The Doorstep Child

by Annie Murray

  ‘What do I do?’ she whispered to the air as the latest pain seeped away. ‘I don’t know what to do. Help me. Please help . . .’

  When the next pain seized her, she rolled over and drew her knees up under her so that, her backside sticking up, her head was sideways on the hard mattress and the bulge of her belly between her knees. It felt the right thing to do. As the pains intensified, she heard cries coming from her as if from someone else, like an animal moaning, sounds she had never made before, even when Mom lashed out at her or Dad shoved her across the room. These pains were much longer and more mysterious, feeling as if they would tear her apart.

  It was terrifying. Is this how it was supposed to be or was something wrong? Jen and Rhoda had said it hurt like hell, but she had not really believed them until now.

  If only someone would come and be with her and tell her what to do. She found herself even wishing for her mother, for someone familiar, to stay beside her.

  In the lulls between the pains, which pressed her down onto the bed like a crushing weight, she turned on her side and stared at the wall. The lower part was covered in chipped, mustard-coloured tiles. Halfway up, the wall was roughly whitewashed brick. She came to know some of the marks on the tiles, making patterns with her eyes. One of them looked like the lopsided features of a face made from little spots of an ominous reddish brown. The face seemed to keep her company.

  Now and again the sister came in to check on her, said, ‘Ah, not ready yet then,’ or something similar, and vanished again. She had full lips and dark eyes. She was not unkind, except when once she came in and found Evie at the height of one of the pains, crouched forward, taking the weight on her arms.

  ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she snapped. She gave Evie a shove. ‘How dare you display yourself in that position. Get over onto your side!’

  Evie lurched, moaning, onto her left side. ‘I can’t . . .’ she gasped. ‘Am I going to die?’

  ‘No, no, of course you’re not.’

  As soon as the woman had gone Evie moved back onto her knees again.

  She didn’t know what the time was and soon she had no idea how many hours had passed. The pains grew worse until all she was aware of were the clenching bouts of agony with shorter and shorter spaces between them, until she could think of nothing else. And she was alone – as she had always been.

  Twenty-Six

  She came, when Evie felt she was beyond exhaustion, forcing her apart, bursting into life with a snuffle, a scream.

  Someone else was in the room now, another of the nuns with a round face and smiling eyes.

  ‘A little girl.’ Two rings of the bell. And there was joy in the nun’s voice for which Evie would always remember her with gratitude. Joy for a life, not this constant sense of shame and judgement.

  The baby was whipped away, washed, weighed and Evie, also being washed and prepared, felt strange and empty.

  ‘Can I see her?’ she said, several times, until they brought a bundle wrapped in a towel and she saw the face of the new person who had travelled inside her all these weeks. Seeing her, the crumpled, perplexed-looking face with little flecks of white sticky stuff at the corners of her eyes, her mouth open and searching, Evie was filled instantly with love and longing.

  I know her, she thought. It was the strangest feeling, as if in some way she recognized this little person. She’s mine. The thought of Ken did not even cross her mind at that moment. She came out of me and she’s mine. And I’m going to call her Julie. My little Julie.

  ‘You can feed her soon,’ the kindly nun said. ‘You can see that’s what she wants, can’t you? It’s good for them to have your milk straight away. Sets them up well.’

  Sets them up, Evie thought later, as that tiny mouth tugged and sucked on her breast and her innards bucked and clenched in reaction. She was setting her daughter up for a life without her. For the first of many times that week, she found tears pouring down her cheeks. Suddenly, she could cry, as if Julie had pierced into a well of tears waiting inside her.

  By the time she returned to the attic dormitory, Rhoda had left the home. There was another girl in her bed, heavily pregnant.

  Jen was still there and Evie saw her both in the dormitory and the nursery where the two of them spent every moment they were allowed, nursing their babies. Jen had called her little girl Patsy. They were only supposed to go there when the babies needed feeding and to help look after and bath them, though the nuns wanted to limit the time they spent there.

