Cast No Stones Part 4

My mother was thrilled for us. She loved our little boy and was very generous towards him. She bought him some wonderful gifts. She was the best grandmother a baby could want. We will always remember how good she was, not just to our Lee, but also to me and to Margaret. I am certain that she helped us enormously to deal with our grief and trauma following the death of our first baby. For the first few years our grief was only masked not eliminated. She was so understanding and encouraging in a gentle but positive way. She even went on holiday with the three of us on two occasions over the next four years.

In the meantime my younger brothers and sister were also growing up. Carol had met a young man and their relations.h.i.+p seemed serious because there was talk of them getting married. My mother, always instrumental in getting things progressed, found a house for sale in a nearby street. She and Carol decided it would be perfect for her and her new husband to live in. The purchase was arranged. They spent the next few weeks busying themselves and making it ready. Sadly, the boy in question decided he didn't want to get married and ended the relations.h.i.+p. This left Carol in no position to complete the purchase. This property was actually better than the one that my mother owned in Duke Street, so she decided to buy it for herself. She sold the house in Duke Street to the local council and she and Carol moved into the new house in Tolson Street. My sister Ann and her family negotiated terms with the council and rented my mother's old house in Duke Street. It was a much bigger house than hers and it had a bathroom and two bedrooms.

After living in Bolton for a few years, we sold up and bought another new property in a quiet cul-de-sac in Walkden - a suburb of Salford, where we still live to this day. During this period of selling and buying we stayed with my mother and Carol for a few weeks in the house in Tolson Street. By now, Carol had met someone else whom she would go on to marry. His name was Bob and he came from Nottingham. He was severely disabled in both legs as a result of a motorcycle accident in his youth. He was a very nice man with a wicked sense of humor. I was in awe of Bob's vibrant and humorous personality. Especially considering his disability - he clearly had so little to laugh about but he seemed determined not to let things get him down I remember him telling such a funny story that it still makes me laugh. Outside the front door in Tolson Street was a circular manhole cover. This covered a hole in the pavement which was used to deposit coal into the cellar beneath the house. One night he was coming home from the pub. He needed the use of two walking sticks even when he was sober but tonight he was definitely drunk. Somebody, presumably kids, had removed the cellar cover- thus exposing a circular hole in the pavement. For some reason, that night was quite dark, the nearby lamp post must not have been working. In the dark, Bob fell into the hole. A fit person would have been able to extricate themselves quite easily before they fell completely through. Bob however, was unable to get out. In his struggle he found himself sinking further and further down the hole. Eventually he dropped all the way down the chute and finished up in the cellar. Despite his moans and groans n.o.body heard him. He ended up sleeping his drunken state off in the cellar overnight. In all probability it wasn't true, but I loved his story all the same.

After a few months, Carol and Bob moved to his home town of Nottingham. Bob was able to obtain a job cab driving and Carol managed to find a job working as a sewing machinist at a local factory. They had a baby daughter, Joanne. Within four or five years, their marriage was also in trouble. Bob left Carol and just disappeared! His parents denied knowing where he was. This was only the beginning of the problem. Bob and Carol had taken out a joint mortgage on their house. On her own, Carol was struggling financially. The building society was threatening to foreclose on the property and Carol and her daughter were facing serious difficulties unless she could make good the outstanding arrears. On top of this, a local filling station was chasing Carol for an outstanding car fuel bill that was owed on Bob's cab account.

Coincidently, my mother's house in Tolson Street was now under compulsory purchase order as part of a local authority clearance scheme. She had been made a fair offer for the property and a new council property was also offered to her. With the sale of her home she would have more than enough to get all the debtors off Carols back. By moving to Nottingham to live with Carol, she would be able to take care of Joanne while Carol continued to work and thus pay the monthly mortgage. Fortune had smiled on both Carol and mother. Carol and Joanne were safe and comfortable and mother had someone to help her and to and keep her company in her old age.

Five years after her first pregnancy, Margaret became pregnant again. We had done as we had been advised and waited all this time. Unfortunately, this pregnancy miscarried at 16 weeks. Margaret was very poorly following the miscarriage. She had lost a lot of blood and had to be given transfusions. After she recovered, we decided that we would not risk any more pregnancies. The following year we applied to the adoption society for a second time. Once again we were successful and placed on their waiting list. We waited a few months and then received word from them that they had a baby girl in mind for us. This was Christmas week in 1974. Arrangements were made for us to see the baby straight after Christmas. What an absolutely wonderful Christmas gift this news was. We couldn't wait for Christmas to be over. We had never seen such a beautiful baby girl in our lives. We named her Kay Josephine and legally adopted her as soon as we were allowed.

