Mena just kept breathing, staring through the windscreen at the road ahead. It felt like it took no time at all to get there. She saw the sign at the end of the driveway first. It was off a quiet country lane in the middle of nowhere for all Mena knew or cared. They turned in and drove a hundred yards or so through tidy winter gardens of trimmed shrubs, bordered with colourful pansies that always reminded Mena of the kaleidoscope she once had.
Trinity House was an imposing building of red brickwork and dark slate. It had a five by three matrix of Georgian sash windows and Mena could just see another row of tiny windows set into the roof-space, giving the building four stories in all. Pop parked the car and Mena and her mother got out. Her father, it seemed, was not going in with them. As Mena stood gazing up at the gargoyles squatting malevolently above the high dormer windows and over the main gables, she thought how much more she would fear the place if the sun was not on her face; how terrified she would be when night-time fell.
She wandered towards the main entrance with her mother as if in a daze, taking steady measure of the place, which did not take long. She heard someone speak her mother’s name and two nuns in full grey-and-white habit, who did not return her mother’s smile, greeted them and invited them inside. The interior reminded Mena of the Dickensian schoolhouses she’d read about in her books, but stamped with the obvious piety of the Catholic Church. There was a strong smell of floor polish, of brass metalwork and waxed wood - and of books. That was the only thing Mena liked about the place.
Their escort took them to a dark oak door. One of the nuns knocked once with firm authority, opened it and retreated silently into the shadows beyond the main staircase.
“Mother Superior,” Margaret Lasseter began as soon as they entered. “So good of you to see us.”
She was a short, thin woman who looked older than her mother, Mena thought. She had a gaunt face and a mole on her chin that had long grey hairs protruding from it. Mena supposed her lack of vanity prevented her from cutting them or plucking them out. She did not invite them to sit down. Instead she rose from her desk and came around it towards them.
“Let me have a good look at you,” she said to Mena as she slowly and thoughtfully began to circle her, studying her in silence until Mena felt uncomfortable. She returned to her seat and waved them into theirs at last. “I’m sorry to say we only have one bed available,” she said. “In such wicked times you were fortunate to contact us when you did. Now, when is the baby due?”
Mena was about to answer when she realised that the mother superior had directed the question to her mother.
“February,” Margaret said. “So far as I can gather.”
The mother superior nodded. “We charge no fee,” she said. “Though donations are appreciated. Our girls are expected to work for their keep while they are here and they must follow the house rules at all times. We are strict but fair.” She looked at Mena and added, “Discipline is the path to salvation.”
Mena didn’t like the way the mother superior’s eyes seemed to look right through her as she said that, like she was reading her soul and knew whether or not discipline was something she was capable of. She gave a quick nod and the mother superior reached across the desk and spun a form around, sliding it towards her mother. She offered a pen and her mother took it.
“We must insist on the unequivocal right to govern our girls both morally and physically throughout their stay with us,” the mother superior said.
Margaret Lasseter seemed to give the form no more than a cursory glance before signing it. It appeared to Mena that she couldn’t give her consent quick enough.
“How long must I stay here?” Mena asked.
The mother superior seemed taken aback by the question. She stared at Mena like she’d only just noticed she was there, giving her a look that was as much to say, “How dare you?”
“Our girls do not speak unless they are spoken to,” she said. To her mother she added, “I am surprised, Mrs Lasseter, that your daughter does not know better.”
Her mother glared at Mena, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. “I can assure you she does, Mother Superior. But perhaps her time at Trinity House will remind her.”
“I am sure it will,” the mother superior said. She looked stern-faced at Mena for a long time before she turned back to her mother and handed her the pink carbon copy of the form she had just signed. “During her stay she will look after her baby and continue to earn her keep along with the other girls. Between prayers and on a roster basis she will clean the house and tend the gardens, help in the kitchen and wash the laundry. Our Lord does not suffer idle hands, Mrs Lasseter, and neither do I. Between her regular duties she will assist the war effort with a needle and thread. You will see that the question concerning the duration of her stay is made clear on the form,” she added. “Simply put, your daughter must remain with us until the baby is born and a suitable home can be found for it.
Mena wanted to ask how long that would take but she was too afraid to say anything else. Then the mother superior seemed to read her mind, which made her feel all the more uncomfortable.
“Exactly how long your daughter will be with us very much depends,” the mother superior continued. “Some of our girls leave us after six months or so, others stay a few years. We have one girl whose family disowned her and she had no-where else to go. She’s been with us almost six years now.”
Mena tried to swallow but her throat was suddenly dry. What if no one wanted her baby? She’d be trapped there forever unless she ran away. But where would she go? She wouldn’t be able to return home or she’d be sent straight back again. And she thought as they only had one spare bed that it would naturally be in the attic space. And it was a bed, not a room. She imagined that several girls in her situation would all be sharing the same cramped and poorly lit space. And what about her books? She felt sure that her fondest pastime would be deemed idle in the eyes of the Sisters of Enlightened Providence, unless the subject matter was perhaps one of approved religious content.
This was not her life.
She would have run screaming from the room had her legs not felt paralyzed just long enough for her mother to conclude her business with the mother superior, who left Mena with the parting words, “Until the new year. When you shall be purged of your sins such that you may be born again.”
Mena wished Joan was there. She would have known what to do and she certainly wouldn’t have stood for any of this nonsense. She thought about Joan all the way back to the car. She knew how unkind she’d been to her and she wished she could see her again to tell her how sorry she was. But she didn’t think she would see Joan again for some time now.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
M
ena continued to wipe the condensation from her bedroom window as she looked out at the frost in the trees and at the freezing fog that hung low over Oadby’s fields. It held a pale pink glow in the early sunlight and Mena wished it was last December again so she could start the year over. If only she hadn’t gone to Shady Lane looking for Danny that day in May. If only she hadn’t been so forward and had waited for their encounter at De Montfort Hall. But she could not live the year over. Danny had been right: today was all she had and tomorrow really was for dreamers. The winter landscape reminded her of how she’d been looking forward to Christmas last year and how she couldn’t wait to join the Land Army. This Christmas would be quite different.
