A Family Affair Page 41

  And so she had come to the home, driven there by Steve and accompanied by Carrie. Jenny thought that the loneliest moment of her life had been when she had watched them drive away, leaving her with her pitifully small attaché case in the echoey entrance hall.

  Sister Anne had been briskly reassuring whilst Carrie was still there.

  ‘Don’t worry about her, Mrs Simmons. She’ll be all right with us.’

  But the moment they had gone her manner changed.

  ‘Right then, Miss. I’ll lay down the ground rules for you. We stand no nonsense here, and the sooner you realise that the better.’

  Jenny shared a dormitory with three other girls. One, Lisbee Smith, cried herself to sleep each night; another, Pauline Warren, was what Carrie would have described as hard as nails; and the third, Myra Cottle, gave birth to her baby a week after Jenny arrived at the home. As long as she lived, she would never forget Myra’s moans, and the cruel way Sister Anne spoke to her.

  ‘Now you see what you get for being wicked. The pains of hell. All I hope and pray is that you have learned your lesson.’

  Myra was left for hours in the dormitory, examined from time to time (unnecessarily roughly, Jenny thought) by Sister Claude, who was supposed to be a midwife, but who reminded Jenny of a man in drag. Jenny suspected it was done on purpose to frighten the other three girls as much as to punish Myra and if this was indeed the case, the nuns succeeded. Eventually, in the small hours, Sister Claude pronounced the time right and Myra was made to walk to the waiting ambulance carrying her own bag and stopping every few paces to double up in pain. Then days later she was back – alone. Sister Anne never left her side whilst she fetched her belongings and waited for her parents to collect her, and there was no opportunity for any of the girls to talk to her. But word was that the baby had been taken by his new adoptive parents direct from the hospital.

  The brush with the reality of what was to come frightened and upset Jenny. She felt utterly helpless and completely at the mercy of these people who had taken charge of her life and her future. They made the decisions here – she and the other girls were moved about like pawns on a chessboard.

  Although she had thought it had been agreed she could take her exams in shorthand and typewriting, Sister Anne had quickly disillusioned her. She gave no real explanation as to why it would not be possible and Jenny was too intimidated to press her. Though disappointed, Jenny was not totally disheartened. She could always take her exams in November when this was all over, and she would be better prepared then. It wasn’t like O levels, where the set books and curriculum changed each year – Pitman’s shorthand would still be Pitman’s shorthand in six months’time, and typing would still be typing. Besides, she didn’t have the opportunity to keep her speed up now, or the energy to study. The hard manual work she was expected to do saw to that.

  From morning to night, it seemed, the nuns kept Jenny and the others busy. There were potatoes to peel, dishes to wash, stacks of bed linen to be ironed. There were acres of floorboards to polish, dozens of statues of the Blessed Virgin, Saint Joseph and the other saints to be dusted, hundreds of candles to be trimmed. And worst of all were the flagstone floor and steps which had to be scrubbed daily. Although it was summer, the weather was unseasonably wet – it rained almost every day and no-one coming in seemed to wipe their feet properly. Already Jenny had come to hate the scrubbing brush and pail with a fierce loathing. Her hands quickly became as red and work roughened as a Victorian housemaid’s and the skin at the side of her nails peeled back in hang-nails. The only consolation was that it wasn’t winter, at least she didn’t have what Carrie called ‘cuts’, deep splits which Carrie got in the tips of her fingers from hanging out the washing with hands not properly dried. Jenny had seen these cuts bleeding, seen Carrie, that most stoic of women, wincing if she knocked them on the corner of a cupboard or drawer and set up the painful throbbing.

  But at least all the hard physical work helped to keep Jenny’s mind off things.

  Sister Anne stood now, watching critically for a moment as she worked. Jenny could feel the malice in her gaze without even looking at her.

  ‘When you’ve finished, Jennifer, and cleared away after yourself, come to my office,’ she said at last. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  As she passed Jenny she managed to tread on a clean, but still wet, patch with her sensible lace-up shoe. The mark she left made Jenny want to weep. She did that on purpose. But that was her right.

  At least I’ll be leaving this place soon, Jenny thought. She won’t be. The thought was some small comfort to her.

  The home had once been a small manor house and it had seen very little in the way of renovation. Narrow corridors, twisting staircases with rooms branching off at mezzanine levels to create a hotchpotch effect, wood panelling, creaking stairs. It was rumoured there were priest holes behind some of the wood panelling, and also that the building was haunted by the ghost of a young nun who had been walled up in one of them when she had become pregnant by a priest who had fallen in love with her. It was also said that sometimes a ghost baby cried in the dead of night and there was some speculation that this baby had actually been born after the nun had been walled up. The story, gruesome enough under any circumstances, was particularly upsetting to the girls who now spent the last weeks of their own pregnancies at the home.

  Sister Anne’s room was panelled; Jenny thought of the story as she went in, and shivered.

  Sister Anne was sitting behind her desk, leather-tooled and polished to a high sheen by one of the girls. She did not invite Jenny to sit too but left her standing like a naughty schoolgirl called to the headmistress’s study.

