The Wartime Midwives

by Daisy Styles

  After getting her breath back, she slowly pulled away and stared from the smiling nun to a smiling Ada. ‘REALLY?’ she asked, in a quivering, tentative voice.

  ‘Really, really,’ Ada replied with tears in her eyes.

  As the truth dawned, Shirley cried rapturously, ‘I can stay, I can truly stay! I don’t have to go back?’

  Moved beyond words, Ann and Ada repeated their assurances, until Shirley finally relaxed enough to absorb the wonderful news. Her relief was such that it came out in helpless laughter, which she was as unable to control as the tears that had overcome her earlier.

  ‘I can stay,’ she murmured over and over again like a soothing mantra.

  Sister Ann held her protégée close. ‘With God’s help we’ll keep you safe, dearest child, with God’s help we’ll protect you.’

  Over the coming days, Shirley started to show a new side to herself: she developed an appetite and, as she filled out, she seemed to walk taller, moving about the Home with a permanent smile on her glowing face. For the first time in years she was experiencing hope, and was prepared to do anything at all to repay her patrons’ kindness. When Sister Ann and Ada ran out of jobs for her to do on the ward, she would head to Sister Mary Paul’s vast Mary Vale kitchen.

  ‘I’ll be your skivvy,’ Shirley said cheerfully. ‘I’ll wash and mop, clean and polish, I’ll do anything you ask of me,’ she promised, and she meant it too.

  Sister Mary Paul, who was almost as fond of Shirley as Ann and Ada were, smiled happily. ‘To see your sweet face about the place is good enough for me; Mary Vale just wouldn’t be the same without our little Shirley.’

  The love reflected on the nun’s face and her affirming smile flooded Shirley’s soul, and, fuelled by affection, she filled up a bucket with warm water and a heavy dollop of pungent disinfectant, then set about mopping the dining-room floor before moving on to washing all the downstairs windows. Returning to the warmth of the kitchen, she sat herself beside Sister Mary Paul and happily helped the older woman to peel a vat of potatoes.

  ‘You’re not to go wearing yourself out,’ Sister Mary Paul chided her fondly. ‘You’re a resident here, not a slave.’

  Shirley gave the nun a shy smile. ‘If I’m a slave,’ she joked, ‘I’m the happiest one on earth!’

  7. A Visitor

  Emily, in Manchester, had still not heard back from George. In between hoping and praying she might get a reply from him – something she was rapidly losing confidence in – she forced herself to make inquiries into local mother and baby homes. It wasn’t a route she wanted to go down at all, but it was beginning to look as if she didn’t have a choice, so she started by visiting hospitals and doctors’ surgeries, thinking that they might be able to point her in the right direction. She told the snooty receptionists that she was making inquiries for a ‘friend’. When the receptionists looked at her askance, Emily held their cynical gaze until they gave her what she wanted: names, addresses and, in some cases, even phone numbers.

  There were quite a few homes in the Manchester area, which Emily visited after work. But she was put off by their dark, brooding façades; a few of the homes actually had bars at the windows so they looked more like prison buildings than places of sanctuary. Unimpressed by her findings, Emily began to feel that a place in Manchester might be a bit too close to home for comfort, so she started to look further afield. One of the homes she saw advertised in a medical journal in her doctor’s surgery instantly appealed to her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was about the place, but, when she read about Mary Vale, something told her this might be the home for her. She wrote immediately, asking for more information, and when a hefty envelope landed in her pigeon-hole at work Emily locked herself in the ladies’ toilets so no one could peer over her shoulder and hungrily read through the information, which contained images of the Home and its surroundings. Liking the look of the big old house with its sunny gardens on the edge of the sea, she wrote back to Mary Vale to arrange a visit at their earliest convenience.

  As her hope of locating a suitable mother and baby home increased, so her hope of hearing from George rapidly decreased. It was just as Ivy had predicted: LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS! BE LIKE DAD – KEEP MUM! the government posters warned. In her case, it was the RAF that refused to talk to her. Even when she stood at the gates and asked the heavily armed guard on duty where Squadron Leader George Holden could be found, she was told in no uncertain terms that it was against orders to issue civilians with any information. Completely at her wits’ end, Emily had burst into tears and blurted out that she was pregnant; the guard relented slightly, telling her that all post delivered to the base was always forwarded, so even if the recipient had been moved on, post would reach them, though this process did obviously take longer.

