Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  She mentioned working for the FO, which Charity later discovered was the Foreign Office, and at nineteen she was the eldest here by six months.

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’ Charity asked her, sitting up in bed and wolfing down the cake.

  ‘Give the little blighter away, of course,’ Dorothy said. ‘I expect the jungle drums are beating round the adoption societies right now: “Dorothy Heywood, latterly of the FO, begat with Roger Turnball, also of the same office, a son or daughter, which is up for grabs. This child comes with an immaculate pedigree on both sides, despite the mother being a whore and the father a lily-livered creep of the first order.”’

  All the girls laughed, but Charity guessed what was going on behind that cool beautiful façade.

  Charity lay awake long after the other girls had fallen asleep. The bed was hard and lumpy. She could hear Sally by the window snoring softly, and someone else grinding her teeth, but it was good to feel the presence of five other girls all in the same position as herself.

  ‘I’m not polishing any bloody floors.’ The small blonde girl glowered at Charity, her sharp features alight with spite.

  ‘Come on, it’s fun,’ Charity wheedled. ‘You’ll only get into trouble and we have a laugh while we’re doing it.’

  ‘I can’t see any fun in polishing a bloody floor that doesn’t need it.’ The girl sat down on a bed, arms folded in defiance.

  Anne, the dark girl from Romford, had gone into hospital only two days after Charity’s arrival. She had been replaced by Dee, this hard-faced blonde, just a couple of days later and already she’d managed to upset almost everyone.

  Dee seemed like a fish out of water. She swore constantly and talked about men in the way the girls at Greystones had. Her parents were elderly and it was quite obvious she’d run a bit wild.

  ‘Look, Dee, there’s a rota.’ Dorothy put her hands on her hips and glowered at the smaller girl. ‘You, me, Charity and Rita do the floors. There’s worse jobs here than this, I assure you. And if you won’t toe the line then we aren’t going to cover for you.’

  With that Dorothy got down on all fours, tucked a duster under each knee and, starting from the end wall, began to rub in polish. Charity took up a position next to her, with Rita alongside, leaving a strip at the end for Dee.

  ‘We won’t do your bit,’ Dorothy said, looking round over her shoulder, then switched the radio on.

  All three of them began singing along with the music as they worked backwards, rubbing the polish in, wriggling their bottoms in time to the beat.

  Dee watched them on the floor, trying hard not to laugh.

  It was a hilarious sight. They all looked like Humpty Dumpty with their big tummies and their dresses tucked into their knickers to keep them from dragging on the floor.

  Dee didn’t want to be in this place, but her mother insisted her neighbours in Hornsey must never find out about her ‘accident’. She had always been in control, wherever she was, by being tougher, ruder and nastier than any other girl.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have thrown that box of cutlery at Janice for saying her hair was bleached. It had been pretty stupid to say she hated babies and put everyone’s back up. Now they were all nervous about her and Miss Mansell had said if she didn’t stop upsetting people she would be sent away to a different home.

  She was torn two ways. Maybe if she behaved really badly her parents would take her home, but on the other hand, watching Charity larking about with Dorothy and Rita she wanted to be part of that too.

  ‘She was just seventeen, you know what I mean,’ they sang along loudly to the Beatles number. ‘And the way she looked was way beyond compare!’

  Rita knelt up and did a ridiculous wobble of her tits which had all three of them creased up with laughter.

  ‘How could I dance with another?’ She got up and continued the demented dance. ‘When I saw – her – standing … there.’

  Dee laughed despite herself. Charity turned round and smiled.

  ‘Come on, we can be the Four Seasons all together!’

  It wasn’t the words, but the pleading note in Charity’s voice that did it. It was a sound that said she knew how Dee felt and she’d be happier if they were all friends.

  Dee picked up the fourth tin of polish and the dusters and moved over to the far edge by the wall.

  ‘Don’t put too much on!’ Charity yelled over the music. ‘It’s hard to polish off.’

  The beds and lockers were moved right back at the end of the room. When they reached them the girls got up.

  ‘Go on, tell me, now the hard work starts!’ Dee wiped a sweaty forehead with the back of her hand.

