Trio

Part Two: Adoption

Joan Lilian

Pamela

Lilian

After the third miscarriage the doctors had advised against trying for any more babies. Lilian Gough had to see Mr Russell at St Mary’s. He was very nice but they didn’t really know why some women had her problem and couldn’t carry to full term. But he was clear that there was little hope of the situation improving. She had expected him to say that. Well, more or less, but she had hidden a tiny ray of hope that she would be proved wrong.

There was also the vexed question of sex. Blushing like a beetroot, she had tried to broach the subject. ‘But my husband, that side of things…’ Wanting the ground to swallow her up. Pushing her tortoiseshell glasses back up her nose.

‘There are devices…’

‘We’re Catholic,’ she said in a rush.

‘Ah!’

‘And the rhythm method, well, we got caught out like that the first time.’ Her cheeks blazed. She fiddled with the strap of her bag. She wished she’d left her long, light-brown hair down instead of putting it up in a chignon, then she’d have been able to hide behind it.

‘It’s not reliable,’ Mr Russell said crisply, ‘and there seem to be several versions doing the rounds. You may need to consult your priest or whoever, but any further pregnancies would be extremely ill-advised. They would put your health in jeopardy as well as almost inevitably resulting in miscarriage.’

She nodded.

So that was it.

She explained it all to Peter when he got in from work. He said he would talk to Father Flanagan but they could hardly expect a special dispensation. A sin was a sin, after all, and the Pope was clear about interfering with mother nature. He did talk to the priest but never told Lilian about it beyond saying he’d got nowhere with the him.

Two months later she first suggested adoption.

‘No,’ Peter shook his head.

‘But why?’ She had expected him to hesitate but not such immediate opposition.

‘It’s not the same. You don’t know where they’re from, what’s in the blood. Could be anything in the background.’

She frowned, uncertain where his fears came from. ‘They are babies Peter. If you bring them up the proper way…’

‘No, Lilian.’ He reached for her hand. ‘This may be what God has chosen for us.’

Childlessness? Sterility? She pushed his hand away. ‘No.’

He could be stubborn, well so could she. If adoption was the only way to have a baby then that’s what they would do. Over the next year she bided her time. Worked on him. She put everything she could into their home. She cosseted him and made the very best of herself. She spent hours with her friends recreating the latest Paris fashions and Hollywood looks. She used make-up to emphasise her green eyes, add to the slight slant that gave her a feline look. She used the new foam rollers to create curly tendrils of hair that looked as if they’d escaped from her bun. She plucked her eyebrows and bought lipstick and nail varnish to match. She got new glasses, a frame that swept up at the corners.

She collected a range of Cordon Bleu cookery magazines and made new dishes. She tried out the latest foods on him, making spaghetti bolognese and risotto.

She tried to make him happy but the problem with sex soured everything. He would kiss her and she would feel his arousal but he would pull away, grab his coat and set off walking. What had been a vital part of their marriage was now a sin. Peter became increasingly irritable and withdrawn. She couldn’t bear it. She missed his love and his touch.

She mastered the courage to go herself to the new priest who had recently joined the parish alongside Father Flanagan.

She explained the difficulty to him in a rush of words, staring at her hands to spare him embarrassment.

He said he would pray on the matter and advise her again. She went back a week later. The man said it was a very difficult problem. As a married couple, God’s desire was to see a fruitful union. The institution of marriage was there as a home for the family, and sexual relations within matrimony were for the express purposes of procreation.

She knew all that. She nodded and waited to see if there was more. She needed a loophole. The priest talked about the rhythm method – that was acceptable in the Church’s eyes. She pointed out that it had failed them and they dared not risk another failure.

‘Another option -’ he cleared his throat – ‘would be coitus interruptus. Did she understand?’

‘Yes, but wouldn’t that be wrong, Father, because there’d be no chance of babies?’ At least with the rhythm method it was like Russian Roulette – the unreliability meant babies got made.

‘I’d be misleading you to say the Church would approve of such behavior. I’m afraid it would be up to your own conscience. God has sent you a challenge, Mrs Gough. It may be that through meeting it you can enter a state of true grace.’

She clenched her teeth at the platitudes. She was flesh and blood. She wanted her marriage back and she wanted a family. How could that be so wrong?

One night when Peter had been out to the pub with his friends she ambushed him. Her period had just finished and she hoped it would be safe. She waited in bed and when he climbed in she reached for him. She kissed him. ‘Love me Peter, please, love me.’

‘But what about…’

‘Pull it out, before, you know…’

She was relying on the hope that the drinks he’d had would weaken his resistance. And they had.

It was wonderful.

Afterwards, while he slept, she thought of a solution. If she had her womb removed, then there would be no risk of pregnancy. Peter might still have to face the problem of wasting his seed but she was no longer prepared to feel guilty. She couldn’t have his children but she would damn well have his love. If that made her a bad Catholic, so be it.

She went back to Mr Russell, who hemmed and hawed but eventually accepted that a hysterectomy would remove the risk of further complicated pregnancies.

And once she was over that her new campaign began in earnest. The plan to adopt.

Lilian had been physically sick the morning that the social worker called. A mouthful of cornflakes and her stomach, which had broiled in acid anxiety all night rebelled. Peter had managed to get the morning off work but his presence made her even more wound up. She rinsed her mouth with water and toured the rooms for the umpteenth time. All tidy. Could it be too tidy? The social worker might think they’d be too fussy to have a child messing up the house. Oh, God.

‘She’s here,’ Peter called.

Lilian practically fell downstairs, pulled the door open hard and greeted Mrs Jenkins with a fixed smile. Her eye was twitching and she felt like something out of a Jerry Lewis slapstick film.

‘Come in, please.’ She couldn’t work out how to wipe the stupid grin from her face without it looking peculiar, so she covered her mouth with her hand and tried to relax her lips.

They sat in the dining room, at the mahogany table that had been her mother’s. Mrs Jenkins had two sets of forms to fill in and one to leave with them. Questions she asked related to all the facts and figures of their situation. Age, health, occupation, income, family in the area.

‘Any existing children?’

‘No.’

‘Reasons for adopting.’

They explained.

‘You’d want a baby, then?’

‘Oh, yes. As young as possible.’

They had to supply references.

Then Mrs Jenkins wanted to see round the house.

‘This would be the nursery,’ Lilian heard herself saying, ‘right next to our room. We haven’t decorated yet, but we will do, of course.’

Before she left, Mrs Jenkins gave a speech. Adopting a child was a legal act, governed by the law. They should be fully committed before going any further. In rare cases if there was a problem with a placement then the social work department would try to assist, but that was exceptional and once they were approved and a child was placed with them they would have all the duties and responsibilities for the care of that child. Exactly as with natural parents. There would be no allowance or payment of any sort. Her report would be put forward and they were to fill in and return the form she had left them. The panel would meet to decide whether to approve their application.

Lilian kept nodding throughout it, hoping that wearing her glasses and the way she’d put her hair up would make her seem serious but not too frumpish.

If they were approved, the social worker concluded, their names would go forward to the Catholic Children’s Rescue Society. Did they understand? Had they any questions?

When she had gone, Lilian sat heavily on the couch. ‘She hated us.’

‘She didn’t, they have to be formal about it.’ Peter stood by the door.

‘I could tell, Peter. She thought I was too nervy, all that stuff about my health and my operation. And she turned up her nose when you said you were an engineer. They’ll pick the richest people, the professionals, first.’ She bit her knuckles, trying to bite back the tears that threatened.

‘Lilian.’ He moved to sit next to her. ‘There are hundreds and hundreds of babies waiting for a home. You heard Father Flanagan last month, imploring people to come forward. We’ve a decent house, I’ve a steady job, you don’t have to go out to work – that’s all that matters. It’ll be all right.’ He put his hand round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

Lilian nodded, craving reassurance but terrified that this final chance to have a child might be snatched from her. And she didn’t think she could bear that. She didn’t know how she would go on living if she couldn’t have a baby.

Lilian couldn’t ring Peter at work with the news. Only something urgent, like a death in the close family, was permitted to interrupt him on the works floor. Instead she paced the house, smoked too many cigarettes and sorted all the junk from the spare room ready to shift into the attic.

When he arrived home she met him in the hall. She was covered in a layer of grime and wearing an old shirt of his over her messy slacks.

‘What’s going on?’

‘They’ve approved us!’ she yelled. ‘For the adoption!’ A sudden rush of tears disconcerted her but she laughed through them. ‘Mrs Jenkins called this morning.’

‘Good.’ He nodded his head. ‘Good.’ And he smiled and drew her to him. ‘Calls for a drink, I think. Martini?’

‘Yes. And she said we may be contacted quite soon.’

They went through to the dining room and Peter made drinks. She chattered on, wanting to share every word of the phone call with Mrs Jenkins. She followed him through to get ice and back again still talking. She took a swig from her glass. ‘And we’ll need a washing machine.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘All the nappies. There won’t be much else to buy. Our families will chip in – they’ll spoil it rotten.’

He looked uncomfortable, glanced away. ‘Yours might.’

She took another drink. She didn’t want this to mar their happiness. ‘Once we’ve a baby, Peter, they’ll come round surely. They’re just disappointed for us. I suppose they think if you’d married someone else…’ She faltered. ‘They blame me, I know that. Because I can’t carry them.’

‘Lilian, don’t.’ He moved closer.

‘Yes, we’ll celebrate. It’s good news, the best. And those that don’t like it can lump it. A toast.’ She held out her glass. He raised his. ‘Our baby.’

‘Our baby.’

They drank. ‘Let’s get fish and chips,’ Lilian said.

‘And drink Martinis.’

‘And get sozzled. And clear the spare-room stuff away.’

He looked at her. ‘I’ve a better idea.’

‘I love you.’ She looked at his dark, wavy hair and the eyes that were almost black. He needed to shave, five o’clock shadows ringed his mouth and chin. He shaved twice a day.