I gained a major promotion at work and was now in a management position with a salary to match. Life was good and I was very happy. A further five years pa.s.sed and Margaret found out that she was pregnant again. Instead of being delighted, I was quite worried. Margaret was overjoyed and didn't have the same concerns as I did. Alas, at twelve weeks she began to bleed. My worst fears were being realized. We called our doctor and he came to see Margaret immediately. After examining her, he expressed concern and telephoned the obstetrics department at Hope Hospital. The consultant obstetrician, Mr. Gordon Faulkner came to our home to examine her. An ambulance was called and she was admitted into hospital.

Members of the medical staff were fantastic. Her consultant was confident that he could save the pregnancy. After some initial bed rest, he performed an amniocentesis and confirmed that the baby was fit and well and most importantly, that there were no indications of any congenital problems. Only now did I begin to relax a little.

Margaret was kept in hospital for a couple of weeks for complete rest. Throughout the pregnancy period, she was metaphorically speaking, wrapped in cotton wool. Nothing was too much trouble for the medical team.

Her pregnancy had now been cla.s.sified as a "precious baby" which was a term used by the doctors and nurses to denote special care was to be afforded. The birth was going reasonably well until the final stages. Margaret was so exhausted that she was unable to complete the final push. I was asked to leave the room at that stage because the medical team needed to do some cutting and use forceps. They did not allow any non-medical people to be present during this procedure. The baby was born with a few lumps and bruises, but we now had a new baby girl weighing in at a healthy 8 lbs. After a thorough examination, the doctors confirmed that she was a healthy beautiful girl. She did have two thumbs on her right hand otherwise she was fine. We named her Amy Laura.

Many years went by. Mother and Carol were living happily in Nottingham. Everything was looking good for us as a family. We were happy and financially comfortable. We had three wonderful children. We loved them immensely. They made us very proud parents. Everything was complete. Well, almost everything. There was still the issue of my father. It began to dawn on me that one day my children are going to ask about my father. Just like me, they would have a right to know. I could hardly tell them that didn't know the truth even though many others did. It was at this time that I decided that one day I really was going to have to have a serious talk with my mother.

Chapter 14 Who is Harry?.

I was at work one day when a colleague lent me a strange book to read. It was written by a well-known spiritualist medium called Doris Stokes. My colleague was very much into spiritualism and had been to several public demonstrations in large theaters. He truly believed in the power of a medium to be able to communicate with the dead. I, in turn, was extremely skeptical of their claims. I thought they were a bunch of charlatans - albeit very clever and entertaining at what they did. I also believed that with a little practice, I could convince an audience that I could also communicate with 'The other side.' I like to think that I have a scientific mind and that anything supernatural or in the realms of science fiction wouldn't be of interest to me. However, during my lunch break, I picked up this book and began reading it. The more I read, the more curious I became. I became convinced that either they could do what they claimed or that they were complete impostors.

I finished reading the book and must confess that when I first picked it up I thought I would only read a page or two. Now having read it I was intrigued. I was sufficiently interested in disproving the claims of mediums that I decided to book a personal appointment with one. I selected one at random out of the evening newspaper. His name was James Byrne and he lived in Bolton. I telephoned him and made an appointment for the following morning.

I was somewhat surprised yet rea.s.sured when I arrived at his home. It was a typical council house on a council estate. It was not very salubrious. I had imagined that if a medium could fill a hall or theater and really do as they claim, they would be financially fairly well off. I certainly wouldn't expect them to be living on a council estate. I rang the doorbell and James, who was in his early forties, answered the door. He had clearly only just got up. He had not washed or combed his hair and had a few days growth of beard. He asked me if I would like a cup of coffee. I told him that I would and he invited me to sit down. I don't know what I expected to happen next. Would it be some sort of seance? Would he darken the room? He was just being perfectly normal and making small talk. I took the initiative and told him why I had come and that I was extremely skeptical. I told him about the Doris Stokes book. I asked him to demonstrate to me that he could communicate with the dead. He told me that it wasn't quite like that. I thought to myself, here we go, excuses already! After a little hesitation, and looking deep in thought, he then said, 'There is a big street, the name Brook Street is in my mind, does it mean anything to you?'

