‘I’ll be on my way.’ Her mammy rose and Megan took in the shabby green tweed coat, the ill-matched hat, the determined face her mother had put on.
She stood for a hug, suddenly panicky, no air in the place, fevered, her eyes hot. Mammy’s touch was swift, almost brusque, not giving either of them the chance for a show of emotion.
‘Ta-ta, now. Thank you, Sister.’
‘Mammy.’ Megan tried to slow her down, no idea what to say.
The door opened and Sister Giuseppe was there. Like Igor, Megan thought. There’d been no signal. ‘Mammy.’
‘Sister will see you out, Mrs Driscoll.’
Her mother practically ran from the room and the door closed on them.
Megan stood, her throat parched, her heart fluttering in her throat.
‘Sit down, Megan,’ Sister said quietly, but there was no warmth in the voice. ‘Let me check your notes.’
Joan
‘Father’s name?’
Joan shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘You couldn’t tell him?’
‘He isn’t free.’
She could sense the disapproval from the other side of the desk like a fret of distaste settling about her. She hadn’t just been careless, she had led a married man astray. Home wrecker, scarlet woman.
‘Can you leave it blank?’ She fought to sound calm and contained. Inside, her heart was whipping about and her nerves singing like piano wires.
The nun blinked and gave a curt nod.
‘Your occupation?’
‘Secretary.’
‘Nearest relatives?’
‘Mr and Mrs Hawes.’
‘Parents?’
She nodded.
‘Any brothers and sisters?’
Joan told her about Tommy.
‘When’s the baby due?’
‘Early June, I think.’
The Nun unfolded a small slip of paper and glanced at it. ‘You’ve seen the doctor,’ she confirmed.
‘Yes.’
Duncan had gone white when he’d opened her letter giving notice. She’d worded it in the usual formal style.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to inform you of my intention to leave my position of Secretary on February 25th, two weeks from today.
Yours faithfully,
Joan Hawes
No reason. No warning.
She had watched him open it from her own desk, her knees clenched together, toes pressing into the floor.
‘Joan?’
Betty looked up too at the unusual urgency in his tone.
‘Yes, Mr Harrison?’
‘Can you come through?’
He nodded for her to shut the door behind her.
‘What’s this?’ He flung the letter down, angry, a muscle by his mouth twitching.
‘I’m going to London.’
‘Why?’ Like it was the moon. ‘Why, Joan?’
She bit her lip, steadying herself. The less she said the better.
‘Reconsider.’
‘Mind’s made up.’
‘I thought, you and me . . .’
What you and me? ‘You have a wife.’
‘Oh, Joan.’ He looked at her pained, as if to say it wasn't his fault that he was married, as if she was being unfair.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said.
She didn't reply, wrapped her arms tighter round herself.
‘You could have told me. Not like this,’ he pushed at the letter with his fingers.
She waited.
‘So this is it? All you have to say?’
‘I’ll work my notice,’ she said. ‘But I won’t be able to stay late.’
He bristled then, his lips crimping together, his colour darkening. Would he spit at her? Curse her? She avoided his eyes. The shrill bell of the phone burst through the silence, making her start, the prickle of sweat everywhere.
‘Go,’ he nodded towards the door, leaning forward to pick up the letter with one hand and the phone with the other.
‘While you’re here,’ the nun was saying, ‘you’ll be expected to help in the running of the Home. Sister Vincent oversees the housekeeping and she’ll let you know what you have to do. Girls work in the laundry and the kitchens and the nursery. The Society has granted you a place here on the understanding that you are truly sorry for what you have done and wish to redeem yourself. You will observe the laws of the Home and God’s laws and act with proper modesty at all times. You understand?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘You’ll pay an allowance for your keep and for the child, based on a daily rate. If there’s any problem settling the amount you must confide in me immediately. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘People in the parish are very supportive of the work the society does and, of course, they know St Ann’s is a mother and baby home but this is a good area and we do not antagonise our neighbours by parading about in the streets. You’ll be encouraged to remain in the Home unless you are specifically sent on an errand by one of the sisters. There’s a garden at the back and we have a chapel and a small library, so there is really no need to go elsewhere for anything. If you wish to write home, letters can be given to Sister Giuseppe. And any visits here must be arranged in advance.’
Joan wouldn’t be having any visitors.
‘When your time comes you’ll go over to the maternity hospital in Withington. On return here you will help care for the child until a placement is made. The father’s not a darkie is he?’ She glanced at Joan, suspiciously.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because we can’t place them for love nor money. They end up at Barnado’s, most of them, or St Francis’s – they take the boys.
She needed a cigarette even though she’d smoked her tongue to gravel on the way here.
‘You’ve got your bag?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
The nun left the room briefly and returned with another girl, large with child. A big-boned girl, dark hair in a ponytail, a young face. Fifteen or so, Joan guessed.
‘Caroline, show Joan up to the room. She’s in with you and Megan.’
Joan smiled at the girl, who gave a ghost of a smile back, but her brown eyes were dark, sad, and she glanced quickly away.
