Christmas at the Farmhouse - Rebecca Boxall Page 0,36

to me when I get home,’ I said, glumly.

‘Oh, cheer up!’ she said. ‘Sounds like that boyfriend of yours ought to do something; stand up to your dad or break you out of here.’

‘That’s what I’m counting on. That he’ll somehow come up trumps. I don’t want to give this baby away. I won’t do it,’ I said, obstinately.

Janet looked at me with pity in her eyes. ‘You’d better prepare yourself, though,’ she said, kindly. ‘Just in case.’

I felt my eyes fill with tears. ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

‘No bloody idea,’ Janet said with a sigh. I had the feeling I was dragging the cheerful soul down. ‘They don’t even tell you what happens when you go into labour. You have to speak to the new mums to get any idea, and most of them come out of that maternity wing looking like they’ve had the shock of their lives!’

‘It can’t be that bad, can it? I mean, women do it all the time.’

But there was that look of pity again. ‘You’re gonna need looking after, ain’t you?’ she said to me. ‘Well, lucky for you you’ve met Janet. I’ll see you right,’ she promised, and I felt, for the first time since arriving, a tiny smidgeon of comfort.

***

The following day, after lunch, Janet showed me round the building.

‘This staircase is only for visitors,’ she explained as we walked down a grand staircase into the front hall. ‘We have to polish the banister, though, and scrub them steps out the front. Right up until a month before you’re due you have to do the domestic jobs. Polly Finch thought she’d knocked her bucket of dirty suds over the other day but her waters had gone!’ Janet said, her eyes wide and full of amusement.

‘What other jobs do we have to do then?’ I asked. So far I’d cleaned the bathrooms and peeled vegetables in the kitchen. It was like being an unpaid servant.

‘Oh, everything! The ones with the nice voices sometimes get to answer the telephone in Matron’s office. That’s the best job. You might get that one, but they’d never let me have a go at that.’

‘I suppose it passes the time,’ I said, as I followed Janet down into the basement and she showed me where the wringers were (‘worst job of all’ she told me), before we made our way back upstairs again and along the lino-floored corridor to the rec room.

‘Can we go outside at all?’ I asked, looking longingly at the gardens.

‘Oh yes, we’re allowed a little walk before suppertime and on Sunday afternoons as long as we go in pairs and stay in the grounds. And we have to go to chapel on Sunday morning whether we want to or not.’

‘Where’s the chapel?’ I asked.

‘I’ll show you later… Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s have a game of cards. Bet I could teach you a few games! Here, you want one?’ she asked me, finding a packet of cigarettes in her cardigan pocket and offering me one.

‘I don’t smoke,’ I told her.

Janet narrowed her eyes at me. ‘You really are a good girl. This ain’t the place for you. You’d better get that prince charming of yours to get you out of here, quick smart.’

‘He’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘He’s ever so clever. He’s going to be a doctor!’

‘Oh, la-di-da!’ Janet said, smiling. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Robin,’ I said. ‘Robin Jenners.’

‘Look at that dreamy face of yours,’ Janet laughed. ‘Girl, you got it bad!’

Chapter Twenty

July 1969

Susan

Janet was one of my roommates and snored like a trooper, but I’d have forgiven her anything because her warmth and kindness got me through those months at the Home. In fact, the more pregnant everyone got, the more snoring there was in that dorm. Farting, too, and – I was slightly horrified to discover – dribbling! No-one at the Home gave us any sort of advice about pregnancy or labour, but Janet and I compared our symptoms and when our babies started kicking we used to try to get each other to feel the kicks and rumbles, though the babies always used to stop then of course.

On the first Sunday after I arrived Janet told me I needed to dress in my best. We all congregated outside the rec room before Sister Rosa (the nicest nun) led us in a crocodile like little children to the chapel in the grounds. I wasn’t even Catholic – my parents were Anglican and I’d been confirmed in the Church