Mothers and Daughters

by Fleming, Leah

  Then for the first time she wondered what it would be like; a boy or a girl, ginger-haired, or dark like Marty or Lorne? She couldn’t recall exactly what colour his hair was, it was so plastered in gel. She knew so little about them. Her baby would be its own person with its own genes. It was nothing to do with them, and yet, of course, it was.

  One pram blanket wasn’t much of a layette but it was a start. The day was edging ever closer when her bulge would get difficult to conceal, but no one around here would care what happened then. She was tall and slim, and when she stood up straight there was nothing much to see.

  It was agony to pass a nursery store window and see the racks of rompers and pram suits reminding her of what was to come.

  Joy was wrapped up in her new life and Rosa was halfway across the world, on her way from Southampton. Connie had never felt so alone and yet so coldly focused on what to do, but a creeping inertia filled her limbs too, a heaviness that kept her lying under the covers, reading, as if to escape making a single decision.

  She presented herself, at Diana’s insistence, to the local doctor. Dr Shearling was of the old school, an ex-missionary. She sensed he was of the brigade that said you don’t touch the opposite sex anywhere but on the unclothed arm unless you are engaged, and then it was better to marry than to burn.

  He examined her coldly. He tried not to show his exasperation that she was so far on and that she’d not taken any precautions whilst ‘indulging in careless behaviour’.

  ‘If you must be reckless then take precautions. You look like an intelligent girl. What a sorry end for your life,’ he said.

  He dismissed her as if she was a silly girl but Connie was no longer in awe of the medical profession. Dr Friedmann had told them too many funny stories about his colleagues for her to take them seriously.

  ‘I want to continue with my education,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a nursery or a part-time job.’

  ‘You’re mighty sure of yourself,’ he sneered. ‘I’ve met many sorry lassies like you, and none of them yet has managed to bring up a baby without the support of their family or a young man willing to take them on. You can’t just walk into a day nursery these days.’ He was pouring his bucket of cold water on her fantasies like Diana.

  Connie stood up to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Have you thought of adoption, giving the bairn to parents who are in a better position to bring up a child properly?’

  The very word made her hackles rise. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want that. It won’t come to that.’

  ‘Then get on the phone to your mother right now and go home,’ he ordered.

  ‘My mother is dead and no one in the family can take me in. I want to stay here and find work. I’m not due until May. I’ll find something,’ she insisted. No one was going to tell her what to do, especially not some po-faced doctor who didn’t know the first thing about her.

  ‘In that case we’ll find you a place in a hostel for unmarried mothers and babies. You have your confinement and then you think again about adoption. The welfare officers will discuss options for you, both before and after the bairn is born,’ he replied, looking at his watch and writing out a form and prescription for the usual iron tablets and free orange juice.

  Connie stood out on the concrete steps, clutching her forms, blinking in the sunshine. What were hostels for mothers and babies? Perhaps if she went into a home it would give her time to plan the future. Only Diana need know she was there. She’d find some excuses to cover her tracks with everyone else.

  She could earn enough to buy a pram and layette, find a room; a cot didn’t take up much space. There had to be a day nursery somewhere for factory workers, but how could she fund all that on a care assistant’s wage?

  Perhaps it was better to give up now. Every time she came up with a solution there was an obstacle right behind it. She was eighteen and unqualified for any job. She’d not got her results yet.

  She put her hand on her bulge and knew she must look after this unborn child. The two of them were locked together. ‘I’ll think of something for us, don’t worry,’ she whispered.

  Then came an unexpected letter from Neville. Joy was asking Connie to write to her to be a godmother to Kim in April. Enclosed was a little picture of Kimberley in her pram, looking like a miniature Auntie Su.

  After all this, Joy wanted her to receive such an honour?

  The letter thrilled and terrified her. Joy was reaching out to her in asking her to do this honour, but there was no way that she could stand up in a church and make vows in this state. Stricken with terror, ashamed and paralysed with not knowing what to do, she had to find an excuse. If she refused, Joy would think she didn’t care and be hurt.

  In desperation she rang Neville at the Market Hall office. ‘What shall I do?’ she cried.