  ‘They don’t want us to get close to them,’ Jen said when they were down there together for the first time. There was a large room containing half a dozen cots and chairs for the mothers to sit on and suckle their little ones. ‘I know it’s meant to be for the best, but if I have to give her up, at least I want to be able to spend every moment I can with her before . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at Patsy. ‘I want to remember everything.’

  Evie felt just the same. As she recovered from Julie’s arrival, she realized that despite all the pain of it, she had had what was thought of as a ‘good birth’. She had not needed stitches and Julie weighed over seven pounds and was healthy, with a thin fuzz of light brown hair. Evie recovered quickly and the soreness of the birth wore off. She had plenty of milk and Julie fed happily and soon gained weight.

  ‘You seem to be a natural at this, don’t you?’ Jen sighed. Her little Patsy had been slow to feed and she often cried. Julie, however, was the round-faced picture of a contented baby. She lay in Evie’s arms, eating and snoozing with a confidence that suggested all the good things in life would come to her, which was what made Evie weep most of all.

  She sat on the low wooden chair in the nursery as spring light poured in through the window, gazing and gazing at her child in devoted astonishment. Every morning she woke aflutter with excitement. Julie! She would rush down to the nursery almost afraid that she had dreamt her, that something so sweet and good could not be true – not for her, Evie Sutton.

  And Julie was nothing to do with Mom or Dad or her sisters. They did not even know she existed. The one good thing, Evie thought bitterly, was that Mom and Dad would never be able to get their hands on her. And yet she was also filled with longing – to have a child with loving grandparents, a good family. For everything to be different.

  She tried not to think about any time except now. These precious moments when she sat and nursed and cuddled Julie and lost herself in the feel and look and smell of her. This was all she was going to think about. She wanted to shut out everything else. Today she had a little girl and she was called Julie.

  ‘I can’t! I can’t give her up!’

  The time was approaching for Jen’s baby to be adopted. Most of the infants stayed for about six weeks before the adoptive parents took them, allowing them to have a good amount of their mother’s breastmilk. As the time drew close, Jen could no longer pretend to herself that this was not going to happen. She grew distraught.

  ‘I hate my mother and father,’ she sobbed, in the darkness of the dormitory.

  Evie felt her way across to Jen’s bed. The other girls were asleep, or pretending to be, and the room was lit only by shreds of light round the edges of the door. Evie put her hand on Jen’s shoulder, sick with pain for Jen and dread for herself. This was the thing she did not want to think about – that soon this would be her.

  ‘All they want,’ Jen raged, ‘is for things to be exactly as they were before. They won’t have people gossiping about us and Daddy can run his precious damn business. And I’ll have to be cheerful and pretend nothing’s happened – or that I think it’s all for the best. And it isn’t for the best – it’s hell!’ She was becoming hysterical, throwing herself about and thumping the pillow.

  ‘Shh,’ Evie whispered, ‘or they’ll be up.’ Shivering, she reached over and pulled a cardigan round her shoulders.

  ‘They don’t care about me,’ Jen ranted, though in a hoarse whisper now. ‘All they care
about is what everyone else thinks. Why can’t I keep her? They want me to send her away to strangers – it doesn’t matter what I feel about it or whether they’ll treat her well. They just want . . . Evie . . .’

  Jen sat up suddenly as if something had bitten her. ‘Look, you want to keep Julie, don’t you? Why don’t we do it together – you and me? We could rent somewhere . . . and we could work somehow, or one of us could, and pay the rent or whatever needs to be paid. And we wouldn’t need anyone else, would we?’

  For a few seconds Evie’s heart leapt with hope. Yes, that’s what they should do. They could keep their little girls and they would grow up together like sisters and she and Jen could be friends and look after each other . . .

  She could feel, rather than see, Jen’s expression fixed on her in the darkness, almost deranged with hope.

  ‘We could . . . couldn’t we, Evie?’

  Already Evie could see how hopeless it was. She had money from Ken – what seemed like a lot of money, tucked away in her bundle of things. She had never told Jen about this. She could still hardly believe in that money herself. But even if they lived on it, it would soon dwindle away to nothing. Jen had no idea. She was used to a much better life. And really, she hardly knew Jen. Though she liked her, Evie had no desire to tie her future in with her. And they would end up in somewhere like Aston or Ladywood on a yard, in one room even, where the rent was rock-bottom – with two babies . . .

