‘Lights out in ten minutes,’ a voice called, knuckles rapped on the door.
‘Are you going to see Matron?’ Joan asked Caroline.
‘I’ll see how it is in the morning, it’s usually better after a lie down.’
She was so young, Joan thought, just sixteen. A dark horse. Not like Megan, who chattered day and night. The two girls were the same age but Megan’s bright personality and her bubbly confidence made her seem older than Caroline.
It was Caroline who had first shown her round, leading her upstairs and into the bedroom. ‘That’s yours.’ Caroline had pointed to the bed at the end of the row. There were three in the room and a small cupboard at the side of each. In the furthest corner, in an alcove to the side of the window, there was a wardrobe.
‘How long have you been here?’ Joan had asked her.
‘A month.’
‘What’s it like?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Bit strict. It’s all right if you remember the rules.’
‘Who else shares?’
‘Megan, she’s at the end. She came last week.’
‘There’s not just three of us?’
‘No. There’s four rooms like this and a big dorm downstairs next to the nursery. You go down there after.’
The girl seemed shy, jiggling one leg as she talked, unable to look at Joan for long without glancing away. She was bonny, a big-boned girl with a broad face and large, chocolate-brown eyes that made you think of an animal; something trusting like a dog or calf.
‘I’ll unpack then.’ She was probably not expected to stop and natter.
The girl nodded. ‘Tea's at half past.’ She slipped out of the door.
Joan sat heavily on the edge of her bed and took a deep breath. She would be here until May, maybe June. The room had cream wallpaper with pink roses on, quite nice. At the doorway there was a holy-water holder, the cup of water at the feet of a small statuette of Our Lady. On the wall opposite the beds, a picture of Christ the Redeemer, arms flung wide in welcome.
With a sigh Joan turned and lifted her case on to the bed.
She put her underwear and nightdress in the small drawer in the bedside table and hung her second-best suit and two maternity frocks in the wardrobe. It smelt musty and she wondered how clean the other clothes were, a shabby dress and coat and a pinafore dress. She had a small vanity case with her as well as writing paper, stamps and envelopes, a prayer book and a rosary.
The three of them had been thrown together and in the days that followed she had come to enjoy Megan’s irrepressible spirit and to feel protective towards Caroline, who was so patently unhappy. Now they tended to sit upstairs even though they could have joined the other girls in the sitting room, where there was a fire and the wireless to listen to for an hour in the evening. As long as the Sisters regarded the programmes broadcast as acceptable for their charges.
They were all so different but here they were, hidden away in St Ann’s; good catholic girls gone bad. She got her nightdress out and changed quickly. There was no heating in the bedroom and it was a cold March night. Two more months, Joan told herself, and it will all be over.
Caroline
Her mother had brought her here. Getting the bus into Manchester and then out again south to the home. There was a place nearer them – St Monica’s – but her mam argued that it was too close.
‘Tongues’ll be tittle-tattling,’ she said. ‘This way no one will set eyes on you. We’ll say you’re visiting Dulcie in Sheffield, helping with the twins.’
Twins. Ran in families. Could she be having twins? Not one baby but two? It was all done and dusted according to her mam. After the first awful shock, when she’d seen Mam’s face go white as fish, her eyes hollow out with dismay.
‘Oh, Caroline,’ she’d said, and the gentle reproach was harder to bear than the harsh words that followed.
All the how could yous and this familys, the respectables and let us downs, the ruin and calamity. And she fancied after that that when her mam looked at her she saw dirt, a soiled creature. A disappointment. Her dad was told and when he came home and found her in the scullery he left the house. After that he ignored her most of the time and if he did have to speak it was with a cold sting in his words. She had lost his love overnight.
Caroline had wept to her mam and begged forgiveness but when talk turned practical and her mam started to organise her stay at St Ann’s, then a small fierce voice had winkled its way out.
‘I want to keep the baby,’ she cried.
‘Caroline, you can’t,’ her mam cried in horror, wheeling round from the lowered wooden creel where she was hanging the washing to dry. She seemed more shocked at this suggestion than she had been at the pregnancy in the first place.
‘Have you any idea . . .’ Mam broke off, speechless at her daughter’s folly, slapping the wet shirt in her hands on the table in frustration. ‘Where would you live? You couldn’t live here. Oh, no –’ she shook her head fiercely – ‘you can throw your own life away, you can condemn your baby to the most miserable existence, but you’ll not drag us down with you.’
‘I could get a room.’
‘Not with a baby,’ her mother snorted. ‘No one would have you. You’d end up beggin’ on the streets, or worse.’
‘l could work,’ she retorted.
‘And who would care for the baby?’
‘Well . . .’ She struggled for solutions. Was it so impossible?
She tugged at her nail, thinking desperately, tears soaking her cheeks.
‘Think of the child,’ her mam urged, ‘growing up a bastard.’ The word like a slap. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Caroline –’ she put down the shirt, moved to put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders – ‘if you care for this baby you’ll want the best for it, a good home, a happy family. A future. You can’t give it that. There are people out there desperate for a little one. Good people. It’s the only way.’
