Authors: Mary Gibson
‘Sunday,’ Milly answered. ‘I’m getting in the bathroom.’
‘Ohhh, I hate Sundays,’ Rita groaned. ‘Twice as many effin’ prayers today!’
Milly laughed. Rita had the face of an angel and the mouth of a stevedore.
‘Too right,’ Milly agreed.
Prayer times at the home came far too often for Milly’s liking. Aimed at making the girls suitably ashamed of their fallen state, little homilies urged them to be grateful for the chance of giving their babies away to parents more deserving than themselves.
The matron led them in prayers of penitence every morning at breakfast, but on Sundays they paraded down to the village church in a crocodile, wearing their unmistakable Edenvale uniforms. On arrival, their own clothes had been taken away to be ‘deloused’. Much to Milly’s disgust, they were issued with shapeless, long grey shifts and gabardine mackintoshes. Milly and Rita defied the humiliation, insisting on hitching up the shifts with sashes and rolling up the mac sleeves, anything to make them less drab and institutional. Some girls cried themselves to sleep every night after the weekly public humiliation. Milly never once cried with shame, but as the birth drew nearer, she sometimes found her pillow wet with the tears of an undefined yearning. She worried that she was losing her resolve, terrified that when the time came to give up her baby, she wouldn’t be strong enough. Talking to Rita didn’t help. The young girl was the least emotional of all of them, and viewed her situation with an almost brutal practicality. She was an expert – she’d been through it all before, when she was fourteen.
‘No good getting attached, is what I say, Mill, you just got to push the little bastard out and say cheerio, ain’t ya?’
Milly envied her detachment. Her own pregnancy seemed to have leached away all her old bravado. She felt her once hard muscles softening into maternal folds of flesh, and her inner strength melting into a sentimental pulp that filled her with impotent anger at herself. Now, as she shuffled off towards the communal bathroom, she felt tears welling and told herself to toughen up. Yesterday, Ida, a big-boned girl from Peckham, had given away her baby to a well-to-do, middle-aged couple. The poor girl had come back to the dormitory howling and no matter how much Matron told her to control herself, that she was upsetting the others, Ida continued to sob all day. Soon that would be her, Milly reflected, but she was determined not to howl. She would put her baby first and be glad to sacrifice her own feelings on the altar of maternal love.
The bathroom was a long white-tiled room, with a row of sinks and two baths at the end. She could hear the other girls waking and chatting, and hurried to slip off her nightgown. The baths were used on a rota basis and it was her turn this morning. A proper bath, with taps and running hot water, was an unheard of luxury for Milly, but she still hadn’t got used to bathing in front of strangers. At home they would get the grey tin tub in from the yard, fill it a pan full at a time from the copper, and then she and her sisters would share the bathwater, Milly first, then Elsie, then Amy. They would scrub each other’s backs, but then her sisters were not strangers.
Easing herself gently into the hot water, she realized with a pang just how much she missed those infuriating sisters of hers. That was one thing amongst many that had changed during her stay in Edenvale, which Milly knew was a paradise compared to other unmarried mothers’ homes. Yet the orderly routine of prayers, hymns and hard work, scrubbing floors or sewing sheets, had seemed at first like a prison sentence. Still, it was a penitentiary that allowed for time in the gardens or accompanied walks in the surrounding lanes, and it was at such times that Milly found time to think. This was another luxury, like proper baths, that was little known in Arnold’s Place. She was surprised to find that she was not the same person who’d arrived there all those months before. The things she’d imagined she would miss – the dances, the drinking, her friends at the Folly – she’d hardly given a thought to, yet here she was, missing the two people who’d always given her the most trouble, her sisters.
It was as she hauled herself out of the bath that the first contraction caught her. She stumbled, but managed to grip the rolled bath edge. Her breath coming in quick gasps, she waited while the pain diminished, then stood up naked, dripping and trembling. All modesty forgotten, she screamed out, ‘Me baby’s coming!’
Immediately she found herself surrounded by a gaggle of girls, grabbing at her, eager to help her out of the bath. Rita waddled off to tell Matron and, as another contraction doubled her over, Milly wailed at Rita’s retreating figure, ‘Mum never told me it would be as bad as this!’
Rita shot back, entirely unsympathetic, ‘Lot of good that would’ve done you!’
