by Daisy Styles
A flush of embarrassment suffused Emily’s distressed face. ‘Never!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’ll more than likely disown me.’
‘How about his family?’ Ivy continued.
‘They’re very nice,’ Emily told her. ‘Though I’ve only met them once.’
Emily’s mind flashed back to the winter, when she’d briefly met Mr and Mrs Holden in a pub in Piccadilly. Though Emily had been shy about being introduced to his parents, George was determined.
‘I want them to know what a wonderful girlfriend I have,’ he announced proudly. ‘Em, I’m their only child; they hate being excluded from my life. I know they’ll love you to bits.’
And it had been a very pleasant meeting – they’d all got on like a house on fire – but that had been before she was pregnant and before George had disappeared off the radar.
‘Do you know where they live?’ Ivy inquired.
‘In Chester,’ Emily answered feebly.
‘Nothing more than that? No address, phone number?’
Emily blushed. ‘I never asked,’ she blurted out. Seeing Ivy’s incredulous expression, Emily tried to defend herself. ‘I didn’t think it was important at the time!’ she cried.
The older woman gave a heavy sigh. ‘And you’ve been going out with George for how long?’
‘Just over a year,’ Emily replied hesitantly.
Emily realized for the first time how pathetic her story must sound: she hadn’t laid eyes on George or even heard from him in all the weeks she’d suspected she might be pregnant, and she didn’t have a clue where his parents lived. In a matter of a few hours her world – formerly so happy and secure, with George at its centre – was suddenly tilting on a quite different axis now that this morning’s news had forced her to face reality.
‘If you’re going to keep the kid, you’d better come up with something fast; otherwise you could end up giving birth in the workhouse.’
Seeing Emily’s shocked face, Ivy took hold of her trembling hands. ‘I wish I could do something, lovie …’ she murmured, her voice trailing helplessly away.
‘There’s nothing anybody can do,’ Emily said, as she wiped away her tears and straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ve got money put away that George gave me; I’ll use it to keep my baby. I’ll manage somehow. I will write to him tonight,’ she assured Ivy. ‘You never know,’ she added with a hopeful smile, ‘I might have heard back from him by the end of the week.’
Determined not to waste any more time, Emily immediately wrote to George, telling him of her condition and how much she needed to see him. Knowing she’d never get a minute’s privacy at home, Emily stayed on after she’d finished work and wrote the letter in the smoky staff canteen. After she’d stamped and addressed the letter to Squadron Leader George Holden, C/O RAF Padgate, Emily made her weary journey home, wondering how long she’d have to wait till she had the reply she was so counting on.
Sixty miles away, Matron was on the prowl for Nancy, whom she found fast asleep on her narrow bed in one of the larger bedrooms on the second floor. Oblivious to the exhaustion of the girl curled up in a tight foetal position, Matron yanked the blanket off Nancy and dragged her to her feet.
‘Do you call that polishing the stairs, madam?’ she snapped at bleary Nancy, who didn’t know whether she was awake or dreaming.
Bustling the barefoot, trembling girl out of the room, Matron marched her down the stairs to the hall, where she announced, ‘They’re a disgrace! Do them again.’
Nancy gazed up at the ascending steps and banisters that seemed to go on forever, recalling how earlier, when she’d been on her hands and knees laboriously polishing the staircase, she’d really thought she might faint with fatigue. Thrusting a tin of polish and several rags into Nancy’s hands, Matron stalked off.
‘No supper for you until you complete your chores.’
Shaking, Nancy slumped in relief as Matron disappeared, then feebly started her task; but she was soon startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. She looked up and was relieved to see it was only Sister Ada.
‘Sister, oh, Sister Dale,’ she cried weakly. ‘Matron’s really angry with me.’
Knowing too well how vindictive Matron could be, Ada tried to hide the rage that flared up in her eyes; no matter what she personally felt, it was important as Mary Vale’s ward sister that she maintained her professional distance.
‘Let me help,’ she said kindly, as she reached out to remove the tin of polish from Nancy’s hand.
‘No,’ the girl gasped, clutching the tin close to her chest. ‘Matron will kill me if she finds out you helped me!’
‘Matron won’t know a thing about it,’ Ada replied with a smile. ‘She’s got a meeting with Sir Percival at Crow Thorn Grange – now, for goodness’ sake, give me that polish.’