He kissed her.

‘Ow. Like sandpaper.’

‘Refresh your glass, Madam?’

She winked at him and held it out. A moment’s doubt swirled within her. What if she didn’t love the child? What if the baby got sick and died? What if Peter found himself agreeing with his family? She lit a cigarette. Mother of God, give me strength, she prayed. It’s going to be wonderful. We’re going to have a baby.

A month later, Peter was arriving home late. He’d been delayed because Mr Ince had wanted to see him. He had felt a rush of hope at the summons and he’d been right. He was to be promoted to develop new production methods throughout the region. It would mean travelling, to visit their factories in Wakefield, Sheffield, Leeds and Hull. An extra five hundred a year and a company car. He was proud. He’d worked his guts out for this. He’d just stepped in the door when the telephone began to ring. He picked it up.

‘Mr Gough? Sister Monica at St Ann’s here. I have some good news.’

He was flustered. ‘Oh, yes, Sister – right-o, erm… you better speak to Lilian.’ Lilian was coming through from the kitchen having heard the phone. ‘Sister Monica,’ he said, holding out the receiver.

Her face blanched and she swallowed quickly. She blinked several times and took the phone from him.

‘Hello, Sister.’

‘Mrs Gough, I have some lovely news. We have a little girl here and I wondered if you and your husband would like to come and see her.’

‘Oh!’ a swirl of disappointment edged her excitement. ‘We’d hoped for a boy first, Sister.’ She glanced at Peter, who shrugged his shoulders.

‘Would you like to have a think about it and call me back?’

‘Yes.’

‘And don’t be worrying now. There’s no hurry and I’m sure it won’t be long until there’s a boy for you, if that’s what you’ve set your hearts on.’

‘Thank you.’

She put the phone down, her forehead creased and her hand shaking. ‘Now what do we do? It’s a girl.’

‘What did she say?’ Peter hung up his sports coat.

Lilian told him.

‘So it’s up to us.’

‘I know you’d like a boy,’ she said, ‘but…’

‘Let’s sit down.’

Once they were seated on the sofa in the lounge he said. ‘I thought you did too?’

‘I did. But now… I don’t know how to explain,’ she took off her glasses and rubbed the lenses on the corner of her blouse.

‘You don’t want to wait?’

‘It’s not that. She said it wouldn’t be long before there’d be a boy available. It’s more, well… this is random, isn’t it, the luck of the draw. Like it would be if… if we were having one ourselves. We wouldn’t get to choose. Do you see?’

‘Fate? Down to chance?’

‘I mean, we might not like her anyway. If I saw her and felt, I don’t know… nothing, then I’d… well, I’d think about it very hard. Have you got a cigarette?’

Peter lit two cigarettes and handed one to her.

‘Do you feel very strongly about a boy?’ she asked him.

He thought for a moment. ‘I would like a son, someone to carry on the name. But it doesn’t have to be the first.’

She widened her eyes, the green glinting at him.

‘Well, we may want to do it again,’ he said. ‘People do. Look at the Carters, they’ve got five.’

‘I don’t want five. Two would be nice. One of each. Oh -’ she flung back her head – ‘I just want a baby, Peter. I want to see her. I don’t want to say no.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll see her, see what she’s like.’

She exhaled loudly. ‘Oh, thank you!’ She hugged him.

‘Red-letter day.’

‘Yes.’

‘In more ways than one.’

‘What?’ She straightened up and turned to him.

‘Mr Ince called me in. He’s giving me the regional job.’

‘Oh, Peter!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘That's marvellous. Why didn’t you say?’

‘I didn’t get a chance, did I?’

‘Oh, I knew he’d give you it! Congratulations.’

‘And now I am going to get out of these clothes. Do you want to call Matron back?’

‘Yes.’

‘It'll have to be Saturday or Sunday.’

‘I know.’

He took her hand and squeezed it. She looked alive with excitement again. After the tragedy of the first miscarriage it had been a horrific struggle to balance optimism and dread when Lilian got pregnant the second and then the third time. It was such a relief now to be talking about a baby without the shadow of miscarriage hovering over them. It all felt so simple in comparison.

‘Go and ring then,’ he said.

Lilian held the baby in her arms. She knew this would be her daughter. She touched a small foot encased in a lace bootee. The nun was murmuring about how beautiful she was, with the curls of dark hair and such a sweet face. Lilian knew this would be her daughter, her child, and in the same moment she faced the realisation that she would never bear a child. This baby would not share her blood, her looks, her nature, her background. She would never look at this child and see herself looking back, that particular shade of green in her eyes. She felt an immense sadness soaking through her, despair and bitter grief mingling with the love and hope that the child in her arms brought.

Joan

Carnaby Street was her favourite place. London was so different from Manchester. Things were happening here. Young people everywhere, parading the latest fashions, having fun. Jobs were there for the asking, if your boss got up your nose you could just walk away, there was always something else available. Joan had already had two. The first in a record shop, a place she loved because she could hear all the latest records, but the manager had wandering hands and bad breath and she got sick of his attentions.

There were plenty of dishy young men in London looking for a good time, money in their pockets. She got countless invitations but she turned them all down. She still felt uncomfortable about what had happened. She didn't want anyone to know she had stretch marks, silvery threads that meandered across her belly, and although she sometimes felt aroused she had no desire to sleep with anyone. The woman who had cavorted on desks with Duncan and then gone home and pleasured herself was a stranger. Like a flickering home movie from someone else’s life; she had withered and died as Joan’s baby had grown and been born. Occasionally Joan wondered whether she would ever want to do the normal things again. Settle down, get married, have a family. It all seemed so stuffy, really.

Her friend Frances had got married and moved to the outer suburbs with her new husband. Frances had given up work and become a full-time housewife. Joan couldn’t imagine it. Be like being buried alive.

Her second job was with a record company. They needed someone to run the office. The place was crazy, an endless stream of hopeful youngsters ringing up or turning up, climbing the rickety staircase to the two-room let in a Soho backstreet, clutching song sheets or guitars or letters from the school music teacher. The place was owned by Roger, who had minor connections to royalty and no need to make any money from his hobby. He talked endlessly about the new sound, about rivaling the Shadows, about platinum discs and breaking America. As it was, the only success the outfit had was with compilations of ballads, Russ Conway style.

Joan had her black hair cut short, a stylish cut with a straight fringe. She bought false eyelashes and practically glued her eyes shut on the first attempt. She got dark eye make-up and white lipstick at Biba and saved from her wages to get a second-hand Singer sewing machine. All the dresses in vogue were simple shapes. She ran up an A-line in geometric material from the market and a dress with the empire bust line in gorgeous purple paisley for a fraction of the cost.

Roger liked her to look groovy, as he put it, never mind that half their clients were still wearing what their parents wore. She would give an impression of being really trendy and then the kids would go in and see Roger in his lair. After Joan had been there a month she had created some sort of filing system to show who they had seen and what, if anything, had been agreed. She often had to pester Roger to find out. And catch him straight after an act had left. He was irritatingly absent-minded.

Roger invited her to one of his parties. He had a huge house near Hampstead Heath and he boasted that the parties went on all weekend, day and night. He paid for caterers and cleaners and even people to serve drinks. With all that, Joan couldn’t see why on earth he bothered with his little record label.

When she got there she didn’t know what to do with herself. She smoked too much and drank too much and found herself outside by the terrace being sick behind a hydrangea bush. She fell asleep there. The cold woke her and she went exploring. The house was huge and, with music blaring from all corners and psychedelic lighting, she felt like she’d walked into someone’s bad dream. People were petting on the stairs and dancing in one room to a live group who were hopelessly off key. Everyone seemed to be smoking reefers or popping pills. She opened one door and was shocked to see a bed covered with naked people. Not just one couple but several. A sea of breasts and pubic hair. A man’s willy. She shut the door hurriedly, her cheeks aflame. She felt uncomfortable and walked home.

When Roger had his next party she wondered whether to go or not but he told her there were some business contacts there he wanted her to meet. He introduced her to Lena. Lena was working in Soho, singing in a nightclub not far from the office. Although her English was very good she had a thick German accent and Joan had to concentrate hard to make out the sense. She was talking about Roger and how he had promised her some sort of record deal. They hoped to make a record soon.

‘Have you written it?’ Joan asked.

‘No,’ Lena threw back her head and laughed. She had bronze skin and her hair was streaked with gold and honey. She had very pale grey eyes. Joan thought she could have been a model or a film star if the singing didn’t work out.

‘Roger is the writer,’ Lena said.

Joan pulled a face.

‘You think it’s a problem? No good?’

Joan shrugged. ‘You’d be better off doing it yourself.’

‘No. I can sing, but writing? Pouff!’ she waved her hands in dismissal. ‘What is wrong with Roger doing it?’

‘First of all, it’ll take him forever, and then it will be…’ she leaned close and enunciated carefully, ‘dull, square, boring.’ She had heard his songs and tried to think of comments that wouldn’t get her sacked.

‘Joan, you write me a song.’

‘But I’ve never…’

‘If you don’t, I’ll have to do Roger’s. Please?’

‘He wouldn’t like it.’

‘We’ll pick a name for you, he won’t know.’ Lena was animated, her face alight with the plan. ‘What would you like to be called?’

‘I can’t…’ She protested.

‘Joan -’ Lena grabbed her hands – ‘my friend, please. Just try, promise you’ll try.’ She stared at Joan, an open look to her, eyes dancing, a smile stretching her lips. ‘Please?’

‘I’ll try. But it might be rubbish.’

‘You’ll try?’

‘Yes.’

Lena pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. Joan laughed with surprise.

‘And what name?’

The question blew Joan straight back to St Ann’s, to the registrar documenting the birth. And what name? Laboriously writing with a thick fountain pen. Her name and address, a careful line across the section for the father’s details, and then, pen poised, he turned his shiny round face to her and peered over his glasses. And what name? Nearly two years ago now.

