by Maggie Ford
There had been light rain as the taxicab pulled away down the drive; she watched her home disappearing in the early morning drizzle, but she was glad of that. A bright and sunny sky would have only made it feel worse, as if the weather itself had chosen to mock her.
Now she sat by the window of the small day room, ignoring the few other women sitting around as she recalled that day now almost six months back. In all that time she, like these other unmarried women in this place, had been conditioned to feel utterly shamed and unworthy of any genuine sympathy. Not that they were ill-treated or underfed, food was adequate if plain; but all were expected to do their share of work towards keeping the place in order, any excuses not to meeting with harsh frowns and little sympathy.
‘You are not ill,’ was the response to any complaint of feeling unwell. ‘Pregnancy is not an illness and you have only yourself to blame for your condition!’
That hard-hearted approach, even though her father had paid for her to be there, had come as a shock. And to one who’d never done a day’s work in her life: having to make her own bed, sweep, dust, made to work in the steamy laundry, carry damp and heavy linen baskets out to hang on clothes lines; to scrub pots and pans and tables, just as her own father’s scullery maid had done, by the end of the day she was worn out, having to endure the misery of muscular pains all over her body.
It mattered not to those in charge that she was pregnant, that she’d been tenderly brought up. She was still an unmarried mother, disgraced, cast out by others to pull her weight alongside those less privileged than she. Like them she had allowed herself to be used, ignoring or ignorant of the consequences in an eagerness for a cheap thrill, looked upon with scorn and contempt, despite her family’s high standing – maybe even more so. With her baby now due in three weeks, her loose white gown now bulging to a hugely distended stomach, she was still expected to work as hard as ever though maybe not lifting heavy washing baskets so much now.
In all this time not one person had ever come to see her, nor had she expected anyone. A letter to her parents had reaped no reply. Its purpose had been to tell her father how innocent of sexual matters she’d been.
She’d tried to explain that, brought up in ignorance other than those half understood, sketchy and preposterous and mostly erroneous bits of information exchanged at finishing school, yet imagined to be fact by sheltered young women, she’d had no idea she was getting herself into trouble; that if only she had been taught the facts of life, she would never have allowed to happen what had happened. But he’d probably refused to read her letters, no doubt forbidding her mother to do so too. As for Hamilton, all was silence. Not that she cared.
Her time drawing nearer she wondered more and more what would become of her once the baby was born and she was turned out.
It was an accepted rule here that the baby would be taken from the mother for adoption, usually by an orphanage. In most cases it appeared a girl was only too glad to be rid of it and go about her own life. To be saddled with a child with no known father was a disgrace in itself and no girl wanted fingers being pointed at her. An orphanage was the only answer.
After a few days recuperating, the mother would be turned out to earn her own living and be glad of it. A small amount of preparing for work would be carried out during her stay, usually as a housemaid somewhere.
The rule was that as soon as the baby was born it was whisked away from the mother before she had a chance to really look at it and thus form a bond. A representative from whatever orphanage it was destined for would be there to take it away. Should a baby arrive during the night, it was placed in the crèche until morning.
So it was that after two days of labour, Madeleine’s baby arrived in the early hours. She now lay all alone, exhausted, grateful for the respite from those terrible pains at last, sure she would never forget those gruelling forty-eight hours of absolute suffering for as long as she lived.
She thought of the tiny unseen life that had in its own way rescued her from her agony at the very moment of its birth, how she had collapsed with relief, too worn out to even see the bundle in its wrappings being borne from the room. Now she lay, all alone in the darkened room, wondering what her baby had looked like. She’d not even been told if it was a boy or a girl.
Sleep had been fitful. She seemed to have been awake for hours. Through the tiny grill the sky seemed paler than it had been, so morning was probably not far off.
Lying on her back had now become uncomfortable. Needing to move, Madeleine eased herself to a more upright sitting position though still not a comfortable one. Carefully she inched her legs over the side of the hard bed, her bare soles recoiling as they touched the cold bare floor. She remained for a time perched on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, feet held clear of the chilly floor. Her stomach felt strangely soft and flabby after so long being tightly distended. It was many minutes before she could bring herself to move at all, but she wanted to get to her feet, to feel normal again, more like a human being.
Finally summoning enough strength to stand, surprised to find that she could, she held on to the bed rail for support, taking her time until her head ceased spinning and she felt steady enough to stand alone. All she wanted now was to get out of this room with its cloying taint of birth blood hanging in the air, if only to breathe in something fresher.
Now came a few hesitant somewhat wobbly steps taking her to the door. Carefully, quietly, she opened it. Not a soul in sight anywhere. Hardly a thought in her head, she moved out into the corridor, no longer worried about the chill on her bare feet from the lino there. At the moment she wasn’t even sure where she really wanted to go but small hesitant steps were taking her in the direction of the crèche at the end of the corridor.
She came to a sudden standstill as a movement ahead made her give a smothered gasp: a nurse issuing from the crèche. Fortunately, the woman turned left without glancing in her direction and, too far off to have heard her intake of breath, turned right down a narrow corridor.
