odd feeling. I had never thought about anonymity before. Took it for granted. Had never valued it. But I did now. Mary Riddell had presented me for judgement by the British public. Other newspapers had carried the story almost verbatim over much of the English-speaking world. There I was: there were my sons: all of us had become public property. Just a story. Yet I was the same. A human being. My children were innocent little babies. They, too, were being presented—for what? Entertainment? Pity? They were more than a diversion. They were real little people who deserved better. We were private people no longer.

Who could have done this to us? The factual material in the original Mail article could only have come from America. No one in the UK knew the name of my American lawyer. Only a few people there knew this and all of these were bound by ethical codes of confidentiality. Someone in America had made money out of this at our expense. I would love to know who. It could be anyone and this suspicion, sadly, has served to cloud my relationships there.

I thought people might believe what had been written about us. In this, too, I was wrong. In the middle of the media attention came personal messages from people I had never met. The British public were great. I received only wonderful letters. A woman e-mailed me her photo with her toddler by her side. Another sent prayers, followed by a large parcel containing three hefty storybooks, twelve cassettes and a perfumed purple card.

Messages came from across the world. ‘Kerry’ in Australia wrote to me at ‘Beverley Hills’, Newbury, England (the press had told its readers this is what the locals call the area I live in). At least the Post Office knew where it was. She told me: ‘I would have patted you on the back for having the courage to do what you did. I have four beautiful children and believe you will have many, many smiles. Thank you for reminding me how lucky I am. Congratulations on doing something as beautiful and creative as fathering your boys.’

Another came from South Africa: ‘I have just finished reading about you in one of our local weekly magazines and I feel completely and utterly compelled to tell you how I feel. Your story is one of remarkable courage and initiative, and I salute you for your decision to have your sons come into the world in the manner that you did. I feel uplifted and inspired by your bravery and your initiative.’

The Mail forwarded one: ‘I have spent most of today wondering if I should write this letter. I am not even sure if it will be sent it on to you. However, I just want to say how moved I was by your feature in yesterday’s paper. To be honest, I did read the article initially with some cynicism but just looking at the photo made me realise what a wonderful decision you made and how genuine you must be, not only in looking after your new sons but your father, too.’

Another, from Eire, passed on by GMTV ended ‘You made my day.’ That one made mine.

Maybe after a while I would send them all a note. For the moment, I was smarting from having been made aware so brutally of the difference between appearance and reality. I saw ‘journalist’ behind every approach.

I took a rain check on the several lunch invitations that came by e-mail, phone and letter. A rain-checked caller phoned me again while I was working late at night. My reaction revealed in every way how I felt.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t deal with anything new and don’t want to meet anyone I don’t know. I’m trying to get my life back together and feel it’s been intruded on enough.’

‘But I want to be a plus, not a minus.’

All I could see was a complication and a nuisance. I was getting as tetchy as Ms Riddell's article maintained.

‘I’m sorry, I just need to have some quiet, so I’m going to wish you goodnight.’

I replaced the receiver. It rang again.

‘I just wanted to write.’

‘Well, go ahead.’

‘I haven’t got an address.’

‘It’s in the book.’

A day before I would never have been so abrupt. I knew I was changing and that it might not be for the better. She wrote a letter with a photograph and a number for me to call; a number, she said, that only I knew. I feared a stalker. I started closing the blinds at night.

The following week, I had fewer calls. I declined Irish Radio and German and Danish TV. The only prearranged encounter was with the BBC’s Religious Affairs department. I thought they would be unlikely to give me a journalistic mugging. Two delightful ladies came—Christine and Belinda. I was inordinately suspicious.

They wanted to assure me that the series they were making—’Life changing TV’—was not confrontational, was concerned with the moral and ethical issues that guided people in choices they made in life and that it was to do with ordinary people in extraordinary situations. It was a phrase Desmond Wilcox had used.

They also assured me that the material would be handled with sensitivity and that the object was to get people to tell in their own words about the choices they had made and why they had made them. The viewing audience would be left to make up their own minds on the points raised. The only point that seemed to me to be an issue was personality.

‘We would like you as a person to come through, so the audience can gain an impression of you through your interests.’

‘Such as if I collect stamps?’ That was not what they meant, of course, but through it I might understand what they were after.

