Having finally faced up to her suspicions, Grace Munday was gripped by panic. What was she to do? Where could she go to get help? She couldn’t tell Isabel, for she knew that the young mother would emphatically oppose what Grace was intending to do. Similarly she couldn’t confide in either Mrs Tanner or Mrs Clements, both of whom cared only for Isabel and her baby, jealously protecting her from anything that might upset her and dry up her milk. In the end Grace decided to consult Mrs Prebble who lived in a terraced house in Turin Street, about three quarters of a mile from St Barnabas’ vicarage. Leaving Mr Clark’s shop at half past five as usual, on pretext of doing a little shopping, she called at the midwife’s home and rang the bell twice. Nobody came, and Grace’s heart sank. She tried a third time, and a woman appeared at the house next door.
‘She ain’t in, she’s out on a case down Spitalfields!’ the woman yelled. ‘Dunno ’ow long she’ll be. Gimme yer name an’ I’ll tell ’er yer called. Where’d yer live?’ Grace shook her head, hoping for better luck the following afternoon.
Her luck held, for when she called again, Mrs Prebble came to the door, munching a sandwich. She raised her eyebrows on recognising Grace.
‘Ye’re from St Barnabas’, aren’t you? Is something the matter with Mrs Storey or the baby?’
‘No, they’re all right, thank you, Mrs Prebble, but I’d like to see you myself if it’s not too inconvenient,’ faltered Grace. ‘If I might come in for a moment and have a word…’
Mrs Prebble opened the door to admit her, and led her to a back parlour.
‘Sit yourself down, Miss…er…’
‘Munday, Mrs Prebble.’
‘Oh, ah, Munday. What’s brought you here, then?’
Grace’s trouble was soon told. A few brisk questions about the time of her last period, her last contact with her ‘young man’, and the nausea she had put down to the smell of the butcher’s shop, established that Miss Munday was indeed three months’ gone, and due to give birth in November. Mrs Prebble shook her head.
‘Hm. I did wonder that night you sat up with Mrs Storey,’ she said. ‘Have you said anything to her about it?’
‘Oh, no, Mrs Prebble,’ answered Grace wretchedly. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t need to, not if you – if you were able to do something about it.’
‘Get rid of it, you mean?’
After a momentary hesitation, Grace nodded and replied, ‘Ye-yes, Mrs Prebble. M-my young man’s been k-killed in France.’ Her voice trembled as she uttered the words, and the midwife shook her head.
‘At three months? And your young man’s gone off and got himself killed at the front? Hm, the usual story.’ She spoke as if she doubted the truth of it, and Grace held her breath as she waited for an answer.
‘Ye’ve left it too late, girl. I never touch a woman more’n two months’ gone, so you’d better get ready to carry it through. Have you told your parents? It’d be best to go home and tell ’em before everybody can see for themselves. How old are you? Eighteen? You haven’t showed much sense, have you?’
‘I know I haven’t, but what am I to do, Mrs Prebble?’ asked Grace with such despair in her voice that the midwife relented a little.
‘There are various places where you can go to have the baby and get it adopted. The better they are, the more money they want. There’s a good place called the Women’s Rescue in Battersea, and the Salvation Army place in Pentonville, all hymnsingin’ and scrubbing brushes, though they’re decent people – and of course there are the workhouses, but most girls’d throw ’emselves into the Thames first, and I can’t see Mrs Storey letting you go to one o’ them. And you’ll need to book a doctor in case there’s complications when it comes to the birth. That’s the best I can advise, girl. Tell your sister, and then go back to where you came from, and be quick about it. Ye’ve made your bed, and now you must lie on it, you poor kid.’
‘Grace! Oh, Grace! Are you really sure? What a burden you’ve been bearing, my poor little sister!’
Isabel’s reaction was certainly one of surprise, and Grace wept as she told the half-true tale of a brief relationship with a soldier on the eve of his departure to the war, where she said he’d been reported as missing only a week later. Isabel, now a mother herself, pitied her sister for the loss of the man she had presumably loved, and for the prospect of giving up the baby she would bear.