Milly’s delivery was relatively quick and later Rita told her she’d had it easy. But though the time might have been short, it felt to Milly as though she were being ripped open. She privately thought the speed of her delivery was down to the midwife who’d decided to move things along with a strategically placed knee in her stomach.
Afterwards, when she’d been stitched up and the midwife handed her the tightly swaddled bundle, Milly looked down at the round, tiny face staring placidly up at her and wondered how she could feel such tenderness for the little demon who’d just put her through hell. He had a broad button nose and a small ‘o’ of a mouth, but his eyes were captivating, almost oriental in their shape, and they sparkled with what she could only describe as delight. He looked happy to have been born.
‘You be happy while you can, me old son.’ She pushed back the white swaddling cloth and kissed the silky, gold splash of hair that covered the crown of his head. And as she began to nurse him, she saw his little fist creep up to her breast, until slowly his uncurled index finger began that familiar, rhythmic stroking he had perfected inside her womb.
They were allowed to keep their babies with them, day and night, for almost six weeks. The nurses always referred to them by surnames. Their adoptive parents, they explained, would give the children their
real
names. But Milly couldn’t be so detached. She gave her little boy a secret name: to her he was Jimmy, named after her beloved middle brother, who’d died in 1916 at the Somme when she was only ten. She had worshipped Jimmy from afar, the hero who would surely return, unlike her poor elder brother Charlie, killed at the Battle of Loos the year before. When Jimmy had marched away, her mother promised her he would come back. God, she said, would not be so cruel as to take a second of her sons. God, perhaps, had not taken him, but a German shell certainly had.
Groups of prospective parents came to Edenvale each week to meet the newborns and choose their babies. Three other girls had given birth at about the same time as Milly, followed by Rita, whose little girl was blonde and as beautiful as her mother. She was the first to be taken away. And Rita, hard as nails, seemed genuinely relieved.
‘Well, that’s her sorted out. It’s a weight off me mind, Mill. I can’t wait to get out of this place and have a bit of life. I should think yours’ll be next, people want boys, don’t they?’
Milly nodded. She could only put Rita’s hard-heartedness down to the circumstances of her pregnancy, but she couldn’t share her steely attitude. Each day she spent with Jimmy only made it harder to contemplate giving him up. As he nuzzled her breast, she would dip her head to breathe in the scent of him, and when his eyes locked on to hers, she found it almost impossible to look away. It was as if she were becoming addicted to her own child.
The next baby to be chosen was indeed a little boy, larger and more robust-looking than Jimmy, then another little girl was taken away. When Milly saw Matron bringing Jimmy back to her, unclaimed, her heart filled with such relief, she thought it would break through her chest. As Matron stood before her, still holding Jimmy, she explained that the only couple left had been disappointed not to get the little girl, but were going away to think about taking Jimmy.
‘But, Milly, you shouldn’t get your hopes up, they really weren’t sure if they wanted him...’
At that, something in Milly’s heart rebelled. ‘If he’s not good enough for first choice, then I don’t want them to have him at all!’ She took Jimmy from the matron, and held him tightly to her.
‘You can’t afford to pick and choose, young woman.’ Matron’s face was full of undisguised disapproval. ‘If you must know, these are a respectable, wealthy couple, with a beautiful house in Canterbury. Your boy will want for nothing. He’s not exactly a robust infant; this may be his only chance. Would you rob him of that and take him back to the slum he was conceived in?’
‘He wasn’t conceived in a slum,’ Milly said, her voice rising with anger. ‘He was got in a hop garden and he’s not anyone’s second best. I’m telling you they’re not having my Jimmy!’
‘Keep your rough factory voice for the streets! The parents are having tea on the lawn and if they hear your common screeches, they’ll definitely reject the poor child!’
Milly stood up, brushing past the matron and, still holding Jimmy tightly to her breast, she poked her head out of the dormitory window. There below was a well-dressed middle-aged couple, drinking tea with Mr Dowell, the home’s foremost benefactor.
‘Oi, you two! My Jimmy’s too good for you, you ain’t havin’ him!’
Their polite smiles turned to embarrassed disapproval at the sight of Milly shouting from the window. As Matron pulled her back into the room, she heard Mr Dowell mutter hastily, ‘A jam girl from Bermondsey, I’m afraid, but it wouldn’t be fair to penalize the child...’
Milly twisted out of Matron’s grasp. Turning her back on her, she began to nurse Jimmy, who’d been woken by her shouting and was now grizzling in her arms.
