Charity (30 page)

Two girls left after handing over their babies for adoption. It was Charity who hugged them, reassured them they had made the right choice. But as she dried their tears and searched for the right soothing words she wondered who would be there for her if she had to face such agony.

The first pain came when she was in the garden, hanging out nappies. It wasn’t her job, but she’d been awake early and came downstairs to help the mothers with the laundry.

It was a beautiful day, as if overnight it had been decided that summer was here. A lilac tree was thick with sweet perfumed blossom, the grass twinkling with dewdrops and the sun on the back of her neck warmed her as she stretched up to the clothes line.

Not a pain, but rather a sensation in her belly and she put her hands down to stroke it.

‘Are you coming, baby?’ she whispered. ‘It’s a beautiful day for it and I’m dying to see you.’

She said nothing at breakfast, but listened to the girls discussing the post and the usual banter about the work rota.

‘Are you all right, Charity?’ Miss Mansell stopped her as she got up from her chair, holding on to her back.

‘I think it’s started,’ Charity said. ‘But it’s nothing much.’

‘Go and sit upstairs with a book, then,’ the older woman said, and put her arm round Charity. ‘Call me if you want help.’

Charity sat on the veranda in the sunshine. The pains were growing stronger now, but she felt a kind of peace within her. From upstairs she could hear the sounds of the girls larking about as they cleaned. Someone was singing Cliff Richard’s song ‘The Young Ones’ at the top of her voice.

Mrs Coombes the cook, who came in daily to prepare lunch, was in the store-room just below the veranda; her voice mingled with Miss Mansell’s comfortingly. Charity wanted to hold on to this day, remember all the sights and sounds, so one day she could tell him all about it.

She thought of Hugh, imagined his dark head bent over books as he studied. In a few hours his child would be in her arms. Would Hugh sense something was happening? Did he ever think of her?

Chapter Fourteen

Pain washed over her so fiercely she thought she might die, but still she didn’t cry out.

It was noon when she left Daleham Gardens and now in more lucid moments she sensed it was early evening. The white-painted room, the clock on the wall, even the shiny steel lamp above her head had disappeared. She was engulfed in agony that had no place or time.

She felt, but barely saw, hands touching her and taking her blood pressure. She heard voices as if from another room reassuring her that all was well, but she wished they would stay with her, instead of going out and leaving her alone with nightmares.

Her father’s face was visible, even though she knew her eyes were closed. It was the face she remembered when he came to her at night, contorted, ugly.

She saw the fire again, but now she was in it, feeling it licking across her body, waiting to consume her too.

Water gushed from her, but she couldn’t get up or even move, and pain welled up again, so strong she had to grit her teeth not to call out.

But then the pain changed. It was every bit as bad, but it had a kind of significant feel to it, and she realised her baby wanted to be pushed out.

Her hand groped for the bell. They had put it beside her earlier on, but it had fallen over the edge of the bed and the pain was too bad for her to stretch out. Her fingers contacted the rubber lead, scrabbling down it to find the button and push it.

Drawing her knees up, she put her feet firmly on the bed and reached up behind her to grab the bed rail.

They had been taught to wait before pushing until the midwife said it was time. But Charity’s instinct told her it felt right. As the next pain crashed over her, she drew in a breath, then breathed out slowly, bearing down.

Still no nurse came, but another pain did.

Again a breath in, then a slow exhale as she pushed down hard with her bottom.

She remembered thinking that someone should switch the light on above her, someone should be there helping her do this, but there was no one, so she would have to do it alone.

The door opened and the midwife rushed in, followed by a nurse.

Vaguely she recognised the same midwife who’d delivered Dorothy’s baby, but a face meant nothing now.

‘My goodness, Charity!’ the familiar voice said. ‘You’ve almost done it all by yourself.’

Someone was wiping her forehead and neck, she felt sheets being changed underneath her and another pillow being put under her head.

‘Use all the pain,’ the voice said very close by. ‘Push and keep pushing, I can see his head.’

She made herself think of the fire, focusing only on the need to get the baby out and pushed so hard she felt torn apart.

‘It’s coming. One more little one!’

