by Mary Gibson
As she lay awake that night, she wondered how she could ever have considered giving away her baby. Yet there still seemed no other option. Perhaps if she could contact Miss Green, she’d send her the fare home. If she could only get back to Bermondsey, things would come clearer, she knew it. She would write to Florence Green tomorrow. Meanwhile she would just have to fend off any future adoptive parents, and on today’s showing that wouldn’t be too difficult. All she need do was open her mouth.
But the next day, Jimmy wasn’t brought to her for his morning feed. She watched as each infant was carried up from the nursery and handed to its mother. Growing increasingly agitated, she waited patiently till all the other girls were contentedly settled with their babies. Perhaps this was Matron’s idea of a punishment, Milly thought, leaving her till last.
‘Nurse, aren’t you bringing Jimmy? He’s such a hungry little bugger, it’s a wonder he’s not screaming the nursery down by now!’
Nurse Prior was a kind-hearted soul, who never joined in Matron’s shaming tactics. But now she blushed and, hesitating at the door, she came back over to Milly’s bed.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, taking Milly’s hand, ‘but Matron says it’s better for all concerned if baby Colman is bottle-fed from now on.’ Before Milly could protest, she went on. ‘You must realize that, in any case, your milk is not sufficient for baby, it’s why he’s always hungry.’
Nurse Prior was right, Milly thought miserably, her milk was drying up. She couldn’t even feed him properly, let alone give him a proper future. It was almost as if her body knew she was preparing to give her baby away. Perhaps she should just give in and let him go. But as she watched the nurse leave, closing the door behind her, Milly was filled with a cold, rising panic. She leaped up and ran from the dormitory, following the nurse down the stairs.
‘But I want to see him! I can bottle-feed him! She can’t stop me seeing my own baby.’
The nurse barred her way. ‘Milly, dear, you made your choice when you came here. I know it seems cruel, but you’ll have to let him go sooner or later. Come on,’ she coaxed, ‘come back to the dormitory, and I’ll ask Matron to let you say goodbye to baby Colman before you leave here.’
Say goodbye? It struck her, sharp as a knife between her ribs. This was the cold reality of her choice in coming to Edenvale. Now it had arrived, it felt as impossible as pulling her own heart out and watching while it bled over the highly polished wooden floors of the lovely old house. She’d been living in a stupid dream and now she had to wake up. But shouting and bawling would do no good. She stilled her thumping heart and bit her tongue.
‘Yes, Nurse, I’d like to be able to say goodbye. Has he already been given to that couple in Canterbury?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘We’re still waiting for their decision. Matron’s had baby moved to the sick nursery.’ This was a little room, just off Matron’s office, where the poorly babies were nursed. ‘I’m sure she’ll let you see him one more time.’ The nurse put a comforting arm round her, before Milly nodded and turned away.
She waited all morning for word from Matron, but when none came she didn’t ask after Jimmy again. She went to meals, said prayers, sang hymns, all the while trying to deaden her heart to the wrenching loss she must go through. She’d been set to light sewing tasks following Jimmy’s birth, and had proved so adept that she’d been kept on in the laundry, doing all the household mending. She worked like the wind, fingers flying, heedless of the thumb pricks and blood spots that spattered the sheets. Anything to keep her mind distracted, anything to subdue the quiet desperation that threatened to break through into violent rebellion. All the while, she schooled herself in the many good reasons for giving Jimmy up to a life of privilege and comfort. In no time, she had finished patching the mound of sheets that should have taken her all day.
‘Goodness, you’ve done well!’ Mrs Jones, the laundress, nodded in approval when Milly presented her pile.
‘I’ll take these to the cupboards and fetch some of those nightgowns that need mending. You stay there,’ she told Mrs Jones, who’d been about to get up.
‘You’re a good girl.’ She smiled at Milly and handed her the set of keys. Milly set off up the central staircase for the linen cupboards on the top floor. But just as she reached the first landing she heard Matron’s voice. Milly peered down the stairwell and saw Matron in the entrance hall below, talking to Nurse Prior.
