Cath Staincliffe: Trio

She shivered – the covers kept slipping down. Megan had made her a bed-jacket. A ghastly, fluffy blue cape, but she appreciated it now. They must have been designed for women with heartburn. She pulled it from under her pillow and worked it round her shoulders. She sat back. The baby kicked again, unexpectedly. Making her want the toilet. Go to sleep, she thought. Outside, the first steel grey light edged along the top of the curtains. She felt relief. It would be easier now. It was the dark that was the worst time. She hated the dark.

Caroline

The days dragged by in a sort of a dream. They were kept busy with endless, backbreaking chores and fell into bed desperate to rest. Time to talk, write letters, read, knit and brood was strictly limited. Only in their final month were the girls allowed less onerous duties – dusting, mending, sewing.

Caroline began to spend every free moment in the garden. There was a terrace behind the house where the babies were put out in their prams every morning. Beyond that there was a lawn and borders. To the side of the house there was a rose garden and a herb garden with crazy paving and bowers and, at the end of it, in amongst a shrubbery and beside an old elm tree, was Caroline’s favourite spot. Even back in February, when everything else was bare and broken-looking, the holly and rhododendrons were glossy green. And there was a little witch hazel with a sprinkling of small, frilled yellow flowers. They looked like someone had made them from strips of crinkled paper, and their rich, sweet scent was powerful in the cold winter air.

Bluebell bulbs were coming up now beneath the elm and she could see the clusters of flowers ready to turn lilac-blue and fall open. A blackbird had a nest in the tree and serenaded them from the middle of the night through most of the day.

Her mother had visited twice, bringing her a new nightdress large enough for the last weeks and special underwear and a shawl, a proper wool-and-silk shawl, that Caroline had written and asked her to get. They barely referred to the baby and Caroline imagined how different it would have been if she was married and expecting. Then, surely, Mam would have been full of interest and advice, Grandma too. They’d have sat and had coffee and biscuits and swopped stories and Caroline the centre of it all. Instead now there was an awkward tiptoeing around it all.

‘Be brave,’ Mam said the last time she came. ‘I’ll pray for you.’ And Caroline had gone to hug her but Mam had just grabbed at her hand. Caroline was hurt. Her mother couldn’t bear to touch her, the bump between them a huge accusation. Later, though, she recalled her mam’s face. Close to tears. A hug would have set her off perhaps and she was being brave in her own way, wanting to be strong and resolute as an example for Caroline.

Megan

Megan had finished her layette. She’d done the matinee jacket, hat, gloves, rompers and bootees. She had carefully cut and sewn a nightie and embroidered a pattern of yellow ducks along the yoke. She had also knitted a matinee jacket for Joan’s baby, seeing as Joan was sticking to her story of not being a knitter.

‘They've plenty of clothes here,’ Joan had said.

‘It’s nice to give them something new though, isn’t it? Something to remember us by. Unless you don’t want to,’ she added quickly, realising that she might have upset the apple cart. Mouth like the Mersey tunnel. Always putting her big foot in it.

‘No, thank you, it’s lovely,’ Joan took the tiny garment.

‘And they won’t get mixed up because mine’s the pearly buttons and yours the clear.’

Caroline had done her own knitting, so Megan didn’t need to do anything for her. But in the last two weeks Megan’s baby had dropped and was sitting on some nerve and she could barely move without the pain so sharp she fair passed out. So they let her sit and sew and knit for anyone who wanted. One girl was having twins and she did them lovely woollen sailor suits. Very small because they usually weighed less.

She was longing to see Brendan. She’d had a terrible dream one night where she'd gone home and Brendan was there with a new girl. All lovey-dovey. And when she asked him what his game was he laughed at her and in the dream she saw she had no clothes on and everyone was looking and pointing. After that she wanted to write to him but she didn’t dare. Her father had threatened that if there was any communication between them he would have Brendan for improper relations with a minor and that would be the end of his apprenticeship.

Megan cast off the stitches on the mitten she was doing and cut the wool. Outside, it was a blustery day, real April showers and the wind sending the clouds scurrying here and there. The girls were in and out every ten minutes to the clothes lines.

Sister Giuseppe came in then, the most placid of the nuns. Her brow creased. ‘Have you see Caroline?’

‘No, Sister. She might be in the garden.’

‘In this?’

Megan shrugged. Caroline spent more and more time outside. Not doing much but just brooding as far as Megan could tell. As the time went on she was becoming quieter than anything. Thank heaven they had Joan in with them, at least you could hold a conversation with Joan and have a bit of fun. Caroline went around with a face like a wet weekend. Of course, she was a bit low. Bound to be, but it didn’t help anyone to dwell on it so. Megan had said as much to Joan one day but Joan had smiled at her. ‘She’s very young, Megan.’

‘So am I.’

‘But you’ve got something to look forward to.’

‘You mean me and Brendan?’

Joan nodded.

Maybe she was right. Maybe something truly awful had brought Caroline here. She could have been forced or something. She never said anything, never referred to the father, nor did Joan to hers. Megan seemed to be the only person in the whole place who could.

Sister Giuseppe had gone off looking for Caroline, and Megan finished the mitten off. He’d know to wait for her, wouldn’t he? If he had so much as sniffed at another girl while she was here, going through this, she’d kill him. Chop him into bits and chuck the pieces in the canal. She would. So he best be behaving himself. And then one day, they’d show them all, especially her Daddy. They’d have a dirty great wedding and dance till the morning and they could all go jump.

Joan

Joan was assigned to the kitchen at St Ann’s. She had to get up at six to help light the fires and start breakfast. Porridge had been cooking all night in a huge double porridge pot. They used Quaker Oats at home, ready in ten minutes. Why on earth they couldn’t do it here she didn’t know, but everything here was done the old way and the most difficult one too, she reckoned.

The ashes from the fire went into the ashcan and the grates were swept then the new fire built. It was the coldest time of all and Joan could see her breath as she folded paper like crackerjacks for firelighters and then built the pyramid of kindling and coals. The fire in the kitchen didn’t always draw well and Joan had to stretch a sheet of newspaper across to encourage the flames to leap for air. Once the fire had hold she helped the other girls lay the tables and prepare bread and margarine and jam to follow the porridge.

Cook would be busy already sorting out the ingredients for dinner and tea.

At seven thirty the rest of the house was expected to be ready in the dining room and Matron would start the day off with prayers. By nine the pots were washed, dried and put away, the great porridge pan scrubbed clean, the clots of porridge removed from the sink. The surfaces wiped down and clear.

Joan had ten minutes tea break. She went upstairs and got out her stationery.