Bye Baby Bunting

By Tannis Laidlaw

It's 1963 and a university student finds herself facing an impossible choice when she gives birth to a baby daughter out of wedlock. Pressured to give up her child for adoption, she succumbs to the weight of societal expectations, only to be consumed by regret.

 

But when the baby mysteriously disappears, everything changes.

 

Enter a determined detective, eager to prove himself on his first major case. As he delves deeper into the investigation, he's left wondering: is the young birth mother involved, or has something far more sinister taken place? With the backdrop of a dysfunctional family dynasty in New Zealand and the unforgiving snow-covered prairies of Canada, this gripping tale will keep you on the edge of your seat. Brace yourself for a twist you won't see coming. Don't miss out on this captivating story of secrets, lies, and the lengths one detective will go to unravel the truth.

 

Immerse yourself in the suspenseful world of "Bye Baby Bunting". Get your hands on a copy today and join the detective on a relentless pursuit of truth. This is one mystery you won't want to miss. Order now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tannis Laidlaw
• Release date: Oct 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9798215391907

Tannis Laidlaw

Tannis has worn many hats: occupational therapist in her early days, psychologist, university researcher and lecturer at various universities and medical schools and now author. She's written many first drafts which are safely stored on her hard drive (perhaps, one day, to be revised...) but she has published four novels and two books of short stories. Two of the novels are in paperback as well as ebook format. She lives with her husband in various places: two homes in New Zealand - a town house in Auckland and an adobe beach house on an isolated bay in Northland - and, to take full advantage of the northern summer, a tiny summer cottage (off the grid and boat-access only) on a remote lake in North-western Ontario in Canada. All are places perfect for writing.

Book preview

Chapter One

Jemma’s story

August, 1963

Jemma picked up his hand from the bedcovers. It was already cool. BarryBarryBarry. Goodbye, goodbye. Shit, what am I going to do? Damn it, why did you have to die? Her voice was a murmur, its tone desperate yet not meant to be overheard by the people standing at the end of the bed. Jemma bent over to kiss his hand smearing tears on his pale skin.

The woman broke in. Stop! She took a deep breath. Stop touching him. Please go. Leave us with our son.

Jemma looked up at her hearing the tone, not the message. Sorry?

Go! The woman spat out the word with such venom, Jemma flinched. Get out. Go.

Jemma looked at the hand she was holding, now seeing the shiny wetness but not knowing why, not knowing anything. She pulled out a damp tissue from her coat pocket and blotted his skin.

Leave him alone! It was almost a wail. The woman turned to the man standing with his arm about her shoulders. She’s not listening to me. You do it. Get rid of her.

He lifted time-worn eyes. That’s enough, young lady. You’ve done your bit. You’re upsetting my wife, and you’re making it worse by still being here. Will you please leave us alone? He also took a deep breath. Now.

Jemma heard that bit loud and clear. She looked at the man, tall in his pinstriped suit, his shoes shiny as the skin of his son’s hand. She took one last lingering look at the too still face propped up by the hospital pillow and stumbled into the corridor.

A student nurse grabbed Jemma and half dragged her to a room by the nursing station. Cup of tea?

Jemma shrugged trying to control the damp streaks that kept flooding her face. She wasn’t aware she was crying, just that she had to constantly wipe her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

Here you are. Loads of milk and sugar even if you don’t feel like it. You need the energy.

Jemma took the mug in both hands almost welcoming the heat searing her fingers. She gulped. Hot and sweet. She didn’t know it then but that was the last time she would ever take sugar in tea. It was cloying; it didn’t want to go down. When she finally swallowed, it was like trying to manoeuvre a ping-pong ball past her gullet. First the one swallow then another and another.

Better? the nurse asked.

I feel sick, Jemma managed to say. She just made it to the sink before bringing it all up. Sorry.

How are you going to get home? the nurse asked as she passed several fresh tissues to Jemma.

Walk.

By yourself?

Jemma nodded.

Not a good idea. Have you the phone on? Shall I call someone?

