by Daisy Styles
Shirley gave a little sheepish nod. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ she murmured.
Waiting for the kettle to boil on the big old range, Shirley neatly set a large wooden tray with a snowy lace cloth, the best delicate china cups and saucers, and a little cream jug and sugar basin decorated with the tiniest pink rosebuds, which Shirley adored.
‘Don’t forget the shortbread biscuits,’ Sister Mary Paul reminded her, and Shirley reached up for the biscuit tin on the high shelf over the kitchen worktop. She brewed the tea; then, taking a deep breath, she lifted up the heavy tray, which started to rattle in her trembling hands.
‘Put it down before you drop it, child!’ Sister Mary Paul cried. As poor Shirley set down the tray, she added reassuringly, ‘You can do this; it’s just a question of mind over matter.’
‘It’s easy saying that, Sister, but I’m terrified of the old bat,’ the girl blurted out. ‘She stares at me with eyes as cold as a dead fish and complains about everything I do, even when I know I’ve done it right! She enjoys picking on me, frightening me – and that’s the truth!’
Knowing only too well what a bully and sadist Maud Harding could be, the nun concentrated on building up Shirley’s confidence in herself. If Shirley were to remain a fixture at Mary Vale, she had to learn to survive, and that meant facing her demons.
‘Do you know how to say the Hail Mary?’ the nun suddenly asked.
Shirley nodded. ‘Yes, Sister Ann taught me the prayer. It’s lovely. Hail Mary …’ she started with a sweet smile.
‘Good,’ said Sister Mary Paul. ‘Now, here’s what to do: say the prayer in your head all the time you’re in Matron’s office.’
Shirley’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but the nun rolled on.
‘Praying the Hail Mary all the while?’ Shirley quizzed.
‘Not out loud!’ Sister Mary Paul laughed. ‘Concentrate on Our Lady and she’ll get you through it. Now, off you go,’ she added, as she gave her favourite helper a gentle pat on the back.
Shirley obediently picked up the tray and, with a timid but determined expression, she left the kitchen. It was only as she approached Matron’s office at the end of a long corridor that she started to pray, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee …’
Sister Mary Paul was right: the prayer worked and kept her steady and focused, so that when it came to setting down the laden tea tray her hands barely shook. Without even looking at Matron or the two other women in the room, Shirley gave a quick bob, then all but flew back to the kitchen, where Sister Mary Paul was waiting for her.
‘It worked!’ Shirley laughed, as she spun around in a circle like an excited child. ‘I did as you said, Sister, and it worked.’
Looking not the least bit surprised, Sister Mary Paul smiled at Shirley, who looked as triumphant as a warrior king.
‘I did it!’ she exclaimed.
Returning to trimming the crusts on the plates she’d just covered with pastry, Sister Mary Paul nodded. ‘I’ve never known Our Lady to let a good soul down yet.’
Smiling Sir Percival was also drinking tea, though, after the arrangements he’d just made with Lord Wallace, he thought he truly deserved a triple gin! He’d agreed to take Wallace’s pregnant daughter into the Home. ‘Even though we’re full to capacity, we’re more than happy to make special arrangements for your daughter,’ he’d lied through his teeth.
‘And can you keep the little madam for a few weeks after the damn thing’s born?’ Wallace had asked.
Percival, who hadn’t shown the slightest interest in post-natal care up until now, smirked. ‘Post-natal care is one of our major priorities; I can promise you your daughter won’t be allowed home until she’s been declared fit by Matron and our in-house doctor, Dr Jones.’
‘Who’d sign anything for a bottle of brandy,’ Percival thought to himself.
‘And you’ll see to the adoption,’ Wallace continued. ‘She doesn’t want the bastard, and we certainly don’t, not after knowing who’s fathered it.’
Percival gave an understanding smile; Wallace had already informed him that the master of the local hounds had had his way with his daughter.
‘A bounder and a cad!’ Wallace had raged. ‘Old enough to be her blasted father, married – with a family too.’
Percival had quite different thoughts: the bounder and the cad in question would probably have some good breeding on his side, while the Wallaces were at the top of the tree in that department. The child (hopefully a boy) would be prime material for adoption. With luck, the Bennetts would have a son and heir in time for Christmas, and Percival would be in credit in the bank.
