by Diana Finley
I shake my head, tears running down my cheeks.’
‘No,’ I sob, ‘I’ve only got four, and they’re all wet. I’ve not had anywhere to wash or dry them.’
She shakes her head. ‘Oh dearie me. Not to worry. You feed the baby. Then I’ll change him for you. I know I’ve got some old towels out the back, what we can cut in half for a nappy. I know what it’s like to care for a baby when you’re on your own, with no money, believe me. No, it ain’t easy when there’s no man about to help you. Not that they’re much bleedin’ help, are they, love? Once they’ve done their bit, they’re quite happy to bugger off and leave you to it.’
Sylvia bustles about in the cramped kitchen, while I feed Barry. He sucks rhythmically at my breast. What bliss to sit down. I feel the warmth of the room wrap itself gently around me and close my eyes.
***
The next thing I know, Sylvia has put a plate in front of me and is gently squeezing my shoulder. Barry, warm and fed, is fast asleep in my arms, his mouth slack.
‘Here, give the baby to me, love, and get stuck into this – it’s a steak pie and some mash an’ gravy – nice and hot. Do you good, it will. A lot better than a miserable old bread roll, eh love? And there’s some lovely hot tea for you as well. I’ve put two sugars in, for energy. You look like you need it. Now just get that lot down you.’
Sylvia takes Barry, washes and changes him, and then sits down cuddling him on her lap, rocking him back and forth slowly. She watches me as I finish eating, shaking her head.
Relaxing now in the warmth, I remember the good friend I made at St Agatha’s – Elsie – and her warning to me as we chatted in the cold yard of the home, our three babies bundled up in a blanket between us, like a row of sausage rolls.
I tell my new friend – Sylvia – what Elsie had said.
‘You do know they’ll never let ya keep them, don’cha? Not when your mum and dad won’t ’ave them in the ’ouse.’
‘They’re mine; they’re my babies, Elsie. They can’t take them off us. You’re allowed to keep your Milly, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, but that’s just ’cos me mum said she’d support me and the baby. And ’cos me mum’s just down the road in Shoreditch, not away off in Ireland like yours. They’ll not let the likes of you keep them, Marie, not on your own. Anyway, they get a “donation” off the adopting parents, don’t they? Sister Bernadette will make effin’ sure she gets ’er money, I betcha.’
We gazed at our babies in silence for a minute.
‘Mebbe they’ll let you keep one of them,’ mused Elsie. ‘You said you’ve got the milk to feed one at least.’
‘They’re twins, Elsie. They can’t separate twins … can they?’
‘They can do what they flippin’ want. They’re the ones in charge around ’ere. We’ve got no power, no power at all.’
***
It’s dark as I step out into the street again. I turn and give Sylvia a hug.
‘Thanks for everything, Sylvia. You’ve been so generous and kind – how can I ever repay you?’ Tears threaten to flood from my eyes again.
‘Never mind all that, darling … it’s nothing, really. Now, are you sure you know the way to Bailey Street? It’s no more than ten minutes’ walk. Just round that corner, turn left and then right by the post box. And don’t forget where your old Auntie Sylvia is, will you, love? I expect to see you and this young man in the next day or two anyway, but you just come straight back now if there’s anything you need – or if there’s any problem, anything at all.’
I smile to myself as I walk along. Life isn’t so bad after all. Barry and I have full stomachs, a place to stay for the next two weeks, and I’ve made a lovely new friend. If only … no, I remember how Elsie had told me never to dwell on the ‘if onlys’. She was right. I’d done the right thing, hadn’t I? I’d made the right decision? Well, I didn’t have a choice; it was the only decision I could make.
***
Thanks to Sylvia’s instructions I soon find Bailey Street. It’s a long, narrow row of small terraced houses, with another identical row opposite. Most of the houses look a bit shabby and neglected; paint peeling from the doors and window frames. I walk along the side with even numbers, looking for number 22. It doesn’t take long. The front door on this house could certainly do with a fresh coat of paint. The windows could do with a wash too! There’s no bell so I knock loudly on the door. It’s opened by a thin, unshaven man in his forties. He frowns fiercely at me.
