Trio [Paperback]

‘Staincliffe turns part Marge Piercy, part Rosamunde Pilcher … a captivating story filled with tears, tragedy, humour, and happiness’

‘Poignant and true to life. I couldn't put it down; I really wanted to know what happened to the characters’

Beginning in the early 1960's, TRIO is the story of three young unmarried Catholic women forced to give up their babies for adoption. Megan, lively and in love with sweetheart Brendan; Caroline, a shy nature-loving girl who fell pregnant on her first date; and secretary Joan whose boss has no intentions of divorcing his wife. The three meet up in St Ann's home for Unmarried Mothers and become close as they share the difficult wait for the birth - and the loss – of their babies. Three hopeful mothers-to-be, approved by the Adoption Society, also wait for news from St Ann's that a child is available. Kay and Marjorie who have each been trying for a family for years without success; and Lillian, who after three miscarriages has been warned that further pregnancies will seriously endanger her health. The three little girls are born, relinquished and placed with their adoptive families. TRIO follows the lives of these mothers and daughters over the ensuing years.!
TRIO explores the relationships of the adoption triangle with honesty, flair and compassion. At a time when society's understanding of the meaning of the family and family ties is undergoing radical change, and when new legislation will allow birth relatives access to support in tracing the children they relinquished, this topical book explores the issues of identity, blood relations, love and loss.

In her latest publication TRIO, acclaimed crime writer Cath Staincliffe, creator of ITV hit Blue Murder, starring Carline Quentin and writer of the Sal Kilkenny private-eye mysteries, exchanges her usual territory of murder and mystery on the mean streets of Manchester for something more personal. Cath draws directly on the experience of unravelling a mystery at the centre of her own life: the identity and whereabouts of her birth family. Beginning in the early 1960's, TRIO is the story of three young unmarried Catholic women forced to give up their babies for adoption and three hopeful mothers-to-be, approved by the Adoption Society. Three little girls are born, relinquished and placed with their adoptive families. TRIO follows the lives of these mothers and daughters over the ensuing years. TRIO explores the relationships of the adoption triangle with honesty, flair and compassion. At a time when society's understanding of the family and family ties is undergoing radical change, and when new legislation will allow more birth relatives to get help tracing the children they relinquished, this topical book explores the issues of identity, blood relations, love and loss - made all the more powerful by the author's own experience. Manchester based Cath has always known she was adopted, but it was not until the age of 40, in 1997, that she was reunited with her birth mother. "Meeting my birth mother was the most extraordinary moment of my life," says Cath. "The last time I saw her I was a tiny baby, and there I was - a grown woman with children of my own." As well as having the potential to be very traumatic, tracing a birth mother (or a birth child) can be a long process, as Cath explains: "In my case it took several years to go through the different stages of tracing, but that's good because you need to take it gradually. Once I had my adoption records I took a break, knowing the next stage - of making contact, and the terrible fear of rejection - would be the most nerve racking. Then out of the blue I got a letter saying my birth mother was looking for me!" As it turned out Cath had a whole other family – her birth mother and seven full brothers and sisters. Her birth parents had married after her adoption. "For me one of the most amazing things was to find people whom I looked like. Until I had my own children that was something I'd never experienced."
In covering the stories of three different adoptions, TRIO examines the pain of tracing birth families as well as the pleasure. "I'm very lucky -I had a happy childhood and my adoptive parents were very supportive of me tracing my other family. In my book, I show the reasons why mothers give their babies up in the first place, and the fact that sensitively handled reunions can help to heal the loss that is at the centre of every adoption."

‘Stop your noise,’ the nurse said. ‘Remember your dignity.’
She felt like laughing at the reprimand. Dignity? How could this ever be dignified. Lying here with her legs apart and everything leaking and she’d even dirtied the bed. She had been mortified, the smell alerting her to what she’d done. She felt nothing beyond the fist of pain that kept squeezing at her, pulling at her insides, sticking its nails like knives into her spine and bruising her bowels. Making her scream to her God, to her mother. Why have you abandoned me?

