The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers

by Angela Patrick

  ‘And we know what they’ll be after, let’s face it,’ she said. ‘God, more wandering hands than an octopus, that one!’ Pauline pulled a face again, and I didn’t blame her. I hadn’t much liked the look of Roger myself. He was a bit older, and a bit too forward as well.

  ‘I did wonder,’ I said. ‘Plus it occurred to me that just by going there to meet them, it would be giving them the impression—’

  ‘Exactly,’ she agreed, finishing the thought for me. ‘Giving them the impression that we’re up for something more than we really are.’

  We’d reached the end of the pier now, and the beach was beginning to empty. Ahead of us, the lights along the prom were coming on, punctuating the backdrop with arcs of white join-the-dots. I tried to imagine myself at the stage door of the theatre at 11.30, waiting to be taken to a cabaret by one of the stars of the moment. Pauline was right. That would definitely be one to tell my friends back in the office. But it didn’t feel right.

  I stopped and turned to Pauline. ‘I think we’d be out of our depth a bit, don’t you? And once we’re there . . .’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ she said.

  We didn’t really need to discuss it any more. We both knew exactly what ‘out of our depth’ meant and what it could lead to. We’d been there and well knew the consequences.

  We went out for fish and chips instead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the exception of Pauline, I rarely mixed socially with girls of my own age. I was still just twenty, yet I felt older and, as a consequence, disconnected from my peers. I had become someone different; someone who carried a dark secret. It seemed better to strike out and find new friends than to keep up the pretence with the group of people who’d known me and my baby’s father.

  Not a day passed in the aftermath following Paul’s adoption when I didn’t think of him, but as the weeks turned into months, and the pain began to quieten a little, I grew less introspective and once again interested in rejoining the world.

  And the world seemed quite happy to accept me. Though I still had the jitters when going out, always dreading the thought of being exposed, there was clearly something about me that boys now found attractive. I had no idea what it was – a sense of vulnerability? A mystique? I couldn’t understand why, and I wasn’t about to analyse it, but for a while I was constantly turning down offers; offers, moreover, from really nice boys. Boys who I was sure wouldn’t look at me twice if they knew the truth about what had happened to me.

  There was one in particular, a good-looking boy called Andy, whom I’d been interested in for months before the night I’d met Peter, and with whom I’d had no success at all. But that had changed. I would often see him at the Meads Ballroom once I started going there again, and soon became aware that, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, it was he who’d become interested in me now. Being asked out by Andy should have been a thrilling moment – eighteen months ago, it would have been – but it wasn’t. Somehow he’d lost his appeal. Either that, or I’d changed more than I realised.

  I’d made another good friend now, a girl called Janice. A couple of years older than me, she was the daughter of my friend Doreen’s neighbour. Our paths had never crossed before, but I think Doreen sensed we’d be kindred spirits – she’d recently parted from her fiancé after things had gone wrong between them, so, though for different reasons, she too was ‘recovering’. She knew nothing of what had happened to me – as far as she knew, I’d been out of the country – but that aside, we grew close very quickly. She was tall and very pretty, but she lacked confidence in herself. She was shy and always easily embarrassed. I suppose, looking back, we supported each other through a time when we were both finding it hard to socialise again.

  But, little by little, we did socialise more. Buoyed up by one another, we started going out regularly to the popular clubs of the day. There were exciting new ones opening all the time. As well as the Meads Ballroom, we started going to the Rhinegold and the Marquee in London. We weren’t exactly living a hedonistic high life, because that was the last thing I wanted, but I did have the sense that I was, albeit tentatively, resuming a version of my former life.

  We continued to meet boys, and I still loved to dance with them. In some ways life felt as if it was slowly reconfiguring itself. I was finding my feet again, regaining some much needed confidence. But I turned down all dates – it was almost an automatic reflex – and, like Janice, I invariably went home alone. I still felt I couldn’t get close to anyone of the opposite sex, because becoming intimate with a boy would mean telling him the truth. To be close to another human being you had to open up, to give your whole self – otherwise what was the point? I couldn’t bear to do that. Not yet, at any rate. My secret felt much too shameful to share.

