The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers (4 page)

I’d had a urinary infection just after missing that period and my mother had marched me to the local GP. He’d prescribed antibiotics, and the infection had cleared, but when the next
period also failed to arrive, she marched me straight back.

This time I was given a single pill to take, which he assured us would bring on my period. If it didn’t happen, he advised, then I must go back again. It was about now that alarm bells
began ringing for us both, and my mother began questioning me, over and over again, about whether there was any way I could be pregnant. I denied it emphatically, citing the urinary infection as
the only reason I could think of for my period’s non-appearance. All the while I was in a state of growing terror.

The days passed. When, despite the pill, there was no sign of the period, my mother, now quite agitated, changed her mind about going to the GP. I couldn’t go back, she informed me,
because the neighbours might find out; one of them worked as a receptionist at the surgery.

Now, standing before my mother and stepfather, I cursed my stupidity. If only I’d acted sooner. What a fool I’d been.

‘I’m pregnant,’ I said. Because what else was there to say?

My mother’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘Dear God,’ she said. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Oh, Angela, what have you
done
?’

Since the question was rhetorical, I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t meet her gaze either. I could just see Sam’s face, out of the corner of my eye, and that was all I needed to
gauge his expression. At some point, much later, I felt sure he’d tell my mother that this was only what he’d expected from a girl like me.

‘What have you done?’ she said again. She clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. ‘Dear God,’ she said again. ‘What have I done to deserve this? Oh, Angela,
you have sinned. You have done
such
a bad thing! How on earth are we going to . . . Oh, this is a
nightmare
! Oh,
Angela
!’ I could feel her eyes boring into me.
‘What are we going to
do
?’ I looked up now, my cheeks burning. She raised a finger and jabbed it towards me. ‘You do know you can’t stay here, don’t
you?’

I gasped. What was she saying? She couldn’t mean that, surely? ‘But where else will I go?’

‘I don’t know yet, but we’ll have to get something arranged – and quickly. We can’t have the neighbours finding out about this.’

‘But where?’ I said again, feeling panicky. Would she really throw me out?
Could
she?

‘You’ll need to find lodgings,’ she went on. ‘Somewhere you can stay, well away from here, until, well, until it can all be dealt with.’

I looked at her, aghast, as the grim reality of my situation became clearer.
Until it can all be dealt with
. I could hardly bear to think about what that meant. ‘So should I look in
the newspaper?’ I finally managed to say. ‘Try to find a room to rent? Where?’

She exhaled heavily, making it clear that my suggestion – effectively, that she intended to put me out on the street – was further evidence of my irresponsibility. ‘You might
have thought of that, Angela, while you were doing what you were doing!’ She cast around the room as if she might find the answer somewhere within it. Then her hand went to her forehead
again.

‘Which of your friends could you ask?’ she said eventually. ‘Is there someone from your office you could rent a room from?’ She looked sharply at me again. ‘Angela,
you
know
you can’t stay here.’

‘But—’

‘You
have
to leave.’ Her voice was high with anxiety now – even panic at the thought I might be about to beseech her to let me stay, to throw myself at her feet and beg.
But I wouldn’t do that. I could see it would be pointless. ‘Only temporarily,’ she added. ‘But before anyone finds out.’ Her tone softened slightly. ‘Angela, you
do
see that, don’t you?’

I did see that, I told her. And by now I did, because I’d had it drummed into me for half my life. How could she possibly let me stay when I’d committed a mortal sin? What worse
disgrace could ever befall a Catholic family? I hung my head again. I felt more dreadful already than any amount of her shouting could have made me. I had let her and my entire family down. I
knew
that. Yes, I was shocked at how forcibly I’d been told there were no options, but I’d brought it on myself, so what else could I expect? I felt so disappointed in myself,
and so full of regret. I also felt afraid, because now I had nowhere to go and absolutely no idea what was to become of me.

From that moment on, things became very strained between us. My mother simply couldn’t disguise her disgust and dismay that her only daughter had committed the ultimate sin. I knew I had
to get away as soon as possible, because every day I stayed, there was a greater risk of my secret coming out.

