Lena sat up. Joan’s lips were empty. A look passed between them. Lena’s eyes like silver, swimming like mercury. Joan could smell smoke on her, and perfume. She should get up, move, break the spell, claim the armchair. Soon. She parted her lips, took a breath. Lena stopped smiling. She bent down, kissed Joan, the tip of her tongue tracing the inside edge of her lips. Joan closed her eyes, felt Lena’s hand brush down her shoulder and over her breast, the lightest pressure that filled Joan’s veins with warmth and sent small shocks of pleasure to her sex.
Joan moaned, moved her head a fraction, changing the pressure of the kiss. Wanting more. Everything. It was wicked but she didn’t want to stop. The thought of the wickedness gave her an additional thrill and she felt her body stiffening and getting hotter.
But she musn’t . . . if . . . with a jolt of understanding she realised that however wicked it was Lena could never make her pregnant and a great feeling of recklessness and liberation made her moan and wriggle. She reached up with one arm, tangling her fingers in Lena’s thick, smooth hair. Ran her other hand down her back, round the curve of her hip and along her thigh.
Lena made a gurgling noise and then parted from her. Her mouth was dark, the lipstick smeared and her lips swollen. Joan swallowed. Lena smiled, a small, intent smile, and began to unbutton her dress. Joan lay and watched her, her heart beating fast and anticipation tingling along the length of her spine.
Megan Marjorie
Nina
Marjorie
‘Speaking. Hello, Sister.’
Robert Underwood noted the excitement in his wife’s voice and she waved him over with one hand.
‘Yes?’ Her hazel eyes crinkled with a smile. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, fiddling with it, and then with the coiled phone wire. ‘Oh, lovely. How old? Yes. When can we . . . Eleven. Thank you. Yes, he’s fine. We’ll bring him with us.’
She replaced the receiver. ‘They’ve got a little girl. Four weeks old. We could have her in the next couple of weeks.’ She grinned and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Robert!’
He hugged her briefly. ‘You’re sure now?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t say things like that. I don’t want Stephen to grow up an only child.’
‘I know, but you’re sure you don’t want to hang on a bit – it’ll mean more work.’
She frowned, examining his face. ‘Robert, have you got cold feet?’
‘No,’ he reassured her.
The following morning they drove across town to St Ann’s. Two-year-old Stephen clung between the bucket seats.
‘Sit down, Stephen,’ his mother told him and he obliged. ‘Good boy.’ People went on about the terrible twos and she’d seen friends’ children hurl themselves to the floor in temper tantrums but Stephen was an angel.
Robert turned into the gateway for St Ann’s and parked the car at the top of the drive to one side of the main entrance. Marjorie didn’t really like the place – it was so imposing and she knew that beneath the bright chatter of the nuns there were terribly sad stories. When she came here she couldn’t help but think of the girls who were sent here, the ones who would have to leave with empty arms. It had been the same last time when they had come for Stephen, but once she got him home she didn’t think about that side of things. There was no point in dwelling on it all. This was the best solution for everyone.
She turned to look at Robert. He patted her knee a little clumsily, he wasn’t one for fussing. She had liked his reserve when they first met at her brother’s wedding. She had noticed the tall, sandy-haired man during the marriage ceremony. He had gone up to communion ahead of her and seemed to be on his own. It turned out he was a cousin of the bride, an optician with a new shop in Sale, and at the reception he had been seated opposite her. He had smiled quietly at the jokes and listened attentively to the speeches, while some of the other guests had made a show of loud laughter and called out quips to interrupt the speakers. Every so often she felt his eyes on her. Light-blue eyes quite different from her own hazel ones. She felt attracted to him and quietly confident of her own good looks. She was slender and she kept her golden hair long. It looked natural and fresh, and it suited her better than some of the more elaborate styles that meant spending hours under the hairdryer and left you reeking of setting lotion or permanent wave.