Megan
It was Brendan’s dad who told Brendan about Megan’s condition.
Mrs Driscoll had heard Megan throwing up three mornings in a row. Megan’s baloney about a funny custard from the cake shop wouldn’t wash.
‘You’re pregnant!’ Maggie Driscoll shrieked.
‘I’m not.’
‘And black is white, I suppose.’
‘Mammy . . .’
‘Megan, I’ve had nine children.’
Megan slumped into her seat, covered her face. ‘I can’t be,’ she insisted.
‘Is it Brendan?’
Silence.
‘Well, it’s not the immaculate conception, is it? It'll kill your father.’
She fetched her coat, pulled on gloves and a headscarf, knotting it tight under her chin.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out. You stay here. Mind the others. Bernadette will want feeding in half an hour.’
Megan nodded.
‘And bring that washing in if it turns wet.’ She slammed the back door behind her.
Megan rose. She was cold, her ankles like pipes of cold metal, she put some more coal on the fire. It couldn’t be true. Please God, let it be collywobbles. Or the flu. But she knew her mammy’s diagnosis was right. And now it was spoken, out in the open, a great clonking mistake. She broke the embers of the fire apart, exposing the fierce orange glow, and hefted the brass coal scuttle once and then twice. Shiny lumps and bits blanketed the fire, a wall of tarry smoke rose up the chimney, the fire spat and hissed as it ate the gritty coal dust. It would be some minutes before the heat returned. She busied herself drying the breakfast dishes.
‘Kate.’
The women knew each other from the Union of Catholic Mothers. But those get-togethers were their only social contact. They were not close friends and for one to turn up on the doorstep of the other was an extraordinary occurrence.
Aware of this, Kate Conroy led Maggie Driscoll into the front room, reserved for formal occasions and out-of-bounds for much of the time, even though the house was overcrowded.
Kate had a utility suite. A green covered sofa and two chairs. The only thing you could get after the war. A piano and sideboard were thick with studio photos of the family and their relatives. A picture of Pope John XXlll took pride of place over the mantelpiece. There was no fire in the grate and the room was chilly and unwelcoming. Mrs Driscoll kept her outdoor clothes on.
‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Kate. It's about our Megan and Brendan. She’s expecting.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ Kate’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes swam. ‘Oh, no!’ she moaned.
‘It’s a terrible thing but they’ve only themselves to blame.’
Kate shook her head again. Closed her eyes. Weary. You worked so hard, unremittingly, feeding them, keeping them clean and safe and clothing them. Day after day and at the end of it this was how they rewarded you.
Maggie Driscoll spoke again. ‘I think we should keep it quiet until it’s clear what they are going to do.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Barely grown.’
‘Too young to know what’s best. I haven’t spoken to Mr Driscoll yet, but I wouldn't want to push them into an early marriage and then it all go bad. St Ann’s may be the best solution.’
‘Aye. But Brendan, we won’t let him shirk his duties if you decide . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
There was little else to say and after a pause Maggie Driscoll rose. ‘I’ll be getting back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said, ‘I’d no idea.’
‘I know.’
Brendan’s father returned from the market where he had a pots and pans stall to find his wife red-eyed and woebegone. She told him the situation. When Brendan got in from the print shop a little later his father knocked him into the middle of next week.
That’s how he heard about the baby.
Joan
She had worked the remainder of her notice out in an icy atmosphere. She made sure that she and Duncan were never alone.
‘What’s wrong with his Lordship?’ Betty had asked her.
‘He thinks I’m letting the firm down,’ she said, ‘handing in my notice.’
Betty raised her eyebrows. Whether she believed this explanation was hard to tell. It wasn’t difficult for Duncan to replace Joan. There were plenty of youngsters coming out of secretarial college and several had applied for the post. Duncan selected two for interview and silently passed her a letter for typing and sending. She felt quite immune to the whole business until the girls arrived in the Thursday afternoon. Jenny and Rosemary. Jenny was very pretty and, with a pang, Joan imagined Duncan seducing her. The thought sickened her and she had to go and sit in the toilet until she’d collected herself.
On the Wednesday morning of her final week Duncan came into the office in a foul temper. He roared for Betty to bring him in the salaries file and then sent her out for a new ledger. As soon as she’d gone he came through.
‘Are you expecting?’
‘What?’ She feigned surprise.
‘You heard me. Are you pregnant?’
She stared at him coolly while her insides twisted with tension. She forced the edge of a smile to curl her lip.
‘Why else?’ he said when she didn’t reply. ‘Why suddenly up sticks and go to London? No warning, nothing.’
‘It’s an ambition of mine,’ she said crisply. Not that he’d have known, never asked her about her dreams, her passions.
‘If you were, Joan, I could help. We could help. Catherine and I, we’ve been considering adoption.’
