Sandra and Kenneth were in their late twenties.

The wife was

suburban pretty, with a small, neat nose and prim, plump lips.
She was quick-tempered and protective, like a robin. The
husband was schoolboy handsome, with grey-blue eyes, like
stones in a stream. He thought a lot and said very little. They
were both slim with dark hair, and everyone said that when they
had a baby it would be extremely beautiful. But several years
of marriage had already elapsed and still there was no child to
call their own. Any sex that they’d enjoyed had been recreational
or – as some would see it – fruitless. So they decided that
they’d take their fertility into their own hands and go, somewhat
shamefacedly, to the doctor expressly to have their fears
assuaged and be told that there was nothing at all to worry
about.

When the tests came back, Mr and Mrs Gardner were sitting
tidily beside each other. Kenneth was statue-still but Sandra was
paddling her fingers nervously in her husband’s palm.
The doctor asked Kenneth, rather bluntly, ‘Have you
ever been exposed to any industrial chemicals that you’re
aware of?’
‘He lived between every factory in the county as a child,’
Sandra explained, before Ken could part his lips. ‘You should
see the view from his parents’ house, chimney after chimney,
big towers pouring with … I don’t know what.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Well, it’s not definitely the cause, but
it is likely that …’
‘His mother never once took him to the doctor when he
was ill, you know,’ Sandra interrupted, stroking the mount of
Venus on her husband’s palm. If Ken had been her son, she’d
have taken better care of him. She planned to cure him of his
past and rescue his future. But before she could expand any
further, the doctor informed them in his mid-range breaking
serious news voice:
‘I’m afraid that my tests conclude that… you’ll never
have children. I’m sorry.’
 There are moments in life that should be accompanied
by a gong being struck. Sandra’s now frozen fingers fell away
from her husband’s hand and came to rest on her lap. There was
nothing to be said. They took their disappointment back to their
empty home and wrestled with it. After days of reeling and tears
and repressed blame, they decided to adopt.
The young couple devoted days, months, years, to making
telephone calls and writing letters. They’d never been so united
in their resolution. When the first blow came, it was from the
hands of the adoption agencies themselves, due to conflicting
medical reports. Husband and wife were obliged to attend
umpteen interviews, presided over by panels of professionals.
Each rejection brought a period of bewildering bereavement.
They were good people. That was how other people
described them – especially concerning Kenneth. He had, by all
reports, a good sense of humour and a good degree of humility.
His colleagues at work – he worked in insurance – said that he
was one of the good guys. High praise indeed. Of Sandra,
people said that she had a good heart, which is only moderately
different from having a big heart.
Eventually, though, their tenacity was rewarded and
Kenneth and Sandra’s biggest wish was granted. Now they
could take to their hearts and their home a rather sullen – but
certainly normal – baby boy.
They rejoiced for several days. Finally they could be just
like their contemporaries. They could go and buy baby things
…and that little room, which was already decorated for a child,
would finally be put to use. Yellow: suitable for a boy or a girl.
After this euphoric period, doubts started to form in the
fringes, ready to scuttle in, like roaches, the second that darkness
fell. What if they could not love or bond with this child that they’d
fought so long and hard to get? What if he didn’t like them? But
it was their whole-hearted intention to treat him as their own.
And, for better or worse, that is exactly what they did.