Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘She’s here,’ Peter called.

Lilian practically fell downstairs, pulled the door open hard and greeted Mrs Jenkins with a fixed smile. Her eye was twitching and she felt like something out of a Jerry Lewis slapstick film.

‘Come in, please.’ She couldn’t work out how to wipe the stupid grin from her face without it looking peculiar, so she covered her mouth with her hand and tried to relax her lips.

They sat in the dining room, at the mahogany table that had been her mother’s. Mrs Jenkins had two sets of forms to fill in and one to leave with them. Questions she asked related to all the facts and figures of their situation. Age, health, occupation, income, family in the area.

‘Any existing children?’

‘No.’

‘Reasons for adopting.’

They explained.

‘You’d want a baby, then?’

‘Oh, yes. As young as possible.’

They had to supply references.

Then Mrs Jenkins wanted to see round the house.

‘This would be the nursery,’ Lilian heard herself saying, ‘right next to our room. We haven’t decorated yet, but we will do, of course.’

Before she left, Mrs Jenkins gave a speech. Adopting a child was a legal act, governed by the law. They should be fully committed before going any further. In rare cases if there was a problem with a placement then the social work department would try to assist, but that was exceptional and once they were approved and a child was placed with them they would have all the duties and responsibilities for the care of that child. Exactly as with natural parents. There would be no allowance or payment of any sort. Her report would be put forward and they were to fill in and return the form she had left them. The panel would meet to decide whether to approve their application.

Lilian kept nodding throughout it, hoping that wearing her glasses and the way she’d put her hair up would make her seem serious but not too frumpish.

If they were approved, the social worker concluded, their names would go forward to the Catholic Children’s Rescue Society. Did they understand? Had they any questions?

When she had gone, Lilian sat heavily on the couch. ‘She hated us.’

‘She didn’t, they have to be formal about it.’ Peter stood by the door.

‘I could tell, Peter. She thought I was too nervy, all that stuff about my health and my operation. And she turned up her nose when you said you were an engineer. They’ll pick the richest people, the professionals, first.’ She bit her knuckles, trying to bite back the tears that threatened.

‘Lilian.’ He moved to sit next to her. ‘There are hundreds and hundreds of babies waiting for a home. You heard Father Flanagan last month, imploring people to come forward. We’ve a decent house, I’ve a steady job, you don’t have to go out to work – that’s all that matters. It’ll be all right.’ He put his hand round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

Lilian nodded, craving reassurance but terrified that this final chance to have a child might be snatched from her. And she didn’t think she could bear that. She didn’t know how she would go on living if she couldn’t have a baby.

Lilian couldn’t ring Peter at work with the news. Only something urgent, like a death in the close family, was permitted to interrupt him on the works floor. Instead she paced the house, smoked too many cigarettes and sorted all the junk from the spare room ready to shift into the attic.

When he arrived home she met him in the hall. She was covered in a layer of grime and wearing an old shirt of his over her messy slacks.

‘What’s going on?’

‘They’ve approved us!’ she yelled. ‘For the adoption!’ A sudden rush of tears disconcerted her but she laughed through them. ‘Mrs Jenkins called this morning.’

‘Good.’ He nodded his head. ‘Good.’ And he smiled and drew her to him. ‘Calls for a drink, I think. Martini?’

‘Yes. And she said we may be contacted quite soon.’

They went through to the dining room and Peter made drinks. She chattered on, wanting to share every word of the phone call with Mrs Jenkins. She followed him through to get ice and back again still talking. She took a swig from her glass. ‘And we’ll need a washing machine.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘All the nappies. There won’t be much else to buy. Our families will chip in – they’ll spoil it rotten.’

He looked uncomfortable, glanced away. ‘Yours might.’

She took another drink. She didn’t want this to mar their happiness. ‘Once we’ve a baby, Peter, they’ll come round surely. They’re just disappointed for us. I suppose they think if you’d married someone else…’ She faltered. ‘They blame me, I know that. Because I can’t carry them.’

‘Lilian, don’t.’ He moved closer.

‘Yes, we’ll celebrate. It’s good news, the best. And those that don’t like it can lump it. A toast.’ She held out her glass. He raised his. ‘Our baby.’

‘Our baby.’

They drank. ‘Let’s get fish and chips,’ Lilian said.

‘And drink Martinis.’

‘And get sozzled. And clear the spare-room stuff away.’

He looked at her. ‘I’ve a better idea.’

‘I love you.’ She looked at his dark, wavy hair and the eyes that were almost black. He needed to shave, five o’clock shadows ringed his mouth and chin. He shaved twice a day.

He kissed her.

‘Ow. Like sandpaper.’

‘Refresh your glass, Madam?’

She winked at him and held it out. A moment’s doubt swirled within her. What if she didn’t love the child? What if the baby got sick and died? What if Peter found himself agreeing with his family? She lit a cigarette. Mother of God, give me strength, she prayed. It’s going to be wonderful. We’re going to have a baby.

A month later, Peter was arriving home late. He’d been delayed because Mr Ince had wanted to see him. He had felt a rush of hope at the summons and he’d been right. He was to be promoted to develop new production methods throughout the region. It would mean travelling, to visit their factories in Wakefield, Sheffield, Leeds and Hull. An extra five hundred a year and a company car. He was proud. He’d worked his guts out for this. He’d just stepped in the door when the telephone began to ring. He picked it up.

‘Mr Gough? Sister Monica at St Ann’s here. I have some good news.’

He was flustered. ‘Oh, yes, Sister – right-o, erm… you better speak to Lilian.’ Lilian was coming through from the kitchen having heard the phone. ‘Sister Monica,’ he said, holding out the receiver.

Her face blanched and she swallowed quickly. She blinked several times and took the phone from him.

‘Hello, Sister.’

‘Mrs Gough, I have some lovely news. We have a little girl here and I wondered if you and your husband would like to come and see her.’

‘Oh!’ a swirl of disappointment edged her excitement. ‘We’d hoped for a boy first, Sister.’ She glanced at Peter, who shrugged his shoulders.

‘Would you like to have a think about it and call me back?’

‘Yes.’

‘And don’t be worrying now. There’s no hurry and I’m sure it won’t be long until there’s a boy for you, if that’s what you’ve set your hearts on.’

‘Thank you.’

She put the phone down, her forehead creased and her hand shaking. ‘Now what do we do? It’s a girl.’

‘What did she say?’ Peter hung up his sports coat.

Lilian told him.

‘So it’s up to us.’

‘I know you’d like a boy,’ she said, ‘but…’

‘Let’s sit down.’

Once they were seated on the sofa in the lounge he said. ‘I thought you did too?’

‘I did. But now… I don’t know how to explain,’ she took off her glasses and rubbed the lenses on the corner of her blouse.