She couldn’t believe it. Rage sluiced through her. How dare he. What did he imagine, a private arrangement? His wife kept in the dark about the exact parentage of the child. ‘Girl at work, darling, got herself in a bit of a mess, nice family, thought we could help, baby’ll need a home . . .’ She loathed him for this. And how could he imagine that she could live knowing who had her child, where it was, what Daddy was up to when he worked late at the office? She would give up the child. She would know nothing of its future. She wouldn't see it again. End of story.
‘I’m not pregnant, Duncan.’ She funnelled the words through tightly held teeth. ‘I could have been but nothing happened. Just like Catherine. Looks like the problem lies with you.’ She saw the remark meet its target, piercing his self-esteem and rocking all that superior certainty. He pressed his lips together and turned away. She felt cheap and mean but it was his own fault. She blinked several times and resumed typing. Hitting the keys and banging the carriage return far too hard, the stinging in her hands a welcome distraction from the coil of fury breaking around her heart.
Caroline
She bent to pull the sheet from the bed, adding it to the pile in the cart. The effort made her grunt. She was big now, enormous. She felt like a clumsy giant. The skin of her belly was all stretched and you could see the veins like blue threads criss-crossing it. Nearly lunchtime and her feet were already aching. She could feel her bones pressing against the floor, her ankles swollen and hot.
‘What will you do after?’ Megan had been put on to laundry with her. Cook wouldn’t put up with her rushing out to be sick every half-hour. Megan worked quickly. She was like a bird, Caroline thought, small and swift and she had those alert bright-blue eyes.
‘Go home.’
‘Have you finished with school?’
Caroline nodded. She had not been able to complete her final year and get her certificate. She’d be too old now, no one ever went back to school. She liked the idea of farming but the only way to do that was to marry a farmer and even thinking of Roy and the farm made her belly turn over and her mouth dry up. She liked to grow things. She’d helped Grandma on her allotment since she was a tiny child and had absorbed all her tips and sayings and become familiar with the cycle of the year. Last year she’d grown enough vegetables on her own patch to be able to feed the family and give stuff away. There wouldn’t be anything this year. The weeds would be waist high. By the time she went home it would be too late to sow anything. If she went home . . .
She was making a plan. Not something she could share with anyone. Especially not Megan, who was always up to the minute on the latest rumours. So Caroline kept pretending that she was going to behave just like all the others. Give in, give her baby up.
Between them they dragged the cart to the next beds.
One of the worst things about being in the home was not being able to go out. She couldn’t just go off for a walk, not that her ankles would let her go far, but even trips to the park were discouraged. As if the girls were contagious. She felt cooped-up. She wanted to be up on the ridge or down at Shudder’s Force, where the water cascaded from the limestone cliff into the pool at the bottom; see the drops spraying on to the ferns and reeds that ringed the pool, spy the deadly nightshade. Drink in the smell of wet stone and drown in the roar from the falls.
She wrestled with a pillowcase. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do. Look for a position in Bolton. There’s not much out our way.’
‘Factories pay well, they’re always taking people on.’
Caroline nodded. She might have to do that but the thought of being stuck in a shed all day amid the clamour and commotion and the gangs of girls with their flashy make-up and endless joking made her skin clammy. She was a country girl, not like Megan and Joan, who had lived in the city all their lives; who were used to the bustle and the noise and the hard edge everything had.
‘Will you go back to the same place?’ Caroline asked Megan.
‘If they’ll have me. It’s only five minutes down the road and they’re a great bunch. We all go down the Mecca Ballroom of a Friday.’ Megan stretched her hands out and began to dance, rolling her big stomach from side to side and clicking her fingers.
Caroline laughed. ‘Give over.’
‘Something funny?’ Sister Vincent swept into the room, acid on her tongue.
‘No, Sister.’ They both replied.
‘No. I don't think there’s much to laugh at, is there? Your time would be better spent meditating on your transgression and begging Our Lady to intercede for you.’ Her eyes were steely, her lips pursed with dislike.
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘When you’ve done this, fetch the laundry from the nursery too.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Caroline listened to the rustle of long skirts and the clap-clap of her shoes as the nun withdrew. Megan pulled a face but neither of them spoke.
Caroline didn’t like going down to the nursery. All the cots and the babies bundled in them. She didn’t like to see that, it made her think of her baby destined for one of those cots, bound for another life, and how she must stop that happening. As she bent to fold the blanket, she felt the baby turn and butt up against her ribs. She stopped and put her hand there.
‘You OK?’
‘Kicked.’
‘Mine’s at it a lot. Reckon I’ve got the next Jimmy Greaves in here. It’s either a footballer or a clog dancer.’
But you’ll never know, Caroline thought. We’ll never know anything of what becomes of them – who they are – if we leave them. And the heavy dread settled on her like a rock.
Joan
There was only one person who knew that Joan had not gone to London; her friend Frances whose rooming house Joan was supposedly living in. Joan wrote to Frances explaining her situation, begging her not to let her down and asking if she would forward letters from Joan to her family.
I couldn’t bear to see them hurt because of my own dreadful mistake. It would be hateful for them to lose their reputation too. Please say you’ll help?
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