‘Of course I’ll help,’ her friend replied by return of post.
It’s not my place to judge you and you’re right, why should everyone else suffer? What does the man say? Hasn’t he offered to marry you? It was such a shock to hear your news. Perhaps you could come to London after all when it is all over. It is so thrilling Joan, you should see Oxford Street and Carnaby Street and all the new styles. I’ve just treated myself to a new spring coat. Bright pink and utterly gorgeous. I've also been out several times with a boy from work called Harold. We go to the Palais jiving, it reminds me of the Plaza back home – we had some wonderful lunchtimes there, didn’t we? Not sure what I think of Harold yet but he has dishy eyes and he’s very keen. That’s enough about me. I hope you don’t feel too wretched and that time passes quickly.
Your friend always,
Frances.
Joan lay in the dark and thought about Frances. What would she have done without her? She couldn’t sleep. Someone had said it was preparation for when the baby came, so they would be used to broken nights. Joan had heartburn, ghastly and constant, she had to sleep virtually upright. She would hear Caroline snoring softly and Megan coughing.
They never really talked about it, Joan thought. Here they were, all in the same boat and plain as the nose on your face, but it was alluded to almost as if it was happening to someone else. They were all stand-ins, she thought. She felt the baby swivel, moved her hand across her stomach and felt a hard lump through her belly. The lump moved, she took her hand away. How could she do this? She didn’t want this child moving inside her, she didn’t want a baby. She was fearful of the labour. Women died, some of them, their life bleeding away. The panic gripped her and the acid reflux rose in her throat. She shuffled further upright, rubbed at her chest with one hand, trying to soothe the burning pain. There was no way back. It was like Hansel and Gretel without the white stones or the kindly white bird. She closed her eyes and made a simple prayer. Please God, let it be all right. Let it be over soon. Don’t let me die. They thought she was so poised, Megan and Caroline, she could see it in their glances and hear it in their questions. They were little more than children themselves, too young for all this, and she . . . If they only knew, she felt as lost as they did, but because she was older they expected her to be measured and grown-up about it all, like a big sister they could rely on.
She shivered – the covers kept slipping down. Megan had made her a bed-jacket. A ghastly, fluffy blue cape, but she appreciated it now. They must have been designed for women with heartburn. She pulled it from under her pillow and worked it round her shoulders. She sat back. The baby kicked again, unexpectedly. Making her want the toilet. Go to sleep, she thought. Outside, the first steel grey light edged along the top of the curtains. She felt relief. It would be easier now. It was the dark that was the worst time. She hated the dark.
Caroline
The days dragged by in a sort of a dream. They were kept busy with endless, backbreaking chores and fell into bed desperate to rest. Time to talk, write letters, read, knit and brood was strictly limited. Only in their final month were the girls allowed less onerous duties – dusting, mending, sewing.
Caroline began to spend every free moment in the garden. There was a terrace behind the house where the babies were put out in their prams every morning. Beyond that there was a lawn and borders. To the side of the house there was a rose garden and a herb garden with crazy paving and bowers and, at the end of it, in amongst a shrubbery and beside an old elm tree, was Caroline’s favourite spot. Even back in February, when everything else was bare and broken-looking, the holly and rhododendrons were glossy green. And there was a little witch hazel with a sprinkling of small, frilled yellow flowers. They looked like someone had made them from strips of crinkled paper, and their rich, sweet scent was powerful in the cold winter air.
Bluebell bulbs were coming up now beneath the elm and she could see the clusters of flowers ready to turn lilac-blue and fall open. A blackbird had a nest in the tree and serenaded them from the middle of the night through most of the day.
Her mother had visited twice, bringing her a new nightdress large enough for the last weeks and special underwear and a shawl, a proper wool-and-silk shawl, that Caroline had written and asked her to get. They barely referred to the baby and Caroline imagined how different it would have been if she was married and expecting. Then, surely, Mam would have been full of interest and advice, Grandma too. They’d have sat and had coffee and biscuits and swopped stories and Caroline the centre of it all. Instead now there was an awkward tiptoeing around it all.
