Written evidence from Diana Defries (ACU0008)

In 1974, when I was 15, I met a man who was 29 years old. Our relationship lasted for some time, during which he was neither kind nor careful. I found myself pregnant just three months into my 16th year. The term statutory rape was not one I learned until I was considerably older.

I was afraid to tell my parents and found things very difficult as the pregnancy made me ill. Battling with severe morning sickness, I struggled to eat and to cope with going to school. Eventually I plucked up courage to tell the man I was seeing that I was expecting his child. He responded by ending the relationship. I never saw him again.

I was left without support or guidance.

My home life was, at best, cold. My parents were not interested in me and failed to notice that I was gaining weight. It was only when I started experiencing severe back pain that they paid attention. They took me to see a doctor who examined me. This doctor asked how long I had 'been like this' then left me in his consultation room while he spoke with my parents.

They took me home then told me that in the doctor's professional opinion I was pregnant. Seeing this as a moment to reach out for help, I said that it must be true.

Then all hell broke loose.

My mother called me names that no mother should call her own daughter. Both parents said that I had brought shame on them and that I was 'disgusting'. Though the details are vague in my memory, I recall them discussing the options, as if I was not in the room.  They seemed more concerned about what the neighbours would think than about my wellbeing.

I was taken to see the family GP. He spoke to me only once, when we arrived.

He said, "I hear you've been a naughty girl."  After that, he spoke only with my mother.

I was not aware of when or how the arrangements were made, but not long after that, I was taken by train from London to Southampton, and installed in a Roman Catholic Mother and Baby home, run by nuns. The name of the home was Nazareth House. The irony of that name only struck me many years later.

'My' room was at the top of the building, up three long flights of stairs. I was to share with one other girl. She was very quiet and I found out later she was from overseas and barely spoke English. She was a little older than me and I later found out she, too, was terrified.

The room was near a narrow metal fire escape and once my mother had seen the room she turned on her heel and left without another word.

I contemplated jumping from that fire escape on more than one occasion, but my fear surviving the resultant injuries was more of a deterrent then the idea of dying.

At 16, I had never lived away from home, I had very little money, and was lost as to how I was going to cope.

While in the Home, I was visited several times by a woman I had met while I was still in London. She always insisted she was my 'social worker' and that she was there to 'help' me. All our conversations were much the same. She told me I was not suited to be a mother as I was too young and did not have a job or my own home. She told me that, if I loved my baby, I'd give her to a good family with (her words") …a mummy and daddy who could look after her properly." 

She spent every moment of these meetings insisting that this was the best thing to do, the right thing to do… the only thing I could do. She never mentioned that there was any option of keeping my baby. No one ever told me of any support that was available.

I had no idea that there could have been an alternative outcome

At the Mother and Baby home, all the inmates (it felt like a prison) were obliged to do chores. We were each allocated an area we had to clean every day.  As I was still in school, having taken my O levels while six months pregnant, I also had schoolwork to complete each day.

There was very little discussion about why we were there. No medical care that I can recall, just days filled with schoolwork, then chores.

The food was dismal - meat of indeterminate origin, gravy, mashed potatoes and overcooked vegetables. We ate our meals in a room that had been divided into two areas: one for the girls, the other for the nuns. We could see them at mealtimes through a slatted partition. As we ate our over-cooked, nutrient-free food we had full view of the nuns, who ate fresh fish, or chicken with salad or al-dente vegetables. I am certain that they arranged the space to punish us. They made sure we could see the difference between the food we were given and the meals they consumed.

I was cut off from everyone I knew. My only respite was to walk through the town towards Southampton docks, every afternoon. On one of those walks I found a social security office and though was too scared to go in, I wrote down the phone number and called them from a pay phone. I asked whether I was entitled to help. The woman who took the call simply said, "No, you're too young." and put down the phone. I'm now certain that was a lie.

When I went into labour, I kept quiet about it as long as I could. I was so scared.

In the early hours of the morning, the contractions were growing stronger and my waters broke. When I woke the nun who dealt with such things, she didn't believe me. I was told to stop making a fuss and go back to bed. As I walked away, I had another contraction and she grudgingly agreed I 'might' be in labour.  Apparently, I was quite a long way into the process as they called an ambulance. I travelled alone to Southampton General hospital. I had had received no antenatal care and was fairly clueless about what to expect, other than being shown a few diagrams in a book.

