by Daisy Styles
‘They’re bound to ask questions,’ Shirley said knowingly.
‘We can’t fob them off with lies,’ Sister Ann replied. ‘We have to tell them the truth.’
‘What? That Father Ben’s been sent back to his seminary pending inquiries?’ Ada asked.
Sister Ann nodded miserably. ‘Yes, though I don’t believe a single word of it!’
Shirley looked troubled. ‘Why is Sir Percival taking over? He doesn’t know anything about adoption. He won’t care what happens to those babies. There’s no way he’ll do the job as well as Father Ben,’ she said loyally.
‘Well, he is chairman of the Board of Governors,’ Sister Ann reminded her. ‘And hopefully it is only a temporary position until Father Ben’s name is cleared and he can return to us with his name unblemished.’
Crossing themselves as they passed the statue of Our Lady in the corridor that connected the convent to the Home, they all paused briefly to gaze up at the statue of the smiling Madonna holding the child Jesus to her breast.
‘Please God,’ Ada silently implored. ‘Please bring dear Father Ben safely back to Mary Vale, where he’s loved and much needed.’
17. Fear
Over the next week, as word spread about Father Ben’s sudden dramatic departure, Shirley was unusually vocal in her loyalty to the priest, who, she believed, had been publicly maligned.
‘He’s the nearest thing to a saint on earth,’ she repeatedly told anyone and everyone at the drop of a hat.
Nancy, whose baby was due soon, was particularly agitated about Sir Percival taking over the adoptions.
‘HIM!’ she scoffed. ‘He knows nothing about any of us girls.’
Determined to keep irate Nancy calm, Ada quickly added, ‘I’m sure it’s only a temporary arrangement until Father Ben returns.’
The announcement of Percival’s new role threw Isla too, especially so soon after having parted from Jeannie. When she and Jeannie had briefly met Father Ben on Isla’s preliminary visit to the Home, both women had been impressed by his sensitive and thoughtful inquiries and had instinctively trusted him.
‘He’s obviously had years of experience when it comes to placing babies,’ Jeannie had said.
Isla had agreed with her grandmother. ‘Listening to him talking about finding the “right match” for my baby was very comforting,’ she admitted.
‘And he’s fastidious about records and dates,’ Jeannie added. ‘His filing system is astonishing,’ she laughed. ‘Much better than mine!’
‘He’s obviously an extremely organized administrator,’ Isla remarked. ‘I liked him a lot.’
Little did Isla know that in Matron’s office, just off the main ward, Sir Percival was at that very moment poring over Isla’s records, which had been lifted from Father Ben’s famously neat and organized files.
‘Do you see what I mean?’ Matron asked with the smuggest of expressions. ‘Miss Ross – or should I say Child Ross – is perfect for our purposes.’
‘Indeed,’ Percival agreed with a smile. ‘Good breeding on both sides, highly presentable and highly desirable. I’d say a perfect match for the Bennetts, as long as it’s a boy – though a clever girl from good stock might change their mind,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘When’s the baby due?’ he asked.
‘Around Christmas,’ Matron told him.
Percival, who’d been hoping to bank another hefty cheque, swore under his breath. It was clear he’d have to wait a bit longer for further funds to drop into his bank account. His disappointment was mingled with irritation; he hadn’t planned on sharing the down payment with Matron, but she had been so persistent in the matter, pestering him daily about the bally joint account, that it had become impossible for him to wriggle out of the arrangement. Trying to smother his irritation, he returned to his questions.
‘And the young woman has definitely made her mind up about adopting? She’s not likely to bolt at the final hurdle?’
‘I haven’t spoken to her personally about the adoption of her child,’ Matron told him. ‘But, as you can see from her file, she appears to be quite certain about not keeping it.’
‘Excellent,’ Percival murmured as he accepted the cup of coffee Matron held out to him.
‘And there is another piece of good news,’ Matron added. ‘We’ve had an inquiry from a family in Northampton; the father phoned me last night, asking if we could immediately place his daughter, who ran away from the mother and baby home they had chosen for her.’