‘She’s getting too attached. I’m afraid we’ll only have another violent outburst if I allow it. No, Nurse, I’m convinced she’s not a fit mother and in fact I’ve just had a telephone call from the Masons. Fortunately, they weren’t put off by the mother’s antics and they’re coming to take baby home tomorrow.’
The two women passed through the hall, leaving Milly immobile on the landing. Slow minutes passed before she noticed the sheets weighing on her arms. She turned mechanically for the linen room. Jimmy was going tomorrow and she would never see her little boy again. She unlocked the door and shoved the sheets on to one shelf, pulling down a pile of nightgowns, in need of mending, from another. Cradling them in her arms, she sank to the ground. How could she think of mending nightgowns, when all that was precious to her was about to be ripped away? Would her life be like this forever, meaningless tasks masking the emptiness where Jimmy should have been? Is that what her mother’s life had been since she’d lost her own boys to the war? No wonder she let the old man beat her black and blue and never seemed to care. Only now did Milly understand why her mother sometimes seemed so insubstantial. Half of her was indeed missing.
Swiftly, before she could change her mind, she moved to the back of the linen room where all the girls’ own clothes were stored during their stay. The clothes were neatly folded inside calico bags, labelled alphabetically. She quickly sorted through till she found the bag marked Colman. It contained everything she’d come into the home with, except for her money, which was kept in the safe in Matron’s office. There wasn’t much. Her train fare had been paid by the Wesleyan Mission and she’d spent most of the few shillings she’d brought with her on clothes for her baby. The ones little Jimmy wore now – the ones he would be stripped of, no doubt, the minute he got to the beautiful house in Canterbury. They would never be considered good enough and, Milly was convinced, neither would he.
She picked up the calico bag and hid it inside the pile of nightgowns. Then, making her way to the empty dormitory, she stuffed it under her bed. Milly had learned her lesson. Sometimes stealth was more effective than bluster, and this time no one would know of her plan until it was too late.
Rita and the other girls in the dormitory tiptoed around her. They all knew what had happened and understood there were no words that could soothe Milly now. Even Rita, with an unaccustomed delicacy, made no mention of Jimmy’s absence.
After lights out, Milly waited till she was certain all the girls had settled down to sleep. She lay very still, until the moon came into view through the oriel window. Then she eased herself out of bed and slid the bundled clothing carefully out from under it. She crept across the moon-striped oak boards and eased open the door leading to the bathroom, holding her breath till she was sure it wouldn’t squeak. In the bathroom, she pulled on her clothes and headed for the back servants’ stairs. These would be safer than the main staircase which was in full view of the nursery and the night nurse. Milly knew that Jimmy was the only baby in the sick ward, and with Matron asleep next door, she was gambling there would be no nurse on duty just for Jimmy. Moonlight illuminated the first cot in the sick ward. There was her baby, peacefully sleeping, breathing softly, unaware that his fate was being decided. She hurried to the cot, but a sudden cough from next door made her freeze. Matron was awake. She had no time to hesitate. Quickly she dipped to scoop him up, wrapping him tightly in the cot blanket as he protested softly, his eyelids fluttering open like the wings of a disturbed moth.
‘Shhh, shhh, Jimmy boy,’ she whispered. ‘It’s only your mummy, co
me to take you home.’
12
Goodbye to Eden
July 1924
The moon gave just enough light to see the road in front of her. But she could also find her way using the stars – a trick she’d learned on all those pitch-dark hopping nights when, as children, they would follow tipsy adults back from the pub to the hopping huts, along shadowy hedgerows and dark tree-tunnelled lanes. The impenetrable darkness had terrified her then, especially when the children lagged behind, scaring each other with ghost stories. But now Milly welcomed the night-draped countryside. The only terror she had tonight was that someone would discover her escape before she could get away.
The moonlit July night was kind to her, and with only the lightest of breezes and hardly any cloud cover, she carried her baby unhesitatingly towards the church. She followed the same route every Sunday, on their journey of shame, but at least this church visit would be doing her some good. She felt the place owed her something.