Overwhelmed with gratitude, Nancy handed over the rags and polish. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ she mumbled, then added guiltily, ‘I know it sounds like I’m skiving, but really I feel weak and dizzy most of the time. All I want to do is sleep,’ she confessed wearily.
Ada peered closely into Nancy’s eyes. ‘I suspect you might be suffering from anaemia. I’ll run some checks on you tomorrow morning. Now go and get a cup of hot, sweet tea from the kitchen and leave me to get on with the job of polishing these wretched stairs.’
Smiling gratefully, Nancy did as Ada instructed and made her way into the kitchen, where she was greeted by vastly pregnant Irish Maggie, who cried out, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You’re as white as a ghost!’
The cook and housekeeper of Mary Vale, Sister Mary Paul, looked up from the big range from which she was removing several large loaves of bread. ‘Less of the blaspheming,’ she chided, as she placed the bread on the worktop to cool.
‘Sorry, Sister,’ Maggie apologized. ‘But you have to admit the poor kid looks a right fecking mess!’ Suddenly realizing she’d sworn again, Maggie stopped short and blushed. ‘I can’t say anything right for bloody trying,’ she tittered.
Smiling at Maggie, who rolled her eyes in mock despair, Nancy marvelled at her resilience. Though Maggie constantly put her foot in it, nothing ever seemed to get her down; she was like a huge rubber ball: she bounced back from everything, unlike Nancy, who barely had the strength to get through a day at Mary Vale.
‘Sit yourself down, child,’ Sister Mary Paul said gently, pulling out a wooden chair for Nancy to sit on and giving her a mug of hot tea.
‘Aren’t I in the way?’ Nancy asked self-consciously.
Sister Mary Paul nodded to a big pile of sandwiches on the kitchen table. ‘No, we’ve nearly finished making the sandwiches for supper,’ the nun said. ‘You’re fine where you are.’
As Nancy obediently sipped her tea, she felt her body relax in the presence of the kind, good women working around her; with allies like Sister Ada and Sister Mary Paul, she realized with a sudden rush of love that she was not alone.
Knowing full well that when Matron returned the first thing she’d do would be to check Nancy’s work, Ada rubbed and dusted the stairs and banisters until they gleamed.
‘All done,’ she announced, as she joined Nancy in the kitchen.
‘I know I didn’t do a great job this morning, Sister,’ Nancy admitted with a blush. ‘I just hoped Matron wouldn’t notice and I’d get away with it.’
Maggie, who’d overheard her comment, gave a loud, derisive hoot. ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she scoffed. ‘The owd witch doesn’t miss a trick.’
Frightened that Sister Mary Paul might be offended by Maggie’s rudeness, Nancy hastily laid a warning finger on her lips, but irrepressible Maggie babbled on. ‘You know, we should give the old bat a broomstick!’ she announced. ‘Then she could fly away, right out over the Irish Sea!’
Ada hid a secret smile. Like Maggie, she wouldn’t have minded a bit if Matron Maud Harding flew out of their lives and never came back, but that was never going to happen. Matron was a fixture at the Home and they all had to grin and bear it. Before she hurrie
d back to the ward, where she hoped her absence wouldn’t have been missed, Ada turned to Nancy and said, ‘Get yourself to bed straight after supper, Nancy, and don’t forget to come and see me first thing in the morning.’
When the gong sounded out for supper, Nancy followed Maggie into the dining room. Maggie laid out large plates of meat-paste sandwiches and a pile of crispy hot rock buns on the long refectory table. Usually the girls ate in enforced silence if Matron was supervising; but tonight, in her absence, the room rang with chatter and laughter. Stretching out to help herself to a sandwich, Nancy caught sight of her reflection in the gilded mirror that hung over the dining-room fireplace. How could the pale thin bag of bones reflected in the mirror be her? What had happened to Nancy Wheelan, who less than a year ago had been happily working in Burton’s clothing factory in Bolton? She’d never been a beauty, not like some of the pretty girls she worked with, who curled their hair and expertly applied red lipstick to their pouting lips. Ever the home-bird, Nancy had never been interested in going out dancing or finding a boyfriend; she preferred the company of her mam, who she was especially close to. They shared the same dislike of Nancy’s domineering father, Mr Wheelan, who treated them both badly – though never on a Sunday when they went to the Methodist chapel in town, where Mr Wheelan appeared to be a decent, upright member of the community and a good family man. Nancy had always looked forward to Sundays, when she would accompany her parents in their best (but shabby) clothes to the chapel on St George’s Road. Nancy proudly played the harmonium and in the afternoon taught Sunday School. It had been a simple enough life, until Walter from Burton’s packing department came along and changed everything. He was a spotty young man with buck teeth who took to chatting to Nancy during her tea breaks.