‘You must stay here for the confinement, Grace,’ she said firmly. ‘I know Mr Storey will agree. We’ll book Mrs Prebble and Dr Whitefield. It won’t be easy to keep such a secret from Mum and Dad, but Mum isn’t well, and we must spare her the extra worry if we possibly can. I’ll help you to look the rest of the world in the face.’
Grace hid her face on her sister’s shoulder. ‘Oh, Isabel, you’re so good to me,’ she sobbed. ‘I know I don’t deserve it, but I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d turned me away. Mrs Prebble told me that girls have drowned themselves…’
And Isabel, knowing something of the despair of women who had thrown themselves into the unforgiving waters of the Thames, hugged her sister closer still.
For Tom Munday a succession of bright summer days only brought back poignant memories of happier times when the family had all been together; when Ernest had been a solemn schoolboy, content to spend Sunday afternoons at Mr Woodman’s Bible class, and Isabel and Grace were the prettiest girls at Miss Daniells’ school. And Violet his wife, bustling around on Sunday mornings, getting the children ready for church and putting on her flowery hat, securing it with a long pin at the back, while telling him to get a move on and not to forget a clean handkerchief. Tom closed his eyes, remembering the years that he now saw as the happiest of his life.
Now Ernest was away and might never return; Isabel had given birth to a son who might never see his father; Grace, thank heaven, had come to her senses and was helping her sister, not ashamed to work in a butcher’s shop to pay for her board. And Violet – his pretty, dark-eyed girl, loved from the moment he first saw her at Hassett Manor – was drifting into a deep melancholy, losing interest in everything that used to give her pleasure. Dr Stringer had said that she needed company, and should visit friends and neighbours, invite them to afternoon sewing sessions or evenings of whist. It was no use; Violet would only visit Mrs Bird whose grief over her lost boys had aged her ten years, and was similarly turning in upon herself. When Tom asked Dr Stringer if Violet should see a specialist, the GP had frowned, shrugged and said it would be a waste of money; many women were reacting in this way to the constant fear of the dreaded telegram.
Not for the first time Tom had to conceal his own fears and assume a positive attitude that he did not feel. Violet would not be cheered, and told him he had not the same care as herself for their only son. How wrong she was, he reflected sadly, for his son was seldom out of his thoughts, and he reproached himself bitterly for not showing Ernest greater understanding in the past.
At the beginning of September North Camp was agog with the news that young Philip Saville, having lost a leg, had been discharged from the army, and had come home. The congregation eagerly looked forward to seeing the boy they remembered as a golden-haired youth, and though without his left leg, he was now spared any further injury. The weeks went by, however, with no sign of Philip, either in church or out of it, and rumours began to circulate, such as that he had been hideously scarred, would never walk again, or that he had lost his reason. The tense faces of his parents neither confirmed nor denied any of these dire stories, but all enquiries were met with the reply that ‘it would take time before he was better.’
Then Tom Munday was summoned to the rectory to make a number of additions and modifications to make life easier for Philip. There were handholds to be put along corridors, convenient hooks for hanging up clothes, crutches and walking sticks; Tom was asked to make a discreet commode chair for use in Philip’s bedroom, and outside he was asked to make a garden bench against the south wall, protected by a small gabled shelter around it to keep out rain and
wind. It was while he was engaged on these additions that Tom came face to face with the returned soldier, and his heart ached within him at the sight of a boy not yet twenty, a one-legged cripple walking unsteadily on crutches, apparently unable to speak, for when he opened his mouth, only a deep, rattling cough was heard, the result of inhaling poison gas. His hair was lank and lifeless, and the blue eyes were sunken into their bony orbits; he had the haunted face of one who had looked upon unspeakable horrors.
Tom managed to smile and greet Philip briefly, though he got no reply; in answer to neighbours’ enquiries he simply repeated that the young man had lost a leg and would take some time to recover from his experiences. He said nothing to Violet, knowing that she would picture Ernest in the same state, echoing Tom’s own fears. He hoped that he would show the same courage and steadfast faith as the Savilles if that were ever the case.
‘It’s such a bloody shame, Eddie, to see a good-looking young chap turned into such a wreck,’ he said to his friend, to which Eddie replied that at least his life had been spared – ‘not like poor ol’ Bird over there,’ he said in a low tone, for Mr Bird had taken to dropping into the Tradesmen’s Arms on a Friday evening to have a pint with Tom and Eddie. A dapper, somewhat formal man who found Christian names difficult to use, he confided to them that his wife had withdrawn into a shell of solitude in which she lived with her memories of Tim and Ted, kissing their photographs each night and seldom going out.