Thankfully, when I went into work the next day, and confided in the closest of my colleagues, they were sympathetic and supportive. Though here, too, there was bad news. I’d expected it,
of course, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

‘You know you’ll have to leave, don’t you?’ my boss, Bunty, explained. Unlike my mother’s, her tone was gentle and reassuring. ‘And sooner rather than
later,’ she added, squeezing my arm. ‘Because that way you can, in all probability, come back.’

I brightened a little. ‘I can?’ This was something I hadn’t expected.

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘You’re a skilled member of staff. It would make no sense for us to lose you. But it has to be quickly, before anyone senior finds out. If they
do, you’ll be shunned and that’ll definitely be the end of it – bye, bye Angela. Honestly,’ she said, ‘they’ll treat you as no better than a prostitute,
especially the men. But if you leave on some other pretext – an extended holiday, say – it’s up to you. What do you think? Then you can return after you’ve had it, and
continue as before.’

‘How about Italy?’ I asked. I’d been to Italy on holiday the year before and had fallen in love with it, so much so that I’d immediately signed up for evening classes in
Italian. I’d gone with three other friends – all good Catholic girls like myself – and we’d spent a glorious fortnight in the pretty seaside resort of Laigueglia. I
suggested it to Bunty. ‘I could say I was going on an extended trip to Laigueglia, I suppose, to improve my fluency by working there this time. Would that do?’

Bunty thought that would work perfectly. It would make the subterfuge on my return that bit easier to deflect. And so it was agreed: I was heading to Europe for a while. I handed in my
week’s notice and left.

But there was still the problem of getting temporary accommodation. Now I was no longer going to work every day, my mother became even more anxious to move me out. What if someone saw me and
wondered why I wasn’t going to work? So the neighbours, too, were told the story of my upcoming trip to Italy. Thankfully, I didn’t have to dodge their enquiries about my plans for
long, as within the week I had somewhere new to live.

In this, also, I was lucky to have had such wonderful friends at work: my friend and colleague June, after okaying it with her husband – another Peter, ironically – offered to let me
live in the spare room in their house in Elm Park. In return I’d pay a small rent and help out with the household chores, and I couldn’t have been more grateful. I still am.

June was the antithesis of almost everyone else around me at that time. While the whole world, it seemed, stood in damning judgement over me, June had been the friend I’d been able to call
on for support and advice. It had been she who had given me the abortionist’s number, and had earlier given me potions to try. She was from Bow, in the East End, and as down to earth and
colourful as I was reserved and self-effacing. She was pretty and glamorous, and was a model in her spare time. She was also streetwise: her extended family were the sort of people who get tagged
‘likeable rogues’, selling things that ‘dropped off the back of a lorry’.

Just as June didn’t judge me, I didn’t judge her. She was a rock, a tower of strength and a true friend in a time of crisis. It was impossible to thank her enough or properly repay
her for what she did for me, and I felt I never could, even though we stayed in touch for many, many years, even after she emigrated to Australia.

Despite all this kindness, I was terrified. Where on earth would I get a job so I could pay June my rent? Who would employ a pregnant, unmarried nineteen year old? And where would I go to have
my baby? I had no idea. Still more worrying was what would happen once the baby was born. Where would we live? How would I manage? Back then there was no social security in place. Would I be
destitute with a newborn? How could I not be? Would the authorities take it away from me?

And in all of this, the one person whom I’d normally depend on most was completely unable to help me. My mother could talk to no one – ask no questions, get no advice – because
if she did, then the secret would be out.

It was then that the bleakness of my situation became real.

‘How was your night?’ Mary asked me, interrupting my reverie. Her voice was soft, but it echoed in the sparsely furnished room.

‘I didn’t sleep very much,’ I admitted, returning her shy smile. ‘But it’s difficult to get comfortable when you’re this big, isn’t it? Even in the most
comfortable bed.’

Mary grinned and pulled the covers back, then swung her legs to the floor. ‘And these beds are definitely not that,’ she answered ruefully.