‘Be brave,’ Mam said the last time she came. ‘I’ll pray for you.’ And Caroline had gone to hug her but Mam had just grabbed at her hand. Caroline was hurt. Her mother couldn’t bear to touch her, the bump between them a huge accusation. Later, though, she recalled her mam’s face. Close to tears. A hug would have set her off perhaps and she was being brave in her own way, wanting to be strong and resolute as an example for Caroline.
Megan
Megan had finished her layette. She’d done the matinee jacket, hat, gloves, rompers and bootees. She had carefully cut and sewn a nightie and embroidered a pattern of yellow ducks along the yoke. She had also knitted a matinee jacket for Joan’s baby, seeing as Joan was sticking to her story of not being a knitter.
‘They've plenty of clothes here,’ Joan had said.
‘It’s nice to give them something new though, isn’t it? Something to remember us by. Unless you don’t want to,’ she added quickly, realising that she might have upset the apple cart. Mouth like the Mersey tunnel. Always putting her big foot in it.
‘No, thank you, it’s lovely,’ Joan took the tiny garment.
‘And they won’t get mixed up because mine’s the pearly buttons and yours the clear.’
Caroline had done her own knitting, so Megan didn’t need to do anything for her. But in the last two weeks Megan’s baby had dropped and was sitting on some nerve and she could barely move without the pain so sharp she fair passed out. So they let her sit and sew and knit for anyone who wanted. One girl was having twins and she did them lovely woollen sailor suits. Very small because they usually weighed less.
She was longing to see Brendan. She’d had a terrible dream one night where she'd gone home and Brendan was there with a new girl. All lovey-dovey. And when she asked him what his game was he laughed at her and in the dream she saw she had no clothes on and everyone was looking and pointing. After that she wanted to write to him but she didn’t dare. Her father had threatened that if there was any communication between them he would have Brendan for improper relations with a minor and that would be the end of his apprenticeship.
Megan cast off the stitches on the mitten she was doing and cut the wool. Outside, it was a blustery day, real April showers and the wind sending the clouds scurrying here and there. The girls were in and out every ten minutes to the clothes lines.
Sister Giuseppe came in then, the most placid of the nuns. Her brow creased. ‘Have you see Caroline?’
‘No, Sister. She might be in the garden.’
‘In this?’
Megan shrugged. Caroline spent more and more time outside. Not doing much but just brooding as far as Megan could tell. As the time went on she was becoming quieter than anything. Thank heaven they had Joan in with them, at least you could hold a conversation with Joan and have a bit of fun. Caroline went around with a face like a wet weekend. Of course, she was a bit low. Bound to be, but it didn’t help anyone to dwell on it so. Megan had said as much to Joan one day but Joan had smiled at her. ‘She’s very young, Megan.’
‘So am I.’
‘But you’ve got something to look forward to.’
‘You mean me and Brendan?’
Joan nodded.
Maybe she was right. Maybe something truly awful had brought Caroline here. She could have been forced or something. She never said anything, never referred to the father, nor did Joan to hers. Megan seemed
to be the only person in the whole place who could.
Sister Giuseppe had gone off looking for Caroline, and Megan finished the mitten off. He’d know to wait for her, wouldn’t he? If he had so much as sniffed at another girl while she was here, going through this, she’d kill him. Chop him into bits and chuck the pieces in the canal. She would. So he best be behaving himself. And then one day, they’d show them all, especially her Daddy. They’d have a dirty great wedding and dance till the morning and they could all go jump.
Joan
Joan was assigned to the kitchen at St Ann’s. She had to get up at six to help light the fires and start breakfast. Porridge had been cooking all night in a huge double porridge pot. They used Quaker Oats at home, ready in ten minutes. Why on earth they couldn’t do it here she didn’t know, but everything here was done the old way and the most difficult one too, she reckoned.
