Trio - [15]

‘So am I.’

‘But you’ve got something to look forward to.’

‘You mean me and Brendan?’

Joan nodded.

Maybe she was right. Maybe something truly awful had brought Caroline here. She could have been forced or something. She never said anything, never referred to the father, nor did Joan to hers. Megan seemed to be the only person in the whole place who could.

Sister Giuseppe had gone off looking for Caroline, and Megan finished the mitten off. He’d know to wait for her, wouldn’t he? If he had so much as sniffed at another girl while she was here, going through this, she’d kill him. Chop him into bits and chuck the pieces in the canal. She would. So he best be behaving himself. And then one day, they’d show them all, especially her Daddy. They’d have a dirty great wedding and dance till the morning and they could all go jump.

Joan

Joan was assigned to the kitchen at St Ann’s. She had to get up at six to help light the fires and start breakfast. Porridge had been cooking all night in a huge double porridge pot. They used Quaker Oats at home, ready in ten minutes. Why on earth they couldn’t do it here she didn’t know, but everything here was done the old way and the most difficult one too, she reckoned.

The ashes from the fire went into the ashcan and the grates were swept then the new fire built. It was the coldest time of all and Joan could see her breath as she folded paper like crackerjacks for firelighters and then built the pyramid of kindling and coals. The fire in the kitchen didn’t always draw well and Joan had to stretch a sheet of newspaper across to encourage the flames to leap for air. Once the fire had hold she helped the other girls lay the tables and prepare bread and margarine and jam to follow the porridge.

Cook would be busy already sorting out the ingredients for dinner and tea.

At seven thirty the rest of the house was expected to be ready in the dining room and Matron would start the day off with prayers. By nine the pots were washed, dried and put away, the great porridge pan scrubbed clean, the clots of porridge removed from the sink. The surfaces wiped down and clear.

Joan had ten minutes tea break. She went upstairs and got out her stationery.

Dear Mummy, Daddy and Tommy,

London is very big and very noisy. There are pigeons everywhere and starlings just like we have in Piccadilly Gardens but even more of them. The traffic is busy and doesn’t stop even in the middle of the night.

I am settling in fine and Mr Bell is very happy with my speed and accuracy. I have to get the Underground home from work. I haven’t been to Buckingham Palace yet. Has Tommy finished his go-kart? Say happy birthday to Grandad for me. I’m sending him a card, too.

Cheerio,

Joan

She folded the paper and slipped it into a matching envelope, took a stamp from her purse and licked it. She wrote the card to her grandfather, stamped and addressed it and put both envelopes into a larger one with a quick note to Frances.

Thanks so much for this. Just pop them straight in the post. Feel very cut off from everything here. No television and the radio is usually limited to Sing Something Simple and the like so we never hear the Goons or even Two Way Family Favourites. I have a go on the old piano now and then but they don’t approve of anything too modern. I’m keeping well. I am going to come to London! Might there be any rooms near you? Your coat sounds lovely. Where did you buy it?

Time to go back down. And begin making dinner.

Caroline

‘Yes, Sister?’ Caroline turned from the sheet she was sewing end-to-middle.

‘Sister Monica wants to see you.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

Caroline had not been inside the Matron’s office since her admission. Anxiety rippled through her and she felt her heart falter. Had she done something wrong? She made her way as quickly as she could to the office and knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

Sister Monica sat at her desk and motioned for Caroline to sit opposite her.

‘There’s been a telegram, Caroline. I’m afraid your grandmother has passed on.’

Caroline stared at her uncomprehendingly. Shaking her head even as she tried to decipher the words. ‘Grandma?’

‘Yes.’

Her throat felt dry, she sucked at her cheeks, trying to find saliva. Her vision blurred and she blinked her brown eyes fiercely. Grandma. Beating rugs with a huge, cane beater, her hair covered in a twist of coloured scarves; Grandma making lace, her face screwed up like an old apple, her mouth a row of pins, reciting dialect poems and singing all the songs she knew. A fierce, funny woman, incredibly tall. Who called Caroline ‘Mouse’ on account of her quiet nature and made enough noise for the two of them when they were together.

‘We’ll ask Father Quinlan to include her in prayers.’

‘The funeral…’ Caroline began.

‘You have to stay here,’ Sister Monica said firmly. ‘You can’t go.’

Caroline stared at her in amazement. Not go? ‘But, Sister…’

‘It would not be appropriate, Caroline. It would be a dishonour.’

She was dirty.

‘Whose is it?’ Mam had said. Cheeks drained of colour, eyes boring into her.

‘Mam, I…’