  ‘I have some news for you, Jennifer. Suitable adoptive parents have been found for your baby. A good Catholic couple who are unable to have children of their own. Provided, that is, that the baby is a girl.’

  Jenny’s stomach fell away. ‘You mean …’

  ‘The baby can be adopted as soon as the hospital is satisfied with its progress. Provided, as I say, that it is a girl. The couple in question are very clear on that point. They don’t want a boy.’

  She spoke the word ‘boy’as if it were somehow not quite nice, as if, in fact, she was in whole-hearted agreement. Who in their right minds would want a boy?

  ‘Who are they?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘You should know better than to ask me that. I can’t divulge any information, let alone identify them. Suffice it to say that we are satisfied they would make excellent adoptive parents. They have their own attractive home and they will be able to give your baby all the things that you cannot. That is all you need to know, and you should be grateful for it.’

  Jenny couldn’t answer. Her voice seemed to have disappeared into a lump in her throat.

  ‘That’s all. You can go and get on with whatever it is you have to do.’ Sister Anne glanced at the clock, dark-cased, which hung on the wall to one side of the desk. ‘Sister Claude will be expecting you in the kitchen. Off you go, now. And don’t forget to say a rosary to thank our Blessed Lady for sending these people to us. It’s more than you deserve.’

  From somewhere Jenny found her voice. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  But she wasn’t at all sure that when she said a rosary it would be a prayer of gratitude. Jenny rather felt that her rosary would be to implore anyone who might be listening that her unborn child would be a boy.

  Helen was far from happy with the arrangements Carrie had made for Jenny. She had heard things she didn’t like about mother and baby homes run by the Church – that they were over-zealous and punitive to the point of cruelty. But the matter had been out of her hands and beyond giving advice and looking after Jenny until she left Hillsbridge, it was not her place to interfere.

  Truth to tell, she didn’t like the idea of adoption at all. It went against all her instincts. But she could see that in Jenny’s case it was probably the best option. The girl was little more than a child herself and she had obviously been tak
en advantage of by a here-today-gone-tomorrow RAF man. If Carrie had been prepared to support her then perhaps keeping the baby would have been a possibility, but clearly Carrie had no intention of doing that. Her greatest concern had been that nobody in Hillsbridge should find out, and Helen had mixed feelings about this too. She had a dislike of secrets, which had a nasty habit of coming to light at the least convenient moment. But she could see that whilst it was all very well to say that it would be a nine-days wonder and soon forgotten if Jenny had been older and able to marry the father, under the circumstances the reality would be very different. People could be very narrow-minded, especially in a small town like Hillsbridge. For the rest of her life Jenny would be judged by this one mistake. She would continue to be known as ‘the girl who had a baby before she was married’ for years to come. To make things worse, the chances of anyone being willing to take her on with a baby were pretty remote. Employers and potential boyfriends alike would regard her with suspicion, and the child as a liability. It wasn’t right, but that was the way things were and Helen couldn’t change that. No, adoption probably was the best solution, giving Jenny the chance of a fresh start, but it was a tragedy all the same, and one that both she and her baby would have to live with for the rest of their lives. Helen could foresee that she might have to be the one to pick up the pieces at some time in the future.

  For now, however, she had other patients who needed her attention, and the added responsibility of her grandmother. Dolly had at last gone into hospital for her hysterectomy, and Charlotte had moved in to Greenslade Terrace.

  Helen loved having her; wasn’t it just what she had wanted for so long? But it meant her free time was no longer her own in quite the same way it had been. Now, when she got home, Charlotte was there, often with a meal waiting for her, the kind of old-fashioned homely food she cooked so well, but which, as a staple diet, Helen found slightly too stodgy, or fatty, or both. She couldn’t complain, though – Charlotte’s feelings would have been hurt and Helen wouldn’t have hurt her feelings for the world.

  Then there was Dolly to be visited – Charlotte insisted on that, and Helen complied. Dolly’s feelings had to be considered too.

  From being a free agent she suddenly found she had a great many family obligations and she wasn’t sure how well she was coping with them. She just wasn’t used to having to think about anyone but herself! Realising just how set she had become in her ways was quite a salutary experience.

  There had been no further repercussions over Ida Lockyear’s death – Walter Evans had slanted his report in the Mercury towards warning of the importance of making sure heating and cooking appliances were safe rather than dwelling on Helen’s failure to identify the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning, and Ida’s son had gone quietly away, presumably not wanting to draw attention to his own neglect of his mother. But Helen still felt that Reuben considered her culpable. Too often he asked seemingly casual questions about this patient or that and she felt that the reason behind them was that he no longer totally trusted her judgement. The resulting tension made her worry that before long some kind of slip-up was inevitable.

