She knelt to receive communion at the altar rail. Saint Jude’s chapel was gloomily painted with the same pre-war cream hospital gloss paint as the dormitories. Maybe a miracle will happen, thought Babby. But, like a cloud blotting out the sun, she sank into gloomy despair again and realised she would have to do without the help of miracles. Copying the other girls by joining her hands and resting her elbows on the polished brass altar rail, after a short poke in the ribs by the girl next to her telling her she had to take communion, she screwed up her eyes and wondered how on earth she was going to get out of this place. With her bare knees going numb against the cold marble slab, she noticed how pregnant some of the other girls were. How long had they been here? Three months? Two months? Did they ever leave? One of them had a strange tic: it seemed she was measuring and re-measuring the hem of her shift dress, making sure it was touching the floor, just how the nuns liked it.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Babby asked Mary.
‘Been here too long,’ she whispered. ‘They took her baby away. Babies, actually. Twins. Now she’s gone round the bend and they don’t know what to do with her. Her mam and dad won’t have her back, but she’s good for the laundry here. Probably she’ll end up down the road in the loony bin.’
‘The Body of Christ,’ said Father Dwyer, who was saying Mass. When he placed the host on Babby’s pink tongue, poking out between her white teeth, she looked up at him with doleful brown eyes. He put his hand on her head, said nothing. She tried to swallow the wafer-thin host, but found it had glued itself to the roof of her mouth, forcing her to try and peel it off with the tip of her tongue. Eating the consecrated bread had always panicked her. She had often wondered whether Jesus would feel little stabs of pain if she were to grind it between her teeth. Was this why the nuns at Saint Hilda’s had told them it was a sin to chew holy communion? Trying to concentrate on good things: Callum’s kisses and the way his black hair fell into his eyes when he laughed; Hannah; her piano accordion; the way it felt when the blood rushed through her body and breath filled her lungs when she sang – all this came flashing into her head and yet she still hadn’t managed to swallow the Corpus Christi. In the moment that should have been reserved most for God, her thoughts had leapt to worldly matters. If Jesus had hidden depths, I have hidden shallows, she said to herself. Trying to put all this aside, she decided to plot how she would escape from this place. And it wouldn’t be a moment too soon.
‘Saint Jude. Let him pray for us,’ said Father Dwyer. The patron Saint of Lost Causes must be getting an awful lot of intentions from these girls, thought Babby, darkly.
After Mass, they trooped out. Following on behind, Sister Benigna, clutching her rosary beads to her chest, had one of her mean looks on her face – a look so sharp that you could have cut ice with it. Meanwhile, the organ, played by a small birdlike nun, started up, a droning, miserable version of ‘Praise to the Holiest’. Babby looked around at the glum faces. Well, at least this was one thing she could do something about; and with a burst of renewed energy, she lifted her face and began to sing her heart out. If there was one thing she could do, it was use her voice to try and drown out all the snivelling and sadness that lashed at this place.
‘Praise to The Holiest in the Heights!’ she sang gustily, beaming. The sister’s head turned, a frown etched into her face. Babby’s voice was loud and clear and pure.
‘Sure, you sing like an angel, Babby,’ said Collette, lying in the bed next to her, later that night. She had curly red hair like snakes wriggling down her back, and skin so white you could see her blue veins. ‘Know any songs from the hit parade?’
‘How about this?’ replied Babby. She started singing. ‘Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger, Ooh ooh ooh, what you do to me when I’m feelin’ blue, Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger, hold me tight, baby I love you.’
‘Louder, Babby,’ said another voice in the dark.
Babby sang out, her voice loud and full of happiness. She clicked her fingers in time.
‘Sure, that’ll stop us girls crying, if you could do that every night Babby …’ said Collette. She began to sing along and then the girl beside her joined in, then the one in the opposite bed, and then a few others until they were all singing with her, clicking fingers, rapping the bed frames, together in the dark.
The door opened. And then Benigna came in, standing there, her hand on the doorjamb, foot in the room, body out. ‘Did I hear singing?’ she asked.