‘Watch that bugger, love!’ her colleagues warned. ‘He’d fancy owt in a skirt.’
Embarrassed by Walter’s unwanted attention, Nancy had ignored him but at the same time she was curious: she’d never sought out any man’s company and no man had ever shown any interest in her. Over a period of time she had got used to bumping into Walter, and one day he made her laugh when he gossiped about a lad stealing a kiss from a pretty machinist on the shop floor.
‘I wonder how many lads fancy stealing a kiss from you, young Nance?’ Walter had teased flirtatiously.
Colouring bright red with embarrassment, Nancy had hurried away from his leering gaze, but over time she had started to chat to Walter more; after all, she thought, when she compared him with her bullying, bombastic father, Walter was almost a gent. When he’d asked her to go for a walk with him in Queen’s Park to feed the ducks, Nancy had been taken by the innocence of the invitation – what harm was there in feeding some ducks? Though their friendship seemed harmless enough, Nancy instinctively never mentioned her relationship with Walter to her mother, who, she knew, would not approve of her naive daughter talking to strange young fellas. How she wished she had, now. Maybe her mother would have been able to put a stop to it all and she wouldn’t be here.
‘Dumped and forgotten about for months on end,’ Nancy thought bitterly. ‘In a home in the middle of nowhere for disgraced unmarried mothers.’
Angry with herself, Nancy pushed aside her plate of dried-up meat-paste sandwiches. If she knew her mother – the person she loved and trusted most in the world – wouldn’t have approved of Walter, why in God’s name had she dropped her guard and fallen for him?
3. Crow Thorn Grange
In the best and largest first-floor bedroom, Matron prepared herself for Mary Vale’s monthly board meeting, which was always held at Sir Archibald Percival’s imposing home, Crow Thorn Grange, situated a few miles inland on the lower banks of the fells that rose majestically over the Grange’s many turrets and chimney pots. Matron liked the fact that the board meetings were at Archie’s, as she fondly referred to him in her private thoughts, though they were marred by the presence of the odious, drink-sodden resident doctor of Mary Vale, Dr Jones. Notwithstanding, Matron enjoyed her time away from the clattering noise of the ever-present girls and the all-permeating smell of dirty nappies soaking in buckets of bleach.
‘Still,’ Matron reminded herself as she threw off her uniform, ‘I am rather well paid, and have my own luxurious rooms with lovely views, which I certainly wouldn’t have if I’d chosen to work in a city hospital.’
Matron took pleasure in her preparations. She always dressed carefully for Archie. After slipping into her best claret-red dress, which Sir Percival had previously fulsomely admired, she carefully clipped her silk stockings on to her suspender belt; then, after applying her make-up (racy red lipstick, which Matron was quite thrilled by!), she draped her three strands of pearls around her neck and secured the matching diamond and pearl earrings. Closely examining herself in the large dressing-table mirror that was lit by two tall sidelights with tasselled pink velvet shades, Matron was not displeased with her reflection. She was in her mid-forties and proud of her piercing dark eyes and her thick black hair, admittedly now streaked with grey, and her teeth were still good, albeit a bit yellow. Her eyes, though, were without a doubt her finest attribute; as a nursing sister working at the Front during the Great War, she had terrified doctors of the highest rank with a commanding look from those imperious eyes. Authority and determination were Maud Harding’s bywords; with these attributes she believed a professional single woman could move mountains in a male world.