  ‘I’m sure your young man will be in touch when he’s had a chance to read the letters you’ve sent him,’ he had said more kindly.

  Emily didn’t like to point out that she’d already written several letters and she still hadn’t heard a word back from ‘her young man’. On the bus back to Manchester she cursed herself for not knowing George’s parents’ address; they at least might have heard from their son or, better still, know where he had been posted.

  ‘At least he was generous with his money,’ Emily thought gratefully. Thank God she hadn’t spent his money on clothes and little luxuries; though, occasionally, she’d been tempted to treat herself to a new dress or a smart new handbag, Emily always resisted, instead hoarding every penny for their wedding day. Now she was grateful she had been careful; the money that George had given her would soon be spent on securing a respectable home where she could safely give birth to his baby.

  As the long, lonely days passed, Emily became more desperate and disillusioned. How could she not begin to fear the worst – that her beloved had abandoned her altogether? It seemed incomprehensible that George hadn’t made contact in what was now months, long enough time for her to begin to show. She was having real trouble squeezing into her nippy’s uniform at work; she’d let it out as much as she could, but if her breasts continued to swell she’d have to put in a request for a new uniform, which would immediately arouse suspicion.

  Trying to hide her condition at home wasn’t easy either. Their small, dingy terraced house had always felt overcrowded, but now, when she was desperate for privacy so that she could rest her aching back or put up her feet, there was nowhere to go. When George was around, Emily had been able to tolerate it – home was just somewhere between work and seeing George – but with him gone and the baby growing so fast home felt unbearable. Even so, she regularly told herself she had to stay for as long as she could bear it; the money she’d saved wouldn’t cover more than four months of her stay at Mary Vale and she’d have to pay for the extra weeks of care after the birth of her baby. So for the moment there was no alternative but to grit her teeth and remain at home. To put her mind at rest, Emily decided it was time to pay a visit to Mary Vale, the mother and baby home in which she was putting all her hope and trust.

  Telling her family that she was going to Blackpool with a friend for the day, she set off on her journey, but, as the steam train thundered north, Emily was overwhelmed by sadness and despair. How on earth was she going to get through this on her own? Just imagining giving birth brought her out in a sweat of fear. Though she was determined to keep her and George’s baby, she wondered in the harsh light of bitter reality how she was going to manage it. Her parents wouldn’t want her or her bastard in the house, and in truth it was the very last place on earth she would want to bring up a child – but HOW was she going to support herself and her baby without a job or a husband?

  ‘Whatever happens, I’m keeping our baby; it might be the last link I have with the man I love,’ she thought grimly. ‘I will find a way.’

  Feeling panic rising inside her like a tidal wave that threatened to engulf her, Emily took a long, deep breath and concentrated on the vast sweep of Morecambe Bay against
the hazy swell of the green rolling hills that slowly merged with the first fells of the Lake District. The train, puffing its way along a track that was built on a series of piers across the marsh, stopped at Grange-over-Sands, where Emily decided that, instead of staying on to Kents Bank, the next stop and the one closest to Mary Vale according to the guard she’d spoken to, she would walk to the Home and take in the scenery. Disembarking at Grange Station, she inhaled the fresh sea air and, accompanied by noisy seagulls who swooped around the water’s edge, Emily set off with a strong, determined stride. When she reached her destination, she was charmed by the Home’s location and the rambling old house that overlooked the sea and the beautiful sun-drenched bay.

  ‘This is a fine place to live,’ she thought with relief and, with a nervous smile playing on her lips, she approached Mary Vale’s imposing front door.

  Knowing that Emily was a fee-paying client (the only kind of client that Maud Harding was genuinely interested in), Matron personally opted to show the visitor around the Home and the maternity wards. When they walked on to the ward where the babies were being fed, Emily was amused to spot a strikingly attractive, tall, slim nurse appear to roll her eyes as Matron processed between the canvas cots, talking in an over-loud voice that made the babies cry.