The agony was sharply cut off and she found she could raise herself slightly, enough to see a small dark head between her legs.

‘Baby!’ she uttered and she felt a slithering, fluid feeling as the midwife drew him out.

‘A boy!’

She heard the midwife’s exclamation and slumped back on to the pillow, exhausted but triumphant.

He looked so crumpled, so red and cross, and as she watched his cry filled the air. First the mew of a kitten, quickly changing to an angry roar, and she lay back and laughed.

‘He’s a fine, handsome big boy.’ The midwife laughed too as she handed the baby to the nurse momentarily.

‘Let me hold him now?’ Charity begged. ‘Straight away.’

‘First things first,’ the nurse said, swiftly wrapping him in a towel.

It was the best and purest thing Charity had ever known. They tucked him on to her chest, his cheek against her neck, and she breathed in the smell of him, the sound of his breathing and the feel of his tiny body, so recently torn from hers.

‘Isn’t he beautiful!’ she whispered.

The midwife came close, her big, plain face made lovely by her reverence.

‘He is indeed, but then I expected you to have an extra special one.’

After so much pain, nothing hurt or indeed embarrassed Charity now. Not the doctor sitting before her stitching her up and asking how such a little girl had managed to produce an eight-pounder. Or the midwife stripping off her gown and washing her all over like a helpless child. She just lay back and kept her eye on her baby, watching them putting tags on his ankle and wrist, washing him gently and putting him into a tiny gown.

His cot was wheeled right up beside her. Cocooned tightly in a blanket, he reminded her of the clothes-peg dolls she used to make for Prudence. She thought he looked like Hugh. He had the same jet black hair, wide cheekbones and she was sure once he opened his eyes they would be a deep, dark blue.

‘He’ll make a good rugby player.’ The doctor was back examining her baby. He was young and thickset, with fair hair and a rugged jawline. ‘A fine pair of thighs and I’ll bet he’s got lungs to match.’

It was strangely touching to see such a big man gently handling such a tiny baby.

He smiled round at Charity and said, ‘I never get tired of this bit.’ Picking up the baby, he rewrapped him and tucked him into Charity’s eager arms. ‘He’s a handsome little chap. What are you going to call him?’

‘Daniel.’ She smiled. ‘Do you think that suits him?’

‘Perfectly,’ the doctor said. ‘Now just a five-minute cuddle then Nurse will pack you off to bed. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be in good hands.’

For the first five days Charity was in a small four-bedded room on the first floor of the maternity hospital, and for three of those days she was made to stay in bed.

The room overlooked the garden and beyond the hospital wall she could see Whitestone pond. Children came to sail boats there and it reminded her of Blackheath. The other three women in the room were wives of wealthy businessmen. They had congratulatory telegrams, dozens of cards covered their lockers and spilled over to the windowsill, and bouquets of flowers arrived. Their husbands came in with their arms full of presents, fruit and chocolates, sat on the beds and cuddled their wives and babies while Charity kept her nose buried in a book.

She had one bouquet of flowers from Marjorie and Martin. Miss Mansell came to visit on the second day, but apart from Dorothy and Rita slipping in for five minutes before they left the hospital to go back to the home, she had no visitors.

It was so tempting to write and tell Lou and Geoff the truth. She so much wanted to share her baby with them. But she’d already written from Marjorie and Martin’s address telling them she was employed by a catering agency that sent her to different temporary jobs. And she’d compounded that lie by getting Rita’s friend in Scotland to post another letter from there. Besides, it would make things so difficult for them.

‘Write to Hugh one last time,’ Dorothy urged her. ‘If he doesn’t write back or come you’ll know once and for all he doesn’t care. But give him a chance. He has a right to know about Daniel.’

‘Have you written to Roger?’ Charity asked. It was funny to see Dorothy slim again: she wore a honey-coloured sleeveless shift dress and her thick brown hair cascaded down her back, sleek and shiny.

‘Yes.’ Dorothy’s dark eyes were oblique. ‘I had a letter and a cheque from him. But though he’s prepared to pay maintenance, he doesn’t want to know.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Charity squeezed her friend’s hand.

‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ Dorothy said. ‘I see things in him now I couldn’t live with. I don’t think I could bear to marry him, not even for Samantha.’

Charity knew better than to press her further about her decision. The hospital was no place for that.

‘We’ll talk when I get back,’ she said. ‘Try and save me a bed in the same room as you and Rita.’

On the fifth day Charity was moved down to a room on the ground floor, which was known as ‘Toddlers’. It was much bigger, with french windows opening out on to the walled garden.

Apart from women in dressing-gowns and slippers, it didn’t feel like a hospital. They could wander out into the garden with visitors, they ate their meals at a table all together, even watched television in the evenings in a small lounge.

Marjorie managed a brief visit, bringing fruit, cake and a teddy bear for Daniel. She held him in that awkward way people did who weren’t used to babies and she promised Charity a job if and when she wanted it.

Charity kept her distance from the other women. Their chatter about nurseries, prams and their homes was a reminder she didn’t need about the choices open to her. Many of them were Jewish, with large extended families who visited in droves, and though these women were kindly, offering her more cake and fruit, she was too immersed in Daniel to need or want their friendship.

Feeding, bathing and changing his nappies was everything. She steeled herself against thinking beyond the next day, treasuring each moment.

Now that Daniel had lost his early redness she saw his skin had the same golden glow as Hugh’s and his eyes were an identical blue. At night most women opted for the nurses to feed their baby, but Charity never did. At the first bleat she was awake, padding down the corridor before even a nurse had heard him, and however long he took to finish his bottle, she didn’t mind.

His little button nose, the downy hair on his spine, each tiny finger and toe was a constant delight. She brushed his dark hair up into a quiff and laughed and sang with him.

Her midwife, Mrs Evans, came to see her the day before she left and they went out into the garden.

‘Do you know what you’re going to do?’ she asked as they sat down on a bench in the sunshine.

‘I keep hoping for a miracle,’ Charity said. ‘What can I offer him? Sleeping in a pram in a bedsitter! Struggling on National Assistance!’

‘Don’t try to plan yet.’ The midwife took Charity’s hand in her two. ‘These six weeks are very important for both of you. Don’t hold back love because you’re afraid of the pain that comes with it. Even if you have to give Daniel up he’ll take that love with him to his new mother and you’ll never need to reproach yourself that you didn’t give him the finest start in life.’

‘How will I be able to bear it?’ Charity asked, leaning her head against the older woman’s shoulder.

‘Because of him,’ the midwife said and in an uncharacteristic gesture kissed Charity on the forehead. ‘You’ll think of him with all those things you couldn’t give him. You’ll remember the joy you’ve given to a childless couple and that will sustain you.’

It was so good to go back to Daleham Gardens. To be among girls who felt just as she did: no need to hide her predicament, no fear of judgements being made.

Dorothy and Rita had kept her a bed in their room and talk of the future was suspended in the delight of being together again.

The three of them got up earlier than was necessary, starting the boiler for the nappies and sharing the chores eagerly. June came in with a heat wave and before breakfast they would run barefoot over the lawn, hanging up the washing, laughing and joking as if they were three girls without a care in the world.

Yet the laughter and jokes were tempered with a new maturity. In the nursery the songs were gentle lullabies, the chatter was babies, feeds and the lack of sleep. Later, their work done, they lay on blankets out in the garden, soaking up the sun, in easy, companionable silence.

Charity’s letter to Hugh came back marked ‘Not known at this address’. Dorothy’s parents remained unmoved by her plight and Rita couldn’t bring herself to ask for help from hers.

Sometimes they discussed the possibility of finding a flat all together. But after many phone calls to landlords, even with help from Miss Mansell, they began to see that no one out there wanted three unmarried mothers with babies.

Rita and Dorothy got to the four-week deadline, were individually ushered into the office and when they came out they were pale and silent.

They heard that a solicitor and his wife in Wales wanted Samantha, that Rita’s baby Warren’s new home would be in Devon with a doctor. All three of them tried to pretend they were relieved.

‘I’ll be out dancing in two weeks,’ Dorothy said.