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<—The Refuge for Friendless Girls                               Marie —>

Olga’s Diary (Continued)

Dear Diary

I never knew places like this existed.  Matron said I was lucky to be here because this is a Catholic refuge and other girls in my state end up in the workhouse, which, she says, are very unpleasant places and the treatment of the women in them is often cruel and harsh.

 “Here”, she said,  “they will treat you well and take care of you until you have your baby”. 

 My room is cold and bare, with an iron bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a large white enamel jug and bowl.   On the wall is a big crucifix of Jesus on the cross.  I like the cross being there.  It makes me feel I’m not so alone.  

There are eight other women here, all waiting to have their babies.   I spend my days cleaning the refuge or peeling vegetables in the kitchen.  When I’m not working I stay in my room and say my rosary.   We are forbidden to speak to each other during the day but can talk for one hour in the evening after prayers.  But I don’t want to talk to anyone.  I feel ashamed.  I keep myself to myself. 

Why do I dream of the things I can’t have. 

Last night it was Cissie’s wedding.  I saw everything so clearly. 

Father Baker performed her wedding ceremony at the Holy Trinity Cathedral and there were flowers everywhere.  Cissie walked down the aisle on Sydney’s arm to the music of the wedding hymn, looking beautiful in a simple white silk dress with a long tulle veil and a spray of orange blossom in her hair.  The tots and I were the bridesmaids and we wore pale blue dresses with broad hats trimmed with blue lace and chiffon.    Over sixty people attended the service, as well as Dyke’s family and friends and including three of Cissie and Dyke’s children.

After the ceremony everyone went back to Mission House.  In the back garden Mammie had arranged for a large booth made of bamboo and coconut leaves to be built and decorated with lignum vitae and pink bougainvillea.  This was where all the wedding presents were put before they were unwrapped.  There was a table in the garden covered with a white linen table cloth and on it stood the wedding cake with a net over it and pinned in several places.   

After the bride, the wedding cake was the centre of interest and the guests had to bid money to uncover the cake.  They would try and outbid each other and by the time the cake was uncovered Cissie and Dyke would have several pounds, as well as lots of lovely presents.  It was such a happy, noisy day with so much laughter. 

I thought about Michael Sales and the pretty earrings he gave me at my leaving party in Kingston and how he said he’d wait for me to return so I could be his girlfriend.  But not now… not me Michael.  I hope you find someone nice.

 

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<—The Refuge for Friendless Girls                            Marie —>

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 <—The Rape of an Innocent

(Continued Olga’s Diary)

Dear Diary

Matron called me to her office.  I’m not surprised.  I know my work has not been good lately.  I was hoping she would tell me I could go home.    Dr Randall, who carries out some of the three monthly student medical examinations, was sitting behind Matron’s desk.   He spoke first. 

“I’m sorry to have to tell you Nurse, you are pregnant and I’m sorry but you’ll have to leave St Giles”. 

The room started spinning and I don’t remember what happened next, except I was sitting down and Matron was giving me sips of water from a glass.   I was in shock. I couldn’t believe what Dr Randall had said.  Neither of them asked me any questions, which was just as well because I didn’t have any answers. 

“I don’t know how I got pregnant” I told them and I started crying.  Matron was very, very kind and said

 “Leave things to me, I will arrange everything”.

Later Moores came to my room and asked me what had happened, so I told her what Dr Randall said. 

She asked me who the father was and I said

“I don’t know”.  

But she didn’t believe me,

“You must know who made you pregnant Olga, after all you it’s not like you know a lot of men. What man have you been with?”

And then it began to dawn on me that maybe it had been John Edward.  I had never mentioned to anyone what happened that day in the pub, even when I saw Moores the next day I didn’t tell her. But now I told her everything.   By the time I’d finished, she was crying and hugging me tight. 

“Oh, Olga, I’m so sorry. I let you down. It would never have happened if I’d been there.” 

Still holding me she asked hadn’t I realised afterwards that I might be pregnant. 

I told her “No.  Mammie brought us up very strictly at home and we never talked about things like that, so I had no idea how babies were made.  When my sister Chickie was pregnant we were never allowed to discuss why she was getting bigger and bigger.  We knew she was going to have a baby but  Mammie never told us how babies were made.  We were always told that babies were sent by God and delivered to the mother.  That was the sort of upbringing we had”. 