They did have a telephone but Jemma shook her head. Barbs wouldn’t be home from varsity and Graeme, their other flatmate, worked until five. S’okay. I live quite close.

A more senior nurse came in. Thanks. I’ll take over. She touched the arm of the younger one ushering her to the door. Go back and see what you can do for the family.

Take care, the young nurse said to Jemma as she left.

The older woman sniffed. You’ve been sick?

Sorry, Jemma said again. It seemed to be the only word she’d said aloud since hearing Barry had died.

Are you not well?

I’m well. Jemma cleared her throat and pulled her coat tighter across her front.

Oh. The nurse flicked her eyes to the coat. I see. Throwing up much?

Jemma shook her head then nodded. Some.

Every day?

Every couple of days.

And this young man?

Don’t tell them. It’s too much. They don’t know, Jemma said gripping the arm of the nurse. No one knows. She was blinded by more tears.

I won’t tell. But I want you to lie down here for a few minutes. Ten at least. Then I’m going to make you another cup of tea before you go home. The nurse raised one eyebrow.

Jemma nodded and sat on the narrow examination couch. You’ll tell me when it’s ten minutes?

Of course. You’ll feel somewhat more settled. Just you see. The nurse turned out the overhead light, so the room was only lit by the small window. Jemma lay down. She could feel the wetness on her cheeks slowly drying, stretching over her skin like a film of glue.

Barry. Dead. What on earth was she going to do?

Jemma pushed open the squeaky gate that led onto the scabby patch of grass in front of the skinny house they called their flat. As she fumbled for her key, Barbs arrived.

How is he? Barbs asked.

The wetness spread over her face again.

The social worker from the adoption agency came around regularly. There was no avoiding her, because if Jemma wasn’t there for her appointment, the woman would just turn up the next day. It wasn’t as if Jemma didn’t intend meeting her; she genuinely forgot. Somehow those appointments kept slipping from her mind, like some grey formless smog had settled over her memory. No matter when her next appointment was, or the reminders she set up, she forgot. She wrote the date and time in lipstick on her vanity mirror, so every morning for a week she was reminded it was Wednesday at 2:30 or whatever. Then at 3:30 on Wednesday, in the library, or out for a walk, or sitting over coffee at Auckland University, she’d look at her watch and realise she’d done it again.

I’m so sorry, she said for the umpteenth time one Thursday afternoon, the second time the appointment had been scheduled that week. I forgot.

Again, the social worker said, holding her wristwatch close to her eyes as an obvious message. I can only give you ten minutes. She looked from under frowning brows at Jemma cowering on the couch before her. This proves once again that you are irresponsible, Jemima. You mustn’t even think of bringing up Baby. He needs a warm and loving home where stable routines allow him to grow and thrive. With two parents.

Jemma’s mind drifted. Same old message. And always with the stupid assumption the baby would be a boy. She dragged her attention back to what the social worker was saying.

I came to tell you we have a family in mind. A doctor and his wife, a little older than you but they want to share their gracious home with a child. If you’re lucky, this child.

A doctor. Making pots of money. The baby would have a room of her own. A wife who wanted a child. They can’t have their own? Jemma asked.

Trying for years. No, they’re being sensible. It’s time to adopt. They already have the nursery ready for their new baby. I just hope yours is born first. There are several girls due round about the same time.

Jemma nodded but later cried herself to sleep. She was just a selfish, ignorant, immature girl. She couldn’t think of a single reason why she should deny her child such a life. What did she know about babies?

Jemma was running late for the next appointment and, in spite of trying, didn’t arrive before the social worker left. She found a terse note with a new appointment for the next day. She was truly embarrassed each time it happened. That meant she didn’t dare go into varsity; by staying home, she’d make sure she’d be there for the social worker, who, as she constantly reminded Jemma, was there to support her. But when the time came, Jemma was in the bath. She’d still managed to forget.

"What are you thinking? the social worker asked. How can you even consider you could support this child? He won’t stay a newborn for long, you know. Baby needs active raising; he needs stability. Have you any hope of giving him that?"