The ashes from the fire went into the ashcan and the grates were swept then the new fire built. It was the coldest time of all and Joan could see her breath as she folded paper like crackerjacks for firelighters and then built the pyramid of kindling and coals. The fire in the kitchen didn’t always draw well and Joan had to stretch a sheet of newspaper across to encourage the flames to leap for air. Once the fire had hold she helped the other girls lay the tables and prepare bread and margarine and jam to follow the porridge.
Cook would be busy already sorting out the ingredients for dinner and tea.
At seven thirty the rest of the house was expected to be ready in the dining room and Matron would start the day off with prayers. By nine the pots were washed, dried and put away, the great porridge pan scrubbed clean, the clots of porridge removed from the sink. The surfaces wiped down and clear.
Joan had ten minutes tea break. She went upstairs and got out her stationery.
Dear Mummy, Daddy and Tommy,
London is very big and very noisy. There are pigeons everywhere and starlings just like we have in Piccadilly Gardens but even more of them. The traffic is busy and doesn’t stop even in the middle of the night.
I am settling in fine and Mr Bell is very happy with my speed and accuracy. I have to get the Underground home from work. I haven’t been to Buckingham Palace yet. Has Tommy finished his go-kart? Say happy birthday to Grandad for me. I’m sending him a card, too.
Cheerio,
Joan
She folded the paper and slipped it into a matching envelope, took a stamp from her purse and licked it. She wrote the card to her grandfather, stamped and addressed it and put both envelopes into a larger one with a quick note to Frances.
Thanks so much for this. Just pop them straight in the post. Feel very cut off from everything here. No television and the radio is usually limited to Sing Something Simple and the like so we never hear the Goons or even Two Way Family Favourites. I have a go on the old piano now and then but they don’t approve of anything too modern. I’m keeping well. I am going to come to London! Might there be any rooms near you? Your coat sounds lovely. Where did you buy it?
Time to go back down. And begin making dinner.
Caroline
‘Yes, Sister?’ Caroline turned from the sheet she was sewing end-to-middle.
‘Sister Monica wants to see you.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Caroline had not been inside the Matron’s office since her admission. Anxiety rippled through her and she felt her heart falter. Had she done something wrong? She made her way as quickly as she could to the office and knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
Sister Monica sat at her desk and motioned for Caroline to sit opposite her.
‘There’s been a telegram, Caroline. I’m afraid your grandmother has passed on.’
Caroline stared at her uncomprehendingly. Shaking her head even as she tried to decipher the words. ‘Grandma?’
‘Yes.’
Her throat felt dry, she sucked at her cheeks, trying to find saliva. Her vision blurred and she blinked her brown eyes fiercely. Grandma. Beating rugs with a huge, cane beater, her hair covered in a twist of coloured scarves; Grandma making lace, her face screwed up like an old apple, her mouth a row of pins, reciting dialect poems and singing all the songs she knew. A fierce, funny woman, incredibly tall. Who called Caroline ‘Mouse’ on account of her quiet nature and made enough noise for the two of them when they were together.
‘We’ll ask Father Quinlan to include her in prayers.’
‘The funeral . . .’ Caroline began.
‘You have to stay here,’ Sister Monica said firmly. ‘You can’t go.’
Caroline stared at her in amazement. Not go? ‘But, Sister . . .’
‘It would not be appropriate, Caroline. It would be a dishonour.’
She was dirty.
‘Whose is it?’ Mam had said. Cheeks drained of colour, eyes boring into her.
‘Mam, I . . .’
‘Who?’
‘Roy Colby.’
‘Good God. And how long has this been going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Something must have.’
‘It was just one time. It was an accident.’
‘Oh, yes. An accident. He accidentally got you in this mess. Have you no decency, no pride?’
‘Mam, I’m sorry,’ she bawled, unhinged by the look on Mam’s face.
