Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘You’ll pay an allowance for your keep and for the child, based on a daily rate. If there’s any problem settling the amount you must confide in me immediately. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘People in the parish are very supportive of the work the society does and, of course, they know St Ann’s is a mother and baby home but this is a good area and we do not antagonise our neighbours by parading about in the streets. You’ll be encouraged to remain in the Home unless you are specifically sent on an errand by one of the sisters. There’s a garden at the back and we have a chapel and a small library, so there is really no need to go elsewhere for anything. If you wish to write home, letters can be given to Sister Giuseppe. And any visits here must be arranged in advance.’

Joan wouldn’t be having any visitors.

‘When your time comes you’ll go over to the maternity hospital in Withington. On return here you will help care for the child until a placement is made. The father’s not a darkie is he?’ She glanced at Joan, suspiciously.

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because we can’t place them for love nor money. They end up at Barnado’s, most of them, or St Francis’s – they take the boys.

She needed a cigarette even though she’d smoked her tongue to gravel on the way here.

‘You’ve got your bag?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

The nun left the room briefly and returned with another girl, large with child. A big-boned girl, dark hair in a ponytail, a young face. Fifteen or so, Joan guessed.

‘Caroline, show Joan up to the room. She’s in with you and Megan.’

Joan smiled at the girl, who gave a ghost of a smile back, but her brown eyes were dark, sad, and she glanced quickly away.

Megan

It was Brendan’s dad who told Brendan about Megan’s condition.

Mrs Driscoll had heard Megan throwing up three mornings in a row. Megan’s baloney about a funny custard from the cake shop wouldn’t wash.

‘You’re pregnant!’ Maggie Driscoll shrieked.

‘I’m not.’

‘And black is white, I suppose.’

‘Mammy…’

‘Megan, I’ve had nine children.’

Megan slumped into her seat, covered her face. ‘I can’t be,’ she insisted.

‘Is it Brendan?’

Silence.

‘Well, it’s not the immaculate conception, is it? It'll kill your father.’

She fetched her coat, pulled on gloves and a headscarf, knotting it tight under her chin.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out. You stay here. Mind the others. Bernadette will want feeding in half an hour.’

Megan nodded.

‘And bring that washing in if it turns wet.’ She slammed the back door behind her.

Megan rose. She was cold, her ankles like pipes of cold metal, she put some more coal on the fire. It couldn’t be true. Please God, let it be collywobbles. Or the flu. But she knew her mammy’s diagnosis was right. And now it was spoken, out in the open, a great clonking mistake. She broke the embers of the fire apart, exposing the fierce orange glow, and hefted the brass coal scuttle once and then twice. Shiny lumps and bits blanketed the fire, a wall of tarry smoke rose up the chimney, the fire spat and hissed as it ate the gritty coal dust. It would be some minutes before the heat returned. She busied herself drying the breakfast dishes.

‘Maggie, come in.’

‘Kate.’

The women knew each other from the Union of Catholic Mothers. But those get-togethers were their only social contact. They were not close friends and for one to turn up on the doorstep of the other was an extraordinary occurrence.

Aware of this, Kate Conroy led Maggie Driscoll into the front room, reserved for formal occasions and out-of-bounds for much of the time, even though the house was overcrowded.

Kate had a utility suite. A green covered sofa and two chairs. The only thing you could get after the war. A piano and sideboard were thick with studio photos of the family and their relatives. A picture of Pope John XXlll took pride of place over the mantelpiece. There was no fire in the grate and the room was chilly and unwelcoming. Mrs Driscoll kept her outdoor clothes on.

‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Kate. It's about our Megan and Brendan. She’s expecting.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ Kate’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes swam. ‘Oh, no!’ she moaned.

‘It’s a terrible thing but they’ve only themselves to blame.’

Kate shook her head again. Closed her eyes. Weary. You worked so hard, unremittingly, feeding them, keeping them clean and safe and clothing them. Day after day and at the end of it this was how they rewarded you.

Maggie Driscoll spoke again. ‘I think we should keep it quiet until it’s clear what they are going to do.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Barely grown.’

‘Too young to know what’s best. I haven’t spoken to Mr Driscoll yet, but I wouldn't want to push them into an early marriage and then it all go bad. St Ann’s may be the best solution.’

‘Aye. But Brendan, we won’t let him shirk his duties if you decide…’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

There was little else to say and after a pause Maggie Driscoll rose. ‘I’ll be getting back.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said, ‘I’d no idea.’

‘I know.’

Brendan’s father returned from the market where he had a pots and pans stall to find his wife red-eyed and woebegone. She told him the situation. When Brendan got in from the print shop a little later his father knocked him into the middle of next week.

That’s how he heard about the baby.

Joan

She had worked the remainder of her notice out in an icy atmosphere. She made sure that she and Duncan were never alone.

‘What’s wrong with his Lordship?’ Betty had asked her.

‘He thinks I’m letting the firm down,’ she said, ‘handing in my notice.’

Betty raised her eyebrows. Whether she believed this explanation was hard to tell. It wasn’t difficult for Duncan to replace Joan. There were plenty of youngsters coming out of secretarial college and several had applied for the post. Duncan selected two for interview and silently passed her a letter for typing and sending. She felt quite immune to the whole business until the girls arrived in the Thursday afternoon. Jenny and Rosemary. Jenny was very pretty and, with a pang, Joan imagined Duncan seducing her. The thought sickened her and she had to go and sit in the toilet until she’d collected herself.

On the Wednesday morning of her final week Duncan came into the office in a foul temper. He roared for Betty to bring him in the salaries file and then sent her out for a new ledger. As soon as she’d gone he came through.

‘Are you expecting?’

‘What?’ She feigned surprise.

‘You heard me. Are you pregnant?’

She stared at him coolly while her insides twisted with tension. She forced the edge of a smile to curl her lip.

‘Why else?’ he said when she didn’t reply. ‘Why suddenly up sticks and go to London? No warning, nothing.’

‘It’s an ambition of mine,’ she said crisply. Not that he’d have known, never asked her about her dreams, her passions.

‘If you were, Joan, I could help. We could help. Catherine and I, we’ve been considering adoption.’

She couldn’t believe it. Rage sluiced through her. How dare he. What did he imagine, a private arrangement? His wife kept in the dark about the exact parentage of the child. ‘Girl at work, darling, got herself in a bit of a mess, nice family, thought we could help, baby’ll need a home…’ She loathed him for this. And how could he imagine that she could live knowing who had her child, where it was, what Daddy was up to when he worked late at the office? She would give up the child. She would know nothing of its future. She wouldn't see it again. End of story.