Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  The father will support me, she told the other girls, who rolled their eyes.

  ‘So that’s why he’s here right now, is it, Martha? The father? Because he’s so keen to support you?’ Peggy, who used to sneak out to the rear garden for a cigarette, was bitter. Warned Martha not to build up her hopes. The father of her own baby was a sailor. She had no idea he was married with a family of his own until she told him about the pregnancy. Didn’t see him for dust after that.

  Peggy said they should count their blessings. Said there were worse places; had heard terrible stories of places in Ireland where the girls were made to work from dawn. Forced to scrub and skivvy right to the end of the pregnancy.

  At the Aylesborough home all the chores were shared by the girls but the staff were firm rather than cruel. At prayers, which were held daily, the mantra was one of seeking forgiveness and moving forward. You’ve made a mistake but you’re here to make a fresh start. To put this behind you. You pray for forgiveness. You move on. You are giving a special gift to couples who cannot have their own children.

  Martha could not bear for her baby to be described as a mistake and would find herself digging her nails into her palms. But the home and all those who worked there had one voice. A set script and a set system.

  Some of the staff were midwives – most of the babies born on site.

  When Martha had complications and had to go to the local hospital for the caesarean she had imagined her father would surely come and visit. In truth she was so angry at him she had no idea how this would make her feel.

  But the birth had been traumatic. Made her feel so vulnerable and so very frightened. There was one point when she thought she was going to lose her child.

  The baby was in the wrong position, apparently, and as they wheeled her to the operating theatre she could hear the nurse saying – baby is in distress. The baby is not getting enough oxygen…

  When she woke up from the anaesthetic she honestly thought the child was dead. Tears streaming down her face during this terrible pause, her head pounding and her mouth so very dry, until the nurse suddenly appeared and placed him in her arms. Here he is. All pink and perfect.

  The relief then. So wishing that her mother was still alive to see this and so badly needing family that, yes – she hoped that her father would come. Be different with her.

  She needed his support and so was praying that the scare of this emergency would make him reconsider. Soften him. But it did not.

  It was Margaret who came. She had knitted a little cardigan. Lemon wool. She had tears in her eyes the whole time but stayed barely ten minutes and had bad news. Found it difficult even to look Martha in the face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Martha, but I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving. Moving to a new job in Scotland.’

  ‘He’s sacked you, hasn’t he? Is that what’s happened, Margaret? He isn’t coming?’

  ‘Didn’t I try to tell you, Martha? Didn’t I try to warn you?’

  After her return to the charity home, Martha remembers only the rollercoaster of extreme highs and terrible lows – overwhelmed by her beautiful and perfect baby and yet always so very tired and worried. She insisted on breastfeeding, which, though tricky at first, was soon enormously comforting. But several times when she was forced to leave the child in the nursery to complete her chores, she caught the staff giving him a bottle. This she found devastating, and she complained loudly but was told it was better to help the baby ‘adjust’.

  Only at night, just occasionally, would Martha get the tiniest glimpse of how her life might have turned out. Snatched and secret moments that she came to treasure.

  Sometimes in the early hours Martha would simply get lucky. Just once in a while the timing would work out that the other girls and their babies would be sleeping and she would get a spell feeding on her own.

  In those quiet, stolen moments it was just Martha and her son. She would close her eyes then and blank out everything around her. She would try not to think of the daylight hours. Of the noise and the uncertainty and all the bustling about. The work in the kitchens. The enormous pots of stew, the mountains of vegetables to peel. The rows and rows of shoes that would have to be polished every single day. Why do we need to do this? Who cares about our shoes?

  Instead she would block all of this out and pretend that she was back home with the baby, in a different version of her life. Back in her bedroom with its buttercup wallpaper, her mother humming downstairs in the kitchen. She would stroke the top of her baby’s head as he fed, amazed at the soft down of his hair. She would kiss him goodnight, holding her lips against his forehead – breathing in his wonderful scent.

  She would look out of the window, high up in that terrace in Aylesborough-on-sea. She would search the night sky for the North Star and later watch the sun come up over the waves far in the distance.

  And she would whisper to her child that she would find a way.

  I will not let them take you…

  22

  Sarah’s secret in Millrose Mount turned up in the form of a tall and very serious-looking senior doctor called Wesley Clarke. Martha would later learn that Sarah had taken on the dangerous role – rare and brave for the times – of whistle-blower.

  Dr Clarke arrived on a Wednesday, to a flurry of panic among the staff. He demanded to see records and to tour all the wards immediately, presenting stamped paperwork which he showed like a detective.

  ‘You are not to say this has anything to do with me, Martha. Understand?’ Sarah had brought a new bag of wool and positioned their chairs in a corner of the new dayroom, away from the other groups of female patients.

  ‘So what’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t say exactly. But he’ll be here for a while. He’ll be asking to see you and other patients on a one-to-one. I really need you to talk to him, Martha.’