  ‘Not at all.’ Dorothy grinned. ‘This, my dear, is the fun bit.’ She dropped her two dusters on the floor, put one foot on each and started to do a kind of shuffle forward in time to the music.

  The other girls followed, Dee included. They pretended to be skaters, ballerinas and made up a routine together to a kind of cha-cha. When Chubby Checker’s ‘Let’s Twist Again’ came on, all four of them went wild.

  They didn’t see the door open, just felt a presence and one by one they stopped in their tracks.

  It was Miss Mansell.

  She just looked, at their bare feet covered in dusters, at the maternity smocks rucked up in their knickers and the shiny floor.

  ‘You’ve missed some bits around the edges,’ she said drily. ‘Might I suggest the veleta, there’s some good sliding movements in that.’

  She left without another word. The girls shrieked with laughter as they tried her suggestion.

  As the days passed there was always something to laugh about. To watch each other washing in the morning, stripped off, big tummies stopping them from reaching the basin properly, started them off. Dorothy would go to the wardrobe and pretend to flick through dozens of dresses.

  ‘What shall I wear today? Will it be the blue silk, the Norman Hartnell, the Jaeger costume? Or shall I wear this snazzy little number again?’

  She would bring out her one and only dress, a striped smock in dark browns and blues, fling it over her head and mince around the room like a model.

  ‘Dorothy is modelling a number equally stunning on the fuller figure. Note the four yards of handprinted Indian cotton, the flattering square neckline, full sleeves and pockets big enough for dusters.’

  Some of the other girls gave them shirty looks, but Miss Mansell just smiled and said nothing as she passed them.

  In the afternoons they went out, usually down to John Lewis in the Finchley Road where they sometimes posed as rich women out shopping.

  Rita would pick out the most expensive dress, jumper or skirt, note the colours it came in, then ask for it in something else.

  ‘I would’ve loved it in olive green,’ she’d say with sincerity. ‘My husband insisted I buy something to cheer myself up, but I just can’t wear any of those colours.’

  The assistants were clearly puzzled by four girls in an equally advanced state of pregnancy out shopping together.

  ‘We’re Mormons,’ Dorothy once said in her clear voice that carried around the whole floor. ‘We share a husband. We don’t believe in monogamy.’ It didn’t matter whether the dumbstruck salesgirls believed them. It was enough to send all four girls into hysterical giggling.

  ‘What is it, Dot?’ Charity heard her friend tossing and turning and climbed out of bed to go across the room to her.

  ‘It’s started.’ Dorothy’s face was a pale oval in the dark. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t disturb anyone.’

  ‘How often are the pains?’ Charity whispered.

  ‘About five minutes apart.’

  ‘Get up then and we’ll go downstairs.’ Charity fumbled in the dark for Dorothy’s dressing-gown and the ready-packed bag beneath the bed. ‘Here we are. Now where’s your slippers?’

  The pair of them crept out of the room, Charity carrying the bag. Once in the hall, she sat Dorothy down. Another contraction started almost immediately.


  Charity looked hard at her friend. Dorothy was tough, but it must be fierce for her to screw her face up like that. She sat down on the couch next to her, rubbing Dorothy’s back until the pain stopped, watching the clock all the time. It was three minutes later that the next pain started.

  ‘I must get Miss Mansell,’ Charity said. ‘Just hold on, I’ll come straight back.’ She flew up the stairs to the top floor and knocked on the door.

  ‘Miss Mansell,’ she whispered, opening the door a crack. ‘It’s Dorothy, she’s gone into labour.’

  ‘I’ll be right down.’ Miss Mansell’s voice sounded heavy with sleep. ‘Go on back to her.’

  Another contraction came before Miss Mansell arrived: only two and a half minutes since the last, and very strong.

  Miss Mansell arrived, put one hand on Dorothy’s stomach, then moved down to listen too.

  ‘I’ll call the ambulance,’ she said. ‘Go back to bed Charity, I’ll look after her.’

  ‘Can’t she come with me?’ Dorothy sounded desperate. ‘Please!’

