Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 49 Olive

Chapter 49

Olive

Cornwall, January 1946

S ince discovering I was pregnant, my life had not been my own. Decisions were made without my input. Arrangements were put into place without consulting me. I was to stay with my mother’s aunt Mary, in her cottage in Cornwall until the baby arrived, at which point it would be given up for adoption.

I had no say in the matter.

“Your father and I have talked about it,” my mother said as she washed the dishes and I dried. “We’ve decided it’s for the best.”

“Best for who?” I asked. “Best for me and the baby—or best for you, so that you don’t have to deal with the gossip and shame?”

She slammed a saucepan onto the draining board. “You’ll do as you’re told, Olive. Clearly, you are not able to make sensible decisions for yourself, so we’ll have to make them for you.”

“Do you agree with this?” I asked, challenging my father.

He could barely look at me. “I’m sorry, love. What else can we do? It’s for the best.”

We hardly spoke on the long journey down to Cornwall. I’d said I would take the bus and the train, but my father insisted on driving me. He wept when he said goodbye.

“Let us know how you’re doing, love, won’t you?” he said. “Let us know when the little one comes.”

I was hidden away like Rapunzel in her tower. It was a punishment to have been sent to Cornwall, and yet being there gave me space to think, and reflect. My parents were partly right; I had paid the consequences for my actions. I’d lost my job and my friends. And I knew that if I’d stayed at home, I would only have been stared at and shunned by the judgmental ninnies my mother befriended. But I fundamentally disagreed with the decision they’d made for me to give the baby up for adoption. And while I had tried to forget about Jack, I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that he was married, unavailable, and out of my life forever.

Cornwall was beautiful. Its wild rugged beauty quickly stole my heart. Through the cold winter months, as my body changed, and simple tasks like putting on my shoes became a ridiculous ordeal, I watched the brooding skies and walked along stormy beaches. The salty air invigorated me, the wind filled me with hope and determination.

By the time the spring came, I had decided to keep the baby. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to navigate life as an unmarried mother, but I also knew that I couldn’t bear to part with my child. Whatever happened, it would be the two of us together.

She was born in May, my perfect daughter forged from salt and wind. I couldn’t have loved her more—or been more afraid of how our lives would work out.

An hour after she was born, I telephoned my parents.

“I had the baby, Mum. A little girl.”

She was silent for a moment. “Is she well?”

“She’s perfect.”

“And you?”

“I’m fine. And Mum, I’m keeping her.”

I heard her cover the mouthpiece and speak to my father. I heard the muffled words, “ a little girl .”

My father came to the telephone then. “I’m coming to bring you home, love. Both of you. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

Men had let me down and disappointed me my whole life, but not my father. He was the only one I could ever rely on.

I held my daughter in my arms and told her it would all be fine. “We’ll be all right, little bear. We’ll muddle through, together.”

She gazed up at me, blinking, and I knew that whatever lay ahead for us, love would see us through.