‘Yes, sister …’ replied Babby. ‘Hymns. Raisin’ our voices in prayer, that’s all.’
The door closed. A guffaw erupted.
‘Three cheers for Babby!’ shouted Mary. ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ And their voices echoed around the dormitory and ricocheted off the walls in a chorus of defiance, united in their love, clinging to a raft of hope. ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’
Finally, after a day of exhaustion from the praying, the laundry, the tears, the sheer sleep-sapping energy drain that came with most of them being at least five months pregnant, an hour later most were asleep. There were occasional sounds of the sniffling in the dark, but mostly it had become quiet.
Babby was trying to nod off. She and Mary talked long into the night about Saint Hilda’s, about Callum and their mothers. Babby’s bed was pushed up against the wall and there was a window above her. Suddenly there was a noise, and then, through the small window above, a pair of feet appeared. Then legs. Big, hairy man legs.
‘Jesus Mary and Joseph!’ cried Babby.
The man wriggled his body through the gap, then jumped down, stood beside her bed, put his hand over her mouth. ‘Not a word if you want to help the cause,’ he said in a thick Irish accent.
Babby could smell him. A man smell, dirty boots, beer, and cigarettes. Terrified, she lay with her eyes bulging out of their sockets, trembling.
‘Shush,’ said Mary. ‘Be quiet and I’ll explain later.’
Babby watched as the man went over to Mary’s bed. They were talking. Plotting. You could hear it in their whispers. He made a salute to her, held up his fist, then he lay on top of her, hands straight up her nightie, kissed her, with Babby gaping and the other girls, those who were still half awake and used to it, probably, turning their heads away from him. And then he got under the covers and kissed Mary again, right there in the dormitory, Mary moaning and him groaning. With Sister Agnes padding up the corridor saying her novenas for their sinful souls and the starving in Africa. God knows what was going on between the two of them, but whatever it was, it was all over in five minutes. And he was back through the window, saluting as he went. ‘One Ireland, one cause.’
‘This is life,’ whispered Mary. ‘The very best and the very worst of it.’
And Babby had to agree with her.
The following day, on the way to chapel yet again, Babby met Collette properly. She told Babby she had three kids.
‘I’m one of the homeless girls who get to keep their bairns because no one wanted them,’ she explained. ‘They were too old, see. Snotty-nosed toddlers and boys and lasses that kick and curse and scream like the devil. They only want fresh pink babbies. Me and my pals are in a different dormitory but they moved me here because I’m near my time.’
Apparently, if it were possible, the other dormitory was worse than Babby’s.
‘The nuns send us out at seven in the morning to find jobs, with our kiddies, can you believe it? We’re not allowed back to the Mother and Baby Home until five thirty at night … When we get back, they leave us outside, little ’uns as well. Doesn’t matter if it’s freezing cold or pelting it down, they won’t let us in a minute earlier than half past. Even stare at us from the windows, checking their watches before they open the gates!’
‘You’re joking?’ said a wide-eyed Babby.
‘I am not. All day I’m tramping the streets of Southport looking for food, or shelter, or a job – it’s a crime, so it is.’
That afternoon, when Collette had left with her kids, Babby was called by Sister Benigna and
sent to the dormitory to change the sheets on the beds. She was handed a pile of lovely clean crisp white sheets that smelled of fresh air. Collette and the girls would be delighted, she thought, when they came back. But then, two hours later when Babby was peeling potatoes, she was called again by Sister Benigna.
‘Monsignor’s gone. He’s done the dormitory rounds. Take the sheets off that you just put on.’
‘You mean I have to put the filthy ripped rags back on the beds?’
‘Yours is not to question why.’
When Collette returned, Babby said to her it wasn’t right. None of it was.
‘What can you do?’ replied Colette, with a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh.
‘Tell Agnes that she’s wrong to treat you like this,’ replied Babby.
