The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers by Angela Patrick

married man who was supporting her through the business of dealing with their little ‘inconvenience’.
    ‘He brought round a huge bouquet of flowers this morning, by all accounts,’ she said. She looked disgusted. ‘And fruit. All right for some, eh? But paying her off is what
it’s really all about, don’t you think?’
    ‘And did you see Sister Roc around him earlier?’ added Linda. ‘Fawning all over him she was, like he was someone so important. When the fact is he’s no better than any of
us. Worse . Married, and with no intention of getting divorced either. Makes me sick.’
    ‘He gives them money,’ one of the other girls chipped in. ‘For the convent. That’s why Zena doesn’t have to do half what we do. That’s why she can spend her
time sitting around worrying about her stretch marks. One rule for one and one rule for others. Such hypocrisy, when he’s just as—’
    ‘Hey,’ called one of the girls from the other side of the common room. ‘Hush up. Ready Steady Go! is about to start.’
    We all trooped across the room to gather expectantly round the screen. Such programmes were one of the few remaining pleasures that connected us to the lives we’d had before – even
if they did also highlight how different our lives had become.
    ‘Oh, The Beatles!’ Linda squealed, as ‘Twist and Shout’ came on. ‘I just love them; I just love them; I just love them!’ She leapt up again and immediately
began dancing.
    ‘Oh, me too!’ agreed another girl, getting up and pushing a couple of the armchairs out of the way to make an impromptu dance floor. I got up and helped her, and before long we were
all jigging about in front of the television, the reality of our lumbering, heavily pregnant states forgotten, as for a moment at least we could forget where and who we were. When the song ended
and they launched into a second number, we were so excited that we all cheered in unison, which was probably what alerted the Reverend Mother.
    With our backs to the door, it took a while for us to realise she was there. It was only thanks to the enthusiastic gyrations of one girl that, one by one, we turned to see the Reverend Mother
standing in the open doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other raised in rebuke, her index finger rigid.
    ‘Stop that at once !’ she barked, crossing the floor, her face pink. ‘What, in the name of all that’s holy, do you think you’re doing?!’
    No one dared speak, much less move.
    ‘Angela!’ she snapped at me, causing me to jump. ‘Turn that television off immediately! And you, Mary, put those chairs back where they belong! And Ann – all those
cushions. Immediately!’
    She stood glowering as we scurried around reassembling the furniture. ‘Have you no shame?’ she said. ‘Have you all forgotten why you’re here?’ We stood, heads hung
now, short of breath and perspiring, none of us daring to reply. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘And you’d do very well to. Because it’s this sort of wickedness that got
you all here in the first place! And it’s only by the grace of God and the kindness of others that you are here, being cared for in your shame. How dare you behave in such a
fashion in this place! You are here to atone, and you’d do well to remember that!’
    I was standing closest to her, and could smell talc overlaid with that faint whiff of mustiness that seemed to cling tenaciously to all the nuns’ habits. She looked me in the eye, and I
could see how tired and old she was. ‘Have you no shame ?’ she said again. Then she turned and stalked out.
    It was only when we heard the door opposite bang shut that any of us dared to breathe out.
    ‘Old witch,’ Linda said.
    ‘Hateful crone,’ muttered someone else.
    No one laughed. Mary burst into tears.
    Lying in bed that night, I wrestled with the paradox of my situation. It seemed my world had at the same time both expanded and contracted: expanded in that I was living
through such