She pulled away then, devastated. She didn’t go to her room but ran out the back and walked up the ridge that ran behind the house. She relished the cold wind that stung her eyes. Digging her nails deep into her palms she strode half-seeing, her nose running so she had to wipe at it every few yards. She went as far as the first outcrop of rocks, Little Craven, and sat in the dip in the weathered stone that the children called the armchair. Facing away from the hamlet and the city in the distance she let her eyes roam across the moors to the peaks beyond. The first snows had reached the tops and she fancied she could smell snow in the air in among the bitter tang of the heather. She sat there until dusk drifted down while the chimneys behind were all smoking and the sheep bleated more loudly. She watched the clouds darken to purple and heard the clatter of the train in the next valley.
She felt blank, empty. A slate wiped clean. Except she wasn’t clean. She was mucky. And no amount of scrubbing or soap or prayer or pleading would put things right.
She didn’t argue again and, when the time was right, before she started to show, her mam brought her to St Ann’s. She had to answer all the questions for the form and she never let on then that there was any other thought in her head but having the child adopted.
Joan
When Joan realised she was pregnant, her first thought was that now Duncan would have to leave his wife. But, of course, he could never divorce her, being Catholic, so he could never marry Joan. They would have to move away, go to London. There was always work in London. They could buy a ring, tell people they were married. Who was to know the difference? Unless they spotted the ‘Miss’ on her Family Allowance book. Would they even give her a book if she was an unmarried mother?
She finished her Blue Riband, put the paper in the tin that she brought her lunch in and leant back against the park bench, letting her eyes roam around the empty pathways. Only a few stolid dog-walkers passed her. The wind gusted and caught at her eyes, a cold wind from the east. There was talk of snow. Not many chose to eat by the boating lake at this time of y
ear. That’s why she’d come here. He’d never do it. There wasn’t even any point in telling him about it. Damn! She swore, it was all so sordid. Snatched hours driving up on the moors with a picnic rug in the back or after work when he’d ask her to stay behind to finish some letters and they’d wait until Betty had tidied up the petty cash and washed the cups and put her hat and coat on and said ‘toodle-oo then’ as she invariably did.
Listening as Betty click-clacked down the steep staircase, waiting for the thud of the front door. Joan’s mouth would go dry and her skin tighten as her fingers rested on the typewriter keys.
Then Duncan would come and stand behind her at her desk. Run his hands across her shoulders, down the front of her blouse, circling her breasts and she would feel weak and wicked and she would do anything then.
There was a steady wind riffling the surface of the boating lake. The boats had gone now. The season over, they were stacked in the boathouse until the spring. Ducks paddled lazily about, oblivious to the cold. Joan sniffed, fished in her coat for her hanky.
He always had to go, so soon. Too soon. Home to his tea, his wife, and I Love Lucy on the television. So their sex was always frantic. They were always half-dressed. It was never enough for her. He didn’t seem to mind but she wanted more time, time to linger, to revel in it, to flaunt herself, tease him, be teased. But no. As soon as Duncan was done he was off, home to Scotch on the rocks and bloody Canasta, and Joan would gather the mail and post it on her way back, her limbs still fluid with desire, her nipples hard, the simple act of walking maintaining her excitement. Still swollen with sex.
‘I’m back,’ she would call to her mother then climb the stairs to her room, where it was her habit to change out of her office clothes. On the nights when he had left her flushed and dizzy she would sit by her dressing table, looking in the mirror, running her hands over her brassiere as he had done, then down between her legs. Stroking herself fast and light she imagined him with her, in her or watching, and closed her eyes, feeling the waves gather inside her then break over her in quick succession.
It was probably a sin, impure deeds, just like seeing Duncan was a sin, but she mentioned neither at her regular confession. Father McRory would have a dickie-fit, she thought. It had never happened with Duncan, her climax, it never would. So many things were out of the question with Duncan.
She stood up abruptly from the park bench. Time to get back to the office. Her fingers were numb at the tips and her back felt chilled. Joan took the path to Wilmslow Road, along past the rose gardens. The bushes had been pruned back hard, only stumpy stalks remained, looking ugly and barren; such a contrast to the rich sea of blooms in summer.
She never fell asleep in his arms, in his bed. Never went out to a cafe or a restaurant with him. She couldn’t give him a Christmas present or hold his hand on the street. His wife had all that. Everything. Except she hadn’t been able to give him a baby. And Joan could – except she wouldn’t, it wasn’t allowed. Like some awful practical joke.
The doctor had confirmed her suspicions and advised her about the Mother and Baby home. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to do anything silly. A year from now and you’ll be able to put it all behind you.’
She pictured herself on someone’s kitchen table, a wire coat hanger making her bleed. Or buying Penny Royal from a chemist’s on the other side of town. Or was the doctor thinking of her hurting herself, putting her head in the oven or throwing herself into the Mersey? Well, he needn’t worry.
She crossed Wilmslow Road and walked past the shops to the corner building where the office was. She wouldn’t tell him. Things would go on as normal for the next few weeks and then she’d give her notice. She would think up a reason, a better position or something. She’d go to the Home, have the baby. Give it up.