  But, by increments, the world was changing too – for the better. Out of necessity, I’d spent much of the previous year looking inward, but now I could see evidence of the dawn of a different era, of a society that was perhaps becoming a little less judgemental. If the period that preceded it had seen the world shocked by John Profumo, 1964 marked something of a turning point, to my mind.

  It was the year the Sun newspaper was launched and the death penalty was abolished, and there was a constant sense that the old order was being challenged and swept away. Attitudes to sex outside marriage had slowly begun to change and, at least for those not hidebound by the rules of the Catholic faith, use of the pill was becoming widespread, as women took control of their contraceptive needs. It would take many years yet, but it felt like a sea change was occurring all around – confirmed that autumn when thirteen years of continuous Conservative government ended and Harold Wilson’s Labour party took power. And the soundtrack to everything, both here and in America, was provided by that new band we’d been so excited by in the convent – Liverpool’s greatest export, The Beatles.

  It was also the year in which I turned twenty-one, and my mother was determined that we should celebrate. ‘We want to organise a party for you,’ she told me, unexpectedly, when I returned from work one evening in the September.

  I was shocked. My mother wasn’t the party-giving type, and neither was Sam. The last party they’d had anything to do with, as far as I could remember, was when they’d celebrated their own wedding. But Sam was kind, and I knew he’d do anything for my mother – he adored her – so if she’d decided upon a party, I knew he’d support her. Even so, it was unexpected. ‘A party?’ I parroted. ‘What, here?’

  ‘No, not here,’ my mother said, shocking me even further. ‘Sam and I have discussed it, and we thought perhaps the best thing would be to see if we could hire the Oakwood Rooms in Eastwood. What do you think?’

  This, too, may have seemed unprecedented, but, looking back, it might not have been such an out-of-the-blue suggestion as it appeared. I knew my mother was anxious to make things right between us. There was also the small matter of me having a boyfriend at last, my first since Peter, who seemed so very long ago. And he wasn’t just any boy, he was – to use my mother’s parlance – a very nice boy.

  He was called Dave, and I’d met him at the Meads Ballroom; he’d made a beeline for me as soon as he’d seen me. This time I’d said yes, because he’d ticked all my personal boxes. He was tall – very important – and a very smart dresser; as with Peter, my late father would have approved. He also wore his hair, which was dark and wavy, in the way that I liked it – slightly long and with a quiff at the front. He was a draughtsman, and I’d been seeing him for something like six weeks. My mother and Sam definitely approved of him. She would comment often, and with increasing regularity, I’d begun to realise, on what a wonderful husband he would make.

  I could understand her enthusiasm. Not only was Dave a ‘catch’ in every sense you could think of, but he also represented the potential closing of a very harrowing chapter in my life. I could see what she was thinking: once I was safely married, she would no longer have to worry about me, which was somethin
g, since ‘getting into trouble’, that weighed heavily and constantly on her mind.

  I didn’t mind. Dave was nice, and I enjoyed his company. It was also a pleasant sensation to feel wanted by someone. That he was keen on me wasn’t in any doubt. In our short relationship we’d even got a song to call our own: ‘I’m Into Something Good’ by Herman’s Hermits, which had come on the radio when he was dropping me home one evening, and which he declared to be exactly how he felt about me.

  ‘Really?’ I said to my mother now, genuinely excited. ‘I would love a birthday party, I really would!’

  She smiled indulgently, and I wondered how hard she’d had to work to persuade Sam that this was something they should do for me. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then you shall have one!’

  The Oakwood was a lovely venue close to where John and Emmie lived, and everyone chipped in with the preparations. They did wonderful food there, and I have lots of happy memories of that time, as we gathered as a family to work out all the details: what the buffet menu would be, what music we’d like the DJ to play and exactly which family and friends to invite. We even had the invitations specially printed, which made me feel very much the belle of the ball, in stark contrast to my twentieth birthday.