But it put an idea in Madeleine’s head. If no one else was in that room it would be worth having a small peek at the baby she had given birth to. If the nurse came back in time to catch her, what could she do but tell her off?
She was about ready to drop by the time she’d reached the nursery. It was a tiny room. Going in she realized there was only one baby there, lying in a cot and so completely swaddled in a thick off-white shawl that only the little face was visible. But the sight of those tiny features, so pretty, so delicate, a little girl, gripped Madeleine’s heart in a sudden welter of love.
‘Ohhh…’ Her sigh drew itself out in a profound surge of tenderness, her breath coming in small gasps as tears misted her eyes – her child, part of her own flesh and blood, hers, her daughter.
She bent forward and picked up the small bundle, held it against her. Through the shawl the warmth of that tiny body seeped into hers. Beneath the shawl the tiny hands moved, the little legs drew themselves up slightly then stretched, and she could feel the movement against her. The eyes managed to open, merely slits, but their colour that of some deep lake with sunshine glowing on it. They looked so directly at her that she bent her face to kiss the smooth little cheek. So soft, so warm, this baby, her baby—
‘What do you think you are doing, girl?’
The shock of that voice made Madeleine swing round so abruptly that, still weak, she would have lost her balance had the nurse not sprung forward to catch and steady her.
‘How did you get in here?’ came the demand. Madeleine blinked.
‘The door was open.’
A sudden aghast expression flitting across the woman’s face made her realize that the nursery should have been locked when unattended, the nurse already aware that she had forgotten to do so. Now she was in trouble.
‘You shouldn’t be in here, girl!’ she hissed, panic in her tone. ‘I’ll take the baby. You get back to your room.’ Hardly waiting for it to be handed over she practically snatched it awa
y. ‘Now, go! GO!’
As she made her way back to the delivery room with its lingering taint of stale blood, Madeleine’s arms felt strangely empty. It was almost as if they ached and in that short while she realized that she’d become one with her child – something no unmarried mother was allowed to do prior to the baby being taken for adoption. Bad for the mother. This way, in a short while the mother would forget all about the baby and get on with her life. So went the belief. But in these few short moments of holding it close to her she had become one with her baby and that brief experience would stay with her for the rest of her life.
* * *
Today, a week after having given birth, she was now out on her own, alone in a cold, hostile world, the home for unmarried mothers having done their job. Yet still that sense of emptiness persisted. And questions too: where was her child now? Who were the people who’d taken it away? Would they be kind to her or had they in mind to make her work hard for her keep as she grew up?
Turning from that devastating thought, she prayed they would love her. But brought up as their child, she’d never know her own mother. That one thing kept drumming in her head – she would never see her again.
Madeleine stifled a dry sob at the thought, clearing her throat against it as she emerged from Paddington railway station on to a street filled with all the noise and racket of London. After the peace of village life and the quietness of the nursing home, the rattle of taxicabs, the red enormity of buses and the stink of motor exhaust was a shock. She had almost forgotten the last time she was taken to London, as a seven-year-old child. That would have been in 1903, when most vehicles were horse-drawn.
Suitcase in one hand, a leather handbag in the other, in that handbag the recommended address of somewhere to stay, she made her way through the chilly April wind beyond the station towards a line of taxicabs – best to spend out on a taxi fare rather than some unfamiliar bus route or to risk venturing on to the underground.
She did have a little money with her, sent to the nursing home by her father until she could get to the bank where he’d at least opened a tiny account for her. But she felt no reason to be grateful. It was no more than any father should do for his daughter and had been such a small amount as to be an insult, not even accompanied by any note. Also, he had stopped the generous allowance she had always enjoyed, making it clear that she would have to somehow earn her own living from now on. The message couldn’t have been clearer and her hatred for him began to mount as she fearfully approached one of the taxicabs.
She had begun to feel utterly out of her depth here. Assailed by an odorous smell of cooking coming from a nearby restaurant, she hurried past the raucous, tinny noise being played by an organ grinder at the kerbside, feeling herself under the gaze of a couple of uniformed soldiers who seemed in her imagination to be eyeing her as they passed – she was glad to escape into the taxi.
Aware of the restriction of her hobble skirt about her ankles after the loose clothing she had worn in the nursing home, she suddenly became aware of how out of date that skirt appeared against the bell-shaped hems of several women who had passed her; a drastic new fashion had exploded in these last eight or nine months since the outbreak of war.
Even her hat, a high toque, the fashion of a few months ago, now looked stupid against the harder crowned, larger brimmed creations she saw around her. Fresh from finishing school and suffering that home for unmarried mothers, she’d had no cause to follow fashion.
Telling the taxicab driver the address she had been given, she sat in the seclusion of the rear seat and once more gave herself up to her thoughts. Never to see her baby ever again left her in danger of breaking down afresh, giving way to a spasm of dry, hollow sobs, giving no comfort, no relief.
