She hated the way her body had changed. She was like an elephant. Her belly button stuck out now, her breasts had ballooned, the discs around her nipples had gone a startling dark colour. Even her hair felt different, thicker and greasier. The endless heartburn kept her from sleep. She’d been invaded by this creature and she wanted rid. A stabbing pain forced her to her feet. She was running to the toilet every five minutes, too. After she’d been to empty her bladder she went to her room. Caroline was there, curled on her bed, crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ Joan sat beside her.
‘Everything,’ she wailed. ‘My Grandma’s died and they won’t even . . . I can’t go . . .’
‘Oh, Caroline. I am sorry.’ She let her hand rest on the other girl’s shoulder. On top of everything else, thought Joan. I’m three years older and I feel so lost she must be . . . She let her cry, listening to the gruff sobs, and when the sounds tailed off Joan fetched her a fresh hanky.
‘I’ve got one somewhere,’ Caroline said, her voice thick.
‘Don’t be silly, use this.’
‘I’ll make sure you get it back.’
‘Beware the laundry thief,’ Joan joked gently. Small items inevitably went missing with the sheer amount of laundry each day and were not always recovered. Caroline gave a small smile, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Her face was shiny from crying, her nose and lips red and puffy.
‘Tell me about your Grandma,’ said Joan. ‘Unless you’d rather not.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Caroline. ‘She was a bit odd really. Eccentric. Always bursting into song and quoting from poems and plays and things. She read the library wall-to-wall and she would make up stories –’ Caroline’s eyes filled again – ‘adventures; and there was always a little girl . . .’ Her voice squeaked to a halt. She sniffed hard. ‘She’d been to lots of places. All over the world. She was an entertainer on the cruise liners, until she met Grandpa. She settled down with him.’
‘She sounds fabulous,’ said Joan.
‘I feel so rotten, not going.’
‘You haven't got a choice,’ Joan said gently.
The bell for lunch rang through the hallways.
‘Are you coming down?’
‘I don’t want any.’
‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’
‘I’m not allowed, am I?’
‘Oh, bother that,’ Joan said. Though when she did bring the tea upstairs she made sure that none of the sisters saw her.
Megan
‘Aaah!’ Megan gasped and clutched the table top, her ginger curls falling over her face. ‘Oh, god that hurts.’
‘Megan?’ Sister Giuseppe came over and placed a palm on Megan’s stomach, her lips moving as she counted. ‘Here, sit down.’ She moved the chair and Megan lowered herself on to it gingerly. ‘Aah,’ she gasped again.
‘I think it’s time. Is your bag ready?’
Megan nodded. She was scared.
‘I’ll get it, Sister,’ Joan called from the doorway.
Megan was taken by taxi to the maternity hospital. She was still in labour eighteen hours later when the girls at St Ann’s were having breakfast.
Joan was reaching for toast when her waters broke, drenching her clothes and soaking her shoes. The liquid pooled on the linoleum of the dining-room floor.
It was unheard of for three of the girls at St Ann’s to give birth on the same day but, when Caroline was brought in at four o’clock that afternoon, she was already fully dilated.
By midnight three babies were born. Three baby girls.
Adoption
Joan Lilian
Pamela
Lilian
After the third miscarriage the doctors had advised against trying for any more babies. Lilian Gough had to see Mr Russell at St Mary’s. He was very nice but they didn’t really know why some women had her problem and couldn’t carry to full term. But he was clear that there was little hope of the situation improving. She had expected him to say that. Well, more or less, but she had hidden a tiny ray of hope that she would be proved wrong.
There was also the vexed question of sex. Blushing like a beetroot, she had tried to broach the subject. ‘But my husband, that side of things . . .’ Wanting the ground to swallow her up. Pushing her tortoiseshell glasses back up her nose.
‘There are devices . . .’
‘We’re Catholic,’ she said in a rush.
‘Ah!’
‘And the rhythm method, well, we got caught out like that the first time.’ Her cheeks blazed. She fiddled with the strap of her bag. She wished she’d left her long, light-brown hair down instead of putting it up in a chignon, then she’d have been able to hide behind it.
‘It’s not reliable,’ Mr Russell said crisply, ‘and there seem to be several versions doing the rounds. You may need to consult your priest or whoever, but any further pregnancies would be extremely ill-advised. They would put your health in jeopardy as well as almost inevitably resulting in miscarriage.’
She nodded.
So that was it.
