Daughter of Mine

by Anne Bennett

  The power of the first slap across her cheek caused her head to spin; the second to the other cheek sent her reeling into the bookcase dislodging the books.

  At the commotion two nuns rushed in. One held Lizzie’s arms tightly and the other rushed across to ask, ‘Are you all right, Sister Jude?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ the nun said in clipped tones. ‘But our new guest needs a lesson in manners. Fetch me the birch cane.’ Lizzie had felt the strength of the nun’s arms in the slaps she’d administered and she expected the caning to hurt. There was nothing to be done by resisting, except to enrage Sister Jude further, so she pulled up her dress as the nuns directed.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the cane raised and the nun’s arm flexed, her face contorted. She braced herself as it whistled through the air, but couldn’t prevent the gasp that escaped her as the cane sliced through her cotton knickers. No more, she vowed, clenching her teeth. She will never make me cry out again.

  The power of the next stroke of the cane caused her body to bounce, and the next, and by the time the nun struck her for the fourth time she swayed on her feet and saw black spots before her eyes. She was terrified she would faint, that she would show weakness before this woman, this heinous excuse for a human being that was trying to beat her into submission.

  She bore the next two strokes valiantly, fighting with waves of sickness, and although the pain was extreme she made no sound.

  The nun seemed disappointed. ‘Take her away to the bathroom, Sister Maria,’ she said, ‘and cut nearly every hair from her head.’

  Lizzie turned and looked at her in shocked disbelief and the nun smiled. ‘Oh yes, Elizabeth Gillespie, there is no place for vanity here. Your hair will be shorn, and because you are a sinner you cannot be called the same name as the mother of St John the Baptist. We have other names here. Yours will be Pansy. Do I make myself clear?’

  Lizzie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This place was surely worse than prison, and like a prison there was no way out and they were ruled over by these malicious, oppressed women that went under the name of nuns. Well, they’d not break her, but for now she’d put up with it.

  A prod in the back told her the nun expected an answer. You wouldn’t know what to do in this place that you wouldn’t be beaten for. ‘Yes, Sister Jude.’

  It hurt to walk; it hurt to stand. Her bottom was stinging like she’d sat on a red-hot griddle, but she forced herself to walk with her head held high and her back straight and followed Sister Maria without wincing or faltering, when really she wanted to lie down in a corner and weep.

  ‘Now, I’m Sister Maria and this is Sister Clement,’ the nun said to Lizzie when they reached the bathroom. ‘Sister Clement will run the bath while I cut off this hair.’ She ran her finger through it as she spoke and Lizzie did nothing, she didn’t push her hand away or even toss her head back, though her nerves seemed stretched to breaking point to prevent her doing these things. She didn’t want to show these vindictive women she cared what they did to her.

  She sat on the chair indicated, unable to help wincing when her bottom made contact with the hard board, and this seemed to amuse both nuns who watched the dark brown curls and waves toss down to the floor. The only sound was the water gushing into the bath, filling the room with steam, and the nun’s voice in her ear as she hacked roughly at her hair, muttering about vanity and the sin of pride.

  Lizzie felt sick as she looked at the beautiful curls and waves. In a way, the nun was right, she was proud of her hair. It was her shining glory and she kept it in good condition. She wanted to weep, but she wouldn’t. That’s what they’d like, these nuns. She told herself to get it in perspective. After all, set against what was in her belly, what did the loss of her hair matter compared to having this child and being able to walk away without it, to go back to Birmingham? Life with Steve would be a bed of roses after this, she thought. After the war she’d have her children back too, and no one would be any the wiser.

  The nun put down the scissors and went over her head again with clippers, and then when she stopped she snatched up a mirror. ‘Look at yourself, slut,’ she commanded. ‘See if your fancy man would look at you now.’

  Looking back at Lizzie was a white-faced woman with pain-filled, confused eyes and blue lines of strain pulling at her mouth and running down each side of her nose, and the whole lot topped with little more than fuzz on her head.

  ‘Well?’