  ‘Honest to God!’ she overheard her say. ‘The poor woman’s coming here to have a baby, not to be presented at court!’

  It was hard for the girls bottle-feeding the babies to keep their faces straight, watching Matron swan around the wards showing off their features as if the Home were a place of luxury and delight rather than a home for unmarried mothers miles away from anywhere.

  ‘This is our dining room,’ Matron announced, ignoring the pregnant girls with sweat dripping down their faces as they polished the vast mahogany table and chairs. ‘And here’s where all the food is prepared,’ she said, as she barged into the vast kitchen, where Sister Mary Paul and a fleet of nuns were rolling pastry for seven large meat pies. ‘All our produce is local and home grown,’ Matron added, as if she personally grew it all herself.

  Behind her wimple Sister Mary Paul muttered irreverently under her breath, ‘And that includes all the tins of baked beans and corned beef we produce daily!’

  Trailing after Matron, feeling distinctly embarrassed by her grandiose manner, Emily was relieved when the tour ended.

  ‘Let’s have tea in my office,’ Matron said with a cosy smile, which immediately disappeared when she saw Shirley scurrying down the corridor. ‘Tea,’ she called out imperiously. ‘In my office, now!’

  Emily cringed at her tone; she felt so sorry for the poor girl, who shot off in terror to do Matron’s bidding.

  ‘I’m not sure I trust this woman,’ Emily thought uneasily to herself. Following Matron into the office, she firmly told herself that she had to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Let’s see what she has to say next.’

  Soon Shirley appeared with a loaded tray of tea and biscuits; trembling, she lowered it cautiously on to Matron’s desk. Without even a thank you, Matron rudely dismissed the visibly quaking girl. ‘That will be all.’

  Emily’s anxious gaze followed Shirley, who threw her a shadow of a smile as she bolted for the door.

  ‘Poor kid,’ she thought, beginning to wonder how on earth she would fit in with so many girls who, she imagined, weren’t that much different to her in age but whose subservient manner was so different to her own confident, independent demeanour. One thing was for sure: Emily certainly wouldn’t be cowed by anybody, and that included the woman facing her across the desk, who, oozing charm, was pouring hot tea into delicate china cups.

  ‘We offer an adoption service to all our mothers,’ she said, as she graciously handed Emily her tea. ‘Mary Vale’s resident priest, Father Benedict, is responsible for finding suitable homes for our babies. Unfortunately,’ she said with a heartfelt sigh, ‘some do end up with poor, working-class couples when, ideally, we would prefer our babies to be housed with a better class of parent, but needs must,’ she concluded, and offered Emily one of Sister Mary Paul’s delicious shortbread biscuits.

  Emily’s big blues eyes all but rolled out of her head at Matron’s words. By now seriously at the end of her tether with Matron’s insufferable snobbishness, she declined the biscuit.

  ‘Actually – I’m working class,’ she said with a bit of a swagger.

  Matron did a visible double-take.

  ‘Oh! I assumed that, as you were a fee-paying client, you were …’

  Seeing her struggling to find the right word, Emily helped her out. ‘Wealthy?’ she suggested; then, without waiting for an answer, she barrelled on. ‘No. I’m paying for my confinement out of my savings and, while we’re on that subject, you should know that I won’t be seeking an adoption for my baby – I shall be keeping it,’ she said, a loud ring of pride in her voice. ‘Working class I may be, but I certainly know how to love and nurture a baby.’

  Though momentarily wrong-footed, Matron still managed to give the bold young woman a level look as if to say, ‘HAH! That’s what they all say, dear.’

  Even though she’d had a serious failure of confidence on her journey north, Emily was not going to let the woman before her know of that; if anything, her hateful attitude had made her more determined than ever. Irritated by the assumptions the older woman had leapt to, Emily continued with a defiant smile. ‘As soon as my fiancé in the RAF rejoins me, we shall be married.’

  Matron’s eyes dropped down to Emily’s left hand, where there was no sign of any ring. Nevertheless, her clipped, polite smile didn’t slip as she handed Emily the Home’s terms and conditions, and a list of fees.

