The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (2 page)

I was probably pink from the shame – how had she
known
that was where I was going? – but also hot, much too hot, in my heavy duster coat. It was burnt orange in colour and the
height of current fashion, as it was in a style Doris Day often wore in her films. It had a boat neck and was fastened by two oversized buttons; A-line in shape, it flared to the knee. But for all
its fashionable styling, it was a cruel irony that it had been bought for one purpose: to hide the evidence of my terrible secret.

My new temporary home rose to greet me as I walked wearily from the bus stop, my great size, coupled with the heat, sapping what little energy I had. I’d been given directions and the
address of my destination, and the paper on which I’d scribbled them was crumpled in my free hand. I felt a crumb of comfort on arriving at last. At least here, or so I thought, I would be
free of the subterfuge of the past few months. At least here I would no longer have to hide or lie. At least here I would no longer have to force my body into a tight rubber corset so the growing
bulge of my baby didn’t give me away.

But as I dragged my case awkwardly up the furrows of the thickly gravelled drive, those feelings were soon replaced with a sense of anxiety and foreboding. With its ugly buildings, precisely
manicured lawns and towering conifers, the Loreto Convent Mother and Baby Home for Unmarried Mothers didn’t look like a place in which comfort would be found. In fact, it looked every bit as
grim and forbidding as its name; its imposing brick façade and Victorian sash windows suggesting that nothing but unhappiness lay within.

My ears were already straining for sounds of life beyond the heavy front door, for routine everyday sounds that might set my fears to rest, but the silence was complete. I felt light headed and
frightened. I wanted nothing more passionately than to run away, but there was nowhere to run. I could see a distortion of my own anguished face in the shiny brass knocker. As I stood there, the
only sound that of incongruous birdsong, I knew exactly what sort of welcome to expect. I had brought shame on myself, on my family and on the Catholic Church; the nuns who were to care for me
therefore had another, more important job: to see to it that I atoned for my sins.

Ignoring the knocker in favour of the brass bell set into the doorframe, I pushed the button with my finger and waited, my heart in my mouth. It seemed a long time before I could hear the
muffled sound of approaching footsteps, followed by a latch being turned. The door opened to reveal a large entrance hall with a polished wooden floor, in the middle of which rose a staircase.
Beyond that, the increasingly dim vista revealed several panelled doors, which presumably led to other parts of the house.

Directly before me stood a nun: she was tall, though slightly stooped, and dressed in a full-length black habit. A perfect oval of wizened face, shielded by metal-rimmed glasses, sat encircled
by a pristine white wimple. There was no smile of greeting, no gesture of welcome, just a scowl of displeasure and irritation.

‘Yes?’ she said. She looked as if she’d lived for about seventy years, and had the demeanour of someone who’d found little to smile about during any of them. There was
nothing remotely grandmotherly about her.

I slipped my piece of paper, now damp and limp, back into my coat pocket. ‘I’m Angela Brown,’ I explained. ‘I believe you’re expecting me?’

The nun glanced towards my stomach, and then nodded without smiling. ‘I’m Sister Teresa,’ she said shortly. ‘Come inside.’ The frost in her voice was almost
palpable, a sharp and chilly tremor cutting through the still September air. I lowered my eyes as I pulled my suitcase over the threshold, acutely aware of her penetrating and disapproving
gaze.

The door shut, and a sepulchral gloominess descended as she had me follow her through one of the panelled doors off the hallway into a high-ceilinged room. It was sparsely furnished, with a
large oak desk and chair in the centre and a cabinet containing books and several statues. I couldn’t make out any of the titles, but I imagined the books would be religious. I certainly
recognised the statues, good Catholic girl that I was: they were of the Child of Prague and St Anthony.

Her habit swishing audibly, Sister Teresa strode over to the desk, where a stern-faced nun sat; the wall behind her held a picture of the Sacred Heart. As with everything else in the room
– human or otherwise – it seemed to be there specifically to judge me.

‘Reverend Mother, this is Angela Brown,’ Sister Teresa announced respectfully. Reverend Mother began reading from a collection of papers while I stood silently, my case parked beside
me, on the edge of a worn patterned rug. I had spent my entire school life in the company of nuns, and I felt like I was back at school now – only this was so much worse.

