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It seems there was a child, which died in infancy, broke Lord James's heart. As for Laetitia's political activity, you might imagine not much of a record was kept by the family, but I managed to acquire the enclosed booklet – you'll never guess from whom – Nanny Rosenthal! Do you remember her?
Of course I bloody remember her. Though, if I'm honest, I rather thought she was buried somewhere in the grounds of Wellwood – with Biddy, under the horse chestnut!

She lives in sheltered housing now, but is sharp as a tack and appears to have quite an archive of family memorabilia. I thought the booklet might satisfy some of your curiosity. In answer to one question, I
can
tell you that you weren't named after the late, great Laetitia. Good Lord, no! Your mother got the name from some magazine.

Thanks a million, Daddy!

Give my grandson a big kiss from me (thank you so much for the delightful pic!) and I promise to come and see you both before he starts school!

The booklet is yellowing, musty. Its unadorned cover bears the title:
Magdalen Mothers
, and is subtitled: ‘An Account of Work in East London with Prostitutes and Their Children. Authors: Laetitia Gardener and Harriet Martin, 1927'.

Harry!

Started to look at the pamphlet, when Danny popped in with Mattie, both of them in a good mood, grinning at one another. He's taking him down by the Kelvin to see if they can catch a glimpse of ‘that fuckin kingfisher'! Matt's going to have a very salty vocabulary for one so young! But it's sweet of Danny to give me a chance to read. Come to think of it, it's a lovely day for the river. L. & H. can wait; I should still be able to catch up with Danny and Matt if I run…

This'll be Elvis's second Christmas. The first he'll know about but; he was too wee last year. Already this year, when my da picks him up and takes him to the window, he points to the Christmas lights in the house across the road and says, Pity.

Aye, you're right there, son. Pity the scheme's got so little goin for it, the Christmas lights go up at the start a November.

I'm sittin on the sofa behind them, wi my book open on my knee, watchin the pair a them. He's tryin to say
pretty
, Da, I says.

And my da turns round and smiles. Is that so? he says. Well, bless my soul. Is that so, Matthew? Pretty? Eh? Pretty? And he shoogles him up and down and Elvis shrieks and laughs.

That's his right name, Matthew, after Laetitia's father, but I still canny call him that. He'll ayeways be Elvis to me. It's cause a the shock a black hair he was born with; it doesny matter what way Laetitia brushes it, it ayeways ends up in an Elvis quiff.

I was mad at first when my ma offered to look efter him a couple a days a week. I couldny understand it.

We're helpin the lassie out till she gets on her feet, my ma says. And, anyway, look at him; look at they long dark lashes lyin on his cheeks; who could resist him?

Me. I could.

I would get in fae school and there they would be, the three of them, playin happy families. Danny too, sometimes,
dependin on his shifts in the pub. My ma sings to Elvis when she's trying to get him to sleep, even though she canny sing to save hersel.

… My brown-eyed boy
, she sings.
Sha la la la lalala…

It's pure excruciatin! And Elvis's wee face sits on her shoulder, quite content, when she walks about the room, his mouth poutin, like he's tryin to say somethin, or he's just gonny burst into song alang wi her.

Farkhanda's as bad. She thinks he's
dead cute
. If my da or Danny's no there, she comes in and takes off her hijab; she's allowed to do that in front of Elvis, cause he's a baby. He loves her long black hair. When she holds him, he gets his fingers all caught in it and it takes ages to disentangle him. He hangs on, the wee bugger, willny let go. I don't let him near my dreads.

At first, when he came, when he was a new baby, I showed her his Elvis mouth. You stroked his cheek when he was lyin sleepin in his pram and his mouth would go up at that side, into a wonky Elvis grin. Skew-whiff. Farkhanda laughed her silvery laugh and tried the other side. Same thing. My ma caught us at it and laughed as well, at the same time she was tellin us off. But it's dead obvious,
they
all think he's like Elvis too.

When he's greetin loud and willny stop, Danny sings,
You ain't nothin but a hound dog, Cryin all the time
. And that quietens him down. One day, I came in and caught my ma and da dancin slow round the livin room, Elvis between them in my ma's arms, sleepin, his head on her shoulder, hair all quiffed, and my da wi his arms round the baith a them, singin ‘Love Me Tender'. Pure gie you the boak!