Percival smothered a yawn – what had all this nonsense got to do with him? He might be in charge of Mary Vale adoptions, but did he really need to know every single detail of every single resident?
But Matron’s next comment made him suddenly sit bolt upright.
‘They’re a titled, landowning family.’
Inertia gone, Percival was literally on the end of his chair, agog for more information. ‘Really?’ he spluttered. ‘How titled?’
‘I’ll find out more when they register here tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Percival asked in surprise. ‘So soon?’
‘The girl, Daphne, is expecting her baby very soon – this month, in fact.’
With pound signs swimming before his eyes, Percival loudly announced, ‘Then she must come here straight away!’
‘The sooner the better,’ he thought to himself.
Feeling vastly relieved that he now had another arrow to his bow, Percival waxed lyrical in his thanks to Matron. ‘I must congratulate you on your marvellous work, Maud,’ he smarmed. ‘Getting rid of the priest and clearing the way for me was a stroke of sheer genius; and now we have, thanks to your good management, two desirable babies on our books.’
Matron smiled at his flattering comments. ‘We make a good team, Archie,’ she said primly.
‘Let’s hope the bloody war doesn’t get in the way of our plans.’
Looking distinctively put out that a world war might get in the way of her arrangements, Matron bristled. ‘And why should it?’
Percival shrugged. ‘The government is already shipping thousands of evacuees out of London to safe houses such as Mary Vale; you could soon be overrun by hordes of filthy, hungry city children,’ he pointed out. ‘More mouths to feed could leave us less time to focus on our little venture.’
Matron’s expression remained cold and haughty. ‘I’m sure they won’t send evacuees here,’ she announced, as if she herself were in charge of war operations in Europe. ‘We’re too far north to be of interest to anybody. Anyway,’ she insisted, ‘the Home is permanently full of pregnant women and squawking babies. Given the choice between overcrowded Mary Vale and a large sheep farm in Wales, most evacuees, I’m sure, would opt for the latter.’
‘Don’t count your chickens, Maud. Mary Vale could be requisitioned by the government and turned into a training centre. You could lose your job and all our plans could go up in smoke.’
Matron’s face set hard as concrete. ‘We’ll see about that!’ she declared.
In London, Stan was walking home deep in thought. As Gloria had predicted, he’d wasted no time in signing up. Quickening his pace, he hurried along the familiar Battersea streets; he needed to tell his wife what he’d done before an official letter from the War Office dropped through his letterbox. But the first thing Stan saw when he got home was an official-looking letter propped up on the mantelpiece. Catching a glimpse of Robin playing happily in the back garden with a friend from across the way, Stan was relieved to have the opportunity to talk in private to Gloria.
‘I always suspected that you might be the first man in London to sign up,’ Gloria said in a hurt voice. ‘But I didn’t ever think you’d go behind my back,’ she added tearfully.
Full of guilt, yet determined to do the right thing, Stan started to explain himself to his wife. ‘The Royal Army Service Corps urgently need experienced drivers to transport vital equipment to the Front Line – food and men, ammunition, tanks, medical equipment and what have you. I’m sorr
y, sweetheart,’ he gulped. ‘I’ve joined up along with half the men from the bus depot.’
‘I know you, Stan,’ Gloria said, as she slumped on to a kitchen chair. ‘You’d die for your country and I love you for your loyalty, but I’m frightened,’ she burst out. ‘What with the baby’ – she laid a protective hand on her tummy, which was quite a considerable size these days – ‘and Robin, how will we cope without you?’
Across the table Stan clasped his wife’s hand. ‘I know, love, we’re all frightened, and quite rightly so too.’
Seeing his wife so terrified and sad broke Stan’s heart. Hurrying to her side, he kissed away her tears. ‘I’m sorry, darlin’,’ he murmured into her glorious, long, dark hair. ‘I have to do my duty.’
Clinging on to her husband, Gloria wondered how many women and young girls were in the same emotional turmoil as she was. Of course he had to fight for his country – it was the right thing to do – but why so soon, why now?
Drawing away from her, Stan gave his wife a long, level look. ‘Promise me you won’t back out of leaving London when the time comes?’ he whispered.