Finally she raised her head and addressed me. ‘Can you confirm your name?’ she asked crisply. ‘And your baby’s due date?’

I did, and was surprised to find my voice had all but disappeared on the long bus journey. I cleared my throat. She glared.

‘And I also need to know the name of the person we should contact in case of emergency,’ she continued. ‘Will that be your mother, Mrs Phillips?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed, my voice still small. ‘That’s correct.’

‘Right,’ she said, closing the file and fixing me with another disapproving look. ‘Now that’s done, Sister Teresa will take you straight up to your room. You’ll be
sharing with Mary, another expectant mother.’ She stood up now. ‘She has a due date close to yours,’ she finished. ‘Now come along.’

I followed her along a passage to another, smaller staircase, struggling now with my heavy case. I didn’t need to worry about keeping up: Sister Teresa, for all her presence, was actually
quite frail and was finding the stairs as challenging as I was. After climbing two flights and walking single file along a thin upstairs passage to the very end, we reached the door to the room in
question.

The room was tiny – no bigger than twelve feet by ten – and furnished very sparsely. It held two hospital-style beds, each of which had a hospital-style locker, in which it was clear
we’d need to keep all our possessions. Except for a chipped washbasin under a sash window framed by faded curtains and a wooden chair, there was nothing else in the room.

Nothing, that is, bar a delicate-looking girl, who had fair hair and slightly protruding front teeth. She’d been sitting on the left-hand bed, writing a letter, but had leapt to her feet,
startled, as we entered. Though smiling shyly at me, she looked flustered, which wasn’t surprising: Sister Teresa hadn’t announced our arrival. As I would soon find out, the nuns
never
knocked.

‘Mary, this is Angela Brown,’ Sister Teresa explained. Then, to me, ‘Angela, this is Mary Bourke. You two will be sharing a room until your babies are delivered.’

What would happen after that, she didn’t say. She moved aside to let me pass her and enter the room properly. I smelt dampness. Mary smiled again and gestured towards the other, empty bed.
She was petite, and wore a pinafore-style dress, underneath which was a hand-knitted jumper. In contrast to my intentionally well-disguised bump, hers, to my eye, looked enormous. What a relief it
would be, I decided on seeing it, to give my own poor, squashed baby some room to move about. I’d been so fearful for so long about the damage I might be doing that when the baby had first
kicked me, as well as a wave of profound relief, I felt it might have been in angry protest.

‘Now, Mary,’ Sister Teresa continued, in a voice that, though directed at Mary, was also designed to make it clear to me that I mustn’t assume she was as frail as she appeared.
It occurred to me that my new roommate probably knew it already. ‘I’d be grateful if you could kindly show Angela the bathroom, and familiarise her with the timetable of our daily
routine here. Once you’re done, and Angela has unpacked her belongings, will you please bring her back down, so I can show her the work she’ll be doing while she’s
here.’

She turned to me then. ‘You’ll find me in the milk kitchen, which is where you’ll be working. Mary will be able to show you where that is.’

I’d never heard of a milk kitchen before, and immediately an image of a cattle stall, complete with a row of placid Friesians, came to mind. It was an image that in other circumstances
might have made me smile. A smile didn’t reach my lips now, though. It didn’t dare.

Mary nodded and promised we wouldn’t be long. With a short nod in return, Sister Teresa swept out.

Once we were alone together, the air no longer chilled by the nun’s frosty presence, I felt inexplicably calm and relieved. In anticipation, this place had seemed such a terrifying
prospect, yet now I was here it felt as if a weight had lifted. This was the first time, I realised, that I was in the company of someone who was in exactly the same dire straits as I was; someone
who could not only sympathise but also empathise with me; someone who knew what I was going through because she was going through it too. It felt such a relief that I could be honest about my
situation. At last I had a confidante, and so did Mary.

She sat down again as I hauled my suitcase onto my bed. I winced. My back hurt from lugging it for so long. ‘Have you come far?’ she asked, putting her pen and pad to one side.

I shook my head. ‘Not very,’ I replied. ‘Just a few miles on the bus. I’ve been staying with a friend since . . . well, since all this happened.’

