Clover's Child

by Amanda Prowse

  It was almost simultaneous, when Solomon wanted to feed, she would leak milk, as though she was programmed for his every need. The times when she could hold and feed him were the highlight of her day. Watching him fall asleep against her skin was a joy that she could never have envisaged. To feel the weight of his tiny body against her shoulder was the best feeling in the world. She hated it when the time came to put him in his little bassinet so that he could be wheeled off to the nursery.

  When Solomon was not quite three days old, Dot rummaged in her suitcase and removed the brown paper packet that contained her material. ‘I shall give it a lot of thought and try and make something worthy of it, something that will always remind me of today.’

  She lay the length of sky-blue drill flat on the table and planned out the shape for a romper suit. Her skilful dressmaker’s fingers cut the fabric, using a little vest as a vague template. She pressed the material to her face and inhaled its strange scent; it reminded her of her old life, when she had been a happy shop girl, working in Selfridges and going home to her mum’s for her tea. It made her think of the wonderful day she and Sol had spent together when he bought the fabric, and it made her think of her mate Barb, from whom she now felt so remote. Dot folded the seams and used tiny stitches to secure the pieces together. She took extra care, making sure each stitch was equally spaced and precisely the same length; she wanted him to look lovely when they arrived in Australia. Dot smiled at the irony: this was the first ‘Clover Original’. She worked diligently until the early hours and on Solomon’s fourth day on the planet, his new outfit was ready.

  Sister Kyna had sent word to the nursery, asking Dot to visit the office. She walked purposefully along the corridor, almost looking forward to the exchange; Dot was a woman with a plan.

  ‘Please sit, Dot.’ Sister Kyna indicated the chair as though there was a choice of where to perch.

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘I feel it, thank you.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The nun paused and removed her glasses. ‘There are a couple of formalities, Dot, that we need to take care of today. We need to give the child a name.’

  Dot smiled at the thought of ‘the child’. His name was Solomon, her little Solomon, bringer of peace.

  ‘And the good news is that we have had a development with regard to his adoption. A Canadian couple, based in London – a university professor and his wife, no less – have agreed to take the baby.’

  Dot coughed to clear her throat and took a deep breath. ‘I do have a name for him, actually, but as far as the adoption is concerned, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan. He’s not up for adoption. Can you tell that couple thank you very much, but he’s staying with his mum.’

  Sister Kyna fiddled with her spectacles and ran her tongue over her thin lips. ‘How so, Dot? What has so changed in your circumstance that you are able to keep the boy?’

  ‘It’s simple, really. I never wanted to give him up, never, and I hoped I’d find a way around it and I have!’ Dot grinned, feeling like she had cheated the system. ‘I’m going to take the ten-pound ticket. We are going to Australia!’ Dot lifted her chin, determined. Susan was right, women looked after babies on their own all the time, even women like Dot.

  Sister Kyna was silent for a few seconds, then she smirked and gave a small giggle that quickly developed into a full-blown laugh. She fought for control and wheezed slightly, then coughed into her bunched-up fist and patted her chest. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, Lord give me strength. Is that it? Is that the big plan – to take the ten-pound ticket?’

  Dot felt her cheeks flush and her stomach flip with nerves; this wasn’t how she had planned the exchange. It had happened very differently in her head.

  ‘Yes, we are going to go to Australia. No one’s going to take him away from me.’ This time her eyes were on the floor and her chin dipped against her chest.

  ‘I am afraid, Miss Simpson, that it is not quite that straightforward. Firstly, you willingly signed the papers – legal documents that placed the care and responsibility for the child with the Church. Secondly, it is our absolute belief that the boy will be better placed with a university professor and his lovely wife than in your care—’

  ‘What d’you mean? How can that be right? Who cares what the bloke does for a living, I’m his mum! What can be better for him than being with his mum?’ Dot fought to control her pitch and her breathing. She needed to remain calm to get this sorted out.