The telephone rang.

May I speak with Jemima Howell?

Yes, Jemma here. She didn’t recognise the voice although it was obviously older than her age group.

It’s Oliver Winchester speaking, Barry’s father.

Oh. Hello, Jemma said, gripping the telephone tightly. What can I do for you, Mr Winchester?

My wife and I would like to invite you out to dinner. We have a proposition for you to consider.

Jemma glanced down at her favourite Italian knit jumper she’d bought in London before she’d left, now stretched out of shape across her growing abdomen. Thank you but no thanks, she said. I’m very, ah, busy right now. Exams coming up.

We would like to see you, Jemima. We know about our grandchild.

Jemma shut her eyes. "Yes, well…’

Would you prefer to have dinner here? How about Saturday night?

"I’m not sure…’

I’ll pick you up at seven. Just us.

Jemma was left holding the empty receiver.

What was that all about? Barbs asked from the couch where she was surrounded by textbooks, notebooks and loose papers.

Barry’s father. Wants me to have dinner with them. Knows I’m preggers.

Shit.

He called the baby ‘our grandchild’.

The two girls looked at each other.

Have you signed the papers with the adoption agency yet?

Jemma dropped her eyes. Painful subject. Haven’t made up my mind.

Look, I’m sorry you can’t keep the baby here. I feel awfully guilty but I’m just not ready for motherhood, even by proxy.

Keep your shirt on, Barbs. I’d feel the same. This was too close to home. She sort of felt the same. The social worker was right; this bump didn’t represent a glowing future, more a growing burden. It was better that the baby have a stable home with educated parents and all the advantages. As always, even thinking about it produced a headache that pierced her skull.

Come on, adoption is the way to go. Couples are queuing up for kids with good potential, and you’re bright in spades. Barry too, for that matter. Have the baby in February and return straight back into varsity in March. And you can stay on here.

It just seems so disloyal to Barry.

Barbs shrugged. It’s your life.

Saturday night, Jemma dressed in a proper maternity frock she’d bought at a charity clothing shop for two quid. It was voluminous and orange, the best of a selection that tended towards matronly greys and browns. It was screamingly bright even to Jemma’s eyes.

Mr Winchester ushered her into the lounge where his wife was sitting. The light was catching sparkles in Mrs Winchester’s blue eye shadow and she fiddled with a heavy necklace encrusted with sapphires of the same colour. Jemma kept her eyes on the older woman to prevent them wandering to that long couch under the window where she and Barry had explored their bodies a bit too thoroughly.

We thought we’d have dinner straight away, Barry’s mother said. I’m sure you’re not into pre-dinner drinks in your condition.

Jemma shook her head and cleared her throat. No.

Ballard was our only child, I’m sure you know, Mrs Winchester said as she played with a prawn cocktail set in a small stemmed glass. Jemma had almost forgotten Barry was only a nickname.

Yes, he told me.

We’ve been devastated by… by…. She stopped, looked up, obviously struggling to come back into control. Devastated.

It was terrible for me too. Somehow that didn’t sound right. But your only son. Awful. Jemma could see that Mrs Winchester was in danger of destroying her eye makeup and Jemma could feel the tears welling up in her own eyes. I’m so sorry.

Mr Winchester turned towards the kitchen and called out, Next course, please. A uniformed maid appeared laden with dishes.

Most of the main course, rare roast beef with dumplings, potatoes, carrots and peas, was eaten in silence. Jemma wracked her brains about what to say. Everything she thought of involved Barry, and that was obviously not on. The sweet was a plum pudding with ice cream. By then, Jemma had eaten more in this one meal than she usually ate in a day.

Mrs Winchester pushed her food round her plate, not eating much at all. She was dreadfully thin. When the older woman waved away dessert, Jemma felt justified in refusing as well.

We’ve invited you here tonight for a purpose as I’m certain you realise, Mr Winchester said once they were back in the living room.