This small quip was at odds with the tone of the morning, as we left the freezing bedroom and made our way down, along with the other girls, to queue for the bathroom, the cold air swirling
unpleasantly around our bare legs. I would soon understand there was a reason for the quiet, for the way the girls, myself included, seemed locked in their own worlds. It was due, I decided,
probably to that sense of waking up in the home every morning and being reminded anew of the terrible situation we were in, every bit as much as it was to tiredness.

The bathroom was gloomy and uninviting, the early morning light diffused by its frosted window. Being a convent, it was important that no one have the chance to see us naked – somewhat
ironic, given the condition we were in. It was also very cold (soon it would become even colder) so, just as Mary had told me, no one was inclined to hang around.

Once we were washed, we sped back to our bedrooms to dress. I had a selection of maternity clothes – smocks and elasticated waist skirts – that June’s neighbour, a lovely Irish
lady called Marie, had kindly dug out and let me have. Then Mary and I headed down to breakfast.

The dining room, like every other room I’d seen so far, was dingy in aspect and minimally furnished. In this case, it was dominated by a long, thin refectory table, accessorised with
wooden chairs of all ages and styles, probably assembled and repaired and then replaced over many years. Like the nuns, they looked worn out and creaky with age.

You could sit anywhere, though breakfast was not a leisurely affair: it was designed to set you up for the day’s work, not as an accompaniment to idle chitchat. Just as when we had gone
down to the bathroom, I got a strong sense that talk was discouraged.

Such talk as there was, from what I could make out that first morning, was quiet and mostly centred on the mothers’ unhappiness and stress at finding their babies crying when they went in
to do the first feed of the day.

‘Lots of the mothers miss breakfast altogether,’ Mary told me, ‘which is why it’s half empty in here now. Sure, they’re hungry, but they need that extra
hour’s sleep a lot more – or so I’m told, and I don’t doubt it.’

Neither did I.

The food was simple and wholesome: a selection of cereals, sometimes porridge. There was also a toaster so the girls could make themselves toast if they wanted. But the main thing I noticed
round the table that morning was that a definite hierarchy existed in Loreto Convent: pregnant girls and mothers each tended to stick to their own. There was our group, bewildered, naive and full
of fear; then another of those mothers who’d made it to breakfast – there would be more at lunch and tea. They looked hollowed-eyed and whey-faced, on the edge of exhaustion and sad.
They were the ones whose journeys were nearing an end, and for whom the future, now they’d brought their babies into the world, must have seemed very bleak.

There were five nuns in the convent, all of them different ages, but uniformly stern and impatient: Reverend Mother Sylvester, Sister Teresa – undoubtedly the oldest,
Sister Veronica, Sister Michael and Sister Roc. None showed an iota of affection, so there was no ‘softer’ option. As my job was in the milk kitchen and Sister Teresa’s was the
care of the babies, I would be taking my orders mostly from her.

And she seemed to like to give them. She appeared, habit swishing purposefully, within what seemed like seconds of sitting down to eat. ‘Are you done, Angela?’ she asked me, in her
high, reedy voice. ‘Because there’s work to be done. This is not a hotel! These bottles won’t be making up themselves, you know.’

I wanted to point out that I’d never considered it to be one, but I swallowed my words along with the last spoonful of my cereal and, having established that my dirty crockery would be
another girl’s responsibility – ‘put it there, girl!’ – hurried after her out of the dining room.

The milk kitchen didn’t really resemble a kitchen at all. It was a small space, and apart from having a sink and a draining board, and the long Formica worktop, it was more reminiscent of
a large pantry. It would be in this tiny space that I would spend the majority of my days till I went to hospital to have my baby.

Sister Teresa gave me a handwritten list, on which was noted the name of each mother who was staying at the convent and the amount of Cow and Gate formula milk her baby was supposed to have at
each feed. As I looked at the list of names and their accompanying allocation, reality hit me hard: I was going to have a baby and one day soon that baby would be on this list. Except it
wouldn’t be; just my name would be on the list. My baby, who by then would be very much alive, would be a non-person, not even granted a name of his or her own.