‘This is London FM,’ announced Minty Malone, as I sat in the basement studio on City Road the following Tuesday. ‘Welcome back to Sound Advice, our twice-weekly late-night phone-in with the Post’s agony aunt, Rose Costelloe. Do you have a problem? Then call 0200 222222 and Ask Rose.’
It was five past eleven and we’d already been on air for an hour. We’d heard from Melissa who was wondering whether to become Catholic, and Denise who was going bald and Neil who couldn’t get a girlfriend and James who thought he was gay; then there was Josh, a jockey with mounting debts and Tom who hated his dad, and Sally who was having a nervous breakdown – the usual stuff. On the computer screen in front of me the names of the waiting callers winked and flashed.
‘And on line one,’ said Minty, ‘we have Bob from Dulwich.’
‘Hi Bob,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Well, Rose,’ he began hesitantly, as I scribbled on my pad, ‘I’m quite a, well, yeah, big bloke really…’ Hmm…another fatso with low self-esteem. ‘And I get my leg pulled about it at work.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, there’s this girl there who’s a real knockout and I think she likes me as she’s always nice. But my problem is that every time I get up the nerve to ask her out she makes some excuse.’
‘Bob, you say you’re a big bloke – how much do you weigh?’
‘About…’ – I could hear the air being sucked through his teeth – ‘…seventeen stone.’
‘And how tall are you?’
‘Five foot ten.’
‘Then you’re just going to have to lose the lard! Sorry to be brutal, Bob, but it’s true. I know you’d like me to say that this girl will fall in love with your great personality, but I think your great person is going to get in the way, and frankly, I think the only reason she’s being so nice is because she feels sorry for you. Bob, take it from me, no self-respecting woman – let alone a “knockout” – is going to go out with a Sumo-sized bloke. The number for Weight Watchers is…’ I glanced at my handbook, ‘…0845 712 3000 and I want you to ring it first thing. Do you promise me you’ll do that?’ I heard a deep sigh.
‘Yeah, okay Rose. I will.’
‘And Bob I want you to phone in again a month from today and tell everyone that you’ve lost your first stone.’
‘Okay Rose, yeah. You’re right.’
‘Well done Bob,’ said Minty, ‘and now we have Martine, on line three.’
‘Go ahead, Martine,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she began in a trembly voice. ‘The reason I’m ringing is because, well, I’ve just been told I can’t have kids.’ A momentary silence followed: I could almost see the tears in her eyes.
‘Martine how old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘And have you tried all avenues?’
‘Yes. But I had cancer when I was a teenager, you see, and because of that the doctors can’t help.’
‘Well I’d like to help you Martine, so stay on the line. Is that what you want to talk about – the fact that you’ve had this bad news?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to accept that. The thing is I’d like to adopt but my husband’s not keen.’
‘Does he say why?’
‘It’s because he was adopted, and he had problems so he’s afraid that any kids we adopted would too.’
‘But so might any children that you had naturally. They could fall ill – God forbid – or they could fail at school or drop out. Life’s fraught with difficulties and you can’t not go ahead with something which could make you happy out of fear that it might go wrong.’
‘I know,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve told my husband that.’
‘And you sound like a lovely person Martine so I’m sure you’d be a really great mum.’ There was a tiny sob. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I could hear a Niagara of tears start to fall.
‘Well…I think I would,’ she wept, ‘but my husband seems set against adopting, but now I know it’s my only chance.’ I glanced at Minty, who’s three months pregnant. There was compassion all over her face.
‘Martine, do you have a good relationship with your husband?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘In most ways I do.’
‘And when did this issue first come up?’
‘A month ago. We hadn’t really talked about it before, because we thought I might still be okay. But then I got the final results from the hospital which told me that my chances of conceiving are nil.’
‘Then give your husband a little more time. He needs to think about it – and men like to come round to things in their own way. So my advice is don’t panic, and don’t put any pressure on him as that could easily backfire. But I do think you should both talk to someone at NORCAP, the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents: their number is – I flicked through my handbook – 01865 875000. Will you call them, Martine?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Okay.’
‘The line may be busy because this is National Adoption Week, but leave your number and they’ll ring you back. And Martine, I don’t mind telling you that I was adopted and I was absolutely fine. I’ve never had any problems, I had a really great childhood, and I’m sure that your kids will too.’
‘Oh thanks Rose,’ she whispered. ‘I do hope so.’ And I was just going to go to the next caller, when I heard her say, ‘but I think the reason why my husband feels so negative about adoption is because he’s never traced his real mum.’
‘Oh…’
‘He still seems so angry with her for giving him up – it’s like a festering wound. He rarely talks about it, but I think that’s what’s really bothering him and the issue of our adopting has brought it all up.’
‘I see, well, look…thanks for calling in Martine and I, er…wish you the very best of luck. And now we go to Pam on line five. What’s your problem, Pam?’
‘Well, my problem is that I’m in my thirties, I’m single and as a freelance graphic designer, I work from home.’
‘Ye-es.’
‘But recently I’ve got to know my postman quite well…’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And I really fancy him.’
‘I see.’
‘I even get up early to make sure I catch a glimpse of him.’
‘That must be tiring.’
‘Oh it is. I’ve also taken to sending myself parcels so that he has to knock on the door. I’m totally smitten,’ she added.
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘He’s married – at least I think he is. He wears a ring on his left hand, put it that way.’
‘Yup. He’s married,’ I said.
‘But he’s absolutely gorgeous, Rose; I’ve never felt