by Daisy Styles
Some of her saucier colleagues had teased her recently. ‘Been on the chips, Em?’ they’d laughed when they were in the changing room together, as Emily, without thinking, had removed her apron.
A little boy eating a buttered tea cake with his mum had inquired rather too loudly, ‘Why has that lady got a big tummy, Mummy?’
If the customers were noticing the size of her, then it was clearly time to go. With her case packed and hidden under tarpaulin sheets in the garden shed (she couldn’t trust her sneaky younger sister not to snoop if she left it under her bed), Emily was ready to take flight, but first she had to explain her unexpected departure to her parents, who weren’t at all keen on her moving out. Not because they had much affection for their eldest daughter, or for any of their children in particular; they just wanted her wage packet.
‘How are we going to survive without your money?’ her dad grumbled.
Wearing the baggy old dress that she changed into the minute she got home, Emily sucked in her stomach until it actually hurt.
‘It’s just a temporary move, Dad, a promotion,’ she lied.
‘Will you be able to send money home?’ her mother whined.
‘I’ll do my best, Mam.’ ‘Another lie,’ thought Emily. ‘But I’ll be paying for digs in Leeds, so there won’t be much left over.’
‘You just said it were a bloody promotion – they can’t be paying you less than you earn already?’ her dad quizzed her.
Emily gave an inward groan; why had she used the word ‘promotion’?
‘The extra money, as I’ve just told Mother, will just about cover my digs and travel costs.’ Another lie tripping quickly off her tongue.
Keen to get away from her whingeing parents, Emily bade them a quick goodbye, then left the claustrophobic house she’d grown up in and headed for the railway station. Though she was relieved to get away from her family, tears stung her eyes as the train rumbled out of the station; this essential journey north would take her even further away from George, whom she still hadn’t heard a word from. Now firmly convinced he’d abandoned her, or, worse still, was dead, Emily had nevertheless posted a final letter with her forwarding address to Squadron Leader George Holden c/o RAF Padgate, Warrington. Only time would tell if she would ever lay eyes on her beloved again.
Though Emily had made the journey to Grange before, she still gasped at the beauty of Morecambe Bay opening out in front of her; with the tide well in, the sea seemed to meet the sky in a glittering haze of silvery blue. This time, Emily stayed on the train and got off at Kents Bank, just a short walk from the Home, where she was immensely relieved to be met at the door by Ada, rather than Matron. Knowing that all eyes would be on the newcomer, Ada had made it her business to be on hand when Emily arrived.
‘Hello, how was your journey?’ she said cheerily, as she relieved Emily of her suitcase and led her up two flights of stairs to a large room on the second floor with big bay windows that looked out over the marsh to the Irish Sea.
‘This is one of the nicest rooms, with lovely views,’ Ada said, depositing the case beside the bed, which had been neatly made up with a bright quilted counterpane by the window. ‘It’s three-bedded,’ she pointed out. ‘You’ll be sharing with Nancy – she’s due before you,’ Ada continued chattily. ‘In a few weeks you’ll be joined by another girl.’
‘How old is Nancy?’ Emily asked nervously, as she hung her coat on the hook on the back of the bedroom door.
‘She’s eighteen,’ Ada informed her.
‘A bit younger than me,’ Emily commented, her face showing the growing anxiety she was feeling.
‘Not much,’ Ada said. ‘And you’ll love Nancy – she’s had a bit of a tough time, with terrible morning sickness and anaemia. But she’s much better now and I’m sure you two will get on really well.’
‘Thank you,’ Emily said, smiling, grateful for the thoughtful reassurance. ‘Where’s Nancy now? I’d love to say hello.’
Ada checked the fob watch attached to the apron of her nurse’s uniform. ‘She’s probably in the garden on a lovely day like this. The afternoons are free for the girls to do what they please – relax, sit in the garden, knit, go for a walk or attend Sister Ann’s fitness and exercise classes.’
Emily raised one beautifully trimmed eyebrow. ‘Fitness and exercise classes?’ she queried.
‘They’re an excellent preparation for labour; the girls find them really useful – you should try them yourself,’ Ada said. Turning quickly to the newcomer, she added, ‘Come on, let’s see if we can find Nancy.’