'No'

'Does the name John mean anything to you? - John and Upper Brooke Street together, do they mean anything at all to you?'

'No' I replied, 'They don't mean anything to me. We were not having a seance.' Jim Byrne was just looking at me and asking questions. I was aware that he would try and solicit information from me without me realizing it. I was very much on my guard at all times.

'There is a road, Littletown Road I think it is - does it mean anything to you?'

'I know a road called Littleton Road could it be this?'

'It could be. There is a shop on Littletown Road - It does mean something to you. Do you know what the shop means in your life?'

I informed him that I knew a Littleton Road in Salford but it didn't have any meaning for me, I didn't know anything about a shop either. He looked puzzled for a moment. I knew that I had just made a mistake. He could tell from my accent that I was not from Bolton. I had just told him that I knew Littleton Road in Salford. What happened next did not surprise me. He then told me that there was another road, 'Broughton Road, do you know it? Does it mean anything to you?' I told him that yes, I did know it. Lower Broughton Road was its name and it was the main road in the vicinity of where I grew up and spent most of my life to date. 'There is a pub called the Beehive, does it mean anything to you?' he asked again. I informed him the there was a pub on Lower Broughton Road called the Beehive. 'There's another pub called the Poet, does that mean anything to you?' These pubs were practically next door to each other. I reasoned to myself that everyone who lived in Lower Broughton knew them. Many people who didn't live in the area also knew them; they were very well known pubs in Salford.

The session had ended.

Jim Byrne had no more information. He asked what I thought of the session. Apart from the fact that it had only lasted ten minutes, I told him that I wasn't convinced. He asked me why not. Surely, he suggested, that since he had given me the names of roads and pubs that I knew, then I should not be skeptical. I told him that is was fairly obvious to him that I was not from Bolton; furthermore, I had practically told him that I came from Salford. He might have guessed at Lower Broughton and for all I knew, he might know Salford very well. The two well-known pubs were easy for him. He tried to a.s.sure me that he did not know Salford at all. I got up to leave and offered him the payment but at first he refused to take it. I had to insist. After all it was worth it to me to satisfy my skepticism.

'Please wait a moment, who is Edward?'

'I don't know anyone called Edward.'

'Edward is on the other side, he is in spirit,' he said. He explained that he had already gone over. He meant that he was already dead but didn't actually use the term dead. I remembered then that my mother's father was called Edward. He died in 1931. I had never met him. I didn't know the name of my grandmother. I knew absolutely nothing about my paternal grandparents. I told him that I had a grandfather called Edward. 'Yes,' he said. 'But he has to be on your mother's side; Edward is talking to me now.' I thought this was a little strange. I had most certainly not given him the name Edward. What is he going to say next I wondered?

'Who is Harry.'

'I don't know anyone called Harry, Harry who?'

''Edward is saying that you must ask your mother about Harry.' The session finally finished. He requested that at some future date, I should go back to see him once everything made sense. He was sure that one day I would realize just what he was telling me and that it would all make sense. He insisted that he was most definite about that.

I went home and told Margaret all about my experience. None of it made any sense to her either. 'Why don't you call your mother and ask her?' she said. I decided to call her. I explained to her about my visit to see this medium; she was very interested, especially when I mentioned the Beehive and the Poet's Corner on the Lower Broughton Road. Then I told her that the medium claimed that he had contacted her father, Edward. Or rather that Edward had contacted him. She went very quiet. I explained that according to the medium, Edward says that I have to ask you something: 'Who is Harry?' She gasped loudly enough for me to hear on the end of the telephone line.

'Oh my G.o.d, I've been err.... I've been dreaming about him recently.'

'Why, who is he?'

'Just someone I used to know a long time ago.'

'What do you mean someone you used to know?'

'Someone I used go out with a long time ago. I was engaged to him. It didn't work out.'

She then went silent. I asked her why the medium would say that Edward is telling me to ask you about him. She said that she had no idea. It was clear that she was giving no more information, so I dropped it and changed the subject.

