Lynda Bellingham Lynda Bellingham

I WAS adopted and attributed all my faults to my birth mother.

It had become a family joke with me and mum that my drinking and carrying on must come from my genes. My birth mother must have been a drunken nymphomaniac!

We laughed but mum, Ruth, would always say she must have been a lovely woman who had to give me up for many reasons besides not wanting me in her life.

After having my son Robbie, I decided to find out the truth about my mother. If she had dumped me, better I know for sure. If she could give up her baby, there must have been a good reason.

The phone was picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” It was an old lady’s voice with a slight Canadian accent.

“Hi. Is that Marjorie?”

“Who is this calling, please?”

I froze. What should I say?

It must have been a long pause. Marjorie was saying: “Is there anyone there? I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

“Please don’t hang up!” I cried. “Does the name Lynda Bellingham mean anything?” I thought she might remember the name Bellingham from the adoption papers.

“No, I think you have the wrong number.” Before she hung up I said: “Does the name Meredith Lee Hughes mean anything?” My original name. She said: “Oh my Lord. May 31st, 1948. Is it really you, dear?” We arrived in Edmonton, Canada, completely wrecked, having had no sleep on the flight.

It was a weird feeling as I scanned the arrivals lounge for someone who looked like my mother. I felt a hand on my arm, and looked down into the brownest eyes I have ever seen. The face was long, and framed by white fluffy hair. It never occurred to me she’d have white hair. I was looking at a little old lady and trying to see myself.

We stood there looking at each other. Marjorie broke the spell: “Oh, Lynda dear, you look so darling. You’re much too pretty to belong to me.” We all laughed.

I began to see a very strong similarity between me and my birth mother – very low self-esteem.

When I returned home, I told my parents that Marjorie wanted to thank them for looking after me so well. My dad, Don, said brusquely: “She doesn’t have to thank me. You’re my daughter and always will be.”

One thing we talked about in Canada was how dad had driven away that day they picked me up at the doctor’s surgery.

My father explained: “The trouble was Lynda, I could see her in my driving mirror, running after the car, crying, and I had to make a split-second decision – whether to step on the brake or the accelerator. I chose the accelerator. Please say to Marjorie I hope I made the right decision.” It turned out Marjorie Hughes gave me up as she was unmarried and came from a highly ­religious family. I have had some strange times with my birth mother. I wrote about my sadness at seeing her so frail when I went to Canada in 2008, and how Alzheimer’s was taking her to another place.

It was dangerous for her to drive herself to visit her husband Milton, who was in a dementia ward a few miles away.

UPSET

My aunt, Shirley, had the flat below Marjorie. She was deaf but independent. However, when my husband Michael went to see social services about the two ladies, they said Marjorie was not co-operating.

When social services called she would not let them in. We discovered Milton had more than covered their needs, so they could afford a private home. Michael was so upset when he saw the state of Milton in his ward, he was determined to get my mother settled.

We agreed with Marjorie that Michael would return in a couple of weeks. It was impossible for me to join them as I was doing Calendar Girls every night.

When Michael arrived back in Canada he spent a week taking the old girls round different homes. He explained to them that if they did not co-operate the state would automatically place them in a care home chosen by social services, and that wouldn’t be fun. He’d ring me at night worn out. Finally they agreed to this nice home Michael had found and they had signed a cheque for the deposit.

Social services decided Michael had better talk with Marjorie’s stepdaughter, Sylvia Moorhouse, who lived in Ontario. Sylvia had never met me and did not know I existed until recently. Michael was put in a room with people from social services, and patched into a conference call with Sylvia, ringing from Ontario.

He returned home thinking he had achieved major success. The girls were ready to go into a beautiful care home and Michael would return, as soon as possible, to help them move.

Two weeks later there was a message from the Edmonton police. Would Lynda Bellingham call? I was doing a show so, because of the time difference, we had to wait until I got home. A lovely policewoman explained there had been a complaint against Michael. Marjorie had dementia and was deemed vulnerable to fraud. Fraud? It turned out Sylvia had called the police as we used Marjorie’s credit card to pay for some air fares. Marjorie had no recollection of this.

I was devastated. Why had Marjorie not called me? It was Marjorie’s idea to pay Michael’s expenses. I always paid my own fares and hotel bills because I never wanted Marjorie to think I needed anything from her.

But now, realising that she had the money, we agreed to let her pay Michael’s air fare but we would pay the hotel bills. We had sat with her and trawled through the websites looking for cheap fares.

We booked Michael on BA from London to Calgary, then on ­Canadian Airlines, from Calgary to Edmonton. I explained to the officer who I was, and how we had written down all the details of the transaction and left it with Marjorie.

But she couldn’t remember this and her study was a mess – piles of bills and paperwork everywhere. I was in tears and the policewoman was trying to calm me, saying there were pictures of me all round her apartment, and a copy of Hello! which she proudly showed to the police.

They had also contacted social services and had received a glowing report of how much hard work my husband had done for the ladies. We decided that I should ring Marjorie at once. Sylvia answered brusquely: “Who is this?”

“I want to talk to Marjorie please. I want to talk to my mother.”

“She can’t come to the phone right now. She is in the bathroom.”

“I’ll wait,” I replied. But I couldn’t stop myself. “I do not understand what your problem is. Why have you reported us to the police? We have only been trying to help.”

Sylivia replied: “I know what your husband has done. He is not welcome in this house ever again.” Eventually Sylvia let me speak to Marjorie. She was very distressed and I got tearful as well.

I asked her why she had not talked to us, but all she kept saying was: “Why was the air fare so expensive? And why was the BA fare more than the Canadian Airlines fare?”

I tried to explain that one set of flights were BA from London and the other fares were internal. But she couldn’t take it in. She didn’t know where the piece of paper was on which we wrote all the details. She didn’t remember booking the flights with us at all. It was a nightmare. I said: “Michael is only trying to help. We may have to take legal action if people make false accusations about us.”

“Oh Lynda, how could you think about doing anything against my family?”

I was stopped in my tracks. Her family? I was her family! I wanted to scream but I said: “OK Marjorie, don’t worry. Don’t get upset. I will see you soon. Just remember I love you.”

SETTLED

I put the phone down and sobbed. I had lost my mother the first time round – and now it looked as if I had lost her again.

Ironically, Marjorie and Shirley are happily settled in the care home Michael worked so hard to find for them. We are in touch with a friend of my mother’s.

I am sad to say that in the last few months Marjorie’s health has deteriorated and the Alzheimer’s has really taken hold. I don’t think she’d know me any longer.

A bit of me has never got over the sense of betrayal. But when she dies I feel I want to go to her funeral and face some of these people I’ve never met. To many, I will be a secret they wish had remained a secret.

Source: mirror.co.uk