Helpless (16 page)

L
ater on Christmas Eve, after we had had supper and done the washing up, we all went to the chapel where the minister talked about forgiveness and the birth of Jesus, but to everyone’s relief the matron for once refrained from making her usual speech. Through the twinkling window I could see the moon and the stars and I laid my hand on my stomach and thought about my baby.

That night I found it difficult to go to sleep. All I could think about was my family and how much I missed them. I wondered what they would do on Christmas Day and if they would miss me. The fact that they had not forgotten me brought a smile of pleasure to my face. But when I thought of my brothers and sister I just wanted to be with them. I pictured my mother holding the new baby and remembered how my father had smiled with pride when my oldest brother was born. Was he the same with this one? I wondered. I thought he most probably was.

When I did finally fall asleep the noise of the trains penetrated my dreams. The sound of their clatter turned into shouts of rage in my fitful sleep, adding to my loneliness.

The sounds of the home coming to life woke me early the next morning. ‘It’s Christmas Day,’ I said to myself when I opened my eyes. I reached for the two parcels. I opened the one from my aunt first and found inside a glass bottle of perfume with matching body lotion and soap. I sniffed it appreciatively, then put it to one side and pulled the bulkier package, the one that Dora had brought, onto the bed. It was a pair of brown leather boots lined with a soft fur; the nicest present I had ever been given. Tucked inside was a card with my mother’s handwriting. ‘To keep your feet warm when you come home,’ she had written, and I knew those few words were her way of telling me that she understood a little of what I must be feeling. I put both presents in my locker, then dressed and went downstairs to join the other girls.

What I remember most about that day is the mothers gathered in the lounge with their babies on their knees as they pretended just for those few hours that we were a normal group of girls who were part of a large happy family. Maybe for that day we were; petty animosities were forgotten and pregnant girls cooed over tiny bundles held proudly in the arms of the new mothers. The matron presented each baby with a small fluffy toy. The radio was turned on to a carol service, and just for a few minutes the music lifted our spirits.

Later that day we had our Christmas dinner. While the meal was tasty, in fact better than we ever had at home, and everyone tried to be cheerful as they pulled crackers, read out the jokes and wore coloured paper hats, a slight sense of gloom seemed to hover over the long table of girls. We all knew that we were celebrating the birth of a baby, and for most of us this was a painful thought, for it only highlighted what we were all preparing ourselves to do – give up ours the moment they were six weeks old.

After lunch we listened to the Queen’s speech on the radio, then as a treat the lounge’s television was turned on. We watched a Bing Crosby film,
White Christmas
, and then before we knew it our Christmas was over.

The few Christmas cards that the girls had received and left on the mantelpiece all depicted scenes of trees and bushes turned white by the thick flakes of sparkling winter snow. Seeing them, I wondered what country the artist had come from. When I looked through the large windows, instead of a white wonderland we had lashing rain and blustery winds – weather that forced even the most adventurous of the girls to remain indoors.

But I was a country girl, used to walking to school whatever the elements, and I missed the fresh air on my face and the quiet of the countryside where seldom even a passing car disturbed the peace. After months of not being able to leave my parents’ house I felt I was trapped again, but this time by the weather.

‘Can I go out for a walk?’ I asked the matron, only to be told that the rain had made the grass slippery, too dangerous for a girl whose baby was almost due.

Every morning I hoped that the wind had driven the clouds away and that a winter sun would cast its rays over the gardens. But every morning, when I saw the ashen sky and heard the sound of rain lashing against the panes, my hopes were dashed.

That last week, when my baby was getting ready for her entrance into the world and had dropped lower down in my womb, I felt heavy, clumsy even, and tiredness never seemed to leave me. My breasts hurt, my back ached and, as I walked, I felt my body sway sideways as it tried to balance my unaccustomed weight and extended shape.

But I was waiting for this baby with such longing that those feelings of discomfort were of little consequence. Since that first time when I had felt my baby kick she had become real to me, and during those final days of waiting all I could think of was that soon I was going to meet her. When I looked in the mirror and saw my cumbersome shape, part of me loved it for it was the baby growing healthily that had pushed my stomach out and distorted my once petite frame.