They had talked at the party, he had offered to get her a drink and explained apologetically that he didn’t dance – two left feet. But he was good company, and dates led to a proposal and then a wedding of their own. And now here they were, about to meet their second child.
‘Ready?’ he asked her.
She nodded, her palms felt slippery and she’d butterflies in her stomach.
Sister Monica let them in and exclaimed with pleasure over Stephen and how grand he looked. He hid behind his mother’s skirts. She lifted him up on to one hip so she could walk.
‘They’re all outside,’ the nun said. ‘It’s great weather, isn’t it. This way.’ They followed her through French windows and on to the terrace at the back, where half a dozen prams were placed in a line.
‘This first one,’ Sister Monica said, ‘she’s asleep, but have a peek and we’ll get some tea and if she’s not awake by then we’ll get her up and you can have a good look at her. Then you take a couple of days to think it over and telephone me to say what you’ve decided.’
‘Go to Daddy.’ She handed Stephen over and stepped closer and craned forward to see. The baby lay motionless, only her face visible between the white pram blankets and the white wool bonnet. The tiny cheeks were peppered with the minute white spots of milk rash, the nose was slightly upturned and the small, rosy mouth had a blister on the upper lip. ‘Oh,’ said Marjorie softly.
‘She’s a darling, isn’t she? Just six pounds at birth but she’s gaining well now.’
‘Look, Stephen – little baby.’
Stephen looked, nodded solemnly.
‘Let’s have tea and you can tell me how you’re all getting along.’
While the grown ups chatted in Matron’s room Stephen was occupied with a box of coloured building blocks. There were nine in the set and they worked like a jigsaw, the various facets formed a number of different farmyard scenes when put together. This was too sophisticated for Stephen, who instead built towers and lines with the cubes.
‘He looks so strong and healthy,’ Sister Monica told them. ‘He keeps you busy, I’ll bet.’
‘He’s very good,’ Marjorie said. She didn’t want the matron to think she wouldn’t have all the energy to take on another child. She was being silly, she thought, they’re crying out for places. It would have to be something terrible to not be considered and she wouldn’t have rung if she didn’t think we were right for it. ‘He’s marvellous,’ she added.
Robert grunted in agreement. ‘This little girl . . .’ he asked.
‘Yes. Now, her mother is very young, practically a child herself. She’s a nice girl, lively and helpful.’
‘Where’s she from?’ Marjorie said. Stephen’s natural mother had been Irish and had come over to St Ann’s to have the baby in secret.
‘Lancashire,’ the Matron said. ‘Though the family are from Ireland originally. There are no family problems health-wise and the little girl, she’s called her Claire, is great. She’s had all her checks, of course.’
‘When was she born?’
‘May twenty-fourth, late in the evening.’
‘My birthday!’ Robert said, and Marjorie laughed.
‘Well,’ Sister Monica smiled, ‘I think we can see the hand of God in that. Will I fetch her for you?’
‘Yes, please.’ Marjorie could feel a headache coming on with the sheer nerves of it all. She felt sick and excited all at once. ‘We’ll have to get new clothes,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘We can’t put her in blue.’
Sister Monica returned with the baby in her arms. She sat beside Marjorie on the sofa and unwrapped
the blanket. The baby wore a matinee jacket to match the bonnet, rompers and bootees. She was so tiny. Marjorie looked at the skinny legs, the petite feet. You forget how small they are. Stephen seemed huge by comparison. When Matron removed the hat the baby was practically bald.
‘Oh, bless her.’ Marjorie ran her hand over the fuzzy skull. The baby was awake now, blinking slowly and staring at the ceiling.
‘Now, her mother is a redhead,’ Matron said. ‘And I think she’ll turn out the same but you may want a baby with similar colouring to Stephen. He’s very like you, Marjorie, with the blonde hair.’
‘He is. But Robert’s more gingery, it might be nice for her to look like him.’
‘Yes, she’ll have the blue eyes, too. Would you like to hold her?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Marjorie settled back so she could rest the baby across her lap and support the head in the crook of her arm. Sister Monica passed her the child and Marjorie settled her. The eyes, which had not yet acquired their colour, were very dark, almost black, and looked huge.