Gloria held her handsome husband’s hand. ‘When have I ever broken a promise to you, Stan?’
He shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘I told you I’d go, and I will,’ she concluded, then burst into tears all over again.
With the start of the war, petrol was rationed and suddenly there were sandbags everywhere, and everybody had a gas mask with strict instructions not to leave home without it. Morale, which had been robust, began to falter with the devastating news of the slaughter of 66,000 people in Poland when it collapsed to Hitler’s armies. This was rapidly followed by news closer to home: the sinking of HMS Royal Oak hit the nation hard. The battleship, part of the British Home Fleet in Orkney’s Scapa Flow, was sunk on a night raid. The enemy’s U-boat had cunningly threaded its way through anti-submarine defences and, after firing off torpedoes, the battleship went down in just two minutes, taking all 833 officers and men on board with her.
There was a feeling that the Germans were everywhere, creeping closer and closer, making their way along the coast, waiting to pounce and invade. The new, spooky sound of air-raid sirens practising in anticipation of enemy attack made Gloria’s skin crawl, and the heart-breaking pictures of evacuees in the daily papers brought tears to her eyes.
Gloria’s friends were constantly urging her to choose a safe home out of London for her and her son. ‘If you don’t make a decision soon, you might be forced to separate,’ one friend warned. ‘It would be awful if you and Robin were evacuated to different parts of England.’
Starting to panic, Gloria decided that she was going to jump before she was pushed. Returning to the local library, she scoured through some up-to-date catalogues and registers and spotted a home called Mary Vale, which she immediately liked the look of. Quickly jotting down the details in her little notebook, Gloria made contact with the Home right away. On paper it looked better than most; she just hoped they had room for one more pregnant woman and her young son too.
It wasn’t long before Gloria got a reply from the Reverend Mother.
‘You and your young son will be our first evacuees at Mary Vale,’ she said in her letter. ‘You are most welcome, and we pray you’ll be happy with us.’
Now that they’d come to terms with one another’s decision, Gloria and Stan felt there was less tension in the air, but both dreaded the moment of parting. They tried to stay focused on practical details, in Gloria’s case washing, mending, ironing and packing Stan’s civvy clothes, which would soon be replaced by a soldier’s uniform once he arrived at his training centre outside London. As Gloria packed her husband’s case, she struggled to fight back tears.
‘I can’t tell you the relief I feel now that I know you and Robin have got a safe place miles away from London to go to,’ Stan said gratefully.
When the moment of parting finally came, Gloria and Robin accompanied Stan to the bus stop, where Robin broke down and wailed, ‘Can I come with you, Dad?’
Luckily for Stan, the bus loomed up before he broke down and wept too.
‘Look after Mum,’ he said in a choked voice; then, after hugging his son, he grabbed hold of Gloria, whom he clung on to.
‘I love you both so much,’ he said in a voice that was choked with emotion.
Knowing she had to stay strong, Gloria said gently, ‘Get on the bus, love – you don’t want to miss it.’
Reluctantly releasing her, Stan slung his bag over his shoulder and hopped on to the platform. ‘Take care of our baby!’ he cried, as the bus pulled away.
‘Bye, Dad!’ Robin called. ‘Come back soon!’
‘I love you, Stan,’ Gloria whispered, as the bus turned the corner and her husband disappeared from sight.
With Stan gone, the house felt sad and empty; memories rattled in every corner and Gloria knew she was ready to leave London. As she tidied up before their departure, she prayed that when she returned to Battersea her home would still be standing and not bombed to a pile of rubble. After locking up for the last time, she took hold of Robin’s hand and, with her free hand, she picked up her heavy suitcase. Blinded by tears, she gave her precious home one last, lingering look before she turned her back on the life she’d lived as a wife and a mother in London and set off for the North of England, where she hoped she and her son would find sanctuary.