She explained it all to Peter when he got in from work. He said he would talk to Father Flanagan but they could hardly expect a special dispensation. A sin was a sin, after all, and the Pope was clear about interfering with mother nature. He did talk to the priest but never told Lilian about it beyond saying he’d got nowhere with the him.
Two months later she first suggested adoption.
‘No,’ Peter shook his head.
‘But why?’ She had expected him to hesitate but not such immediate opposition.
‘It’s not the same. You don’t know where they’re from, what’s in the blood. Could be anything in the background.’
She frowned, uncertain where his fears came from. ‘They are babies Peter. If you bring them up the proper way . . .’
‘No, Lilian.’ He reached for her hand. ‘This may be what God has chosen for us.’
Childlessness? Sterility? She pushed his hand away. ‘No.’
He could be stubborn, well so could she. If adoption was the only way to have a baby then that’s what they would do. Over the next year she bided her time. Worked on him. She put everything she could into their home. She cosseted him and made the very best of herself. She spent hours with her friends recreating the latest Paris fashions and Hollywood looks. She used make-up to emphasise her green eyes, add to the slight slant that gave her a feline look. She used the new foam rollers to create curly tendrils of hair that looked as if they’d escaped from her bun. She plucked her eyebrows and bought lipstick and nail varnish to match. She got new glasses, a frame that swept up at the corners.
She collected a range of Cordon Bleu cookery magazines and made new dishes. She tried out the latest foods on him, making spaghetti bolognese and risotto.
She tried to make him happy but the problem with sex soured everything. He would kiss her and she would feel his arousal but he would pull away, grab his coat and set off walking. What had been a vital part of their marriage was now a sin. Peter became increasingly irritable and withdrawn. She couldn’t bear it. She missed his love and his touch.
She mastered the courage to go herself to the new priest who had recently joined the parish alongside Father Flanagan.
She explained the difficulty to him in a rush of words, staring at her hands to spare him embarrassment.
He said he would pray on the matter and advise her again. She went back a week later. The man said it was a very difficult problem. As a married couple, God’s desire was to see a fruitful union. The institution of marriage was there as a home for the family, and sexual relations within matrimony were for the express purposes of procreation.
She knew all that. She nodded and waited to see if there was more. She needed a loophole. The priest talked about the rhythm method – that was acceptable in the Church’s eyes. She pointed out that it had failed them and they dared not risk another failure.
‘Another option –’ he cleared his throat – ‘would be coitus interruptus. Did she understand?’
‘Yes, but wouldn’t that be wrong, Father, because there’d be no chance of babies?’ At least with the rhythm method it was like Russian Roulette – the unreliability meant babies got made.
‘I’d be misleading you to say the Church would approve of such behavior. I’m afraid it would be up to your own conscience. God has sent you a challenge, Mrs Gough. It may be that through meeting it you can enter a state of true grace.’
She clenched her teeth at the platitudes. She was flesh and blood. She wanted her marriage back and she wanted a family. How could that be so wrong?
One night when Peter had been out to the pub with his friends she ambushed him. Her period had just finished and she hoped it would be safe. She waited in bed and when he climbed in she reached for him. She kissed him. ‘Love me Peter, please, love me.’
‘But what about . . .’
‘Pull it out, before, you know . . .’
She was relying on the hope that the drinks he’d had would weaken his resistance. And they had.
It was wonderful.
Afterwards, while he slept, she thought of a solution. If she had her womb removed, then there would be no risk of pregnancy. Peter might still have to face the problem of wasting his seed but she was no longer prepared to feel guilty. She couldn’t have his children but she would damn well have his love. If that made her a bad Catholic, so be it.
She went back to Mr Russell, who hemmed and hawed but eventually accepted that a hysterectomy would remove the risk of further complicated pregnancies.
And once she was over that her new campaign began in earnest. The plan to adopt.
Lilian had been physically sick the morning that the social worker called. A mouthful of cornflakes and her stomach, which had broiled in acid anxiety all night rebelled. Peter had managed to get the morning off work but his presence made her even more wound up. She rinsed her mouth with water and toured the rooms for the umpteenth time. All tidy. Could it be too tidy? The social worker might think they’d be too fussy to have a child messing up the house. Oh, God.
‘She’s here,’ Peter called.
Lilian practically fell downstairs, pulled the door open hard and greeted Mrs Jenkins with a fixed smile. Her eye was twitching and she felt like something out of a Jerry Lewis slapstick film.
‘Come in, please.’ She couldn’t work out how to wipe the stupid grin from her face without it looking peculiar, so she covered her mouth with her hand and tried to relax her lips.