Stephen edged closer to the sofa.
‘She’s holding her head well. She’s a strong little thing. Would you like a baby sister, Stephen?’ Marjorie said.
He looked at her then back to the infant. ‘No,’ he said solemnly.
The adults laughed.
Megan
Most people at the factory knew where Megan had been. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that one out. But apart from the snobby gits in wages and one or two holier-than-thous on the shopfloor nobody made a meal of it. She knew for a fact she wasn’t the only one, either. Annie Platt and Breda Carney had both been in the club with no wedding ring in sight.
Of course, it wasn’t long before Brendan and she were courting again. In secret at first, both of them very, very careful not to let anyone catch on. They avoided their old haunts and met at places further from home. The waiting room at Victoria Station usually, and the reading room at Central Library one time. But you couldn’t talk up there. Gave Megan the heebie-jeebies. All these swots with their noses stuck in books and this loud silence and the great big ceiling like St Peter’s in Rome or something and everyone creeping about. Made her want to make a loud noise and run away. But downstairs in the basement there was a cafe, that was all right, though none of the places were good for a necking session and she was just as keen as he was for a kiss and cuddle. They ended up fitting that in at bus stops and doorways and on the walk back up to Collyhurst. She told him plain though – no more than that, not till the bans were read and the church booked.
Brendan wanted to know all about the baby and it was great to be able to tell him. Her mammy didn’t want to know. Put it behind you, darling, it’s only more heartache, she said when Megan first tried. You did what was best, she said. That’s all you can do.
After a few months Megan wrote to Sister Monica, asking if she could have a photograph of her daughter to remember her by. She got no reply. She wrote again when May came round and she imagined the child having a first birthday party, in a lovely white smocked frock with frilly knickers and a bow in her hair. She thought about her a lot, the weather and the blossom reminding her of St Ann’s.
This time a small studio photo came back. Black and white. Looking at it was like a punch in the stomach. Claire, her baby – the name meant light and Megan hoped her life would be full of light and brightness – Claire was sitting up, a broderie anglaise dress on and bare feet. A sprig of close curls framed her face. Her hair would be red with both Megan and Brendan that colour but you couldn’t tell in the photo and no one had colored it in like the studios sometimes did. She must have studied that picture a thousand times that day, and when the children were all in bed she showed it to Mammy.
‘Does she look like me?’
‘Like spit. But Megan,’ her mammy’s voice sounded thin and pained, ‘don’t be upsetting yourself. You have to forget her.’
‘I know. But it’s hard.’ She left the room not wanting to cry in front of her.
Brendan understood when she showed him. They had got the bus up Rochdale Road to Boggart Hole Clough, he’d sat upstairs and she down, just in case anyone got on, but they were OK. They wandered through the park and found a secluded spot to sit, surrounded by pretty trees, their leaves shivering in the slight breeze. He stared at the photograph, his face all blank and narrow like he’d seen a ghost. He shook his head. He didn’t say much but she knew he felt like she did: that it wasn’t fair.
They talked of marriage again and Brendan said he would go and see her Dad.
‘The apprenticeship.’
‘I’ve two more years. The rules are clear. We can get engaged but they don’t need to know. I just won’t tell them.’
‘There’s other work,’ she said. ‘Vickers are crying out for people, and Universal Stores.’
‘I know they are but this is a trade, Megan. I could work anywhere then, they’ll always need printers. If I left now . . . I don’t want to end up portering or on the markets.’
‘Just seems so long.’
‘I’ll ask your Dad. Least if we’re engaged we can stop acting like spies.’
He began to kiss her. She could feel her breasts tingling. They were bigger since she’d had the baby even though the doctor had given her something to dry her milk up. As he unbuckled his belt, pulling at the zipper on his pants, he was still kissing her, French kisses. It made her wet and weak and hot for his fingers. She held him in her hand, made the movements copy the rhythm of his breathing.