‘Joan?’ Lena nudged her elbow. ‘You OK?’

‘Day dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And she tried to force her smile into her eyes too.

Lilian

‘And this is Pamela,’ Peter announced, lifting up the carrycot. ‘Pamela Mary Gough.’

‘She’s tiny,’ his mother observed. She sounded pleasant enough but Lilian noticed that she made no move to touch her first grandchild. Frightened of waking her, or something else?

‘Why don’t you get settled and I’ll tell Bernard you’re here. Kettle’s on.’ She hurried away and Lilian took off her jacket and took it out to the pegs in the hall. She could hear Alicia calling Bernard in from the garden. He made models in his shed. Planes and boats, no – ships. He got upset if you called them boats. His fine attention to detail and his skills at his hobby went hand in hand with a complete lack of skills and gross insensitivity where people were concerned.

‘Hrrumph!’ had been his greeting when Peter first took her home. He was an electrician by trade, with his own business. Though Lilian often wondered how his customers coped with his offhand manner. The pair of them had never had a conversation. She dreaded these visits, Peter less so, though he readily acknowledged that his father was miserable company and that her family were more easy-going. ‘You and Sally are chatterboxes,’ he joked. ‘You wouldn’t notice if someone was mealy-mouthed, because you’d be talking nineteen to the dozen.’

Lilian wondered how much religion came into it. The Goughs were Protestants – Methodists, a creed that shunned pomp and circumstance, frowned on drink and, it seemed to Lilian, were uncomfortable with any emotional expression too. They could sing, though. Sang her lot out of church at the wedding. Peter had converted to become a Catholic. He’d studied and promised to follow the faith and now here she was encouraging him to go against the dogma. But the alternative was unbearable.

Peter had been an only child. His mother had never spoken about whether that was by choice. Lilian had a sister, Sally. They had quarrelled a lot as children but were close now they’d grown up and their parents were gone. Lilian had always thought three children would be a nice number. Three. Three miscarriages she’d had. And each time Peter’s father had been too stiff and awkward to even refer to it. Had hardly come near her while she was there, as though what she had was contagious.

‘It’s just his way,’ Peter defended him. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’

And now there was Pamela?

Bernard appeared for lunch and the four of them settled to eat. Roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, braised red cabbage, peas and carrots and thick gravy. It was seventy-eight degrees outside but the Sunday roast was made come hell or high water.

Peter talked about his promotion and the work he was doing in Sheffield. His mother chucked in the odd comment. An occasional nod or grunt from Bernard the only indication he was listening. No one mentioned Pamela. Lilian longed for her to wake up so she could tend to her and show her off. After apricot crumble and custard she helped Alicia wash up. Lilian talked about Pamela for a while – how she was a slow feeder and kept nodding off on the bottle. She had to tickle her feet to keep her awake sometimes. That she loved her bath and Peter sometimes bathed her at the weekends. But Alicia’s response was so muted Lilian felt like she was talking to herself.

When Pamela’s sudden, gutsy yell broke through the silence she put down the tea towel with relief.

Peter got his mother to warm the bottle while Lilian rocked Pamela. They had had her twelve days and every time Lilian looked at her she got a rush inside, her heart felt swollen as though it was bruised with emotion. There were moments when the child’s vulnerability appalled her. Such tiny bones, the soft dips on her head where the fontanelles were yet to join, the translucent skin on her eyelids, soft pale fingernails. If she dropped her, hurt her… the pictures frightened her. Why did she think like that? She loved Pamela. She was her mother. She would do anything to keep her safe. So why did she have these flashes, awful images like nightmares. Blood and guilt. There was something wrong with her. You couldn’t tell anyone about thoughts like that. They’d lock you up in Springfield or Prestwich, chuck away the key.

Peter handed her the bottle. The room was cool and once Pamela had started to feed it was peaceful. She looked out towards the small garden. It was full of roses. They had no lawn, only paving, between the rose beds. In the summer the roses looked showy, hot colours and big blooms. It was an adult’s garden, all those thorns. No place for a child to play. What did it matter? Pamela would never come here to stay with Granny Gough. Her throat constricted, anger and sadness together. The baby spluttered and Lilian raised her upright and patted her back. The rich burp made Lilian giggle. ‘Lovely manners,’ she whispered, and kissed the baby’s forehead. Pamela’s fist curled round a strand of her hair. She pulled back, gently loosening the grip. When she offered her the bottle again, Pamela turned away from the teat.

Perhaps Alicia was just shy? No daughter herself, years since she’s been around a baby. Not sure how to act with us?

‘Let’s go see.’

She found Peter and his mother in the dining room. He was engrossed in the paper and she was studying the crossword puzzle. Bernard would be back in his shed.

‘Hello.’ She stood beside him. He put the paper down, held his arms out to Pamela.

‘I thought you might like a hold,’ she turned to Alicia. ‘She’s happy now, had her feed.’

‘Oh, er… yes.’ Alicia looked dismayed, her mouth twitching and eyes blinking. Lilian handed her the child before she could demur, passing her the muslin square too, in case Pamela possetted.

Alicia held the child on her lap, a picture of uncomfortable tension. She didn’t attempt to communicate with the baby but spoke to Peter. ‘And you’ve got a new car?’

It took only thirty seconds for Pamela to twist and begin to whimper. Alicia looked helplessly at Lilian, who rescued her daughter.

She doesn’t care. She swung her toffee-coloured hair out of the way and nestled the infant against her shoulder. She’d have more affection if we’d bought a bloody dog. She decided then that she would never come again. Blast tradition. She would not subject her wonderful, brilliant new daughter to these loveless afternoons of stifling boredom. If Peter wished to come, he could come alone. And if his parents ever woke up and realised just exactly what they were missing, then they could damn well come and see Pamela and Lilian in their own house.

Joan

‘It’s perfect,’ Lena pronounced. ‘I love you!’ She leapt across the carpet and planted a kiss on Joan’s head. ‘Do it again, the chorus.’

‘Walk my way,’ Joan sang in a breathy voice and picked the chords out on the guitar. ‘Make my day. You can take what you need but you’re never going to take this away. Oh, baby, walk my way.’

When she had finished Lena sang the song all the way through, her voice rich and full.

‘Wonderful. It needs strings, do you think? Or maybe a really moody sax? You're so clever, Joan. I knew you could do it. Tonight we celebrate.’

Joan laughed at her friend’s exuberance. Lena wasn’t all stuffy and bossy like you heard Germans were. She was like a child. Full of life and always excited about something.

‘You’re working tonight,’ Joan pointed out.

‘After.’

‘Some of us sleep at night.’

‘This is a special day. What do you call it – a letter day?’

‘Red-letter day.’

‘So?’ She cocked her head, smiling as ever.

‘OK.’

‘Good. Ooh, wait till Roger hears this. Shall we tell him it’s your song?’

‘No. Only if it’s a hit.’

‘When it’s a hit. It has to be. Forget Doris Day, Connie Francis, here comes Lena!’

Joan didn’t enjoy waiting in the club for Lena. It was a seedy place, noisy and thick with smoke. Lena’s act provided background but few of the patrons paid much attention, they were here for the exotic dancers who topped the bill. Joan worried that someone would think she was a working girl, a hostess who could be approached. She sat at a small table near to the toilets and avoided any eye contact. She drank her Martini too quickly and sat twiddling her glass waiting for Lena to finish. When Lena swept up to her table Joan felt she’d been rescued.

‘Come on.’ Lena pulled her shoulder bag over her white mac. ‘You hungry?’

‘Now?’

‘You English! In bed by ten, tea at five. You never grow up.’

They bought fish and chips from the corner and ate as they walked.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Club I know.’

Joan groaned. ‘Another dive?’

‘No, you’ll like it. Come on, live dangerously.’

She followed Lena down a side street. A wooden sign proclaimed the Zebra Club. They went down steep basement steps to a plain door. Inside there was a large room crammed with dancers. About half of them were coloured. There had been places in Manchester where the West Indians went, but Joan would never have dreamed of going there. This seemed more mixed. On a small stage a trio were playing. At the tiny bar Lena bought drinks. Joan was aware of some of the men looking their way. Well, she thought, if Lena found a friend she should have just enough for a taxi home, if she was careful.

After the first drink Joan found herself relaxing. The music was good, quite varied too. They played some jazz and calypso-type songs with a strong beat. Lena insisted on dancing and got Joan up too. Some of the movements the black couples were doing were quite astonishing but no one seemed to mind and the atmosphere was fun. When Lena caught her yawning she dragged her to the ladies’.

‘Here.’ She took a couple of yellow capsules from her pocket.

Joan shook her head.

‘Stop you being tired.’ Lena put one in her mouth and bent to drink from the tap. ‘They’re great, really. Make you feel like you’re full of champagne.’

Joan smiled.

‘Try one.’

She might as well. Everyone else liked them. And it would be nice to have a bit more energy.

She took the pill and drank from the tap.

Hours later, almost four in the morning and in paroxysms of giggles the two wove their way, arm in arm, to Lena’s flat.

It too was downstairs, a damp basement with a powerful smell of mildew and fungus on the ceilings. There was a main room with a tiny kitchen area in one corner behind a curtain. The toilet and washbasin were outside, in a small yard crammed with broken furniture. In the room Lena had a single bed, a small wooden table and two stools, an armchair that had seen better days and a wardrobe with a broken door. She had brightened the place up by putting multicolored crocheted blankets over the chair and bed. Posters adorned the walls: Adam Faith and Elvis.

Joan was still tittering and then she couldn’t remember why they’d been laughing and that seemed even funnier. She collapsed on the bed, kicking off her shoes. Lena was singing as she switched on a lamp and the electric fire. She put a stack of records on the dansette in the corner. The strains of ‘Apache’ by The Shadows filled the room.