  ‘To the hospital!’ The matron had her professional midwife face on now, stern and no nonsense. ‘It’s not allowed.’

  ‘But other women have their mothers or sisters there,’ Dorothy pleaded.

  Charity was surprised by Dorothy. She’d have laid bets that this girl would creep out in the night without waking a soul, much less ask for a companion.

  ‘Let me go, Miss Mansell.’ She caught hold of the matron’s arm. ‘She’s scared and she’ll be better with me there.’

  Miss Mansell saw the terror in Dorothy’s eyes.

  ‘OK, run and get dressed, but don’t be surprised if they give you a frosty reception up on the Heath.’ Charity stood by the bed rubbing Dorothy’s back. It was getting light now outside and her friend’s contractions were only seconds apart.

  She did get the frosty reception Miss Mansell had anticipated, but when they took Dorothy away to be shaved and given an enema, her cries of terror soon persuaded them that Charity might be useful.

  ‘Rub her back with each contraction,’ the nurse said, once they’d got Dorothy back into bed. ‘We’re so busy tonight we can’t spare someone to stay with her all the time. Ring the bell if you notice anything unusual.’

  Charity’s back ached with leaning over the bed, her arms throbbed with rubbing and her ankles were swollen, but she felt nothing beyond the need to relieve her friend’s pain. Dorothy was stoic as long as Charity’s hands were there on her back reassuring her she wasn’t alone. Her face contorted with agony at each contraction, and under her hands Charity could almost feel the baby as it moved further down.

  ‘I want to push now,’ Dorothy croaked.

  ‘Don’t until the midwife says it’s all right,’ Charity said gently, pushing the button, then turning her friend on to her back. ‘It won’t be long now!’

  The midwife, a sweaty-looking, stout woman in a dark green uniform, came running in.

  ‘She wants to push now,’ Charity told her. ‘I said to wait until you came.’

  The midwife put Dorothy’s legs up and examined her.

  ‘My word, Dorothy, you’re fully dilated.’ She smiled at the girl in front of her. ‘You can go ahead at the next pain. Bear down hard, push for the whole of the contraction, use it.’

  ‘Can I stay?’ Charity asked, gripping Dorothy’s hand.

  The midwife saw the gesture, and nodded.

  ‘Stay up that end,’ she said firmly. ‘Talk to her, tell her to push.’

  Charity braced herself as another contraction came. Dorothy groaned deeply as she pushed. Water gushed out from between her legs and the midwife mopped it up quickly.

  ‘That’s good,’ she praised Dorothy. ‘Your waters have broken at last, it’ll be over soon now. Push!’

  Again and again Dorothy looked as if she was giving up, but Charity urged her and so did the midwife.

  ‘Push!’ they shouted in unison. ‘Push harder!’

  ‘Ring the bell, Charity,’ the midwife said suddenly. ‘I can see the head and it’s coming fast!’

  Charity rang, then wiped Dorothy’s face with a wet cloth.

  ‘He’s got black hair, lots of it,’ the midwife said exultantly. ‘Come on! Another huge push!’

  Charity saw it happen before her eyes, just as a second nurse rushed in. A mass of black hair caked to its tiny head, a little screwed-up angry face – Dorothy’s baby made its entrance.

  ‘Now pant,’ the midwife said. ‘Just the rest of him to come.’

  Charity could see Dorothy’s stomach gradually caving in, and with a squelch the baby was caught in the midwife’s hands.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ Charity exclaimed, tears of joy running down her cheeks. ‘Oh Dotty, it’s a little girl!’

  She had to sit down then. She watched the nurse cut the cord, heard the baby’s first angry scream, and her whole being longed to hold it herself.

  ‘I’m going to call her Samantha.’ Dorothy’s voice sounded near normal now, clear and confident. She lay back on the pillow, her face gleaming with sweat, as calmly as if the agony a few seconds ago had happened to someone else.

  The moment when they wrapped the baby in a towel and put it into her friend’s arms was one that Charity felt she would never forget.

  Dorothy’s face was serene, glowing with a strange light as she looked tenderly at the tiny black-haired child cradled against the white hospital gown. It reminded her of the Madonna picture in her father’s study and confirmed in her heart that there was a God after all, even if sometimes it felt like he’d deserted them.