  ‘She’s asked Rosa but she’s out at sea … Auntie Su would tell her the truth about your condition but Joy’s not well. I don’t think she’d understand.’

  ‘No, she mustn’t suspect. I’ll think of something. There has to be a way.’

  Next morning she woke up with the perfect solution. She was going to take her cue from Joy’s old tricks. She walked into town, made a purchase, then wrote back enthusiastically, saying she was working with Diana for a while but accepted the role of godmother with pleasure. She enclosed a little stainless-steel christening mug with a bunny rabbit engraved on the front, telling her she was sending the gift in advance.

  On the Saturday before the christening she rang Auntie Lee complaining of diarrhoea and stomach cramps. ‘You know I can’t come in my condition. Tell them I thought it unwise to bring infection to a new baby and hope they’ll all understand.’

  ‘How are you?’ said Lee with concern in her voice.

  ‘Coping. Diana and Hazel are kind. They are finding me somewhere to stay. How’s Gran?’

  ‘We’ve had words. She won’t bend, Connie. I wish I could help …’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m managing.’ She had already composed a letter to Joy and Denny, promising to visit as soon as she could. ‘I’ve sent Kim’s present. Are they well?’

  Lee was hesitant. ‘Su is worried. Joy has gone very thin again. Denny had a hamstring injury. He’s been dropped from the first team and is out of training. He’s drinking a lot. She hasn’t seen much of Joy lately, or the baby, but Joy will make an excellent mother when she settles down,’ she added.

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ Connie croaked, but she sensed Lee was worried. If only she could bury her head in Mama’s warm lap as she had as a child, to tell her what a mess she was making of her own life. If only she could hear the forgiveness in her voice, she wouldn’t be now out in this wilderness on this scary journey into the unknown.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Lee was sensing her hesitation.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Connie lied, wishing she was with her aunt right now to ask her what to do. It was hard being exiled from friends and family, not knowing if she’d ever be allowed to return.

  Diana, true to her word, found the name of a hostel, somewhere in the Yorkshire Dales near Sowerthwaite, where they took girls on an extended stay, but then their hopes were dashed when news came that it was full. So now she was down for the local hostel. Interviews followed with a midwife and welfare officer, and a list of requirements she must bring for her confinement.

  The orderly job was her only means of income to buy all these extras. It was time to save every penny, walking instead of taking a bus. Sometimes she lived in a pretend world where people smiled and asked when she was due. She was careful always to wear gloves so no one could see the ringless finger. Hubby’s away at sea, she told the other staff.

  One afternoon she took a trip out to Rawnsworth by bus to find the hostel that would soon be her home. It was hidden behind a high wall with a copper beech hedge and green wrought-iron gates. The house was like a huge preparatory school made from some mill owner’s mansion, discreetly unnamed, with no signs of life.
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  Dr Shearling had confirmed arrangements for entry into the hostel two weeks before Connie’s due date. In a funny way it was exciting. This would be a refuge from further deception, a refuge from having to conceal her condition, a relief to be among others in the same boat. No more pretending or wearing that awful corset that clinched her belly and cut into her skin. Here she could hide away and make plans.

  The only good news on the horizon was that she had passed her A levels with flying colours. Neville was sending on her mail. There was nothing from Gran, though.

  No one knew where she was except Diana and Neville. It was better that way.

  Connie packed her suitcase with care, the little blanket she’d bought on the top. Once she was behind those green gates all would be safe. And after that? She could think no further ahead than the birth. How her back ached, her ankles swollen with the heat. Now she was looking forward to a good rest.

  Diana kissed her and waved her off from the car. ‘I’ll come and visit you. Remember, you’re not alone.’

  ‘How can I thank you?’ Connie cried, feeling tearful. ‘You’ve kept me sane.’

  ‘It’s what your mother would expect from me. Don’t be too proud to ask for help, but do remember what the doctor said. Please don’t think me cruel but there are so many childless couples longing for a baby to love … You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, a chance for a fresh start. You’re only eighteen, don’t burden yourself with a child. There’s not going to be much family support. Without that you’ll sink. Don’t condemn your child to poverty and a poor start in life just because you think you should do the right thing. Give it a chance of a better life.’