Joan felt the bed bounce as Lena sat beside her. She felt a hand brush her fringe aside. Opened her eyes. Lena smiling, warm lips, her hair falling forward. Bending down. Lips against hers, touching her own, the faint stickiness of lipstick. Joan’s giggles quietened. Her thoughts were scrambling, trying to run without legs. No, wrong, wicked. Mustn’t. But she didn't move.

Lena sat up. Joan’s lips were empty. A look passed between them. Lena’s eyes like silver, swimming like mercury. Joan could smell smoke on her, and perfume. She should get up, move, break the spell, claim the armchair. Soon. She parted her lips, took a breath. Lena stopped smiling. She bent down, kissed Joan, the tip of her tongue tracing the inside edge of her lips. Joan closed her eyes, felt Lena’s hand brush down her shoulder and over her breast, the lightest pressure that filled Joan’s veins with warmth and sent small shocks of pleasure to her sex.

Joan moaned, moved her head a fraction, changing the pressure of the kiss. Wanting more. Everything. It was wicked but she didn’t want to stop. The thought of the wickedness gave her an additional thrill and she felt her body stiffening and getting hotter.

But she musn’t… if… with a jolt of understanding she realised that however wicked it was Lena could never make her pregnant and a great feeling of recklessness and liberation made her moan and wriggle. She reached up with one arm, tangling her fingers in Lena’s thick, smooth hair. Ran her other hand down her back, round the curve of her hip and along her thigh.

Lena made a gurgling noise and then parted from her. Her mouth was dark, the lipstick smeared and her lips swollen. Joan swallowed. Lena smiled, a small, intent smile, and began to unbutton her dress. Joan lay and watched her, her heart beating fast and anticipation tingling along the length of her spine.

Megan Marjorie

Nina

Marjorie

‘Speaking. Hello, Sister.’

Robert Underwood noted the excitement in his wife’s voice and she waved him over with one hand.

‘Yes?’ Her hazel eyes crinkled with a smile. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, fiddling with it, and then with the coiled phone wire. ‘Oh, lovely. How old? Yes. When can we… Eleven. Thank you. Yes, he’s fine. We’ll bring him with us.’

She replaced the receiver. ‘They’ve got a little girl. Four weeks old. We could have her in the next couple of weeks.’ She grinned and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Robert!’

He hugged her briefly. ‘You’re sure now?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t say things like that. I don’t want Stephen to grow up an only child.’

‘I know, but you’re sure you don’t want to hang on a bit – it’ll mean more work.’

She frowned, examining his face. ‘Robert, have you got cold feet?’

‘No,’ he reassured her.

The following morning they drove across town to St Ann’s. Two-year-old Stephen clung between the bucket seats.

‘Sit down, Stephen,’ his mother told him and he obliged. ‘Good boy.’ People went on about the terrible twos and she’d seen friends’ children hurl themselves to the floor in temper tantrums but Stephen was an angel.

Robert turned into the gateway for St Ann’s and parked the car at the top of the drive to one side of the main entrance. Marjorie didn’t really like the place – it was so imposing and she knew that beneath the bright chatter of the nuns there were terribly sad stories. When she came here she couldn’t help but think of the girls who were sent here, the ones who would have to leave with empty arms. It had been the same last time when they had come for Stephen, but once she got him home she didn’t think about that side of things. There was no point in dwelling on it all. This was the best solution for everyone.

She turned to look at Robert. He patted her knee a little clumsily, he wasn’t one for fussing. She had liked his reserve when they first met at her brother’s wedding. She had noticed the tall, sandy-haired man during the marriage ceremony. He had gone up to communion ahead of her and seemed to be on his own. It turned out he was a cousin of the bride, an optician with a new shop in Sale, and at the reception he had been seated opposite her. He had smiled quietly at the jokes and listened attentively to the speeches, while some of the other guests had made a show of loud laughter and called out quips to interrupt the speakers. Every so often she felt his eyes on her. Light-blue eyes quite different from her own hazel ones. She felt attracted to him and quietly confident of her own good looks. She was slender and she kept her golden hair long. It looked natural and fresh, and it suited her better than some of the more elaborate styles that meant spending hours under the hairdryer and left you reeking of setting lotion or permanent wave.

They had talked at the party, he had offered to get her a drink and explained apologetically that he didn’t dance – two left feet. But he was good company, and dates led to a proposal and then a wedding of their own. And now here they were, about to meet their second child.

‘Ready?’ he asked her.

She nodded, her palms felt slippery and she’d butterflies in her stomach.

Sister Monica let them in and exclaimed with pleasure over Stephen and how grand he looked. He hid behind his mother’s skirts. She lifted him up on to one hip so she could walk.

‘They’re all outside,’ the nun said. ‘It’s great weather, isn’t it. This way.’ They followed her through French windows and on to the terrace at the back, where half a dozen prams were placed in a line.

‘This first one,’ Sister Monica said, ‘she’s asleep, but have a peek and we’ll get some tea and if she’s not awake by then we’ll get her up and you can have a good look at her. Then you take a couple of days to think it over and telephone me to say what you’ve decided.’

‘Go to Daddy.’ She handed Stephen over and stepped closer and craned forward to see. The baby lay motionless, only her face visible between the white pram blankets and the white wool bonnet. The tiny cheeks were peppered with the minute white spots of milk rash, the nose was slightly upturned and the small, rosy mouth had a blister on the upper lip. ‘Oh,’ said Marjorie softly.

‘She’s a darling, isn’t she? Just six pounds at birth but she’s gaining well now.’

‘Look, Stephen – little baby.’

Stephen looked, nodded solemnly.

‘Let’s have tea and you can tell me how you’re all getting along.’

While the grown ups chatted in Matron’s room Stephen was occupied with a box of coloured building blocks. There were nine in the set and they worked like a jigsaw, the various facets formed a number of different farmyard scenes when put together. This was too sophisticated for Stephen, who instead built towers and lines with the cubes.

‘He looks so strong and healthy,’ Sister Monica told them. ‘He keeps you busy, I’ll bet.’

‘He’s very good,’ Marjorie said. She didn’t want the matron to think she wouldn’t have all the energy to take on another child. She was being silly, she thought, they’re crying out for places. It would have to be something terrible to not be considered and she wouldn’t have rung if she didn’t think we were right for it. ‘He’s marvellous,’ she added.

Robert grunted in agreement. ‘This little girl…’ he asked.

‘Yes. Now, her mother is very young, practically a child herself. She’s a nice girl, lively and helpful.’

‘Where’s she from?’ Marjorie said. Stephen’s natural mother had been Irish and had come over to St Ann’s to have the baby in secret.

‘Lancashire,’ the Matron said. ‘Though the family are from Ireland originally. There are no family problems health-wise and the little girl, she’s called her Claire, is great. She’s had all her checks, of course.’

‘When was she born?’

‘May twenty-fourth, late in the evening.’

‘My birthday!’ Robert said, and Marjorie laughed.

‘Well,’ Sister Monica smiled, ‘I think we can see the hand of God in that. Will I fetch her for you?’

‘Yes, please.’ Marjorie could feel a headache coming on with the sheer nerves of it all. She felt sick and excited all at once. ‘We’ll have to get new clothes,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘We can’t put her in blue.’

Sister Monica returned with the baby in her arms. She sat beside Marjorie on the sofa and unwrapped the blanket. The baby wore a matinee jacket to match the bonnet, rompers and bootees. She was so tiny. Marjorie looked at the skinny legs, the petite feet. You forget how small they are. Stephen seemed huge by comparison. When Matron removed the hat the baby was practically bald.

‘Oh, bless her.’ Marjorie ran her hand over the fuzzy skull. The baby was awake now, blinking slowly and staring at the ceiling.

‘Now, her mother is a redhead,’ Matron said. ‘And I think she’ll turn out the same but you may want a baby with similar colouring to Stephen. He’s very like you, Marjorie, with the blonde hair.’

‘He is. But Robert’s more gingery, it might be nice for her to look like him.’

‘Yes, she’ll have the blue eyes, too. Would you like to hold her?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Marjorie settled back so she could rest the baby across her lap and support the head in the crook of her arm. Sister Monica passed her the child and Marjorie settled her. The eyes, which had not yet acquired their colour, were very dark, almost black, and looked huge.

Stephen edged closer to the sofa.

‘She’s holding her head well. She’s a strong little thing. Would you like a baby sister, Stephen?’ Marjorie said.

He looked at her then back to the infant. ‘No,’ he said solemnly.

The adults laughed.

Megan

Most people at the factory knew where Megan had been. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that one out. But apart from the snobby gits in wages and one or two holier-than-thous on the shopfloor nobody made a meal of it. She knew for a fact she wasn’t the only one, either. Annie Platt and Breda Carney had both been in the club with no wedding ring in sight.

Of course, it wasn’t long before Brendan and she were courting again. In secret at first, both of them very, very careful not to let anyone catch on. They avoided their old haunts and met at places further from home. The waiting room at Victoria Station usually, and the reading room at Central Library one time. But you couldn’t talk up there. Gave Megan the heebie-jeebies. All these swots with their noses stuck in books and this loud silence and the great big ceiling like St Peter’s in Rome or something and everyone creeping about. Made her want to make a loud noise and run away. But downstairs in the basement there was a cafe, that was all right, though none of the places were good for a necking session and she was just as keen as he was for a kiss and cuddle. They ended up fitting that in at bus stops and doorways and on the walk back up to Collyhurst. She told him plain though – no more than that, not till the bans were read and the church booked.

Brendan wanted to know all about the baby and it was great to be able to tell him. Her mammy didn’t want to know. Put it behind you, darling, it’s only more heartache, she said when Megan first tried. You did what was best, she said. That’s all you can do.

