Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘Are you coming down?’

‘I don’t want any.’

‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

‘I’m not allowed, am I?’

‘Oh, bother that,’ Joan said. Though when she did bring the tea upstairs she made sure that none of the sisters saw her.

Megan

‘Aaah!’ Megan gasped and clutched the table top, her ginger curls falling over her face. ‘Oh, god that hurts.’

‘Megan?’ Sister Giuseppe came over and placed a palm on Megan’s stomach, her lips moving as she counted. ‘Here, sit down.’ She moved the chair and Megan lowered herself on to it gingerly. ‘Aah,’ she gasped again.

‘I think it’s time. Is your bag ready?’

Megan nodded. She was scared.

‘I’ll get it, Sister,’ Joan called from the doorway.

Megan was taken by taxi to the maternity hospital. She was still in labour eighteen hours later when the girls at St Ann’s were having breakfast.

Joan was reaching for toast when her waters broke, drenching her clothes and soaking her shoes. The liquid pooled on the linoleum of the dining-room floor.

It was unheard of for three of the girls at St Ann’s to give birth on the same day but, when Caroline was brought in at four o’clock that afternoon, she was already fully dilated.

By midnight three babies were born. Three baby girls.

Joan Lilian

Pamela

Lilian

After the third miscarriage the doctors had advised against trying for any more babies. Lilian Gough had to see Mr Russell at St Mary’s. He was very nice but they didn’t really know why some women had her problem and couldn’t carry to full term. But he was clear that there was little hope of the situation improving. She had expected him to say that. Well, more or less, but she had hidden a tiny ray of hope that she would be proved wrong.

There was also the vexed question of sex. Blushing like a beetroot, she had tried to broach the subject. ‘But my husband, that side of things…’ Wanting the ground to swallow her up. Pushing her tortoiseshell glasses back up her nose.

‘There are devices…’

‘We’re Catholic,’ she said in a rush.

‘Ah!’

‘And the rhythm method, well, we got caught out like that the first time.’ Her cheeks blazed. She fiddled with the strap of her bag. She wished she’d left her long, light-brown hair down instead of putting it up in a chignon, then she’d have been able to hide behind it.

‘It’s not reliable,’ Mr Russell said crisply, ‘and there seem to be several versions doing the rounds. You may need to consult your priest or whoever, but any further pregnancies would be extremely ill-advised. They would put your health in jeopardy as well as almost inevitably resulting in miscarriage.’

She nodded.

So that was it.

She explained it all to Peter when he got in from work. He said he would talk to Father Flanagan but they could hardly expect a special dispensation. A sin was a sin, after all, and the Pope was clear about interfering with mother nature. He did talk to the priest but never told Lilian about it beyond saying he’d got nowhere with the him.

Two months later she first suggested adoption.

‘No,’ Peter shook his head.

‘But why?’ She had expected him to hesitate but not such immediate opposition.

‘It’s not the same. You don’t know where they’re from, what’s in the blood. Could be anything in the background.’

She frowned, uncertain where his fears came from. ‘They are babies Peter. If you bring them up the proper way…’

‘No, Lilian.’ He reached for her hand. ‘This may be what God has chosen for us.’

Childlessness? Sterility? She pushed his hand away. ‘No.’

He could be stubborn, well so could she. If adoption was the only way to have a baby then that’s what they would do. Over the next year she bided her time. Worked on him. She put everything she could into their home. She cosseted him and made the very best of herself. She spent hours with her friends recreating the latest Paris fashions and Hollywood looks. She used make-up to emphasise her green eyes, add to the slight slant that gave her a feline look. She used the new foam rollers to create curly tendrils of hair that looked as if they’d escaped from her bun. She plucked her eyebrows and bought lipstick and nail varnish to match. She got new glasses, a frame that swept up at the corners.

She collected a range of Cordon Bleu cookery magazines and made new dishes. She tried out the latest foods on him, making spaghetti bolognese and risotto.

She tried to make him happy but the problem with sex soured everything. He would kiss her and she would feel his arousal but he would pull away, grab his coat and set off walking. What had been a vital part of their marriage was now a sin. Peter became increasingly irritable and withdrawn. She couldn’t bear it. She missed his love and his touch.

She mastered the courage to go herself to the new priest who had recently joined the parish alongside Father Flanagan.

She explained the difficulty to him in a rush of words, staring at her hands to spare him embarrassment.

He said he would pray on the matter and advise her again. She went back a week later. The man said it was a very difficult problem. As a married couple, God’s desire was to see a fruitful union. The institution of marriage was there as a home for the family, and sexual relations within matrimony were for the express purposes of procreation.

She knew all that. She nodded and waited to see if there was more. She needed a loophole. The priest talked about the rhythm method – that was acceptable in the Church’s eyes. She pointed out that it had failed them and they dared not risk another failure.

‘Another option -’ he cleared his throat – ‘would be coitus interruptus. Did she understand?’

‘Yes, but wouldn’t that be wrong, Father, because there’d be no chance of babies?’ At least with the rhythm method it was like Russian Roulette – the unreliability meant babies got made.

‘I’d be misleading you to say the Church would approve of such behavior. I’m afraid it would be up to your own conscience. God has sent you a challenge, Mrs Gough. It may be that through meeting it you can enter a state of true grace.’

She clenched her teeth at the platitudes. She was flesh and blood. She wanted her marriage back and she wanted a family. How could that be so wrong?

One night when Peter had been out to the pub with his friends she ambushed him. Her period had just finished and she hoped it would be safe. She waited in bed and when he climbed in she reached for him. She kissed him. ‘Love me Peter, please, love me.’

‘But what about…’

‘Pull it out, before, you know…’

She was relying on the hope that the drinks he’d had would weaken his resistance. And they had.

It was wonderful.

Afterwards, while he slept, she thought of a solution. If she had her womb removed, then there would be no risk of pregnancy. Peter might still have to face the problem of wasting his seed but she was no longer prepared to feel guilty. She couldn’t have his children but she would damn well have his love. If that made her a bad Catholic, so be it.

She went back to Mr Russell, who hemmed and hawed but eventually accepted that a hysterectomy would remove the risk of further complicated pregnancies.

And once she was over that her new campaign began in earnest. The plan to adopt.

Lilian had been physically sick the morning that the social worker called. A mouthful of cornflakes and her stomach, which had broiled in acid anxiety all night rebelled. Peter had managed to get the morning off work but his presence made her even more wound up. She rinsed her mouth with water and toured the rooms for the umpteenth time. All tidy. Could it be too tidy? The social worker might think they’d be too fussy to have a child messing up the house. Oh, God.