The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers by Angela Patrick Read Free Book Online Page A

last feed of the evening), when
Mary explained that we were allowed out to the shops in the afternoons, if we asked permission and were back by 5 p.m. sharp.
    ‘Really?’ I said. It had never occurred to me that we’d be able to do that. Everything about the convent was so reminiscent of a prison that the idea that it wasn’t came
as a shock.
    She nodded. ‘To buy anything personal we need – toiletries and so on. Plus you can get eggs for breakfast there, too, if you want to. And we tend to club together to buy treats: now
you’ve seen the food on offer here, you know why. We get biscuits mostly, crisps and cakes – things like that.’ She touched my arm and pulled a face. ‘Though obviously you
mustn’t let the nuns see.’
    So I’d slipped the ring on my finger and walked down to the village, enjoying the feeling of fresh air on my face after so many days spent entirely indoors.
    The convent grounds were extensive, so it was curious, looking back, that apart from cleaning windows, washing the paintwork or sweeping up leaves, the girls never seemed to go outside. Perhaps
it was because we had so little free time; perhaps it was also because strolling around a large swathe of garden seemed to be the very opposite of what we should be doing in our currently shameful
state of mortal sin.
    Theydon Bois was a small place, which had just a few shops that sat together in the middle of a residential area down the hill. There was a sweet shop, a chemist and a small grocer’s.
I’d come armed with a list of things for a few of the other girls and, when I saw the bakery, a plan to buy a cake for myself and Mary, as I’d been told the ones they sold were lovely.
I also had a passion for peaches then, so I intended to get some, though they were very expensive at that time of year and would have to be just an occasional treat.
    The world now took a generally dim view of me and straight away I had my first proper experience of how I was perceived. I entered the bakery and waited patiently while the lady behind the
counter served the person before me, chatting in a very friendly fashion all the while, exchanging pleasantries about the late September weather. But when she turned to serve me, it seemed she took
one look at my bump, and her manner changed abruptly and completely.
    ‘Yes?’ she said sharply. ‘Can I help you?’
    Her tone seemed to suggest she’d rather do anything but.
    I pointed to the cakes – white iced buns – that I wanted. ‘Yes,’ I said politely. ‘Two of those, please.’
    She pulled a box from a stack and assembled it deftly, then picked up tongs and placed the cakes in it, side by side. ‘Anything else?’ she barked, placing the box on the counter.
    I shook my head, handed over the money to pay and thanked her once, then again when she gave me my change.
    There was another customer behind me now and, even as I spoke, the woman’s eyes slid past me, her sour expression suddenly transformed. ‘Ah, good afternoon!’ she began
cheerfully. ‘What can I get for you today?’ I slunk from the shop, my cheeks burning.
    It was the same in the next shop I went into, the grocer’s: no overt hostility, exactly, just this overwhelming sense that I was someone no one much cared to associate with. I left the
shops and toiled back up the hill on heavy legs, aware of my baby squirming inside and my bags biting into my fingers.
    But what else had I expected? I thought, as I walked the last few yards of the gravelled drive. The convent was imposing, both architecturally and symbolically. Everyone locally must have
known, or figured out, what kind of occupation the nuns of the ironically named ‘Franciscan Missionary of Divine Motherhood’ were engaged in – at least in this branch of their
missionary. There would be a steady stream of pregnant young ‘wives’ shopping here, of course. I was naive to suppose my ring would fool anyone.
    With my experience of the quiet but chilly