It was a little over a week since her mother had taken her to Trinity House and it seemed that everything was set. In two weeks she would be in the care of the Sisters of Enlightened Providence and their mother superior, who since having met her was the only person Mena feared more than her own mother. But Mena was resolved not to go without a fight, even though she had no idea how to turn her situation around.
Pop had been in to see her. He’d said he’d received a letter from Mary, saying that she’d found nothing to suggest that Danny was missing or had been killed in action. He frowned the whole time he was there and he said he was sorry at least three times before he left, presumably because it confirmed that Danny had no reason not to write to her other than through his own choice.
Danny was already beginning to feel like a sweet memory to her now: a beautiful dream that she had at last awoken from, and no matter how hard she rubbed at the coin around her neck before going to sleep, she could not find her way back into the dream. She had lost him, she knew that now and the realisation was bad enough in itself, but she could not bear the thought of losing their baby, too. The only obvious solution that presented itself to her was that somehow she had to escape - like Edmond Dantés in her favourite of all the classics,
The Count of Monte Cristo
. Although she had no clue as to where she would go or how she would survive the full term of her pregnancy alone.
But chance was a curious thing, Mena reflected later that day as she sat downstairs in her green day-dress and a long cream cardigan, having dinner in the dining room for a change. Edward Buckley had arrived unexpectedly and Mena had been told she could join them as long as she wore something loose-fitting and never brought the subject of her condition up.
She was reflecting on the nature of chance because the first thing Edward had said to her when he saw her was, “Don’t worry. Eddie’s got a plan.” He whispered the words in her ear as he greeted her and kissed her cheek and she knew that Mary must have told him everything. Although, she thought it odd that Edward wanted to help her when Mary, who had sided so firmly with her mother, clearly did not.
It made for an intriguing dinner.
“We’re glad to have you back, Edward,” Pop said as they began the main course of mutton stew, which primarily consisted of root vegetables.
Margaret finished serving and sat back in her chair. “And we hope to have Peter back with us by spring.”
Edward smiled. “Well that’s splendid news,” he said. “And I’m certainly glad to be back myself. Holland was no trip to the seaside, I can tell you.”
“Pop tells us you were lucky to make it,” Margaret said.
“It
was
luck,” Edward said, thoughtfully. “Nothing more than that. Ten thousand of us went out there and eight days later few more than two thousand came back. We retreated across the Rhine to the south bank.” He stared down into his stew. “We had to leave our wounded behind.”
“All brave men,” Pop said. “The finest.”
Edward nodded. “And none more so than Colonel Frost and his battalion,” he said. “Barely seven hundred and fifty men held our objective for four nights, which was as long as anyone thought all ten thousand of us could manage against such overwhelming numbers.”
“What happened to them?” Pop said.
“About a hundred men finally surrendered. Two hundred or so wounded had already been evacuated by then.”
Pop opened his mouth to say something else when Margaret cut in. “I think Edward’s had quite enough for now.”
Edward gave her a half-smile. “Thank you, Mrs Lasseter.”
“Of course,” Pop said. “Excuse an old fool, Edward. I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” Edward said.
Mena changed the subject. “Have you seen Mary lately?” she asked.
“No,” Edward said. “But I expect I soon shall. With so few of us
Red Devils
left, word is that we’ll not see any more direct action for a while. Has she been home lately?”
Margaret eyed him curiously. “Not since November,” she said. “But didn’t she tell you?”
Edward looked suddenly flushed. “Yes, I’m sure she did,” he said. “I’m so forgetful these days.”
Mena thought he dug himself out of that one rather well. This was intriguing indeed. “I’m sure she’ll be home for Christmas,” she said. “Mary loves Christmas almost as much as I do. And how about you, Edward? Are you coming again this year?”
“No, I’m sure I can’t,” Edward said, taking no time to think about it as he began to play with his food.
Margaret looked upset at the thought. “Really, Edward? What a pity. I was already used to the idea, wasn’t I, Pop?”
“Yes, of course, Mother,” Pop said. “It won’t be the same without you, lad.”
Edward smiled like he was embarrassed about something and Mena wondered if he might have fallen out with Mary, although she couldn’t imagine anything bad enough to come between them. But why else wouldn’t he do all he could to be with her over Christmas, or at least say he’d try? Especially as he’d already said that he was unlikely to see further active duty for a while. She was dying to ask, but how could she? It wasn’t her place to and this was certainly not the time.
Mena also thought it curious that Edward did not stay long after dinner. He politely refused Pop’s company by the fire, along with the cigar he’d offered him.
“I really have to get back,” Edward said as they all stood in the hallway. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs Lasseter. It was very kind of you.”
“Not at all, Edward,” Margaret said, her tone conveying curiosity now, too. “You know you’re always welcome.”
It seemed to Mena that she had been the sole reason for Edward’s visit. She walked with him to the front door, toying with the parlour palm on the jardinière as she passed it. She could feel her mother’s eyes following her every move, as they had since she’d been allowed out of her room.
“Well, goodbye Eddie,” Mena said, a little too loudly. “It was lovely to see you again.”
Edward looked over her shoulder. He smiled at her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “If you agree,” he whispered, “be ready.”
She felt something press into her hand and watched as he left along the path towards the gate. She stole a glance to see what it was. It looked like a piece of pale-blue airmail paper, folded to the size of a matchbook. She slipped it into her cardigan pocket. Her intrigue had deepened.