My baby, though, seemed reluctant to enter the world. She was late, and I had passed the date I had been told I was due to give birth on. It was then that I felt both the longing to have my body back and an ever-increasing fear of the actual birth.

I had listened to my mother’s screams when she gave birth and heard married women’s furtive whispers of inconceivable pain. I always wondered why this was a pain that seemed to be forgotten the moment they started getting broody for another baby.

To my amazement I found I missed my mother with such intensity that it hurt. I tried unsuccessfully to push away any thoughts of the man next door; not even a Christmas card, letter or just something to give me support had arrived from him. He was the reason, I knew, that I was estranged from my family, and I began to feel hatred towards him because of it.

My daughter arrived in the morning. Like my mother had thirteen years before, I woke to a damp bed and a gripping pain. Unlike my mother, however, there was no warm body, however grumpy, to nudge – just a bell above my bed to push and summon help. Nor did I have a reassuring midwife who told me not to worry, that she would take care of everything. Instead there was just a grim-faced matron who gave one look at me and had me wheeled into the delivery room.

There was pain, a lot of it, and screams that tore out of my throat as my muscles strained to help my baby enter the world. I dimly remember the feeling of her sliding out of me, hearing her cry, and then there was darkness and I slept.

It was late afternoon when my eyes opened. A nurse was sitting by my bed. She told me that because of my youth I had lost a lot of blood and that I had needed stitches. Then she told me what I already knew: I had given birth to a baby girl.

‘I want to see her, please,’ I said. She was brought to me – a tiny six-pound bundle. My arms went out and curled round her as she was placed in them. I cannot even now find the words to describe that sweeping love that I felt when I looked at her for the first time and inhaled her scent, the smell of newness.

One look at her tiny face, still red and scrunched up from the effort of her journey, her rounded limbs, that fuzz of dark-blonde hair and the utter helplessness of her, and I just wanted to hold her for ever. I searched her features carefully and could see nothing in them of the man next door. They were, I thought, simply miniature versions of my own.

The matron arrived and told me that I was very weak. ‘You have to rest – you had a tough time, Marianne.’

I was incapable of protesting. I felt my baby being taken from my arms, my eyes drooped and the next thing I remember was the following morning.

The nurse helped me out of bed and took me to the nursery where she showed me how to bottle feed her and change her nappy; both I had already learnt to do at a much earlier age.

That first morning when I sat on a chair with her snuggled firmly in my arms, I was in a little world of my own, a world where only she and I existed. I crooned a song into her ear as I looked dreamily down at her. Her head rested against my chest and I marvelled at the strength of the tiny mouth sucking on the bottle’s teat.

When she had taken her fill I placed her gently against my shoulder, inhaling as I did so that intoxicating perfume of a newborn – fresh skin, talcum powder and milk – and gently patted her back. A tiny fist rested on my shoulder, a soft burp fluttered against my cheek, a dribble of milk dampened my shoulder, warm gentle breath whispered in my ear; my baby had fallen asleep.

I kissed her again, placed her back in her cot and covered her small form with a crocheted blanket. Then I stayed by her side, content to watch her sleep until the nurse took me by the arm to lead me back to my bed.

My mother arrived and came and sat by my bed. ‘Are you all right, Marianne?’ she asked.

A stupid question, I thought, for how could I be all right when in six weeks’ time my baby was going to be taken away?

I felt a dull resentment towards her then, for why could she not have welcomed my baby into the house? My father had let her stay when Jack was born, hadn’t he? Round and round those thoughts circled in my head, making it impossible to talk to her.

She sensed that, sighed and rose to leave.

‘I know what you are thinking,’ she said, ‘but believe me it’s better this way. You’ve got your whole life in front of you, and one day you will get married have more children, but for now you are just too young.’

My eyes rested on her breasts, swollen with milk for my latest brother, and my resentment grew. I turned my face away to hide the tears, and without speaking again she left.

O
ver those days when I stayed in the recovery room regaining my strength, I loved every moment that I had with my baby; loved that warm protective feeling that I felt when I fed, bathed and held her. I called her Sonia, the name I had chosen for her when I had first felt her move inside me and been convinced she was a girl. I just wished that I could have done all those nurturing things alone instead of under the watchful eye of either the matron or the nurse. If only it had been summer, I thought, I might have been allowed to wheel her outside in a pram and taken her to the large orchard behind the home. There I would have sat under one of the trees, its leaves sheltering her from the sun, and simply looked at her. But the winter days were too cold for a newborn to venture out, and instead I had to content myself with being with her within the four walls of the nursery.

