No Greater Love - Box Set

by Prowse, Amanda

  Dot laughed, despite the nervous panic that enveloped the girls. ‘Don’t try and talk!’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ It was the unmistakeable cold tone of Sister Kyna. She tutted at the glass fragments, then glanced at Susan.

  ‘I think she’s started.’ Dot chewed her bottom lip. Talk about state the bleedin’ obvious.

  ‘Stand up, girl.’ Sister Kyna’s voice was firm. Susan struggled to reach standing before another wave of pain doubled her over again. Sister Kyna looped her arm through Susan’s and walked as briskly as her encumbered charge would allow towards the nursery wing.

  ‘Clear this mess up!’ She cast the words over her shoulder to anyone that would catch them.

  Dot lay awake most of the night, thinking about her friend and trying not to be deafened by the silence of their room. Over the last four weeks, she had grown used to Susan’s shifts and murmurs throughout the night, the rustle and creak of her palli­asse, her frequent, urgent conversations with Winston Churchill and the sips from the sink tap when thirst overtook her. Being alone gave Dot too much thinking time and that wasn’t a good thing. She could only liken her situation to living in a nightmare; everything she thought she knew and could rely on had been taken from her, her parents’ love and support, the welcoming roof of their little house in Ropemakers Fields, Sol. Especially Sol. It was his absence that she felt most keenly.

  By morning Dot was desperate for word of Susan. At the breakfast table she learned that her friend’s labour had been relatively quick and that mother and babies, one boy and one girl, were doing just fine.

  It was three days later, after breakfast, Dot was back on rake duty, enjoying the fresh air and doing her best to keep the gravel pristine. She wondered how Gracie’s mum was doing and was surreptitiously checking that her bobby pin trail was still hidden when she heard a cough behind her,

  ‘Ah, Dot, you’ll do. Could you please help me lift this heavy bin to the back store?’ Sister Agnes spoke a little too loudly and emphasised the word ‘heavy’, using her eyes to indicate the large metal dustbin in front of them. Dot peered into its empty interior. It didn’t look heavy at all, in fact hadn’t Sister just carried it all the way around to the front?

  ‘This bin here?’

  ‘Yes, Dot, this one!’ She sounded quite indignant.

  ‘But it’s e—’

  ‘Yes I know it’s “’eavy”! And that word does start with an aitch, you know!’

  Dot looked at Sister Agnes’s rolling eyes and gritted teeth; she thought the woman had gone stark staring mad!

  Propping her rake against the front wall, Dot lifted one handle and the nun took the other. The sister puffed a couple of times, even though they carried a feather weight. They walked with ease across the gravel and up towards the bin store. Plonk­ing the bin down on its concrete plinth, Sister Agnes looked to the left and right, reminding Dot of the look-out at school who used to patrol the playground while the rest of them smoked behind the girls’ toilet block. ‘Wait here!’ she said, and whizzed off to the side of the building, her wimple flying in the wind.

  Dot was left alone and bemused, loitering by the bins. It was a few minutes later that Sister Agnes reappeared, leading Susan by the arm. Dot knew it was Susan, but if it hadn’t been for the hair and vaguely familiar face, she might not have recognised her. She looked haunted, and seemed to have col­lapsed like a deflated balloon, with large dark circles beneath her eyes and no hint of her ready smile or wit.

  ‘Oh, Dot.’ Susan crumpled against her friend’s body. Dot stretched out her arms and, as far as she was able, hugged the girl’s shaking form against her own bulbous belly.

  ‘It’s all right, Susie. It’ll be okay, lovey.’ She patted her back and didn’t know what else to say.

  Susan drew away sharply and faced Dot, gripping the tops of her arms with bony fingers. She fought to control her tears. ‘I had to see you, I had to speak to you and you must listen to me! Forget what I said before. I was wrong. I was so wrong. When I saw them, my babies…’ She stopped speaking to try and stem her tears and regulate her breathing. ‘They were so beautiful. I loved them immediately, I love them so much. You have to fight, Dot, you have to fight. You were right and I didn’t believe you, but… but I love them so much. They’ve taken my girl already, she’s gone!’ The last two words she almost screamed, then her knees buckled and Dot held her fast to stop her sinking to the floor. Sister Agnes stood ten feet away, keeping a look-out, breaking several, if not all the rules of Lavender Hill Lodge.