‘It’s not much of a life for Phyllis at home,’ Bird admitted. ‘And it’s hard on her to see Billy Hickory as he is now. You may know that they were unofficially engaged when he went out there, but…’ Tom and Eddie stared back at him in helpless sympathy. ‘He’s better now than he was,’ remarked Eddie, ‘I mean he just about manages to sell and deliver the orders – though it’s his mother who runs the business, and God knows what’ll happen when she’s gone.’
‘Your Phyllis is a handsome girl,’ said Tom. ‘I reckon there’ll be another young chap for her sooner or later.’
‘I’m not quite so sure about that,’ replied Mr Bird, looking into his half-empty glass. ‘There’s been such a bloodletting since this war began, and no sign of it ending. I sometimes think my daughter and her friends may not have enough young men left in their generation.’
Neither Tom nor Eddie had an answer to that, and did not try to contradict him, a man who had lost not only his sons but his wife, too, in a sense – the woman whom he had loved and married. Tom Munday understood only too well, but could not say so.
Grace Munday had need of all her resolution, as well as her sister’s support, once her baby began to ‘show’. Suddenly it seemed as if everybody knew of her plight, and whereas old Mr Storey refrained from mentioning it – she suspected more for Isabel’s sake than her own – the women of St Barnabas’ Church could talk of nothing else. Mrs Tanner and Mrs Clements clearly blamed her, not only for ‘getting into trouble’ as they called it, but for bringing that trouble to poor Mrs Storey’s door at a time when she had just given birth to a son without the comfort of her husband’s presence, and as she was adjusting to the new routine of feeding, changing and being woken up in the night by the new arrival, though everybody agreed that Paul was a beautiful baby, and that it was a crying shame that his poor daddy was away comforting the lads who were risking their lives in this wicked war.
Overhearing these remarks as she passed by the open kitchen door, Grace could not defend herself to them, for they were not the only voices raised against her. Mr Clark, although of course he said nothing to Grace, had obviously mentioned the matter to his wife, earning Grace disapproving stares from the customers whose whispers seemed to follow her down the street.
‘Why can’t she go ’ome to ’er parents, that’s what I’d like to know,’ said a woman standing in the queue for rationed mutton, and the next rumour that passed round was that Mrs Storey’s wayward younger sister had been thrown out by her father, and that was why she’d come back to poor Mrs Storey. This particular tale was the one that brought tears to Grace’s eyes in the privacy of her room: as if her dear old dad would ever do such a thing, however badly she behaved – though regarding her mother she was less sure. She was learning about the intolerance, the shame heaped upon girls like her, getting bigger every week. Her back ached and her legs were swollen from standing at the counter and till all day; yet no matter how tired she felt, or how uncomfortable, she was resolved never to complain or reply to personal criticisms, though she was touched when two weary expectant mothers commiserated with her in the butcher’s shop. Even when Mrs Prebble, examining her at five and a half months, told her she should try to rest more, Grace was determined to carry on working for Mr Clark right up to the day of her delivery; she’d go on serving the customers until she dropped – and in fact she almost did. She woke up on a grey, foggy November day when her back ached so badly that she couldn’t get out of bed. As she tried to sit up a sudden warm gush between her legs made her think that she had wet the bed, but Isabel came and reassured her that it was her waters breaking, a sure sign that she was in labour. Sally was sent to fetch Mrs Prebble who came and felt for the baby’s head, which she said was not down yet.
‘Does that mean it’s the wrong way round, Mrs Prebble?’ asked Grace, gasping as another pain seized her back.
‘No, just that the head’s got a long way to go down before you can start pushin’,’ the midwife replied. ‘You ought to get up and walk around a bit if you can, ’cause this is goin’ to be a long wait. I’ll leave a couple o’ doses o’ “mother’s mixture” to take when the pains really get started, and I’ll come back about noon.’
Grace passed a wretched morning of growing discomfort. Isabel helped her to sit out of bed on the commode chair, and gave her the ‘mother’s mixture’ that tasted so foul that she brought it up again immediately.
