Charity (27 page)

‘So this Miss Frost is coming to see you here?’ Marjorie looked surprised. ‘Was that her idea or yours?’

‘Mine.’ Charity hung her head. ‘I thought if she saw the house I was living in she’d turn against me straight away.’

‘But you’ve made your room so pretty,’ Marjorie said. ‘Half the bedsitters in London are as grotty as your house. She’ll have seen far worse.’

‘But it’s smarter here.’ Charity glanced round the restaurant with its snowy tablecloths, gleaming cutlery and smart Regency striped wallpaper. ‘I feel safer with you around.’

Christmas had passed painfully. She accepted the invitation from Marjorie and Martin because there was nowhere else, and although they did their best to make it a jolly occasion, Charity was relieved when it was over.

Charity lay awake as 1962 came in. She could hear people singing Auld Lang Syne out in King Street and the sound of their revelry made her want to cry with loneliness. Now it was twelfth night and they were taking down the Christmas decorations.

Hammersmith Broadway looked even more mucky and dismal than usual as Charity walked to work that morning. It had begun to snow yesterday and for a short while everything looked magical, but now the snow had been shovelled up into black heaps on the pavement and a further frost had made it as hard as concrete.

‘Miss Frost might not be like her name,’ Martin said and slung an arm round Charity’s shoulder when he overheard the news of the intended visit. ‘But just in case she is, you want us to thaw her out?’

Charity giggled.

Martin was very astute. That was exactly what she meant, but she couldn’t have put it into words.

‘We’ll support you,’ Marjorie said stoutly. ‘If she gives me a chance I’ll tell her what a little gem you are. Now stop worrying, she might be nice.’

Charity just knew the woman in the dark blue pork pie hat was Miss Frost, even before she spoke. She was a big woman; not fat, but big-boned and angular. Her coat was shabby, a different shade of blue from the hat, and she wore thick brown lisle stockings and fur-lined boots with a zip up the front.

Charity approached the woman as soon as she sat down.

‘Are you Miss Frost?’ she said, hoping she was mistaken and it was just another customer after tea and a cake.

‘I am.’ The woman unwound a thick grey scarf from her neck and peeled off fur-lined leather gloves. ‘You must be Charity Stratton?’

Charity nodded. ‘I’ll just get you some tea,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Would you like a toasted teacake too?’

Marjorie, who had watched the interchange from the kitchen door, swept over to the table.

‘Good afternoon. It is Miss Frost, isn’t it?’ She smiled down pleasantly as Charity hovered, not knowing whether to sit, stand or run. ‘I call Charity my little gem; goodness knows how we’re going to manage once she leaves. Do sit down and talk, Charity.’ She winked at her carefully so the older woman didn’t see. ‘I’ll get you a tray of tea myself.’

Charity had no choice but to sit down now, but Marjorie had at least shown the woman that her employers were aware of her predicament.

Miss Frost had the most piercing eyes, a chilly bright blue. At first glance Charity had thought her old, but this was mainly because of her dress. Close up she saw she was mistaken. The woman was in her late thirties and she had smooth unlined skin, stretched over prominent cheekbones. ‘It’s always much easier for my girls when they have an ally.’ The way she pronounced ‘girls’ as ‘gels’ made Charity think of Joyce Grenfell.

‘Mr and Mrs Bell have been very kind to me,’ Charity said.

Miss Frost didn’t reply to this, just gave Charity a long stare.

‘Have you any plans you would like to air with me?’

Charity wasn’t sure what this meant.

‘Well, is there any family who would help you?’ Miss Frost prompted. ‘Any chance of marriage with the father?’

Charity shook her head on both counts.

‘Well in that case I recommend a mother and baby home,’ Miss Frost said carefully as Marjorie brought the tea. ‘We have one home in Hampstead which I think you would fit into very well. I would book you in there for the beginning of April and you would stay in total twelve or thirteen weeks, depending on whether baby arrives on time.’

‘Is there any alternative?’ Marjorie asked. She had appeared with the tea just in time to hear about the home. ‘You see when Charity first came to London someone sent her to Greystones House. She had some very nasty experiences there.’