After a few months Megan wrote to Sister Monica, asking if she could have a photograph of her daughter to remember her by. She got no reply. She wrote again when May came round and she imagined the child having a first birthday party, in a lovely white smocked frock with frilly knickers and a bow in her hair. She thought about her a lot, the weather and the blossom reminding her of St Ann’s.

This time a small studio photo came back. Black and white. Looking at it was like a punch in the stomach. Claire, her baby – the name meant light and Megan hoped her life would be full of light and brightness – Claire was sitting up, a broderie anglaise dress on and bare feet. A sprig of close curls framed her face. Her hair would be red with both Megan and Brendan that colour but you couldn’t tell in the photo and no one had colored it in like the studios sometimes did. She must have studied that picture a thousand times that day, and when the children were all in bed she showed it to Mammy.

‘Does she look like me?’

‘Like spit. But Megan,’ her mammy’s voice sounded thin and pained, ‘don’t be upsetting yourself. You have to forget her.’

‘I know. But it’s hard.’ She left the room not wanting to cry in front of her.

Brendan understood when she showed him. They had got the bus up Rochdale Road to Boggart Hole Clough, he’d sat upstairs and she down, just in case anyone got on, but they were OK. They wandered through the park and found a secluded spot to sit, surrounded by pretty trees, their leaves shivering in the slight breeze. He stared at the photograph, his face all blank and narrow like he’d seen a ghost. He shook his head. He didn’t say much but she knew he felt like she did: that it wasn’t fair.

They talked of marriage again and Brendan said he would go and see her Dad.

‘The apprenticeship.’

‘I’ve two more years. The rules are clear. We can get engaged but they don’t need to know. I just won’t tell them.’

‘There’s other work,’ she said. ‘Vickers are crying out for people, and Universal Stores.’

‘I know they are but this is a trade, Megan. I could work anywhere then, they’ll always need printers. If I left now… I don’t want to end up portering or on the markets.’

‘Just seems so long.’

‘I’ll ask your Dad. Least if we’re engaged we can stop acting like spies.’

He began to kiss her. She could feel her breasts tingling. They were bigger since she’d had the baby even though the doctor had given her something to dry her milk up. As he unbuckled his belt, pulling at the zipper on his pants, he was still kissing her, French kisses. It made her wet and weak and hot for his fingers. She held him in her hand, made the movements copy the rhythm of his breathing.

‘Megan,’ he spoke softly in her ear. ‘I’ve got a rubber johnny.’

She froze, shocked. He wanted to go all the way. Did she? Her mind raced about. It’d be all right, it would stop any consequences. Her body was hungry.

‘Put it on then.’ Her throat was dry.

While he sat up and fumbled she closed her eyes. Felt desire skip over her skin and quicken her pulse. Then he bent to kiss her again, moving over her. She wriggled her hips and opened her eyes to look into his. Cornflower blue, she thought. He nudged his way inside. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes.’ She lifted her hips to meet him. She ran her own hands over her breasts, watching his face darken with lust. She began to unbutton her cardigan.

Three weeks later Brendan Conroy put on his Sunday best and walked round to the Driscolls’. He had quizzed Megan about the best time to catch her father. She reckoned Saturday morning before the pub opened.

Megan watched from her bedroom window as Brendan came down Livesey Street. He’d got awfully long legs but he didn’t stoop like some lanky lads did. He blew her a kiss and she pulled a face. Then she sat on Kitty’s side of the bed, nearest to the door, and craned to hear.

She heard Daddy – ‘… of all the bloody cheek…’ Then Mammy calming him down. Then nothing. But no door slamming, which meant they hadn't slung him out. Her stomach was twisted up and she felt lightheaded. If they said no, she’d die. If they carried on in secret they were bound to get caught and her Daddy would make good his threat about seeing Mr Hudson, who Brendan was apprenticed to. They’d have to run away. Try and get to Australia or somewhere. They’d be pioneers, like the wagon trains you saw in the Westerns.

‘Megan!’ Her father’s roar made her jump out of her skin.

She ran downstairs and into the parlour, where Brendan perched awkwardly on the edge of the armchair. Her father stood by the sideboard and her mother had the other chair. She noticed Brendan’s socks didn’t match and she could see the milk-white skin of his shins and the curly ginger hairs.

‘You know what he’s here for?’ her father demanded.

‘Yes.’ She kept her chin up. She would not let him make her feel bad.

‘And you want to marry the man who ruined you?’

‘Anthony!’

‘I’m not ruined,’ she retorted.

‘Huh!’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Says who?’

Megan was itching to argue with him but this was too important. He could think what he liked, damn her to hell. As long as he gave his permission he didn’t have to like it.

‘I want to marry him.’

‘He’s apprenticed.’

‘We’ll wait.’

‘He’s stuck by her,’ Mammy said.

‘Stuck too fecking close in the first place,’ Daddy slung back.

Maggie Driscoll gasped and closed her eyes. She spoke with them shut, as though she was close to breaking and it was all too much. ‘Anthony, the boy is here in good faith and he’s asking you for your daughter’s hand.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Megan. ‘I’m sure they’ve learnt from their mistake. It’s over a year since the bairn was born and nearly two since she got caught. They are older now. We want them to make a good life. I’ve no desire to have them sneaking around because you’ve got stuck on your principles. The Lord tells us to forgive.’

No one spoke. Daddy craned his neck back as though he’d a crick in it and then rubbed at his face. He turned to Brendan. ‘There won’t be any monkey business,’ he said. ‘If I find out you’ve laid a hand on her before you walk down the aisle I’ll cut your tackle off.’

Megan choked. It was a yes. The crude old git. All hot air. Did anyone honestly believe they’d get engaged but still wait another two years to touch each other? Mind you, every time Daddy looked at Mammy she must have fallen pregnant. Megan wouldn’t be like that. They’d use johnnies and pity the Pope. No babies until they were ready. God would understand. Or the Blessed Virgin. She’d lost her child when they crucified him, she’d understand.

‘Yes, Sir.’ Brendan was bobbing his head up and down like a nodding dog on the back of a car, his face the colour of Campbell’s tomato soup.

There was a pause. Driscoll looked at the clock and rocked on his heels. They were open in five minutes, Megan knew, and his thoughts were already with his first pint.

Mam broke the spell. ‘Congratulations!’ She shook Brendan’s hand and hugged Megan and seemed genuinely pleased.

‘I best be off,’ Daddy said.

When he’d gone, Mrs Driscoll told Brendan, ‘Be sure and let your mammy know. It’ll be all round the Grey Mare as soon as the big fella gets there and everyone in Collyhurst’ll know by tea time.

He nodded. ‘Will you come?’ He asked Megan.

She glanced at Mam, who smiled and dipped her head.

Megan stood on tiptoe and kissed Brendan on the cheek. Mrs Brendan Conroy, she thought. Thank God.

Marjorie

‘You’ve made up your mind, already, haven’t you?’ Robert asked Marjorie Underwood when they were halfway home.

‘She’s lovely,’ she said. ‘What is there to consider? A different baby wouldn’t be any better or worse. I don't want to wait any longer.’

He nodded. ‘You’d better ring as soon as we get in, then.’

‘Oh, Robert.’ She laid her hand across the back of his shoulders and leant over to kiss him on the cheek. Stephen had fallen asleep in the car by the time they got home and Robert transferred him to his cot. His face was flushed and damp around the temples and his hair was darker from the moisture. Downstairs Robert could hear Marjorie on the telephone, laughing and talking.

She was peeling potatoes when he found her in the kitchen.

‘Probably a week on Thursday but Sister Monica will ring tomorrow and confirm if that’s definite.’

‘Happy?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘As soon as I’m done with this I’m going to ring my Mum. She’ll be over the moon.’

‘Stephen didn't seem too chuffed with the idea.’

She laughed. ‘He’s two. He doesn’t really understand. We’ll probably get a bit of jealousy. Your mother says you tried to smother John when he came along.’

‘Still feel like it now and again.’0

‘Robert!’

‘Something infuriating about the eldest, don’t you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’d have given anything for a playmate – older or younger. I hope they will get on, though,’ she added. ‘If she’s anything like Stephen it’ll be a doddle.’

Wind her more often.

Robinson’s Gripe Water.

Give her a little boiled water on a spoon.

Try a different formula.

Rub her tummy.

Keep the milk cool.

They like swaddling.

Rocking helps.

Don’t wrap them up tight.

Add half a spoon of sugar.

Make the feed warmer.

Let her cry.

They were all full of ideas but nothing made a blind bit of difference. She’d been back to the clinic, seen the health visitor and the doctor, but it all came down to this. Evening colic. Screaming for two to three hours at a time. Night after night after night. At first she had been terrified that Nina was in pain – the baby kept drawing her knees up, her face was red and creased and her cries were agonising. After two weeks of it, exhaustion and frustration had replaced terror. And now she just wanted it to stop. She fell into bed each night feeling as though she could not survive another day of it. She had tried changing the daily routine in a myriad of ways but still come six o’clock the pitiful screaming would start. Simple things like the chance to wash her own hair, have a bath, do her nails were completely impossible. She’d been taken over. And it wasn’t fair.

She looked at Nina now, in her cot, a picture of fury and pain. Marjorie felt rage wash over her. She wanted to stop her, silence her, put a pillow over her to muffle the sounds. Her heart stammered and she walked from the room.

Robert was no use. He avoided the situation. His contribution to the living hell was to put Stephen to bed and then hide in the lounge with the radio or the television on.

She made a drink of Ovaltine and went back up. The screams seemed to drill into her bones, in the back of her skull and the roof of her mouth. How could the child scream so and not become hoarse? She put her drink down and lifted Nina from the cot. The yelling stopped momentarily and then resumed. She put her on her shoulder and turned the transistor on, raising the volume as high as it would go she sang along, her stomach clenched tight.

More racket for Deborah next door to get sniffy about. She’d been around and apologised after the first few evenings.

