Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t say things like that. I don’t want Stephen to grow up an only child.’

‘I know, but you’re sure you don’t want to hang on a bit – it’ll mean more work.’

She frowned, examining his face. ‘Robert, have you got cold feet?’

‘No,’ he reassured her.

The following morning they drove across town to St Ann’s. Two-year-old Stephen clung between the bucket seats.

‘Sit down, Stephen,’ his mother told him and he obliged. ‘Good boy.’ People went on about the terrible twos and she’d seen friends’ children hurl themselves to the floor in temper tantrums but Stephen was an angel.

Robert turned into the gateway for St Ann’s and parked the car at the top of the drive to one side of the main entrance. Marjorie didn’t really like the place – it was so imposing and she knew that beneath the bright chatter of the nuns there were terribly sad stories. When she came here she couldn’t help but think of the girls who were sent here, the ones who would have to leave with empty arms. It had been the same last time when they had come for Stephen, but once she got him home she didn’t think about that side of things. There was no point in dwelling on it all. This was the best solution for everyone.

She turned to look at Robert. He patted her knee a little clumsily, he wasn’t one for fussing. She had liked his reserve when they first met at her brother’s wedding. She had noticed the tall, sandy-haired man during the marriage ceremony. He had gone up to communion ahead of her and seemed to be on his own. It turned out he was a cousin of the bride, an optician with a new shop in Sale, and at the reception he had been seated opposite her. He had smiled quietly at the jokes and listened attentively to the speeches, while some of the other guests had made a show of loud laughter and called out quips to interrupt the speakers. Every so often she felt his eyes on her. Light-blue eyes quite different from her own hazel ones. She felt attracted to him and quietly confident of her own good looks. She was slender and she kept her golden hair long. It looked natural and fresh, and it suited her better than some of the more elaborate styles that meant spending hours under the hairdryer and left you reeking of setting lotion or permanent wave.

They had talked at the party, he had offered to get her a drink and explained apologetically that he didn’t dance – two left feet. But he was good company, and dates led to a proposal and then a wedding of their own. And now here they were, about to meet their second child.

‘Ready?’ he asked her.

She nodded, her palms felt slippery and she’d butterflies in her stomach.

Sister Monica let them in and exclaimed with pleasure over Stephen and how grand he looked. He hid behind his mother’s skirts. She lifted him up on to one hip so she could walk.

‘They’re all outside,’ the nun said. ‘It’s great weather, isn’t it. This way.’ They followed her through French windows and on to the terrace at the back, where half a dozen prams were placed in a line.

‘This first one,’ Sister Monica said, ‘she’s asleep, but have a peek and we’ll get some tea and if she’s not awake by then we’ll get her up and you can have a good look at her. Then you take a couple of days to think it over and telephone me to say what you’ve decided.’

‘Go to Daddy.’ She handed Stephen over and stepped closer and craned forward to see. The baby lay motionless, only her face visible between the white pram blankets and the white wool bonnet. The tiny cheeks were peppered with the minute white spots of milk rash, the nose was slightly upturned and the small, rosy mouth had a blister on the upper lip. ‘Oh,’ said Marjorie softly.

‘She’s a darling, isn’t she? Just six pounds at birth but she’s gaining well now.’

‘Look, Stephen – little baby.’

Stephen looked, nodded solemnly.

‘Let’s have tea and you can tell me how you’re all getting along.’

While the grown ups chatted in Matron’s room Stephen was occupied with a box of coloured building blocks. There were nine in the set and they worked like a jigsaw, the various facets formed a number of different farmyard scenes when put together. This was too sophisticated for Stephen, who instead built towers and lines with the cubes.

‘He looks so strong and healthy,’ Sister Monica told them. ‘He keeps you busy, I’ll bet.’

‘He’s very good,’ Marjorie said. She didn’t want the matron to think she wouldn’t have all the energy to take on another child. She was being silly, she thought, they’re crying out for places. It would have to be something terrible to not be considered and she wouldn’t have rung if she didn’t think we were right for it. ‘He’s marvellous,’ she added.

Robert grunted in agreement. ‘This little girl…’ he asked.

‘Yes. Now, her mother is very young, practically a child herself. She’s a nice girl, lively and helpful.’

‘Where’s she from?’ Marjorie said. Stephen’s natural mother had been Irish and had come over to St Ann’s to have the baby in secret.

‘Lancashire,’ the Matron said. ‘Though the family are from Ireland originally. There are no family problems health-wise and the little girl, she’s called her Claire, is great. She’s had all her checks, of course.’

‘When was she born?’

‘May twenty-fourth, late in the evening.’

‘My birthday!’ Robert said, and Marjorie laughed.

‘Well,’ Sister Monica smiled, ‘I think we can see the hand of God in that. Will I fetch her for you?’

‘Yes, please.’ Marjorie could feel a headache coming on with the sheer nerves of it all. She felt sick and excited all at once. ‘We’ll have to get new clothes,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘We can’t put her in blue.’

Sister Monica returned with the baby in her arms. She sat beside Marjorie on the sofa and unwrapped the blanket. The baby wore a matinee jacket to match the bonnet, rompers and bootees. She was so tiny. Marjorie looked at the skinny legs, the petite feet. You forget how small they are. Stephen seemed huge by comparison. When Matron removed the hat the baby was practically bald.

‘Oh, bless her.’ Marjorie ran her hand over the fuzzy skull. The baby was awake now, blinking slowly and staring at the ceiling.

‘Now, her mother is a redhead,’ Matron said. ‘And I think she’ll turn out the same but you may want a baby with similar colouring to Stephen. He’s very like you, Marjorie, with the blonde hair.’

‘He is. But Robert’s more gingery, it might be nice for her to look like him.’

‘Yes, she’ll have the blue eyes, too. Would you like to hold her?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Marjorie settled back so she could rest the baby across her lap and support the head in the crook of her arm. Sister Monica passed her the child and Marjorie settled her. The eyes, which had not yet acquired their colour, were very dark, almost black, and looked huge.

Stephen edged closer to the sofa.

‘She’s holding her head well. She’s a strong little thing. Would you like a baby sister, Stephen?’ Marjorie said.

He looked at her then back to the infant. ‘No,’ he said solemnly.

The adults laughed.

Megan

Most people at the factory knew where Megan had been. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that one out. But apart from the snobby gits in wages and one or two holier-than-thous on the shopfloor nobody made a meal of it. She knew for a fact she wasn’t the only one, either. Annie Platt and Breda Carney had both been in the club with no wedding ring in sight.

Of course, it wasn’t long before Brendan and she were courting again. In secret at first, both of them very, very careful not to let anyone catch on. They avoided their old haunts and met at places further from home. The waiting room at Victoria Station usually, and the reading room at Central Library one time. But you couldn’t talk up there. Gave Megan the heebie-jeebies. All these swots with their noses stuck in books and this loud silence and the great big ceiling like St Peter’s in Rome or something and everyone creeping about. Made her want to make a loud noise and run away. But downstairs in the basement there was a cafe, that was all right, though none of the places were good for a necking session and she was just as keen as he was for a kiss and cuddle. They ended up fitting that in at bus stops and doorways and on the walk back up to Collyhurst. She told him plain though – no more than that, not till the bans were read and the church booked.