Wallace wrote out a cheque for his daughter’s stay in Mary Vale, and then another, much more generous cheque payable to Percival. ‘For your discreet service, Sir. This delicate matter must be kept strictly secret. If word should get out, my daughter’s chances of a good match in the future will be in tatters. You understand, I’m relying on your honour, Sir,’ he said sternly.
‘Rest assured, here at Mary Vale discretion is our byword,’ Percival replied with an obsequious smile.
‘Make sure she doesn’t bolt,’ Wallace added as he rose to go. ‘She’s a damned handful, always has been. You’ll have your work cut out managing her,’ he warned.
When the booming parents finally departed, Matron led Daphne into the noisy dining room, where the girls were finishing their midday meal. Leaving hearty Daphne unashamedly heaping her plate with fish pie and cabbage, Matron hurried off to grill Sir Percival.
With not a shred of nervousness about her, Daphne plonked herself down next to Nancy, who almost fainted in terror when the new girl turned her big horsy face towards her.
‘When’s your brat due?’ she asked.
Poor Nancy was so shocked by Daphne’s abruptness she stammered her reply, ‘Th … this month.’
‘Mine too,’ Daphne said, as she glared at her tummy. ‘Bloody hell!’ she guffawed. ‘I can’t wait for the whole ghastly business to be over!’
In her office Matron found Sir Percival leaning back in his chair smoking a Pall Mall cigarette with a wide smile on his face.
‘Wallace couldn’t wait to offload his troublesome daughter,’ he announced with a triumphant smirk.
Matron gave him a cunning look. ‘Was money exchanged?’
‘Of course!’ Percival exclaimed. ‘A very generous initial donation to the convent, via our account.’
Referring to the Bennetts, Matron demanded, ‘And the rest? When do we get the full amount?’
‘The full donation will be made when we exchange the goods, so to speak,’ he told her.
‘If we exchange,’ Matron added cryptically. ‘The new girl could give birth to a girl – or a horse,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Horses for courses,’ Percival clumsily joked.
‘Thank God she won’t be here long,’ Matron continued. ‘She’s got a voice like a fog horn, eats like a gannet and defers to nobody.’
‘A chip off the old block, I’d say,’ chuckled Percival, who, in the best of spirits, bade Matron farewell and left Mary Vale with a skip in his step and the donation safely in his pocket.
All the girls nervously circumnavigated the new girl, but Isla liked her; having been to a girls’ boarding school on the Borders, she wasn’t unfamiliar with hearty girls with loud voices. Isla made it her business to introduce Daphne to all the girls, who, to start with, made fun of her behind her broad back, but they soon grew to like her breezy approach to life. Her lack of shame was refreshing and her cheeky ways and irreverent attitude to those in charge made the other girls laugh.
When Isla showed Daphne the list of chores that Matron compiled every week, she didn’t question it as Isla had done on her arrival.
‘I’m convinced Matron believes that mopping and cleaning the Home, demeaning ourselves like servants, is a way of paying penance for our sins.’
Daphne burst out laughing. ‘Penance! What a load of old tosh!’ she sno
rted. ‘The moment I’m minus this great lump,’ she said, as she shifted the weight of her baby from one side to another, ‘I’ll be keen to have another roll in the hay.’ She winked saucily. ‘But next time I’ll make sure a romp doesn’t result in a blasted pregnancy.’
‘There are ways and means,’ Isla replied with a grin.
‘I’m not just talking about a packet of johnnies!’ Daphne replied robustly. ‘I’ll get the old tubes snipped, solve the baby problem for life.’
Isla’s eyes grew big and round. ‘You mean you’d get yourself sterilized?’
‘Absolutely!’ Daphne retorted with a grin. ‘Never again,’ she vowed.
Having made this heartfelt announcement, she peered myopically at the list of chores pinned to the dining-room wall.
‘I’m down to do the fires,’ she remarked. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Cleaning out the grates, removing ashes and cinders, sweeping all the fireplaces, then resetting the grates with paper and kindling and hauling in buckets of coal from the coal shed too.’