Staff at the hospital avoided speaking to me. It was clear to them I was in labour and they must have known how young and how terrified I was. No one offered a word of comfort or reassurance. I have difficulty remembering some of these events, probably because the experience was so traumatic. At some point I was moved to what I can only assume was a delivery room. I remember lying on what seemed to be a high table. It was very hard and uncomfortable.   I was so high up I was level with the waist of the nurse who ignored me each time I asked for help.

Unable to push properly while lying down, I tried to sit up. That same nurse repeatedly pushed me on to my back, eventually she held me there until I stopped trying to sit up. 

I do not recall whether it was she or another nurse who decided to "speed things along".

That was all the explanation she provided before she took hold of what appeared to be scissors and performed an episiotomy. I remember convulsing with pain and fear. Horrified that my body had been cut without my permission - and without any real warning.

When my daughter was born, one of the nurses said, "This baby is flagged for adoption" and insisted that she would take her away immediately. I begged and pleaded with her not to do that and held out my arms so I could hold my child. She walked back into the room, past the end of where I lay and placed my child out of reach, many feet from me.

There was a clock on the far wall of the room. I could see it clearly from where I lay.

My daughter was born at 4.15am. My wound was stitched up fairly soon afterwards, by a male doctor who would neither speak to me nor answer my questions. I could not get anyone to speak to me. It was as if I wasn't really there. Then all the staff left the room. I was alone, lying on that high table, covered by only a thin sheet and too far away from my crying baby to be able to comfort her. 

I'd had nothing to drink or eat since early the previous evening.

I was exhausted, thirsty and hungry and called out for help.

No one came.

I tried to sit, but my stomach muscles wouldn't work.

As often as I could, I called out to my baby to try to comfort her.

I attempted to roll over and get off the table, but it felt so high up and I was so weak that I was afraid I'd fall and injure myself.

After 2 hours, my voice was little more than a croak. When my baby stopped crying altogether, I thought she might have died. I drifted in and out of awareness for the longest time. My back was sore from lying on such a hard surface and I was incredibly cold.

It wasn't until well after 8.00am that a woman stuck her head around the door and said in a cheery voice, "Oh, sorry! I didn't know anyone was in here!"

All I could manage to do was croak the words "Help me".

Those four hours on the table seemed endless, but there is a blank in my memory after that.

I have no recollection of being moved from that room. The next thing I remember is being in a side room. My baby was in some kind of crib. I still hadn't been able to hold her. I was left alone in that room and managed to sleep - grateful I was finally on a bed. Much later that morning, someone asked if I wanted anything to drink and it wasn't until early afternoon that a nurse examined me and found that my lower body was still coated with dried amniotic fluid and blood. 

My mother came in the next day. She barely acknowledged my presence. She looked into the crib and said, that my baby was beautiful and that 'she would make someone very happy'. There was a cold feeling my stomach and I couldn't reply. I tried to speak up, but was unable to make a sound. It was as if I had no voice.

The next day I was moved to a maternity ward. After the awful experience of the birth itself, this was incredibly depressing and difficult. The ward was filled with happy new mothers who were visited each day by spouses, families and friends. Their visitors brought cards, flowers and gifts to congratulate them on the new arrival.

My bed showed no such celebration. No one ever congratulated me on becoming a mother. I sat in a conspicuously arid zone of misery amid all that joy. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

The women talked about me, occasionally glancing over at me mid-conversation. The only person who was friendly was a woman in the bed opposite mine. Her baby would wake her during the night and while she was breastfeeding, she could see I was crying. She would sometimes cross the ward and chat with me softly as she fed her baby. She was so kind and caring it was a stark contrast to everyone else's behaviour. She was the only person who showed me any kindness. I never even knew her name.

While on the ward, I was told several times that I had high blood pressure, which was curious, as they hadn't actually checked with a blood-pressure 'cuff'. A nurse (I think) came in with some pink tablets and insisted that I should swallow them. She even asked me to open my mouth to ensure I'd swallowed them. Being a suspicious soul, I tucked the tablets under my tongue and spat them out as soon as I could to find out what they were.

The imprint said 'Valium'.

Valium has never been a treatment for elevated blood pressure!