‘Colic?’ Deborah had said as though Marjorie had invented the explanation. ‘You poor thing. We did wonder. She has got a powerful set of lungs on her, hasn’t she? I never had anything like that with my three. They all went down at seven and not a peep from them till seven the next morning.’ She gave a shrug and a smile as though apologising for this imperfection. Bully for you, thought Marjorie. She felt like hitting her. She was a failure.

Stephen had been good though. And no one could tell her why Nina had colic or even what it actually was. It would stop by the age of three months, the doctor had tried to reassure her. If we’re both still here, she thought. That could mean another four weeks.

She lifted her cup in one hand and drank it while pacing about. Nina bawled frantically. Marjorie looked outside. It was dry, still light. She couldn’t bear this.

She went downstairs and laid her in the large Silver Cross carriage pram by the front door. Put a blanket over her.

She went into the living room. Robert was watching Coronation Street. She would have liked the chance.

‘I’m taking her out in the pram,’ she said. I can’t stand being cooped up with her any longer.’

He frowned with concern. ‘Do you think that’s…’

‘What?’ She snapped at him. Piercing screams reached them from the hall.

‘If you think it’ll help.’

‘It’ll help me.’

She walked fast around the block, pushing the pram. Trees lined the streets. It was a soft, pretty evening. The hazy evening light, the summer smells of night stocks and roses and honeysuckle, the dreamy quiet of the air seemed to amplify the wretched squalls Nina made. On her way she passed several people. She was sure that the looks they gave her were not sympathetic but were judgmental and suspicious. There she goes. Can’t comfort the poor child. Not her own, of course. Some women just don’t have the maternal instinct. Bad mother.

But she kept on and on, walking until her legs and arms ached and the night dew was falling and the child’s cries stuttered into sobs and then quieted.

Caroline Kay

Theresa

Caroline

Caroline sat at her grandmother’s grave. She had brought a piece of heather from the tops, it had enough roots to take. There was no headstone up yet. They were still carving it, adding her name to that of her husband’s. Both in the same plot. A purchase that had been made shortly after their wedding.

Caroline poked a hole in-between the turves of grass that were growing together over the mound and worked her fingers until it was wide enough and deep enough for the plant. She pushed the wiry, threadlike roots in and pushed the soil back packing it round them. Soft, rich, black soil. The colour of tar. The cemetery was exposed, out on the hillside beside St Martin’s. You’ll have a good view, Grandma. In this light with the haze burnt off she could see right across to the other side of the valley. She could pick out the Colby’s farm, the huddle of buildings and the foursquare farmhouse with its gravel drive. She saw a Land Rover bumping along one of the lanes and, further along, the silver streak of Dunner’s Ditch, where water tumbled down towards Otter’s Gap.

She loved these hills, felt comfortable here, unlike Mary, the friend she’d had at school, who yearned for the bustle of town or the headier excitement of Manchester with all the shops and coffee bars. Caroline found peace up here. No one to answer to, no one to bother her. But she felt lonely these days. Not a feeling she had been familiar with. An ache for warmth, for something to complete her.

Coming home had been a lesson in misery. Like a sleepwalker she had watched her mother set her endless practical tasks with some notion of keeping her busy.

Her mother had continued to act as though nothing had happened. No, that wasn’t true. She had stopped touching her. Unclean. Caroline had felt her face burn when she realised. I’ve had the ceremony, they let me go up to communion now. If the Church can accept me, why can’t you? Was her mother even aware of it? And her father, he was awash with embarrassment and hurt.

She hadn’t a clue what she was going to do but she couldn’t bear the thought of staying here. A life of nothing, a home scorched with shame. She cast her eyes around the graveyard and beyond. She was still alone. She stretched out the length of the plot to one side, where the grass was thick and green and dotted with white clover. She closed her eyes and let the sun heat her skin.

‘Oh, Grandma,’ she said, ‘I had a baby, a little girl.’ Words she could never speak, only to the dead. ‘I gave her away.’ She paused. ‘No, they took her away. I didn’t want… I wanted to keep her.’ She remembered that moment, frozen, the babe in her arms, the nun coming towards her, turning to run and finding her way blocked. No, no, don’t take her! She faltered, pressed her palm to her lips. No tears, empty even of tears. Just that ring of grief stuck in her throat like a bracelet.

She couldn’t stay here to choke her life away. But how could she leave? There were three ways out. Marriage, hardly likely; college, but she’d have to go back to school and down a year and she had no great desire for learning; or work. Go into nursing or the forces, something where lodgings came with the position. She would ask at the library next time she went in.

Kay

The baby’s face wrinkled and a tiny neat sneeze startled her awake.

‘Oh, baby!’ Kay Farrell chuckled at the bundle in her arms. She sat beneath the apple tree in the corner of their garden. The baby had been in the pram but Kay wanted to cuddle her. Dr Spock went on about routine in his book and Kay hoped that picking her up wouldn't end up unsettling her for her feed but she just had to keep holding the child.

It was a perfect June day, the leaves dappled in the sunshine, the scent of cut grass. Adam had done the lawn and was edging it now with the half-moon. She glanced across at him and then at the baby. Their baby.

‘Hello!’ She stared into the dark eyes. She looks so wise, Kay thought, as though she’d got it all worked out. She stroked the miniature hand with her little finger and was rewarded by the small fist clutching tightly. ‘You are strong,’ she said. ‘Are you getting hungry? Mmm?’

Kay yawned. She had barely slept the last two nights. Excitement almost like a fever had bubbled around her body and she had risen countless times to check that the baby was safe. When she woke for a feed with small cries, Kay felt nothing but relief. She persuaded Adam to move the crib into their room after the first night. ‘She can go in the nursery when she’s bigger. I want to be able to hear her.’ But even in the same room she couldn't hear the infant breathing and had to keep reassuring herself. So she was very tired and completely exhilarated. Once or twice she’d felt a moment of terrible panic, her stomach dropping and fearful thoughts assailing her like blows. They’d got the wrong baby, the mother might change her mind, they’ll come and take her, we can’t look after her properly. Unsettling moments that passed quickly but frightened her and cast a shadow on her happiness. Of course, it was possible the mother would change her mind, refuse to sign the papers when it came to court. You heard of that happening. She pushed the thought away.

‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’ She spoke to the baby. ‘Of course we will.’ She closed her eyes, praying again. Prayers of thanks that now after all this time she had what she longed for.

Adam came over and knelt beside her, lit a cigarette and took a long pull on it. He was an attractive man – people said he reminded them of the singer Adam Faith with darker hair. He had that slightly rugged look and the dimple in his chin. Very occasionally she wondered if he’d like her to be slimmer. Lord knows, she had tried but nothing helped. She put on a few pounds every year and it never came off. She was big, not fat – she didn’t like to think of it like that – but generously proportioned. Everybody couldn’t be thin, after all. And she was big in all the right places. Like Marilyn Monroe. And Kay always made sure she looked her best: she had her hair permed and she never went out without doing her make-up. She wore scarlet lipstick. Adam never mentioned her size and he obviously enjoyed her in bed.

He sat back on the grass in the sun. ‘She’s awake?’

‘Lunch time, nearly.’

‘I could give her the bottle. While you get ours.’

‘Yes?’

‘Can’t be that tricky.’

She laughed. ‘You’d be surprised. Oh, Adam, she’s so lovely. I can’t imagine that some people wouldn’t want her just because of that ear. It’s nothing.’

She looked at the baby’s left ear, which was little more than a whorl of flesh, the shell of the ear had obviously not grown properly prior to birth.

‘She is lovely.’ He leaned forward to look at the baby. ‘Aren’t you? Theresa, my pet.’

‘Are you sure?’ Kay glanced at him. ‘About keeping the name?’

‘We both like it.’

‘And we could have Lisa for her middle name.’

‘Theresa Lisa Farrell. Theresa Farrell. I prefer it without.’

‘Yes, but if she has a middle name it gives her a choice. Some people don’t like their first name, she could use Lisa then.’

‘We don’t need to decide yet.’ He lay back and put his cigarette to his mouth again.

The baby’s face furrowed and she turned a deep red. She twisted her head left and right and began to cry, a lusty sound as though some sudden calamity had befallen her.

‘Oh, dear. Here -’ she held the child out to Adam – ‘mind your cigarette.’ He ground it out between the roots of the tree. ‘There. I’ll make her bottle.’

He held the baby in the crook of one arm and walked over the grass singing ‘The Grand Old Duke Of York’, loudly and off-key.

Kay went in close to tears, the swell of emotions overwhelming her. I am a mother, she thought. She is my daughter. She wanted to dance and pray and never, never forget the moment. She put a stack of records on to play, sang along to Jerry Keller’s ‘Here Comes Summer’ as she got out the ingredients for salmon salad sandwiches. Jived round the kitchen to ‘Three Steps to Heaven’ by Eddie Cochran.

Caroline

Caroline was accepted into the nursing school at Manchester Royal Infirmary and began work in January 1962.

The regime was extremely strict. The new recruits lived in fear of the senior staff and Matron enjoyed a ferocious reputation and a godlike status.

The job was demanding. Caroline was responsible for bed-making, emptying bedpans, assisting other staff, lifting and assisting patients to use the toilet, serving drinks and changing dressings. She knew she hadn’t much of a bedside manner and preferred the patients who were too ill to make small talk.

She missed the open air. The nearest park, Whitworth park, was a flat space with trees and shrubs. She hungered for hills and huge outcrops of rocks, clean air and breathtaking views. Manchester was filthy. Her uniform was thick with grime before she’d finished her shift and the smog was awful. Caroline shared a room in the nurses’ home with Victoria and Doreen. Doreen had come from Ireland, she was little and doll-like and made them laugh with her Irish sayings and her occasional bad language. Two months after they all started she disappeared.

‘Her clothes have gone.’ Victoria showed Caroline the empty drawers. ‘Everything.’

‘Maybe she was homesick?’

‘She never said anything. Do you think we could ask someone?’