  ‘I called her Sophie and she’s gone. I couldn’t watch her go, I couldn’t. But they are not having my boy, Nicholas. They are not having him. I’ve taken the ten-pound ticket, we are going to Australia. I don’t care about anything but keeping him with me. I don’t want to chase the fun, I want ordinary! You were right. I’ll live anywhere and marry anyone, I don’t care. But I will not let them take my boy and when I can, I’ll find her, I swear to God and on my life, I’ll get Sophie back. I will! I’ll get her back!’

  Her sobs made further speech impossible.

  Sister Agnes turned towards the girls and flapped her hands agitatedly at Dot, as though shooing away an animal. ‘Quick! Go go go!’

  Dot walked away as briskly as she could, back around to the front of the building. She retrieved the rake and held it between her palms, tears streaming down her face. Seeing Susan so broken and desperate had been horrible; she hoped with all her heart that she and Nicholas would lead a happy life and that she would one day get Sophie back. Listening to Susan had also got her thinking: maybe the ten-pound ticket was her answer.

  Susan’s bed remained vacant for the rest of Dot’s stay, which gave her the chance to chat to her baby when the lights were out and sleep was slow in arriving.

  ‘Is that the answer, little mate? Shall we go to Australia? I can’t imagine what that’d be like, but at least I’d get to keep you. I did love him, y’know, your dad, and I’ll love you n’all. Maybe that’s what we do, baby, jump on a boat like the ones that I used to see in the docks and we’ll go and live in a swamp? Whaddya reckon? Thing is, I can’t really imagine going back to live in Ropemakers Fields. I can’t imagine sitting and eating me tea, while my dad reads the paper and Dee kicks my shins under the table. I can’t imagine life carrying on for me, as if everything is normal. I don’t think things will ever be normal for me again and that makes me really sad, cos I had a lovely little life really, just ordinary, but lovely. Maybe that’s the answer; we should go and live in a swamp.’

  * * *

  November the eleventh, Poppy Day. Dot woke with back ache. This wasn’t unusual – the lumps and bumps of the mattress meant a comfortable night was often just down to luck. She stretched and prepared to change out of her nightie, when she realised with horror that she had wet herself. Only she hadn’t: her waters had broken and this was it. She looked at the image of Christ on the cross above her bed and sank down onto the mattress. ‘Oh shit.’

  The room was smaller than she might have imagined and pretty stark. A bright double strip light hung on chains over­head and the rubberised swing doors had no handles. Dot was worried someone might walk in and see her, but as her labour progressed, she cared about very little. A small green canvas cot, like a shallow sling, sat on a table top, awaiting the baby – her baby! She felt a rush of excitement.

  She was lying on a trolley bed with her bare feet strapped into stirrups that protruded from each side of the bed at extended angles. The dark cotton gown had been hastily fastened at the back and it slipped down her arms, pooling on her stomach, in a bunched-up mess. To the side of the bed stood a rusting upright trolley holding a large industrial-look­ing canister of gas and air. A green tube protruded from the top, attached to a face mask; she wouldn’t mind a drop of that, whatever it was.

  Sister Agnes busied herself among a tray of utensils, clanking and rearranging them. Dot saw the metal glint under the strip light and hoped they wouldn’t need any of them.
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  ‘How are we doing?’ The kindly nun swept Dot’s fringe from her face.

  ‘Okay. Sister Agnes… thanks for… letting me help you with… the bin…’ She spoke in bursts between her panting breaths.

  ‘You are most welcome, Dot.’

  The two women exchanged a meaningful glance.

  It was another half an hour before the mask was looped over her head with a length of elastic and she was told to breathe deeply. The mixture left a metallic taste in her mouth and as soon as it hit her blood, the room seemed to soften, voices took on an echoey quality and her limbs felt leaden. The Entonox did little to relieve her discomfort, but she certainly cared less about it. Pointing at the little green sling, she mumbled from behind the plastic, ‘That’sfermebaby.’