  Connie didn’t want to hear all this, not now, not yet … ‘Bye, Diana. Come and see me, please.’ It was enough to be hidden out of sight, exiled, confined to barracks for the duration. She daren’t think more than one day ahead. That prospect was too daunting.

  It felt a long slog up the driveway of Green End House with two canvas holdalls. She rang the bell in the portico entrance, breathless with exertion and nerves, and a very pregnant young girl opened the door.

  ‘Another lamb to the slaughter, Miss Willow!’ she shouted in a broad Yorkshire accent, and a middle-aged woman came down the corridor, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘That’s enough, Doreen. Come in, come in. You must be Miss Winstanley?’ she said with an emphasis on the word ‘Miss’. ‘You’re one of Dr Shearling’s girls. We were expecting you last week. It’s a full house, I’m afraid,’ she said, looking Connie up and down.

  She had on her best smock pinafore dress and flat ballet pumps. ‘Sorry I’m late. I was helping my aunt in Leeds,’ she offered, but the woman wasn’t listening. She was busy pulling Connie’s bags from the doorstep.

  ‘What on earth have you got in here, the kitchen sink? Let’s be having you. Doreen will show you round. I have an emergency on. One of the girls has gone into labour. So we’ll do the formalities later,’ she said.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ Doreen, who looked about fourteen, giggled. Connie had never seen a bump so large on such a small girl.

  ‘Don’t mind her. That’s Miss Willow – we call her Pussy – purring one minute and snapping the next. She’s in charge when Matron is busy. I’m Doreen Hewett.’ She held out her hand shyly.

  ‘Connie Winstanley,’ she replied, trying to be brave and friendly when she was completely terrified. The hall was gracious, with a mosaic-tiled floor, a winding oak stairway with a stained-glass window on the landing, shot through with sunlight. There was an unmistakable smell of Jeyes fluid and burned toast.

  The day room was full of battered armchairs and a minute television. Under the stairs sat a line of very old bucket prams. There was a print of Jesus holding the lamp, the Holman Hunt portrait, placed halfway up the stairs, and Connie could hear the noise of a baby wailing somewhere in competition with a radio.

  Suddenly she felt desperate, so alone and full of shame, bewildered by the incongruity of such elegant rooms and such battered furnishings, as if the house had been emptied of anything that would give it colour and warmth and taste. Anything was good enough for girls who were no better than they should be, seemed to be the order of the day.

  The windows were open and the draughts rattled the sashes. Doreen wobbled up the stairs to show Connie the dorms. ‘Antenatals to the left, and mothers and babies to the right,’ she smiled. ‘Bathroom down the corridor, but don’t lock the door in case you need help, and watch your purse …’

  Connie’s heart sank. What sort of place was this?

  ‘It’s rest time on the bed for an hour now, feet up and no titivating.’ Doreen pointed to a girl lying with two slices of cucumber on her eyelids. ‘Matron doesn’t like make-up or nail polish on the bedspreads.’

  ‘What’s it like here?’ Connie asked, sitting on the iron bed, feeling the mattress with dismay.

  ‘Well, it’s not Butlins,’ Doreen smiled, ‘but it’ll do.’

  ‘You look fit to burst. When’s it due?’

  ‘They think it’s twins, worse luck,’ she sighed. ‘Any time now, and you?’

  How on earth was this child going to look after twins? ‘About ten days, I hope. I can’t fit into anything,’ Connie moaned. ‘I just hope there’s not another heatwave coming our way.’

  Her corner of the five-bedded room consisted of a bed and a locker, a small wardrobe, a chair and a hook behind the door. There was a large marble fireplace blocked up and an elaborate plasterwork ceiling that had seen better days. The room could do with a lick of fresh paint. The floor was linoleum in a pattern full of dizzy stripes. The curtains were unlined and skimpy. The view out from the bedroom was over the front lawn. There were no flowerbeds, no terraces, nothing but a monkey puzzle tree and the high hedge that screened the inmates shame from the world outside.