A candle was burning in one of the church windows, and when she tried the iron ring handle she found the door unlocked. She’d been prepared to break the back vestry window, but perhaps God didn’t condemn her as much as Matron would have her believe. She was met by the smell of dusty hymn books and beeswax. Looking around for somewhere to lay Jimmy, she noticed moonlight splashing the old stone font at the back of the church. She remembered the vicar had called it ‘the Wealden Font’, and said it was as old as the Saxons who’d built the first church here. She’d always liked the worn carvings around the sides. Now, as she kneeled to lay Jimmy down on its flat pedestal, she spotted the unmistakable figure of St Christopher carrying the Christ child upon his back. On an impulse she deliberately dipped her hand into the basin. Scooping up the few drops of water, still pooling in the bottom from the last christening, she dripped them on to her baby’s head.
‘James,’ she whispered. ‘There you are, Jimmy boy, don’t matter if it’s not a caddywack church, that’s the name your mother give you and they can’t take that away from you now, can they?’
Then, creeping to the table where the little church history books were stacked, she found the donations box, also unlocked. She was about to empty the contents when she heard a creak. It seemed to be coming from the vestry. She cursed her stupidity for ignoring the unlocked door. If the verger came out now, she’d be trapped. Long moments passed as Milly stood very still, holding the tin box. But nobody emerged, and finally she slipped the few shillings into her coat pocket. If it didn’t get her all the way home, at least it would be a start.
Then a rustling came from the porch. This time she was not mistaken; someone was definitely there. Darting back to the font, she grabbed her baby and in a panic, put him inside the font. As the oak door creaked open she ducked behind a box pew. Weak moonlight illuminated the dull ochre floor tiles and from the doorway came a quavery voice. She recognized the ancient verger, half blind and deaf as a post, or so she’d thought.
‘Whoever you are,’ his tremulous voice called out, ‘there’s a bite to eat and a shilling for your journey in the porch. Shut the door on your way out.’
She heard his shuffling feet retreat. Holding her breath, she ran to the font. Jimmy was lying inside, contentedly staring up at the golden painted cherubs carved into the oak ceiling. ‘Someone’s on our side tonight, eh, Jimmy?’
She slipped out of the church, picking up the verger’s shilling and a wrapped sandwich from the stone seat in the porch. Then, striking out across country to the oast houses at the edge of Edenvale’s grounds, she began her journey home.
As soon as she reached the oast houses she knew where she was. One year, when they couldn’t get a place at the Horsmonden farm, they’d spent a few weeks hop-picking nearby. If she followed the margin of the hop fields she should come to the lane leading to Marden, the next station down the line. If they were looking for her anywhere it would be at Staplehurst Station, nearest to Edenvale, and she hoped to throw them off her trail.
As dawn began to tinge the hop bines with a pink flush, she brushed the new plants with her hand. So young and fragile, nothing like the robust, crowding vines of September she was used to. It seemed fitting to be trailing through them now, with little Jimmy, and she sang to him softly as she hurried along the field edge.
‘They say that ’oppin’s lousy, I don’t believe it’s true, for when I went down ’oppin, I come back home with you, with an eeayo, eeayo, eeay, eeay, oh...’
As she changed the raucous original into a gentle lullaby, she felt keenly alone, yet driven on by a fierce protectiveness that had taken her totally by surprise. She had only ever been used to thumping her way through life, batting away obstacles and crashing in, heedless of consequences. But now she held a baby, and it had changed everything, even the way she moved. Her stride was more careful and she picked her way more cautiously as she made her way towards the Marden road.
One of her mother’s survival mechanisms, in her running battle to cheat the old man of his beer money, had been to always have an emergency shilling sewn into the hem of her skirt. She had passed this on to her daughters. ‘If you’ve got a shilling tucked away, you’ll never starve and you can always get yourself home,’ she’d advised.
Milly had done exactly that, when leaving Dockhead for Edenvale. When she arrived at the white weatherboard station building, she paused, feeling around the hem of her dress. She ripped her hem, and there it was! ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said and kissed the emergency shilling, for this, with the verger’s gift and her stolen church pennies, would give her just enough for a ticket to London Bridge.