  Sister Agnes held Dot’s hand as another contraction built. ‘Now, remember what I told you. Breathe, Dot, that’s the secret. Good, deep breaths!’

  Dot concentrated on the nun’s encouraging words and tried to do as she was told, but it was difficult to get a full breath before the next contraction started. It was all going too quickly, too fast for her to have any control over the pain that sliced through her body. There was no time to mentally prepare, brace her muscles or focus. Instead, it was as if the pain was in control, it flooded and weakened her and when it subsided all she felt was blessed relief, thankful for the respite, before the whole ghastly cycle started all over again.

  She was aware of a sharp jab in her thigh. She yelped as much with surprise as the sting of the needle. The doctor was standing to her side.

  ‘That’s a shot of pethidine. It will relax all your muscles and take the edge off that pain. You will soon start to feel a whole lot better, just you wait.’

  Things seemed to slow a little; the calm before the storm.

  Bathed in sweat, with her hair stuck to her forehead, Dot tried to control her shaking legs as another wave threatened to overtake her body. She breathed deeply and allowed it to flow over her. She saw Sol’s face behind her closed eyes; he was smiling. ‘That’s my girl.’ She smiled back. All too soon another stirring in the base of her spine warned of a new volcano building. This one felt different, she instinctively knew that this would be the last push. One, two, three seconds passed and her whole body heaved with relief. She fell back against the thin mattress, feeling like a boned chicken, all soft and supple, the knots and sharp edges removed. She was muted and quiet.

  The doctor held up the baby, her baby. A beautiful baby boy, a boy! He had a head of thick, dark curls. Dot cried, he was perfect and he was theirs. She would have given anything in the world at that precise moment to be holding Sol’s hand and not that of the kindly Sister.

  The baby was wrapped in a white sheet and handed to her.

  ‘Oh! Thank you. Look at him! He’s so beautiful.’

  Dot peered into the sheet and loosened the fabric; there staring back at her was the face of her son. Her beautiful boy. His large unfocusing eyes blinked slowly as she drew his face up to her own. His skin was downy soft against her lips; his perfect rosebud mouth seemed to form a kiss on her cheek. She placed the tip of her finger inside his tiny grasping hand; his fingernails were minute. Dot nuzzled her face close to his, inhaling his scent – the scent of warmth, love and innocence, with the faintest hint of cinnamon and spice.

  Sister Agnes smiled and had to agree, yes, he was truly beautiful.

  Dot dozed for a couple of hours as her boy slumbered inside a plastic bassinet in the nursery, where all the babies slept. A couple of other tiny newborns in crocheted bonnets lay in cots, mewling and chewing at scrunched-up fists.

  A young nurse wheeled him in and placed him by the side of her bed; the other girl in the room was also brought her baby. Dot lifted him and held him tightly against her chest. He opened his eyes for the briefest second – they were bright blue! His arms and legs were curled up towards his body, his little fists were bunched under his chin; he looked like a beauti­ful cherub. His lips were full and dark and his skin was darker now than it had been when he was born, more like his dad’s.

  ‘Hello, little fella! Hello, you beautiful boy.’ Dot beamed at the closed face of her son. She shook her head. How could someone like her have managed to make something as perfect as this.

  He started to cry, not with tears – he didn’t know about tears yet – but with a little bleat, a small voice of need, and his mum instinctively knew what it was that he needed. Dot unbuttoned her night gown and held his little face against her breast. His greedy mouth latched on and Dot bit down on her lip, it bloody hurt! She smiled though. In spite of the discomfort, she was feeding her little boy! She felt like a grown-up; better than that, she felt like a mum.

  ‘I love you, little Solomon.’ It slipped out almost uncon­sciously, but once she had spoken it out loud, it seemed to make perfect sense: she would call him Solomon. It didn’t matter what her mum and dad thought, it didn’t matter what anyone thought. Anyway, they were going to Australia and there they could be anything and anyone they wanted to be. It was to be a glorious new beginning; maybe they would drink pineapple juice and swim at a beach after all. She smiled and placed her finger inside his tiny hand. He gripped it with his whole fist.