  The other girls were lying down, bumps in the air, eyeing Connie with interest. Doreen was taking her duty seriously and introduced her. ‘This is Sheila and June and Evelyn Sixsmith. This is Connie.’

  Connie smiled at each one in turn.

  ‘Welcome to heartbreak hotel,’ said June, who looked about her own age.

  It didn’t take long to unpack, with her back turned for privacy, pulling out a pile of books: Brontës, Gaskell, George Eliot, ready for next term’s tuition if she ever got the chance to go to university. When she’d finished she could see everyone staring in amazement as if she was a creature from another planet.

  ‘You’ll never read all them here,’ laughed Evelyn, who was brown-skinned with a scar across her cheek. ‘They keep you far too busy for reading.’

  ‘I have to read. I’m going to be a student,’ Connie explained.

  ‘Poor you,’ said Doreen, patting her stomach. ‘I was glad when they chucked me out of school.’

  In no time Miss Willow appeared and summoned Connie to meet Matron Holroyd, who looked just like a deflated Hattie Jacques. Together these two guardians, tall and short, looked like a clothes peg and prop. Connie surrendered her supplementary benefit book and her antenatal card, which listed all the personal details asked for except the name of the baby’s father.

  ‘Your parents’ occupations?’

  ‘Soldier and nurse, but they’re both dead,’ she said. There was a stubborn part that was determined to hold back bits of herself from them. It was as if it wasn’t her sitting in front of them like some naughty schoolgirl, but her own double: Konstandina Papadaki.

  ‘I gather you have not decided about the baby yet,’ said Miss Holroyd, looking at her notes from Dr Shearling. ‘So what are your plans?’

  It was a reasonable request, but Connie was on guard.

  ‘I want to start a degree course, if possible,’ she replied.

  ‘And the baby, who will be looking after the baby?’ Matron continued.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Connie said, feeling weary of questions.

  ‘This is a Christian foundation supported by the council. It is our duty to guid
e you to a wise decision. We have to account for all expenditure and comply with statutory regulations that require us to give you six weeks to decide. We believe in giving every new infant the best possible chance in life. It is hard to burden any baby with the stigma of being illegitimate when there are hundreds of good people desperate to give it a proper family life. You owe it to the innocent party in all this to do what is best for it, not you. Babies need mothers and fathers if they are to grow up healthy and successful.’

  Most girls she’d grown up with had had no real fathers but how could she argue with Matron? Besides, she was too tired now to comment. None of this was making any sense.

  ‘There are homes waiting for a child with your special credentials,’ Matron continued.

  Connie was puzzled, looking up questioningly.

  ‘You are obviously a clever girl, and I presume the father is a student too.’

  ‘My mother was Greek and the father is a pop singer,’ Connie replied, hoping it would put her off.

  ‘No one will hold that against the child,’ Matron answered. ‘Is there a possibility of a reconciliation?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘This is all my responsibility now.’

  ‘All the more reason to be a sensible girl and give Baby up for adoption,’ Matron said. ‘We can take it away at birth or you can keep Baby for two weeks and then see where we stand. If you sign the adoption papers there’s no point in spinning out the agony. It doesn’t do to get too attached.’

  Connie was not having any of it. ‘Do I give birth here?’

  ‘Goodness, no! You go to the local maternity wing of the hospital, like everybody else, to be monitored and delivered. You can stay the statutory ten days on the ward, then back here to discuss things with welfare department.’ Then she leaned over to give Connie a sheet of rules to sign.

  ‘We expect good behaviour at all times, no alcohol on the premises and no men visitors. All other visits by permission, and no phone calls without permission. Church on Sunday. I see you’ve put yourself down as Greek Orthodox. We don’t cater for foreign, any other religion must be arranged in advance. There is cooking and light cleaning duties for antenatals. If you do bring Baby back here, then you must be prepared to look after your baby at all times. I hope you brought a suitable layette and two of everything. A baby is not a doll. They make unreasonable demands. We find reality is a hard taskmaster. It sorts the sheep from the goats, the faint-hearted from the natural mother. You don’t look the type to me.’