Roxy's Baby by Cathy MacPhail

‘Never,’ she said, shaking her head. And she meant it.
    Everyone pitched in at breakfast, making their own toast and tea, pouring cereal into bowls, drinking orange juice out of cartons. They sat chatting at the table or wandering out through the French windows into the garden. The morning was already warm, hinting at another scorcher of a day. It was only May, but the weather held the promise of a long hot summer. Roxy took her cereal and went outside. She found Anne Marie sitting on a bench, admiring the view over the gardens. To Roxy, it seemed the view went nowhere, only past the lawn to high grass and trees, and beyond … a mystery.
    â€˜You were up early,’ Roxy said to her. Roxy herself had gone back to bed after being sick.
    â€˜Since Aidan came into my life,’ Anne Marie patted her stomach, ‘he will not let me have a lie-in.’
    Roxy sat beside her. ‘I wish I knew where we were,’ she said.
    Anne Marie shrugged. ‘South of England somewhere. Does it matter?’
    â€˜Aren’t you curious?’
    â€˜Not particularly,’ she answered.
    â€˜Won’t they tell us if we ask?’
    Anne Marie began to laugh. ‘Questions, questions, questions, Roxy. Can’t you just enjoy the fact you’re safe?’
    Anne Marie had been here for weeks, Roxy thought, and nothing had happened to her. Care and attention were all she had received. TLC, tender loving care, she called it. So why should Roxy herself not trust all this?
    â€˜So what’s on the cards for today?’
    â€˜After breakfast we’ll go and look at the rota, see what chores we’ve been allocated.’ Suddenly, Anne Marie was laughing again. She had a nice laugh, like the warble of a bird. ‘You should see your face, Roxy. Shock! Horror! Don’t worry, they’re not going to send us down the mines to dig coal. We’re only expected to do a bit of light cleaning, washing, ironing, that sort of thing.’
    She made Roxy laugh. And she remembered toowhat had been bothering her last night. ‘By the way, there don’t seem to be any babies here. Why is that?’
    â€˜You know, the very same thing occurred to me when I first came here. I asked Mrs Dyce, and she said that what used to happen after the girls had their babies was that they would keep them here till it was time for them to move on. But that got really distressing for the girls who had decided to have their babies adopted. So now, once you have your baby, you’re both whisked away to another house, where all the mothers and babies go.’
    Roxy thought about that. ‘They have another place?’ She knew she sounded incredulous.
    â€˜Yes, another place. I think it’s really wonderful of the Dyces, not wanting to distress any of us. They’re wonderful people.’
    Too good to be true. The words leapt into her mind unbidden.
    It seemed that Anne Marie could read her mind. ‘Too good to be true? Is that what you’re thinking? Have you never heard of Mother Teresa? She did the very same thing out in India, and they said she was too good to be true – but she was true, Roxy, and never anyone deserved to be made a saint more … apart from the Dyces, of course.’
    Then she gave Roxy a gentle push and they were laughing again. Still laughing when Mrs Dyce came round the side of the house dressed in gardening clothes and behind her, head down and looking surly, was the odd-job man Roxy had seen when she arrived. Stevens. He looked even scruffier today, in a wrinkled shirt and a battered felt hat.
    Mrs Dyce stopped to talk to them. ‘How did you sleep, Roxy? Well, I hope. I’ll want to have a little chat with you later today. Just filling you in on things here, though I’m sure our Anne Marie’s done all that already.’
    â€˜Our Anne Marie,’ she always called her. There seemed to be a genuine fondness for the Irish girl, Roxy