‘See, you’ve made the poor mite cry, give him to me!’ Matron held out her arms, but Milly stubbornly shook her head, so that the woman was forced to come and sit down beside her.
‘See sense, Milly, you really have no choice,’ she said, altering her tone. ‘If you take him back to Bermondsey, we’ll recommend you as unfit and he’ll have to go into an orphanage. Is that really what you want?’ When Milly didn’t reply, she pressed further. ‘I’m told his grandfather is a violent man?’
Would they use that against her? Milly was astonished that the matron knew so much. Who had told her, Florence Green?
‘I can look after him on my own. I’m not taking him back home.’
‘Where would you take him?’ The woman pushed on with her maddeningly sensible, inescapable practicalities. Where would she take Jimmy? How would she live? But these questions paled beside her utter determination not to allow her beloved little boy to go to a home where he could only ever be second best.
As she lay awake that night, she wondered how she could ever have considered giving away her baby. Yet there still seemed no other option. Perhaps if she could contact Miss Green, she’d send her the fare home. If she could only get back to Bermondsey, things would come clearer, she knew it. She would write to Florence Green tomorrow. Meanwhile she would just have to fend off any future adoptive parents, and on today’s showing that wouldn’t be too difficult. All she need do was open her mouth.
But the next day, Jimmy wasn’t brought to her for his morning feed. She watched as each infant was carried up from the nursery and handed to its mother. Growing increasingly agitated, she waited patiently till all the other girls were contentedly settled with their babies. Perhaps this was Matron’s idea of a punishment, Milly thought, leaving her till last.
‘Nurse, aren’t you bringing Jimmy? He’s such a hungry little bugger, it’s a wonder he’s not screaming the nursery down by now!’
Nurse Prior was a kind-hearted soul, who never joined in Matron’s shaming tactics. But now she blushed and, hesitating at the door, she came back over to Milly’s bed.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, taking Milly’s hand, ‘but Matron says it’s better for all concerned if baby Colman is bottle-fed from now on.’ Before Milly could protest, she went on. ‘You must realize that, in any case, your milk is not sufficient for baby, it’s why he’s always hungry.’
Nurse Prior was right, Milly thought miserably, her milk
was
drying up. She couldn’t even feed him properly, let alone give him a proper future. It was almost as if her body knew she was preparing to give her baby away. Perhaps she should just give in and let him go. But as she watched the nurse leave, closing the door behind her, Milly was filled with a cold, rising panic. She leaped up and ran from the dormitory, following the nurse down the stairs.
‘But I want to see him! I can bottle-feed him! She can’t stop me seeing my own baby.’
The nurse barred her way. ‘Milly, dear, you made your choice when you came here. I know it seems cruel, but you’ll have to let him go sooner or later. Come on,’ she coaxed, ‘come back to the dormitory, and I’ll ask Matron to let you say goodbye to baby Colman before you leave here.’
Say goodbye? It struck her, sharp as a knife between her ribs. This was the cold reality of her choice in coming to Edenvale. Now it had arrived, it felt as impossible as pulling her own heart out and watching while it bled over the highly polished wooden floors of the lovely old house. She’d been living in a stupid dream and now she had to wake up. But shouting and bawling would do no good. She stilled her thumping heart and bit her tongue.
‘Yes, Nurse, I’d like to be able to say goodbye. Has he already been given to that couple in Canterbury?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘We’re still waiting for their decision. Matron’s had baby moved to the sick nursery.’ This was a little room, just off Matron’s office, where the poorly babies were nursed. ‘I’m sure she’ll let you see him one more time.’ The nurse put a comforting arm round her, before Milly nodded and turned away.
She waited all morning for word from Matron, but when none came she didn’t ask after Jimmy again. She went to meals, said prayers, sang hymns, all the while trying to deaden her heart to the wrenching loss she must go through. She’d been set to light sewing tasks following Jimmy’s birth, and had proved so adept that she’d been kept on in the laundry, doing all the household mending. She worked like the wind, fingers flying, heedless of the thumb pricks and blood spots that spattered the sheets. Anything to keep her mind distracted, anything to subdue the quiet desperation that threatened to break through into violent rebellion. All the while, she schooled herself in the many good reasons for giving Jimmy up to a life of privilege and comfort. In no time, she had finished patching the mound of sheets that should have taken her all day.