1. Matron Noakes
When they arrived at the mother and baby home, the girls never knew what to expect. But whatever they imagined the matron would be like, surely none of them expected… her.
Most of the girls had never seen a woman so tall. Some of the poorer girls, the ones who were raised in tenements beneath the long shadow of malnourishment, swore they'd never seen anyone so tall. At six-foot-one, Camilla Noakes was perfectly within the normal range of human height- albeit on the higher side of said range. But, standing slightly slouched in a centuries-old doorway of beams and plaster, she seemed like a giantess.
She would shake hands with each person on her doorstep, while they encountered their second shock: her voice. With an alto timbre befitting her stature, but the lilt of a cheery schoolgirl, and an accent as posh as the Queen's:
"Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, I presume. And Jenny. Pleased to meet you all. I'm Matron Noakes. Do come in. Oh, and never mind the suitcase, old girl, I've got it. As it happens, you share your name with one of my dearest friends from my midwifery days in the East End. One might consider that a fortuitous start to our time together…"
They'd follow the gentle giantess into the house, all but the bravest of girls hovering close to their parents- or the social worker, if their parents hadn't come. Even a near-stranger from their hometown was a tether to their old lives.
The girls were far from home. Thanks to a lifetime of dire warnings about the hardened wickedness of "fallen girls," they were shy and fearful of the pear-shaped, tired-eyed girls they passed in the hall. Every girl who crossed that threshold was frightened, and ashamed. Even the coiffed and confident, the ones who held their heads high, smiled, and waved hello to their new housemates, were only putting on an act.
Matron Noakes knew this.
She'd lead her newest patient and their traveling companions into a small office, in a wing only slightly less ancient than the front of the home. It seemed that for every girl, there would be one or two details about this room that stood out in later memory. It might be the plain wooden cross on the wall. Or the tin of Horlicks powder on the side table, resting atop a colorful geometric-patterned cloth instead of the usual lace runner. Some stared at the picture on the desk, of Matron Noakes with a dark-haired man at her side and a baby in her arms.
Before starting the intake interview, Matron Noakes offered her guests refreshments- as any proper hostess would. A resident or the assistant nurse would bring the new girl and her traveling companions their choice of tea or Horlicks, biscuits or scones. Once everyone was settled, Matron Noakes would address all the intake questions to the girls themselves- no matter how many times they stared down into their hands and let the adults answer for them. For many of these girls, it had been months since they last spoke for themselves. Perhaps she'd last protested:
But it's too warm for a Duffel coat, Mum.
He loves me, I know it. He won't run off, I swear.
Or perhaps, earlier still:
You sure we don't need a sheath?
I said I don't want to, Billy.
Matron Noakes understood this.
After the interview, she'd offer a tour of the house: "Although, if you prefer to retire to your dormitory for a spell, Jenny, then we can postpone."
If a girl declined the tour, and if she'd come here with her parents, Matron Noakes would then give them a few minutes' privacy in her office to say their goodbyes. She stayed within earshot, though. On the rare occasions that the parents seized a final opportunity to berate their "little hussy," Matron Noakes would sidle back in, offering cheery apologies and pretending to be in urgent need of a letter opener.
Apart from the letter-opener incidents, Matron Noakes still offered tours to the parents whose daughters chose to rest straightaway. But first, she personally escorted the girls upstairs. Matron Noakes would have the suitcase in one hand, her other hovering protectively at the girl's back, and a fresh handkerchief at the ready in the breast pocket of her uniform.
Some parents skipped the tour, whether their daughters had gone up to rest or not. They pressed their lips tight, hid their clenched or wringing hands in their coats, and avoided looking into the matron's guileless eyes. They gave clipped excuses about impending nightfall and the train schedules.
"Quite alright," Matron Noakes would say, as she proffered cards with the home's contact information- and visiting hours.
The center of the home was a nobleman's hunting lodge, dating back to the Stuart period. More space was added over the centuries- and more modern amenities in the twentieth. It was all a bit slapdash; there were spots where one had to mind the low ceiling, or a change in floor height at the threshold. Matron Noakes made sure to point them all out during the tours. Heaven knows she'd had enough rough encounters with these spots, herself.
The place was tidy, if a bit shabby and over-washed. The rooms were always bright with lamps or, when available, sunshine through the tall windows. Permeating odors of bleach and detergent were gently smoothed over with the scent of a real Christmas tree in winter, and cuttings from the home's own gardens the rest of the year. The curling wallpaper was peppered with wall hangings, embroidered by past and present residents: blockish cottages, and Bible verses ringed with flowers.
The kitchen was quite large. Even when all twelve of the home's beds were occupied, (which they nearly always were,) they took meals together, without splitting into shifts. The food was basic and bland: this helped ensure that any girl could be successful on kitchen duty, and that they were rarely put off by different tastes. There was fortified shredded wheat and a choice of canned fruits for breakfast. The other meals were vegetables and boiled meat, or a stew thrown together from yesterday's leftovers. At dinner, they had scones for dessert, or store-bought pie on the weekends.
Unless they had urgent business elsewhere in the home, the assistant nurses and Matron Noakes sat and ate with the girls. There was prayer before the meal, and lots of happy chatter during. No one was ever discouraged from asking for seconds. And that initial offer of refreshments stood open between meals, round the clock, for the duration of the girls' stay. The snack cupboard was always well-stocked with store-bought biscuits, tea, and Horlicks. (Turns out the Horlicks in the matron's office was merely a personal stash.)
There was a study with an old piano, a pair of writing desks, and shelves upon shelves of books with crackling spines and abundant dog-ears. There was a rec room with board games, knitting supplies, a television, and several settees. The blankets folded neatly across the settee backs had the same sort of geometric, tribal pattern as the side-table cloth in Matron Noakes' office. They clashed wondrously with the chintz upholstery.
It was around this part of the tour that some of the poorer girls would blurt: "This place is right proper!" Matron Noakes would smile at that- but with sadness in her eyes. It wasn't just the girls she pitied. She wished her own upbringing had been this "proper"- and no more.
Opposite the kitchen, and almost as large, was the 'cleaning room'. There was a pair of old wringer-type washing machines, two ironing boards, one drying machine, and a cart for wheeling washed clothes out to the line in good weather. Mops and brooms and cleaning supplies were kept, not in claustrophobic closets, but on wall hooks and in easy-to-reach shelves. A chalkboard by the door contained the chore chart.
In the spring of 1960, when Matron Noakes was still fairly new to the home herself, a girl named Shirley took one look at the chore chart and burst into tears.
"I say, old girl. What ever is the matter?" Matron Noakes asked, proffering her handkerchief.
Shirley tried to gulp back her tears. "Do I have to get down on my knees? For the floors, I mean. It's only, my cousin Pauline went in one of these homes, and she said they have you scrubbing the floors on your hands and knees til the day your water breaks. I... I think I can still manage now, but the closer my time gets, the harder it is…"
"Oh!" the matron gasped quietly. "Oh, you poor thing."
She turned Shirley to face her. The girl fell into the matron's arms, sobbing pitifully. The shoulder of Matron Noakes' uniform took up where her handkerchief had left off. She didn't mind; in fact, she barely noticed.
From that day on, it was written in block letters across the top of the chore chart:
LIGHT DUTY: 3 WKS BEFORE/AFTER + ON REQUEST.