The Making of Her by Bernadette Jiwa

Author:Bernadette Jiwa [Jiwa, Bernadette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

PART FOUR

Chapter 25

Dublin, 1965

The cold concrete floor numbed Joan’s bare knees, and her brushed-nylon nightdress did little to protect her from the draft that blew through the gap under the toilet door. Another wave of nausea hit her, and she bent her head over the rim of the bowl. The retching tore at the insides of her empty stomach. She spat into the bowl and shivered, then sat back on her heels and wiped the clamminess from her forehead.

For the first time in her life she was glad of the outside toilet. It was a blessing to be able to hide her morning sickness from Da and Teresa, who were still asleep upstairs in the house and none the wiser. Martin had been gone a month, but he was never far from Joan’s thoughts.

She felt exposed now that he was gone. Worn out. Weary with the worry of it all. It wasn’t just the fear of her secret being discovered. She was petrified that once Martin was far away in London he would change his mind—that he would meet someone else or decide, in the end, that he was too young to be tied down.

Only weeks before she knew for certain she was pregnant, she’d found Esther Molloy in the same position: plastered in sweat, kneeling on the floor of the women’s toilets in the factory. Esther’s face was ashen. She looked like she’d seen the ghost of her future as she clung to the toilet bowl for dear life.

“Are you all right, Esther?” Joan had asked.

Esther’s bottom lip trembled and she shook her head. “My da will bloody well kill me if he finds out, Joan. I don’t know what to do.” The first tears fell. “What’ll happen to me?”

For a girl in Esther’s predicament, her fate depended on everyone but her. On the fella who got her pregnant and how willing he was to own up to the fact. On how quickly the family could convince him to put a ring on her finger. A shotgun wedding, heads hanging, on the side altar down at St. Jude’s if she was lucky. If that wasn’t an option, the boat to England—if she could scrape together the fare. And if she wasn’t so lucky? She might be sent away to some convent down the country, where the sisters could hide the mistakes of a girl in trouble and exploit her shame. It put the fear of God into Joan.

“You’ll be all right,” she lied, kneeling beside Esther and holding back her long auburn hair while Esther heaved into the toilet bowl and shook with small silent sobs. “It’s all right,” Joan kept saying, as if saying it would make it true.

Joan shuddered at the memory. Then she stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. No. She wasn’t in the same predicament as Esther. Martin was standing by her. She would be all right. She made her way back to the house, walking barefoot through the dandelions that choked the overgrown patch of garden where her mother had once grown cabbages.

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