The garden was as Emily remembered it, but now it was a blaze of cream, red and gold roses and richly perfumed summer blooms – lilies, phlox, digitalis, delphiniums and carnations growing in profusion in the flowerbeds.
Used to endless rows of redbrick terraces with only small backyards and front doors that opened on to the street, Emily stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Beautiful!’ she cried in delight.
Ada smiled too. ‘Anything would grow here,’ she told the new resident. ‘The sun and the position of the secluded gardens are a perfect environment, for babies as well as plants,’ she joked.
Emily gazed around the garden – bees droned and songbirds chirruped. A small group of heavily pregnant girls was sitting on benches, knitting and chatting, while one lay on the lawn reading a book with her friend beside her, fast asleep. Some not so heavily pregnant girls were energetically pushing big old-fashioned sprung prams containing tiny babies along the winding garden paths; Emily watched them as they chatted happily to each other, occasionally stopping to readjust a blanket or turn a fretful baby on to its side before they continued with their walk.
‘There’s Nancy!’ Ada cried, as she pointed out Nancy at the back of the pram-pushers. ‘Come and say hello.’
Eager to meet her new room-mate, Emily hurried after Ada, who had a long, athletic stride. Nancy stopped when she saw Ada flagging her down. Emily thought she looked younger than her eighteen years, and her burgeoning tummy looked too big for her small frame. Smiling shyly, she shook Emily by the hand.
‘It will be nice to have company,’ she said pleasantly.
‘And how’s Lizzie today?’ Ada asked, as she peeped into the pram.
Nancy tenderly patted Shirley’s little girl’s bedding. ‘She’s fine now we’re on the move, but back in the nursery she was screaming blue murder. She gets terrible wind, but Sister Ann’s been teaching me how to wind her and it works, thank God,’ she said with a laugh. ‘She might be small but, once she gets going, she wakes up the other babies.’
Ada was impressed with Nancy’s handling of the baby. Nancy’s affection for Lizzie had started simply because she felt sorry for the poor mite, but in just a few weeks she seemed to have developed a deep affection for the little girl, who cooed happily at the sound of Nancy’s soft, gentle voice. Though Ada was happy for Lizzie to have a devoted carer, she hoped that Nancy wouldn’t make the mistake of bonding with the child, who was destined to be adopted quite soon.
‘Better get a move on,’ Nancy said, and nodded towards the old Silver Cross pram in which Lizzie was making loud protesting noises. ‘It’s almost time for her feed.’ Before she left, she turned to Emily and said shyly, ‘Goodbye, see you later.’
‘She’s nice,’ Emily said to Ada, as Nancy went on her way.
‘She’s lovely,’ Ada affirmed. ‘I’m sure you’ll both get on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Emily, I need to get back to help Sister Ann with the next round of feeds. See you later,’ she said with her beautiful glowing smile. ‘Over a cuppa!’
Left alone, Emily settled down on a sunny bench, where a feeling of immense relief flooded through her; she wasn’t alone in her situation. All the girls in the Home would experience (if they hadn’t already) childbirth with its accompanying pain and joy.
‘We’re all in the same boat,’ she thought.
At last, she was in the right place. She could stop pretending, let her belly grow big and round, rela
x, eat well, get plenty of rest – even do Sister Ann’s fitness and exercise classes. At this point in Emily Todd’s confinement, Mary Vale Home for Mothers and Babies was exactly the right place for her.
Just a few miles away, in Crow Thorn Grange, Sir Percival was pacing the floor of his study; he’d just returned from another visit to London, where he and Marigold had been richly wined and dined by Edgar and Cicily Bennett in their stylish townhouse in Chelsea. Tatchbrooke Abbey, Edgar’s ancestral home in Derbyshire, was presently occupied by his ageing father, who lived in the hope that before he slipped this mortal coil he would hold a grandson in his arms, secure in the knowledge that the family line would continue well into the twentieth century.
