by Lizzie Lane
‘Don’t you care?’ Venetia asked her.
Rosa shook her head and continued thumbing through the book as though she were reading the pages at breakneck speed.
‘I’ve done all I can for her. I’ve given birth to her, I’ve given the first milk that cleans out her innards, and from now on she’s somebody else’s responsibility, somebody else’s child.’
‘Seems a shame, her being given away so near Christmas. How about the father? Does he know?’
Rosa’s eyes slid sidelong from beneath her greasy curls.
Their eyes locked. Rosa’s expression said it all. She didn’t need to explain.
‘I take it he doesn’t care,’ said Venetia.
‘All he wanted was a bit of fun. That’s what he told me. A bit of fun. I didn’t even know what he was doing. Can you believe that?’
Venetia knew she was telling the truth. So many girls knew nothing about sex. Having grown up on a farm where sows were taken to boars and a domineering cockerel kept a flock of chickens laying eggs, she knew what was what.
‘So who was he?’
‘He was the master of the house I worked in. I was the scullery maid. I was kept scrubbing pots late at night. He came down to enquire after my welfare and commiserate that there were so many to clean. That’s what he told me. Said I should be having some fun and he’d show me some fun and said I would like it. I did like it. Beat scrubbing pots that’s for sure. Next thing, I’m expecting a baby.’
Rosa’s baby was collected by a childless couple from Liverpool. Rosa left just after.
Two other babies were born in the cold weeks before Christmas. Venetia was fascinated by all of them, but saddened that they would be given away. It didn’t seem right at this time of year.
At night as she lay in bed, she patted her swollen belly and began talking to the baby growing inside her. Even if she only held her for a few days, she would give that baby lots and lots of love. Ideally she desperately wanted to find some way of keeping the child. But how? She had no husband, no money.
What if I married the first man to have me, she thought to herself. Old, crippled, young or mad, I don’t care. Just so long as I can keep my baby.
If she did find someone to marry her, it certainly wouldn’t be for love, but just to give the baby a father and respectability. One of the other mothers had told her that one of the girls had done exactly that; married a total stranger for the sake of her child.
The more she thought about it, the more she loved her baby and wanted to keep her. She kept thinking of the baby as ‘her’. She’d convinced herself she was expecting a girl.
The pain she’d felt at hearing that Patrick had married her sister was still hard to bear, but getting better. It was the baby that mattered and somehow she would contrive to keep it.
Despite being heavily pregnant, she was still expected to help out around St Bernadette’s.
When the snow came she was handed a broom and with two others told to sweep the snow from around the front door.
Muffled up to the nose in scarves, hat pulled tightly down over her ears, she heaved the brush into the snow, sweeping great swathes of it to either side.
‘Not so fast. We don’t want to go back in just yet,’ hissed one of her colleagues, a girl more heavily pregnant than she was.
The girl’s name was Phyllis and she’d been sent over by her parents in Liverpool to escape gossip.
Venetia had to admit that she was right about not rushing to go back into the sprawling building. The snow was blindingly white and the sky sharply blue. Despite the cold, the sun made everything seem warmer and melting ice dripped from the overhead guttering.
The milkman’s cart was coming out from round the side of the house, his pony’s hooves struggling to get a grip on the icy surface.
As it followed the curve of the drive, the pony’s front legs slid. The milk ladles rattled against the churns as the cart slewed to one side.
The milkman yelled at the animal, raised his whip and fetched it a nip across the back.
Venetia saw what he did and was livid. ‘Hey! There’s no need to do that.’
He shouted out to her that the likes of her sort should mind their own business.
‘Sluts the lot of ya,’ he added.
Venetia and Phyllis looked at each other, both seeing the twinkle in the other’s eyes, and both slinging down their brooms to scoop up handfuls of snow.
The milkman covered his head as snowball after snowball rained down on him.
Where Venetia and Phyllis led, the other girls followed. The milkman was pelted unmercifully.
‘And one more for luck,’ Venetia shouted.
This snowball was the biggest yet. She put all her effort behind it, stepped forward and let go.
As the snow left her hand she slid on the step, toppled forward, half regained her balance, toppled again, only this time failed to regain her balance. Arms flailing to either side, she landed heavily on her back and slid down three of the icy steps. A pain shot through her when she tried to move.
Phyllis and the other two girls came down to help her up.
‘Are you all right?’
Thinking that initial twinge was only temporary, Venetia placed her hands to either side of her and tried to get up. The pain again.
She winced. ‘Something hurts.’
‘Get one of the sisters,’ whispered Phyllis. She sounded scared.
‘What are you whispering for?’ said Venetia, trying again to at least sit up. ‘Come on. I can’t lay around here forever. Get me up.’
‘No. Lie still. Don’t move. Whatever you do, don’t move.’
Phyllis pressed on her shoulder preventing her from rising.
‘What is it?’ Venetia asked her.
Her gaze followed Phyllis’s pointing finger to where the white snow was slowly turning pink.
‘Your baby was stillborn.’
The news was imparted in an abrupt manner; too abrupt for it to be true, like when somebody wants to spit it out quickly before laughing and telling you it was all a joke. Only it wasn’t a joke.