About twelve months after the experience with the medium, my mother seemed to be suffering more than her normal amount of aches, pains and illnesses. She was now 71 years old and it occurred to me that most of her complaints could be age related. The older she grew the more frequent and progressive her ailments would become. Mother wasn't very well. She had quite a bad chest infection and needed antibiotics. Although a chain smoker, she was generally in good health. Maybe all the things that she was complaining about were warning signs that her body was indeed tiring. It was this occasion that brought home to me the reality that one day she would very probably become ill and die. In doing so, she would take her secret about my father to her grave. I resolved there and then that as soon as she recovered, a.s.suming that she would, then I would confront her. I intended having a serious conversation with my mother.

A conversation that was thirty years overdue.

Chapter 15 Confrontation.

A few weeks later my mother was fully recovered. I had been thinking about the best way to have the discussion with her. I knew that if my attempt was to prove unsuccessful, and the outcome was not going to be to my satisfaction, then the whole quest would be a waste of time. It would also probably mean that I would not get another opportunity. This was because much more time would have to go by before I could try again, and time wasn't on my side.

There was a big risk attached to my confronting her. There was a very real possibility that we would fall out with each other. I wasn't prepared to allow her to refuse to tell me about my father and yet remain friendly with her. However, I also didn't want to fall out with my mother at her age. I was in something of a dilemma. I needed to think carefully about what was more important to me, finding out the information about my father or maintaining a relations.h.i.+p with my mother. I had always claimed that the absence of the information hadn't really bothered me throughout the years. I had reasonably successfully made my way in life without it. Now, I was questioning my own feelings and emotions and even thought about the possible hypocrisy of my actions. After very careful consideration I decided to take the chance of a major falling out. I reasoned that if she refused to tell me it would be tantamount to her deliberately hurting me, and I had decided that I would tell her that. If she refused to cooperate with me I would regard myself as having failed due to having made the wrong overtures. Since the sole purpose of the discussion would be finding out about my father, I knew that my method of approach and asking the right questions was going to be of paramount importance in obtaining the right outcome.

I gave quite a lot of thought to the tactics I should employ. It seemed ridiculous that I should have to resort to behaving like this. If she initially refused to tell me what I needed to know, I would ask her just how she would feel if she was in my position. I would remind her that many other people already knew what I needed to know - including her own brothers and sister and their children. Even people that were not related to us knew. Even my own sister and her husband knew. It was highly likely that their children also knew. The more I thought about it, the more upset I became. I also became more determined than ever to confront her.

Rehearsing all the possible scenarios in my mind not only gave me added emotional strength, but reinforced my right to have this information as well as convincing me that I was doing the right thing irrespective of the ultimate outcome.

I had often thought about my own Christian names, Kevin Albert. I had already been told by my mother that she had given me these names for no other reason than she liked them. There was no grandfather with these names, so I accepted the reason. What would I think if I discovered that they were indeed my father's names? Somehow, neither Kevin nor Albert seemed American to me, so I dismissed the thought. I had considered names like Vernon, Bud, or Wayne were much more likely. What was his surname? Jefferson? McKinley? Logan? Hewitt? I thought about where he might live. America is a vast country. Which state did he come from? I somehow never identified him with places like New York, Texas or California. It seemed more likely that he would come from states like Virginia, Kentucky or Ohio. What did he do? Was he in business? Did he do manual work? There were so many questions I wanted answered. What kind of person was he? Did he have any hobbies or interests similar to mine? Am I like Him? Another very important question was - would I have liked him? Or, if he was still alive, would I like him?

At this point, Margaret remembered that a year or two ago, on a previous visit to see my mother, she had told her how handsome I looked on that particular occasion and how much like my father I was. There was no time or opportunity to say any more because it was a social gathering of friends and neighbors. There were lots of people there and everyone was walking in and out of the room and all were engaged in conversations. Margaret had forgotten all about it until this moment. We both reflected on what a lost opportunity it was to persuade my mother to tell me more. I could easily have brought up her comment a couple of days later during a telephone conversation and asked her to expand on it.

I shared all my thoughts with my wife Margaret. She often joked and teased me and we had many a laugh at all the possible permutations of the answers we might find. Like me, she also had a right to know certain things about the grandfather of her children. Also like me, she had invented stories and even lied when asked about my father all through her married life. It was so unfair that she had to do that. This was something we both shared and she fully understood how I felt about everything.