  At least her relationship with Paul had improved, though. It wasn’t quite back to where it had been before Guy had come back on the scene, but it was almost there. Paul often joined her and Charlotte for supper and seemed to thoroughly enjoy Charlotte’s solid home cooking. There were, of course, no cosy cuddles on the sofa afterwards, and even when Charlotte took herself off to bed, leaving them alone (on purpose, Helen guessed) Paul made no move to reinstate that side of their relationship. Whether he felt uncomfortable with Charlotte in the house, or whether he simply didn’t want to, Helen was unsure. But she did sense a lingering reserve that had been missing in the pre-Guy days, and decided his reluctance was made up of a little of each. It suited her not to be rushed, but she regretted, all the same, the lack of the old total ease between them, and regretted too that she might have hurt him. Paul wasn’t one for displaying his emotions but that didn’t mean he didn’t have any, and his feelings were as easy to hurt as the next person’s.

  One evening in June, when he called in to see Reuben following afternoon surgery as he did at least once a week, he popped his head around her door as he passed.

  ‘You’re not going to run away, are you?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of it, no.’

  ‘I mean – I’ve just got to have a word with Reuben, then I was going to come in and see you.’

  It was there again, that hesitance – uncertainty almost – liberally dusted with an almost too-studied casualness.

  ‘You don’t have to make an appointment to see me, Paul,’ she said, smiling to temper the slightly caustic tone. ‘Anyway, Reuben still has a patient with him I think. Mrs Price from Waterside Cottages.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘I know because I could hear him shouting at her. She’s deaf as a post and he’s going to syringe her ears. We’ll know if it’s been a success or not when it all goes quiet. If it all goes quiet!’

  ‘Mmm.’ He cocked his head, listening, then smiled as Reuben’s voice, raised and deliberate, carried through the closed door of his consulting room. ‘OK – I’ll ask you now. I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a drink this evening. There’s a friendly skittles match on at the Prince of Denmark – Regulars versus Casuals – and they’ve asked me to make up number for the Casuals.’

  ‘I didn’t know you played skittles!’

  ‘I don’t. But the proceeds are going towards a fish tank for my surgery, so I suppose they thought it might be an added attraction to have me along, making a fool of myself.’

  ‘What do you want a fish tank for?’

  ‘Rosie Jenner has got it in her head it would help the patients relax.’ Rosie Jenner was the district nurse at Purldown. ‘It’ll be in the waiting room, of course – not my surgery.’

  ‘Well – yes. I have heard they’re good, though. Very therapeutic.’

  ‘You reckon? Personally I don’t think I could take to all that gushing water and bits of seaweed, never mind the fish.’

  ‘So what time is this skittles match?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Eight o’clock start. I could pick you up if you like. But if it’s too early for you, you could always come along later under your own steam.’

  Helen hesitated, pleased that Paul had asked her, thinking how nice it would be to be collected and taken home afterwards, but aware that by the time she and Charlotte had eaten and cleared away she might have a problem with being ready for seven thirty or so.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if I made my own way. Just in case of problems.’

  The door of Reuben’s surgery opened, voices carried in from the corridor. Mrs Price was leaving – still hard of hearing by the sound of it.

  ‘See you later then?’ Paul said. ‘You know the Prince of Denmark, don’t you?’

  ‘The pub just outside Purldown on the Bath road.’

  ‘That’s it.’ He raised his hand in salute and disappeared out the door.

  Helen packed her things together and headed for home. She was surprised by how pleased she was that Paul had finally overcome some of his reserve with regard to them being alone together and also by how much she was already looking forward to the evening. A skittles match – friendly or otherwise – was hardly her scene; perhaps it was because it was so long since she had been anywhere socially.

  She parked her car and opened the back door of Number 11, balancing the paraphernalia of the day against her chest. Usually the smell of cooking greeted her – chops baking in the oven, or a stew simmering on the hob. Today she could smell only the kipper that Charlotte had poached for her breakfast.

  ‘I’m home, Gran,’ she called.

  No reply.

  ‘Gran?’ She pushed open the living-room door with her foot.

  Charlotte was sitting in the big armchair.

  ‘Oh, Helen, I’m glad you’re home.’

  ‘Wh
at’s the matter, Gran?’ Helen asked, alarmed.

  ‘I had a bit of a funny turn.’

  ‘What sort of funny turn?’

  ‘I came over giddy and the next thing I knew I was on the floor.’

  ‘You fell down, you mean?’

  ‘I suppose I must have done. I haven’t done anything about your tea, Helen. I didn’t feel up to it.’

  ‘Never mind the tea,’ Helen said, dumping her bag and files on the table. ‘You’d better let me have a look at you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right now.’

  ‘If you’re having giddy turns and falling down there’s a reason for it,’ Helen said briskly. ‘I’m going to find out what it is.’ She looked more closely at her grandmother. There was something not quite right about her mouth, which was slightly drawn, and the corner of one eye was drooping slightly and allowing a trickle of moisture to run down on to her cheek.

  ‘Show me your hands,’ Helen said.

  Charlotte raised one; the other, the same side as the twisted mouth and drooping eyelid, remained in her lap.

  ‘It’s gone to sleep,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ve been sat here too long, Helen.’

  Helen said nothing. She knew, and Charlotte knew, she was sure, that it was more than that. Charlotte was just making light of it because she didn’t want to face the truth. Helen unclicked the clasps of her medical bag and took out her blood pressure gauge.