just feeling guilty,’ Rosie accused, although she felt quite moved by her father’s melodramatic performance. But what she’d said about him feeling guilty had hit the spot. And they both knew it. A moment later John flung himself past her and the cellar door was crashed shut as he sought sanctuary in his underground den.
Rosie placed the tea tray back on the table. For a moment she stood there, leaning against the wood, the knuckles of her gripping fingers turning white. The baby started to whimper and she automatically went to her. Seated on the sofa she reached a hand backwards to the handle, rocking the pram and avoiding looking at the infant, her chin cupped in a palm. Within a few minutes the room was again quiet. Rosie stood up, drawing her cardigan sleeves down her goose-pimpled arms. She took off her pinafore and folded it, then looked in the coal scuttle, unnecessarily as she knew it would be empty.
It was a cold unwelcoming house for a visitor but it didn’t matter that her father was too thrifty to light the fire till the evening. When Nurse Johnson turned up Rosie intended to say quickly what she had to, then get rid of her so she might start planning her future.
She wandered to the window, peering through the nets for a sighting of the midwife pedalling down the road. It had been many months since she’d hurried from Dr Vernon’s surgery to huddle, crying, in a nearby alleyway. She’d been terrified that day of going home and telling her father the dreadful news that she was almost certainly pregnant, yet he’d taken it better than she had herself. But now, at last, Rosie felt almost content because the prospect of returning to something akin to her old life seemed within her grasp.
Under a year ago she’d been working as a showgirl at the Windmill Theatre. Virtually every waking hour had been crammed with glamour and excitement. She’d enjoyed her job and the companionship of her colleagues, despite the rivalry, but she couldn’t go back there. Her body was different now. Her breasts had lost their pert youthfulness and her belly and hips were flabby. Besides, Rosie felt that chapter of her life had closed and a new one was opening up. Whether she’d wanted to or not, she’d grown up. The teenage vamp who’d revelled in having lavish compliments while flirting with the servicemen who flocked to the shows, no longer existed. Wistfully Rosie acknowledged that she’d not had a chance to kiss goodbye to that sunny side of her character. That choice, and her virginity, had been brutally stolen from her by Lenny, damn the bastard to hell …
But once her daughter was adopted Rosie knew she’d find work again, and she wanted her own place. Her father’s future wife resented her being around and Rosie knew she’d probably feel the same if she were in Doris’s shoes.
Suddenly she snapped out of her daydream, having spotted Nurse Johnson’s dark cap at the end of the street. Rosie let the curtain fall and pulled the pram out from behind the sofa so the midwife could examine the baby. Although she was expecting it, the ratatat startled her. Rosie brushed herself down then quickly went to open the door, praying that her father wouldn’t reappear to embarrass her by making snide comments.
Half an hour later the examinations were over and Rosie was sitting comfortably in the front parlour with the midwife.
‘She’s a beautiful child but would benefit from breast milk rather than a bottle, Mrs Deane. She might put on a bit more weight.’
Rosie smiled weakly; she hated people calling her by the wrong name. Her father and Doris had persuaded her to pass herself off as a war widow to stop tongues wagging. But that hadn’t worked: the old biddies were still having a field day at her expense. Rosie had chosen to use her mother’s maiden name as her pretend married name. She cleared her throat. ‘What we spoke about last time, Nurse Johnson …’
Trudy Johnson put down her pen on the chart she’d been filling in. ‘You still want to have her adopted?’ she prompted when Rosie seemed stuck for words.
‘I do … yes …’
‘Why? You seem to be coping well, and you have your father’s support.’
‘I’m not married,’ Rosie blurted, although she was sure the midwife had already guessed the truth. ‘That is … I’m not widowed either … I’ve never had a husband.’
Trudy sat back in the chair. It wasn’t surprising news, but Rosie’s honesty had taken her aback. Families who were frightened of ostracism often came up with non-existent husbands to prevent a daughter’s shame tainting them all. And now it was clearer why the baby still hadn’t been named. Much of the falsehood surrounding illegitimate births unravelled when awkward questions were asked at the registry office.
‘I guessed perhaps that might be the case.’
‘You don’t know the ins and outs of it all.’ Rosie bristled at the older woman’s tone. ‘Nobody does except me and Dad.’
Trudy Johnson could have barked a laugh at that. Instead she put away her notes in the satchel at her feet. At least this young woman had had the guts to go through with it, whereas lots of desperate girls allowed a backstreet butcher to rip at their insides. She had been approached herself over the years by more than one distraught family to terminate a ‘problem’ for them. Trudy had always refused to abort a woman’s baby but it didn’t stop them going elsewhere. And, to Trudy’s knowledge, at least two of those youngsters had ended up in the cemetery because of it.
‘Your situation’s more common than you think.’ Again Trudy’s tone was brisk. ‘Unlike you, though, I’ve seen some poor souls turfed out onto the streets with their babies. Your father is keeping a roof over your heads.’
‘It’s the least he can do, considering …’ Rosie bit her lip; she’d said enough. Besides, she didn’t want to get sidetracked from the important task of finding her daughter a new home.
Trudy stood up, buckling her mac, and gazed into the pram. The baby was awake. She’d been just five pounds at birth and was struggling to put on weight. Arms and legs barely bigger than Trudy’s thumbs were quivering and jerking, and just a hint of a smile was lifting a corner of the little girl’s mouth. It was probably wind but Trudy tickled the adorable infant under the chin.
‘I want her adopted,’ Rosie stated firmly. ‘And I want it done soon, before she gets attached to us.’
‘If you’re sure that’s what you want to do, then I’ll have her. I’ve never been married but I’ve always wanted a child.’ Trudy sent Rosie a sideways smile. ‘I almost got married when I was seventeen but …’ She shrugged. Her memories of Tony were too precious to share. She even avoided talking about her dead lover with her elderly parents. They’d liked him, and had mourned his passing almost as much as she had herself.
‘I see … sorry …’ Rosie finally murmured, recovering from her shock. On reflection she realised that the child would probably get no better care than from someone with Nurse Johnson’s skills. ‘Will having a baby interfere with your work?’ Rosie didn’t think that the midwife would leave a tiny baby for long periods of time, yet neither did she expect the woman would pack in her vocation just like that.
‘I share shifts with other nurses and know a good nursery,’ Nurse Johnson explained.
‘I’m not sure …’ Rosie felt awkward. She didn’t want to upset Nurse Johnson but her intention had always been that her baby be taken into a family where she could be mothered properly. Then in the evenings the woman’s doting husband would come home from work to coo over his new daughter. ‘I’ll think about it and I’d better let Dad know, too,’ Rosie said slowly, avoiding the older woman’s eye.
‘Of