  I would look the part too, hopefully, after my mother agreed to put money towards having an outfit specially made for the occasion. It was a deep pink dress, made of the fabric of the moment – Moygashel, a type of heavy Irish linen. It had a fashionably high neck and cut-away shoulders, a keyhole back and a stylish A-line skirt. It was short, so I could make the most of my best asset, my long legs, and was finished off with a neat boxy jacket. I felt a million dollars in it. When the night of the party came around, it was clear Dave thought I looked a picture too.

  ‘You look amazing,’ he told me, as we jigged around the dance floor together. I had by now, as ever, taken my shoes off. ‘And you know who you remind me of?’ he said. ‘Sandie Shaw.’

  I smiled at this, even though it was a bittersweet moment, as I remembered a similar conversation a long time back. But Dave, unlike Peter, did have a point. Sandie Shaw was the latest ‘big thing’ girl singer, and her recently released single, ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’, was currently storming up the charts. Like me, she had long dark brown hair and a fringe, and was generally seen barefoot.

  But it wasn’t really Sandie Shaw who was on Dave’s mind that evening. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said, as the song we’d been dancing to ended. He gestured to the DJ, who gave him a nod, and then Herman’s Hermits came on. I could see my mother sitting at a table at the edge of the dance floor, and her expression as she watched us spoke volumes. She was sitting with Sam, of course, as well as John and Emmie, and my auntie, and I could tell they had been commenting on the two of us dancing – conspiratorily, as they were all beaming. And as Peter Noone began warbling, I had a moment of real panic. Oh, no, I thought. He’s not going to propose, is he?

  Dave didn’t propose; he was just pleased that he’d arranged for the DJ to play ‘our’ song for us. But it was at that moment that I think it really hit me: as much as I liked him – and I did because he was so nice – we were probably going nowhere as a couple. Dave was lovely, and I knew my mother had plans for him, but in that moment of panic at the thought of a declaration, I also knew the spark wasn’t there. However suitable, however much he thought he was into something good, Dave wasn’t going to be the man for me.

  I knew it was going to take a very special kind of person before I would even think about sharing my dreadful secret, before I would contemplate allowing someone else to know my pain at losing Paul. Dave wasn’t that person. That person might not even exist. The truth was that I might never find him, and if I didn’t so be it. It had to be the right man or no one. Dave and I finished seeing each other not long after.

  Chapter Fourteen

  But potential happiness lay just around the corner.

  My brother John often went to Catford Cricket Club at the weekends. A friend of his from the Stock Exchange, called Terry, lived in South London and was a member there. John and Emmie would often go with him to the social evenings they put on, and they would talk about them often – how much fun they were, and how much I’d enjoy them. Eventually I was persuaded to join them, along with Janice, on one of their Saturday night outings. More often than not they were themed in some way: Caribbean, perhaps, or French, with similarly themed food and entertainment, and people would be encouraged to dress up for them. On this occasion, however, there was no theme and, as it turned out, no occasion either.

  It was 6 February 1965, a bitter night. And suddenly we were all dressed up with nowhere to go. ‘Cancelled?’ said John, when we arrived at the club to find the car park almost empty, no sign of Terry and the door to the function room shut.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that,’ said the man manning the reception. ‘All a bit short notice, I’m afraid; one of those things. Though there’s a band playing in the pavilion a bit later.’ He spread his hands in apology. ‘If you’ve nothing better on, that is.’

  Not too enticed by this lukewarm endorsement, John turned to us and spread his own hands. Terry, it seemed, had been off work sick on the Friday, and the news about the cancellation, as a consequence, hadn’t filtered through. But we didn’t have anything better on, and we were now in Catford, a long way from our usual haunts. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘What shall we do instead, then?’

  Emmie, always the optimist, headed for the door to the pavilion. ‘Well, we might as well at least go in for a drink, mightn’t we? Who knows? The band might be brilliant.’

