everyone knew about ‘Tilly’s baby’ or ‘the Quaintways’ baby’ as it was sometimes known. Bowls of nourishing soup were sent to me with the compliments of the chefs in the restaurant. Clearly, they thought I needed fattening up. The other girls in the salon made sure I didn’t do too much or strain myself lifting anything. Most of the regular customers soon suspected and started to give me extra tips to buy ‘something nice for the baby’. Everyone was so kind and took such special care of me. I couldn’t have been in better hands.
Back home, the atmosphere was far more strained. My mother, who was a very proud woman and worried about the prying eyes of the neighbours, had been summoned to Quaintways by Mr Guifreda, who reassured her that my job would remain open for me. She thanked him but told me not to tell anyone else. Insisting that she was doing what was best for the baby, she contacted social services and the Church of England Children’s Society. Between them, they arranged that when I was seven months’ pregnant I would go to St Bridget’s House of Mercy in Lache Park, beyond Handbridge.
I adored my mother but I pleaded with her to allow me to stay at home. ‘Can’t I have it here?’ I begged. ‘Then we can just look after it ourselves.’
‘How?’ she’d cry, shaking her head. ‘Who’ll look after it when we’re both out at work all day? There’s nobody but us here now and neither of us can afford to give up our jobs. You have to be sensible, Pauline. It would be cruel to the baby to do anything but this and they’ll take better care of your baby than we could.’
There were no crèches in those days and, even if there had been, we couldn’t have afforded one. I earned just over three pounds a week with tips and, although my mother earned a little more, every penny was spoken for. We had few relatives nearby and those we had were working too. Peter knew nothing of my pregnancy and was still at the rehabilitation centre. Nobody could help us.
I was assigned a social worker, a middle-aged Dutch lady called Mrs Cotter, who visited me regularly as the pregnancy progressed. ‘You’ll stay in the mother and baby home for three months after the birth and then the baby will be put up for adoption,’ she told me. ‘If suitable parents can’t be found, it will be placed in a state nursery until they can.’
I watched the words fall from her mouth but I never really thought they would apply to me. Jim would be back by then, I kept telling myself, or, if for some terrible reason he wasn’t, my mother would change her mind at the last minute and let me keep the baby. I was certain of it.
Still in denial, I didn’t tell any of the girls at work what was happening. Nor did they ask. All they knew was that I was going away to a special home for the final months of my pregnancy. The worst part was telling Peter. He was finally well enough to come home for a weekend from the rehabilitation centre and Mum, who’d kept it all from him until then, broke the news. He was very upset and worried for me. I guess when he’d last been around I’d been a child. It was a shock for him to accept that I was old enough to have a child of my own. Happily, once he’d calmed down he finally became the big brother I’d always wanted, protective and kind whenever he was home from hospital. We have been close ever since.
As my time drew near the girls at work grew more and more excited. They clubbed together and raised enough money to buy me some maternity clothes. Miss Jones took me shopping to the posh department store Brown’s of Chester and helped me choose three beautiful outfits, a pencil skirt that expanded at the top and some smock tops. ‘You’ll be the best-dressed girl there,’ she told me with a hug.
The closer the date came to me going into St Bridget’s, the more nervous I grew. I’d heard stories about those sorts of places: former convents where unmarried mothers were regarded as bad girls. Up until now I had been treated with nothing but kindness. There had been little stigma to what I had done mainly because everyone knew I was a good girl. The story had gone round that the man who’d ‘got me into trouble’ was married and had then ‘run away’, which I guess protected me in many ways.
Having said my farewells to the Quaintways Girls, I packed a small suitcase and went with my mother to St Bridget’s, a bus ride away. We hardly said a word on the journey, which was just as well because I could barely swallow. Mum just held my hand tightly the whole way. When we arrived, we found the place was more like a church than an institution. It had cloisters and was deathly quiet. Nuns padded silently by, heads down, in long black robes. I was terrified. We were led down a long corridor to the main office and if I hadn’t been so pregnant I think I might have turned and run.
I needn’t have worried. Mother Superior was warm and friendly as she welcomed me to St Bridget’s and offered to show us both around. She led us into the kitchens first where I was relieved to find several pregnant girls, some much bigger than others, all smiling at me and waving shyly. I’d had no contact with any other pregnant women before and seeing one who looked as if she could have her baby any minute I stopped in my tracks. Oh my God! I thought, staring at her huge tummy. That’ll soon be me!
Mother Superior then took us to the nursery, where crib after crib of newborns lay sleeping, closely supervised by nuns. It was like a room full of perfect baby dolls, their tiny hands and feet just like the gorgeous one I had at home. Then we were taken to the laundry where we found more pregnant girls ironing and folding sheets. My mother was impressed with how clean and neat everything was. As we were led along the cloisters towards the chapel I found myself shivering. There’s bound to be a ghost here, I thought. I was almost more frightened of the ghosts at St Bridget’s in those first few hours than of what might happen to me and my child.
When it was time for Mum to go, I could tell she was as upset as me. We hugged and said our goodbyes and she promised to visit every weekend. I dried my eyes as a nun led me to an upstairs dormitory and my metal-framed bed, one in a room of twelve. I was given a locker and began to unpack my case. Slipping into my new brigkt red pyjamas which did up to the neck, I felt a little embarrassed as fellow dormmates wandered in to introduce themselves and admire my clothes. They seemed terribly nice, though. There was no cattiness as I had feared and everyone was happy to help each other because we were all in the same boat. After a supper that was surprisingly good, we retired to the dorm until lights out when I lay shivering under my blanket as some of the girls told scary stories in the dark. ‘There’s definitely the ghost of a girl in the laundry,’ one announced. ‘Oh, yes, and several ghostly nuns who walk the cloisters at night!’ piped another. I didn’t sleep a wink.
Over the next few days, the other girls became curious about my story and I about theirs. Some, it seemed, had been too promiscuous and were paying the price. Others were the victims of sexual abuse, which horrified me. Two girls had been raped by their fathers. I had only ever known kindness and love from my dear old dad and I couldn’t imagine what they had gone through. Strangely, though, they still defended the men who’d abused them. I found that even harder to understand. Most of the girls were relieved to be giving up their babies for adoption but a handful were taking their infants home to be cared for by their relatives, something I was still convinced would happen to me.
The nuns kept us busy, running and managing our own little kingdom. There were strict routines and everything was well organized. We went to chapel every morning and evening but we were never preached to and were mainly left to quiet prayer and contemplation. If we weren’t washing, ironing or cooking, we were cleaning the walls and floors, but we didn’t really mind and soon got into the swing of things. I liked working in the kitchen best. The cook was a lovely woman who used to tell us to strain the cabbage water and drink it for the extra iron. Her food was good and wholesome. It reminded me of my mother’s cooking, and we all gained weight as our babies thrived.
There were six nuns under Mother Superior, each in charge of a dorm. Sister Joan Augustine was in charge of mine but for some reason she didn’t take to me. I think it was because I had more visitors than most. My mother came every weekend, often taking me out to the pictures, but Miss Jones and some of the girls from Quaintways would sometimes come too, always fussing me and bringing me nice things. Sister Joan Augustine clearly thought I was rather spoiled, especially as I kept going back and forth to the laundry to wash and iron my new clothes, determined as always to look my best.
When she showed us the cream