She was watching the woman’s face. ‘There’s something else,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m willing to adopt this baby of yours. Whether it’s Bernard’s or not, well, I have my doubts, but me and Mr Stock, we’ll give it a home. There, what d’you think of that? Very generous in the circumstances, you must agree.’
In words not normally used by a respectable young woman, Barbara told her no thanks!
Chapter Three
L EAVING M RS S TOCK , Barbara didn’t know which was the stronger need, to laugh or to scream and shout her rage. It was laughter that won. Giggling almost hysterical laughter that threatened to tear at her throat as she tried to hold it back, she covered her face from the curious looks of those she passed as she hurried through the street towards Mrs Carey’s. First being thrown out by Graham Prothero and now this! What was wrong with her that no one was willing to support her?
Thank heavens for Auntie Molly Carey and her amiable husband. They had so little yet they were giving her all they could spare. She was seventeen and there was no one in the world who really loved her. Melancholy thoughts but they still produced only giggles.
‘Well? What did Mrs Stock want then? Nothing useful I’ll bet a farthing,’ Mrs Carey asked as Barbara walked in.
Sobering her tense, irrational laughter, Barbara told her what Mrs Stock had suggested. To her surprise, Mrs Carey looked solemn and not amused.
‘Offering to take the baby? Well, I suppose I can sympathize. She had a letter today, poor dab, from the war office.’ Then, as Barbara frowned, a wild thought entering her head that Bernard wasn’t dead but was coming home, she added, ‘Her Freddie is missing in action and we know what that usually means, don’t we? Her last surviving son. Now there’s no one but herself and that soft husband of hers. There’s a wicked world we live in, Barbara. They had a houseful of boys, four of them, and now they’re on their own. So I can understand her wanting Bernard’s baby, can’t you?’
‘She implied it wasn’t Bernard’s anyway, didn’t she? Said he wouldn’t do … you know, him being a Sunday school teacher an’ all.’ She saw a hastily hidden smile crease Mrs Carey’s face and went on, ‘But I didn’t do … that … with anyone else.’ That was funny too and her laughter returned.
‘Of course you didn’t and she knows it. She can’t help trying to keep him as an innocent child in her memory.’
When a fresh outburst of giggles had ended in tears, Barbara didn’tknow what to say. She would have been kinder to the woman if she had known about Freddie.
‘Seven killed on this street since last Christmas,’ Mrs Carey went on. ‘Never thought I’d be glad of my Henry’s bad chest. And the children being young means they’re safe at least from the bayonets and guns of the enemy.’ She smiled at Barbara. ‘Best you make the most of the baby’s early years – they get more and more of a worry the older they get. In their first years it’s bad enough, mind. Whooping cough, scarlet fever, diphtheria, consumption , measles and all the rest. Still, best not to be gloomy, and sitting moaning won’t get the baby a new coat! Come on, get cracking on those potatoes and we’ll get a meal ready. You’ll stay,’ she said rhetorically, ‘and spend the night and for as long as you like, if you can bear the thought of sharing a bed with the others.’
Barbara hugged her and whispered her thanks tearfully. What a day. Tears and laughter and all in the wrong places too. She picked up the bucket of potatoes and washed them ready for peeling. As she began putting them into the large stew pan to cook on the fire, she wondered sadly why her own mother wasn’t as kind and sympathetic as Mrs Carey.
‘Why won’t Mam help me?’ she asked. ‘If you don’t feel the shame of having me under your roof, well … I mean, my own mother.’
‘Your dad, he’s the one. He’s so angry she doesn’t
In words not normally used by a respectable young woman, Barbara told her no thanks!
Chapter Three
L EAVING M RS S TOCK , Barbara didn’t know which was the stronger need, to laugh or to scream and shout her rage. It was laughter that won. Giggling almost hysterical laughter that threatened to tear at her throat as she tried to hold it back, she covered her face from the curious looks of those she passed as she hurried through the street towards Mrs Carey’s. First being thrown out by Graham Prothero and now this! What was wrong with her that no one was willing to support her?
Thank heavens for Auntie Molly Carey and her amiable husband. They had so little yet they were giving her all they could spare. She was seventeen and there was no one in the world who really loved her. Melancholy thoughts but they still produced only giggles.
‘Well? What did Mrs Stock want then? Nothing useful I’ll bet a farthing,’ Mrs Carey asked as Barbara walked in.
Sobering her tense, irrational laughter, Barbara told her what Mrs Stock had suggested. To her surprise, Mrs Carey looked solemn and not amused.
‘Offering to take the baby? Well, I suppose I can sympathize. She had a letter today, poor dab, from the war office.’ Then, as Barbara frowned, a wild thought entering her head that Bernard wasn’t dead but was coming home, she added, ‘Her Freddie is missing in action and we know what that usually means, don’t we? Her last surviving son. Now there’s no one but herself and that soft husband of hers. There’s a wicked world we live in, Barbara. They had a houseful of boys, four of them, and now they’re on their own. So I can understand her wanting Bernard’s baby, can’t you?’
‘She implied it wasn’t Bernard’s anyway, didn’t she? Said he wouldn’t do … you know, him being a Sunday school teacher an’ all.’ She saw a hastily hidden smile crease Mrs Carey’s face and went on, ‘But I didn’t do … that … with anyone else.’ That was funny too and her laughter returned.
‘Of course you didn’t and she knows it. She can’t help trying to keep him as an innocent child in her memory.’
When a fresh outburst of giggles had ended in tears, Barbara didn’tknow what to say. She would have been kinder to the woman if she had known about Freddie.
‘Seven killed on this street since last Christmas,’ Mrs Carey went on. ‘Never thought I’d be glad of my Henry’s bad chest. And the children being young means they’re safe at least from the bayonets and guns of the enemy.’ She smiled at Barbara. ‘Best you make the most of the baby’s early years – they get more and more of a worry the older they get. In their first years it’s bad enough, mind. Whooping cough, scarlet fever, diphtheria, consumption , measles and all the rest. Still, best not to be gloomy, and sitting moaning won’t get the baby a new coat! Come on, get cracking on those potatoes and we’ll get a meal ready. You’ll stay,’ she said rhetorically, ‘and spend the night and for as long as you like, if you can bear the thought of sharing a bed with the others.’
Barbara hugged her and whispered her thanks tearfully. What a day. Tears and laughter and all in the wrong places too. She picked up the bucket of potatoes and washed them ready for peeling. As she began putting them into the large stew pan to cook on the fire, she wondered sadly why her own mother wasn’t as kind and sympathetic as Mrs Carey.
‘Why won’t Mam help me?’ she asked. ‘If you don’t feel the shame of having me under your roof, well … I mean, my own mother.’
‘Your dad, he’s the one. He’s so angry she doesn’t
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