A quite serious consideration that I needed to think about was the possibility that the relations.h.i.+p between my parents was not deep rooted and meaningful. Although it had lasted for quite some time, it was still entirely possible that it was strictly s.e.xual and that the marriage proposal that my Aunt Edna referred to years earlier was more an act of chivalry than anything else. It was even possible that no marriage proposal had actually ever taken place and that it was a lie on my mother's part as a way of saving face.

Paying a visit to my mother in Nottingham was not something I would just do by myself on the spur of the moment. Whenever we had previously visited, it was by prior arrangement and we had always made it a family visit. Because of the distance, we generally stayed overnight. It would prove difficult to have the conversation with everyone on the scene. I telephoned my mother and arranged the visit for the following weekend. There was no actual plan of confrontation. We had discussed how we might arrange for me to be able to spend some time alone with my mother. It was a Sat.u.r.day and we knew that Carol and Joanne would be there. I didn't want to say anything in front of them. The problem was solved by Margaret suggesting that Carol might walk down to the market with her to shop for a few things. This seemed to be the best option.

Sat.u.r.day came and we set off for Nottingham. After arriving, exchanging pleasantries and having a general chat, Margaret asked Carol to accompany her to the market. Carol readily agreed. We knew my mother wouldn't want to go because it was a downhill walk and she would struggle with the return journey. She only used to go when she absolutely needed to. They got ready and off they went with the girls. Now that I had the opportunity for the long awaited talk, I found myself becoming more and more nervous. I even considered dropping the whole thing. I knew though that after all the thought, soul searching and planning, I had to do this, and now was indeed the time to do it.

Shaking like a leaf, I sat down in the kitchen with mother. I plucked up all my courage, took a couple of deep breaths and explained that Margaret and I had deliberately arranged for us to be alone, so that we might have a private talk. Gently I told her that I needed to talk to her about something that was very important to me. I sensed her unease and nervousness, although I was certain that she had no clue about what I was going to say next. I told her that I needed to ask her something. I told her that the last thing I wanted to do was upset her, but I really wished that she would tell me about my father. I told her that neither of us were getting any younger and after all these years, now was the time for her to tell me what I needed to know. I reminded her that I was forty-two years old and it was time for her to tell me.

To my surprise and relief she did not get upset. She even said that I had a right to know and that she was glad that I had asked. She lit another cigarette and began to relax a little. She said 'Right, okay, what is it that you want to know?' I explained that I wanted to know everything. I suggested that we started with his name. She said, 'His name was Harry.' Oh my G.o.d! I thought. The name flew through my brain like an arrow seeking its target. I immediately thought of the spiritualist medium. He had said, 'Edward is telling you to ask your mother who Harry was.' What was happening here? I felt a cold sweat and a tingle ran up my spine. I began to get extremely nervous about what she was going to say next.

She told me that his name was Harry Austin Ledrew and that he came from Gary, Indiana. He was a staff sergeant in a combat engineering company of the U.S. Army. He was mainly stationed in Liverpool but made regular trips to supervise the offloading of military equipment and machinery at Salford Docks. From the docks, the equipment was conveyed by road to Manchester Racecourse on Littleton Road which during the war was used as a U.S. Army supply camp and depot.

She was technically still married to Charlie Mach.e.l.l when she met and started a two year relations.h.i.+p with Harry. She was at pains to point out that her marriage had been effectively over for a long time before she met Harry, and that her husband was having affairs almost immediately following their marriage. In a very short s.p.a.ce of time, perhaps just thirty minutes, I had learned everything that I wanted to know. She explained why I am called Kevin Albert. It was simply that she particularly liked the name Kevin so it became her first choice. She actually thought that Harry's middle name was Albert not Austin. I learned how old he was and what family he had. I also discovered the name of his sister and how he had sent letters and gifts from the U.S. when I was a toddler. She told me in as much detail as she could about everything she was able to remember about him. She told me that I reminded her very much of him. We looked alike. I was the same build and I had a lot of his mannerisms. I learned many things about him including his likes and dislikes and his personality and character traits.