‘Yes?’
‘Er … Mr Finch?’ I say hesitantly. ‘I was told you have a room. I’ve come from the Housing Office. Marie Tully’s my name.’
I wave the housing token I’d been given by the Housing Office in front of the man’s face.
‘Oh yeah. Well, you’re late,’ he says, squinting at the token.
‘Oh, I’m very sorry if I’m later than you expected, Mr Finch. They told me not to arrive before six o’clock.’
‘Yeah? Don’t know why they said that. Tell you anything they like, that lot. Anyway, it’s OK – you better just come on in, love. Wipe yer feet. It’s a devil keeping the floor clean; there’s that much coming and going.’
The grey, threadbare carpet is indeed heavily stained. Narrow stairs rise steeply straight ahead of the front door, beside which an even narrower, gloomy passage leads to the back of the house. I notice what looks like a tiny kitchen at the far end.
The man steps aside to let me enter the house. I squeeze past him. He pulls a rope switch, and like a music hall performer, I am suddenly illuminated as I stand in a pool of light from a bare ceiling bulb above my head. Mr Finch looks closely at me.
‘Blimey girl! They didn’t tell me you was bringin’ a baby. That’s not really part of the contract. Oh well, now you’re ’ere love … never mind. You’ll ’ave to keep it well quiet, mind, or the other guests might complain.’
He exhales noisily. ‘Right, now, the ground floor is where I live, so all these rooms are out of bounds – don’t forget that, will you? OK, follow me, I’ll show you to your room.’
He stomps noisily up the stairs and onto a small, gloomy landing, lit by another unshaded bulb. There are five doors that lead off the landing and Mr Finch opens the one at the very end on the right.
‘Bathroom …’ he informs me. ‘It’s every guest’s responsibility to keep it clean. You share it with the other three residents.’
The bathroom is so tiny, Mr Finch has to step back into the gloom of the landing again, in order for me to enter. I wonder briefly whether anyone could actually sit on the toilet and still shut the door, without drawing their knees up to their chin. Next to the toilet is a tiny, stained washbasin, less than twelve inches across. I do a quick mental calculation of whether I could bath Barry in it. I decide we will manage. Opposite the basin is a shower scarcely big enough for a normal-sized human being to turn around in it! The shower is screened from the rest of the room by a plastic curtain, frayed and shredded at its lower edge, and made stiff by age. Patches of black mildew stain the walls and ceiling.
Mr Finch motions to me to come out. He leads me to the door marked ‘4’, furthest from the bathroom. He jangles a set of keys in his hand and produces a separate one for me.
‘Right, come on then, girl. This ’ere is your room. This is your key. I don’t ask for no deposit, ’cos I know me guests don’t have no money. But, it’s ten pounds to pay if you lose it.’ He glares ferociously at me. ‘Ten pounds! So make bloody sure you look after it. And keep your door locked at all times. Fred, over there in room one—’ he lowers his voice and points to the door next to the bathroom ‘—can get a bit frisky when he’s got a few pints inside him, know what I mean? He doesn’t mean no harm, but some of the girls don’t like it.’
He opens my door. The room, like the rest of the house, is tiny. There’s a narrow single bed, a small table and stool, and a tiny chest of three drawers. It looks as if the room was intended for a child. There is just enough room to walk between the
bed and other furniture to the window, provided the occupant shuffles sideways like a crab. In fact, the window is only half a window; the other half disappears into a partition wall. Clearly a larger room has been divided into two at some stage of the house’s history, perhaps to squeeze extra guests in.
Oh well, I think, just as well that we have so few possessions. There’s nowhere to put anything.
‘There you are,’ says my landlord cheerfully. ‘Nice and cosy. The bed’s got two sheets and two blankets, and a pillow, and that’s your towel.’
He indicates a faded, greyish piece of material folded on the bed.
‘I see … er … thank you, Mr Finch, but … er … do you have … a cot? For the baby?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s not listed by the council as one of the requirements.’
‘Oh …’ I say, crestfallen.