‘I can’t do that!’ said Collette.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? Look Babby, you have to understand how this works. When they say they only have our best interests at heart, they’re lying. You know how we know they’re lying? Because their lips are moving. We all know this, knew it from the minute we stepped in this place. Just like you. But we have no choice because they are the only ones who will have us. They’ll either take your baby, like you, and then you’ll be free to live your life. Or they’ll give you a roof over your head, like me, whilst I get back on me feet. Who would have me and my kiddies? Me mam has chucked me out, won’t have anything to do with me since I got knocked up by Charlie, the fella who brings the coal. But why wouldn’t I have had Charlie? My husband used to beat me black and blue. Charlie brought me some comfort. But now? Well, it’s only the sisters who’ll give me a bed. I hate them. I really, really hate them, and they’re going to take this kiddie when I have him. I know that. But what else can I do?’
‘Oh God, Collette. We’re on this track and we can’t get off. There has to be another way.’
‘See this?’ said Collette. She took a ring from her pocket. ‘Curtain ring. Not even a ring from Woolies. The nuns make me put it on when I go out. In case anyone notices that I’m showing. And they make us wear these awful duffle coats to hide our bumps, horrible shapeless things. Even in the summer. It’s hideous.’
‘That settles it,’ said Babby. ‘The next chance I have, I’m going to say something to the old batey-faced witch, you see if I don’t.’
And three days later, she did.
‘Yes, girl. What is it?’ asked the nun, when she answered the door of her office to Babby.
Someone should have warned Babby. As she stepped into the room, she couldn’t take her eyes off the walls. They were covered with giant insects. Varnished beetles, huge colourful butterflies, scorpions, and ants with legs as big as a boy’s fingers. Some were in glass frames, others were pinned on to velvet-covered jewellery pads. Babby supposed the first time you saw them was a kind of a test. The first time must always come as a bit of a shock.
‘The sisters brought them back from the Missions in Malaysia – bet you’ve never seen a spider as big as that hairy ugly beggar, have you? Don’t be scared,’ she said and laughed. ‘The girls like them. They fight to come into my office and have a look.’
‘It’s wrong what you’re doing here, with the girls!’
Sister Benigna’s mouth gaped open. The cheek of the little slut!
‘Who says? You? What would you know about right or wrong? You don’t deserve that thing in your belly! Not another word. Go. You’re nothing but trouble. We know about the music. The singing. The pop music. Zigger Zagger. You little Jezebel! Singing and mooning around with the devil’s tunes. Just like a Delaney. And, you know, you’re supposed to go to chapel each morning and each evening. Don’t think we haven’t noticed you have barely been at all. And why aren’t you wearing a wedding ring?!’ She pulled open the drawer of her desk, rooted about, and slammed a tarnished Woolworth’s ring on the table. ‘Put that on. Now get out of my sight. Fifty Hail Marys and confession. I’ll deal with your proper punishment tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirty-one
She was leaving Saint Jude’s Mother and Baby Home. She had decided. And she was never going back. That’s what she told herself as she shook Mary awake. Mary stirred, rolled on to her back with her arm covering her face. ‘Jaysus, I’m asleep. Trying to get some kip before chapel.’
‘Wake up, Fry – Mary. I’m leaving and I need to give you this,’ said Babby, tugging at the bedclothes.
Mary could feel air as Babby waved something under her nose. She lifted her head off the pillow, propped herself up on her elbow. ‘What is it?’
‘Give this letter to the sisters when they realise I’ve gone,’ answered Babby.
‘I heard what you said last night to Benigna. Good on you girl. This letter about that?’ she said, yawning, pushing away her tangle of red hair from her eyes.
Babby nodded.
‘Go,’ said Mary. ‘Go to the King’s Arms in Garston. Say I sent you,’ she said, kissing her cheek.
‘The King’s Arms? I know it!’ exclaimed Babby. ‘I’ve been there with my father.’
‘Even better. There’s a job goin’ there, helping out and singing. With a room.’ And Mary hugged her tightly.
