Finally, Sister Mary Clare took Genevieve from me, wrapping her in a towel. ‘You go off to rest,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a special treat to bring you later.’
Sister Mary Declan arrived to escort the other night attendant and me upstairs to be locked in the dormitory for our few hours of sleep. I cast one last glance over my shoulder to see Sister Mary Clare cooing sweetly at my Genevieve as she carried her away.
That afternoon, I pushed a cart of wet linens to the flat roof above the conservatory, hanging out the sheets to dry in the sun. From up there I saw a man step out of an automobile, with a regal bearing and slicked-back hair. From three storeys above, the details I noted were ones of outline, the sheen of wealth that radiated even to where I watched from a distance. A certain kind of girl would have thought him dashing. But dashing didn’t interest me. It never would.
Still, there was something about the man, and he stayed in my mind, though I barely caught a glimpse of his upturned face. When I brought the next load of wet sheets up to the roof to dry, I saw his car had gone. On my way back to the laundry room, I slipped into the nursery. Ordinarily, I never went where I wasn’t meant to during the day, for fear of running into Father Joseph, or losing my nights with Genevieve. But something urgent drove me and I hurried under the high archways and over the multi-coloured tiles, stepping carefully so the wood-soled shoes wouldn’t clomp. It would be trouble if another nun were in the nursery, but if it were Sister Mary Clare, she wouldn’t mind my breaking rules. She was in on the joy of it, Genevieve’s laughter.
When I got there, my baby’s cot lay bare and empty. No sheets, just a tiny stained mattress where countless other babies had lain. Sister Mary Clare walked towards me with her arms outstretched, a look of consternated sympathy puckering her jolly young face. And something else: a twinkle in her eye. I saw it. Whatever she was about to tell me would account for the day’s excitement. A bolt of understanding landed in my heart with the first murderous twinge.
‘Where is my baby?’ I demanded.
In another cot a little boy old enough to stand pulled himself to his feet, bright copper hair in disarray. He held out his arms to be picked up and Sister Mary Clare swerved away from me as if to accommodate him. I grabbed her billowy sleeve.
‘Where’s Genevieve? Bring me to her right now, please.’
The nun was the barest bit shorter than me but considerably broader. ‘Oh, Nan,’ she said. ‘Poor, dear Nan. Don’t you worry about that baby.’
The other nuns always did that. Called our children ‘the baby’ or ‘that baby’， as if they were still in utero and would only be born when delivered to their counterfeit parents or transferred next door to the orphanage. But at least in my presence, until this moment, Sister Mary Clare had always called my baby Genevieve.
‘Your baby is gone,’ she said. ‘To the nicest family, Nan. They’ll give her a wonderful life.’
‘You can’t adopt her to anyone else. She’s mine.’
‘There, dear. Of course she’ll always carry you in her heart.’
‘Where is she right at this moment?’
‘Now, Nan,’ she said. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you. I could get into great trouble for doing so, but I believe this will please you. It’s an English family who’s adopted her. A lovely English family, she’ll be raised right and proper.’
‘Where in England?’ It came out as a bellow. A scarcely contained roar. To my own ears I sounded like an animal. How must I have sounded to Sister Mary Clare? Fierce enough for her to take a step backwards, looking less confident in her ability to soothe me.
How could I ever have believed her? I felt seduced. My hand still clutched the fabric of her sleeve. I closed the distance between us, my nose almost touching hers.
‘You bring me to my baby right now.’ Not a bellow this time but a growl. I finished the sentence in my thoughts: or I swear to God I will kill you where you stand.