  Lizzie had been so shocked at her appearance she’d forgotten the question. ‘Are you a simpleton?’ the nun said.

  ‘No, no, Sister.’

  ‘Well then, I asked you will your fancy man look twice at you now?’

  It was useless to protest that there was no fancy man. ‘No, Sister.’

  ‘He took what he wanted and cast you aside, and you, you dirty slut, allowed him to.’

  I didn’t. I didn’t. Lizzie longed to cry.

  ‘Well, for your moments of stolen sinful pleasure, you must pay dearly,’ the nun said. ‘It is penance offered up to the good Lord. Pour some disinfectant in the bath, all whores need that,’ she directed the other nun, and then she said to Lizzie, ‘Remove your clothes.’

  Lizzie didn’t want to strip before these women. They were strangers to her, however holy they purported to be, and it didn’t seem at all right. But already she’d felt the reaction to a disobeyed order here and she pulled her clothes off quickly, and then, almost automatically, wrapped her arms around her body, which was bent over in an effort to cover herself. ‘Stand up straight.’

  Lizzie couldn’t believe she’d heard right. ‘Are you deaf, dear Pansy?’ Sister Maria asked sarcastically.

  ‘No, Sister.’

  ‘Then stand up!’ The bark wouldn’t have been out of place in the parade ground and Lizzie jumped and slowly she uncurled herself. ‘Arms by your sides.’

  She felt vulnerable and helpless and she kept her head lowered in shame as the nun came up close to her. Sister Clement was at her back, although Lizzie wasn’t aware of it until she spoke. ‘She has a fine pattern on her bum,’ she said, ‘and it’s a big enough bum too.’

  ‘She had to be reminded of her manners,’ Sister Maria said. ‘Five minutes here and shrieking at Sister Jude. It wasn’t to be borne.’

  ‘No indeed.’

  Lizzie felt as if her nerves were pulled tight. She wanted to turn and face the nun who prowled at her back, but then that would leave her exposed at the front and Sister Maria was there. Any minute she expected to feel the nuns hands on her bottom, which felt as if it were on fire, feel her fingers tracing the marks of the cane. She knew she’d scream if the nun did that and damn the consequences, for she wouldn’t be able to help herself.

  But the nun said nothing and didn’t touch any part of Lizzie’s body, though she was close enough for Lizzie to feel the nun’s breath on her skin. With her ears on high alert for any movement Sister Clement might make, she watched Sister Maria as she paraded in front of her. ‘You have a fine body. Do you think so. Pansy?’

  Now what response should she make to that, Lizzie wondered? ‘Yes, Sister,’ seemed safest.

  ‘Soon it will be swollen with the child inside you.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ God, thought Lizzie, where was all this leading?

  Suddenly, and without warning, Sister Maria flicked at both her nipples. Lizzie couldn’t help the gasp of pain, nor moving her arms to enfold her throbbing breasts. ‘Put your arms down,’ Sister Maria hissed. ‘I’ll not have you standing there sticking your breasts out like that. No shame in you at all. Get into that bath and scrub yourself.’

  Lizzie was glad to slide under the water away from the eyes of the nuns, and though it hurt her to sit and the disinfectant stung the open sores on her bottom, the water was soothing on her smarting nipples. She scrubbed herself from head to foot with the hard cake of soap and flannel she was handed, even pouring water over the stubble on her head.

  Sister Clement handed her a coarse towel
and she stepped from the bath and began to dry herself. Sister Maria came in with a handful of clothes. The first was a wide strip of calico, which Sister Maria wound around her breasts so tightly she wondered if she’d be able to breathe. She fastened this to the side with a knot and it effectively squeezed Lizzie’s breasts almost flat, though they ached in protest. This was covered by a shapeless smock that hung over Lizzie’s narrow shoulders and a pair of knickers so large a knot had to be tied in the waistband. An elastic band with suspenders dangling from it held up thick stockings, and instead of shoes she wore boots. A shapeless cotton hat that Sister Clement shoved onto her head and secured with kirby grips completed the hideous outfit.