Daphne threw back her shoulders. ‘I don’t mind!’ she announced. ‘Better than the damn embroidery and lace-making classes that were compulsory at the last home. Dreadful dump.’ Rubbing her hands together, she said, ‘Right-i-o, let’s get started.’
Isla – on laundry duty hand-washing sheets in an ancient, old-fashioned boiler and putting them through a mangle that creaked with age and use – explained where the main fireplaces were, then left Daphne to get on with it. It was in the dining room that Daphne, her face smudged with soot and cinder dust, met Shirley, who’d come in to lay the table for dinner. Shirley jumped in surprise when she saw the figure of a woman with a big swaying bottom in front of the fireplace, and heard an indignant voice booming, ‘Bally filthy dirty job, this is!’
Seeing the stranger struggling to find a place to dump the cinders, Shirley picked up a discarded newspaper and hurried forward to help her.
‘Put them in here,’ she said, as she spread the newspaper on the floor for Daphne to use.
Daphne turned her sooty face to Shirley and grinned gratefully. ‘Awfully kind of you, old bean,’ she said. ‘Never done this job before – usually leave it to the servants.’
‘I am a servant,’ Shirley said with cheerful pride. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’
With neat precision she cleared the grate of all the cinders, which she wrapped in the newspaper, then, picking up the little brass brush that was propped up against the side of the fireplace, she dusted down the grate and the fire surround before rising to her feet and polishing the mantel shelf.
‘There, all done,’ she announced.
Daphne was impressed by the small girl’s deftness of touch. ‘Good work!’ Struggling to her feet, she continued, ‘I could tack up my mare in as few minutes as it took you to do that – afraid domesticity is not my forte.’
Taking hold of Shirley’s little hand, she pumped it like she was filling a bucket from a standpipe. ‘Daphne Wallace, by the way, pleased to meet you.’
Awe-struck, Shirley gave a nervous bob. ‘Shirley …’ she replied. Then, to her complete astonishment, Daphne asked her another question. ‘Had a baby?’
Shirley’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘Well, that’s what we’re all here for, to drop a filly, so to speak.’ Daphne’s keen eyes swept the length of Shirley’s skinny frame. ‘You’re certainly not carrying one, not like me,’ she said, patting her huge bump. ‘Think I might have three in here!’
Though transfixed by the new woman, who was a tour de force of energy and conversation, Shirley managed to reply. ‘I had a baby, but she was adopted.’
‘That’s my plan too: get the little blighter adopted and me back into the saddle.’ Before Shirley could catch her breath, Daphne blasted another question her way. ‘Like horses?’
Shirley, who was scared stiff of all animals except Teresa the kitchen cat (named after Saint Teresa of Ávila by Sister Mary Paul), shook her head.
‘Better than babies, believe me,’ Daphne assured her. ‘Now where do I dispose of all this rubbish?’
‘I’ll take it,’ Shirley volunteered.
‘Awfully grateful,’ said Daphne, as she bundled the newspaper into Shirley’s hands. ‘Might just nip to the lav for a gasper,’ she added with a saucy wink.
Left on her own, Shirley smiled. ‘What a character!’ she said out loud, then giggled as she had a wicked thought. ‘Oh, my God! She will drive Matron round the bend!’
Daphne could make friends as easily as breathing; she had no qualms about breezing into different girls’ rooms for a chat and a smoke, and, as her friendship with Emily, Nancy and Isla, who were a floor up from her, grew, she spent more and more time with them in their roomy bedroom. Shirley, who was fascinated by Daphne and what she might say next, made a point of doing her cleaning very near any room Daphne might be in. It was while she was doing just that one day that Shirley heard Daphne loudly discussing the inconvenience of an unwanted pregnancy.
‘A bally blip to be got through, then move on as swiftly as possible.’
Riveted, Shirley laid aside her mop and crept into the bedroom to join in the discussion. When Nancy saw her, she threw Shirley a welcoming smile before continuing with the ongoing conversation.
‘Don’t you ever feel guilty about, you know, doing it when you weren’t married?’ she whispered, red-faced, as they were sharing a box of chocolates that Daphne’s mother had sent in the post. ‘A guilt gift!’ Daphne had called it.
‘Not at all!’ Daphne retorted, as she took the last coffee cream and popped it into her mouth. ‘Couldn’t get enough of it.’
