She followed the matron up the sweeping, majestic staircase. It must once
have been impressive, the gilding on it glistening in the light from many
fancy candelabras hanging from the high ceiling.
Maddie only imagined the candelabras. There were none, and the
gilding had worn off in most places. But it would have been a magical
place. Where balls were held, and landowners came from miles around in
their carriages. The home of gentry or mine owners perhaps, in years gone
by.
But Maddie didn’t ask, and the matron didn’t offer an insight into its
history. Whatever it had once been, Rosemundy House was no longer a
grand mansion. It needed some repair, the plaster crumbling in places. It
was cold, and a damp smell pervaded the air.
‘This staircase,’ said the matron, ‘is never to be used again in your time
here, only today as part of your induction. For the rest of your time with us
you will use the back stairs that lead from the servants’ quarters. Is that
understood?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Maddie. She’d been right. Had picked up on the
pecking order immediately. Didn’t need it spelled out for her. She, and the
other naughty girls like her, would be at the bottom of the ladder. The staff,
on the other hand, appeared to be just one rung below God Almighty
Himself.
The matron studied Maddie’s face for any sign of insolence in the reply.
She nodded. Seemed satisfied that all was in order. She’d introduced herself
as Miss Robertson, and Maddie hadn’t missed the slight emphasis on Miss,
as if the matron wore it as a badge of honour. ‘However,’ she’d said, ‘you
are to call me Matron at all times.’
People were sometimes strange, thought Maddie. You couldn’t always
work them out. Their motives. But whatever she did, no matter how hard
Maddie tried to be perfect, she knew this woman would never like her. Held
some sort of grudge against her from the beginning. Maybe it was a power
thing. Or prejudice. Miss Robertson knew nothing about her, but maybe it
was enough that Maddie was an unmarried mother, a sinner in the matron’s
eyes.
Miss Robertson was a small husk of a human being who looked as if all
the humanity had been drained out of her, leaving only bitterness and
dryness in its place. Her movements were precise and fussy. It was hard to
guess her age, but old certainly, Maddie decided. For she had the sort of
voice you sometimes heard in the elderly: high-pitched and with a slight
quiver. Despite this, she carried an air of authority that dared anyone to
challenge her.
Her dress was black, plain and unadorned. It flowed to her ankles and
climbed back up to her chin, its tight collar constricting, as if the woman
would need to make a special effort to breathe. No neck was showing, just
her small head that pushed itself alarmingly up out of the constricting collar.
Maddie was convinced of one thing, that Miss Robertson, for all her
small stature, might be every bit as much a tyrant as the buxom nurse who
had opened the front door to her. She hadn’t smiled once.
‘You may wonder why I wear no nursing uniform,’ the matron had said.
It hadn’t crossed Maddie’s mind.
‘I am in charge of this entire home as well as its staff: two nurses, a
midwife, a laundry matron and a cook. But my role is not medical.’
‘No?’ said Maddie, who felt something was expected of her. A reply of
some sort.
‘No, my role is far more important than that, young lady. I am trained in
moral welfare. That is my task. To bring sinners like you back to the path of
light. And to train all who have brought shame on themselves and their
families in the proper spiritual and moral values that are expected of you. It
is my job to instruct.’
The woman spoke like a zealot. Maddie had met such people before.
They poisoned the air with their religious fervour, which rarely had the true
ring of sincerity about it. If they truly believed in God, wouldn’t they be
kind?
That’s it, then. No hope of sympathy would reside within the walls of
this old and crumbling mansion. Not that she’d truly expected any, but it
would have been good to find support and understanding at a time when she
needed it, a friend when she was alone. An empathetic ear at least.
She’d been right about the matron’s proximity to God. The first place
Miss Robertson led her on her induction tour was the chapel. It was a small
room with a few chairs and a makeshift altar, but at least someone had put
fresh flowers in there, their perfume heady and sweet in the tiny space.
It was the most important room in the building according to Matron.
The mothers and mothers-to-be were expected to turn up to the chapel
every morning at ten. Bible study also took place in this small room, taken
by a minister from the village church, a man responsible for the souls of the
girls.
Next, there was an inspection of the dormitories: two long, bare rooms
with flagstone floors, fifteen bunks in each. Thirty pregnant women all in
one place? She hadn’t expected so many. Like a barracks. Something she
knew and understood. It reminded Maddie of basic training and a feeling of
nostalgia flooded her. I can cope with this, she thought. It isn’t so bad.
That feeling quickly faded when the matron marched her into the
maternity ward. Even worse was the ‘birthing room’. Not a welcoming
space designed to put an anxious woman in labour at her ease, it had more
in common with Victorian customs than the twentieth century; it was a
frightening place. A small, narrow bed, complete with leather foot stirrups,
stood in one corner – a harrowing-looking sight that made Maddie shudder.
The other bed dominating the centre of the room looked wider and more
comfortable, but had a strange-looking metal affair attached to its sides,
with padded knee rests.
A medieval torture chamber would have been more inviting.
Both rooms were freezing cold. Hygienically sound, no doubt. And
medically sterile. White walls. Cold white tiles. Chrome. Glass. She tried to
block the images from her mind before they overwhelmed her. No point in
worrying about things you could do nothing about, things you couldn’t
change.
She was pregnant. She would end up in this awful room one day.
That was a hard fact, irreversible. And she would face it head-on. With
acceptance and as much courage as she could muster.
The next stage of her tour was the final one and far more cheerful and
uplifting. She could feel her optimism drifting back, bit by bit. She followed
Matron into the nursery wing. It wasn’t so cold and sterile in there. Two
small electric bars hung from the high roof, sending heat into the cots
below. There were lots of cots, but only one was occupied. Maddie assumed
that most of the babies were out in the prams she’d seen on the lawn.
She wandered over and looked in the cot. A tiny figure was trussed up
tightly in there, moving its head from side to side and issuing a small
whimper now and then. Why did they need to be wrapped up like that, like
they were being suffocated? Surely it couldn’t be comfortable for the poor
little soul? Not that she had any experience with babies, but some maternal
instinct made Maddie want to pick up the poor little mite and pull off all the
swaddling clothes, and just cuddle it.
A nurse was busy in one corner of the room, putting things away in a
cupboard. Her movements were practised and confident, as if the nursery
was a place she was used to. She raised her head to look at them and
Maddie saw that the nurse was young, with an earnest face, but there was
kindness there too. The girl nodded towards Miss Robertson, an
acknowledgement that the authority in the room had shifted with the
matron’s entrance. Then she looked at Maddie – and smiled. It was the first
time anyone had done so since she’d arrived. It was a beaming smile. A
welcoming smile.
An angel, thought Maddie. At least there was one angel in this place