As she related things to me, it became obvious that I had many things in common with him. She also said that she believed Harry would be proud of his son. We talked and shared a few tears. It was a sad story she had to tell. She told me that she was relieved to have finally told me everything. She was sorry for not having told me years ago. It was apparently to protect my feelings. If only she knew how hurt I had been over many years by being protected in this way.... For my part I had also been trying to protect her by not asking anything when clearly I should have done. I told her this was the result of things that had happened to me when as a child I said certain things. She remembered the occasions that I referred to.

I believed at the time, and I still do believe that my mother was too embarra.s.sed if not a little ashamed of what had transpired. In the early years it was not a problem for her. Babies and young children don't ask embarra.s.sing questions. As the years went by and her personal circ.u.mstances changed by her re-marrying, she would have other issues to think about and to deal with. She must have always known in her mind that one day we would need to have this conversation. Even though she was now in her seventies and I was in my forties, she was unable to be totally honest with me about why she hadn't told me years ago. It might be that her character wasn't as strong as mine. Maybe she still felt some hurt and humiliation. Whatever her reason, I had decided that I was not going to pillory her over it. I didn't have a right to anyway. I had been given the information that I wanted and I was grateful to her.

I have to admit that the story she told touched me very deeply. If what she had told me was true - and on the face of it, it sounded perfectly plausible - then both she and Harry had suffered enormously as a consequence of their wartime affair. In truth, I had thought previously that my mother had simply paid the price for her over amorous adventures and irresponsibility. Her explanation changed my perception. I now realized that I needed to find Harry and let him know that I was happy and well.

I asked how she would feel if I tried to find him before it was too late. Maybe it was too late already; he would be in his late seventies if he was still alive. She said she wished I could find Him. She wanted to help in any way she could.

For the short time mother and I talked about Harry, I felt closer to her than at any other time in my life. I felt sorry for her. I felt love for her for the first time I could remember. Maybe it was the emotion of the meeting. I don't know, but for the first time I really wanted to hug her. And I did so.

After a while, Margaret and Carol returned from their market trip. Without speaking but by using furtive facial expressions and gestures to me, Margaret clearly was dying to know if I had not only asked my mother, but more importantly, whether or not she had told me anything. While not being very adept at conveying information without speaking, I managed to indicate to her that we had talked and that my mother had told me everything.

At the first opportunity when we were alone, I told Margaret everything that had transpired. We discussed every detail. Sometimes we giggled, sometimes we laughed, but for the most part we were sad. At last, after all these years we finally knew the whole story. At least we knew what my mother had told me. It may not be the whole story - it might even be very one-sided, but it was all that I had. In any case, having agreed to help me to find him, my mother was taking a ma.s.sive gamble - what if I did manage to find him and discovered that he had a different story to tell?

Margaret and I speculated, we teased each other; we experienced a new closeness as we shared our thoughts. That night we held each other tight and fell asleep with the feeling of having had a great weight lifted from us.

Over the next few days my mind was in turmoil. Should I try to find him? Was he still alive? How would he react if I contacted him? What was I going to achieve by contacting him? Eventually I talked it over with Margaret. There were so many things to talk about. Irrespective of my reasons, the first thing was to decide whether or not I wanted to find him. Secondly, we had to consider the implications that any success in finding him would have on our children and other members of our families. Finally, but equally important, was the implications for Harry.

There were so many things that could cause major problems. a.s.suming that he had a wife, did he have any children? Did these children know about me? Would he resent me intruding into his life? I considered the possibility that he may have even been trying to contact me over the years. It was so important to me that n.o.body got hurt. After all, any possible family he may have would also be innocent victims of the situation. If by making contact, it was going to upset my family or his, then I wouldn't want to do it.

I imagined how I would feel if roles were reversed. How would I react? What kind of approach would make me receptive? How would I like it if the telephone rang and somebody claiming to be my son was on the line? I came to the conclusion that any approach would have to be in written form and worded cryptically. Not too cryptically that he wouldn't know exactly who I was, yet at the same time ensuring that anyone other than him reading the letter wouldn't immediately know about me. I could use some sort of hidden meaning disguised in a letter from an alleged war time friend in England.

Over the next week or so, after I had carefully thought about all the issues, I made the decision in principle to try and find him. I wanted the opportunity to inform him that I fully understood about everything that had happened. There were no hard feelings on my part. I didn't bear any grudge. It would be nice, before it was too late, simply to say 'h.e.l.lo.' According to my mother, he would be 78 years old. It was probably too late already but I was going to give it my best shot. At this stage I had no idea about the size of the task or even how to go about it. I had good research skills and management expertise. I was quite knowledgeable about the geography, socio and demographic aspects of the United States of America and I was fully computer literate. I was confident that the answers to all of my questions were out there already - just waiting to be found.