“Oh Olga”, Moores said, “and you a nurse.  Never mind, my family know a doctor who will get rid of it for you.  It won’t help you get your job back but at least you won’t be burdened with a baby and can go back to Jamaica and your family won’t know anything about it.” 

I knew Moores meant well, but I was horrified by her suggestion.

“But, I would know.  I can’t do that.  It would be a sin.”

When I went to bed I thought about my family.  There had been so much gossip about us over the years, so many scandals and I didn’t want to be another one.  When I thought of Mammie I ached to put my head on her lap, just once more, and feel her hand stroking my head like she did when I didn’t feel well. 

I don’t feel well now Mammie.

Then I said my prayers and prayed for God to forgive me for my wickedness and the shame I had brought on my family

 ********

 Report:   Prepared by Miss Geraldine Franks, Superintendent
Catholic Refuge for Friendless Girls, Barclay Road, Fulham, London
 

Subject:   Miss  Olga Josephine Browney 

  Olga Browney was referred to the home by Miss Mary Norton, Matron, St Giles Hospital, Camberwell.  Throughout the interview Miss Browney sat on the edge of her chair with her head bowed. 

I told her that the first thing we had to do was to complete a registration form for her and she would have to tell me something about herself.  As she answered my questions her voice trembled and her hands shook and when she mentioned her mother she started to cry.  Miss Browney has made it clear she does not wish her mother, or any member of her family, to be informed about her situation.  She says she does not want to hurt them.

We then moved on to the father of the child.  At this point she refused to talk about him and no amount of encouragement on my part would make her.   I decided not to press the matter. 

I then asked her what plans she had for supporting the baby once it was born.   When I explained that she could put the baby up for adoption, for the first time in the interview Miss B raised her head and said she would keep the baby.  As gently as I could I explained to her that she may have no choice in the matter especially since she was not prepared to take the baby home to her family in Jamaica.  I asked Miss B, how, if she kept the baby and stayed in England, she planned to manage, support and care for herself and the child.    Miss B said she would find a job and work.

It is quite obvious that Miss B feels she has brought shame on her family by her predicament, but I am concerned about her decision not to return home and have tried to persuade her to change her mind.            

I am at a loss to understand why the fear of confronting her family with an illegitimate child is greater than choosing to remain in a country at war, without the support of friends or family and treats unmarried mothers with contempt, not to mention the problem that her colour may bring. 

Fortunately, there is time to persuade Miss B to place the child for adoption.

                                                Geraldine Franks  (Superintendent)

 <—The Rape of an Innocent

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<—Bad News                            Refuge for Friendless Girls—>

Olga’s Diary (Continued) 

  

Dear Diary 

What did I do wrong:   The water in my bath was so hot the bathroom was thick with steam, burning my skin and I could barely see the bath taps.  But I didn’t want to cool it down, I wanted it as hot as I could bear it.   

Earlier Moores had said she’d meet me at the pub, but wasn’t there when I arrived.  So, I got my ginger beer from the barman and sat down.  The pub was busy and noisy and though I’d been there a few times before, this was the first time on my own.   

From where I was sitting I could see John Edward in the other bar with a group of friends.  Before the war he was a senior doctor in St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington and very well respected.  Now he was working as a doctor in the army based somewhere near London. He’s very popular and everyone knows who he is.  He has a reputation for being a bit of a ladies man.  Moores would often tease me about him saying I had a crush on him and, it was true, I did like him a lot, but he’d never even noticed me.  

I’d been sitting there for half an hour and Moores still hadn’t turned up so I decided to get one more drink. I decided I’d go back to the Nurses’ Home if she hadn’t arrived by the time I’d finished it.  I felt a twinge of disappointment when I went up to buy my ginger beer because I couldn’t see John in the other bar.   

I sat down and the next thing I knew he was sitting opposite me.  He smiled at me but I was overcome with shyness.   

“Olga, isn’t it?” he said loudly so I could hear above the noise.  Goodness, I thought, he knows my name.   

“Yes, it is”.  

 I was getting a really good look at him now.  I’d never seen anyone so handsome, except, of course, film stars, but most of them were dark haired.  John was slim and fair-haired and he had such a lovely smile.   By now I was hoping Moores wasn’t coming because I wanted John all to myself.  He told me he had three days leave before he had to report back to the army.  I could see some of the other girls in the bar looking at us, a bit jealous I thought, and I felt so proud that he seemed interested in me.   

