Trio - [11]

‘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.