Chapter 33

I realised that the next journalistic opportunity for the tabloids to use my children to increase their circulation would be the christening. This was scheduled for 18 November 2001. I was attending Bible Classes in preparation for it. ‘Now—if you can—and don’t feel put on the spot—but if you feel you can—and I shall quite understand if you cannot—but if you feel you wish to share this with us—can you say in just two words what God means to you?’ I had felt a christening to be appropriate in that it gave the boys something they could embrace, or indeed, reject later. I had been christened and had done neither. In the presence of so many of the faithful, those who not only believed , but knew the truth, I felt my lack of conviction was turning into a rejection. Had my connection with their beatific vision continued, I might have left the christening experience untouched. I am glad I continued. The presence of Godparents, albeit in a secular capacity, has been an enrichment to the boys' lives.

‘Oh God (if there is a God) save me (if there is salvation.)’

The invitations had been dispatched. Replies were coming in. There would be more than 100 guests and nine Godparents.

A reporter whose story had not then appeared phoned to ask if she could come. ‘It’s a pity that the story wasn’t in the paper,’ she said jauntily, expecting me to agree that it was a shame that my private life had not been blazoned across the nation’s breakfast tables yet again. Sensing my reaction in my silence, she continued, ‘The christening is coming up and this means we can approach the story from this angle. We would like to be there to take photographs and run the story.’

I was on my best behaviour. ‘Thank you for asking, but no I shall decline.’ I also resisted the offer to reconsider my decision.

Unversed as I was then in the ways of the newspaper business, it came as a surprise to find that the taxi driver who took my father to day care had been offered £500 by the same reporter to tell her the date of the christening. There might be uninvited guests.

I apologised in advance to the two couples whose babies were to be christened at the same service. £500 for a date that had already been published in a tabloid and a venue that had been stated in the local rag.

How much would they offer for a tasty piece of gossip? How much for a fabricated allegation? A few days later I discovered that the price for this was £15,000. That was what the taxi driver told me the reporter had offered him.

The local newspaper phoned wanting to take a photo at the christening, telling me Church office had told them the BBC would be there. That was news to me. It was news to the Church office. I declined this offer, too.

The christening was a real event. We had a Godparents’ dinner the night before at The Dew Pond, a beautiful little restaurant near Watership Down. Everyone stayed in a small guest house in Newbury. Ian and his little daughter, Alice ‘aged 6½’ as she proudly announced, stayed in my house. After the meal, we sat where we had sat two years before and reminisced on all that had happened in the meantime.

My father’s taxi driver took the boys and me to the church in his Mercedes. Esther had just arrived at my house and followed with Nanny Sophie and Ian. The Mercedes drove onto the paved entrance to St Nicolas’ Church. A flash bulb exploded. Esther helped get the babies out of the car. Another flash.

A bevy of photographers was waiting outside the church gate. Jonathan Aitken, disgraced former government minister who was reading for a degree in Theology at Oxford, had just finished taking a service there and I wondered if they were for him. No such luck. One of the Godparents told me they had ignored Aitken and only became animated when the babies arrived. ‘Bet it’s the first time you’ve been upstaged by a baby,’ he had said to Mr Aitken.

‘Give them what they want and they’ll go away’, Esther said.

She, Sophie and I took a baby each and stood in front of the side door.

‘Face the front!’ shouted the snappers. ‘Turn the babies to us.’

‘Keep smiling’ was Esther’s instruction.

The dark interior of the church was illuminated by a succession of bursts of light. It was incongruous and I was incredulous, embarrassed to have been the cause of such a commotion. We walked into the cool, dark quiescence of the building. All eyes turned to us.

I recognized from Bible Class the two other families whose babies were to be baptised and greeted them and those friends I could pick out in the crowd. We walked to the front pew and sat, the babies in their silky robes and hats, each with a bib, just in case. The service began. It was calm and ordered. We sang the hymns, said the prayers and listened while the names of the parents whose children were to be baptised were called out. Two couples and a single name—mine. We walked to the back of the church where the font was. I passed each baby to the vicar. Water was liberally sloshed over each head. None of the babies made a sound. Must have been warmed. Candles were given; certificates were handed out.

A message was whispered to me: ‘They’re at the side. Best if you get out at the back.’ No longer a nice family christening. It was back to the glare of the media. I left quickly, helped put the babies into the back of the car and we drove out. Photographers ran after the car, flashing through the back window. Those at the gate flashed through the windscreen.