Though dinner (roast duck, new potatoes, home-grown peas and carrots) was excellent, Percival had eaten little and, uncharacteristically, drunk even less. If he ever needed his wits about him, tonight was the night. Edgar and Cicily weren’t the self-conscious, shilly-shallying sort – knowing this, Percival had made sure he had another conversation with Matron before he left for London.
‘I’m meeting up with an old chum in town this week,’ he had started. ‘He tells me his wife is keen to adopt.’ He paused briefly before adding, ‘They’re titled, wealthy landowners; their line probably goes all the way back to William the Conqueror, so they very much want the right kind of baby.’
‘Naturally! Of course, that makes complete sense,’ she’d replied crisply.
‘What shall I tell them?’ he’d asked uncertainly. ‘Have we the makings of a plan, Maud? You said you’d come up with something, re: our biggest stumbling block, the priest,’ he reminded her.
‘I have,’ she replied.
Percival’s heart had given a double beat of excitement.
‘I can’t discuss it over the phone,’ she added in her most professional voice.
‘Of course,’ he agreed.
‘Let’s just say,’ she added slightly cockily, ‘I have everything in hand.’
‘Excellent, I knew you wouldn’t let me down,’ he smarmed.
‘As I’m sure you won’t let me down,’ she echoed.
‘My word is my bond,’ he boomed pompously.
‘Quite.’
Determined to be one hundred per cent sure that he was in a position to strike a bargain with Edgar, Percival had asked one final question. ‘Can I safely say our discreet service is available to the eager couple?’
‘Most certainly,’ she had assured him and put the phone down.
With Matron’s words ringing in his ears, Percival felt in a confident mood as he sat next to Marigold on Edgar and Cicily’s sunny Pimlico terrace, drinking the finest champagne money could buy.
‘Edgar’s told me of your contacts, Archibald,’ Cicily said, clearly trying hard to keep the mounting excitement from her well-bred sounding voice. ‘We’d like you to procure for us, just as soon as you possibly can, a new-born baby son.’
Marigold slid her lover an adoring smile. Before they’d left his flat (after a wonderful two hours of love-making), Percival had explained to Marigold how the conversation might go later between Edgar and Cicily.
‘Darling!’ she had cooed as they lay naked in bed. ‘How wonderful of you to find them a baby!’ she’d declared as if he’d just found it lying around on the streets.
‘Dearest, I haven’t found it, as you so sweetly say – it’s growing,’ he chuckled.
‘Oooh! Just like a plant!’ she shrieked.
‘Yes, you could say that,’ he replied. ‘So, dearest, don’t be surprised if talk of babies comes up over supper.’
‘Archie,’ she pouted. ‘You can talk about babies as long as you like, just so long as it’s not MY baby,’ she said with a steely glint in her eyes.
Percival traced a line of kisses down her pale flat abdomen.
‘Never, never,’ he purred. ‘That would ruin everything.’
After supper, over cigars, brandy and Cointreau for the ladies, Edgar echoed his wife’s sentiments,
‘We’ve thought it over, old boy, and we agree that if you can find us a fine boy of good breeding – on at least one side of his family,’ he said with a wry smile as he quoted Percival, ‘then we would gladly offer you a very large “donation”, perhaps even a little more if it would guarantee your personal attention throughout the proceedings,’ he added pointedly.
‘We’d feel happier knowing that you were steering the ship, so to speak,’ dewy-eyed Cicily added.
Percival gave a gallant little bow. ‘Madam, you need never doubt that, I can assure you.’
In an emotional rush, Cicily added, ‘Ideally, we’d like to have a son, swiftly followed by a daughter’; then, in a more business-like voice, she proceeded to list her questions and requests. They would want details of the child’s parents, their occupations and social standing; knowledge of their education was important too. At what age could the child be removed from the Home, and who would nurse him until they came to pick him up? Percival, who, in truth, could barely answer any of her questions, told the anxious pair that all these things would be taken care of by Matron Maud Harding.
‘A woman of impeccable character,’ he assured them.
‘Would you like an initial payment as a sign of our serious intent?’ Edgar asked earnestly.
Trying to smother his desperation for money, Percival replied in a voice he did his best to keep calm and devoid of the excitement that was running through his veins, ‘That would be most kind; I’ll invoice you with my details on my return home.’