Jemma nodded. Looking her over, no doubt. Making judgements. Wondering what their wonderful Barry, sorry, Ballard, saw in her. And wanting to interfere in her life for sure.

We would like to give our grandchild a home, he said.

For one wild moment, Jemma thought she was being invited to live in this mansion of a house together with her baby.

Adopt him, Mrs Winchester said, her lips pressed firmly together. Properly and legally adopt him.

It might be a her, Jemma said trying to keep her voice even.

Mrs Winchester said, I’ve never had a daughter. I’d still want it if it were a wee girl. She glanced at her husband.

‘It’. Jemma swivelled her head towards first one then the other Winchester. The silence grew as she realised they were waiting for her reaction. Oh, she said finally. Adoption.

We’ve heard you’re contemplating adopting the baby out, Mrs Winchester said. Her hand brushed the bottom of her eyelid leaving a trailing smudge from her carefully applied mascara.

So much for secrecy in the adoption agency. I have the papers, Jemma said.

But not signed them yet? Mr Winchester asked a trifle fast.

Jemma shook her head. "No need to sign them until the baby is born. I thought I’d make up my…’

Much better to be organised early. No surprises then, he said as he stood up. Please come with us upstairs. We’ve something to show you.

Jemma dutifully trudged up the staircase behind the older couple, her six-month pregnancy making itself felt.

Voilà, Mrs Winchester said with studied gaiety. They walked into a fully-outfitted nursery. A pale-yellow bassinette with draped chiffon and ruffled skirts sat in the middle of the room. A large table was covered in teddy bears and other stuffed toys. A single bed was placed against the wall. For the nanny, she said.

The child will want for nothing, Mr Winchester said.

Jemma didn’t know where to put herself. All she wanted was to leave. It was too much. Please, will you take me home? I need to have some time. Please. I will consider it. Promise.

Mrs Winchester’s eyes filled, and yet again she touched her smudged mascara with a shaking hand. Jemma started back downstairs.

Mr Winchester walked her from the car to the door of her flat. Don’t wait too long in making your decision, Jemima. You need to know you’re doing the right thing for your baby, and this is the right thing, he said. Be assured that we want this child very, very much.

Jemma nodded. I’ll let you know. She stumbled inside closing the door with relief.

How did it go? Barbs asked.

I was wrong. It was like you thought, Jemma said as she leaned against the closed front door. They want the baby.

It’s perfect, Jemma, Barbs said. The kid will be brought up in the lap of bloody luxury. You don’t have to feel guilty about Barry any more ’cuz it’s his parents who’re taking care of it, and you can do your third year as normal. Like it was easy.

Jemma pulled herself up the stairs blotting out the memory of Mrs Winchester’s mascara with every step she took. By the time she’d opened the door of her room, her own tears could no longer be suppressed. She collapsed onto the bed wrapping her quilt around her and burying her face in its folds to stifle the sounds of her sobs. It was all such an awful mess. She pulled the quilt tighter, an inadequate substitute for being hugged, comforted. She wanted her mother. God, no; her mother must never ever know. After everything she had done? This would destroy her. There could be no mother’s arms to wrap around her. Not Barbs’ either or the arms of any of her other so-called friends at varsity. And Barry was long dead. Jemma wept alone.

Chapter Two

Jemma’s story

October, 1963

Barry. Jemma thought about him every day. Mostly the good times, his crazy personality, the plans he had to take on the world, to break away from his parents’ restrictions. She had never had a boyfriend who was so zany, so full of life. And then the tears would well up again.

Now that she was ‘showing’, she hated going to classes. She huddled in an oversize coat at the back of the lecture theatres but the weather was warming and the coat becoming conspicuous. The other students knew. She knew they knew. Once she overheard the term ‘knocked up’ as she passed a group, and once when waiting to go into a class, something about having a ‘bun in the oven’, and attributing it to ‘that guy who died’."

Jemma slinked past the speaker’s back but others saw her. As she grew bigger, she started skipping more classes than she attended.