18. Lady Daphne
Nobody could quite believe their eyes when Daphne Wallace swanned into Mary Vale like a ship in full sail. Her father, ensconced with Sir Percival in Matron’s office for well over an hour, had left his wife and daughter in Matron’s tender care and nobody could doubt from the smile that wreathed Matron’s normally formidable face that she was in her element. As the Wallace party toured the Home, the girls looked in amazement at the new arrival: here was no shy, shamed, wilting violet. Tall and rangy, with cropped brown hair, gappy front teeth and sharp brown eyes, she strode like a man, shifting the weight of her belly as she moved briskly about the Home with her mother, Lady Wallace, who had a voice that could easily have shattered crystal.
‘I do apologize for the undignified haste of our arrival, Matron,’ she said, as her eyes swept in a peremptory way around the delivery room. ‘We really had no choice, given the circumstances,’ she added, throwing her daughter a disapproving look.
‘I told Papa I wouldn’t stay in the ghastly place you sent me to,’ Daphne snapped. ‘You wouldn’t listen, so what else was I to do but leave?’
‘In the dead of night, sneaking away like a felon,’ her mother retorted.
‘It was the only time I could get out of the blasted building,’ Daphne remonstrated.
Lady Wallace threw a shuddering glance at her daughter’s vast tummy. ‘And arriving home in that dreadful condition.’
‘You should have thought of the consequences before you locked me up in that prison of a home!’ Daphne grumbled.
Seeing the pair of them (who were so like each other in temperament) on the point of exploding, or, worse still, scratching each other’s eyes out, Matron stepped in. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea, in the garden?’ she suggested, thinking it might be a good idea to get mother and daughter out of the Home and away from the goggling girls they would come across.
‘That would be most kind,’ Lady Wallace replied. After giving the delivery room a final glance, she said with another shudder, ‘I think I’ve seen quite enough.’
As the three of them marched through the large entrance hall, Daphne barked, ‘Where exactly is my room?’
In the privacy of the garden Matron explained that Daphne’s room was presently being prepared for her. ‘It’s a single room with a sea view,’ she told her.
It was, in fact, the single room that scheming Olive had just vacated; she and Maureen, keen to pocket the final payment from Matron, had left Mary Vale just as soon as they could after giving birth. Instructed by Matron, Dr Jones had signed them off as hale and hearty
and they’d left the Home within a week of each other, neither with any regret that their scandalous lies had brought about Father Benedict’s tragic downfall.
‘I don’t mind where you stable me,’ Daphne told Matron. ‘With a bit of luck I’ll be here only a month, then I’ll be back in the saddle,’ she said with a cheerful snort.
Her mother cringed at her daughter’s crass expression. ‘I don’t think so!’ she vehemently protested.
Ignoring her mother, Daphne cheerfully crashed on. ‘Bad luck giving birth bang in the middle of the hunting season!’ she exclaimed. ‘Still, I should get a sniff of the hounds before the season ends,’ she said with an optimistic beam.
‘If it weren’t for the wretched hunting season, you wouldn’t be in the mess you’re in now,’ Lady Wallace sniped.
Sensing an almighty row was about to explode, Matron hurriedly ferried the visitors out of the garden and into her office, but not before popping into the kitchen to demand tea for three in her office now!
In the cool, capacious kitchen pantry Shirley was very carefully wiping down the deep shelves stacked with neatly labelled jams, pickles and chutneys, not to mention bottled blackberries, plums, cherries, and red and black currants, whose richly coloured juices glowed like little stained-glass windows. When she heard Matron’s imperious bark outside, her heart skipped a beat. ‘What does the old witch want now?’ she wondered.
Like a sniper coming up for air, Shirley cautiously waited a few minutes before popping her head around the pantry door. ‘Has she gone?’ she whispered to Sister Mary Paul.
The nun, who never spoke an unkind word about anybody, simply rolled her eyes. ‘She wants tea for three now!’ she said, repeating Matron’s exact words.
‘Oh, Sister, don’t go asking me to take it into her. I nearly dropped the lot last time,’ Shirley implored.
Sister Mary Paul raised her hands, sticky with pastry dough, in the air. ‘Look at me, child! she exclaimed. ‘I’m up to mi elbows in pastry.’