I turned to smile back, as I opened up the case and began sorting out the contents. I’d been given a list of what to pack for the baby. As well as my few maternity clothes, nightwear and
toiletries, I’d packed terry nappies, vests and some nighties and booties that, touchingly, my close friends from work had contributed. I also had matinée jackets, knitted by my
sister-in-law Emmie, and a cold-weather outfit that I’d seen in a shop in Elm Park and bought in white, as I didn’t know the baby’s sex.

On the top of the pile was the intricate knitted shawl that Emmie had made for when the baby was to be handed over for adoption. Seeing it again now made me start. Like the baby, it would not be
mine for very long. I quickly put all thoughts of what was to come out of my mind, as they reminded me just how soon I’d be giving birth. It felt scarily real now that I was here. I reached
to open my locker and began filling the tiny space inside with my possessions.

‘How about you?’ I asked Mary, whose accent made me suspect she’d travelled a great deal further than I had.

‘Oh, a long way,’ she confirmed. ‘I’ve come from Ireland. Wexford. Do you know it, by any chance?’

I nodded. ‘I’ve not been there, but I have family in County Waterford. My mother comes from there. You’re right; it
is
a long way,’ I said.

She nodded glumly. ‘It feels like it, to be sure. No one at home knows I’m here. I told them I was coming to London to find work.’ This wouldn’t have been an unusual
scenario: the economic situation in Ireland was pretty grim in the sixties, and lots of young Irish girls came to England to get work. ‘So now I’m a waitress,’ she told me,
smiling ruefully, lifting the pages of carefully written untruths from beside her on the bedcover. ‘I’ve been telling them all about it – what a grand job it is.’ The smile
was still there, but it was a bleak one.

‘So you’ve not told
anyone
?’ I asked her. ‘Is there no one you’ve confided to at all?’ I couldn’t imagine how isolating and horrible that must
be. Thank goodness I had Emmie and a couple of dear work friends to support me.

‘Not a soul. I dared not. Can you imagine the consequences?’

I nodded. I could. To be pregnant and unmarried in England was bad enough, but for a young Irish Catholic girl it was unthinkable. She would be shunned, unmarriageable, thought the lowest of the
low. The level of hatred and vitriol against young unmarried mothers there was well known. It was something that could disgrace a girl for life.

‘Except the father,’ she added, her expression darkening further. ‘He knows, all right. But he’s married. And he already has two children to support. So what can
he
do to help me?’ She sounded like she was reciting the very words he’d said to her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘That’s awful . . .’

‘Not so awful as getting pregnant, let me tell you, and only
then
finding out he’d got a family.’ She sounded and looked distraught now, her eyes filling with tears. I
wasn’t sure if I should stop what I was doing and go and comfort her; I nearly did, but something about her body language told me not to. She pulled a piece of tissue from the sleeve of her
jumper and dabbed angrily with it.

‘I’m a fool, is what I am,’ she said. ‘Blind. Just plain blind.’ She pushed the tissue away back out of sight and spread her hands. ‘But aren’t we all
sometimes? I loved him. I
still
love him – much good it’ll do me. But mostly I’m just so homesick.’

‘I’m sure you are.’

‘And terrified, of course. Can you imagine if someone finds out where I really am?’ she asked again. There was a look of real fear on her face.

‘But no one
can
,’ I reassured her. ‘I mean, I don’t
know
that, obviously, but I don’t see how anyone could, not if you don’t tell them.’ I
squashed all my things I could into the locker. The rest – the baby things, which I wouldn’t need for a while yet – could stay in the case.

‘I know. I’m probably worrying too much. It just gets to you, this, doesn’t it? But what about you?’ she asked. ‘What about
your
baby’s
father?’

Peter, I thought. I didn’t even think of him in those terms. And why would I? My baby and I were in this on our own. ‘I took a risk,’ I told her. ‘I was silly. I just
never thought . . .’ I didn’t need to finish the sentence. She was already nodding.

‘And has he supported you? Are you with him still?’

I shook my head. ‘He doesn’t even know,’ I said. ‘We’re not together. It wasn’t serious. By the time I found out I was pregnant, we’d already split up.
So I suppose I don’t have all that to deal with.’