Babby handed her the piece of paper she’d been waving under her nose. ‘Read it,’ she said. On it Babby had written:
Dear Sister Agnes,
Babby has returned home and with my blessing. I have agreed to keep her here for the foreseeable future. We are making our own private arrangements for the child. Please respect our wishes and give us time to decide what we will do about Babby. I know it is a wicked, wicked thing that Babby has done, but we want the best for her and her child. Thank you for your kindness and charity.
Love and God Bless.
Violet Delaney.
‘You crafty sod!’ said Mary, smiling. ‘But if you think that will be an end to it with those witches, you’re wrong Babby.’
Babby shrugged, pulled the carpet bag that she had packed out from underneath her bed. ‘What choice do I have?’ she said, slinging it over her shoulder.
‘Bugger all else I can think of,’ said Mary. ‘Except … here … wait a minute …’
She took a piece of paper from her pocket, scribbled on it, and pressed it into her hand. Then she whispered in her ear, ‘There’s always this … Do you have money?’
Babby looked at the paper. ‘Just my bits of wages.’
‘You were kind to me and there’s a woman I know in Lydiate. See this as your last resort. Your very last resort. But if you need it, call the number. Say Mary gave it to you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mary.’ Not quite knowing what to make of it, but grateful all the same.
And with that, Babby hugged her again. When she raised her head, she saw figures in their nightdresses standing by the dormitory door. It was Collette and a few of the other girls who guessed what she was up to, having seen her dress. Collette put her fingers to her lips and waved with her other hand, signalling that Sister Benigna was prowling the corridor. Babby blew them all a kiss and climbed up and out of the window, on to the ledge below, chucked down the bag, then leaped and dropped on to the ground, landing with a thump, before picking up her belongings, brushing herself down and running like the wind until she was just a silhouette, then merely a patch of a shadow, then a nothing.
It was getting late, so she set off walking along Virgin’s Lane, into the village, past the church and the school, and then, from the green with its memorial cross, she took a bus to Litherland. Finally, exhausted from walking the last mile, the bag becoming heavier with each step she took and feeling she had arms two inches longer, she approached the pub in Speke Road. It stood alone and defiant, as though it existed on its own island, part of the crater that was once the Bryant and May match factory, now a bomb site. She remembered the stories of Hitler’s Luftwaffe dropping fifty bombs on the factory, and the sky lighting up blood red from the fires, and the devastation that it caused.
Her fingers were blue
with cold but the pub would be warm and it would smell sweet, although it was no place for young woman. And a young woman with a baby on the way. But it was her only hope. Anything was better than the Mother and Baby Home. She slipped off the Woolies ring that was still on her finger, put it in her pocket, dusted herself off and straightened herself down and tried to make the best of a bad job. Her hair felt like a hat, it was so matted and flat, but she used her fingers to rake through it and soon sorted herself out. The yellow gaslights from inside gave off a dim glow, the light pooling on to the pavement in buttery arcs. The sounds of a piano, someone singing, seeped out into the cold night air. Babby recognised the song immediately. It was a song about a donkey – one of her dad’s favourites. She could hear the sound of women’s high-pitched laughter which cut through the night. It was a place that her dad had taken her and Pat many years ago, and they would sit outside, waiting for him, with a packet of Walker’s crisps and a bottle of pop. She and Pat would find and unwrap the blue folded paper and empty the salt from it, sprinkling it over the crisps, and it was a comforting memory.
She remembered the Mouse, who manned the pen and was disliked by many because of that, who’d been befriended by her father who always had a soft spot for the unloved, the waifs and strays. Jack would drink here with the Mouse who also ran the bingo, and Babby would sneak in and give him the bingo cards she and Pat had filled in. She liked the way the Mouse would call ‘Two fat ladies, clickety click; key to the door, number four. Bit of order, please!’ The only time you were allowed to make a noise was when he said ‘Legs eleven’ and then everyone would wolf whistle and whoop and the whole room would start tapping their pennies against their beer glasses. Then it would all go quiet except for the sound of the barmaid coughing like a miner as she chain-smoked behind the bar. And then there would be singing. And Jack would pull the bellows of his accordion in and out, and that’s when the real fun would start.
A Liverpool Girl Page 20