Mr Finch looks at the baby thoughtfully. He’s not an unkind man.
‘Tell you what though, love. I’ve got a cardboard box downstairs. Got it from the supermarket this morning. Should be about the right size – he’s not very big, is he? You can have that. You might have to put the bedside table on top of the chest of drawers, like, if you want the baby on the floor next to the bed, that is. I’ll bring you an extra blanket too.’
I hesitate for a moment, and then realise there’s no alternative.
‘Thank you, Mr Finch, that’s very kind of you.’
***
Barry is quite snug in his cardboard box that night. I’m relieved to see that the blue blanket Mr Finch has brought is clean. It’s thin and worn, but I fold it carefully, so that part of it forms a soft mattress over the base of the box, leaving a layer on top to serve as a cover. My own bed is hard and lumpy, but after feeding Barry, we both sink into a deep, exhausted sleep. I don’t wake until the baby’s hungry cries penetrate my consciousness a few hours later. It’s still dark. At least it’s easy enough to lean out of the bed to lift Barry from his little makeshift cot beside me and wrap the bedclothes around both of us while I feed him. Still plenty of milk, I note with satisfaction. I must have been given a boost by that wonderful steak pie Sylvia gave me, God bless her. I close my eyes and recall the delicious savoury smell of it, the succulent cubes of meat, the crisp pastry, the rich gravy soaking into the mashed potato. It was more than I’d eaten in all the frugal weeks of my stay at St Agatha’s. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.
Barry settles straight back to sleep after his feed, but I’m troubled by anxious thoughts of the future, and the past. Instead of relaxing into sleep, my mind keeps returning to the dreadful scene with Sister Bernadette – the confrontation that led to Donal being taken from me.
I stared at Sister Bernadette across the expansive, hostile plain of her desk. I could see her thin lips moving, but it was as though she was talking a foreign language, or perhaps as if she was underwater, the sounds making glugs, plops and bubbles … not real words; there was no meaning to them – nothing I could comprehend.
‘So you see, Marie,’ she said ‘you should be truly grateful that you’ll be relieved of the care of one of your children. You are indeed fortunate that this very kind couple, with excellent background – well-to-do people from a fine, respectable … Christian family, have chosen to adopt one of your sons. They have been shown photographs of both boys, and perhaps surprisingly, they have chosen the second-born child, who is of course the less robust of the two. No doubt their choice comes from a deeply charitable sense of sympathy, and a wish to help the most needy of the two. Very worthy, very admirable. Thank goodness there are such people are in the world, hmmm?’
She glared at me, as if waiting for some indication of gratitude, which was not forthcoming.
I glanced down at my babies, each sleeping peacefully in the crook of one of my arms.
‘Of course, whether they will retain the Christian name you have given the boy,’ Sister Bernadette continued, ‘is entirely up to them. They may well decide to rename him, to make him theirs. That is their right, you see …’
On and on she went, relentless, merciless. I tried to understand what she was saying, but I felt so faint, so nauseous, I couldn’t take it in. Her words fell like raindrops on a puddle, creating momentary discernible rings and then disappearing, lost for ever – nothing my brain could hold on to.
‘But … but they’re twins, Sister. They can’t be separated, they’re both my babies. I’m their mother. I can take care of them. I love them, both of them …’
‘Yes, well, of course that is the selfish view I might have expected from you, Marie Tully. If you truly love them as you say, you must consider what is best for them, not for yourself … never mind what you want! These good people are wealthy, respectable, secure; they have a beautiful home. They long for a child to love. Your boy will want for nothing. He will have the best education, a fine future. What can you possibly give him? You haven’t even enough milk for both infants!’
Sister Bernadette snorted and glared at me. She shook her head in scorn and exasperation.
‘A life of poverty and insecurity! A squalid flat somewhere, at best,’ she continued. ‘Just how do you expect to support one baby, let alone two?’
She turned and fixed me with a cold stare.
‘Perhaps, just perhaps, you can manage to care for one child, taking in washing at home, or doing some other lowly work … cleaning floors maybe …’
I was silent for a moment, contemplating the bleak picture of life Sister Bernadette was painting for me.