‘Oh, poor Grace, that’s the stuff I had, potassium bromide with a few drops of opium,’ said Isabel. ‘Look, dear, lay down on your side and I’ll rub your back for you. That helps a bit.’
‘Mrs Storey, Paul’s cryin’, so can yer come to ’im?’ called Sally, and Grace was left alone again to cope with pain after endless pain. By now they were coming round to the front of her belly, which tightened up to a board-like hardness with each contraction, and her back felt as if it was about to break in two.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, ‘help me, please! Forgive my sins and help me, O Lord – have mercy on me!’
‘All right, Grace, all right, I’m here,’ said Isabel, bringing a cup of weak tea and a boiled sweet for her to suck after swallowing the second dose of ‘mother’s mixture’.
‘Am I going to die, Izzy?’ asked Grace in her agony.
‘No, dear, you’re not going to die – I’m here to help you see it through. Put your trust in God. Pa’s praying for you downstairs.’
Mrs Prebble returned as dusk was falling, and announced that the head was going down, but it would be several hours before the delivery. Grace groaned, and the midwife drank a cup of tea and shook her head over the news from the front.
‘The British and French’ve recaptured that place called Passchendaele in Belgium,’ she told Isabel. ‘Terrible casualties, though.’ She finished her tea, and put on her coat. ‘Gettin’ dark already, and it’s only just gone four. I’ll nip home to feed the cat and see if there are any new messages. Carry on as you’re doin’, and I’ll be back around seven. Wouldn’t surprise me if this goes on till the early hours.’
But Mrs Prebble had underestimated the strength of the contractions, and at half past five Grace cried out that she was having her bowels opened.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Izzy, but I can’t get out o’ bed – I can’t stop it coming, I’m sorry – oh, my God!’ She screamed and rolled on to her back. ‘Help me!’
Isabel pulled back the sheet and saw a baby’s head emerging between Grace’s thighs.
‘Sally! Sally, come at once!’ she called, and as she and Sally wa
tched, the head was born, the face upwards.
‘Oh, look at its little face – oh, bless it!’ Isabel was hardly able to control her voice. ‘All right, Grace dear, your baby’s nearly here, don’t worry.’
She took the head gently between her hands, and as Grace gave another involuntary push, the child’s body slithered out followed by a gush of blood.
‘It’s a girl, Grace! Oh, Grace, you’ve got a little girl!’
‘Five minutes to six,’ said Sally, glancing at Grace’s alarm clock on the bedside table. ‘Look, it’s breathin’ an’ movin’ its arms an’ legs.’
‘Is it – is it all right?’ asked the new mother.
‘Yes, she’s fine, she’s crying – listen to her!’ said Isabel shakily. ‘Sally, dear, can you run over to Mrs Clements and ask her to fetch Mrs Prebble? She’ll have to come and cut the cord and whatever else she has to do. There’s the afterbirth still to come – oh, thanks be to God!’
Carefully she wrapped the baby in a clean towel, and as Grace sat up to look, her sister placed the baby, still attached to the umbilical cord, in her mother’s arms.
‘She’s perfect, Grace – a sweet little darling.’
On her way out, Sally called to Mr Storey that a baby girl had been born, and his eyes filled with tears as he prayed that the child would go to a good home where she would be loved.
Christmas, 1917
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right here, Grace, if I go to see Mum and Dad at Christmas?’ asked Isabel anxiously. ‘You’ll have Pa here, of course, and Sally to cook and clean – and do the washing. I won’t be away long, just the two nights of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth, only I really want to show them how well Paul’s doing.’
‘Oh, you go and give them my love, Izzy, I’ll be all right here,’ answered Grace, gazing down at baby Becky, eagerly sucking at her breast. Isabel felt a stab of pity as she looked on the rosy, innocent child soon to be taken from her mother and placed in a new home by a Church of England agency, never to know her real mother or the grandparents who were unaware of her existence. It seemed wrong to take part in the deception, thought Isabel, but it would surely be worse to tell Tom and Violet the truth, especially as her mother’s health was not improving. She sighed; it would be a sad Christmas, except for the fact of her precious son, hers and Mark’s. May it please God to send her husband home to them, safe and well!
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