Cath Staincliffe - Trio

Dear Mummy, Daddy and Tommy,

London is very big and very noisy. There are pigeons everywhere and starlings just like we have in Piccadilly Gardens but even more of them. The traffic is busy and doesn’t stop even in the middle of the night.

I am settling in fine and Mr Bell is very happy with my speed and accuracy. I have to get the Underground home from work. I haven’t been to Buckingham Palace yet. Has Tommy finished his go-kart? Say happy birthday to Grandad for me. I’m sending him a card, too.

Cheerio,

Joan

She folded the paper and slipped it into a matching envelope, took a stamp from her purse and licked it. She wrote the card to her grandfather, stamped and addressed it and put both envelopes into a larger one with a quick note to Frances.

Thanks so much for this. Just pop them straight in the post. Feel very cut off from everything here. No television and the radio is usually limited to Sing Something Simple and the like so we never hear the Goons or even Two Way Family Favourites. I have a go on the old piano now and then but they don’t approve of anything too modern. I’m keeping well. I am going to come to London! Might there be any rooms near you? Your coat sounds lovely. Where did you buy it?

Time to go back down. And begin making dinner.

Caroline

‘Yes, Sister?’ Caroline turned from the sheet she was sewing end-to-middle.

‘Sister Monica wants to see you.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

Caroline had not been inside the Matron’s office since her admission. Anxiety rippled through her and she felt her heart falter. Had she done something wrong? She made her way as quickly as she could to the office and knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

Sister Monica sat at her desk and motioned for Caroline to sit opposite her.

‘There’s been a telegram, Caroline. I’m afraid your grandmother has passed on.’

Caroline stared at her uncomprehendingly. Shaking her head even as she tried to decipher the words. ‘Grandma?’

‘Yes.’

Her throat felt dry, she sucked at her cheeks, trying to find saliva. Her vision blurred and she blinked her brown eyes fiercely. Grandma. Beating rugs with a huge, cane beater, her hair covered in a twist of coloured scarves; Grandma making lace, her face screwed up like an old apple, her mouth a row of pins, reciting dialect poems and singing all the songs she knew. A fierce, funny woman, incredibly tall. Who called Caroline ‘Mouse’ on account of her quiet nature and made enough noise for the two of them when they were together.

‘We’ll ask Father Quinlan to include her in prayers.’

‘The funeral…’ Caroline began.

‘You have to stay here,’ Sister Monica said firmly. ‘You can’t go.’

Caroline stared at her in amazement. Not go? ‘But, Sister…’

‘It would not be appropriate, Caroline. It would be a dishonour.’

She was dirty.

‘Whose is it?’ Mam had said. Cheeks drained of colour, eyes boring into her.

‘Mam, I…’

‘Who?’

‘Roy Colby.’

‘Good God. And how long has this been going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on.’

‘Something must have.’

‘It was just one time. It was an accident.’

‘Oh, yes. An accident. He accidentally got you in this mess. Have you no decency, no pride?’

‘Mam, I’m sorry,’ she bawled, unhinged by the look on Mam’s face.

‘Do you want to marry him?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll not ask you again.’

‘No. I don’t want to marry anyone.’

‘Right. The Colby’s need never know. Nor anyone else.’

And so her mother had sorted it all out and told everyone that Caroline was helping with the twins in Sheffield. Now what would she tell them? When there was no Caroline at Grandma’s funeral? Another lie?

She bit on to the flesh of her cheek and sniffed hard.

‘It’s sad news but remember she is with Our Heavenly Father now. She’s at peace. Our blessed Lord has called her to him and has rewarded her.’

She would call the baby after Grandma if it was a girl, a way of remembering her. And she would tell him, or her, all about Grandma.

Joan

Joan dreaded the labour. How could something so large get out of her body without killing her? There was no one she could ask about it. The other girls were just like her, their ideas a mishmash of fact and fantasy. Matron never spoke about it, even though she would sit in on the medical checks when the doctor came.

She put the duster down and sat on the chair. The library. Fat lot to read in here. Religious texts ad nauseam and uplifting novels that were on the approved list from the Vatican. No romances and certainly nothing stronger. Out there in the real world they were selling Lady Chatterley’s Lover and you had naked people leaping around in the theatre. Four letter words and all. Elvis swivelling his hips in no uncertain way. Things were changing. The world was changing. But not here. Here it was ancient. She let her hand rest on her stomach, on the ledge at the top of her bump. The baby moved a lot now but when she tried to imagine it, to think of seeing it, of what sex it was, she failed completely. Maybe it would die, perhaps it was a sign. She didn’t even have a name. She knew she should think of something, but whatever she chose would be changed anyway. It felt hypocritical to pick a family name; her mother was Elizabeth, her father Edward after his father, grandmothers Irene and Patricia, her other grandfather John. But the child would never know them and they would never know of its existence. She wished it were all over and done with.

She hated the way her body had changed. She was like an elephant. Her belly button stuck out now, her breasts had ballooned, the discs around her nipples had gone a startling dark colour. Even her hair felt different, thicker and greasier. The endless heartburn kept her from sleep. She’d been invaded by this creature and she wanted rid. A stabbing pain forced her to her feet. She was running to the toilet every five minutes, too. After she’d been to empty her bladder she went to her room. Caroline was there, curled on her bed, crying.

‘What’s wrong?’ Joan sat beside her.

‘Everything,’ she wailed. ‘My Grandma’s died and they won’t even… I can’t go…’

‘Oh, Caroline. I am sorry.’ She let her hand rest on the other girl’s shoulder. On top of everything else, thought Joan. I’m three years older and I feel so lost she must be… She let her cry, listening to the gruff sobs, and when the sounds tailed off Joan fetched her a fresh hanky.

‘I’ve got one somewhere,’ Caroline said, her voice thick.

‘Don’t be silly, use this.’

‘I’ll make sure you get it back.’

‘Beware the laundry thief,’ Joan joked gently. Small items inevitably went missing with the sheer amount of laundry each day and were not always recovered. Caroline gave a small smile, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Her face was shiny from crying, her nose and lips red and puffy.

‘Tell me about your Grandma,’ said Joan. ‘Unless you’d rather not.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Caroline. ‘She was a bit odd really. Eccentric. Always bursting into song and quoting from poems and plays and things. She read the library wall-to-wall and she would make up stories -’ Caroline’s eyes filled again – ‘adventures; and there was always a little girl…’ Her voice squeaked to a halt. She sniffed hard. ‘She’d been to lots of places. All over the world. She was an entertainer on the cruise liners, until she met Grandpa. She settled down with him.’

‘She sounds fabulous,’ said Joan.

‘I feel so rotten, not going.’

‘You haven't got a choice,’ Joan said gently.

The bell for lunch rang through the hallways.