In the cab on the way back to Percival’s Mayfair flat, Marigold wound her slender, pale arms around his neck.
‘My clever little baby-finder,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘How sweet of you to make Cicily happy, thereby making yourself very, very rich.’
Percival felt the swell of her breasts under her white fox fur.
‘Find me a few more wealthy, infertile couples,’ he said huskily. ‘And you can enjoy some of the benefits too.’
‘Darling,’ Marigold murmured as she stroked his thighs. ‘What fun we shall have!’
Now that Edgar had promised to transfer an initial payment, Percival woke early the next morning and, after slipping from Marigold’s lingering caresses, he pulled on his silk dressing gown and hurried to the drawing room, where he quickly dialled Matron’s office number. Taking deep, steadying breaths as the phone shrilled out, he waited for her to pick up.
‘Sir Percival!’ she exclaimed when she heard his voice. ‘What a pleasant surprise. How are you?’
Impatient to get on to the matter in hand, he answered in his most dulcet tones. ‘Dear Matron, I have the best of news!’ he charmed. ‘I’ve had a meeting with the couple I mentioned to you the other evening and I urgently need some clarity on how we may proceed.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. I thought we might discuss the matter further over a private supper in my suite,’ she said seductively.
Already having anticipated that she would be planning some intimate tête-à-tête scenario, Percival deftly sidestepped the potential minefield.
‘Sadly, Matron’ – he gave a little quivering sigh – ‘I’m terribly busy in London at the moment,’ he lied. Busy enjoying his delicious mistress and spending money he didn’t have – not yet anyway! ‘On my return I’m not going to have much free time, especially in the evenings.’ Before she could make another suggestion, he ploughed on. ‘Maybe we could have a private word in your office as soon as I’m back? Progressing our plan has become a matter of some urgency.’
Clearly disappointed Matron nevertheless conceded. ‘Of course, Sir Percival.’
‘Perfect!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I’m home.’
A few days later Percival met Matron in her office after she’d finished her morning rounds. As he took a chair opposite her, he noticed with horror that she was wearing bright red lipstick. It looked terrible on her and she was wearing some frightful pungent perfume that quite turned his stomach. Moving swiftly
into business mode, he came straight to the point. ‘So …’ he said, rubbing his palms together, ‘how are we going to make this wonderful event happen? Have you had a chance to check those records?’
‘I’ll come to that in a moment.’
Taking her time, Matron reached for the coffee pot set on a tray on her desk and slowly poured coffee into two teacups.
‘Milk? Sugar?’
Desperately impatient, Percival was almost grinding his teeth at the delay. ‘Both.’
‘Biscuit?’ she asked, as she offered him a plate of Sister Mary Paul’s shortbread biscuits.
‘No,’ he answered curtly, quickly correcting himself. ‘Thanks.’
Sitting back in her chair, Matron sipped at her coffee before she continued. ‘You should bear in mind we have no suitable baby boys at the moment.’
Percival’s face fell. ‘Damnation!’ He’d never thought of that.
Laying down her coffee cup, Matron added, ‘A haughty girl and her grandmother paid us a visit recently but I’ve heard nothing back from them – pity,’ she sighed. ‘They looked the type who would pay the full residential fee. And a new woman with a rather high opinion of herself has just arrived, but I’m not sure she’s quite the right class,’ she sniffed. ‘And, more to the point, she insists on keeping her child, though how she’ll manage that will be interesting to observe.’
Unable to take any more of Matron’s controlled diversions, Percival abruptly interrupted her: ‘We’ll find a boy,’ he said with forced optimism. ‘Even if we have to be economical with the truth about the parentage. But the more urgent problem is working out how we’re going to get around Father Benedict. He’s a difficult bugger!’ Fawning on her, he murmured, ‘I won’t have him getting in the way of this marvellous idea of yours, dear Maud.’
‘I said I was coming to that,’ Matron said, as she nibbled a biscuit. ‘It turns out I have had an idea as to how we can get round that particular problem.’
Percival pulled his chair closer. ‘Yes …?’ he asked with bated breath.
Matron dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘We must disgrace him.’