Who's King? Danny says, and picks him up and birls him round. Eh? Who's the King? And Elvis laughs and screeches and skirls.

Nearly as good a pair a lungs on him as you, hen, my da says.

It's Julian collectin him the day, so I'll be disappearin into my room till he's came and went. Maistly it's Laetitia picks him up; Julian sometimes. I try to be out when it's his turn, but it's hard to predict. Now and again even Danny comes ower for him, when he's no workin, and takes him back on the bus to Julian and Laetitia's. His tongue's still hangin out whenever Laetitia's around. Wouldny put it past him to go on the
Trisha Show
and ask for a DNA test. He's on a hidin to nothin but. Birds of a feather, Danny; you said it yoursel. I didny think he would be that interested in the wean, but he pure dotes on him.

Check his wee face, he says once, when Elvis was younger, he's really concentratin, look at him, thinkin great thoughts.

Don't be an eejit, I says, he's deain a jobby. There, see? Smell his great thoughts now?

… They said you was high class,

Well, that was just a lie…

Danny was pissed off wi me and took him into the bathroom to change his nappy. But I must admit, I was fooled by it too the first time I seen it, though I wasny gonny let on to Danny. I'm readin my book; Elvis is lyin on his bouncy chair, bouncin away, his hair swept back, reachin for the mobile danglin above. Suddenly he stops and goes dead still and his eyes are starin straight ahead, the way you see folk doin when they look like they're gazin into the distance, but really they're thinkin about somethin else entirely. Then comes the stink.

Oh, pooh, Elvis, I says to him, you mingin wee bandit! And I go for my ma in the kitchen.

I'm choppin onions here, Clare? Could you no change him for once?

No way, I says. I don't know how to.

Oh, grow up, Clare, for heaven's sake, my ma says, you're no a wean any mair.

That makes me pure furious and I stomp back through.

Right, you wee minger. I lift him out his bouncer and lay him on his changing mat. His legs are goin nineteen to the dozen and he grabs for my dreads, so I gather them up and stick them down the back a my jumper out the road. He's no bothered; he's blowin bubbles through his Elvisy lips. One a my shorter dreads at the front slips down and he stops brrrrr-in and starts swinging his hand in the air, cross-eyed, openin and closin his wee fat fingers, trying to catch it.

Ah, ah, I says. No, you don't.

His denims are easy enough to get into – his denims! Probably
Armani
, knowin Laetitia – they've got poppers on the inside at the legs. I would hold my nose if I could, but baith hands are needed for this operation.

Pffaww! I try no to breathe in. Elvis doesny bother his shirt; he's lyin there in his stinky nappy, his red socks wavin in the air, smilin at me and gurglin away.

What you laughin at, you wee toerag? What you laughin at? Eh?

I tickle his belly just above his nappy and he laughs mair. He's like a wee manikin wi his teddy-boy hair. A homunculus, that's a good word. A munchkin. I don't see nothin a Julian in him. He's got Laetitia's brown eyes. Wouldny matter what colour of eyes the father's got, Danny says, the brown-eyed gene is dominant. Well, that's no entirely true, Jed says. And he gies a lecture on genetics that goes right ower my head, about how it all depends on the combination a genes on baith sides a the family.

Right, Pongo, I says. I hold my breath, rip off the stickers at the sides a his nappy and open up the surprise package.

Feuch!

First thing he does is stick the heel a his red sock right in the bright yellow shit.

Och, Elvis!

I pull it off dead careful by the toe, then he goes and does the exact same wi the other one! And when his socks are off, he's stickin his bare feet in. I grab his ankles next time he kicks and hold them together. It's all over my hands now too. Elvis gies a husky chuckle.

OK, you wee shite, very funny.

Wi my one hand I pull him up by the feet then manoeuvre the shitty nappy out fae under him wi the other. I take some babywipes and clean my ain hands first, then wipe all round his bum. I make sure that's a shite-free zone, afore I start on his willy. It's like a wee bud peepin out fae his – what d'you call it? – scrotum. I don't really like touchin that. It's all red and wrinkly and it takes me ages to clean the yellow shit out all the creases. There's somethin no right about me handlin Julian's wean's wee pointy prick. Elvis is lovin it but, cooin and burblin, now and again makin a swing for my dread. Like father, like son, I says. I dry him wi his Scooby Doo towel, fae the set my ma got in Poundsaver's, Scooby and Scrappy and Nemo and the characters fae
Toy Story
.