Chapter 16 The Search Begins.

I telephoned my mother and informed her of my decision to search for my father. She was excited at the prospect of me finding him. Over the next two or three weeks she would telephone me often and tell me about all the times they spent together and the places they went. She was hoping that in reminiscing about certain aspects it might give me some clues and therefore help in my search. It was almost like she was re-living some of those days.

My search began in earnest in late 1986. Thanks to my mother, I now had a name and his address, albeit from forty years ago. Where was I to start? Searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack sounded an impossible task. But was it really as difficult as it seemed? With the available technology it should be fairly straightforward. The ability to store data and to quickly a.s.similate information from database to database takes only seconds. The information I was searching for was out there already - probably sitting on some computer somewhere. A carefully planned strategy was needed. With patience and determination, my metaphoric needle should be located. My initial problem was in not knowing where to start. Also, I didn't really have enough information. The task of getting computers to a.s.similate information is one thing; providing adequate information for the computers to do their work is something else.

Geographically, the USA is thirty times bigger than the UK and has a population of over three hundred million people, which equals five times as many people as the UK. The state of Indiana alone has a population of over six million. The town of Gary itself has a population of over one hundred thousand people. I decided that I needed a strategy. I needed to seek advice on the matter. I needed some professional guidance. I had very little information to go on. I had a name, an approximate age, a town and a state. All of which could be forty years out of date. To make matters worse, I didn't even know if he was still alive.

I began to think about the implications of my search in a little more detail. I had a remote possibility of being able to find him, but did I really have any right to? Was he a happily married family man with grown-up children and grandchildren? Did I have the right to intrude into this scenario? Even though I had always determined that he and he alone would have the final say with regard to contact, I would still need to intrude in the first instance. Does he ever think about me? I asked myself. Does he care? Was I just an accident of war? Have the wounds healed and scarred over to the extent that he has long since forgotten about me?

Another thought began to enter my mind. Was my mother telling me the truth? Was she still trying to protect me from something? Or was she protecting herself? Throughout all these years, the protection of herself and her own reputation would have been of more importance to her than trying to protect me. After all, what was she trying to protect me from? I was a grown man with my own family. Nothing she could tell me was going to hurt any more than I had already been hurt over the years.

I reflected on my talk with her. I decided that I did in fact believe her to a great extent. There were still one or two vague areas but I reasoned that she was still ent.i.tled to a little privacy. Maybe for reasons unrelated to my story, she held a few things back. Did that really matter to me? She had given me the information I'd requested. The rest was curiosity. Certainly I was curious about other aspects of her life. Her relations.h.i.+p with the twins father for instance. There were many other things I would have liked to have learned about, but in truth, they were nothing to do with me and I did not have any right to ask. The odds of me having any success were stacked very highly against me. She could be taking a chance on my failure and still not telling me everything.

Eventually, I sorted out in my mind all the issues and carefully thought through all the implications, both for him and his family and for me and my family. I had to also consider the wider implications for extended family members. How would my brothers and sister react? How would it affect them? How might it affect their relations.h.i.+ps with my mother? I put this concern to my mother and she a.s.sured me that it would not cause any problems. She was still encouraging me in my search. It was going to be a big project. There would be many hurdles to overcome. I had given enough thought to it. I was now mentally ready to start searching.

Where should I begin?

It occurred to me that the most comprehensive source of information concerning the internal matters of the USA would be from the staff at the USA Emba.s.sy in London. If anyone could advise on my search, they should be able to. They would surely know which channels to use. Maybe they could advise me of agencies to contact for help. At the very least they should be able to point me in the right direction.

I wondered if they would even entertain my asking them. After all, don't emba.s.sies exist for the benefit of their own nationals? Will they try to provide help and a.s.sistance? What did I have to lose? I reasoned that since I was biologically half American I should qualify for a little a.s.sistance from them! I then thought about another aspect. Does being half American have implications? I was British, I had a British pa.s.sport and according to my British birth certificate, my father was unknown and could have been anyone. Legally I was not half American so that was the end of that thought.