‘All that pain? For nothing? You’ve given her away already before I had chance to see her. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
Sister Mary Elizabeth shook her head, sending her starched white headdress rustling like a huge dead leaf.
‘No. I’m afraid not. It was the fall, you see. You slipping on the snow brought the birth on early – too early. A few more weeks perhaps …’
Venetia looked up at the ceiling wondering why she couldn’t cry. It was as if the shock was too much or perhaps there just were not enough tears in the entire world to shed for that unborn baby.
‘Where is she?’
Sister Mary Elizabeth looked surprised. ‘How did you know it was a girl? I don’t believe I said it was.’
‘I just knew,’ said Venetia.
She didn’t know how she’d known; perhaps it was just wishful thinking. A little girl to dress up in pretty clothes – if she could ever afford pretty clothes.
‘Where is she? I’d like to hold her. Just once.’
The nursing staff – nuns for the most part except for a doctor when needed – had been instructed not to show compassion in instances such as this. Losing a child born into such circumstances could sometimes be a blessing in disguise. It was as well to harden the mother to the fact so she could put it behind her and get on with her life.
‘She’s in the mortuary. If you’re feeling strong enough, I see no reason why I can’t take you there.’
Venetia nodded. It was something she had to do.
The nun helped her into her dressing gown and slippers provided by a wealthy benefactor of St Bernadette’s. They were a dull shade of brown. Somebody reckoned they were ex-army from the Great War. If they were then they had lasted a long time.
The nun was only a few years older than Venetia herself and had a gentle manner. She offered for Venetia to take her arm but Venetia said she could manage.
‘Then that’s fine. It’s down three flights of stairs in the cellar. You’ll probably manage going down, but you might find coming back up a little difficult. But we’ll go slowly, and perhaps we’ll call into the chapel on the way. Would you like that?’
Venetia said that she would.
‘We’ll take an oil lamp with us. There’s no lighting down there. Not even gas. Must admit this electricity we have up here is quite wonderful. Almost a miracle.’
‘Let there be light,’ murmured Venetia.
‘Yes indeed,’ replied Sister Mary Elizabeth.
The steps leading down to the mortuary changed from being lino covered on the first two flights to bare concrete on the third.
Cold from the cellar drifted up to meet them. The flame in the oil lamp flickered in the draught.
Venetia shivered. The coldness of the concrete permeated the soles of her slippers. The cold air travelled up beneath her clothes.
At the bottom of the stairs, the nun lifted the oil lamp then set it down on a table. On the same table lay a small white bundle.
Venetia stared at it, unable to move. This was not how she’d envisaged her baby. In her imagination she’d seen a sweet little face and a bonny smile, not something vaguely resembling a parcel. And so small. So very small.
‘Would you still like to hold her?’ The nun’s voice was soft.
She nodded, all words having deserted her.
Sister Mary Elizabeth gently picked up the small bundle and told Venetia to hold out her arms, which she did.
Venetia gasped and looked at the nun in surprise. ‘She’s light as a feather.’
Sister Mary Elizabeth smiled sadly and folded the white cloth back from the baby’s face.
At sight of the little face, the rosebud lips, the tiny nose, Venetia felt a terrible tightening in her chest. For the first time since the birth and totally unstoppable, tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why did she have to die?’
‘God’s will,’ said the nun and made the sign of the cross on her chest. ‘Would you like to pray?’
Venetia shook her head. ‘Not here. I’ll pray for her in the chapel. I’m sure my family will pay for a coffin and a proper burial and my grandmother will come too. I’m sure she will.’
She wasn’t sure. Not really. Her grandmother had said that nobody in the family would be told. They had Anna Marie’s marriage to consider.
Lost in grief, she didn’t notice Sister Mary Elizabeth looking at her with unashamed pity.
The nun thought about telling her how it was; that there would be no burial in consecrated ground and no heaven. The child would go to neither heaven nor hell, but for all eternity would exist – if exist was the right word – in purgatory.
Sister Mary Elizabeth placed the child reverently back on the table then picked up the lamp.
She held out her other arm, noting that Venetia’s attention was still focused on the small white bundle.
‘Come along, Venetia. You’ll catch your death.’
After saying prayers in the chapel, the kind-hearted Sister took Venetia to one side and told her as gently as she could about the lot of stillborn children.
‘I’m sorry, Venetia. But there won’t be a service for your baby.’
Venetia’s eyes were big and tear filled. She looked at the nun with a mix of trust and incomprehension, unsure she had heard correctly.
‘I can pay. My family will pay. I’m sure they will.’
Sister Elizabeth shook her head.
‘Your baby was stillborn and therefore not baptised. She cannot be buried in hallowed ground.’
Venetia felt an enormous wave of anguish. ‘But she’ll go to heaven – won’t she?’
The nun shook her head sorrowfully. ‘According to Mother Church, she’ll exist in purgatory for eternity – in limbo – between worlds.’
Venetia shook her head. ‘But she’s just a baby!’
The nun looked down at her clasped hands, wishing she could do more to comfort this troubled soul.