Caroline shrugged. She didn’t fancy trying to talk to anyone about it. They’d bite your head off soon as look at you.

A new girl was allocated to take the room and still nothing was said.

In the end Victoria persuaded Caroline to join forces with her and approach Sister Mahr, one of the younger nurses who had a lot of contact with the new girls.

She led them into the nurses’ station and shut the door.

‘I’m afraid Doreen let herself and everybody down. She behaved improperly and found herself expecting.’

Caroline felt her face go cold, a prickle brushed across her neck and upper arms. She stared at the floor.

‘Instead of throwing herself on the mercy of the societies that are there to help, she…’

Caroline swallowed, remembered the corner in the garden, the feel of the shawl, the weight of the baby cradled in one arm.

‘… she tried to kill her baby.’

Victoria drew her breath in sharply, her hand flew to her mouth.

There had been no rumours, Caroline thought, not a whisper. If she’d collapsed in the hospital someone would have seen something, overheard enough to pass on.

‘She went to an abortionist.’ The word was shocking. Like a big, dark-red blood clot in the nurse’s mouth. ‘The police are involved.’

Caroline could feel heat blooming through her, replacing the shivers, pressure in her head. Oh, Doreen.

‘What will happen to her?’ Victoria asked.

‘Nothing now. She didn’t survive. They found her by the canal.’ Her voice was bitter.

‘Oh,’ Victoria said softly.

Doreen. Little Doreen with her bright eyes and her delicate features. Why hadn’t she gone to St Ann’s? How on earth did she know where to find a person who did that? What did they use? She imagined a knife, a grappling hook, balked at the pictures.

A ewe had haemorrhaged once up on Colby’s Farm. So much blood and the ewe had struggled until its wool was crimson and then it had jerked, spasms racking it until it lay still.

Doreen. Did her family know? Would she get a proper burial? Caroline couldn’t find the words to ask. Why had they come here? It would be better not to know, to imagine that Doreen had just gone home, fed up of the place.

‘I want you girls to promise me that you will not speak about this to anyone else. It is a tragic thing and it would never have happened if Doreen had remembered the importance of staying pure. You give me your word?’

They both did. Victoria’s voice shaky with emotion.

Caroline dreamt of Doreen that night. Doreen lay in her arms singing, a lovely ballad. She was wrapped in a shawl, sticky and dark with blood.

‘Nurse!’ The cry was like a bleat. The young man in the end bed. He’d been brought in that afternoon, his leg crushed by a forklift truck. He’d been in the Army doing National Service for the last eighteen months. A year younger and this would never have happened to him. They’d abolished it now. He’d been in the last batch, called up in 1960. She took a look at him, his lips taut with pain, tongue gripped between his teeth. Pearls of sweat sprinkled on his forehead.

‘I’ll get Sister.’ She hurried to the nurse’s station and alerted Sister Colne, who administered more medicine.

‘Sit with him a while,’ she told Caroline. ‘He’s spiking a temp so keep him cool and he can drink if he’s thirsty.’

Caroline took the cloth from his brow, dipped it in cold water, wrung it out and replaced it. He was hovering between sleep and waking, his eyelids fluttering up and down, his mouth working occasionally but no speech. The drugs would make him woozy. There was a rank smell from him, sour and unwashed. He wouldn’t be bathed until the doctors examined him again in the morning.

It was warm on the ward and quiet now save for the snoring from someone at the far end and an occasional murmur from the depths of a dream.

Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, felt herself settle in the chair. Her head was heavy and she felt sleep steal over her like a cloak, creeping up her spine and over her skull, enveloping her shoulders. When she jerked awake some time later he was looking at her, his eyes made dreamy by the medicine.

‘Hello,’ he said.

She smiled.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Caroline.’

‘Paul.’

‘The pain, has it helped?’

‘Yeah. Where are you from, Caroline? That’s not a Manchester accent.’

‘Bolton,’ she said.

‘Ah, Bolton,’ he mimicked her.

She smiled even though having the mickey taken was not particularly amusing.

‘Get that a lot?’ He surprised her.

She nodded. His hair was cut close, for the services of course. He had a strong face. She could imagine him as a man of action, no nonsense.

‘This leg, what'll they do? Nobody’s saying anything. Will they…?’ He faltered, looked away then back, his Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Can they save it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It's only if there’s gangrene or complications.’

Relief shone damp in his eyes. Light-blue eyes. She saw his chest fall as he exhaled.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The operation?’

Oh, you poor man. ‘They’ll put a pin in, a metal rod, where the bones are shattered. You’ll have a lump, scars.’

‘And a stick? Charlie Chaplin. No more drill, then.’ He spoke in a rush. Then gave a little hiccup. ‘Sorry.’

Mortified, Caroline realised he was crying. She wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. ‘Don’t worry, please,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’

He nodded.

She drew the curtains round so, although the light sleepers might hear the broken breathing coming from the cubicle, no one would have to witness him losing control.

His plaster cast was off and his leg looked sick beneath it, the skin like uncooked fish, greyish-white and damp. A smell too, cheesy. The skin had healed in puckered lumps along the outside muscle and across the knee. As if a child had started to model a leg from white plasticine and left it rough and unfinished. She betrayed no reaction as she wiped it gently with clean water and antiseptic and began to prepare the bandages.

She was fed up, another black mood, a miserable day. Most days were. A knot of resentment inside. She felt hot tears pressing behind her eyes. No reason for them. No reason for any of it. She stirred more plaster of paris into the mix.

‘Are you courting?’ he said.

She looked sharply at him, two spots of red forming on her cheeks.

‘Sorry,’ he amended quickly. He watched her work, sneaking a look at her face now and then, large brown eyes, broad cheeks, her hair pulled back under the nurses hat. ‘What would you do if you weren’t a nurse?’

She shrugged. She didn’t want to chat.

‘What about when you were little then…’

Why wouldn’t he just give up and shut up?

‘… what did you want to be? I suppose it’s different for girls – you don’t have to be anything much once you get married – but boys it’s always engine drivers and pilots and footballers. Or soldiers.’

No more drill parade.

‘Farming,’ she said.

‘That’s a hard life for a woman.’

Try this.

‘What sort of farming?’

She thought of the ewe and of sick people, sick animals, mess. Grandma’s allotment. ‘Crops,’ she said. ‘Market gardening, a nursery.’

He raised his eyebrows.

And landscape gardening too. The chance to sculpt the earth, to plant it and make beautiful vistas, like they did in the grand old houses. Not the sort of thing a nurse from Bolton could aspire to.

She started to wind the bandages, feeling the plaster wet and cold and heavy on her hands. She wished he wouldn’t stare at her so much.

He had several weeks of physiotherapy. He was moved out of the men’s surgical ward. Caroline missed his company and felt a ripple of embarrassment when she realised she was manufacturing reasons to run errands to the convalescent ward. Then one day he came looking for her, using a stick now not crutches, with a rolling gait so he appeared to travel as far sideways as he did forward.

She turned from the cupboard she was stacking to greet him. They were the same height, she was pleased he wasn’t taller. But why did it matter?

‘You’re doing well.’

He nodded. ‘Discharge next week. Back home.’ His family lived up in Yorkshire.

A crush of disappointment pressed on her heart. Silly, she thought.

‘I wondered, your day off, perhaps we could have tea?’

‘Yes,’ she said quickly, then, ‘Will they let you out?’

‘Occupational therapy. Got to try getting on a bus tomorrow.’ He tipped his head at the stick. There was a familiar trace of bitterness in his voice. She recognised it as a shield against self-pity.

Tea was a delight. He talked more than ever; about his army days, the boys in his regiment and his family. He asked after hers. She told him a little but threw questions back.

He reached out to touch her hand, his skin warm and dry against hers. She let his palm cover the back of her hand, a falling feeling inside her, like Alice in the rabbit hole.

‘Caroline…’ He licked his lips. She watched his mouth form different shapes as he chased words. ‘Can I write?’ He managed. ‘Do you think, perhaps?’

Oh, Paul, yes. But if he knew. He thought she was young and innocent but she was spoilt. It just wouldn’t be fair to him. He was a good man. She pulled her hand back. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

His head reared slightly at the rejection and he ran his fingers along his jaw. ‘I see.’

On the walk back to the hospital their conversation was strained and awkward. She felt the numb weight of depression settle on her. It would always be like this, it would never change.

And Paul had similar thoughts, cursing himself for being a fool. He should have known better than to expect her to take on a cripple. He should never have asked. What girl in her right mind would look at him twice? Yes, she’d been friendly and kind but that was her job. That was all. He must have been cracked to think there was anything more.

Kay

Kay Farrell was astonished at how much work one tiny infant generated. It wasn’t just feeding and changing her, it was everything in-between too. Sterilising all the bottles and teats, sluicing and soaking and washing and drying the nappies, washing and drying and ironing the clothes. The daily walk, the bath. Life had been full before – keeping the house and garden in order, shopping and cooking and cleaning – but now it was hard to fit everything in. The windows were overdue for a clean, the pile of mending was becoming overwhelming. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter but it bothered her. Other women managed, why couldn’t she? Was she doing something wrong?

She was tired too. Often numb by the end of the day when Adam came home expecting a decent two-course meal and home comforts. She had been going to bed earlier and earlier but Theresa needed a feed at eleven. Her friends with children raved about how easy Theresa was. Sleeping through the night, keeping her feeds down, easily placated when she cried. When they said that, Kay found it impossible to complain. After all she wasn’t being dragged out of bed three times a night or struggling with three-month colic. But one day she did confide in her neighbour, Joanna, who was more outspoken than some of the others and had a devilish sense of humour.

‘Bugger housework,’ Joanna said.

‘Joanna!’ Kay snorted with laughter.

‘Oh, come on. Does Adam notice?’

‘Well, no, but…’

‘But he notices you’re tired? Headaches at bedtime?’

