Andrew Crofts - Secret Child

The steady drizzle had soaked through Cathleen’s coat, making the bite of the cold wind even sharper as it stabbed at her fingers, which had locked painfully around the handle of the modest suitcase containing all the possessions she had in the world. Her feet were wet inside her shoes and the water was dripping down her face from her drenched headscarf and hair. The clouds had extinguished the last vestiges of light from the moon and no lights shone from any of the closed or abandoned buildings that loomed up around her.

Turning into Morning Star Avenue, every muscle in her body aching from the long walk and the heavy case, she saw a group of people huddling round a bonfire, swathed in layers of ragged clothes, their faces lit eerily by the flames licking up from the fiercely burning rubbish. They all seemed to be holding bottles in hands bandaged with layers of grubby mittens, swigging as they talked, trying to warm themselves from the inside as well as the outside. They all turned to stare at her as she walked towards them. Her heart was thumping in her ears. She had no experience of people like this, no way of gauging whether they would resent her straying into their area. Would they ask for money? She had none to give them. Would they attack her? There were too many of them and they would easily be able to overcome her. Should she turn and run? If she did that she would have to drop her case in order to stand any chance of escaping in her current state, and where would she run to anyway? This place was her last chance.

Holding her nerve she kept walking, trying not to look in their direction, trying not to look scared. She could hear the crackling of their fire as she drew closer, the sparks struggling up into the sky before being extinguished by the rain.

‘You looking for someone?’ a voice called out. It sounded angry.

‘You lost?’ another asked.

She turned and looked straight at them, facing up to her fear, telling herself that they were just people like her, currently down on their luck. ‘I’m looking for Regina Coeli,’ she replied.

They all laughed, as if they had guessed as much. They exchanged comments, which she couldn’t hear but guessed were lewd from the way they cackled and jeered at their own wit, apparently enjoying her discomfort.

‘Keep walking up the hill,’ a woman’s voice called out to her once the noise had subsided. ‘It’s the only house up there. You can’t miss it.’

One of the men made another comment and they all cackled again, turning their faces back to the warm, orange glow of the flames and the comfort of their bottles. Cathleen walked on into the darkness until a glow of a single lamppost appeared ahead of her. As she drew closer she saw a lone figure standing stock still beneath the light. She glanced back to see if any of the down-and-outs were following her, but everything was silent and black and wet.

Moving the suitcase to her other hand she took a deep breath and kept going towards the still figure. As she drew closer she realised the figure was a statue of the Virgin Mary, standing behind some railings in the front garden of a red-brick house that she guessed must be her destination.

‘You silly woman,’ she muttered to herself, relieved to have arrived but now nervous about the reception that might await her inside. She paused for a second, putting down the case and stroking her stomach, stretching the muscles in her shoulders and back, raising her face to the rain for a few seconds as she composed herself for the giant step she was about to take into the unknown.

She spotted a small door set into high wooden gates, with a bell beside it. As she reached up to ring it the gate opened and a woman appeared, throwing a heavy overcoat over her shoulders, her head down in preparation for walking in the rain. She almost bowled Cathleen over in her hurry.

‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ the woman asked. ‘Are you looking for somebody?’

‘Is this the Regina Coeli Hostel?’ Cathleen enquired.

‘Yes, come in,’ the woman said, retracing her steps through the doorway and leading her into the hallway of the house. ‘I’m Sister Kelly. Let’s get you out of that wet coat.’

Cathleen was aware that a puddle was forming around her on the stone floor as she shrugged off the coat and untied the scarf, attempting to mop some of the water from her blonde hair.

‘Take a seat, my dear,’ Sister Kelly said, glancing down at Cathleen’s belly. ‘I was just on the way home myself, so I will fetch Sister Peggy to take care of you.’

Cathleen sat on a wooden bench as Sister Kelly bustled out of the room, and took several deep breaths. The kindness of the older woman and the relief of taking the weight off her legs and back made her want to cry, but she held back the tears and composed herself for whatever was going to happen next.

A few minutes later a small woman in thick glasses and a big blue apron bustled into the room, carrying a worn piece of towel.

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she exclaimed, ‘you’re wet through.’ She handed Cathleen the thin towel. ‘Dry your hair before you catch your death. I’m Sister Peggy.’

Sister Peggy watched for a moment as Cathleen attempted to dry her face and head a little. This was not the sort of girl she was used to seeing at the gates of Regina Coeli. To start with she was obviously older – Sister Peggy guessed she was probably in her mid thirties – whereas most of them were teenagers when they first arrived. Her clothes looked better than the others too. They were certainly not grand in any way, but even in their drenched state she could see that this was a woman who looked after herself and cared about her appearance.

‘Let’s get you through to the fire,’ Sister Peggy said. ‘What shall I call you?’

‘My name’s Cathleen Crea.’

When she stood up Sister Peggy could see that Cathleen was several inches taller than her and she guessed, from looking at her stomach, that she was about seven months pregnant. She led her through to a sitting room where a fire gave off a welcoming glow. Cathleen sat close to the grate and her wet feet began to steam gently in the warmth.

‘How are you feeling, my dear? Nervous, I dare say.’

Cathleen smiled, not trusting herself to speak in case she started to cry, afraid that if she let even one tear out she would not be able to stop the torrent.

‘You’ll be fine; you have nothing to fear here. We’re not going to be asking you any questions or making any judgements. You don’t even have to use your real name if you would prefer not to. You will simply be “Cathleen” to us, if that is what you would prefer. Let’s have a pot of tea.’

‘I want to keep the baby,’ Cathleen said once the tea had been brewed and she was beginning to thaw.

‘Sure, you do,’ Sister Peggy patted her hand reassuringly, ‘and so you will. Let me tell you a little bit about who we are. We’re all volunteers working here from the Legion of Mary. We like to be known as “Sisters”, but we’re not nuns. You won’t find any of us walking about in black.’ She gave a little chuckle at the thought. ‘We all understand and respect the need for privacy and anonymity. If you want to keep your child a secret from the world, that is fine. You can live here while you prepare for the birth without anyone else knowing, and you and the child can stay afterwards as part of the community. If you have a boy you can stay until he is fourteen. If it is a girl then you can stay a little longer.’

‘I have no money, Sister,’ Cathleen confessed.

‘I’m sure that’s right, my dear. Everyone here is in the same boat. Once you have had the baby we would ask you to pay for your board and lodgings by going out to work. The child can be looked after here while you are out and provided with one free meal every day.’