She went in and up the stairs.
‘Bit parky out there,’ Betty commented as Joan hung her scarf on the rack. ‘You know what you get, sitting in the cold?’
Frozen, thought Joan. She could see Duncan through the open door to his office at the end of the larger room, pretending to read, but she could tell from the set of his back that he was eavesdropping.
‘Piles,’ said Betty.
‘That’s from stones,’ she couldn’t help smiling, ‘not benches.’
Betty grunted and returned to her ledger.
‘Joan,’ he called.
She walked to the doorway.
‘Any chance of staying on a bit today? I’ve a whole heap of these to get done.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
Megan
Soulmates they were, her and Brendan. Made for each other. She watched him at the counter, waiting for the girl to get the coffees from the big machine. Even looked alike, same flame-red hair and bright blue eyes. She’d more freckles though. She knew they’d get married. Everyone kept on about how young they were but that was daft. They were both in work, what else was there to wait for? They’d need to save a bit, of course, they’d have to stay at her mammy’s till they got on the housing list.
She’d seen a lovely ring, white gold, quite plain.
He brought back the drinks.
‘You’d make a good waiter,’ she teased.
‘Go on. Dying breed with all the self-service.’
‘They won’t bring it in everywhere,’ she said scornfully. ‘Restaurants and that’ll still have service.’
The grocers on Mount Street had put out fruit and veg and a sign saying pick your own.
‘I don’t fancy that,’ her mammy had pronounced, ‘everyone handling the fruit. Silly notion.’
Mammy was still stuck back in the old country. She didn’t like modern stuff. Megan did.
Even their names practically rhymed – Megan, Brendan.
She poured sugar in her drink and stirred at the froth, watched the gaggle of lads and lasses piling in from the pictures. Waved hello to those she knew.
When she turned back Brendan was pulling a daft face; sucking his spoon so hard that his nose was pinched and white.
‘Give over,’ she laughed.
He crossed his eyes.
‘Eejit. Put ‘Living Doll’ on . . . and ‘Dream Lover’.’
He waggled his eyebrows at her and licked his lips.
‘Go on.’
He went over to the jukebox and put his money in, pressed the buttons. Megan watched the records move round and the black disc selected and lowered to the turntable. She joined in the song.
‘Fancy a walk?’ Brendan asked.
‘I’d better get back, they’ve left Kitty in charge and they’ll all be swinging from the chandeliers.’
He frowned.
‘I told you,’ she shoved his arm. ‘They’ve gone to see Some Like It Hot.’
‘Ten minutes,’ he bartered.
‘It’s flippin’ freezing out there.’ She knew exactly what Brendan’s ten-minute walk would involve.
‘I’ll keep you warm.’ He did his John Wayne voice, making his eyes go sleepy-looking.
‘I know your sort of warm,’ she said primly.
His eyes flew open and he looked shocked. She snorted, got a load of bubbles up her nose. Wiped at her face. ‘Come on, take me home,’ she drained her cup.
‘Kathleen,’ he joked. ‘What mass are you going to?’ He wouldn’t give up.
She caught her lip between her teeth, teasing him a moment. ‘Early, I think.’
He winked and caught her hand.
She smiled.
The rest of the family went to the eleven o’clock. It gave Brendan and Megan the run of the place for a whole hour, though the last ten minutes were always spent setting the table and getting the veg on so it looked like they’d been making themselves handy.
Very handy.
She smiled again and pulled away. Outside, they linked arms. It was bitterly cold for September. The sudden frosts had caused most of the trees to drop early and the smell of rotting leaves mingled with the smoke from coa
l fires and the stink of dye factories along the canal.
She pulled her muffler up to cover her nose and pulled him closer.
Caroline
Caroline just couldn’t believe that you could get pregnant on your first time. Her understanding of it was a bit hazy, though she knew something from seeing the animals on the farm where she helped out and from the local wildlife to have a rough idea of the way of the world.
It was when she tried to apply it to her own experience that things got all mixed up. For example, they had to keep Bess, the dog, inside when she was on heat or there’d have been pups. But Caroline’s mam had told her that her own monthlies were a clearing-out, so how did that work?
She turned over in bed. The room was bitter now and although she had heaped extra blankets on and wore her socks her toes were like ice and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until they were warm. She reached down, her head under the covers, to rub at her feet.
If she’d only known, if she’d had an inkling. It had all been so quick. Five minutes. If only she could take that five minutes back.
A barn dance to mark the end of harvest. Jim Colby, chuffed at the amount of hay baled in his barns and the promise of a good fruit crop to follow. A hot summer had blessed them.
Caroline liked Roy, Jim’s middle son. A quiet, hard-working boy with sulky, film-star looks like Montgomery Clift. Roy had no steady girl and despite his looks no bad reputation. He was shy and didn’t mix much.
She’d worked alongside him at the farm for the harvest. Hot, thirsty work, following the tractor or the baler, stacking the bales, chaff and dust in her throat and her eyes and her ears.
Any talking was snatched, desultory. Breath was too precious and there was nothing the flies liked better than an open mouth.
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