October 1942
"Ya'righ' in there flower?" Judy called through the lavatory cubicle door.
"I'm fine," Rosie whimpered weakly in reply, but almost as soon as she had finished speaking, another wave of nausea overcame her and, gripping the toilet bowl, she vomited again profusely.
"Shall I tell'um ya not comin' in?" Judy asked.
"No, no, I'm fine, really," Rosie replied, uneasily.
"Suit ya'self!"
Rosie waited until Judy's footsteps had disappeared out of the door and let her weight slide down the cubicle wall onto the cold tiled floor. Every day for over a week now her morning ritual had included a lengthy visit to the lavatory block, every morning she had found herself sick to the point of being unable to stand. She'd never felt so weak, every ounce of energy seemed to have been sapped from her. Throughout every hour of the day, regardless of how well or otherwise she had slept, exhaustion gripped her like a vice.
Eventually, Rosie mustered enough strength to heave herself up off the floor and pulled the lavatory chain. She stumbled over to the sink, washed her face and rinsed out her mouth to rid it of the lingering, acrid, taste. She returned to the dormitory to dress and as she rummaged through her top drawer for comfortable panties and un-laddered nylons, she realised that her sanitary belt and pads had migrated down into its depths, far below their usual, easily accessible, location. An altogether different knotting sensation began to churn in Rosie's stomach.
"What date is it?" she thought.
She flicked open her diary, registered that it was October 14th, and then began to flick back over the previous weeks.
"Oh!" she breathed, clasping her hand to her mouth. Nowhere in the diary, for either September or October, were the coded markings for her monthly cycle. She was, usually, as regular as clockwork. She'd kept records since her teens. She flicked back another few pages, stopping at the last week of August. The beginning of the series of markings she was so familiar with.
"Oh no! Oh no!" Rosie began to panic. "Calm down," she whispered to herself, trying to process what was occurring logically, "you've only missed one, that happens for all sorts of reasons, you're due next week, Mother Nature will oblige." Another, smaller, voice in her head whispered "One way or another."
October ran into November and Rosie had still had no cause to leave coded markings in her diary. Her nausea was unrelenting, morning, noon, and night, she could hardly keep a meal down. The waistband of her uniform was noticeably looser, her eyes shrouded by dark rings, her cheeks, once as rosy as her name, now looked sunken and sullen.
Ten weeks after her most recent period, Rosie took herself to the library, and after a scan through the shelves, found herself a quiet corner and began to flick through the medical volumes she'd assembled, trying to find out for certain the answer that she did not want to know, to a question she did not want to ask. The more she read, the more the realisation dawned on her about what was happening to her body. She checked the symptoms off on her fingers. She hadn't had a period for ten weeks, she'd been sick for four, her breasts were sore, she'd been exhausted. But her and Scott had always been so careful. How could this have happened? How could she be expecting?
She left the library and walked the long way home, trying to process the realisation that had dawned upon her. Twenty-two years old, unmarried, pregnant. If the WAAF found out she assumed she'd be dismissed. If her parents found out she'd be disowned. "We didn't send you to a Catholic school for nothing," she could hear her father's voice reverberating through her mind. She needed to talk to Scott, urgently. "He'd do the honorable thing, I'm sure," she convinced herself, "he loves me, he'll be there for me and the baby." The word baby lingered in her mind. Everything about her situation suddenly became very real.
On her way back to her lodgings, she stopped at the phonebox at the end of the street, put a penny into the slot, and dialed the GI barracks.
"Could I speak to Lt. Scott McBride?" she asked when she heard the response at the end of the line.
"Hello!" soon came Scott's familiar deep voice.
"Scott it's Rosie," she replied, waves of apprehension beginning to wash over her.
"Is everything alright?" Scott asked, aware of the tension in Rosie's voice.
"Something's happened," Rosie responded awkwardly, "can I see you?"
"Yes, of course, I'll come now, where should I meet you?"
"I'm near Limehouse Cuts, where it meets the East India Dock Road," Rosie replied, getting her bearings, "I need a walk and somewhere to think," she added in explanation.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Scott assured.
"Thank you," Rosie replied, replacing the receiver.
Waiting for Scott, Rosie sat on the edge of The Cuts, the pavement cold, but not damp, beneath her, staring at the dark murky waters beneath her. She'd heard tales of women ending their lives here. "What a desperate, lonely way to go," she mused.