‘Do you want to marry him?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll not ask you again.’
‘No. I don’t want to marry anyone.’
‘Right. The Colby’s need never know. Nor anyone else.’
And so her mother had sorted it all out and told everyone that Caroline was helping with the twins in Sheffield. Now what would she tell them? When there was no Caroline at Grandma’s funeral? Another lie?
She bit on to the flesh of her cheek and sniffed hard.
‘It’s sad news but remember she is with Our Heavenly Father now. She’s at peace. Our blessed Lord has called her to him and has rewarded her.’
She would call the baby after Grandma if it was a girl, a way of remembering her. And she would tell him, or her, all about Grandma.
Joan
Joan dreaded the labour. How could something so large get out of her body without killing her? There was no one she could ask about it. The other girls were just like her, their ideas a mishmash of fact and fantasy. Matron never spoke about it, even though she would sit in on the medical checks when the doctor came.
She put the duster down and sat on the chair. The library. Fat lot to read in here. Religious texts ad nauseam and uplifting novels that were on the approved list from the Vatican. No romances and certainly nothing stronger. Out there in the real world they were selling Lady Chatterley’s Lover and you had naked people leaping around in the theatre. Four letter words and all. Elvis swivelling his hips in no uncertain way. Things were changing. The world was changing. But not here. Here it was ancient. She let her hand rest on her stomach, on the ledge at the top of her bump. The baby moved a lot now but when she tried to imagine it, to think of seeing it, of what sex it was, she failed completely. Maybe it would die, perhaps it was a sign. She didn’t even have a name. She knew she should think of something, but whatever she chose would be changed anyway. It felt hypocritical to pick a family name; her mother was Elizabeth, her father Edward after his father, grandmothers Irene and Patricia, her other grandfather John. But the child would never know them and they would never know of its existence. She wished it were all over and done with.
She hated the way her body had changed. She was like an elephant. Her belly button stuck out now, her breasts had ballooned, the discs around her nipples had gone a startling dark colour. Even her hair felt different, thicker and greasier. The endless heartburn kept her from sleep. She’d been invaded by this creature and she wanted rid. A stabbing pain forced her to her feet. She was running to the toilet every five minutes, too. After she’d been to empty her bladder she went to her room. Caroline was there, curled on her be
d, crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ Joan sat beside her.
‘Everything,’ she wailed. ‘My Grandma’s died and they won’t even . . . I can’t go . . .’
‘Oh, Caroline. I am sorry.’ She let her hand rest on the other girl’s shoulder. On top of everything else, thought Joan. I’m three years older and I feel so lost she must be . . . She let her cry, listening to the gruff sobs, and when the sounds tailed off Joan fetched her a fresh hanky.
‘I’ve got one somewhere,’ Caroline said, her voice thick.
‘Don’t be silly, use this.’
‘I’ll make sure you get it back.’
‘Beware the laundry thief,’ Joan joked gently. Small items inevitably went missing with the sheer amount of laundry each day and were not always recovered. Caroline gave a small smile, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Her face was shiny from crying, her nose and lips red and puffy.
‘Tell me about your Grandma,’ said Joan. ‘Unless you’d rather not.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Caroline. ‘She was a bit odd really. Eccentric. Always bursting into song and quoting from poems and plays and things. She read the library wall-to-wall and she would make up stories –’ Caroline’s eyes filled again – ‘adventures; and there was always a little girl . . .’ Her voice squeaked to a halt. She sniffed hard. ‘She’d been to lots of places. All over the world. She was an entertainer on the cruise liners, until she met Grandpa. She settled down with him.’
‘She sounds fabulous,’ said Joan.
‘I feel so rotten, not going.’
‘You haven't got a choice,’ Joan said gently.
The bell for lunch rang through the hallways.
‘Are you coming down?’
‘I don’t want any.’
‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’
‘I’m not allowed, am I?’
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