Miss Frost turned her piercing eyes on to Marjorie.

‘That hostel is an abomination,’ she said indignantly. ‘The Moral Welfare Association does not run its homes along those lines. We are a charitable organisation, our committee members have worked hard to provide good, clean, comfortable homes and all our staff are fully qualified in this work. Daleham Gardens, for example, is a beautiful house with a delightful garden. In the six weeks antenatal period, the girls learn mothering skills, while sharing the running of the house. During this time Charity will be fully counselled about both keeping her baby and giving it up for adoption. When her time comes, she will go outside the home to have her baby at Queen Mary’s on Hampstead Heath, then return ten days later.’

Miss Frost never faltered once in this long, glossy description of the home, almost as if she were reciting it from a brochure. Yet behind her stern face and piercing eyes Charity recognised a woman with a kind spirit.

‘May I sit down and join you?’ Marjorie said. ‘Please say if you think I’m butting in, but I really want to hear.’

Charity threw her a grateful glance.

‘Of course, Mrs Bell. As someone close to Charity it is admirable that you should know the procedure.’

Marjorie sat down and poured the tea.

‘The final six weeks are when the girls have to make their minds up.’ Miss Frost lowered her voice just a little. There were only two couples in the restaurant, both deep in their own conversation, but she realised that Charity didn’t want her position made public. ‘At one time adoptive babies were taken at birth from their mothers. Although to the uninitiated this may sound less painful, it is in fact storing up trouble for the mother. By staying with her child for a full six weeks, not only do we discover any problems the baby may have, but the mother has time to make the right decision.’

‘But six weeks – it sounds so cruel!’ Marjorie looked horrified.

‘No so, quite the reverse. The young mothers have a taste of what hard work a new baby is; they learn it isn’t a doll they can put away and forget about when they are tired. Sometimes the fathers come forward at this stage and very often parents who claimed once they didn’t even want to see their grandchild, step in. We have many happy endings, I assure you.’

‘But that isn’t going to happen to me,’ Charity said at last.

‘Maybe not.’ Miss Frost took a bite of her teacake and smiled approvingly.

‘And what if Charity decides on adoption?’ Marjorie asked.

Miss Frost sniffed and wiped her mouth delicately with a man’s handkerchief. ‘The wheels are put in motion at four weeks, and providing we have suitable parents, the baby will be handed over at six weeks, almost always away from the home.’

‘What happens to me then?’ Charity took a deep breath.

‘You leave the home, find a job, get on with your life,’ Miss Frost said, patting her hand on the table. ‘For several months you will get reports on your baby, photographs and letters from the adoptive parents, though of course we don’t let you know who they are, or where. At six months the baby is taken to court and legally made over to the parents with a new birth certificate, etcetera. You no longer have any rights in the child.’

‘Could I get the baby back during that time?’ Charity asked. ‘I mean, if I found I could look after it?’

Miss Frost was taken with Charity. She liked her gentle yet straightforward manner, her cleanliness and her obvious intelligence. So many girls she interviewed for the first time were belligerent; even more seemed dim-witted. In her time she had dealt with hysteria, blatant lies and girls who refused to co-operate, so to find someone who appreciated her help, listened to what she said and would act on her advice was unexpectedly pleasant.

‘Legally yes, though it is ill-advised to do so. The baby’s well-being is of paramount importance. Once he or she has settled down, it would be cruel to take it back. You must make the lasting decision at six weeks and stick by it.’

Marjorie had to get back to work. Once she’d gone Miss Frost took a large form out of her bag.

‘I have to ask you some questions now,’ she said to Charity. ‘This forms the basis of looking into finding the right parents for your child, should that be the option you choose to take. Therefore you must be truthful, Charity. If your boyfriend was of mixed blood, if you knew him to have any disease, you must tell me now.’

Charity gave a false name, but every other detail of Hugh’s build, colouring and background was correct. On her side of the family Miss Frost wanted her to go right back to her grandparents, and it was only when she got to the point of her uncle being legal guardian that she got frightened.

‘You won’t contact him, will you?’ she begged.