  ‘Jen, I don’t think you’d like it, where we’d have to live. We’d be very poor.’

  ‘I shouldn’t care!’ Jen’s hand gripped her wrist. ‘I’ll live in a hovel, a cave – anywhere, if I can keep my baby!’

  There was a sudden knock on the door and a figure appeared, a veil and long garment in silhouette.

  ‘What’s all this noise in here? Sutton, get back into bed, now!’

  Evie scuttled back to her bed and the door closed. Her mind was racing. She adored Julie, every finger and toe and breath of her. But how would she manage? Did she want her little girl growing up in the sort of places she had grown up in – when she might be adopted by people who could give her something so much better? The thought tore at her. The idea of never seeing her again was an agony. But when she thought, really thought, about keeping her and trying to bring her up, she knew she was not up to it. Where could she go? She had no one – no one she really trusted. And how could she live? She had seen mothers bringing up babies. She knew how hard it could be. And Julie, her beloved Julie, deserved more than this.

  ‘Evie!’ Jen hissed at her.

  ‘Shh,’ one of the other girls said, with sleepy irritation.

  Evie raised her head from the pillow, close to tears at the hopelessness of it all. ‘Jen . . . we can’t. You know really. No one’d let us anyway. We just can’t.’

  And she lay listening as Jen sobbed until the sounds turned to sniffles and at last she slept.

  Three days later, baby Patsy’s adoptive parents arrived to take her. Jen went to the basement and emerged later, once it was all over. Evie saw a car in the drive, but nothing more. She took Jen in her arms and her friend wept, grief contorting her whole body.

  ‘I’ll never forgive my parents,’ she said, her face strained and hard. ‘They’ve got enough money. We could have brought her up. I’m going to leave home the moment I can.’

  The next day, an expensive car slid to a standstill outside the home and Jen got in it. Evie never saw her again.

  Three weeks later it was her turn to sit in the room next to the laundry. Three more weeks of feeding, dressing, holding her little Julie. Three weeks in which the bleeding after the birth dwindled and her body began to feel as if it was returning to normal. Except for the milk still gathering in her breasts.

  Every hour of every day of that three weeks was filled with dread. She kept trying to pretend to herself that the day would never arrive. When she could push any thoughts from her mind about what was to come, she had moments of perfect happiness, holding Julie, pretending that this was how life was going to go on. But each day seemed to fly by faster than the last and soon it was two days before, one day before . . .

  The night before they were due to come for Julie she was awake all night, going over and over in her mind what she could do. Was there any way she could make this not happen? She dreamt of creeping down to the nursery and stealing away with Julie. But there were night staff, and she would never get out and, even if she did, where could they go? She wept in despair at the thought of the two of them out there on the streets in the winter cold. All she prayed was that morning would never come, that even if she had to stay lying here, desperate and praying for a way out, at least Julie was in the nursery below her, her little girl safe and asleep, knowing her mother was near her . . .

  But morning came. Evie walked into it exhausted, every nerve of her body screaming for help. Don’t take my baby! It was like having a part of her body ripped away. She told herself that the only way she could survive the day was to see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. That’s what she had to do – become a cold, unfeeling statue. By the time she thawed out, Julie would be gone . . .

  All morning she begged every second, every minute to drag into eternity, but time did not oblige her. Before dinner, she held her little girl for what she knew would be the last time. As she did so, pressing her cheek against Julie’s, feeling her rubbery little limbs, breathing in the scent of her, she tried to make herself go numb, but it was impossible.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered in her tiny ear. ‘I love you so much. I always will. Don’t forget me, please.’

  She sobbed and sobbed so much that Julie’s little face was wet and the nun in charge of the nursery came hurrying to her.

  ‘Come on now, Sutton, this won’t do. Hand her to me.’