"Ah, there you are," a familiar voice eventually called behind her.
Jumping to her feet, Rosie skipped up to Scott and threw her arms around him. He held her in a tender embrace, one which she never wanted to leave. He was warm, and had splashed on some Cologne, even his uniform felt softer than normal. It was at this point that she began to cry, her tears soaking through into his tunic.
"What's wrong Rosie?" Scott soothed, "what's upset you?"
"I'm in trouble, Scott," Rosie replied straightforwardly.
"What do you mean, in trouble?" Scott replied, a look of confusion on his face, "you mean with the police? Or with your C.O.?"
"No, not that sort of trouble," Rosie responded, "I'm expecting," she emphasised, almost too embarrassed to admit what had happened, "why wasn't he understanding?" she thought to herself.
"Expecting trouble? What?" Scott continued, not comprehending Rosie's euphemisms.
"I'm, I'm," Rosie stuttered, "I'm in the family way."
Suddenly understanding, Scott immediately let go of Rosie and jumped backwards.
"What!" he gasped, "are you sure?"
"I think so," Rosie admitted, "all the signs are there," she added.
"But we were always so careful," Scott replied, "I don't understand how it could have happened."
"Perhaps one leaked, or broke, or something, I don't know," Rosie began to sniff again, but, I think I'm ten weeks gone."
"What are you going to do?" Scott asked.
"Surely it's 'what are we going to do'?" Rosie replied, a look of confusion on her face, "this is our baby," she finished.
"Rosie, I'm, I," Scott stammered, his usual confident composure disintegrating before Rosie's eyes.
"I know it's a shock Scott, but I love you, and I want to be with you," Rosie said, gently taking his hand, "and," she continued, placing the other hand on her lower abdomen, "I won't be showing for a few weeks yet, there's still time to get the banns read and the wedding done before it'll be obvious that we have to get married."
"Married!" Scott replied, retracting his hand from Rosie's, his face sinking like a stone through The Cuts.
"Don't you? I mean, I thought," Rosie stammered.
"I can't marry you Rosie," Scott stated firmly.
Rosie's stomach sank as dramatically as Scott's face had just done. "What do you mean?" she asked, "I thought you loved me?"
"I'm very fond of you Rosie," Scott replied, "but, I haven't been honest with you."
"What do you mean?" Rosie asked.
Scott's broad chest rose several inches as he took in a deep breath before admitting, "I cannot marry you Rosie, because I am already married."
Rosie squeaked pitifully in shock, threw a hand over her mouth, and began to sob. "But, but," she tried to stammer, but no more words came out.
"I have a beautiful wife, and three wonderful children, back home in Connecticut," Scott continued, "I've enjoyed every second I have spent with you Rosie, but sorry, I can be nothing more to you."
"How can you, do that, say that, after everything," Rosie stammered, her shock being overtaken now by raging anger.
"Once a soldier, always a soldier," Scott shrugged, "I'm afraid you were not the first pretty girl who I've swooped up for the ride. Fortunately, as far as I'm aware anyway, I've not, until now, left a trail of bastards behind me." Rosie flinched at the bitterness of his words. "I'm being redeployed to the Far East next week," he continued, far more brusquely than Rosie had ever heard him, "I would have had to kiss you goodbye forever then anyway. You've just made the process a whole lot easier. Did you really think it could last?" he finished coldly.
"I would have done anything to make it last," Rosie admitted, "I loved you."
"Past tense is it now?" Scott mocked, "see, how quickly we can forget people."
"Stop, please," Rosie pleaded, "what am I going to do?" she asked, her hands instinctively protecting the cradle of her hips.
"Gin and a hot bath is supposed to work isn't it?" Scott replied nonchalantly, "I suggest you try that."
Rosie stood staring at the man she loved, the father of her child, unable to comprehend the words that had sprung forth from his mouth. Nearly eight months of courtship, half of that time as sexual partners, suddenly meant nothing to him. She had ever felt so betrayed in her life.
"Goodbye Rosie," he continued with neither warmth, nor compassion, nor any real feeling at all.
"Scott," Rosie whimpered, but he'd already turned away, heading away from The Cuts and onto the East India Dock Road.
Rosie slumped on the side of The Cuts once more, her hand in her hands, tears spotting her skirt. She stared at her abdomen, envisaging the moment when it would be too curved to hide any longer. "Now what am I going to do?" she thought.