  Lizzie didn’t need the mirror to know she looked dreadful. She felt dreadful, but no matter, she told herself. She supposed it was all part of the penance, and in a few months it would all be over. No one would see her except those in the same boat.

  ‘Now,’ Sister Maria said, ‘you’ve missed your lunch and have a fine long afternoon before you, and as we don’t believe in idleness here I will take you along to the laundry.’

  Lizzie thought this needed no response and she followed the nun to the back of the building.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lizzie never forgot her first sight of the Magdalene Laundry. As soon as Sister Maria opened the door, the moist heat hit her and she stood at the top of the steps and stared. The very air was clammy, steam rose in the air and it smelt of soap and soda.

  To one side, three boilers bubbled away. Two had their lids open and girls were pulling clothes from the boiler with wooden tongs into poss tubs, while other girls were standing by deep stone sinks or galvanised baths, scrubbing at articles of clothing with carbolic soap and washboards. Others were scrubbing at sinks full of foaming suds, or rinsing articles and mangling them, and three girls at the other side were ironing the overflowing baskets of clothes with heavy irons that hissed with steam.

  All the girls, Lizzie noticed, were clothed as she was, and each one had a sheen of sweat on their faces. It didn’t surprise her, for even as she stood there beads of sweat stood out on her forehead, but what did surprise her was that not one girl’s head was turned in her direction.

  A prod in the back brought her back to the present and nearly toppled her down the steps. ‘What are you gawping at? Think this is a rest home? Got to watch this one, Sister Carmel. She’s a born slacker, I’d say.’

  The older nun’s face was very wrinkled, but her eyes were bright with malice and she surveyed Lizzie disdainfully. ‘My name is Sister Carmel,’ she said, ‘and I am in charge of the laundry; and believe me, there is no slacking of any description tolerated here. Do you understand that, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Well now, what name have you been given? It would begin with a P, I think.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Lizzie said again. ‘Pansy, Sister.’

  The nun tittered. ‘Well, I hope you’re stronger than that wee flower,’ she said, ‘for you’ll need strength and stamina here.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, Sister.’

  ‘Aye, Sister Maria. I’ll see to her, never fear,’ the nun said, steering Lizzie towards the boiler. ‘Now, you see what these girls are doing? You take the clothes from the boiler and pound them with the poss stick and then pass them over to the sinks to be washed and rinsed. Can you do that?’

  ‘Aye. Yes, Sister.’

  It was what Lizzie did anyway, although now, with the children away, her washing wasn’t an enormous job, but this she found was back-breaking work. When she had no more clothes left in the boiler, she had to empty it, wash it out, fill it up from the tap, bucket by bucket, put in the soap suds and light the gas for the next load of washing. And then she rubbed her knuckles raw on a washboard while she waited for the water to heat.

  But hardest of all was the lack of any form of human kindness. The girls barely looked at each other and never spoke. The nun, Sister Carmel, would sit at her embroidery, head lowered. Lizzie knew without being told that talking was forbidden here and also that the nun would hear a pin drop at fifty yards, and even a whisper wouldn’t get past her.

  Suddenly, the nun gave a sigh, consulted her watch and began the rosary. Lizzie thought how comforting it was to hear a human voice even raised in prayer and the litany at least gave her a rhythm to work with.

  Barely had the rosary finished before the bell went. There was no sound, not even an isolated sigh, and yet Lizzie felt the tension ease. Without a word, girls emptied boilers and poss tubs, drained sinks, hung damp washing in lines criss-crossing the room, wiped down mangles, folded dry, ironed washing and put it into baskets and lined up at the door behind Sister Carmel.

  She surveyed the room, and as it was obviously to her satisfaction she led the way from the laundry down the corridor. Lizzie’s stomach rumbled. She’d eaten little since the few spoonfuls of porridge she’d managed this morning, for though her mother had packed a more than adequate picnic to sustain her and the priest on the journey here, she’d been too nervous to eat. And she knew as they filed into the room and stood behind the benches before the black refectory table that she’d been right to feel nervous, for this place was worse than anything in her wildest dreams.