  ‘You are strong, my little man!’ She noticed his fingers – long and tapered, piano player’s fingers maybe, just like his beautiful daddy. His rosebud mouth continued to suckle, until milk trickled from the side of his mouth and over his curved cheek. His rounded tummy rose and fell as he slept deeply, still gripping his mum’s finger.

  Later that day, Dot was moved to a little room adjacent to the nursery wing. It felt strange to have her own space, but wonderful to be able to see baby Solomon regularly throughout the day. Her body felt a bit more back to normal; her stomach still carried a post-pregnancy bulge and her bra struggled to contain her swollen chest, but the bone-deep ache from giving birth had almost disappeared.

  It was almost simultaneous, when Solomon wanted to feed, she would leak milk, as though she was programmed for his every need. The times when she could hold and feed him were the highlight of her day. Watching him fall asleep against her skin was a joy that she could never have envisaged. To feel the weight of his tiny body against her shoulder was the best feeling in the world. She hated it when the time came to put him in his little bassinet so that he could be wheeled off to the nursery.

  When Solomon was not quite three days old, Dot rummaged in her suitcase and removed the brown paper packet that con­tained her material. ‘I shall give it a lot of thought and try and make something worthy of it, something that will always remind me of today.’

  She lay the length of sky-blue drill flat on the table and planned out the shape for a romper suit. Her skilful dress­maker’s fingers cut the fabric, using a little vest as a vague template. She pressed the material to her face and inhaled its strange scent; it reminded her of her old life, when she had been a happy shop girl, working in Selfridges and going home to her mum’s for her tea. It made her think of the wonderful day she and Sol had spent together when he bought the fabric, and it made her think of her mate Barb, from whom she now felt so remote. Dot folded the seams and used tiny stitches to secure the pieces together. She took extra care, making sure each stitch was equally spaced and precisely the same length; she wanted him to look lovely when they arrived in Australia. Dot smiled at the irony: this was the first ‘Clover Original’. She worked diligently until the early hours and on Solomon’s fourth day on the planet, his new outfit was ready.

  Sister Kyna had sent word to the nursery, asking Dot to visit the office. She walked purposefully along the corridor, almost looking forward to the exchange; Dot was a woman with a plan.

  ‘Please sit, Dot.’ Sister Kyna indicated the chair as though there was a choice of where to perch.

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘I feel it, thank you.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The nun paused and removed her glasses. ‘There are a couple of formalities, Dot, that we need to
take care of today. We need to give the child a name.’

  Dot smiled at the thought of ‘the child’. His name was Solomon, her little Solomon, bringer of peace.

  ‘And the good news is that we have had a development with regard to his adoption. A Canadian couple, based in London – a university professor and his wife, no less – have agreed to take the baby.’

  Dot coughed to clear her throat and took a deep breath. ‘I do have a name for him, actually, but as far as the adoption is concerned, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan. He’s not up for adoption. Can you tell that couple thank you very much, but he’s staying with his mum.’

  Sister Kyna fiddled with her spectacles and ran her tongue over her thin lips. ‘How so, Dot? What has so changed in your circumstance that you are able to keep the boy?’

  ‘It’s simple, really. I never wanted to give him up, never, and I hoped I’d find a way around it and I have!’ Dot grinned, feeling like she had cheated the system. ‘I’m going to take the ten-pound ticket. We are going to Australia!’ Dot lifted her chin, determined. Susan was right, women looked after babies on their own all the time, even women like Dot.

  Sister Kyna was silent for a few seconds, then she smirked and gave a small giggle that quickly developed into a full-blown laugh. She fought for control and wheezed slightly, then coughed into her bunched-up fist and patted her chest. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, Lord give me strength. Is that it? Is that the big plan – to take the ten-pound ticket?’

  Dot felt her cheeks flush and her stomach flip with nerves; this wasn’t how she had planned the exchange. It had happened very differently in her head.

  ‘Yes, we are going to go to Australia. No one’s going to take him away from me.’ This time her eyes were on the floor and her chin dipped against her chest.

  ‘I am afraid, Miss Simpson, that it is not quite that straight­forward. Firstly, you willingly signed the papers – legal docu­ments that placed the care and responsibility for the child with the Church. Secondly, it is our absolute belief that the boy will be better placed with a university professor and his lovely wife than in your care—’