The baby inched a little further down the birth canal with the next contraction. One fist was pressed between shoulder and ear, the other tucked under the chin. The ripples of muscle shifted the baby, twisting it a little, squeezing the head, which was cone-shaped from the pressure and from the last couple of weeks spent lodged tight in the cup of bones. As it moved forward the plates of the baby’s skull slid together, reducing the circumference. The baby could still hear the familiar drumbeat that had marked its time in the womb and feel the vibrations that rocked its world. Though the sloshing and roaring of the placenta was more distant now and there were new sounds, fast and high-pitched, that quickened the baby’s heartbeat.

‘Give a good push,’ the nurse said. ‘Push from your bottom.’
She didn’t want to push. She wanted to die instead. To be anywhere or nowhere. Not to be here. If she pushed she would split wide open, bleed to death. She’d rather die before the push than after it. Spare herself more agony. The ring of pain sickened her and she tried to swallow.
‘No,’ she managed.
The nurse tutted at her loudly, cast a look of contempt.
‘It hurts,’ she whimpered. Wanting her mother, wanting a cuddle, someone to gather her close and make it all better.
‘You should have thought of that, shouldn’t you?’ The nurse snapped. ‘I’ve other girls to see to. I can’t spend all night with you. The baby won’t be born by itself you’ll have to push.’
She lay back as the contraction faded, weak, her limbs trembling, eyes closed.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. You’re not the only one having a baby, you know. All that fuss.’
She heard the door close. Gave in to sudden hot tears.
…………

It came again, before she was ready – faster, wilder. She made the noise in her throat, shifted her knees a little further apart, gripped the sheet and wound it tight in her hands. Stretching wider, feeling her mouth stretching too to let the howling out. Feeling the hard, round, solid lump forced through her vagina, gristle against gristle, bone on bone. A stabbing, stinging pain in the midst of it all.

As the baby’s head was born, the upper torso swiveled so that one shoulder presented itself for the next push.

She lowered her head to rest between her arms on the bed. She gazed back but could not see anything beyond the swell of her belly and behind that her knees. Summoning all her strength she pushed herself back up, kneeled higher, steadying herself with one arm she reached back between her legs with the other hand. She felt a thrill of shock as she felt the hot, slippery hair of the baby’s head, the scalp loose and wrinkled under her fingers.
‘Oh God,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, God.’
The next contraction rolled in. She shuffled forward before it built, and clutched at the metal bed frame for leverage. Pushing it to counteract the force. She felt the new friction of the mass forcing its way from her, stretching her body, bursting her open.
The roar she made grew louder and culminated in a gasp as the weight slithered from her with a sucking sound. She knelt, her muscles twitching with spasms, and looked beneath the bridge of her body to where the baby lay. A coil of life, shock of black hair, red skin streaked white, as though it had been dipped in dripping, eyes, nose, mouth. One fist tucked under an ear, as if it was considering something. The other fist moving, waving to and fro. Long, curving cord like something from the abattoir, snaking from its belly.
She looked at the baby.
The baby looked back.
The door swung open.
‘Lie down,’ barked the nurse, ‘you’ll fall, you silly . . .’ She faltered as she neared the bed and saw the infant. ‘You could have crushed it,’ she scolded. ‘What on earth were you thinking of? Turn this way, carefully.’ She issued instructions until the woman was lying on her back again. She raised the baby and slapped it on the bottom. A thin wail cut the air. The woman wanted to cry too. The nurse proceeded to cut and clamp the umbilical cord, wipe the mucus from the baby’s face and wrap the baby in a cloth.
A second nurse came in. A younger one, who had been more sympathetic when she had been admitted. She looked at the baby. ‘A girl,’ she observed. ‘Bless her. Have you got a name?’
‘She’s for adoption,’ the other interrupted.
‘Can I see her?’ the mother asked.
‘You’re not finished yet. You’ve still to deliver the afterbirth. Then you’ll need examining and see if there’s any stitches required. You probably tore yourself leaping around on the bed like that. You’ll need cleaning up and Baby needs to be checked and weighed. Sister will take her to the nursery.’
‘I have a shawl,’ she said, hating the tears in her voice.
‘I’ll take it with her, shall I?’ The younger nurse offered. The simple kindness robbed her of speech. She nodded quickly.
…….
A ring of grief swelling in her throat, choking her. Theresa, she thought, remembering the black pools of the baby’s eyes. That’s her name, Theresa . . .