  Before she sat down, Lizzie caught a glimpse of the nun’s tea behind the carved screen, plates of assorted sandwiches, crumpets dripping with butter, slices of fruitcake and a tray of other fancies. They were waited on by older women, dressed in the same garb as the girls wore, but they had nothing covering their heads, their hair wasn’t shorn and they wore shoes not boots.

  The sight of those middle-aged, nearly old women threw Lizzie into a panic. Dear Christ, what were they doing in such a place? Whatever they’d done had to have been years before.

  She sat down carefully but still had to bite her lip to prevent the gasp of pain escaping. She saw the girl sitting beside her look up, and though she spoke not a word her eyes were full of sympathy and Lizzie knew she wouldn’t have been the only one in this company of women to be beaten in that way.

  Their tea was jam sandwiches, the jam merely smeared across the bread, and a pot of weak tea with little milk and no sugar. Lizzie was used to meagre fare, for rationing had begun to bite and didn’t allow for luxury, but she’d seldom got up from a meal almost as hungry as when she’d sat down to it.

  After tea there were prayers, the rosary said together, and then it was bedtime, in a bleak dormitory room where she was assigned one of the basic wooden beds. They were set in two rows down either side of the room, a chair beside each bed to take the clothes and a voluminous nightdress tucked underneath the pillow.

  The sheets were clean enough, Lizzie thought, stripping back the bed to get into it, but though you’d hardly need blankets in this weather, she hoped there were more for the bitter winter nights. But, she reminded herself, she’d hardly be here for them: the baby would be born in November, before the winter really set in, and she’d be gone from this Godawful place as soon as she was able.

  Almost as soon as the light was out and the door banged shut and locked, the girl in the next bed whispered, ‘What’s your real name?’

  It was the first time any of the girls had spoken. It was like living amongst deaf mutes, and Lizzie whispered back, ‘Lizzie, but they’ve christened me Pansy.’

  ‘Aye, I know, I’m the same. They go down the alphabet and when they get to Z they start again I suppose. My name is Celia, but they call me Hetty.’

  ‘Well, I’m P, which means there should be sixteen girls here, but I can only make it twelve,’ Lizzie whispered back, for she’d counted them all as they came to bed.

  ‘Aye,’ Celia said, and added wistfully, ‘Two got out. Babs had an uncle and Gladys a father to speak for them.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “got out”?’

  ‘You are having a baby?’

  ‘Aye, of course. Why else would I be here?’

  ‘Jesus, there’s a hundred and one reasons why they p
ut a girl in a place like this. I think sometimes it’s because they don’t like the look of her. Edna was in here because they thought she was in moral danger. Her mother, a widow woman, playing fast and loose they said.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Edna says not, but who cares. And whether her mother was free and easy with her favours or not, why stick Edna in a place like this. And she’ll be here for years. No father to speak for her, and if her mother is considered immoral she won’t be released into her care, so…’

  ‘For years! You mean…?’

  ‘You think you’ll have the child, hand it to the nuns and walk out of here?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ Celia said. ‘Mind you, that’s what we all thought when we came here first. Didn’t you see the old lags fawning around the nuns while we were at tea?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Watch them,’ Celia warned. ‘They are more vicious and vindictive than some of the nuns at times and they carry tales. They seldom come into the laundry, they see to the nuns’ things and clean their living quarters and that, and sleep four to a room. Most have lived here all their lives. It’s the only life they know now.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You can’t get out of here unless you have someone to speak for you,’ Celia said, ‘and this person should preferably be male.’

  ‘You can’t hold grown women prisoner.’

  ‘They can do as they please in this place,’ Celia said grimly. ‘I think the old people would be afraid to leave now, and so they are in a privileged position.’

  ‘What happens if you just run away?’

  ‘How? Fly over the wall? And even if you managed that where would you run to? One girl tried it. She smuggled herself into the laundry van, but the Guards hunted her down and she was beaten so severely that she was in the infirmary almost a week.’

  It sounded incredible to Lizzie. ‘They cannot keep me here,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m a married woman.’