‘Megan,’ he spoke softly in her ear. ‘I’ve got a rubber johnny.’
She froze, shocked. He wanted to go all the way. Did she? Her mind raced about. It’d be all right, it would stop any consequences. Her body was hungry.
‘Put it on then.’ Her throat was dry.
While he sat up and fumbled she closed her eyes. Felt desire skip over her skin and quicken her pulse. Then he bent to kiss her again, moving over her. She wriggled her hips and opened her eyes to look into his. Cornflower blue, she thought. He nudged his way inside. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes.’ She lifted her hips to meet him. She ran her own hands over her breasts, watching his face darken with lust. She began to unbutton her cardigan.
Three weeks later Brendan Conroy put on his Sunday best and walked round to the Driscolls’. He had quizzed Megan about the best time to catch her father. She reckoned Saturday morning before the pub opened.
Megan watched from her bedroom window as Brendan came down Livesey Street. He’d got awfully long legs but he didn’t stoop like some lanky lads did. He blew her a kiss and she pulled a face. Then she sat on Kitty’s side of the bed, nearest to the door, and craned to hear.
She heard Daddy – ‘. . . of all the bloody cheek . . .’ Then Mammy calming him down. Then nothing. But no door slamming, which meant they hadn't slung him out. Her stomach was twisted up and she felt lightheaded. If they said no, she’d die. If they carried on in secret they were bound to get caught and her Daddy would make good his threat about seeing Mr Hudson, who Brendan was apprenticed to. They’d have to run away. Try and get to Australia or somewhere. They’d be pioneers, like the wagon trains you saw in the Westerns.
‘Megan!’ Her father’s roar made her jump out of her skin.
She ran downstairs and into the parlour, where Brendan perched awkwardly on the edge of the armchair. Her father stood by the sideboard and her mother had the other chair. She noticed Brendan’s socks didn’t match and she could see the milk-white skin of his shins and the curly ginger hairs.
‘You know what he’s here for?’ her father demanded.
‘Yes.’ She kept her chin up. She would not let him make her feel bad.
‘And you want to marry the man who ruined you?’
‘Anthony!’
‘I’m not ruined,’ she retorted.
‘Huh!’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Says who?’
Megan was itching to argue with him but this was too important. He could thin
k what he liked, damn her to hell. As long as he gave his permission he didn’t have to like it.
‘I want to marry him.’
‘He’s apprenticed.’
‘We’ll wait.’
‘He’s stuck by her,’ Mammy said.
‘Stuck too fecking close in the first place,’ Daddy slung back.
Maggie Driscoll gasped and closed her eyes. She spoke with them shut, as though she was close to breaking and it was all too much. ‘Anthony, the boy is here in good faith and he’s asking you for your daughter’s hand.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Megan. ‘I’m sure they’ve learnt from their mistake. It’s over a year since the bairn was born and nearly two since she got caught. They are older now. We want them to make a good life. I’ve no desire to have them sneaking around because you’ve got stuck on your principles. The Lord tells us to forgive.’
No one spoke. Daddy craned his neck back as though he’d a crick in it and then rubbed at his face. He turned to Brendan. ‘There won’t be any monkey business,’ he said. ‘If I find out you’ve laid a hand on her before you walk down the aisle I’ll cut your tackle off.’
Megan choked. It was a yes. The crude old git. All hot air. Did anyone honestly believe they’d get engaged but still wait another two years to touch each other? Mind you, every time Daddy looked at Mammy she must have fallen pregnant. Megan wouldn’t be like that. They’d use johnnies and pity the Pope. No babies until they were ready. God would understand. Or the Blessed Virgin. She’d lost her child when they crucified him, she’d understand.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Brendan was bobbing his head up and down like a nodding dog on the back of a car, his face the colour of Campbell’s tomato soup.
There was a pause. Driscoll looked at the clock and rocked on his heels. They were open in five minutes, Megan knew, and his thoughts were already with his first pint.
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