They sat in the dining room, at the mahogany table that had been her mother’s. Mrs Jenkins had two sets of forms to fill in and one to leave with them. Questions she asked related to all the facts and figures of their situation. Age, health, occupation, income, family in the area.
‘Any existing children?’
‘No.’
‘Reasons for adopting.’
They explained.
‘You’d want a baby, then?’
‘Oh, yes. As young as possible.’
They had to supply references.
Then Mrs Jenkins wanted to see round the house.
‘This would be the nursery,’ Lilian heard herself saying, ‘right next to our room. We haven’t decorated yet, but we will do, of course.’
Before she left, Mrs Jenkins gave a speech. Adopting a child was a legal act, governed by the law. They should be fully committed before going any further. In rare cases if there was a problem with a placement then the social work department would try to assist, but that was exceptional and once they were approved and a child was placed with them they would have all the duties and responsibilities for the care of that child. Exactly as with natural parents. There would be no allowance or payment of any sort. Her report would be put forward and they were to fill in and return the form she had left them. The panel would meet to decide whether to approve their application.
Lilian kept nodding throughout it, hoping that wearing her glasses and the way she’d put her hair up would make her seem serious but not too frumpish.
If they were approved, the social worker concluded, their names would go forward to the Catholic Children’s Rescue Society. Did they understand? Had they any questions?
When she had gone, Lilian sat heavily on the couch. ‘She hated us.’
‘She didn’t, they have to be formal about it.’ Peter stood by the door.
‘I could tell, Peter. She thought I was too nervy, all that stuff about my health and my operation. And she turned up her nose when you said you were an engineer. They’ll pick the richest people, the professionals, first.’ She bit her knuckles, trying to bite back the tears that threatened.
‘Lilian.’ He moved to sit next to her. ‘There are hundreds and hundreds of babies waiting for a home. You heard Father Flanagan last month, imploring people to come forward. We’ve a decent house, I’ve a steady job, you don’t have to go out to work – that’s all that matters. It’ll be all right.’ He put his hand round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
Lilian nodded, craving reassurance but terrified that this final chance to have a child might be snatched from her. And she didn’t think she could bear that. She didn’t know how she would go on living if she couldn’t have a baby.
Lilian couldn’t ring Peter at work with the news. Only something urgent, like a death in the close family, was permitted to interrupt him on the works floor. Instead she paced the house, smoked too many cigarettes and sorted all the junk from the spare room ready to shift into the attic.
When he arrived home she met him in the hall. She was covered in a layer of grime and wearing an old shirt of his over her messy slacks.
‘What’s going on?’
‘They’ve approved us!’ she yelled. ‘For the adoption!’ A sudden rush of tears disconcerted her but she laughed through them. ‘Mrs Jenkins called this morning.’
‘Good.’ He nodded his head. ‘Good.’ And he smiled and drew her to him. ‘Calls for a drink, I think. Martini?’
‘Yes. And she said we may be contacted quite soon.’
They went through to the dining room and Peter made drinks. She chattered on, wanting to share every word of the phone call with Mrs Jenkins. She followed him through to get ice and back again still talking. She took a swig from her glass. ‘And we’ll need a washing machine.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘All the nappies. There won’t be much else to buy. Our families will chip in – they’ll spoil it rotten.’
He looked uncomfortable, glanced away. ‘Yours might.’
She took another drink. She didn’t want this to mar their happiness. ‘Once we’ve a baby, Peter, they’ll come round surely. They’re just disappointed for us. I suppose they think if you’d married someone else . . .’ She faltered. ‘They blame me, I know that. Because I can’t carry them.’
‘Lilian, don’t.’ He moved closer.
‘Yes, we’ll celebrate. It’s good news, the best. And those that don’t like it can lump it. A toast.’ She held out her glass. He raised his. ‘Our baby.’
‘Our baby.’
They drank. ‘Let’s get fish and chips,’ Lilian said.
‘And drink Martinis.’
‘And get sozzled. And clear the spare-room stuff away.’
He looked at her. ‘I’ve a better idea.’
‘I love you.’ She looked at his dark, wavy hair and the eyes that were almost black. He needed to shave, five o’clock shadows ringed his mouth and chin. He shaved twice a day.
He kissed her.
‘Ow. Like sandpaper.’
‘Refresh your glass, Madam?’
She winked at him and held it out. A moment’s doubt swirled within her. What if she didn’t love the child? What if the baby got sick and died? What if Peter found himself agreeing with his family? She lit a cigarette. Mother of God, give me strength, she prayed. It’s going to be wonderful. We’re going to have a baby.