An Unsuitable Mother. Sheelagh Kelly

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      She would have to tell her parents soon, though. Another month was almost up, propelling her towards the inevitable. How, though? thought Nell, as she shivered through one January evening after another, nursing her secret, listening to the news with her parents. One could not just slip it in between the items from the wireless, say – ‘Oh, such good news that the price of custard powder’s been frozen, and by the way, I’m expecting a baby.’ Equally wrong, when Father was rejoicing over those allied victories in Tobruk, and inviting his daughter to partake in a celebratory glass of sherry with him and Mother. Nell just could not bring herself to wipe away those smiles, nor to invoke the overwhelming sense of let-down that would surely follow her confession.

      Hence, both that month and the next were allowed to roll by, Nell’s situation worsening with every day, aided only by ingenuity. Her own corset now too small, she had rummaged through her mother’s old clothes and found a replacement. There was a shop in town that specialised in nurses’ uniforms, including the one she herself wore; thus was she to acquire a larger size to accommodate her growing girth, and no one would be any the wiser. For much of the day, too, she was able to disguise this under a capacious apron, and because it was winter a navy-blue cardigan provided an extra shield. Tall and large-boned, never slender at the best of times, she had managed to conceal it perhaps better than someone more delicate – though surely being surrounded by those with medical knowledge meant that one of them must observe it any day soon.

      At least the baby did not sap its mother’s strength, and she had copious amounts of energy to devote to her work, which seemed to be all that mattered to her superiors. One of her peers, though, had certainly become alert to the amount of times Nell had taken to excusing herself to the lavatory of late.

      ‘Bloomin’ heck, why don’t you just set up residence in there?’ sighed Joyson, as Nell broke away from her group of friends as all were on their way to lunch one day.

      Though blushing deeply, Nell managed to form a sarcastic reply. ‘I’m so sorry, Joy, I didn’t realise you were doing a thesis on my bladder movements.’ Egged on by her other colleagues’ laughter, she enquired in the same whimsical tone, ‘Would you care to come in with me to measure how much urine I excrete?’

      ‘Well! You’re always disappearing in there,’ complained Joyson, looking her up and down. ‘Anyone’d think you had a problem.’

      ‘My only problem is you,’ stated Nell, made even more uncomfortable by everyone’s eyes being upon her. Had one of them finally noticed the rippling bump, and would they draw attention to it? She herself was acutely aware of it moving under her apron, so violently did the baby protest at being restricted by its mother’s corset. It felt as if it were trying to kick its way to liberty, shoving its feet underneath her ribs and pressing with all its might.

      ‘Leave the lass alone!’ Beata was still chuckling over Nell’s last comment. ‘It’s the cold weather, isn’t it, love?’ she prompted the one under scrutiny. ‘I have the same trouble.’

      ‘Ooh, me and all,’ revealed the owlish Green.

      Their grateful friend turned for the lavatory. ‘Right, you all go on, I’ll catch you up – I wouldn’t want to keep Joy from her dinner.’

      ‘Don’t mind her, love, we’ll wait,’ replied the kind-hearted Beata.

      Which was all very well, but it added to the pressure Nell felt herself under, as she hurried to the lavatory, unbuttoning and unhooking, then seating herself for a few moments’ relief.

      Granted more freedom, the one in her abdomen stretched its limbs, knees and elbows, distorting the shape of her belly. Despite the awfulness of her situation, and not for the first time, Nell felt an overwhelming wave of love for it, and placed her hand upon the mound that rippled from its subterranean movement. ‘I suppose you’ll want some clothes,’ she told it fondly, before biting her lip so as not to cry at the thought of its poor father. Stop! Stop thinking of him, she scolded herself, biting down hard, you can’t start blubbing again.

      Forcing herself to concentrate on practicalities, she listed the items that she would need. One thing was certain, she would not have the outlay for many of these, perhaps a bonnet or a bib, but she would need every penny if the worst came to the worst. Well, her mother had shanks of wool from the WVS, she could filch a little of that, a tiny amount wouldn’t be missed; it might mean an unsuitable colour for baby, but she could trim the items with ribbons. Nappies, she would need those too. The word thief had never been ascribed to Nell, but desperation lured her to contemplate it now. Perhaps by volunteering to do more hours at the Infirmary she could inveigle her way onto the nursery ward, and take some nappies one by one. She was aware that every piece of linen was counted, for this had been amongst her chores, but was anyone really going to hold an inquest over the odd missing item? A feeding bottle could perhaps be spirited away from there too. But what about a pram – and a cot? She couldn’t secret either of those under her clothes. Never mind, they were not necessities. The child could be carried whilst it was small. She stroked her abdomen thoughtfully, imagining its resident five years hence, all the things it would need then – indeed, where would she be herself? When would she be able to pluck up the courage to tell anyone? When would it actually arrive? What on earth was she going to do?

      But as and whenever this last thought came, Nell drove it away. In any case, she was soon yanked from her ruminations by Joyson’s hammering on the door.

      ‘Come on, Spotty, I want me dinner!’

      Pawing her heart, and shutting her eyes with barely contained patience, Nell shouted, ‘Coming!’ this begetting a hasty and awkward fastening of clothes.

      But after rejoining the crew, with Joyson setting the pace and almost dragging her along, she was to acquire a dreadful stitch in her side that had her begging them to leave her behind, so that she might catch up at a more leisurely rate.

      ‘I know what’s wrong with her,’ speculated Joyson, upon Nell having finally reached the restaurant where she now sat picking at her meal in absent-minded fashion. ‘She thinks she’s getting too fat so she’s started pecking like a sparrow – it’s upset all your metabolism,’ she told the astounded Nell directly.

      Having suffered a moment’s fright that her dilemma was about to be announced to all and sundry, Nell’s relief was to emerge in an outpouring of uncharacteristic impatience. ‘Honestly, Joy, are you never satisfied?’ She clattered her fork onto the plate and sat back to roll her eyes. ‘One minute I’m eating too much, the next too little – apparently I’m not even allowed to go to the lavatory when I want – could you please mind your own business!’

      There was momentary silence, and a few sideways glances from other diners. But, though surprised by this show of temper from one so normally placid, none of her colleagues chose to ask what had caused it, for Nell’s raw sense of bereavement was a good enough excuse for them. And the subject was hastily changed.

      Feeling extremely foolish, Nell abandoned her meal, instead seizing advantage of the lately relaxed ruling that allowed nurses to enjoy a post-luncheon cigarette, lighting up and dragging on it as if there were no tomorrow, then blasting a stream of smoke at the ceiling. Then, trying to appear less agitated, she was to while away the rest of her break, listening half-heartedly to the others discussing the Germans’ latest invasion of yet another country, and damning herself for being such a coward as not to confide.

      And yet again she was left to plod on alone towards her fate, alternating the days of hard work with evenings of knitting baby clothes in the secrecy of her room.

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