Dabbing Chanel No. 5 behind her ears, Matron held her own gaze for several seconds; though dear Archie was married, to a milksop who fled at the sight of visitors, she knew there was a strong bond between them. She’d had a few romances in her time – none of which had been satisfactory, for she was a hard woman to please. After her appointment as Matron of Mary Vale Hall she had grown to admire Sir Percival: strong, bold, decisive, Archie was a real man – her kind of man. Picking up her highly polished lizard-skin handbag and a light woollen coat from her canopied bed, she glanced with pleasure at her elegant room, presently bathed in a golden light from the setting sun. Here, in her own private space, Matron could dream her own dreams, which nearly always had dearest Archie at their centre.
Driving over to Crow Thorn Grange in her smart little Austin, Matron took pleasure in the view. The narrow lane running between the rising fells caught the rays of the sun sinking low over the Irish Sea, which blazed crimson in the reflecting light before darkness fell. The night air was rich with the perfume of pungent spring blossom, and, as she drove her car along the winding drive that led up to the Grange’s imposing oak-panelled front door slatted with heavy metal bars, owls hooted and a fox barked loudly from the woods that skirted the edge of the fells.
Inside Crow Thorn Grange, Sir Percival was irritated when the butler announced that Dr Jones had already arrived.
‘Odious buffoon,’ Percival fumed. ‘He arrives early every time in order to sink half a decanter of my best sherry before proceedings even get under way.’
Occasionally he wondered how the dubious-looking doctor with his lank, greasy hair, foul breath and puffy, liver-spotted face had washed up at Mary Vale Hall. Possibly because nobody else on earth had wanted him. Instructing the butler to take the doctor into the spacious drawing room, warmed by a crackling log fire and lit by tall standard lamps strategically placed beside low tables on which recent copies of Horse and Hound and Farmers Weekly were neatly arranged, Percival remained at his desk, glaring at an unpleasant letter he’d received that afternoon from his bank manager.
Percival had married into wealth, but his spending habits, gambling and other life in London, which he worked hard to keep secret from everyone, especially his wife, had quickly eaten up their wealth, and, though there was income from the vast Crow Thorn estate, it didn’t begin to cover Percival’s lavish needs. Without another source of income he was in imminent danger of losing his Mayfair flat and his mistress, whom he housed there. Stunning, beautiful, slender Marigold, with Titian-gold hair and limpid eyes, had tried her best, poor darl
ing, he thought indulgently, to cut down on champagne and couture gowns, but even her sacrifices hadn’t had much impact on Percival’s dwindling funds.
Sighing heavily, he stood up and walked over to the windows that looked out over the driveway flanked on either side by rich meadowland, where soon Highland cattle would graze knee-deep in cow parsley. Recognizing Matron’s smart little Austin making its way up the drive, Percival gave a loud groan: the thought of having to flatter Maud Harding all night made his already heavy heart even heavier.
As much as he’d like never to host another wretched Mary Vale board meeting again, Percival knew he needed to keep good relations between Crow Thorn Grange and Mary Vale. His role as head of the board brought in a pittance that barely covered his wine bill, but within the county set there was prestige attached to the title, and to be seen working selflessly for a charitable trust for fallen women had its social benefits. Plus, there were occasional unexpected perks bestowed on him by some of the wealthier, sometimes titled parents of the pregnant girls. Grateful for Percival’s professional discretion in the matter of their fallen daughters, they’d wined and dined him in some of the best London clubs, where he’d won at the gambling tables and even received expert insider tips on the Stock Exchange. He’d formed a particularly useful relationship with Lord Humberstone, whose daughter, Cynthia, a pretty little thing as he recalled, had been a resident at Mary Vale a year ago. In exchange for Percival’s respectful discretion, Lord Humberstone had given him an inside tip on the winner of the Grand National (which happened to be his lordship’s horse) and Percival had made a packet. His only regret was that there hadn’t been any more passing favours courtesy of grateful parents who’d left their disgraced daughters in his tender care.
Hearing the butler opening the door to Matron, Percival twisted his expression into a welcoming smile; he’d got the old battle-axe wrapped round his finger, but it took patience and effort to keep her happy. As long as his flirting stopped at hand-kissing, it was just about bearable, but there had been sickening moments when Matron’s simpers suggested she would be game for a lot more than that. With a swagger he issued forth into the grand entrance hall decked with imperial antlers’ heads with multiple points and dead, beaded eyes, where he greeted Matron in the manner to which she’d become accustomed.