Recovering with an effort she took a deep breath, resolving to cast these thoughts out. But she knew without question that time and time again she would find herself repeating this agony, maybe a day later, maybe several days, but it would never go. There now came a silent resolve – she would spend the rest of her life if necessary looking for her child. She’d start by making enquiries, though how and where to begin she had no idea.
She must first get settled in the rooms where she was to live, the blessing of practicalities beginning to take over from grieving, for it felt like grief.
The journey seemed to take ages, the taxi wending its way through endless streets, at first fine and wide, lined with huge shops, but slowly they grew narrower, more seedy, the shops smaller, the kerbs fined at times with market stalls, the houses becoming mere tenements. Finally the vehicle drew up outside some two-storey tenements in a street behind Cheapside.
‘This is it, miss!’ called the taxi driver. ‘Right, that’ll be a shilling an’ sixpence!’
With no idea of how cheap or expensive that was, she got out and handed over a two shilling piece, hovering, expecting change. Instead he glanced down at it with a grin, spat on it appreciatively and popped it into his pocket with a ‘thanks very much, miss!’
Madeleine realized then, as the taxi moved off, that her expected change of sixpence had instead been seen as a tip for his service.
Six
As with every day since coming here a week ago, Madeleine’s gaze moved despondently around her one room: a single sagging bed, bare table, two chairs, a cupboard, a double gas ring, a curtain across an alcove hiding her clothes, a window overlooking a yard bordered by similar tenements.
On the landing smelling of cooked cabbage was a stained sink and cold water tap, next to it a bathroom and toilet. One glimpse of the bowl was enough to make her heave as she tried to avoid contact with its wooden seat which all the so far unknown tenants had used before her.
An ancient gas boiler gave a dribble of hot water taking ages to fill the bath, and only just warm when filled, the bath sporting a wealth of yellowish stains. There was always the public baths which by law had to be spotlessly clean. She could go there, armed with towel and soap as often as possible so long as she had money for the entrance fee.
Her father had arranged a niggardly allowance sufficient to prevent her actually starving, its message clear enough – if she needed more, she’d have to find work. So what might have made him appear human enough to give at least some thought to the welfare of his only child, instead spoke in clear terms that he wanted nothing more to do with her; that her welfare no longer mattered to him, almost as if she no longer existed in his eyes.
Left more bitter than ever, she’d written a carefully worded plea to her mother the moment she arrived here hoping to melt her heart enough to talk to her father on her behalf. That had been over a week ago, still no reply. There’d never be one now. How had she managed to make such a mess of her life? Her sight misted over as she stared across at the other tenements of Moorgate’s dingy back streets a stone’s throw from St Paul’s as thoughts of last night’s dream stole back into her mind. She had had the same dream three times since coming here; so brief and so poignant: she’d be holding her baby close, nursing her, kissing her, such a lovely dream, but just as she started to croon to her, her own voice would wake her and she’d find herself alone in this still dark room, her arms empty, her pillow damp with tears she hadn’t dreamed she’d shed, making her get up and walk back and forth in an effort to push the memory from her mind.
Now she pushed it away again, forcing herself to think of something more realistic. She was going to have to make her own life, though how, she had no idea. Never having been alone before, never having to shift for herself, knowing only a life of luxury, she was only now learning how to cook for herself, buy food and prepare it, make a cup of tea, even to wash her own clothes. But to survive she was having to learn.
A kettle and a small brown teapot had been provided. In the cupboard drawer were a couple of spoons, a few odd knives and forks, an old carving knife and a bread knife. There was a saucepan for boiling vegetables and a greasy frying pan for meat, fish, eggs, bacon, sausages or whatever else the tenant th
ought to cook. Had there been an oven she wouldn’t have known how to use it. There were a few plates of odd sizes, chipped and of doubtful origin. With a little of her meagre allowance she’d have to buy decent ones from a market stall, as well as a decent towel, face flannel, soap.
The kettle and saucepan doubled as containers to boil water for washing clothes and bed linen in the bathroom. What she’d found here when she arrived had been so awful she’d drawn a little out of the precious pittance her father had put in the bank for her and had bought two pairs of sheets and pillow cases from the cheapest market stall she could find. At least she now had clean linen to sleep on.
* * *
This morning, seven thirty, after another uncomfortable night on the lumpy mattress and troubled yet again by the same dream, she was at the sink washing the old bed sheets as best she could in case they were ever needed.
She was so engrossed rinsing them that she wasn’t aware of someone emerging from a door down the passage until a voice made her jump.
‘Oh! You’re using it – the sink!’
Swinging round towards the voice, her arms dripping wet, she saw a girl of around twenty standing there. The girl’s lips parted in a grin. ‘Sorry, did I give you a start?’
Madeleine tried to gather her jangled wits and smile back. ‘You did rather.’
‘Sorry,’ the girl said again. ‘I should’ve made more noise. I was just coming to wash a couple of smalls, but I can wait. Will you be long?’
‘I’m nearly finished,’ Madeleine said. ‘I’ll just wring these things out.’
‘There’s a mangle downstairs in the back yard,’ came the advice. ‘Bit chilly out there this time of year, and a washing line too.’