‘Of course not, Charity,’ Miss Frost said firmly. ‘We understand these things. Many of our girls don’t even tell their parents. The only time someone would be contacted is if you needed an emergency operation such as a Caesarean when we would have to get permission.’

The form seemed endless; every last detail was recorded painstakingly.

‘What happens now?’ Charity asked finally.

‘Nothing.’ Miss Frost smiled. ‘I keep in touch with you, call round from time to time. Meanwhile I book you into Daleham Gardens. Next time I’ll call to see your room. I usually do that unannounced, to keep my girls on their toes.’ She handed Charity a card with a phone number and address. ‘If something unexpected comes up – if you are ill, move, leave your job – get in touch with me immediately.’

It stayed freezing all through January and February too. Charity bought a girdle to hold her stomach in at work and Marjorie gave her a frilly white overall and a matching cap that concealed her shape completely. Every evening Charity climbed into her bed to keep warm and every morning even the insides of the windows were iced up.

Taking up knitting helped the long evenings pass, and she was soon mastering the most complicated patterns. Her list for the home only asked for three of everything, but Charity made dozens of little jackets, bootees and a big shawl.

At night as she lay in her bed she thought of Hugh and relived each moment of that bliss-filled holiday. She could forget the cold when she imagined that hot day by the pond. She tucked her hands round her swollen belly and felt the baby move.

Love stirred within her, and she began to stop thinking of the baby as a problem as it became part of her. She would trudge through the snow to look in baby shops, wishing she was lucky enough to be able to choose a pram, a cot or a playpen. She read every book she could find on childbirth and babies, and with a Woolworth’s wedding ring she could pretend in shops that she was planning a nursery for her child.

Sometimes in a wild fantasy she imagined Hugh coming for her, driving up in his father’s car and scooping her into his arms. She could project it further to him taking her to a tiny thatched cottage like Rob’s parents’, where Hugh and herself would walk down a sunfilled lane pushing the baby in a pram.

There were times when she thought of writing to him, even of going to Oxford and confronting him, but each time she squashed the thoughts and reread his last letter to remind herself that he had betrayed her trust.

Love for Hugh took second place to her baby. When her heart ached with sorrow, when tears trickled down her cheeks, she’d put her hands on her tummy and turn the love inside to him. Her brothers and sister had trained her for this, she’d turned to them when there was nothing else and one day, when all this was over, she’d see them again.

March came in with a thaw. Everyone who came into the restaurant had a horror story of burst pipes, but Martin and Marjorie were lucky: their flat and the kitchens were so constantly warm they had no trouble.

Charity too had a burst pipe in her house. She arrived home one evening to find water gushing down the stairs from the bathroom and all the tenants shrieking about damaged carpets. In her room it was only a puddle by the door and she found it ironic that soon the entire house would be recarpeted and the hall and stairway decorated, now her time there was almost up.

She was tired now in the evenings, her ankles swollen with standing all day. Sometimes she went to bed the moment she got in from work, sleep blotting out the fear of leaving Marjorie and Martin.

Only one case was allowed at Daleham Gardens, so bit by bit she packed everything else in boxes and Martin put them away in his store-room. Cheap posters came down from the walls, little ornaments were wrapped in newspaper and finally the room was bare and characterless again.

‘Well, this is it,’ Martin said on the April morning when the taxi finally came to collect her. ‘We’ll try and get over to see you, but you know how we’re fixed.’

Marjorie was struggling not to cry. Charity’s tummy had grown suddenly in the last two weeks and there was no disguising her position any longer. She was a woman now, in the full flower of motherhood, with rosy cheeks and a calm steadfast look in those big blue eyes.

‘We’ll be thinking about you constantly.’ Marjorie’s voice shook as she embraced Charity. ‘Whatever you decide, we’ll be behind you. Let us know the moment he’s born.’

Charity saw the concern in their eyes. She knew that if they had the room, they would offer it to her willingly.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she whispered into Marjorie’s neck, which smelt of soap and cooked food. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl now.’

She wanted to tell them just how much they meant to her, how she dreaded a day without their faces, their laughter and their warmth. She had a carrier bag full of little presents from them, and from the many customers who’d got to know her over the months.