It took Kay a moment to grasp the reference. ‘Joanna!’ she scolded her.

‘Look, Kay, you can have an ideal home and battle on exhausted with a neglected husband or you can give yourself a chance and make things a bit easier so you’re fit company and you can enjoy Theresa.’

‘I do enjoy Theresa,’ she said defensively. Remembering the previous afternoon when Theresa had woken early from her nap and Kay had almost cried with frustration. ‘You’ve no idea,’ she carried on. ‘It’s wonderful. For heaven’s sake, Joanna, I only said I was a bit tired.’

‘Don’t be so touchy.’

‘Everyone else manages.’

‘Like who? Here, have another biscuit.’

She took one, bit into it and considered. ‘Violet.’

‘She’s got a cleaning woman.’

‘OK, well, Muriel.’

‘Her mother’s practically living there, she does half the housework.’

‘Ann-Marie.’

‘Drinks.’

‘What?’

‘On the bottle.’

Kay’s mouth fell open. ‘Seriously?’

‘Oh, Kay, you’re so naive.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You can smell it. She’s always sucking mints.’

‘Maybe she likes mints.’

‘And she fell over at our cheese and wine. Jerry had to take her home.’

‘Oh, how awful. But in the day, she drinks?’

‘Yes, Kay.’ Joanna nodded her head slowly for emphasis. ‘Soon as Jerry’s left for work.’

‘Crikey! Do you think we should do something?’

Joanna laughed. ‘Such as? And Carol and Angela are both on pep pills. You could try those. Pep you up a bit. Doctor will sort you out.’

Kay pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. What about Bev? She looks great. Two children, house is always nice. She reminds me a bit of Sophia Loren, those sort of eyes. She’s managing all right. She never looks like it’s all too much.’

Kay finished her biscuit and waited for her friend to shoot her down. But Joanna had a funny expression on her face. One that Kay couldn’t decipher. Joanna looked away.

‘What?’ Kay said. ‘What’s wrong with Bev?’

‘She’s having an affair with Ken,’ Joanna said sharply and picked up her cigarettes.

‘Oh, my God! Joanna… oh!’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh, Joanna. And here’s me moaning on…’ She drew out her own packet and lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

‘No, of course not. When did… do they know you…?’

Joanna screwed her eyes up against the smoke and shook her head.

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to sue the bugger for divorce but I need some advice. And there’s Damien to think about. It’d mean selling the house and I don’t know how I’d manage. My typing’s rusty and even if I went back to work who’d look after Damien? It’s a bloody awful mess.’

‘Wouldn’t you get maintenance?’

‘No idea. Oh, Kay, it’s so horrible. I don’t want to think about it.’

A rising cry from Theresa in her pram outside interrupted them. Kay went to fetch her in for a feed. Shortly after, the fish van arrived in the road – it was Friday – and both women went to buy fish for that evening’s meal.

Joanna’s revelation haunted Kay. It had been even worse because, having told her about it, Joanna hadn’t wanted to say more and Kay found herself imagining the countless ways Joanna might have found out. How would she face Bev or Ken again? How did Joanna do it? If Adam ever… the thought chilled her to the bone. Was she neglecting him? If she was, surely he could understand, she’d such a lot on her plate. Had Joanna told her as some sort of warning?

That night when they were going to bed she broached the topic of a cleaner with him. ‘A few hours a week.’

‘Do we need one?’ He sounded surprised.

‘It would be a real help and I don’t think it would set us back so very much. Violet has one. I could see what she pays, if she’s reliable.’

He shifted in bed. Ran his hand up her thigh, pushing back the nylon nightie. Kay was tired. Her period was due and she felt grouchy but she didn’t want to upset him. He murmured something.

‘Is that a yes?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied. He slid his hand between her legs. ‘Come here.’

Caroline

Dear Caroline,

I hope you don’t mind me writing but I am having to come back to the hospital for a check up on September seventh and I wonder if we might meet up? What shift will you be on?

Life here is very quiet, though I sometimes go into Keighley to the pictures.

Hope you are well.

Yours sincerely,

Paul

She reread the letter, a bubble of excitement rising inside her. Two weeks away. She could swap her day off. She’d get her hair done. Don’t, she admonished herself. He’s a friend, that’s all. I can’t lead him on. But I wouldn’t. Just company. It needn’t mean anything else. She replied by return of post, arranging to meet him after his appointment.

She had her hair cut to shoulder length and bought some setting lotion and jumbo rollers so she could make it flick out at the ends. It made her feel grown up.

He looked well when he arrived, face and arms brown from the weather, prompting her to ask if he’d been working outside.

‘Not working, studying. Balance isn’t good enough to work – fall over all the time like some old duffer. Scares the sheep.’ He gave a wry smile. He was more handsome than she remembered. Not film-star looks but nice. A lazy slant to his eyes like Dean Martin’s, his eyes were even bluer against his tan. His hair was longer, floppy at the front, a dark-blond colour. The sun had brought out the light parts of it.

‘I’ll tell you about it. But we’d better get going, it starts in quarter of an hour.’

They watched the new Alfred Hitchcock film, The Birds. It was very scary and Caroline hid her face and gripped Paul’s arm when it got really frightening. At least it wasn’t a weepy. She had bought herself a block of mascara and some lipstick. Putting the mascara on had been a nightmare. Spitting on the little block then working up a paste then trying to get the stuff on her lashes with the little rectangular brush. So there was no way she wanted to see it all dribble down her face.

There was a coffee bar opposite the Odeon and they went there after. She got the drinks, realising it would be hard for Paul to manage with his stick.

‘How’s the hospital?’

‘Same as ever.’ She was sick of it, if the truth be told. The endless grind of dirty dressings and bedpans, the smell of sick bodies and pain and fear. Some days when it was time to get up she lay there and wished she could sleep forever. Once a month she made the trip home and there would be red salmon sandwiches and Victoria sponge and she’d get an hour or two up on the hills. She would go to Grandma’s grave most times and say hello and wonder whether life would have felt any brighter with Grandma still in it. And she would climb up to a vantage point, to Little Craven or Goat’s Head, and sit and let her eyes roam and let everything ebb away, all the feelings and the pictures and the words, let them empty from her, seeping into the earth like dew. Leaving her cleansed and grounded. Just bone and breath.

The city was choking her. Sometimes she felt like a mole, especially doing nightshifts – living underground, never coming up for air. Some of the other girls had got married and given up work. Married women weren’t allowed to nurse. But Caroline could see no end to it. She couldn’t go back and live at home again, the presence of her parents too much like a reproach. And what would she do all day?

She dropped two sugar cubes in her coffee and stirred.

‘You look tired,’ Paul said.

She concentrated on the spoon, the circles in the froth. She didn’t want his pity. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Don’t.’

She saw his jaw tighten.

‘So what’s this studying?’

‘Business. How to keep accounts, import and export, trading law, stock-taking. Correspondence course. I’ve picked quite a lot up.’

He missed me. She tried to concentrate on the conversation. ‘You’re thinking of setting up in business?’

‘Yes. I’ve got some compensation through. Not heaps but enough to start me off.’

A crowd piled into the coffee bar, voices raucous, the boys teasing the girls and the girls giving lip back. Someone put the jukebox on, ‘She Loves You’ blared out. Caroline loved the song, it was a new group from Liverpool called The Beatles, but it was impossible to talk above the noise.

‘Let’s walk,’ he said.

They headed for Whitworth Park. It was a dull evening, warm and humid, midges danced in clouds beneath the trees in the park, a gang of children kicked a ball about, their squeals punctuating the murmur of the city.

They stopped to sit on a bench. Paul propped his stick against the end. ‘Caroline, there’s something I want to say.’ He spoke quickly, tripping over the words. ‘I don’t know what your feelings are for me but I meant what I said. I have really missed you.’

‘Paul…’ She felt her mouth get dry, her hands shook a little.

‘Please, listen. The business idea. You talked about gardening. Well, I’ve been thinking, it could be a nursery. I’ve enough to buy some land and I could run the financial side, the paperwork. You’d be in charge of all the rest.’

‘You want to go into business with me?’ She was confused.

There was a pause.

‘I want to marry you.’

‘No!’ she exclaimed.

‘Caroline.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Don’t you care for me?’

‘I can’t marry you,’ she repeated. You don’t know about me. You don’t know what happened. It wouldn’t be fair.

He stood up, his face flushed. ‘I thought you’d be sympathetic. See beyond the ruddy cane and the game leg.’ He grabbed his stick and slammed it against the bench.

She stood too. ‘Oh, Paul, it’s not you. Don’t think that. It’s me. I can’t. I don’t deserve you.’

‘Is there someone else?’ He said tightly.

‘No!’ She exclaimed, then, ‘There was before.’ Did he understand what she meant?

‘You still see him?’

‘No.’ She waited. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter, really.’ He felt for her hand, clasped it tight against his chest. ‘If it’s over, I don’t mind, Caroline, really.’

‘But Paul…’

‘Marry me.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll meet another girl, someone… better.’

‘I don’t want anyone else, better or worse. I want you.’ He spoke urgently, his face creased with anguish. ‘I’ve been going crazy. We could have a future together, a good one. Get married, buy some land. It was your dream… I thought you might feel the same.’

‘I do…’ she whispered. She blinked furiously. Tell him about the baby. Tell him now. No. She didn’t want to think about it. It was too hard. She couldn’t. She saw herself watering plants, potting on seedlings. Outside, rain and shine. No more antiseptic and bloodied dressings, enemas and vomit. Paul with her, sharing their lives together. She might never meet a man she liked so much. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Yes. I will marry you.’ She was smiling and tears ran into the corners of her mouth. He gazed at her, his own eyes bright. ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘You’re hurting my hand.’

He kissed her then. Tentative at first as though he was holding back and then hungry. She thought how strange that she had promised to marry him before they had even shared a kiss.