‘Yes, Sister. You wrote.’
‘That’s right. You’re up in Collyhurst?’
‘Just beyond.’
‘St Malachy’s?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘I knew Father Gilmartin from Salford, we were both at St Claire’s for a while.’
Connections established, they followed Sister Monica into a generous-sized room which held a desk and several upright chairs, a filing cabinet and some easy chairs around the fireplace. Above the mantelpiece was a picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour and behind Sister Monica’s desk one of the Sacred Heart. A tea tray with cups for three sat on the desk.
‘You’ll have some tea before your journey back?’ Sister addressed Mammy. Megan felt a rush of heat inside. She wasn’t going back, she had to stay. She could see pink wafers on the tray. Her favorite. Peak Freans.
‘We’ll do that then and have a little chat, and then I can show Megan around the place. Tea is at five thirty, so we’ve plenty of time. When's your bus?’
‘They’re every twenty minutes back to town, so I’ll be fine, thank you, Sister.’
Sister poured tea and Megan got a cup and a biscuit. Sister Monica established Mrs Driscoll’s home town in Eire and the two regaled each other with families they knew, priests and schools and seminaries and churches. Megan let the chat bubble round her. She felt tired and cranky. Oh, Brendan. She missed Brendan. He had been banned from the house and she from seeing him. She had sent him a couple of notes to work, getting her sister Kitty to take them on her way to the factory. She knew he still cared. She saw him at Mass, his family all stuck to him like sticky burrs and no chance to talk.
‘Now, Mrs Driscoll.’ The tone changed and Megan paid attention again. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘And we think the baby is due in the middle of May?’
‘Think so.’
‘Father Quinlan does the purification ceremony here and then Megan will be able to make a clean start of it all. Yes?’
‘Yes, Sister.’ She didn’t want her mammy to go. She didn’t want to be left here. She felt herself getting hot, like a burn travelling up her back, along the sides of her arms and her neck.
‘The baby will be placed and Megan will need to give her consent for the formal hearing. It’s only a couple of minutes and the parties never meet. You won’t see the parents. Just a formality.’
She felt a flare of resentment. She and Brendan were the parents, the real parents. If they’d been a few years older they could have got married and no one could have stopped them.
‘I’ll be on my way.’ Her mammy rose and Megan took in the shabby green tweed coat, the ill-matched hat, the determined face her mother had put on.
She stood for a hug, suddenly panicky, no air in the place, fevered, her eyes hot. Mammy’s touch was swift, almost brusque, not giving either of them the chance for a show of emotion.
‘Ta-ta, now. Thank you, Sister.’
‘Mammy.’ Megan tried to slow her down, no idea what to say.
The door opened and Sister Giuseppe was there. Like Igor, Megan thought. There’d been no signal. ‘Mammy.’
‘Sister will see you out, Mrs Driscoll.’
Her mother practically ran from the room and the door closed on them.
Megan stood, her throat parched, her heart fluttering in her throat.
‘Sit down, Megan,’ Sister said quietly, but there was no warmth in the voice. ‘Let me check your notes.’
Joan
‘Father’s name?’
Joan shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘You couldn’t tell him?’
‘He isn’t free.’
She could sense the disapproval from the other side of the desk like a fret of distaste settling about her. She hadn’t just been careless, she had led a married man astray. Home wrecker, scarlet woman.
‘Can you leave it blank?’ She fought to sound calm and contained. Inside, her heart was whipping about and her nerves singing like piano wires.
The nun blinked and gave a curt nod.
‘Your occupation?’
‘Secretary.’
‘Nearest relatives?’
‘Mr and Mrs Hawes.’
‘Parents?’
She nodded.
‘Any brothers and sisters?’
Joan told her about Tommy.
‘When’s the baby due?’
‘Early June, I think.’
The Nun unfolded a small slip of paper and glanced at it. ‘You’ve seen the doctor,’ she confirmed.
‘Yes.’
Duncan had gone white when he’d opened her letter giving notice. She’d worded it in the usual formal style.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to inform you of my intention to leave my position of Secretary on February 25th, two weeks from today.
Yours faithfully,
Joan Hawes
No reason. No warning.
She had watched him open it from her own desk, her knees clenched together, toes pressing into the floor.
‘Joan?’
Betty looked up too at the unusual urgency in his tone.
‘Yes, Mr Harrison?’
‘Can you come through?’
He nodded for her to shut the door behind her.
‘What’s this?’ He flung the letter down, angry, a muscle by his mouth twitching.
‘I’m going to London.’
‘Why?’ Like it was the moon. ‘Why, Joan?’
She bit her lip, steadying herself. The less she said the better.
‘Reconsider.’
‘Mind’s made up.’
‘I thought, you and me . . .’
What you and me? ‘You have a wife.’