I wondered if there would be press outside the house. Fortunately not. They came later, requesting comment. A guest passed the message down the drive. No comment.

A reporter came to the door asking for names. He was polite and well-spoken. Before all this, I would never have dreamed of such an abrupt reaction, but now I said ‘I won’t talk to you. Please leave.’ Another phoned. I said ‘It’s been a wonderful day and the babies have been great. Now make something of that.’

Back to my 150+ guests. Yes, it had indeed been wonderful and the babies had been great. It took us two full days to open all the presents. Such thought had gone into them. Many had ‘three’ as a theme. My chiropodist had created a silver shape that fitted together into a pattern of three. Three alarm clocks incorporated within three silver cars reflected my own interests. Three books that were so huge the babies could crawl over them and create their own story; one that folded into a play pen with the book round the perimeter. What wonderful friends I had.

That Christmas I received good wishes from the Home Office. These came at the end of a letter rejecting the boys’ US birth certificates and requesting the medical evidence leading to their being issued. The ‘evidence’ was, of course, the mother’s say-so. But the Home Office already had the letter from the IVF clinic. Did they assume the IVF clinic was making it up?

The official asked for an immediate response. He got one. I promptly faxed him on New Year’s Eve telling him that he already had the evidence. But I also asked whether a DNA test would settle the issue once and for all.

Rather than wait the three months that was becoming the norm for a response, I went ahead and contacted a few agencies. One of them sent out a ‘Private and Confidential’ letter with ‘Paternity Testing’ clearly visible under the address in the window envelope.

The one I chose, however, was a branch of the Home Office. It would take 4-6 weeks, but at least there would be proof.

The letter had also said ‘We are considering how the Immigration Rules might apply to your case as they can allow the admission of children where it can be established that the surrogate ‘parent’ is also their biological parent.’

I did not see myself as a quote-unquote ‘parent’ or, indeed, a ‘surrogate’ but, if this was the way to get settlement, I would shell out my £600 and have a pin stuck in my finger.

Our GP, splendidly supportive, agreed to carry out the test and the kit was sent to him. He came to our house in early January 2002 armed with plastic containers, envelopes and a wad of forms. Just a jab for me and a swab for each of the boys, I thought. Three hours later, he had completed the last of the forms and enveloped up the samples. The procedure had been so surrounded by safeguards that I was surprised the presence of a neutral observer had not been insisted on.

‘What do I owe you?’

The doctor turned his palms skywards. ‘How do you quantify this? Have it as a belated christening present.’ It was certainly the most unusual present one could imagine. I accepted with gratitude this very kind gesture.

Six weeks later, on 27 February 2002, the results came back. They made odd reading for one unversed in biochemistry.

They explained if, prior to the DNA evidence, there was believed to be an evens chance of paternity, then the DNA findings would change this to odds of 380,000 to 1 for Piers, 920,000 to 1 for lan and 43,000 to 1 for Lars. This would result in a probability of paternity of 99.99% for each of the children.

99.99%—enough, I was sure, to send someone to prison for life. I hoped it would be enough for the Home Office. The original of the results was in the post by recorded delivery within an hour of my receiving it.

I was glad I had gone ahead and undertaken the DNA test.

Three months after my letter of 31 December asking if this would resolve everything, I had still received no reply from the Home Office. Clearly they had no interest in resolving the issue with any speed. For all they cared, I could be kept dangling.

I threw caution aside.

‘Indefinite leave to remain’ was what I had applied for as a first step. I had sent off the results and was waiting. Nevertheless, ‘leave’ was permission, not a right. I decided use the 99.99% to apply for Citizenship for the boys. I downloaded the appropriate forms from the internet.

The Citizenship rules could not have been clearer: ‘If the child is illegitimate, parent means the mother’. My letter accompanying the application forms and my cheque for £120.00 contained this paragraph: ‘If this application is to be rejected on the basis that I am not the parent because I am not the mother of these illegitimate children, please advise by return so I can pursue a case under Article 14 of Human Rights legislation preventing discrimination on the grounds of gender.’

Everything was cc-ed to David Rendel MP. His response was refreshingly unambiguous. ‘I, for one, feel it would be utterly absurd were you to be turned down.’