Dear James,
I saw a doctor a few days ago so at last I know when our baby is coming. They didn’t give me a date, or talk to me at all, actually. But I heard the doctor tell Mrs Sullivan that if he or she hasn’t arrived by September, they will go right ahead and induce the labour.
It seems far too soon to me . . . to think that in just two months our baby will be born! I feel like I have only just found out that I am going to be a mother, because I spent so long trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. I’ve really only had these last few weeks to properly think about it and to figure out my own feelings. And the date does make sense, doesn’t it? I mean, after all, we saw each other last after the new year.
All is well with the baby and with me, so you don’t need to worry James, but the examination was very difficult. The doctor did the check-up right there in front of Mrs Sullivan, without even a privacy screen, just a flimsy gown that was too small anyway . . . it feels like everything is too small for me these days. And having myself on show like that was humiliating enough, but the worst came when he announced the due date. Mrs Sullivan said she was surprised how far along I was, and amazed that no one had noticed my pregnancy until now … then the doctor made jokes about how difficult it was to tell a cake belly from a baby belly in big girls like me.
And they laughed at me; they laughed with this filthy pleasure at their own superiority, as if I wasn’t even in the room or . . . I don’t know … it’s awful to even think it but maybe they laughed like that because I was in the room. I wanted to cry, but I also really did not want to be weak, and besides which I was scared that they’d be even more amused if I did show how upset I was. Instead, I just looked down at my bare naked belly and pictured our baby tucked up safe in there. After a while, the doctor used an ultrasound machine, and while I didn’t get to see very much because they wouldn’t let me see the screen, I heard him explaining it to Mrs Sullivan and so I know that our baby is healthy and strong and with all of the right body parts.
When I have let myself think of our baby, I have always thought of it as a boy . . . until I heard the thumping rhythm of its heartbeat during that ultrasound. I can’t explain why, but I somehow feel now that our baby is a girl – a daughter.
Can you imagine it? I can see her little ponytails flying in the wind when she runs out to the driveway to meet you as you’re coming home from a day’s work in the paddocks. You’ll scoop her up in your arms and she will giggle and squeal with excitement, then she will tell you about the day she’s had with me. We’ll have read books and played games and she’ll have helped me around the house, and probably have driven me half-crazy with her questions and her chatter.
I can see it, James, as clearly in my mind as if it’s happening now. I live in my mind maybe too much at the moment, thinking about the way that we will all be together and how happy we will be.
I try very hard not to think about the sad things. It has taken me a few days to stop the rush of tension and anger in my chest when I think about that examination. Its taken time for me to feel calm enough about it to even sit down and write this to you. It felt like a violation somehow. I know they are trying to help me, and they are looking after me while I am pregnant, and Tata obviously entrusted them to provide care for me . . . but I don’t understand why they think it is okay to talk about me like that, or to deny me even the dignity of privacy. Even though I’m to be an unwed mother, am I not also just a mother? If I actually had a voice here, I’d ask Mrs Sullivan that. Didn’t she grow up under the care of someone’s nurturing embrace? How would she feel if her mother was treated that way?
But I don’t have a voice here. I am just here to kill time – until you come for us.
And now that I have started to think about the awful things, I will tell you one more miserable story. On Sundays, we have to go to church, but it’s the strangest church you’ve ever seen – no crucifixes or stained glass like at the chapel at school. The minister is called ‘Captain’, and he wears a military uniform. I learned that they are called Salvation Army and they give the money to run this home, so we have to attend the services.
At first, I really thought this was lovely. The walk is awful, but the church is warm, and the music is different to mass; there’s a guitar and brass instruments, so the hymns sound full and alive. I actually thought it might even make a nice change from spending all day in the laundry.
It was only after the service, when the minister invited the congregation to have tea or coffee and some biscuits, that I really understood that we are not there as guests at all. We were told to stay in our seats until everyone else had had their fill of morning tea, and then we were allowed a cup of tea and one of the wheat biscuits. Not the cream biscuits, mind you, because they were all well and truly gone by the time we were allowed near to the plate.
The rest of the congregation watched us, as if we were a television show; some scandalous drama performed for their amusement. Can you imagine what a spectacle we must have made, twenty-seven heavily pregnant girls, all lining up to take our morning tea, while the respectable people all stared on at us in silence?
If they left me to my own devices, I’d never be embarrassed to be carrying your baby. I am full up – full of love, and baby, and new life and the beauty of the family we will be.
But put me on parade in front of those people and their condemning eyes and I shrivel inside. I want to curl up around this baby and protect it from their scorn. I can see what they are thinking, as clearly as if they were holding placards. Scarlet woman! Whore! Sinful child, to be born out of wedlock! Unfit mother!
I’ve been to the church several times now, and I have noticed that even the chattiest of the residents walk home in silence after the service. Maybe we are all fighting the same battle internally; the fight between what our instincts tell us about our children, and what those sharp gazes in the church would have us believe about ourselves.
There is one final, awful thing about our visit to the church on Sunday, James. We walk right past the post office, but even though I have asked, I am not allowed to slip these letters into the letter box. I begged Mrs Baxter last week and she has told me to give her some time and she will see what she can organise. I don’t know if I am foolish to pin my hopes on her. She is so nice, but . . . she works here, and there are so many rules. I am sure she would lose her job if she posted letters for me and was found out.
But I will keep writing to you. I will always keep writing. This pen and paper seems like my only way out of here, and I don’t let myself think for more than a second at a time about what will happen if I can’t reach you.
I’ll never stop trying. I love you. Come for us soon,
Lilly