I telephoned the American Emba.s.sy in Grosvenor Square. The date was 26th October 1986. The switchboard operator answered. I was immediately struck by her strong American accent. I suddenly felt out of my depth. I was over-awed by the importance of the establishment and momentarily regretted having rung them. After all, they were concerned with internationally important issues. I felt like a pauper knocking on the door of a palace asking for money. I apologized for having troubled them when they were so busy and asked if it was possible for me to speak to someone who could advise me on how to conduct my search. I didn't mention my exact circ.u.mstances to the switchboard operator; instead I explained that I needed to find a relative. To my great surprise she agreed to transfer my call to a department that might be able to help.

My call was transferred to the offices of Lieutenant M. Cheman of the U.S. Navy. I didn't know how a naval lieutenant could help, but decided to appeal to his humanitarian side. I explained that my father was an American citizen and told him the full circ.u.mstances of my birth. I sensed that he was listening interestedly. I was aware that there may be a possibility that he might want to protect the privacy of his fellow countrymen and offer me no help at all. However, I didn't get this impression from him.

To my amazement, he said that he had dealt with many similar enquiries. He advised from the beginning that it was going to be a very difficult task. He explained that the vast majority of people carrying out this kind of search were unsuccessful. There were two major problems; The Privacy Act in America prevented disclosure of information and that unlike the UK, America had no central office of registration. In the UK every birth, marriage and death that is registered with the local Registrar is also registered centrally at the office of the Registrar General in London. In the USA, each individual state kept its own records.

Lieutenant Cheman explained that because of the number of enquiries he'd dealt with in the past, he'd prepared a set of guidelines giving useful tips and information. He offered to mail these to me and wished me lots of luck. I awaited the arrival of the package most anxiously. I had convinced myself that within a few weeks I would be either writing to or talking to my father. I was so excited and nervous that I couldn't eat or sleep properly. The next morning I was looking out for the mailman coming down the street. I knew that in all probability the package wouldn't arrive for a few days. Later that week, I couldn't contain myself when among the mail was a large bulky official looking envelope. Quickly picking it up, I saw that there was no external information to give a clue to its origin. No 'USA Emba.s.sy' embossed on it or anything like that. I opened it and saw that it contained hotel and leisure advertis.e.m.e.nts. I called the poor mailman all sorts of names for being so useless!

My package eventually arrived three days later. Upon opening it I was positively elated. It was full of advice and contained the names and addresses of various agencies and government departments that might be useful. I thought I had struck gold at the first attempt. Surely, here was the means to find my father. All I had to do is write to them all, sit back and wait for him to either telephone or write to me. How wrong I was! Enclosed with the set of guidelines was another important doc.u.ment explaining the U.S. Privacy Act. This act prevents the unauthorized release of information on individuals from U.S. government files. The problem with this legislation is that it doesn't actually say who is authorized to release information. It could be very complex and a bureaucratic nightmare trying to get the release authority. It also seemed that this act could prevent practically everyone from helping me by supplying information that they may have on their records - it would be so easy to hide behind the Privacy Act if one was so inclined.

Carefully, I began studying the information provided and the list of useful contacts. They were many and varied. They ranged from direct central government departments through to regional and state government departments, right down to voluntary a.s.sociations and ex-servicemen's clubs. The more I studied, the more I began to realize just how little information I had and how big a task this was going to be.

According to the guidelines, requests to locate U.S. military personnel formerly stationed in the United Kingdom may be made by writing to The Military Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri. I was advised however that these records could well be 40 years out of date. I was also informed that a large fire several years ago destroyed many records. In order to save two or three weeks, I decided to telephone the office in St. Louis. The recipient of my call was amazed to discover that I was calling from England. I gave him my father's name and in my naivety, fully expected him to feed it into a computer and come up with an address. Instead, he advised that I would need to write to them. I definitely sensed a reluctance to help, but had nothing to lose. In submitting my request for information, I needed to provide my father's full name, date and place of birth, details of any military service and his service number. All that I could provide was just his name and that he served in the UK during World War Two. It wasn't very much; in fact, it was hardly anything at all. For all I knew, there could have been thousands of soldiers called Harry Ledrew in the U.S. Army. Already I thought my application would be directed to the office trash can. Nevertheless, during the first week of November 1986 I sent what little information I had.