  ‘Good day, Miss Todd – we’ll look forward to seeing you when the time is right.’

  Emily rose to her feet, thinking to herself, ‘That’s just another way of saying before you’re as big as a house and everybody’s asking after the father’s whereabouts!’

  After her ghastly meeting with Matron, Emily was relieved to meet the rest of the staff, who, unlike her, seemed dedicated and kind; she instinctively took to Sister Ada Dale, the pretty nurse she’d spotted earlier, who thoughtfully gave her a second and more extensive tour of the pre- and post-natal wards and the delivery room, which Matron had whizzed her through. Emily gazed around the delivery room; what would it be like to give birth to the child growing inside her? When Ada took Emily on to the main ward, she was transfixed by the rows of little canvas cots containing tiny babies, waiting to be fed by the girls on the feeding rota.

  ‘It’s round the clock here,’ Ada joked, as she sat down and expertly balanced a squawking baby on her knee before deftly inserting large safety pins into each corner of its terry-towelling nappy without even pausing for breath.

  ‘They’re so small,’ Emily murmured, gazing in wonder at the baby’s tiny fingernails.

  ‘You’d be amazed how fast they grow,’ Ada assured her.

  ‘Do any of the mothers breast-feed?’ Emily asked.

  Ada shook her head. ‘Not a good idea if you’re planning on having your baby adopted – best not to bond,’ she added in a low voice.

  Emily’s eyes filled with tears as she watched some of the girls waddling awkwardly about the ward, looking like they were about to give birth on the spot.

  ‘Poor things,’ she murmured.

  ‘They’re very brave young women,’ Ada said, as she settled the baby that she’d just successfully burped into one of the little white cots. ‘Generally, they do what’s best for their child, even though in most cases it breaks their hearts to be parted from them.’

  In a very different tone from the one she’d used when she’d talked to Matron, Emily told the ward sister of her plans. ‘I intend to keep my baby.’

  Ada gave her a wide smile that revealed her perfect small white teeth. ‘Lucky you!’ she exclaimed. Quickly checking her fob watch, she added, ‘I’m just about finished here – would you like a tour of the grounds?’

  Emily nodded eage
rly. ‘Yes, please,’ she replied.

  The gardens, mostly wide, well-kept lawns with deep flowerbeds interspersed with sturdy oak trees, were bathed in bright sunshine.

  Several residents were wheeling babies in big old prams, or pegging out nappies on the washing line in the kitchen garden; some more active girls were weeding flowerbeds, while others sat on benches chatting to each other as they knitted baby clothes.

  ‘This will soon be me,’ Emily thought, as she stood on the lawn that looked over the bay, where high tide was rushing in. Sighing, she turned inland to gaze at the fells, presently drenched in the afternoon sunshine. Here at Mary Vale, built on land between the fells and the sea, she would hide away and await the birth of her baby, all the time praying for the return of the man she loved.

  8. Rumbles of War

  ‘More! Please, Mummy, more!’

  With her head on the same pillow as her son, Gloria stared into her five-year-old’s sparkling green eyes and sighed. With her long, raven-black hair fanned out around her slender shoulders, she had the same stunning Mediterranean colouring as her son, except that his hair was a mass of dark curls. Right now his cherubic little face was lit up with excitement, unlike his mother’s, which was drawn with fatigue. She had so much to do before Stan arrived home from work, but how could she resist Robin’s beseeching smile?

  ‘Just one more chapter, then I have to go and cook Daddy’s supper,’ she said with an indulgent smile.

  Robin giggled happily and snuggled up closer to his mother. ‘What happens next in the Enchanted Wood?’ he whispered.

  Once again, Gloria opened Enid Blyton’s popular book and continued reading until Robin’s long, silky eyelashes drooped and he finally fell asleep. Laying the book on the bedside table, she stood up and tiptoed to the door, where she turned to smile adoringly at her darling boy. If she’d got her dates right, Robin might well have a little brother or sister to play with in the new year. Heavens! How would she manage with two? Hurrying downstairs, she checked the meat pie that was baking in the oven in the back scullery, then set about peeling carrots and potatoes.