  For two days Martha watched the staff huddled and whispering in corners as Dr Wesley Clarke toured Millrose Mount, his face increasingly grave. Staff were very suddenly on their best behaviour. Cutlery was carefully counted at every meal. The doors were opened after breakfast each morning from the corridors onto the enclosed central courtyard so that patients could enjoy fresh air.

  Normally it was only Sarah who could be bothered to supervise this ritual. But now everyone was putting on a show.

  And then, on the third day, Martha was escorted to a consulting room to find Dr Wesley Clarke seated at the desk in a high-backed leather chair, Sarah standing by the window.

  He had a soft, kind voice so unlike the others who seemed always in such a hurry. He asked her how the knitting was going. Martha narrowed her eyes at Sarah, worrying it was some kind of trick question. Afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  ‘Your nurse tells me she feels a tad guilty. That she introduced you to knitting and you have turned it into something of an obsession.’ He was smiling. ‘I could do with a new jumper, if you’re asking.’

  Martha laughed. The mood instantly more relaxed.

  And then Dr Clarke moved to sit on the edge of the desk. ‘I’m not going to beat around the bush here, Martha, because I simply don’t have time on my side. Your admission notes are missing. No one seems to be able to tell me about your case in detail.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Ah, but the thing is I do mind, Martha. That’s why I’m here.’

  Dr Clarke explained that he was carrying out a full review of Millrose Mount, which seemed to have slipped through a net following abolition of the Board of Control. A new regime of inspections was still a work in progress.

  ‘Can you get me out?’

  Dr Clarke glanced at Sarah and back to Martha. ‘So you would like to leave Millrose?’

  ‘Of course I would like to leave.’

  ‘Not everyone feels that way. Some patients feel safer when they’re looked after.’

  ‘We are not looked after here and I
am certainly not safe.’

  After that Dr Clarke met Martha a number of times. He discussed her refusal to see her father, the self-harm and the stripping, while she in turn told him of her biggest worries. The slack supervision at night. The rumours of assaults. He eventually confided that the few notes available suggested she had presented as delusional with violent and suicidal tendencies. But this was not what he was seeing. What he was seeing, he shared, was merely depression. Worse – despair. Someone who had chosen to withdraw from the world.

  ‘It is the source I need to understand, Martha. If I am going to help you, I need to understand where this all began for you. The trigger.’

  Martha liked Dr Clarke but remained wary. Any and every time she had let herself think about the terrible thing that had happened, let alone seek any kind of support, it had always backfired.

  Between these consultations Sarah whispered her own updates over their knitting sessions. She said that Dr Clarke was not only a good man but quite possibly Martha’s last hope. He ran an outpatient clinic in Essex and, in addition to his inquiry report, he was hoping to move some of Millrose Mount’s patients into his care. His work was part of a new approach, moving away from the big institutions and championing the rehabilitation of patients with short-term conditions. But places were strictly limited.

  Dr Clarke meantime insisted that Martha’s medication was gradually reduced. Day by day she felt better for this – her mind much clearer, her body stronger.

  And then she was called into Dr Clarke’s temporary office one final time. On his desk was a slim file with the name of the home for single mothers. Sarah was in the corner of the room, her face pale.

  Martha closed her eyes and could feel herself drifting.

  False hope, Martha had learned, was a terrible thing. A life raft in a stormy sea. You couldn’t help but cling to it, of course you couldn’t, but the shock of the cold and choking water was all the worse when the raft was suddenly pulled from your grasp.

  It happened twice in the home for single mothers.

  First there was Eunice’s chambermaid plan. Like Martha, Eunice did not want to give up her child.

  Eunice came from a large Catholic family. She was a lovely, sunny girl with a keen sense of humour who somehow managed to crack jokes and dry asides to bolster spirits, however difficult the day. She was taller than most of the other girls, with strawberry blonde hair and pale, perfect skin. She also had a bigger bump than anyone had ever seen.

  ‘What have you been doing? Eating for England?’ the other girls joked as Eunice manoeuvred her enormous bump in and out of a chair. Those girls who were keen to get their ordeal over with were paranoid about getting their figures back so they could keep their shame a secret. These girls would tease Eunice that she would be sorry for eating for a small country and would find it difficult to shift the weight afterwards.

  But through some of her friends Eunice had heard about a London hotel run by a woman apparently sympathetic to the plight of women like Eunice and Martha. The word was that this woman called Hilda would take in young mums as chambermaids and allow them to devise a rota to complete their work and share the childcare. The wages were apparently pretty poor but it was a way to keep their babies. Accommodation and keep was provided.

  It sounded perfect.

  Martha and Eunice would huddle together at night, working out a plan. Through Eunice’s friend, they would write or telephone this Hilda and secure their places as soon as their babies were born. Eunice said she had enough cash for travel and was happy to sub Martha until she had her first wage packet.

  Listening in to this scheming, Peggy and Alice were dismissive. Their line was this Hilda was probably a madam who would put them on the game.

  But Martha was ready to grab any lifeline and for a while believed she had an option in place which would buy enough time to somehow get word to Josef if her father still refused to take her home.