Shirley’s dark brown eyes almost rolled out of her head. ‘You mean you actually enjoyed it?’ she gasped.
‘Golly, yes!’ Daphne cried.
Seeing Nancy and Shirley’s startled faces, Daphne asked, ‘Not so in your case, huh?’
Shirley kept her mouth firmly shut, while Nancy recalled horrible, gap-toothed Walter on the packing floor in Burton’s clothing factory in Bolton.
‘It was horrible,’ she said with a shudder. ‘I didn’t even know you could get a baby that way.’
Daphne gave her a rather forceful clap on the back, which made poor Nancy almost choke on her nut truffle. ‘You should have been brought up with dogs and horses; there’s no doubting where babies come from after you’ve seen a stallion cover a mare!’
Seeing Nancy going slightly green, Emily swiftly added, ‘Sex can be wonderful when you’re in love with somebody.’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed the difference, one way or the other,’ Daphne joked.
Not wanting to frighten timid Shirley and Nancy, Isla tried hard to recall the only good part of her relationship with her unfaithful professor.
‘Emily’s right: making love can be special when you really care about the other person.’
‘You shouldn’t be put off, Nancy,’ Emily urged.
‘One of the best things in life, if you ask me!’ boomed Daphne.
Seeing Nancy and Shirley squirming with embarrassment, Isla completely changed the subject. ‘Why did you run away from your previous mother and baby home?’ she asked Daphne.
‘It was my idiot Papa’s decision; nobody consulted me,’ Daphne cried indignantly. ‘He thought the stricter the Home, the better the place, a punishment for my sins of the flesh,’ she scoffed. ‘The bloody nuns frog-marched us into church every morning at six, where we yawned our way through half a dozen prayers, then it was out into the garden for gymnastics before a breakfast of bread, marg and water. Absolute bally nightmare!’
‘How did you get out?’ Nancy giggled.
‘Knotted a couple of sheets together and climbed out of the window,’ Daphne replied. ‘Then ran as fast as this wretched bump would allow.’
‘Will you run away from here too?’ Nancy asked nervously.
‘Nah, this place isn’t so bad. I’ll stay the course, get it over with,’ Daphne replied pragma
tically. ‘Not long now, eh, Nancy?’ she said with a conspiratorial grin.
‘Don’t talk about it,’ Nancy wailed. ‘I’m so frightened.’ She gazed down at her tummy, which was nothing like as big as Daphne’s. ‘How will something this size ever come out of me?’
‘The same way that it got in!’ Daphne joked. ‘Nature’s way.’
Nancy paled. ‘I just wish it was all over,’ she sighed.
‘Stiff upper lip, girl,’ Daphne urged. ‘Just a few more weeks, then we’ll be free as a bird!’
19. The New Boy
Robin adored the train ride across the wide and spectacular expanse of Morecambe Bay.
‘Look, Mummy, the train’s on the sea!’ he gasped, and stared in wonder through the window at the big engine that was sending up great plumes of smoke as it made its way towards Grange-over-Sands.
‘It’s not really on the sea, darling,’ Gloria tried to explain. ‘The train’s on railway tracks that are on top of strong wooden piers built into the sea.’
Robin, who obviously preferred his version of things, insisted that the train was somehow making its way magically through the sparkling blue water that was so bright he had to squint to see the station they were approaching.
‘Not this stop, laddie,’ the cheerful passenger, whom Robin had made friends with on the journey, told the little boy. ‘Yours is the next stop, Kents Bank, but I’m getting off here at Grange.
‘Have a nice time,’ the genial man called as the train pulled away from the platform and chugged slowly past the marsh, which, at high tide, was covered in seawater.
‘Have a nice time,’ Gloria mused. That wasn’t quite how she imagined her immediate future. Comfortable and safe would do for the moment, and until her baby was born early in January. ‘Born in wartime,’ she thought with a heavy sigh. ‘How old will he or she be when the war ends?’
Robin roused Gloria from her stream of sombre thoughts. ‘Mummy! The train’s stopping!’ he cried.
With a grinding of breaks the train groaned to a halt and the porter on the platform called out, ‘Kents Bank! Kents Bank! Disembark here for Allithwaite and Cartmel.’