‘Yes, oh yes, now you can see it, Marie, can’t you, hmmm? That’s how life would be for you. Is that what you want for yourself, for your boys? No, I don’t think so …’
She paused to allow these words to penetrate.
‘I know you’re not all bad, girl, but just think; think of the future. With only one child, and some help from the state, you may be able to manage – though don’t for a minute think it will be easy!’
I looked down at the tops of my tiny sons’ heads. I shook my own head slowly. My lips trembled. Tears cascaded down my cheeks. Sister Bernadette seemed to sense a weakening of my rebellion. Her tone changed.
‘So, just think of this, Marie,’ she crooned softly, soothingly. ‘If, if, you agree to let the baby go – to go to this wonderful home that’s being offered – not today, not tomorrow … but in about four weeks’ time … if you agree to sign the adoption paper – just for the one child – well then, I think we can agree for you to keep the other one. All that would remain, is for the baby in question to have a thorough health and development check.
‘What about that now – hmmm? In fact, we can even give you some help by way of finding somewhere to live, just to start with, of course, for you and the other baby – applying to the council you see, and maybe even getting some support for childcare to enable you to find a little job … Now wouldn’t that be a fine thing? What else can you possibly do, girl?’
So here I am now: living the life Sister Bernadette foresaw for me.
How am I ever going to earn enough money to support us? London is so expensive. Somehow, I’ll have to pay rent somewhere, and buy food to keep us going.
I don’t know a soul in London, apart from Elsie, who lives with her mum and dad in their small council house in Shoreditch, and my new friend Sylvia. I’ll have to find my own place somehow. How is the critical question. I’ve neither qualifications nor experience to apply for jobs, and anyway what work could I possibly do, with the baby to care for?
I try to think positively; if I was an African woman in the bush, I’d simply tie the baby onto my back with a length of cloth, and get on with working in the fields, or cooking over a fire. I rather wish I were an African woman. At least it’s probably warm in Africa.
But I don’t think London has any fields to work in. I’ll have to find something different to do. What am I good at? I have plenty of experience in cleaning, after all that skivvying at St Agatha’s. I could scrub a floor for England and Ireland
put together – that’s for sure! I’m not a bad cook either; I helped me ma enough times at home. But the thing I’m best at is sewing. I had a real way with a needle, Ma always said. Maybe somehow I could use that skill … but how?
Chapter 3
1972
Marie
If it hadn’t been for Sylvia, I’d never have met Mrs Goldstein, never have considered the opportunity of working for her. How different my life would have been. We saw the advert for a housekeeper in the paper. It caught my eye, but without Sylvia, I would never have dared to contact Mrs Goldstein about the job. I thought there was no chance that she’d even consider me when she heard I had a baby, now a toddler – an illegitimate baby, who would have to come to live in her house too. It was Sylvia, always an optimist, who encouraged me to ring the number.
‘Go on! You don’t lose anything by giving it a go … Nothing ventured nothing gained!’
I was trembling when I told Mrs Goldstein about Barry. She paused in our conversation, as if she needed to absorb this information. I waited for her to say she couldn’t have a mother with a baby for the position, but she didn’t. After a minute she said, ‘Well, how lovely that you have a little child, my dear! I am very fond of children. Please do come to see me, and we can talk together and decide whether we like each other. I’m quite sure that we will.’
She gave me directions for finding the house. I thought she sounded nice. She sounded gentle and kind. She sounded foreign too.
‘Why don’t you come here tomorrow morning at about eleven o’clock, Marie, and we can have some coffee together? Blackheath is the other side of London, south of the River Thames. You will need to take a bus to Charing Cross or the underground to Trafalgar Square, and then it’s a short walk to Charing Cross. Then from Charing Cross station you take a train to Blackheath station. It’s not very far – maybe twenty minutes on the train.’
Hearing this, I suddenly panicked and couldn’t think of what to say. A soft ‘ooh’ of disappointment escaped my lips, though I hadn’t meant it to.