Walking into the station, she checked the trains on the notice board. The first London train wasn’t due for half an hour, but the ticket office was open. Taking her precious shillings in her hand, she approached the window.
‘Third-class single to London Bridge, please.’
The drowsy-eyed ticket clerk jerked his head up at her broad cockney. ‘Don’t normally see your lot till September,’ he said, pushing the ticket and a few pennies change towards her. ‘What happened, fall for a local lad and come back to find him?’ He grinned, eyeing the stirring bundle she held in her arms.
‘Mind yer own soddin’ business,’ she said, grabbing the ticket. She walked, very straight-backed, on to the platform, angry that she was so obviously a girl who’d fallen for a hopping baby. The narrow platform was filling up quickly, with bowler-hatted city gents at the first-class end and labourers at the other, waiting to board third-class carriages. There was also a large woman, trying to control three excited children, and Milly hoped she would be able to get into their carriage. She didn’t fancy the attentions of a group of navvies today. She nipped into the waiting room to feed Jimmy. She’d had no chance to filch any bottles from the home, so he’d have to last on whatever she could provide herself. She only hoped she’d have enough milk to keep him satisfied. But soon a shrill whistle announced the approaching train.
‘Sorry, love, I know you’re hungry, but grub’s got to wait.’ She bundled Jimmy securely in one arm, with her small bag over the other, and dashed back out.
Peering anxiously down the platform, she saw the steam-shrouded engine clattering into the station. It flashed by her so fast she was afraid it wouldn’t stop, but with another deafening scream, it came to a halt, puffing steam. Doors banged open the length of the train and she followed the little family to the third-class carriages. She was about to board, when she was grabbed from behind. Spinning round, she was confronted by a man in a well-cut, dark suit and trilby, who looked familiar. Confused, she wondered if he was pointing out that this was a first-class carriage, and she was about to apologize for her mistake when he spoke.
‘Miss Colman, I think you should come with me.’
‘Let go of me, I’ve paid me ticket!’ She searched around for help, but the large lady had already settled her children into the carriage and the labourers were bundling into the next one.
‘I’m not coming nowhere
with you!’ She shook off his hand as he tightened his grip and pulled at her arm. Then she remembered where she’d seen him. He was Mr Dowell, the benefactor she’d seen talking to the Canterbury couple. Now he faced her with stern disapproval.
‘We can’t allow you to just walk out of our care with your child. You’re a selfish, ungrateful girl. Now be sensible and come back to Edenvale.’
‘Get your hands off!’ She shoved him away with her free hand, just as the station master raised his flag. She had to board now or not at all. The shrill whistle blew and a cloud of steam engulfed them. It was then that the man in the trilby hat made the mistake of making a grab for little Jimmy. Half blinded by the smoke, he never saw Milly’s fist coming, not until it had hit him squarely on the jaw. He staggered back, his hat flew off, the train pulled out and she felt strong hands hoisting her and Jimmy into the carriage.
‘Up you come, miss, we’re off!’ a gruff voice said, as she was planted firmly inside the moving carriage.
The navvy slammed the carriage door shut with a grin. Milly dodged round him and stuck her head out of the window. Mr Dowell was brushing off his hat, staring at the disappearing train. She wasn’t sure if he could still see her, but nevertheless, stuck two fingers out of the window for good measure and waved goodbye to Eden.
Milly blew up a strand of dark hair from her forehead and looked around the carriage for a seat. By this time, Jimmy was screaming and the group of navvies were staring. She hoped she wasn’t in for more trouble.
‘You’ve got a decent right hook on you!’ the navvy who’d hoisted her in said, as she attempted to settle Jimmy.
‘Well, he was trying to take my baby!’ she retorted. Perhaps she hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought. Her fist had connected with Mr Dowell’s jaw before she’d time to think about it.
The navvy stuck out his hand. ‘My name’s Davey. Me and my mates would be honoured if you would join us. Shove up, lads.’