‘It’s best that you leave here and leave the matter with us.’
‘Can’t she be baptised now?’ Venetia asked.
The nun shook her head. ‘No. It wouldn’t matter anyway.’ She paused. ‘Did you have a name for her?’
This was a question Venetia had mulled over many times when talking to her baby while she lay in bed. She’d told the child about her family, her Italian grandmother and the aunt that was left behind in England.
‘Magdalena,’ she said. ‘Her name is Magdalena.’
At first Sister Mary Elizabeth made no comment. The rules of the order specifically forbade her from going against the edicts of the church, but in her heart she was first and foremost a nurse. The wellbeing of her patients was paramount, and this young lady was a patient and needed her help. On top of that she had been seriously considering leaving the order and getting work as a nurse in a general hospital, even if it meant going to England or America to do so. Seeing what Venetia had gone through with the birth and was going through now had finally made up her mind.
So, what do I have to lose, she thought.
‘Venetia,’ she whispered. ‘I can take you and your baby to a place where you can bury her. We’d have to be careful, but …’
She bit her lip, unable to believe she was really doing this.
‘Could we?’
The look on Venetia’s face said it all. Sister Mary Elizabeth made her decision. First she would help this girl; following that – within the next month – she would leave the order.
‘It means leaving here with the baby in dead of night. The ground is soft against the wall in the chapel churchyard. It’s consecrated ground and very sheltered; even at this time of year there are the first shoots of wild flowers poking through the earth. A nice foxglove perhaps. After that we can say a prayer. You’d have to leave here afterwards. And not go back home,’ advised the nun who was also considering her own plan of action. She wanted to save the living, not make arrangements for the dead.
Venetia was adamant. ‘I have no intention of going home. None at all. When I leave here I’m going to America to make my fortune, and then I shall go to England. I want to find the other Magdalena, the sister I named my baby after.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Magda 1936
Magda barely controlled her trembling knees, but determined to face whatever or whoever was crossing the street towards her. He was not wearing a uniform; he was not a bobby walking his beat, yet on sighting him, Bradley Fitts had left pretty sharply.
‘A little late to be out, Miss.’
He wore a trilby and a trench coat over a dark suit. His face was familiar. And then it came to her.
‘You were on the underground earlier.’
A smile lit up his face.
‘That’s right.’
She half closed her eyes. ‘Thank goodness you came along.’
‘Thank goodness I did. I’m presuming you no longer live around here. Or around Edward Street.’
She shook her head. ‘I was visiting an old friend who got taken poorly.’
It was all she intended saying. Even to seek out someone to do what Susan had asked her to do – carry out an abortion – was illegal.
He didn’t question her excuse, but then why should he?
‘Goodness,’ she said, pulling back her sleeve and glancing at the face of her watch. ‘I must get home. My aunt will be worried.’
‘It’s too late at night for a young girl to travel on the underground alone. Come on. I’ll escort you.’
‘Oh, no, there’s no need …’
He took hold of her arm. ‘I insist. That man in the car. I know him. He’s dangerous.’
‘Yes. Bradley Fitts.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not a boyfriend, I hope.’
‘No, but he wants to be. I can’t seem to shake him off. My aunt and I used to live around here, but no longer. We live
in Prince Albert Mews,’ she said, just in case he didn’t believe her.
‘Then I’ll make sure you get there.’ He noticed her nervousness. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not at all like Bradley Fitts; quite the opposite in fact. Trust me.’
When he smiled she noticed the whiteness of his teeth.
How do I know whether I can trust him? She decided that she did. His voice as much as his face calmed her nerves, plus his undoubted strength. Not the bully boy strength of Bradley Fitts who depended on intimidation to gain respect. This man’s strength wasn’t just physical; it was something he was, deep down inside.
She stopped suddenly, recalling that he had mentioned Edward Street – as though he’d known she used to live there. Again she thought how familiar he looked.
He noticed her puzzled expression. ‘Think vegetables and pigs’ tails,’ he said, his mouth curling upwards in a seductive smile.
Her jaw dropped.
‘Daniel Rossi. Remember?’
Danny! Daniel the adolescent market boy who had taken pity on a small starving girl and had read detective books!
‘Do you still read Bob Barton, police detective?’ she asked him.
He laughed. ‘Sometimes. It takes me out of myself and away from how things really are. I’m a real detective, Magda. I’m a real policeman.’
Magda was so surprised, she just gazed at him, saying, ‘Well, well,’ over and over again.
Daniel regarded her with a mix of affection and sadness. He remembered so much about her. ‘Did you ever find your family?’
Magda shook her head sadly. ‘I followed all your advice. I’ve heard nothing so far, but some day when I’ve earned a lot of money, I’m going to employ a private detective to find them. I’ve heard you can do that.’
‘Yes. You can. But you have to understand that some people don’t want to be found – for whatever reason.’
She nodded sadly. ‘I know what you’re saying; I should get on with my life. But it isn’t easy.’
They began to walk, his hand still cupping her elbow.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said breathlessly, gazing up at him. ‘I should have recognised you.’
‘Have I altered that much?’