Unsurprisingly, Jemma was not awarded her usual high marks at the end of the year but she didn’t fail. She moped around the flat during the holidays rarely going out now her pregnancy was so obvious. Consequently, she didn’t hear about the Kennedy assassination until she ran out of milk a day later.

The woman at the dairy was still in tears when she spoke to Jemma. I can’t believe it, the woman said. And that beautiful young wife of his. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

It unsettled Jemma at a time when life was full of terrors anyway. She became plagued with dreams that confused Barry’s last illness and rapid death with that of John Kennedy’s. She awoke, drenched in sweat, struggling to sort out the two men. Kennedy brought down at the top of his powers; Barry, still in his teens and before he could realise anything. But both had that star quality, and Jemma had no doubts Barry would have gone to the top of his particular heap.

Jemma’s war-orphan education allowance had been eaten away with the unexpected expenses of the pregnancy and she wasn’t due another instalment until January. She had been eating little except seasonal fruit and brown bread peanut butter sandwiches washed down with milk. At four pence a pint, she drank plenty of milk. It was affordable, recommended by her GP and good protein besides.

Last year, Jemma had spent Christmas with Barbs’ family in the Waikato but this year there was no invitation. Hmmm, they probably thought pregnancy was a communicable disease. Even the reclusive Graeme had gone off on a tramping holiday to the South Island.

On Christmas Eve, a massive hamper was delivered to the door of the flat, addressed to her and filled with an impressive array of food. The card said only, ‘The Winchesters’. The cynic in her said they were feeding their grandchild but she appreciated the food anyway.

Christmas night, Jemma gorged herself on ham, tiny tinned potatoes, tinned peas, Christmas cake and a fresh orange. She had barely finished when her mother rang from England. For once, the line was surprisingly clear.

Happy Christmas, dear, her mother said without preamble. I think we should plan on your coming back to England at the end of your degree. You do sit your finals before Christmas next year? She didn’t wait for Jemma to answer. I’ll book P&O tickets for December, and you’ll be home for the holidays. Home for next Christmas. Then you can decide what you want to do with your life.

That’s a bit far off, Mum, Jemma said. Her mother was one of a kind. And not all that easy to live with, partly the reason for Jemma’s return to her native New Zealand to study. And Happy Christmas to you too.

But that phone call decided it. She couldn’t be coming home with a degree under one arm and a nappy bag under the other to say nothing of a baby in a pushchair. She rang the Winchesters.

The birth was long, as first births often are, and Jemma became exhausted. The baby was born at 3:35 in the morning of February 12th. A girl. Jemma fell into a deep sleep, hardly noticing her. A nurse brought her the baby shortly after seven. Jemma held out her arms for her and fell in love. The baby had a scrunched up little face and tiny hands. Her hair was fair and surprisingly long for a newborn.

Have you a name for her? the nurse asked.

The question jerked Jemma out of her reverie. She’s going to be adopted out, she said, and tears welled up. She gazed at the baby who opened her mouth in a toothless yawn. She’s so tiny. Hello, little one. I’m going to spend every waking moment with you until you become a Winchester.

You can change your mind, the nurse said. You have a little time yet.

It’s all legal already, Jemma said without raising her eyes. I had a lawyer out with papers a while ago. This is Denise Mary Elizabeth Winchester, if you want to know, and not Clarence Alistair Ballard Winchester, thank goodness. I’d hate to be foisting a name like that onto a child – imagine the poor kid once he got to school? For the moment you’re Mummy’s little darling, aren’t you, poppet?

The first evening Jemma was in hospital, her flatmate Graeme came in with a bouquet of flowers, Jemma’s first and only.

Hey, Grae, you shouldn’t have, she said burying her nose in the flowers.

Thought you might need cheering up, he said with his faint North American accent.