Those same tablets were brought to me each day for the duration of my hospital stay. I managed to avoid taking any of them. I do wonder how many young single mothers were quietened down in this way. I think someone may have complained because I was crying at night and disturbing them, though I can't be certain that was the reason.

When my body began producing milk, it was very painful, so decided that I'd feed my baby while I could. I didn't tell anyone of my plan, but they seemed to catch on.

A doctor arrived and offered me "something to help with the pain".

I didn't think about what this might mean and agreed to the medication thinking it was a painkiller of some sort, which might ease my discomfort. He administered an injection, which I later found out was a drug to dry up milk production and prevent further lactation.

My baby had to have formula from then on. This presented less of a challenge while we were in the hospital, where formula, nappies and anything else required was freely available. When I returned to the Mother and Baby Home things were very different. The nuns ran a little 'shop' that opened every afternoon from which the mothers had to buy anything they needed. I had a small sum of money in a savings account so I drew out what I could to cover these expenses. No one ever asked me whether I had any money, or whether I needed help. This predicament added immensely to the stress I was already experiencing.

The so-called social worker visited at regular intervals. Each time I was alone with her. During those meetings, she'd tell me what lovely people my baby's 'new parents' would be. She shared details of their background, age and occupation to these meetings (I later found it was all fabricated) and wanted discuss them with me as if I had a say in the matter.

She behaved as if I had chosen all this and ignored my age and the fact it was not legal for me to consent to anything in the absence of my parents.  This woman kept telling me that, if I loved my baby, I'd stay 'strong', do the right thing and not change my mind. After all, she'd say, think about how upset this lovely couple would be if they couldn't have their baby - because of my weakness.

Eight days after my baby was born, this so-called social worker arrived at the Mother and Baby home with consent forms that she asked me to complete and sign. Where I didn't know what to put on the form, she dictated the wording. When I signed, she was the witness.  I have no memory of signing these papers, but my signature is there on the page, alongside hers.

I was never given advice, support or offered alternatives. Despite being 16 years old - still legally a child, there was no one 'in my corner'. 

Ten days after my baby was born my 17th birthday came and went without comment. After that, I began to feel utterly hopeless. I no longer mattered to anyone.

Five days after that, my mother arrived at the home and took me back to London, by train, to the Adoption Agency. That two-hour train journey was the longest I held my baby daughter. It felt absolutely right. I cried silently for all the times I'd wanted to hold her and been told not to - by nurses, by nuns and by my mother. It was that memory of holding her on the train which helped sustain me through the long years of depression and grief that followed losing her.

Shortly after we arrived at the adoption agency, a woman in a white coat appeared and said, "It's time". Up to that moment, I'd been telling myself that, once my parents saw their grandchild - my baby - they'd relent.

They didn't.

Holding her in my arms felt like the most natural thing in the world and I couldn't let go. I just stood there with my arms around her, feeling terrified and alone.

Then my mother muttered "Oh, for goodness' sake…" She reached over, took my child from my arms and handed her over to this stranger.  

The woman in the white coat turned my baby to face me, grasped my daughter's arm and waved one of her tiny hands at me, saying, "Say bye-bye", then she took her away.

I remember my legs gave way under me and my precious infant howled as if her world was coming to an end, which,  in a way, it was.

The following week, they sent me back to school. As I'd been sworn to secrecy, I had to pretend that none of this had happened.  I felt as if I'd landed on Mars, unable to hold even the simplest conversation with others in the class. They had no idea what I'd been through and I couldn't tell them.  I retreated into myself.

Apart from a hospital appointment at approximately six weeks after the birth, during which the nurse examined me briefly, then spoke only to my mother. I was never offered, nor did I receive any post-natal care, even though my medical records would have indicated that I'd given birth and had to have stitches.

Not more than a week after my return to school I discovered that another girl, only a year older than me, had become pregnant and had a son, who she kept.

I saw her in the headmistress's office when she visited with her child. She was holding him on her lap and chatting with the headmistress… The same headmistress who knew what had happened to me, yet she had not helped me in any way.

It was such a slap in the face to when I understood how many lies I'd been told.

That feeling of betrayal has stayed with me.

***

Years later, I found out that I was entitled to see what was in my file at the adoption agency.

