Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [2]
Grace, therefore, had to leave it to fate to decide how and where she would give birth and, very early the previous morning, the pains coming ever more frequently, she’d given Lily instructions for the following day, then managed to walk to the nearest hospital at Charing Cross. She was turned away from there, but was fortunate enough to speak to a sympathetic nurse who told her to go to Berkeley House in Westminster. ‘Where they will take those who are fallen,’ she’d been told in a whisper.
Berkeley House – an ugly building of grimy stone and shuttered windows – was only a short distance away, but by the time she’d reached there, the pains were coming so close together that, had they not agreed to accept her, Grace thought that she might have given birth on the doorstep. A notice outside stated that only unmarried women about to deliver their first child would be admitted, and gave a stark reminder of how perilous an undertaking childbearing was by adding:
x
Patients being admitted should ensure that, in the case of tragedy, they are able to pay for a funeral. No responsibility will be taken by the hospital for burial fees for mother or child.
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Without, thankfully, any questions being asked, Grace was taken to a ward with six beds, each separated from the next by a limp cotton curtain and each with a wooden box standing in for a cradle at its foot. Save for these, there was no furniture or decoration in the room, bar a large monochrome picture of Queen Victoria.
Grace sank on to the end bed, hearing two babies crying, someone moaning and a woman calling upon God to help her in her hour of anguish. Mingled with these was the calm voice of a midwife going from bed to bed admonishing, commanding or speaking persuasively to the women in labour.
‘Now, Mary, we are not far off,’ she’d said on examining Grace. On protesting that Grace was her name, she was told that they called all their girls Mary. The midwife, in turn, had to be called Mrs Smith.
‘Have you things prepared for the child?’ Mrs Smith had asked. ‘Have you a sleeping space out of the way of draughts and some clean cotton sheets that can be boiled?’
Grace had merely shaken her head.
‘Have you clothes for it? Napkins and shawls? Vests and gowns?’ Mrs Smith persisted. ‘These things don’t just arrive with the child, you know! Haven’t you given any thought as to its wants and needs?’
Grace turned her face to the wall. She had not, in spite of her size, in spite of her rudimentary knowledge of bodily functions, in spite of what had happened nine months ago, really believed that she was expecting a child. How had such a thing happened? Surely she should have had some say in the matter?
The midwife tutted. ‘Where do you live, child?’
‘I have a room in Mrs Macready’s lodging house at Seven Dials,’ Grace had answered between pains.
‘God help us – there?’ Mrs Smith had shaken her head. ‘In the rookeries?’
‘It’s a clean room,’ Grace said defensively. ‘I share only with my sister.’
‘Have you any family? Are your parents aware of this coming infant? Have you applied to any charities to take you in? God help you, child, have you enough money to pay for a funeral if the worst happens to either of you?’
Grace, not wanting to reply to any of these questions, anticipated a pain and screwed up her face in readiness.
When it passed, the midwife asked, ‘Does the father of the child know about it? Will he aid you? Is he – may God spare us – married?’
‘He doesn’t know,’ Grace whispered. ‘Nor will he ever.’
‘So you have no one to tend