  We followed her and poked our heads through the open door. It was the standard issue cricket pavilion of its day: a long bar, wooden floor, some chairs and tables. The four members of the promised band, who looked as if they were probably drawing pensions, were setting up their equipment in the corner. ‘Hmm,’ said John, voicing all our thoughts about the evening’s prospects. ‘Okay, then. One drink and we’ll make a new plan.’

  For me, it was the best decision ever.

  Well, the second drink was, at any rate. We had decided upon having another once a few more people had arrived in the pavilion. It had livened up a bit as a consequence, and now we were settled no one had much enthusiasm for moving on, particularly as it was such a cold night.

  ‘Ah, there’s Michael,’ John announced, seeing an obviously familiar face at the other end of the bar.

  ‘Michael?’ Emmie asked. ‘I don’t recognise him. Should I know him?’

  John shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t. He’s a friend of Terry’s,’ he explained. ‘Works for another firm of stockbrokers. I see him on the floor sometimes.’ He turned towards me and Janice with a twinkle in his eye. Like me, Janice was still single, and my brother wasn’t averse to a spot of matchmaking. ‘Shall I ask him and his friend if they’d like to join us?’ he asked. ‘Since we’re staying now, we could get ourselves a table, couldn’t we?’ He pointed. ‘You want to grab that one over there?’ He winked at me as we crossed the noisy floorboards in our heels. ‘Who knows,’ he said. ‘They might take a fancy to you two!’

  Emmie rolled her eyes at me. ‘Men!’ she observed. Yet, my brother, for all his indiscreet attempts at getting me hitched, served me well. The two men came and joined us, and introductions were made. Dave, an old school friend of Michael’s, made a beeline for Janice, while Michael, it seemed, was immediately drawn to me. And the feeling was mutual. He was instantly engaging, with sandy hair, a touch ginger (though I soon learned he hated it if you called it that), and good-looking, too, with arresting blue eyes. These he trained on me now, most disconcertingly.

  He was dressed smartly, in a navy mohair suit that fitted beautifully, over a button-down shirt and slim knitted tie. The whole look gave the impression that, just like us, he’d originally had more exciting plans than standing in an almost empty cricket pavilion awaiting the opening number by a quartet of septuagenarian musicians. And it seemed he had
; he hadn’t known about the cancellation either, so, like us, he’d planned to move on.

  Though now, he said, it looked as if he might be staying. He had spotted me, apparently, as soon as he’d walked in, and he wasn’t slow in letting me know it. His chat-up line was to take a measured look at me – we were around the same height – and make me an offer. ‘If you promise to take those off,’ he said, nodding towards my black patent shoes, ‘I’ll have a dance with you later.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I said, coolly. Privately I was impressed by his acuity. Were we to stay the whole evening, I would be doing that, for sure. But I would enjoy teasing him a bit first. ‘Well, we’ll see, shall we?’ I finished.

  He grinned. ‘Will it help if I tell you it’s my birthday?’

  It wasn’t his birthday. When pressed, he admitted that it was still ten days away. But it seemed he wasn’t about to let a little detail like that put him off. And soon it became apparent, as the place filled up even more, that everyone was quite happy staying for the evening, me very much included. The band started, I duly slipped off my shoes and we danced.

  It felt nice. We made a date for the following weekend. He asked if I’d like to go and stay with him for the weekend, in fact, which rang sufficient alarm bells that it almost scuppered our fledgling romance before it started. What did he take me for?

  ‘Angela, he’s fine,’ John was quick to reassure me on the journey home.

  ‘If a bit cheeky,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not like he was suggesting a dirty weekend, or anything. He lives with his parents, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. But even so . . .’

  ‘Honestly, sis,’ John said. ‘He’s a decent guy, trust me. Straight as they come, promise.’

  And he was right.

  But Michael wasn’t interested in waiting till the weekend to see me again. He called me on the Monday evening, very keen to meet up, and we went for a drink after work at a pub near Liverpool Street station on the Wednesday. When the weekend did come around, he suggested he could drive me down to meet his parents. The family had recently moved from South London to a new home in Crayford, in Kent, and they would, he said, really love to meet me.