Rosie’s War

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 course …’ Trudy withdrew her hand from the pram. It wasn’t the first time that she’d attempted to foster a child only to be shunned because of her age and spinster status.

‘Did your sweetheart ever get married?’ Rosie blurted, keen to change the subject.

‘He lost his life in the Great War. He was too young to join up, but he went anyway. Lots did. He was killed at Ypres, still eighteen. I’ve grown old without him.’

‘You met nobody else?’ Rosie asked, saddened but still inquisitive.

‘I’d have liked to find somebody, but so many young fellows of my generation are still in Flanders, aren’t they?’ Nurse Johnson’s expression turned rather severe, as though she regretted betraying her feelings. ‘Does your father agree with your plan for adoption?’

‘It’s up to me to decide what’s best for her,’ Rosie blurted. ‘He doesn’t like the gossip going round, in any case.’

‘Neighbours chinwagging?’ Nurse Johnson asked with a slight smile.

‘They’ve been told I’m Mrs Deane, too, but they’re not green. I did go away and live with my aunt in Walthamstow for a few months, so I could say I’d had a whirlwind wedding before he bought it overseas.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve already had a run-in with Mrs Price; I don’t suppose it’ll be the last time.’ She frowned. ‘I’m going to find work that takes me away somewhere. Then I can start afresh and Dad’ll marry his fiancée …’ Rosie glanced at the midwife. She was not a bad sort. She’d not turned sniffy on knowing the baby was illegitimate. Neither had she gone off in a huff when her offer to take the baby hadn’t been snapped up. ‘I think you’d make a good mum,’ Rosie said kindly. ‘Good enough for me, anyhow,’ she added on impulse.

‘You mean … shall I start to make arrangements for myself then?’ Trudy’s eyes had lit up, her voice shrill with emotion.

‘I’m glad it’s you.’ Rosie sounded more enthusiastic than she felt. ‘I only want the best for her, you know.’

‘I know you do, dear.’ Nurse Johnson stood up and Rosie did too. They took a step towards one another as though they might embrace but instead shook hands just as the baby started to cry.

‘She takes her bottle without any trouble,’ Rosie informed the midwife quickly. She’d never wanted to feel a soft pink cheek against her naked breast and the baby gazing up at her with steady, inquisitive eyes.

Rosie glanced down and noticed that her clothing was wet.

‘You’ll need to bind yourself up, dear.’ Trudy nodded at the damp patches on Rosie’s bodice.

‘I know … it’s a right nuisance.’ Rosie frowned, grabbed the pinafore and put it on again, hiding the stains on her blouse. ‘How long will it all take … the adoption?’

‘You’re sure you don’t want to think about it for longer?’ Trudy felt conscience-bound to ask although she prayed Rosie wouldn’t back out now when she was considering Angela as a lovely name for such a blonde cherub.

Rosie nodded vigorously. ‘I’d offer you tea, but I’ve a pile of ironing to do.’ There were only two of her father’s shirts and one of her blouses in the basket, but Rosie wanted the woman gone. She felt a strange raging emotion within that was making her want to sink to her knees and scream. She guessed her conscience was troubling her but she mustn’t let it. Her father might accuse her of being selfish and heartless, but she truly wanted the best for her daughter.

‘It’s all right … I’ve got to get on too.’ Trudy realised that the young woman wanted to be on her own now. With a surreptitious look of longing at the baby, she gathered up her things and followed Rosie towards the front door.

CHAPTER THREE (#u6ea850f4-5fc7-5a18-b4a9-14062a3abf77)

‘Gone has she, the interfering old bag?’

Her father must have been waiting for the midwife to leave. He’d emerged from the cellar almost before Rosie had shut the front door, having seen the woman out.

‘Yes, she has … but you’ve no need to speak about her like that. She’s all right, is Nurse Johnson.’ Rosie knew that crossed-armed, jaw-jutting stance of her father’s meant another row was in the offing. He was likely to hit the roof when he found out what arrangements she’d made, and spit out a few more choice names for the nice nurse.

‘Go and see if little ’un’s all right, shall I?’

‘She’s fast asleep; I’ve only just come out of the bloody front room and you know it,’ Rosie retorted in response to his cantankerous sarcasm.

‘How long are we going to keep calling the poor little mite “she”? Getting a name, is she, before her first birthday?’ John continued sourly.

His barbs were starting to get on Rosie’s nerves but she reined in her temper. They had a serious conversation in front of them and she’d as soon get it over with. ‘Come and sit down in the kitchen, Dad. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

Rosie took her father’s elbow and, surprisingly, he allowed her to steer him along the passage.

‘Let’s wet our whistles.’ Rosie began filling the kettle, hoping to keep things calm if not harmonious between them.

John pulled out a stick-back chair at the kitchen table and was about to sit down when he hesitated and glanced up at the ceiling. Rosie had heard it too: the unmistakable sound of aeroplane engines moving closer.

‘Must be some of ours,’ Rosie said, putting the kettle on the gas stove and sticking a lit match beneath it.

There’d been no warning siren and the afternoon was late but still light. The Luftwaffe mostly came over under cover of darkness. Since the Blitz petered out last May, German bombing had thankfully become sporadic and Londoners – especially East Enders who’d borne the brunt of the pounding – had been able to relax a bit.