  ‘He will be given the best education and guidance that money can buy; he will travel and have a rich life. You cannot hope to compete with that—’

  ‘That’s just rubbish! I shouldn’t have to compete! I’m his mum. It doesn’t matter how much money they’ve got, that’s not what makes you happy. I grew up without any money!’

  ‘Yes, and look what has happened to your life. Hardly a glowing example, is it?’

  Dot was aware that she was crying. She was angry and upset. She dashed the tears away and continued. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter what you say or what you think, my mind’s made up. I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m taking my baby and we are going to Australia. I’m taking that ten-pound ticket!’

  Sister Kyna replaced her glasses and paused before delivering the final blow.

  ‘I’m afraid there is no ten-pound ticket.’

  ‘Yes there is! Don’t you lie to me! I know there is. Susan’s taken it, I know she has!’

  ‘That is true, she did. Maybe I should be more specific; there is no ten-pound ticket for people like you or for babies like yours.’

  There was a second of silence while the words permeated Dot’s brain. ‘What d’you mean, not for babies like mine? He’s perfect.’ Her mouth twisted from all the crying.

  ‘I think you know to what I am referring. Let’s not make things more awkward than they need to be; don’t make me spell it out. I will tell you this: you are lucky to find a couple willing to take a child like that, many babies of his sort are not as fortunate. This couple will be taking your child and there is nothing that you can do about it. My advice is to distance yourself from the boy over the next few days, which might make his leaving a little easier to bear.’

  Dot’s heart hammered, she fought for breath. Feeling light-headed, she gripped the arms of the chair to fight off the faint that threatened.

  ‘You can’t have him! I won’t let you take him, I won’t! No one is taking my boy! Anyway, them forms don’t count, I had my fingers crossed the whole time! So it doesn’t bloody count!’ This Dot screamed.

  Sister Kyna ran her hand over her face. ‘Oh, dear God, don’t be ridiculous! Fingers crossed indeed, I’ve heard it all now!’

  Sister Mary had heard Dot’s shouts and now opened the office door.

  ‘Is everything all right, Sister Kyna?’ The young nun stared at Dot, who looked like a wild animal about to pounce.

  ‘Everything is fine, thank you, Sister. You may escort Miss Simpson back to her room.’

  Sister Mary helped Dot to stand.

  ‘You ain’t having him! I swear to God, you ain’t taking Solomon from me!’ Her face crumpled as her legs folded under her.

  Sister Kyna unscrewed the lid of her fountain pen and cocked her head to one side. ‘What was the name again?’ she enquired, as though she was asking the date, calm and unmoved by Dot’s distress.

  Tears blocked Dot’s nostrils and throat and smeared her lips; her nose dripped. She spoke with the garbled slur of a drunk. ‘Slolomon… His name is Sollollomon.’

  Sister Kyna wrote ‘Simon’ in the allocated space. It was close enough.

  * * *

  Dot unwrapped the yellow knitted blanket in which he was swaddled and removed the miniature terry nappy, held in place by an enormous safety pin with a blue cover on the tip; blue for boys, pink for girls. She laid him in her lap and ran her finger over his tiny feet, gently pinching each of his ten perfect toes and around his little knees, up over his tum and down along his arms. His tiny fingers snatc
hed at the air and she lifted him to her face and kissed his little nose and closed eyes. She snuggled her face against the fold under his chin and kissed all over his face, working her way around to each ear. Whenever she considered the fact that her time with him was coming to an end, she could not breathe, quite literally could not take a breath and so she tried to put it out of her mind.

  Dot rocked her baby to sleep and held him close while he dozed, ignoring the nursery rule that baby must be placed back in the bassinet when asleep. She cared little for their rules and gave a look that defied anyone to try and remove him.