My initial shyness was gone and I was surprised by how easy he was to talk to.  I told him where I came from and all about my family and he talked about his life in the army.  We talked like two people who had been friends for ages.  He offered to buy me another ginger beer and while he was at the bar I went to the ladies toilet.   

As I came out he was standing in the passage waiting for me and took hold of my hand.  

“Come with me, Olga, I want to show you something.”   

We went down the passage, in the opposite direction of the bar and John opened a door and we were in a small dirty yard where there were lots of beer barrels and crates of beer.   He closed the door and I wondered what we were doing there.    

Then he pushed me against the wall of the pub and started kissing me very roughly.  With his knee he forced my legs apart and I was frightened because I knew then that something bad was going to happen to me.   

I tried to push him away from me but the weight of his body had me pressed against the wall.   

“Stop, please stop, you’re hurting me” I pleaded still trying to push him.   

“Stop struggling and it won’t hurt” he said.   

He pulled my dress up and my knickers down.  He’d undone his trousers and by now I was crying  

“Please, don’t” I said, my fists punching his shoulders.  I looked at him and he was smiling and then he covered my mouth with one hand and forced himself inside me.   

Suddenly terrible, terrible pain, as he repeatedly pushed himself into me.  The pain was so bad I thought I wanted to pass out prayed to God to let me pass out so I could not feel it any more.  After a few minutes I felt his body relax. 

 Again I said “Stop, you’re hurting me” and he laughed.   

“It’s OK, Olga, I’m finished now”.   He buttoned up his trousers and then went back inside.   

For a few minutes I stayed in the same position I’d been in throughout my ordeal, leaning against the wall because I couldn’t stand up properly on my own without its support.  I could feel fluid running down my legs but was afraid to go back inside to the toilet to clean myself up. 

There was a door in the yard that opened straight onto the street.  I tried to run back to the nursing home but my legs were shaking so much I couldn’t. I kept my head down all the way back not wanting anyone to see my tears or to make eye contact with me because I thought they would know what had just happened to me.  

 I felt so ashamed and humiliated and tried to think what I had done or said in the pub to make such a bad thing happen to me, but I couldn’t think of anything. 

I stayed in the bath until it was cold, crying for Mammie. 

****** 

Dear Diary 

I  have physical pain and yet I feel numb too.  How can that be?    

I’m not the person I was before. That Olga has gone.    I cannot concentrate on anything I am asked to do and am always being scolded by Sister Tutor.  She asks me  

“What’s wrong with you, are you sick?”  

 I can’t tell her.  I don’t tell anyone.   

 If I don’t pull my socks up there will be no point in sitting the first year examination again she tells me. I don’t care any more.  I have nightmares now and am too frightened to sleep, because, when I close my eyes, I see it all happening again, so I stay awake.  

 I want to go home, but I can’t.
 
 <—Bad News                               Refuge for Friendless Girls—>
 
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 <—-St Giles Cottage Hospital

 

Olga’s Diary (Continued) 
Dear Diary  

Oh, damn and blast, I failed my first year preliminary exam.  Knew I would.  There was so much I didn’t understand, but, Sister Tutor says I can sit the exam again, but if I fail the second time, that’s it, finished.  Goodbye Olga.  Moores failed too, but she doesn’t care as much as I do. 

Watch out, men about:   After a nursing lecture by Sister Tutor, she kept us all behind to give us another one about soldiers and men in uniform.

“A lot of women are being assaulted and worse, by airmen and soldiers from overseas” she told us.              “Care should be taken at all times because, these men have thrown away all sense of propriety because they are away from their home, in a country where no-one knows them and are taking advantage of women and the blackout,  to behave how they like without fear of retribution”

 Moores said she’d never heard anything so ridiculous.  All the overseas men she’d met were charming and treated her with respect.

“They’re a darn sight more polite than any Englishman I’ve been out with. Of course, sometimes there are rotten apples in a barrel” she said.

“But to give the impression that all airmen and soldiers from overseas do bad things and take advantage of women is wrong”.

 Moores was really quite angry with Sister Tutor. 

After the lecture Ethel and I were on night duty together on the men’s surgical ward and she asked me if I’d heard about Sara Donahue. 