‘Oh, Joan.’ He looked at her pained, as if to say it wasn't his fault that he was married, as if she was being unfair.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said.
She didn't reply, wrapped her arms tighter round herself.
‘You could have told me. Not like this,’ he pushed at the letter with his fingers.
She waited.
‘So this is it? All you have to say?’
‘I’ll work my notice,’ she said. ‘But I won’t be able to stay late.’
He bristled then, his lips crimping together, his colour darkening. Would he spit at her? Curse her? She avoided his eyes. The shrill bell of the phone burst through the silence, making her start, the prickle of sweat everywhere.
‘Go,’ he nodded towards the door, leaning forward to pick up the letter with one hand and the phone with the other.
‘While you’re here,’ the nun was saying, ‘you’ll be expected to help in the running of the Home. Sister Vincent oversees the housekeeping and she’ll let you know what you have to do. Girls work in the laundry and the kitchens and the nursery. The Society has granted you a place here on the understanding that you are truly sorry for what you have done and wish to redeem yourself. You will observe the laws of the Home and God’s laws and act with proper modesty at all times. You understand?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘You’ll pay an allowance for your keep and for the child, based on a daily rate. If there’s any problem settling the amount you must confide in me immediately. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘People in the parish are very supportive of the work the society does and, of course, they know St Ann’s is a mother and baby home but this is a good area and we do not antagonise our neighbours by parading about in the streets. You’ll be encouraged to remain in the Home unless you are specifically sent on an errand by one of the sisters. There’s a garden at the back and we have a chapel and a small library, so there is really no need to go elsewhere for anything. If you wish to write home, letters can be given to Sister Giuseppe. And any visits here must be arranged in advance.’
Joan wouldn’t be having any visitors.
‘When your time comes you’ll go over to the maternity hospital in Withington. On return here you will help care for the child until a placement is made. The father’s not a darkie is he?’ She glanced at Joan, suspiciously.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because we can’t place them for love nor money. They end up at Barnado’s, most of them, or St Francis’s – they take the boys.
She needed a cigarette even though she’d smoked her tongue to gravel on the way here.
‘You’ve got your bag?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
The nun left the room briefly and returned with another girl, large with child. A big-boned girl, dark hair in a ponytail, a young face. Fifteen or so, Joan guessed.
‘Caroline, show Joan up to the room. She’s in with you and Megan.’
Joan smiled at the girl, who gave a ghost of a smile back, but her brown eyes were dark, sad, and she glanced quickly away.
Megan
It was Brendan’s dad who told Brendan about Megan’s condition.
Mrs Driscoll had heard Megan throwing up three mornings in a row. Megan’s baloney about a funny custard from the cake shop wouldn’t wash.
‘You’re pregnant!’ Maggie Driscoll shrieked.
‘I’m not.’
‘And black is white, I suppose.’
‘Mammy . . .’
‘Megan, I’ve had nine children.’
Megan slumped into her seat, covered her face. ‘I can’t be,’ she insisted.
‘Is it Brendan?’
Silence.
‘Well, it’s not the immaculate conception, is it? It'll kill your father.’
She fetched her coat, pulled on gloves and a headscarf, knotting it tight under her chin.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out. You stay here. Mind the others. Bernadette will want feeding in half an hour.’
Megan nodded.
‘And bring that washing in if it turns wet.’ She slammed the back door behind her.
Megan rose. She was cold, her ankles like pipes of cold metal, she put some more coal on the fire. It couldn’t be true. Please God, let it be collywobbles. Or the flu. But she knew her mammy’s diagnosis was right. And now it was spoken, out in the open, a great clonking mistake. She broke the embers of the fire apart, exposing the fierce orange glow, and hefted the brass coal scuttle once and then twice. Shiny lumps and bits blanketed the fire, a wall of tarry smoke rose up the chimney, the fire spat and hissed as it ate the gritty coal dust. It would be some minutes before the heat returned. She busied herself drying the breakfast dishes.
‘Maggie, come in.’
‘Kate.’
The women knew each other from the Union of Catholic Mothers. But those get-togethers were their only social contact. They were not close friends and for one to turn up on the doorstep of the other was an extraordinary occurrence.
Aware of this, Kate Conroy led Maggie Driscoll into the front room, reserved for formal occasions and out-of-bounds for much of the time, even though the house was overcrowded.
Kate had a utility suite. A green covered sofa and two chairs. The only thing you could get after the war. A piano and sideboard were thick with studio photos of the family and their relatives. A picture of Pope John XXlll took pride of place over the mantelpiece. There was no fire in the grate and the room was chilly and unwelcoming. Mrs Driscoll kept her outdoor clothes on.
‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Kate. It's about our Megan and Brendan. She’s expecting.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ Kate’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes swam. ‘Oh, no!’ she moaned.