  ‘No.’ Evie clung to this little bundle of life, this beloved child who had come from her body and who was the only thing she had in the world. ‘Don’t take her, please, sister.’ Her voice rose. ‘Let me keep her. I’ll be good . . . I’ll find somewhere . . . I’ve got some money . . .’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The nun pulled Julie away from her, sounding panic-stricken. She tried to make her voice kinder. ‘They’re coming for her in two hours’ time. Now go and get your dinner, Sutton.’

  Evie knew really that it was hopeless. She could not eat a crumb. Two hours later she sat surrounded by the steamy, soapy smells of the laundry. This was the chair where all the girls sat to be parted from their babies forever. Pressed between her palms was a pair of white knitted booties Julie had worn while she was in the nursery. She had slipped them into the waistband of her skirt the day before and taken them from the nursery. They had a little drawstring of wool that tied round the ankle.

  She knew what was happening upstairs. A couple who had been unable to have children had applied and been granted leave to adopt Julie. Matron, rather to Evie’s surprise, had said to her, ‘I wouldn’t normally mention details, but your daughter is very lucky, Eve. The couple who have asked to adopt her are very nice people. You don’t need to worry. She will lack nothing and they seem very kind.’

  In the two days that had passed since, this information had sat inside her like undigested food, feeding her hopes while making her twist with pain. Better parents than her, that was what Matron meant. What could she have given her? Julie would have a good life, would lack nothing.

  In torment she sat rocking back and forth on the chair, picturing every second of what was happening upstairs. They would be in Matron’s office. Now, they would be walking to the nursery – no, Julie would be brought down to them, in the very best clothes, all spotless and white. They would be handing her over, the mother smiling down, astonished at how lovely she was, this fair-faced child that had cost them no blood or pain. And now they would be walking out to their shiny car, carrying her little one, her flesh and blood.

  Julie. My little Julie. She ground her fingers into her thighs, shaking with sobs. There was still time; s
he could hurry out, take her back. Every ounce of her body felt as if she wanted to run, to scream out to them, No, you can’t have her, she’s mine!

  But she couldn’t. She knew it was no good. A feeling went through her as if she was being broken, actually rent apart from the centre of her chest. She folded forward on the chair, one arm clutched tight around her, the other hand pressing the little bootees to her lips, to muffle the anguished sounds which rose, forcing themselves out of her.

  The next morning, carrying her cloth bag of belongings, she stepped out of the home and walked to the Moseley Road. Everything felt alien and distant, as if she had been away from it for much longer than a few weeks. It was a cold, February day, a wind blowing which threatened rain. She stood for a moment. She had her envelope of money tucked in her bag, a few coins of change and nowhere to go.

  Putting her head down against the wind, she headed for the nearest bus stop.

  III

  Twenty-Seven

  1962

  The long street of terraced houses curved between the Stratford and Ladypool Roads. Early morning light brightened the windows on one side of the street as Evie stepped out from her lodgings to go to work. She took in a breath of the crisp winter air, closed the door behind her and walked towards the Ladypool Road. Now she had been living here all these months, it was coming to feel like home.

  A few days ago she had had her hair cut, and it was now curling under at the ends, a side parting slanting the hair across her forehead. ‘You’ve got ever such nice hair,’ the girl who cut it for her had said, enviously. Evie thought sourly that her thick blonde hair was the one good thing her mother had ever given her. It made her feel a bit better, having her hair cut. As if she was beginning to feel young again.

  Under her navy coat she wore a plain grey skirt, a pale yellow blouse and a blue jersey – old clothes and cheap, for going under an overall at work. She had gone for another Saturday spree at the Rag Market for them, half hoping, half dreading to see Mr and Mrs Booker or some of the family she had known in Aston. When she saw their business in the distance – DANNY BOOKER, SHEEPSKINS AND LEATHERS, SLIGHT SECONDS AT BARGAIN PRICES – she veered away. Why would they want to see her? On one of her trips she caught sight of Gladys Poulter standing at her stall over at the far side of the market. You couldn’t miss Gladys – she always stood out with her vivid, almost gypsy-like looks – and today, instead of her usual black, she had on a scarlet blouse. She looked very handsome and Evie felt a pang of longing. But she did not have the courage to go and see her either. Why would any of them want to give her the time of day?