 “Yes, isn’t it sad.  When is she coming back?” I asked Ethel.

Sara is in our group but she had to leave suddenly and go home because a close relative died. 

“It’s not true about the relative dying, Olga.  She left because she failed her three monthly medical.  We think she had gonorrhoea”.

“Oh,” I said.  I’d never heard of that so I asked Ethel what gonorrhoea was.

“It’s a sexually transmitted disease” said a young male patient, who had been listening to our conversation.

 “Couldn’t put it better myself” said Ethel. 

I didn’t know what a sexually transmitted disease was, but I wasn’t going to ask because I had a feeling I would look stupid.  After all I am a nurse.  When we’re on night duty and the air raids sound, we have to pull all the beds into the centre of the ward and put each patient’s gas mask on their bed.  We’ve been issued with helmets which have to be worn when the bombs start dropping.  The first time I put mine on I thought, thank God, the tots can’t see me.  They’d never stop laughing, as a matter of fact neither could I.  It was so big I had to keep pushing it back so I could see where I was going. I looked ridiculous in it. 

Ethel and I were sitting at the big table in the middle of the ward writing up our reports and whenever we leaned forward to say something to each other, our helmets would bang together.  After a couple of times we started to laugh and then when we laughing so much we leaned back in our chairs and our helmets fell off crashing to the floor and made a terrible din and woke all the patients up. 

There’s still a routine on night duty, but it’s not so hectic.  By nine thirty the bed quilts must be folded in four and placed at the foot of the bed, thermometers in mugs, equipment trays fully laid up, false teeth deposited in mugs on lockers and all lights turned off except the green shaded one on the table in the middle of the ward.   

While some men snore, others light up cigarettes, not taking the slightest notice of us when we tell them they are not allowed to smoke in bed. 

But we do have time to write up our lecture notes and revise.  By the end of night duty, when I get to my room I’m too tired to undress and fall asleep across my bed clutching my books.

 

Horrible news:   There’s a wireless in the student nurses’ sitting room where we all gather round and listen to the news to hear how the war is going.  Before the war it was a games room but there doesn’t seem to be time to play games now, although we do sometimes play music on the gramophone. 

I was listening to the radio when Moores came in.  Before she had said a word I could see by her face that something was wrong.  But I wasn’t prepared for what she told me. 

As she sat down beside me she took my hand.

 “Olga, Joanne is dead.  The rest centre in Morley College was bombed last Tuesday evening and it seems that Joanne was visiting someone there.  Some people were rescued but most of them, including Joanne, were trapped inside.  By the time they pulled her out, she was dead.”

 “No, it’s not possible”.  

She had told me she was on night duty all week.

“Joanne changed shifts with another nurse, Olga.  Joanne was off duty.  I’m sorry”.  Then she repeated it.

“Joanne’s dead” . 

Alone in my room, I kept repeating the phrase “Joanne is dead” as if it would help me take in the terrible news.  The thought that I would never see Joanne’s face again gave me the most awful feeling I have ever had, worse than all the bombings and scares that I had experienced these last few months.  My world has changed.  I feel helpless – as if an invisible wall that once surrounded and supported me has gone and without it I feel disconnected from everyone and everything around me, tiny and insignificant. 

I’m so lonely.

Next day: I went mechanically through my duties until the last one when I was removing the flowers and potted plants from the ward and putting them in the bathroom for the night.  I remembered Joanne telling me how she loved doing this job at Paddington General because it turned the bathroom into an exotic florist, rich with perfume and vibrant colour.

 “For a few minutes Olga,” she said ”I’m back home in Jamaica”.  That night I cried bitterly for the loss of the best friend I’ve ever had. 

 ********

Mammie’s (Becky) Diary

These days I spend most nights listening to the wireless for news of the war in Europe. It is so frustrating that I know more about what is going on there than how my daughter and sister are managing in London. It is months since I have heard from either of them and I feel helpless because there is nothing to do except pray. 

We now know Germany is bombing London relentlessly and the loss of life and injuries, as well as the devastation to the city, is enormous.    I read in the Gleaner of how people have to go to use the underground tube stations to shelter from the bombs.  They often sleep there all night and then have go off to work the next morning trying to avoid unexploded bombs or fractured gas mains.   How dangerous it all sounds.

I wonder if Olga has to do this too. 

 <—-St Giles Cottage Hospital

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