I approached them for information and had to jump through various hoops to obtain a copy of these papers. On looking through the documents, I was shocked to discover that the woman who had presented herself as my social worker had been employed by the adoption agency. Only then did it become horribly clear that her only focus was removing my child from my care. She was never there to help me in any way.

It was all a lie.

These experiences scarred me and prevented me from forming healthy relationships for many years. Though I wanted to have another baby, I was never able to have more children.

The trauma, grief and loss have impacted my life in a very negative way. 

No-one ever mentioned my right to a family life or even suggested I might have had any rights in the matter.

I believe that the medical profession the Catholic Church, my school and the education system and the various mother and baby homes and clinics that existed at the time, all colluded to separate young women from their babies, simply because we were judged to be 'unsuitable' mothers by virtue of being young and unmarried.

There was a welfare system and help would have been available but no one ever suggested I might have access to support or help through this situation. 

No information was provided by anyone, not the GP, or the hospital or the home.

The issue of consent is a thorny one.

The so-called 'social worker' made it clear she expected me to sign adoption consent papers even though she was the only adult in the room.  I did not give informed consent at any stage and legally I could not have done so as I was too young.

I did not give consent for surgical procedures that were performed. Nothing was discussed with me or explained. I did not give consent for any of the drugs administered and remained ignorant of the possible side effects / after-effects and any contraindications for decades. No one ever got in touch with me after it was confirmed that drugs administered to prevent lactation often cause other problems. I have suffered painful medical repercussions from that time and believe are a direct result of the drug(s) I was given to prevent lactation.

I did not consent to being held prisoner in the mother and baby home where I was denied medical help and financial and other support. I was prevented from seeking proper post-natal care as I was sworn to secrecy - forbidden to tell anyone I'd had a baby.

The medical profession abandoned us to our fate by failing to follow-up with standard post-natal checks. I want to know why so many so-called professionals failed us so badly. 

I, and all those like me, were used by the system to provide babies for 'respectable' childless couples, after which we were discarded.

The impact on our children of such early separation and the resultant trauma, seems to have been ignored. It is now well known that separating an infant from its mother has serious repercussions, especially when that separation is when the child is in the first few years of life.

Legally, we mothers were entitled to six weeks with our children before deciding whether - or not - to decide on adoption (not that it was a choice in most cases).

Even household pets are allowed six weeks with their young, during which they can feed them and care for them.

Therefore, it seems we were given less time with our babies than is considered appropriate for household pets and most of us were not allowed to breastfeed our babies:

Many young women were bullied into signing papers before giving birth or soon afterwards.

Most of us had little more than two weeks with our babies.

Some had just a few days.

Some babies were taken at birth.

These events ruined lives.

This cannot be right - or legal.

The pain caused to young mothers and the infants taken from them is immeasurable.

I would close by making the point that my parents would never have been able to take my daughter from me had there not been a well established 'adoption machine' grinding away in the darker corners of society.

I want to know - who paid for all of these establishments to carry out their dirty work?

That 'adoption machine' had connections with our family doctor, the NHS hospital where I gave birth and the mother and baby home where I was isolated - as well as the agency which lied and cheated in order to get me to sign papers which, under law, I wasn't even old enough to sign.

Those events would not have been possible without the 'adoption machine'.

It's high time that these events were subjected to close scrutiny and the perpetrators held to account. Hundreds of thousands of women endured these cruel practices - just because we were young and unmarried. We were isolated and rendered powerless.

Our babies were 'flagged for adoption', perhaps to ensure we would be treated differently by doctors, nurses and any professional with whom we had the misfortunate to have to interact.

We were bullied and coerced. Our children were taken from us - not 'given up'.

We deserve answers as to why this was done to us, and who was ultimately responsible for such a mechanism being in place. It is important to expose the financial details of how more than 600 mother and baby homes and similar places paid their bills. Someone kept the lights on in these places, and ensured they were able to carry out their cruel practices.

We deserve an apology, ideally one modelled on that issued in Australia in 2013, which was so much more than just words and included practical help, support, counselling and much more.

We deserve to have these injustices and the trauma we lived through scrutinised, and properly acknowledged and steps taken to affirm the grave injustice and our terrible loss.

Above all, we deserve the promise that this kind of thing can never happen again. Ever.

05/10/2021