In spite of living in the same house for two years, Jemma didn’t know Graeme all that well. For one thing, he was a quiet sort, and secondly he was probably close to thirty and that seemed impossibly old to her teenage self. He was ordinary looking, a man you just didn’t notice. He worked in a bank leaving punctually every morning in his blue suit and conservative tie after tidying up his breakfast things. He arrived home to cook his own tea, never bothering the girls. He had the biggest room, and he had it set up as a bed-sit not only with his own hi-fi and impressive classical record collection but also a television, an unheard-of luxury.  Not that he invited his flatmates in to see it very often, but sporadically he did, and always served them tea and bickies to mark the occasion. Barbs, as the stand-in landlady for her parents who owned the old house, found him the ideal tenant in spite of her parents’ misgivings about having a man in the flat. Both of the girls found him boring.

She’s beautiful. Come and see, Jemma said and motioned him over to the side of the bed where the modernistic plastic bassinet held the baby.

You have her here? he asked, as he moved over to look into the bassinet. Is that a good idea, Jemma?

You mean, will I be even more upset when she goes?

Exactly. He looked directly into her eyes. Do think it over. Or start to wean yourself off having her close by. He frowned. I didn’t think they’d allow her to be with you. Given the circumstances.

Surprised me too, she said. But I’m so glad she’s here. Even if it’s only for a little while.

The baby moved, opened her eyes, and made a little mewing sound.

Do you think she’s hungry? Graeme asked. Or does she need changing?

Shouldn’t. I fed her not half an hour ago, and she’s in fresh nappies. She’s just wakened from her nap, that’s all. Jemma reached over and picked the baby up and cuddled her. She was tightly wrapped in a flannelette blanket with only her face and hands showing. The baby opened her eyes. This is Graeme, poppet. My flatmate. The baby yawned, and both Jemma and Graeme laughed. Here you go. Have a cuddle, she said and passed her to Graeme.

He held her watching her every move. He lightly touched her hand, and the baby grabbed his finger. Look, Jemma. She’s holding onto me. His face lit up in a type of smile Jemma had never seen on him before. I can understand what you mean, he said. Every moment is precious, isn’t it?

Not to Barbs. She came in today and couldn’t stay further away from the baby if she tried. I think she’s afraid I’ll be bringing her back home.

No chance of that?

It’s all legal, Graeme. Couldn’t wriggle out of it if I tried. Jemma sighed. It’s for the best, obviously. Just a little hard to accept…. Her voice trailed off.

When does she go??"

She becomes a Winchester when she’s seven days old. I have six more days.

Time flitted past with plenty of interruptions to stop her ruminating. The nurses reported the Winchesters had been to the nursery to peek through the window at the sleeping baby but they didn’t call in to see Jemma, not that she minded. Barbs dutifully came every afternoon with magazines and fruit from her parents’ farm. Graeme, to Jemma’s total surprise, turned up every evening. Several times he gave the baby her bottle. They talked a lot about what little Denise Mary Elizabeth’s life would be like: her opportunities growing up in a wealthy household, the wisdom of having older parents, the Winchesters’ rule about no contact with the baby after the adoption.

On her seventh day, Jemma dressed her baby girl in an elegant pale-yellow outfit – the going-home-from-hospital clothes provided by the Winchesters. She felt ripped apart. No Barry and now no baby daughter. She didn’t know which caused the tears that wouldn’t stop. She left hospital that same evening; Graeme paid for a taxi home. It was supposed to be a new beginning. It felt like the end of her world.

Chapter Three

Jemma’s story

February, 1964

Jemma didn’t know what to do with her time until classes started again. She had a huge hole in her very being that nothing could fill. She exercised religiously and cut out eating sugar, bread and potatoes to remove the podge around her stomach. Her breasts were soft again but larger than before – the only positive outcome from the whole experience. She spent a day trying on new bras. One was all she could afford.

She went on long walks in the soft summer air thinking too much about Barry, trying to persuade herself he’d approve of what she’d done but knowing deep within herself that he wouldn’t. My parents? she could hear him ask. Are you crazy?

Babies were everywhere she looked. Mothers, prams, pushchairs, babies crying or sleeping or waving small hands in the air. One day when she ventured down to Mission Bay, the only people on the sand were mothers and pre-school kids.  Her arms felt empty, her breasts leaden, her imagination charged with how her baby now looked. Her baby. Her daughter. Hers.