I'm reachin for a clean nappy fae the big bag behind the sofa, when he pees in the air, this sorta high golden arc. He turns and pure hits me wi it right under the chin!

OK, pal, that's you had it, I says. You done that deliberately.

The pee runs down my neck, trickles down the inside a my T-shirt, into my bra. And there's a puddle of it under him on the changing mat, soakin into the back of his denims and his red top.

Fuck, I says.

By the time my ma comes through, I've got all his claes off
and I've cleaned him up. His smooth bare body's sittin on my knee, smellin a wee bit better, and he's still tryin to get a haud a my dreads. My ma laughs at me. What's my boy doin? she says. What's Matthew been doin to Clare? He squeals and flaps his hand at her like a baby seal.

He only got shite all over his socks and my hands, peed down my jook and soaked his claes for good measure. Apart fae that, he's been perfect, I says.

He's only a baby, Clare. Be fair. He canny help it.

Aye, well. I canny help it if it gies me the boak.

And my ma looks at me then, a right long look, as if she's tryin to figure me out.

Well, don't worry, Clare, I won't be askin you to do it again.

And that makes me feel rotten. Bad. Horrible. Thing is, my ma doesny know what's at the back of it for me.

She picks Elvis up off my knee and goes to his bag to find him some clean claes. He gies me a big lopsided grin ower her shoulder and reaches out to me. I canny help smilin at him. No matter what's goin on at the other end, there's never a hair out a place; still the same slicked-back style wi the quiff looped forward, like somebody done it wi gel.

I blow a wee kiss at him behind my ma's back.

You ain't never caught a rabbit

And you ain't no friend of mine…

I've only just went into my room, when I hear the door and Julian arrivin and my ma goin, Look, Matthew, who is it? Who is it? It's Julian, that's right!

I ayeways get the feelin she's tryin a bit too hard, like she has to be nice to Julian to get her hands on Elvis.

Joo, Elvis says. Joo-joo.

Hello, Matt, Julian says. Have you been a good boy? Have you been a good little boy for Maeve?

He's been perfect, my ma says. Come in, Julian.

I'm thinkin, how nice! Maeve! How terribly, terribly. Awfully, awfully. Frightfully, frightfully. Nice! I look at mysel in my granny's mirror and I've got a face like fizz, but I canny help it.

Hello there, Julian, I hear my da sayin.

Hi, Peter, how's the hand?

I hate the way he's so palsy-walsy wi my folks.

Aye, no bad, my da says. So, so. He's no that sure a Julian either. No really.

He's been off work a week now, my da, wi Dupuytren's contracture, waitin for an operation. His mates were all laughin at him, gettin the same thing as Maggie Thatcher. It's carryin that handbag, Peter, they says. We telt you it would be the ruin of you. And my da's pure mortified he's developed the same condition Thatcher had, even though he tries to make a joke of it.

Could be worse, he says, I could be doolally an aw! It's the Viking blood; only thing I'll ever admit to having in common wi her Baronessity.

Aye, that and a hatchet face, my ma says.
Look for the Baronessity…
And he chases her into the kitchen.

Underneath, you can see my da's quite down but, and my ma's worried too. Before this happened he hadny been a day off work in the last seven years, or so he's ayeways tellin Danny. The management said he didny need to be off his work for this either, cause, wi him bein the supervisor, he hardly ever has to operate the machinery these days. But he wouldny budge; a health and safety issue, he says, and the union backed him. Away hame and put your feet up for a while, Peter. You're due it, they says.

Personally, I think it's mair to do wi Elvis; my da loves lookin efter him. Mind you, I seen him workin away, massagin his hand the day, when Elvis was down for his sleep, tryin to get the fingers to straighten out. You can see it's just gettin worse; they're curlin right into his palm.

Have you tried physiotherapy? I hear Julian askin him.

I've got an appointment next week, my da says. Maybe that'll dae the trick.

First I heard of it. I sit up on my knees on the bed to look in the mirror, and pick up Julian's dread. It's clatty again. I've bleached it twice already since the first time; it gets manky cause I'm rubbin it between my fingers so much, I suppose, even when I don't realize it. It's amazin naybody's twigged; no even Julian; even though he knew the dreads were about him. Aye, he knew that alright.