many troubling images – his little hands turned almost blue by the cold in the nursery, the scary dents in his head made by the unforgiving cot bars – I could
hardly bear the pain of knowing how distressed he must have been, and I slept very fitfully the whole time I was there.
There was no night feed, so the babies were starving after having to go so many hours between feeds. It would be unthinkable – bordering on child cruelty – today, but I
couldn’t go to him. None of us could go to our babies, unless the baby was very sick, in which case Sister Teresa would come for the mother. The nursery was completely out of bounds.
Even in the daytime the nursery was not a nice place, as the nuns were so zealous about us not doing anything for our babies beyond the bare minimum necessary for their survival. We were not
allowed to interact lovingly with them, much less sit and play with them. If you so much as kissed a tiny head and were spotted doing so, the nuns would rebuke you, as I found out for myself when
Paul was just two weeks old. I had already fed him and removed his sodden nappy. As he was awake and alert, I thought I’d give him a moment to kick his little legs a bit, free of that huge
hunk of towelling. And as I did so, I tickled the dome of his tiny tummy, revelling in the feel of his perfectly smooth skin. Had I left it at that, perhaps no one would have noticed. But I stooped
to kiss it just as Sister Roc was passing. I didn’t know why she was there – she rarely went near the nursery, as it was Sister Teresa’s territory – but she was in the
doorway even so.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, Angela?’ she wanted to know. She had made me jump and, colouring, I straightened up and snatched up his clean nappy. It felt as
if I’d been caught kissing a boy behind the bike sheds. The distaste on her face certainly seemed to suggest I was overstepping the mark, as did her words. ‘If you’d wanted to
have a baby of your own ,’ she continued, ‘you should have got married before having one, shouldn’t you? Now hurry up and get that child dressed and back in his
cot!’
‘That child’, ‘baby of your own ’: it was remembering those words that convinced me the nuns forbade closeness not to spare us the anguish of bonding with and then
losing our children; no, it seemed to me they forbade closeness because they felt we had no right. We had given birth to the babies, yes – He’s my baby! I’d wanted to
scream at her. I created him! – but we’d already relinquished them. We were simply a part of the production process, delivering up babies to people who did deserve them.
What did God, I wonder, think about this cold, unfeeling place?
Perhaps it was a blessing that our babies were so exhausted all the time. In that state a bottle of warm milk acted almost like a drug. Our main struggle was to keep them awake long enough so
that they finished their feeds, but at least asleep they gave the impression of contentment.
Despite everything – the tiredness, the cold and hunger, the dread of the future – that time with my baby was so special and so precious. I loved the tiny person in my care. As the
bond between us grew, I treasured the moments we spent together. I loved that he instinctively knew I was his mother. How, if he was crying and then heard my voice, he would listen and stop,
calming immediately as I picked him up and held him close to me. I couldn’t imagine someone other than me taking care of him – it seemed too cruel, too unthinkable, too unbearable.
It was indicative of our increasingly gallows-type humour that the line of cots in the nursery was referred to as ‘death row’. The business of moving up it, and
taking your place at the head, was something I’d observed early on. In the dormitory we tried not to speak about it. Instead we worked hard at pretending the future didn’t exist,
messing about, as any group of girls in a dormitory
hardly bear the pain of knowing how distressed he must have been, and I slept very fitfully the whole time I was there.
There was no night feed, so the babies were starving after having to go so many hours between feeds. It would be unthinkable – bordering on child cruelty – today, but I
couldn’t go to him. None of us could go to our babies, unless the baby was very sick, in which case Sister Teresa would come for the mother. The nursery was completely out of bounds.
Even in the daytime the nursery was not a nice place, as the nuns were so zealous about us not doing anything for our babies beyond the bare minimum necessary for their survival. We were not
allowed to interact lovingly with them, much less sit and play with them. If you so much as kissed a tiny head and were spotted doing so, the nuns would rebuke you, as I found out for myself when
Paul was just two weeks old. I had already fed him and removed his sodden nappy. As he was awake and alert, I thought I’d give him a moment to kick his little legs a bit, free of that huge
hunk of towelling. And as I did so, I tickled the dome of his tiny tummy, revelling in the feel of his perfectly smooth skin. Had I left it at that, perhaps no one would have noticed. But I stooped
to kiss it just as Sister Roc was passing. I didn’t know why she was there – she rarely went near the nursery, as it was Sister Teresa’s territory – but she was in the
doorway even so.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, Angela?’ she wanted to know. She had made me jump and, colouring, I straightened up and snatched up his clean nappy. It felt as
if I’d been caught kissing a boy behind the bike sheds. The distaste on her face certainly seemed to suggest I was overstepping the mark, as did her words. ‘If you’d wanted to
have a baby of your own ,’ she continued, ‘you should have got married before having one, shouldn’t you? Now hurry up and get that child dressed and back in his
cot!’
‘That child’, ‘baby of your own ’: it was remembering those words that convinced me the nuns forbade closeness not to spare us the anguish of bonding with and then
losing our children; no, it seemed to me they forbade closeness because they felt we had no right. We had given birth to the babies, yes – He’s my baby! I’d wanted to
scream at her. I created him! – but we’d already relinquished them. We were simply a part of the production process, delivering up babies to people who did deserve them.
What did God, I wonder, think about this cold, unfeeling place?
Perhaps it was a blessing that our babies were so exhausted all the time. In that state a bottle of warm milk acted almost like a drug. Our main struggle was to keep them awake long enough so
that they finished their feeds, but at least asleep they gave the impression of contentment.
Despite everything – the tiredness, the cold and hunger, the dread of the future – that time with my baby was so special and so precious. I loved the tiny person in my care. As the
bond between us grew, I treasured the moments we spent together. I loved that he instinctively knew I was his mother. How, if he was crying and then heard my voice, he would listen and stop,
calming immediately as I picked him up and held him close to me. I couldn’t imagine someone other than me taking care of him – it seemed too cruel, too unthinkable, too unbearable.
It was indicative of our increasingly gallows-type humour that the line of cots in the nursery was referred to as ‘death row’. The business of moving up it, and
taking your place at the head, was something I’d observed early on. In the dormitory we tried not to speak about it. Instead we worked hard at pretending the future didn’t exist,
messing about, as any group of girls in a dormitory
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