I had never had to justify myself or create an impression before. Carer, organiser, teacher, postman, bookkeeper, father. I’m not sure I really have much idea where the ‘me’ part of me fits into all this. When I was a child I used to get through two books—often a Rider Haggard and a Dr Dolittle—on a Sunday morning. I was quite serious-minded and had a developed sense of responsibility; an awareness of right and wrong.

This was exactly, the ladies said, what they wanted. This would give the audience a sense of who I was as a person. The stamp collection need not be revealed. Here was the real me, for better or worse. The two ladies left the decision with me.

Before the shock of the previous week, I would have loved to do the programme. Now, the last thing I wanted was to have a repeat performance. With them, I felt I was among friends, but that feeling was coming from a couple of complete strangers.

* * *

The letters continued to arrive. All were positive. Most wanted to meet me and have something to do with my family. I suppose ‘you look nice’ and ‘you seem to be a nice, brave, admirable person’ should be quite flattering. Some appeared innocuous: ‘Your story impressed me so much. I would be thrilled if you would keep me informed of your progress.’

One was tempting: ‘I would LOVE to be granny to your boys. I want to cuddle them and nurture them and say to you that I think what you have done is absolutely right. My own grandmother was a source of unequalled love....’

For once, my response was positive. But I asked people in the media about the granny and, sure enough, she was a freelance writer. I cancelled. The e-mailed response was rapid. She had bought presents prior to her visit: ‘I’m thinking to send them to you with love and the price tags on, then if you see fit you can reimburse me.’

I decided not to respond to anyone. No one seemed to be contacting me for our benefit. They all wanted a piece of me and my family for one reason or another. How I appreciated my life as it had been—just my family and me. What a pity the story had been broken.

Often I would sit in the middle of the babies as they cooed and gurgled with their soft toys and run my fingers over their faces marvelling at the softness of their skin and wondering how anyone would want to disrupt their lives. They were so innocent and so dependent on me. I had to be strong for them.

In the middle of all this, my father’s health took a turn for the worse. His heartbeat was described by a doctor as ‘unsustainably slow’. It was the word ‘unsustainable’ that I had to act on. He was in the North Hampshire Hospital the same day. The consultant was informative. His heart was slowing and would, in a few months, stop.

Generally, they would fit a pacemaker under local anaesthetic. In my father’s case, this was difficult as he would lash out at the surgeon. A general anaesthetic would kill him, so it would have to be sedation. Even so, the procedure could go wrong and he might die. Only if the quality of his life would be improved, would the consultant recommend the operation.

I deliberated. He had become immobile, needing both arms held to be able to walk. His speech had become garbled. A slowing down of the flow of blood to the brain could, I was told, increase confusion and physical disability. Maybe this was a cause of the deterioration. The consultant and I decided to go ahead.

I took him to the Brompton Hospital in London and the operation was performed on 27 September 2001. When I collected him the next day, I had a different father. This one was friendly, appreciative and capable of conversation. I hoped the change would last.

In any case, he had survived the procedure. We drove back through the Friday evening rush hour traffic in golden sunshine. As it was the second anniversary of my mother’s death, we stopped at Chieveley churchyard to place flowers from the garden on her grave before taking my father to a home for some days’ convalescence with trained staff on hand. The driving had been a break from what was becoming a routine.

On my return, the cards from people wanting to meet me and e-mails from the media were waiting to be opened. I replied to none of them.

But a critic there was—albeit not to my face. Nanny Claire came back from playgroup one day in November to tell me what had happened. With some glee, she told me ‘We got someone chucked out!’ ‘What happened?’ ‘A lady came in with her toddler, came up to us and played with us. She asked me if we were the children from the paper. She told me she completely disagreed with what this father had done and said she didn’t understand how I could work for him. I told her that her opinion was her own affair and didn’t count with me. She then disagreed with everything I was doing, like my giving the boys their juice and bananas. The lady who runs the playgroup asked if this lady was hassling me. I said I didn’t want the boys hearing what she was saying, even though they couldn’t understand. So the lady in charge told the woman it was her prerogative to decide who came and who didn’t come. She grabbed her child and left without comment to me. She was told never to come back.’

And then I heard from the Home Office.