well that I couldn’t see what she was doing, because she had very shaky fingers and extremely poor eyesight. I shut my eyes and tried not to visualise what was happening too much. I hated the
thought of her seeing such an intimate part of me. And I suspect, given her calling, she found the task odious too.
This milestone marked the day when my safe little bubble burst and the sound of the ticking clock grew louder. Once my stitches had been removed and my wounds were declared healed, I was moved
up to the big attic room to sleep with the other mothers.
Paul was baptised in the convent chapel by the visiting priest, and immediately afterwards transferred to the nursery full time. Affixed to the cot was a blue cardboard tag, one of a batch
provided by Cow and Gate, who made the baby formula we used at the convent, and on it was written ‘Paul Brown’; beneath that his birth weight was recorded: ‘8 lb 12 oz’.
My tiny son had been by my side, except for a part of the night, since I’d returned. Now we would begin the new daily routine that would see us through until the day we both left.
That first night, the first when I was up in the attic room while he was in the nursery, was incredibly difficult to bear. It was bad enough being separated from him for so long, but being able
to hear him crying for me, specifically, amid the general cacophony – something I hadn’t anticipated – made it nigh on impossible to sleep. All I wanted was to do what any mother
would do: go to him, pick him up, comfort and cuddle him. I wished so hard that things could be different. But apart from what was necessary for feeding and changing, all contact with my baby was
now forbidden.
At least I was back with the other girls again and could benefit from their empathy and support. The room for the mothers was a very large one on the top floor, which ran the length of the
convent, with ceilings that sloped at either end. It resembled a soldiers’ billet: a dozen beds, with a row of six down either side, each with its own bedside locker and a big empty space in
between. The comparisons didn’t end there. Given the diversity of occupants, some would be neat and tidy, others very messy, and the room would be inspected regularly by Sister Teresa or,
occasionally, the Reverend Mother. Equally regularly, girls would be singled out and publicly berated for their slovenly ways and their generally poor characters.
‘You dirty, dirty girl,’ the Reverend Mother would snap at whoever was the object of her disgust that day. ‘All airs and graces and la-di-da ways you might have, but
you’re no better than a common hussy!’ The nastiness, the tone, the implication were all so clear. In our exhausted and emotional state, whichever of us had incurred her wrath would
often be reduced to floods of tears. Again and again, it hit me: how could they be so cruel to us, these women of God? It sometimes seemed like sport to them.
The room was freezing; it was December now and ice would regularly form on the insides of the windows. Most of us, now decimated physically by the punishing routine, preferred to sleep in our
clothes not just because of the cold but because there was such an early start after nights that were routinely wakeful. I would rise at 5.30, feed and change my poor hungry, screaming baby, wash
and dress myself, and have my own breakfast. Then I’d make up all the bottles in the milk kitchen, do Paul’s 10 a.m. feed, return to the milk kitchen and work until lunchtime, do
Paul’s 2 p.m. feed, then work again till 4, have an hour’s break, eat supper and do the 6 p.m. feed. I would have some free time in the common room before the 10 p.m. feed, the last of
the day, then I’d fall into bed, exhausted, around 11.
Sleep didn’t come easily – how could it? – as I could always hear Paul’s pitiful cries as I lay rigid in my bed. This would go on and on and on and was torture. My head
was already filled with so
thought of her seeing such an intimate part of me. And I suspect, given her calling, she found the task odious too.
This milestone marked the day when my safe little bubble burst and the sound of the ticking clock grew louder. Once my stitches had been removed and my wounds were declared healed, I was moved
up to the big attic room to sleep with the other mothers.
Paul was baptised in the convent chapel by the visiting priest, and immediately afterwards transferred to the nursery full time. Affixed to the cot was a blue cardboard tag, one of a batch
provided by Cow and Gate, who made the baby formula we used at the convent, and on it was written ‘Paul Brown’; beneath that his birth weight was recorded: ‘8 lb 12 oz’.
My tiny son had been by my side, except for a part of the night, since I’d returned. Now we would begin the new daily routine that would see us through until the day we both left.
That first night, the first when I was up in the attic room while he was in the nursery, was incredibly difficult to bear. It was bad enough being separated from him for so long, but being able
to hear him crying for me, specifically, amid the general cacophony – something I hadn’t anticipated – made it nigh on impossible to sleep. All I wanted was to do what any mother
would do: go to him, pick him up, comfort and cuddle him. I wished so hard that things could be different. But apart from what was necessary for feeding and changing, all contact with my baby was
now forbidden.
At least I was back with the other girls again and could benefit from their empathy and support. The room for the mothers was a very large one on the top floor, which ran the length of the
convent, with ceilings that sloped at either end. It resembled a soldiers’ billet: a dozen beds, with a row of six down either side, each with its own bedside locker and a big empty space in
between. The comparisons didn’t end there. Given the diversity of occupants, some would be neat and tidy, others very messy, and the room would be inspected regularly by Sister Teresa or,
occasionally, the Reverend Mother. Equally regularly, girls would be singled out and publicly berated for their slovenly ways and their generally poor characters.
‘You dirty, dirty girl,’ the Reverend Mother would snap at whoever was the object of her disgust that day. ‘All airs and graces and la-di-da ways you might have, but
you’re no better than a common hussy!’ The nastiness, the tone, the implication were all so clear. In our exhausted and emotional state, whichever of us had incurred her wrath would
often be reduced to floods of tears. Again and again, it hit me: how could they be so cruel to us, these women of God? It sometimes seemed like sport to them.
The room was freezing; it was December now and ice would regularly form on the insides of the windows. Most of us, now decimated physically by the punishing routine, preferred to sleep in our
clothes not just because of the cold but because there was such an early start after nights that were routinely wakeful. I would rise at 5.30, feed and change my poor hungry, screaming baby, wash
and dress myself, and have my own breakfast. Then I’d make up all the bottles in the milk kitchen, do Paul’s 10 a.m. feed, return to the milk kitchen and work until lunchtime, do
Paul’s 2 p.m. feed, then work again till 4, have an hour’s break, eat supper and do the 6 p.m. feed. I would have some free time in the common room before the 10 p.m. feed, the last of
the day, then I’d fall into bed, exhausted, around 11.
Sleep didn’t come easily – how could it? – as I could always hear Paul’s pitiful cries as I lay rigid in my bed. This would go on and on and on and was torture. My head
was already filled with so
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