She switched to walking in the evenings after kids and all the motherhood of Auckland had long gone home. To her surprise, Graeme suggested she take him along on the evening walks; it would be safer if he were with her. 

Jemma was discovering Graeme wasn’t quite as boring as she had previously thought. His parents had been older and had died early leaving him independent since he was twenty-three. He hadn’t been to university but he was progressing up the ladder of the banking world. He was an acute observer and his tales of banking shenanigans had her in stitches. She was beginning to look forward to their walks.

I made section head last year, he explained to Jemma one evening in his soft North American voice as they made their way towards the duck pond in the Domain. And I’m well into the management training the bank’s organised for me.

Do you have to write exams? she asked. The lights had come on. The nights were slowly drawing in.

Yes, just like varsity, I’m told. All the other fellows have degrees. I’m the only one without.

Neat, Jemma said and meant it as a compliment.

Talking with Graeme and Barbs helped keep Jemma’s mind busy during the day. But as soon as her head hit the pillow, her thoughts were dominated by the baby. Even with the extra stimulation with the start of the varsity year, she found it difficult to keep her mind on studying. Graeme suggested a routine. They should go for a walk after tea before settling down with both sets of books to work on their assignments in the quiet of his room. He had his management studies homework to do, and she had various papers to produce for her course. She figured Grae’s routine saved her; without it, she would not have kept up with her work. She knew she was obsessing about how her baby was developing and what she now looked like. It was proving to be a massive distraction from her studies,. but she had no idea how to rid herself of an obsession that gave her such pleasure.

Jemma found Graeme calm, kind and very grown up. Alternatively, she increasingly found Barbs – who studied with the radio at full volume – immature and plain silly at times. Graeme told her he was thinking of moving out. Barbs was too much to take with her loud music every night and messy ways. He thought of renting a little house with at least two bedrooms. Then I could rent out a spare room to someone more tidy than Barbs, he said. Help with the rent. Even you, if you’re interested. It was said lightly but Jemma took it as high praise.

Jemma had a good social life, or so it must have appeared from outside. On the weekends, in spite of having little to wear but jeans and t-shirts or oversized pull-overs, she accompanied Barbs to parties and occasionally to nightclubs where she loved to twist and, occasionally, to shout. She went out with a young man she met at the library at varsity on a couple of dates but when he became amorous, she pushed him away. He implied she was holding out on him when everyone knew she went ‘all the way’. She knew what that was all about; what else could she expect with the damage done to her reputation? She ran into him several times afterwards and he always turned away. It hardly mattered.

Nothing made her forget the baby. On the twelfth of each month she mentally celebrated another month of her little girl’s life. She found a baby book at a second-hand bookshop that showed the development expected at each stage. Barbs looked at it and tried to throw it into the fire.

You’re just agonising over that stupid baby, she cried. Forget it. Barry died, and you should pretend the baby did too. And get over it.

I won’t get over it, Jemma said as she smoothed the pages of the book. She’s now six months old. And I bet she’s beautiful and smart and babbling and....

I give up, Barbs said, turning the radio a little higher.

Jemma’s P&O ticket arrived from her mother. Somehow, it was an affront. Had she given up her baby for a ticket to England? She shoved it into the passport hidden under her mattress. The last thing she wanted to think about was going back home to England.

Ticket or no ticket, Jemma’s basic problem was that she had an itch that couldn’t be scratched: she longed to see her baby. Just once, she told herself. She told no one, not Barbs and not Graeme, nor, of course, the many people she knew at university. She had to figure out a way to see her.

The problem became worse whenever she saw mention of the Winchesters in the paper. They were Auckland society and photographed often. Never a mention of their adopted baby, and Jemma read every word just in case. Society page photographs showed Mrs Winchester was still cadaverous, and Mr Winchester still looked like he’d swallowed a walking stick. The last article said they were to go on a trip to North America. Some sort of business trip on behalf of the government. Drumming up