5. Shirley

Shirley’s recovery was slow and her stitches caused her huge discomfort; she was, however, forced from her bed on the post-natal ward by Matron, who was keen to see the girl vacate the Home. The sooner Shirley was gone from Mary Vale, the sooner her place could be offered to another client, hopefully one with money who would pay for her stay, instead of a scrounger who seemed determined not to leave.

Though no longer on the ward and always fearful of Matron catching sight of her, Shirley often slipped into the prep room or the sluice room for a chat with Sister Ann, whom she sought out like a child seeks out its mother. It was in this semi-maternal role that Sister Ann gently explained all the changes that were going on in Shirley’s body.

‘Your stitches are healing nicely and your milk’s drying up too.’

‘Is that because of the pills you gave me?’ Shirley asked.

Sister Ann nodded. ‘Your breasts won’t feel quite so tender any more; you’ll be back to normal in no time,’ she assured the edgy girl.

‘I don’t want to be back to normal, Sister Ann!’ Shirley blurted out. ‘Normal means I’ll be sent back home, when I’d rather stay here.’

‘I understand, child,’ Sister Ann told her. ‘We’ll keep you for as long as we can string it out, but you have to understand that the Home has rules, and one of them is that you must vacate your place so someone else can fill it.’

Poor Shirley nodded, but her huge, dark eyes filled up with tears as she thought of what she was going back to. Her father had never been an affectionate man, but at least he’d never laid a hand on his daughter. It was when he’d died and her mother had quickly remarried that fourteen-year-old Shirley’s life changed very much for the worse; from that moment on she never knew a minute’s peace. It started with her drunken stepfather touching her only when her mother was out of the house, but, as his brutish desires increased, he had started to seek Shirley out while her mother was downstairs cooking or cleaning. Shirley’s cries of pain and protest were stifled by her stepfather’s big, dirty hand, which he clamped over her mouth until he’d sated himself. Shirley couldn’t understand why her mother never came looking for her: what did she think she was doing upstairs for so long? But, as the abuse continued with even more hideous frequency, she reached the horrifying conclusion that her mother was somehow complicit; either too frightened of her thuggish husband to protest, or, worse, perhaps she was relieved that her new husband’s voracious and distasteful appetite was being fulfilled elsewhere.

When Shirley’s shame reached a peak the day she discovered her stepfather had made her pregnant, she hoped her mother would do what a mother should. But that was not to be either: there was no support from her mother. Instead, she had sided completely with her new husband, outraged by her daughter’s shameful condition. She had literally thrown her into the street, cursing her daughter for her loose ways, even though they both knew who the father of Shirley’s child really was and that she’d had no choice in the matter whatsoever. If it hadn’t been for her local priest, whom she’d turned to in desperation, Shirley was convinced she would have died on the streets where she’d been dumped. The priest, who knew Shirley from her regular attendance at Mass and Communion, had pulled a few strings and found her a place at Mary Vale, where Shirley had met the kindest people she’d ever known in her life.

Dragging her mind back to the here and now, Shirley dumbly said, ‘Thank you, Sister Ann, I’ll always be grateful for my time at Mary Vale.’

Seeing her pain, the nun clasped the tearful girl in her arms. ‘We’ll pray for you, Shirley, dear, God will guide us.’

Nobody could fail to notice Shirley’s complete lack of interest in her new-born daughter, who still didn’t have a name. Ada watched Shirley progress through the nursery, glancing into all the little white canvas cots as she did so, but when it came to her own child Shirley scooted past as if she were frightened of seeing her daughter. Catching her in the act one day, Ada drew Shirley aside.

‘Your little girl needs a name, Shirley,’ she reminded the new mother, who shrugged.

Staring moodily at the floor, she blurted out in an emotional rush, ‘I don’t care! She reminds me of him and what he done to me.’

Ada completely understood Shirley’s reaction – who would want to be reminded on a daily basis of their rapist? However, she knew from her own professional experience that it was important psychologically for Shirley to talk about her feelings, rather than pretend she hadn’t given birth and that her baby didn’t exist.

‘Shirley, it’s not the child’s fault,’ she said gently. ‘She didn’t ask to be born –’

Shirley angrily interrupted her: ‘And I didn’t ask to be raped!’

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Ada apologized.

Shirley’s bottom lip quivered. ‘If I look at her, you might go thinking I want her, and I don’t.’

Ada shook her head. ‘I would never try to change your mind, Shirley,’ she said gently. ‘I know you want to have your baby adopted and I agree with you: it is the best option for her. All I’m saying is please don’t ignore her. You carried her, gave birth to her, and you’ve decided to give her away – all these things happened to you and you must acknowledge them. Right?’

She waited for Shirley to reply, which she did with difficulty. ‘Right,’ she agreed, then quickly turned to go. ‘You give her a name, Sister,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I ain’t got none for ’er.’

Ada and Sister Ann gave Shirley’s daughter a grand name: Elizabeth Rose (after the royal princesses), but in no time at all everybody was calling the little mite Lizzie, which suited her far better. Shirley made no comment about her daughter’s name, though Ada was relieved to see her casting a cautious glance at her sleeping baby as she hurried through the nursery one afternoon. Ada smiled; at least her message had got through.