She was such a sunny-natured baby who even from her first day in the world slept contentedly and seldom cried. That consoled me somehow, for if she had been a difficult child wouldn’t it be harder for her new parents to love her?

Then I did what I always did when the words ‘new parents’ came into my head – I pushed them firmly away.

Once I had regained my strength I was allowed to move back to my room and Sonia’s cot was placed beside my bed.

‘Now, Marianne, make sure she sleeps in there,’ the matron said, not without some sympathy. ‘I know what you girls can be like, taking the babes into their beds. But it only makes things harder for you when the time comes.’ I did not need to be reminded what time she was referring to.

Seeing that I did not want to understand the meaning behind her words she uncharacteristically sat on the end of my bed. ‘Look, Marianne, I can see you are getting attached to her, and don’t think I don’t understand. It’s nature’s way. But you know that she is not going home with you, so don’t make things more difficult for yourself. That’s all the advice I can give you.’ Then she rose from the bed, sighed and left me alone with my baby.

Of course I paid no attention to the matron’s words, and every chance I had I cuddled Sonia, lay her beside me on the bed and listened to her breathing. I whispered and crooned to her and sang her little songs telling her of how much I loved her.

Our days together slipped by into weeks until I suddenly realized that the time for separation, that time that I had pushed all thought of to the back of my mind, was less than a few days away.

I was propelled into reality when the matron asked, ‘Marianne, have you brought a special outfit for your baby to wear when she meets her new parents?’

I looked at her blankly for I had no money so how could I have bought my baby clothes?

‘Don’t worry,’ matron said on seeing my crestfallen face, ‘we will find her something pretty. They are going to love her anyhow, she’s such a good little soul.’

Those days, those final days I had with her, I prayed and prayed that my parents would relent and let me take her home with me. She was so beautiful, so good that I knew she would not be a bother. Besides what real difference would one more baby in our house make? It didn’t happen. There was no grandmother rushing in at the last minute to say she had changed her mind and that she wanted to take her new granddaughter home to be part of the family. The worst day of my life arrived.

That morning when I bathed and dried her, I stroked every inch of that perfect little body. I wanted the feel of her skin engraved in my memory. I gazed and gazed at her so that whenever I closed my eyes I would be able to bring her picture into my mind for I did not even have a photograph to take with me from the home. After I had fed her for the last time, the matron arrived and brought me the outfit I was to dress her in. It was a blue romper suit.

‘Haven’t you got a pink one?’ I asked desperately. The thought of handing my daughter over dressed in a boy baby’s clothes was unbearable. I thought the least I can do was make her look perfect. I wanted ‘them’ to see the care I had taken of her – know she was loved by me; for that was what I wanted them to tell my, our daughter one day.

‘It’s the only spare one we have,’ the matron said. ‘I’m sorry, Marianne, but she will have to wear it.’ And I saw that she understood my desperate plea.

She put her hand gently on my shoulder.

‘It won’t matter to her new parents, Marianne. I told you, they are going to love her.’

But it mattered to me.

I tried not to cry. I did not want my daughter’s last memories of me to be of my tears falling on her. The grief of losing her was frozen inside me; that I would look at later when I was able to. But the sorrow I felt when I thought that my baby was going to start her new life in that blue romper suit was almost unbearable.

My social worker arrived later that morning. It was her duty to take my baby to her new parents. I can’t remember what she said when she took her from my arms. I only know that I stood trance-like by the window, watching my daughter being carried out and placed in the social worker’s car.

That was my last memory of her before she disappeared from view: a tiny bundle dressed in those baby boy’s clothes.

As she was driven away I imagined her fear of suddenly being taken from everything she knew, of being in that car with its strange smells and rocky movements.

Would she wonder where I was? I asked myself. Would she not want to feel my hands petting her and hear my voice telling her she was loved? Would she cry? I wondered. Would she meet her new parents with a tear-stained face?

The last question that spun round and round in my head then was: How long would it take her to forget me?