  ‘I want us to run away, Solomon. I want to wrap you up and run far away, but I don’t even have the bus fare to Southend, what can I do? I can’t sleep outside, not with you. And I’m frightened that if they find me, you’ll be taken off me and then I don’t know where you’ll end up. At least this way, my little love, I know you are going to someone that will give you a lovely life.’ She kissed his head. ‘I want you to know, little man, that you have changed my life in the most amazing way. I might not get to be your mum forever, but being your mum for a couple of weeks is something I will never forget. I had you all to meself for nine whole months and it was such a precious time, darling. There was just you and me and no one to disturb us. You are beautiful, Solomon, and I want you to know that even though he’s gone now, your dad, you were made in love, real deep love, even if it was only for a little while. I want you to lock these words away in your head and think about them as you grow up. You are going to be a big, strong boy and you’ll have a wonderful life, but try and remember me, Solomon, try and remember these lovely days that we’ve had together, my love. I know I will, for always.’

  Dot fed Solomon and held him against her chest while she rubbed small circles on his back, trying to wind him. She continued to whisper into his ear, desperately hoping that her words would reach his subconscious and be there for recall whenever he needed them.

  Sister Mary knocked on her door and poked her head inside the room. Dot knew what the young nun was going to say before she spoke and her tears fell in fat, hot drops down her cheeks. She felt suffocated.

  ‘The Dubois family will be here in two hours to take baby Simon,’ Sister Mary began. ‘If you could get him ready and wheel him down to the gate house, that would be for the best. Or we could get someone else to take him down for you, if you are not up to it?’ It clearly wasn’t the first time that she had delivered this speech.

  An image of Gracie’s mother came into focus; the stoic, dignified manner with which she had performed the last duty for her little girl.

  ‘No, I’ll do it.’

  The two hours seemed to pass in minutes. Dot bathed her boy, cradling him in one crooked arm as he kicked in the warm water. She gently massaged his skin with the muslin cloth and covered him in talc before putting his nappy and rubber pants in place and slipping him into the white babygro as instructed. She fed him one last time and held his face so close to hers that when he breathed out she breathed in, taking his breath down into her lungs.

  The fancy Silver Cross pram stood outside her door. She placed him gently on its tiny mattress, where there was the slightest indent from all the other babies that had been laid down there before him – Gracie, Sophie and hundreds like them. She tucked the small blanket around the edges so that he wouldn’t feel any draught. Pulling the hood up, she gazed at his sleeping form, taking mental pictures that she would store away for a lifetime. Dot placed the blue romper suit the colour of St Lucian sky at the base of the pram and set off along the corridor and across the gravel.

  She didn’t notice the heavily pregnant girl who raked the gravel outside the main entrance, she didn’t notice anything, but instead concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and staring at the gate house that grew larger with each step. Stopping to adjust Solomon’s blanket, bringing it up to his chin, she bent low inside the pram. ‘Be brave, my little one, be brave. It’ll be okay, mate, just you wait and see.’ Solomon did not stir.

  Dot knocked and the side door was opened. She pushed the pram through and found herself in what resembled a waiting room. A couple of functional, office-type chairs stood against the wall, otherwise the place was bare except for a large oil painting of His Holiness Pope John XXIII. There was a door in the corner and to the left of that a grill with a small sliding cover. Sister Mary reached out to take the handle of the pram. Dot caught her wrist, she wanted five more minutes. But then she realised that she would always want five more minutes and she released her and nodded.

  ‘Make sure they take his little suit,’ she whispered hoarsely, every word taking a supreme effort.

  Sister Mary swiftly turned the pram, approached the door in the corner and gave a small knock. It was opened immediately.

  Even though she had promised herself that she wouldn’t, Dot slid the little door on the grill and pushed her face up to it. She saw a man and a woman, older than her, probably in their late twenties; they were smartly dressed and smiling. Professor Dubois had his arms around his wife’s shoulders and was gripping her in anticipation; she in turn reached up and placed her palm over the back of his hand. Mrs Dubois wore a cameo brooch at the neck of her blouse, the collar of which peeked from beneath her camel-coloured jersey. Sister Kyna stood behind them with her hands clasped in front of her, looking very pleased with herself. Dot felt a wave of hatred for this woman who called herself a servant of God.

  Mrs Dubois placed both her hands under her chin as the pram was pushed into the room and Dot watched as her eyes filled with tears. Dot’s own eyes were strangely dry. Sister Mary lifted the baby from the pram and handed him to the woman. Dot swallowed a wave of sickness.

