The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers Read Online Free PDF Page B

of people who get tagged
‘likeable rogues’, selling things that ‘dropped off the back of a lorry’.
    Just as June didn’t judge me, I didn’t judge her. She was a rock, a tower of strength and a true friend in a time of crisis. It was impossible to thank her enough or properly repay
her for what she did for me, and I felt I never could, even though we stayed in touch for many, many years, even after she emigrated to Australia.
    Despite all this kindness, I was terrified. Where on earth would I get a job so I could pay June my rent? Who would employ a pregnant, unmarried nineteen year old? And where would I go to have
my baby? I had no idea. Still more worrying was what would happen once the baby was born. Where would we live? How would I manage? Back then there was no social security in place. Would I be
destitute with a newborn? How could I not be? Would the authorities take it away from me?
    And in all of this, the one person whom I’d normally depend on most was completely unable to help me. My mother could talk to no one – ask no questions, get no advice – because
if she did, then the secret would be out.
    It was then that the bleakness of my situation became real.
    ‘How was your night?’ Mary asked me, interrupting my reverie. Her voice was soft, but it echoed in the sparsely furnished room.
    ‘I didn’t sleep very much,’ I admitted, returning her shy smile. ‘But it’s difficult to get comfortable when you’re this big, isn’t it? Even in the most
comfortable bed.’
    Mary grinned and pulled the covers back, then swung her legs to the floor. ‘And these beds are definitely not that,’ she answered ruefully.
    This small quip was at odds with the tone of the morning, as we left the freezing bedroom and made our way down, along with the other girls, to queue for the bathroom, the cold air swirling
unpleasantly around our bare legs. I would soon understand there was a reason for the quiet, for the way the girls, myself included, seemed locked in their own worlds. It was due, I decided,
probably to that sense of waking up in the home every morning and being reminded anew of the terrible situation we were in, every bit as much as it was to tiredness.
    The bathroom was gloomy and uninviting, the early morning light diffused by its frosted window. Being a convent, it was important that no one have the chance to see us naked – somewhat
ironic, given the condition we were in. It was also very cold (soon it would become even colder) so, just as Mary had told me, no one was inclined to hang around.
    Once we were washed, we sped back to our bedrooms to dress. I had a selection of maternity clothes – smocks and elasticated waist skirts – that June’s neighbour, a lovely Irish
lady called Marie, had kindly dug out and let me have. Then Mary and I headed down to breakfast.
    The dining room, like every other room I’d seen so far, was dingy in aspect and minimally furnished. In this case, it was dominated by a long, thin refectory table, accessorised with
wooden chairs of all ages and styles, probably assembled and repaired and then replaced over many years. Like the nuns, they looked worn out and creaky with age.
    You could sit anywhere, though breakfast was not a leisurely affair: it was designed to set you up for the day’s work, not as an accompaniment to idle chitchat. Just as when we had gone
down to the bathroom, I got a strong sense that talk was discouraged.
    Such talk as there was, from what I could make out that first morning, was quiet and mostly centred on the mothers’ unhappiness and stress at finding their babies crying when they went in
to do the first feed of the day.
    ‘Lots of the mothers miss breakfast altogether,’ Mary told me, ‘which is why it’s half empty in here now. Sure, they’re hungry, but they need that extra
hour’s sleep a lot more – or so I’m told, and I don’t doubt it.’
    Neither did I.
    The food was simple and wholesome: a selection of