I know I was born on a Friday because the date on my birth certificate works out that way. Mum also said Friday, although she gave me two different times over the years and once moved the whole thing into the afternoon. I have kept the morning version because that was the one she used most often.
I was born at St Mary’s Hospital in Portsmouth on 14 September 1962. There was already a maternity department there by then, which is useful to know because family stories can make childbirth sound as though it happened between somebody putting the kettle on and Dad getting home from work.
Mum said the labour was long. She did not make it dramatic. She said it in the same tone she used for a bus that had failed to arrive or a queue that had gone round the corner. It had taken too long and other people had been unhelpful. That was the account.
Dad was at Portsmouth Dockyard when she went into hospital. Somebody had to find him and tell him. He always said he came as soon as he could. Mum said he arrived after I had been born, washed and settled, which left him with very little to do apart from agree that I was a baby.
He was twenty-seven. Mum was twenty-five. They already had Peter, who was three and had been told that a sister was coming. I do not know what he expected. Possibly a visitor. Possibly somebody smaller who would remain in one place and leave his things alone.
The name had been discussed before I arrived. Mum wanted Margaret because she liked it. Dad suggested Patricia. Mum said Patricia sounded like somebody who already knew how to use a fountain pen. I have never understood why that counted against it, but the matter was settled.
Helen was chosen as my middle name for Mum’s younger sister, who had died as a baby. Mum did not say much more than that. When I asked, years later, she told me there had been illness and that people did not explain things properly then. She gave me the name and kept the rest.
My full name was Margaret Helen Wells. It looked substantial on the certificate. I had done nothing to earn four separate words, but this does not seem to trouble registrars.
There is no diary from that week and no letter describing me in careful detail. There is the certificate, Mum’s account and the parts other people repeated often enough for me to learn them. That is more than many people have, though it leaves room for disagreement. Dad remembered the route to the hospital. Mum remembered how long she had waited for somebody to bring tea. Peter remembered that nobody had consulted him.
The family circumstances were ordinary. Dad worked at the Dockyard. Mum was at home with Peter and, once I arrived, with me. The Copnor house had two bedrooms and no spare part waiting for a second child. Things were moved. Space was shared. Nobody described this as planning, though it must have involved some.
Mum stayed in hospital for a few days. I do not know exactly how many. She remembered the other women in the ward more clearly than she remembered the dates. One had already had four children and treated the whole place as if she were covering a shift. Another cried whenever visiting time ended. Mum said she had been too tired to cry and would have preferred another cup of tea.
Dad visited when he could. He brought news from home, most of it about Peter. Peter had asked whether the baby would be staying. Mum always laughed when she told that part, although Peter later claimed he had only wanted to know where I would sleep.
The answer was the smaller bedroom in our rented house in Copnor, shared with him. It had been his room until then. He did not regard this as an improvement.
When Mum brought me home, Nan Wells had made food and Gran Collins had opinions about feeding. The two grandmothers agreed that I was small, even though neither could say compared with what. Dad checked the cot. Mum unpacked the hospital things. Peter watched from a safe distance.
None of this is my memory. It is what survived in other people’s versions.
Mum’s version was about the labour, the hospital and Dad arriving late. Dad’s version was about being found at work and getting there as quickly as possible. Peter’s version was about losing half a bedroom. Gran Collins remembered that I did not take enough milk. Nan Wells said I slept well.
They cannot all have been describing the same baby.
Mum said I was quiet during the day and objected to most arrangements by evening. She never explained which arrangements. By then she had been awake for more than a day, had come home with a second child and had Peter asking how long I was staying. She was entitled to leave some details out.