  ‘You’d better go now.’ The midwife turned to Charity and saw the naked longing in her big blue eyes. ‘You know, Charity, you should go in for this work, you’re made for it. We couldn’t have managed without you tonight.’

  Someone drove her back to the home, but Charity’s mind was focused on the baby and Dorothy.

  ‘It was so beautiful,’ she breathed as Miss Mansell opened the door to her. ‘A miracle, a wonderful, wonderful miracle.’

  Rita went into labour the following night, but she didn’t wake Charity, just slipped out and got Miss Mansell on her own. She had a little boy she called Warren, and now Charity had both friends to visit.

  She went every afternoon, sometimes with Sally, sometimes with Dee, but mostly alone. Suddenly she realised it was her turn next and except for Dee all the girls in her dormitory were new ones.

  The laughter prompted by Charity and her close friends continued even though two of the ringleaders were gone, but Charity’s role in the home shifted slightly. She had one foot in the mothers’ camp now her time was so close.

  Two girls left after handing over their babies for adoption. It was Charity who hugged them, reassured them they had made the right choice. But as she dried their tears and searched for the right soothing words she wondered who would be there for her if she had to face such agony.

  The first pain came when she was in the garden, hanging out nappies. It wasn’t her job, but she’d been awake early and came downstairs to help the mothers with the laundry.

  It was a beautiful day, as if overnight it had been decided that summer was here. A lilac tree was thick with sweet perfumed blossom, the grass twinkling with dewdrops and the sun on the back of her neck warmed her as she stretched up to the clothes line.

  Not a pain, but rather a sensation in her belly and she put her hands down to stroke it.

  ‘Are you coming, baby?’ she whispered. ‘It’s a beautiful day for it and I’m dying to see you.’

  She said nothing at breakfast, but listened to the girls discussing the post and the usual banter about the work rota.

  ‘Are you all right, Charity?’ Miss Mansell stopped her as she got up from her chair, holding on to her back.

  ‘I think it’s started,’ Charity said. ‘But it’s nothing much.’

  ‘Go and sit upstairs with a book, then,’ the older woman said, and put her arm round Charity. ‘Call me if
you want help.’

  Charity sat on the veranda in the sunshine. The pains were growing stronger now, but she felt a kind of peace within her. From upstairs she could hear the sounds of the girls larking about as they cleaned. Someone was singing Cliff Richard’s song ‘The Young Ones’ at the top of her voice.

  Mrs Coombes the cook, who came in daily to prepare lunch, was in the store-room just below the veranda; her voice mingled with Miss Mansell’s comfortingly. Charity wanted to hold on to this day, remember all the sights and sounds, so one day she could tell him all about it.

  She thought of Hugh, imagined his dark head bent over books as he studied. In a few hours his child would be in her arms. Would Hugh sense something was happening? Did he ever think of her?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pain washed over her so fiercely she thought she might die, but still she didn’t cry out.

  It was noon when she left Daleham Gardens and now in more lucid moments she sensed it was early evening. The white-painted room, the clock on the wall, even the shiny steel lamp above her head had disappeared. She was engulfed in agony that had no place or time.

  She felt, but barely saw, hands touching her and taking her blood pressure. She heard voices as if from another room reassuring her that all was well, but she wished they would stay with her, instead of going out and leaving her alone with nightmares.

  Her father’s face was visible, even though she knew her eyes were closed. It was the face she remembered when he came to her at night, contorted, ugly.

  She saw the fire again, but now she was in it, feeling it licking across her body, waiting to consume her too.

  Water gushed from her, but she couldn’t get up or even move, and pain welled up again, so strong she had to grit her teeth not to call out.

  But then the pain changed. It was every bit as bad, but it had a kind of significant feel to it, and she realised her baby wanted to be pushed out.

  Her hand groped for the bell. They had put it beside her earlier on, but it had fallen over the edge of the bed and the pain was too bad for her to stretch out. Her fingers contacted the rubber lead, scrabbling down it to find the button and push it.