  ‘Oh, Simon! Oh, there you are, look at you!’ Mrs Dubois raised his little face to hers and kissed him.

  Please don’t cover up my kisses, Dot thought. Remember what I said to you, Solomon, remember that I love you, remember me. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach as though she had been cut. For the first time in nearly seven months, Dot did not ache for the man who had abandoned her; his face no longer appeared behind her eyelids with every blink. His image had been replaced with that of her baby boy, and there her son’s face would stay for the rest of her life.

  Mrs Dubois walked towards the grill. Dot shrank backwards, she didn’t want to be seen. The woman spoke into the space, holding Dot’s son close to her chest. ‘It sounds so inadequate, but thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, thank you! I’d be happy to send you photos or a letter—’

  Dot pulled the grill shut and sat on the little chair in the corner. There was no point – as if she’d be able to receive photos! Her mum and dad would go berserk. She felt strangely detached, as though she was floating near the ceiling, looking down on herself and watching proceedings from on high. Even though she could no longer see what was happening next door, she could hear the loudest of the coos and exclamations. When her son began to cry, she stuffed her fingers into her ears and placed her head on her knees. She wanted it to be over.

  Some minutes later, Sister Mary appeared with the pram. ‘You may take it back to the nursery, Dot.’

  Like an automaton, Dot stood on wobbly legs. She laid her hand against the empty mattress that was still slightly warm before straightening up. She pushed the pram outside and onto the gravel. She looked straight ahead and tried not to think about the car that was waiting to whisk her son away to a new life. A better life, a better life than someone like her could ever give him. As the door closed behind her, she heard the unmistakeable, instantly recognisable sound of her son’s cry. He was crying again, fresh tears, and there was nothing she could do.

  Dot crossed the gravel slowly and made it back to the confines of the nursery wing, where Sister Agnes was waiting.

  ‘Here, Dot, let me take that from you.’ The kindly Sister reached over to take the pram handle and in doing so, dislodged the blanket to reveal a small corner of summer’s day blue.

  Dot pushed her finge
rs below the cover and pulled out the romper suit with its perfect hand-stitched seams. She sank down onto the floor and covered her face with the small garment. The sound she emitted was part wail, part sob, like an animal drowning in her own tears.

  Sister Agnes knelt on the floor by her side and stroked her hair. ‘Shhh. It’ll all be okay, Dot, it will all be okay.’

  ‘I want my baby! I want him back. Please, please help me. I want him back!’

  ‘Goodness, what is all this noise in aid of?’ Sister Kyna stood by the back door, her smile, as usual, fixed in place.

  Dot reached behind and, using the wall, levered herself into an upright position. With the romper suit in her hand, she pointed at Sister Kyna. ‘This noise is because my heart is broken. Broken! I made him this, it was the one thing he could have had from me, the one thing! But you didn’t give it to them, you knew—’

  ‘To be quite honest with you, Miss Simpson, do you really think that a couple like Professor Dubois and his wife would want to place their son in a garment like that?’

  Their son… Their son! Dot was silent for some seconds, gathering her strength, ordering her thoughts. She spoke slowly. ‘I don’t know what a couple like that would think, cos I ain’t no university professor, but I do know this. I may not have any education, but I do have a life, I’ve had a life! You hide away up here, Sister Kyna, passing judgement on every girl that steps inside the doors, girls that need your help, girls that have no choices, girls like me. And yet you can’t pass judgement, cos you don’t know anything! You talk about things that you have no idea about, things like love and pregnancy. I feel sorry for you, I do. You’ll never know what it’s like to lie in the arms of the man you love on a blanket in front of a fire and feel safe and happy. You’ll never dance in front of Etta James! You’ve been so horrible to me, and if it wasn’t for Sister Agnes, this place would be hell on bloody earth. I hope you’re right about your god being a god of forgiveness, cos when you step up for judgement, you are going to need a lot of forgiveness. You are one wicked cow!’