I went into an orphanage when I was about four. I remember nothing about it. I must have lived with a mother before then, yet I remember nothing about her. It seems I had a brother who died at the orphanage; I don't remember him. I went to a nearby nursery for almost a year, and I don't remember that either. The only thing I remember was grown-ups looking at me and shaking their heads.

QUESTIONS
I don't think there has been a day since August 13, 1961, when I haven't thought about my past. Indeed, when I look at the bear I often find myself wondering if there had been a particular bear or toy in my pre-adoption days. And yes, I do wonder if my birth parents are alive and if I have brothers and sisters out there, along with a gaggle
of nieces and nephews.


I was adopted a few weeks before my sixth birthday, but again, I have no memory of arriving in Armagh in what was to be my new and permanent home. What I do know, though, is that the people who adopted me, Sam and Adelaide Kane, were extraordinary individuals. Giving a home to a child who was quite clearly traumatised (apparently I didn't speak for almost a year) and probably educationally backward, is a very brave thing to do. You have no idea how that child will develop, for you have no idea what baggage he carries from his past.

It was hard for them for many years. I was still wetting the bed until I was in my early teens. I found it difficult to cope with other people. I had sleeping difficulties and suffered from recurrent nightmares. I found it impossible to trust anyone. Through it all they loved me, reassured me, taught me, encouraged me and treated me as their son.

FAMILY
Even though they knew that I didn't have any recall of a life before my sixth birthday they never tried to pretend that it didn't exist. I always knew I was adopted and that they weren't my "real" parents. But as I found a sort of inner peace and grew to love them, I never felt any great desire to explore my roots. I was growing up in a lovely home and wanted for nothing. I became confident and I developed my own friendships. I didn't need to look for a family. I had one.

That didn't mean the questions went away. I still wondered. I read stories about adopted children who had tracked down their parents and rediscovered their past. In some cases, the birth mother wanted nothing to do with them. I knew, too, that some adoptive parents were actually quite hurt when the children they had cared for and loved looked elsewhere for a missing element.

Both my adoptive parents are now dead and I suppose there is nothing to stop me trying to get answers to the questions. I have had a form in my study for a number of years now and the mere act of filling it in would begin the journey. I spoke to a social worker a number of years ago who told me that accessing my file wouldn't be difficult. And yet…. I'm still not certain that I want to know. I have lived without knowing for so long now that I'm not sure I want to delve into what could be a very unhappy past. I really don't want to raise ghosts which I have kept locked down this long.

WAITING
Today marks the beginning of National Adoption Week. This is part of what it says on the website: "There are thousands of children of all ages and backgrounds awaiting adoption in the UK. A very few are healthy white babies. Many are older children---aged between four and ten---and some are brothers and sisters who want to grow up together. Some may have behavioural problems, physical disabilities, learning difficulties or medical conditions. Others may have been abused or neglected. Many need lots of extra time and attention. Often, older children, siblings and children with disabilities or from minority ethnic groups wait the longest. They are, of course, the ones we are particularly anxious to place."

Forty-six years after my own adoption I can see echoes of me in that description. I waited almost two years in an orphanage. I was an older child. The report that accompanied me said that I had severe learning difficulties. Yet there were people who were willing to take me and fashion me into what I am today. You can never repay that debt of gratitude. Society should never underestimate the value of those who are willing to save and raise others' children.

I have my own family now and I am happy and home-centred. Sometimes I think I owe it to them to let them know who I truly am. And yet, by signing a form and opening doors do I risk dragging them into an area of my life which may have an unpleasant and adverse psychological effect on me and, by extension, on them too? Or am I missing out on happiness? Are there people out there who know about me and who are longing to see me?

The problem, of course, is that once you begin a journey like that, there is no turning back. The calculation I have to make is whether unanswered questions are preferable to unwanted answers. I went into an orphanage at four and I don't know why. I came out at six, into a life I have enjoyed and benefited from. In August 1961 I became Alexander Edgar Kane. Who I was from August 1955 I still don't know; and I'm not sure that I need to know. What I do know, though, fully and absolutely, is that everything I am is entirely and wonderfully down to my adoptive parents.