  The problem was in the detail. Eunice worryingly vague.

  ‘Do you have the address yet? Has your friend got hold of the details?’

  ‘Not yet. We think it’s south London, south of the river at least. But she’s going to try this weekend.’

  The weekend came and went. Still no word. The girls in the home were not allowed to make phone calls or send mail unvetted, so there was very little Martha could do herself.

  And then Eunice was taken by surprise – giving birth not only a week early… but to twins! No one could believe that this had gone undetected. No wonder she was so huge. The babies were small but healthy – each quite extraordinarily beautiful, with a full head of dark hair and enormous deep blue eyes.

  All was mayhem as Eunice’s mother came to visit. As soon as it was shared that there was no certainty that the twins could be adopted together, Eunice’s mother was having none of it. Tears. Reconciliation. A complete change of heart. All the things that Martha could only dream of. Suddenly Eunice was all tearful exhaustion and exhilaration, packing up all her things to take her babies home.

  ‘I’m so pleased for you, Eunice. Of course I am. But I was just wondering if you think you could find out? About the hotel? About Hilda?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Martha. Apparently it was just talk. Rumours. Wishful thinking. To be honest, I’m not sure this Hilda ever existed… Really sorry, Martha.’

  The next disappointment was even tougher. Three weeks after giving birth herself and settled back into the charity home, Martha was summoned to the visitor lounge to find her father waiting for her. She had been instructed to leave the child in the nursery. Her assigned welfare officer, Megan, was there too.

  At first Martha’s heart leapt because her father had a basket on his lap full of beautiful baby clothes. She could see a couple of cardigans and booties and hats too. For a moment she thought that, just like Eunice’s mother, there had been a softening of heart at last.

  ‘Your father has brought all this for the baby,’ Megan began. And Martha felt a surge of complete and utter relief.

  ‘It is a gift for the new parents, Martha. We encourage it. Something nice for you to do for your baby. A gift from your family ready for your baby to take to his new family very soon.’

  ‘But he’s not going to a new family…’

  ‘I’ve had some new information through, Martha. Sorry, are you OK? Do you want some water?’ Dr Clarke sounded concerned, glancing again at Sarah.

  ‘I’m fine.’ A lie. Martha could feel her heart rate increasing. She looked out of the window at Millrose Mount where a bird on the branch of the nearest tree seemed curious as to the nature of their discussion, his head tilted with imagined interest. As if listening in.

  ‘These papers have just come in, but again it’s all a bit sketchy. Unsatisfactory. Pages missing as usual...’

  Martha kept her head turned towards the window as he paused. She was thinking about how she might cope this time. Another false hope.

  ‘The papers don’t explain what happened. To your child.’

  The bird waited. Dr Clarke waited.

  ‘I don’t talk about that. Sarah knows that I don’t talk about any of that any more.’

  ‘And why is that, Martha?’

  Still she watched the bird – joined now by a little friend. A twin. The branch shaking with the increase in weight.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me. No one would believe me. At the beginning it was all I talked about in here. Day and night. But it just made everything worse. They said I was a liar. That if I continued with my lies, I would be in here forever.’

  A long pause and then Martha turned back to again look Dr Clarke in the eye. A game of tag now. Your turn.

  ‘Look, Martha. I’m going to be really honest with you. I have just one more week to file my report. As part of that, I’m going to be pressing for a review of those patients I don’t believe suit the Millrose environment at all. You’re one of those. But hunches won’t do. I need to make a proper case on paper. Not just your improvement off the m
eds. A clear clinical case. I would like to propose that you are transferred immediately to one of my clinics as an outpatient with supervised but more relaxed accommodation. A transition, hopefully, to you going back to your life, Martha. But I can’t do that unless you talk to me. Help me make the case.’

  Martha closed her eyes now and listened to the birds outside a different room. Yellow wallpaper like buttercups. A field with her mother holding a flower under her chin. Do you like butter? And then the sensation of extreme tiredness. So little sleep. Punch-drunk with tiredness. Her breasts heavy with milk. Emerging from a dream, opening her eyes and smiling with anticipation. Rolling over to face the cot…

  And now Sarah looked at Dr Clarke, alarmed, as Martha’s breathing changed. More and more rapid. Her chest rising faster and faster. Eyes shut tight.

  ‘Are you OK, Martha?’

  ‘Yes. So you can really help me? Get me out of here?’ The whisper was desperate, each word punctuated by heavy, strained breaths as if the air was not reaching her lungs.

  ‘If you talk to me, Martha – yes. I think I can.’

  And so she opened her eyes and made herself go back there. To that awful room where she looks again at the cot.

  Empty.

  And she turned back then to Dr Clarke, who had both tenderness and guilt in his eyes, knowing from the look on her face, from the air which was not reaching her lungs and from all the years in this job, that he had cornered her. Left her no choice.

  That it was coming…

  Martha’s story.

  Martha’s truth.

  Part III

  Part Three

  23