Just Fifteen

Just Fifteen

She was just fifteen.

Just fifteen, and very afraid.

After all, in the 1950’s in Glasgow, for an unmarried teenage girl to fall pregnant was a terrifying experience. Worse still, this baby would be a hybrid, as well as a bastard.

The father was a Catholic, of good Catholic stock from the East End, whilst the mother was from the other side, a Protestant, the other Glaswegian tribe, from across the divide.

The shame, the black affrontery of it all was just too much for the families to bear, so she was ‘put away’ for the period of her confinement.

That was how she ended up on a large Victorian house in the west end of the city. It was run by the Salvation Army, and was called ‘Homeland’. Essentially, a safe place for fallen girls, and it was to become her residence for nine months.

The ladies in charge were very kind and well-meaning, of course, as one might expect from the Sally Army, but for this girl, it was a time of loneliness and abandonment. No visits from the family, no real communication with the outside world, dependent for everything upon the generosity of the staff.

As the child grew within her, so did that sense of dread, for she knew what lay ahead. She was aware of what would come of her child, at least for a few short weeks.

The bond between the child and the mother who carries for nine months is something rather sacred, and as the days of her confinement passed, so she became increasingly aware that this child, the child of her womb, could never really belong to her.

To do such a thing, to return to the outside world, with a baby but no husband, was simply unthinkable. Such a scandal has to be avoided at all cost. Perhaps there had been a time when she considered a termination, but such things were illegal in those days, and, of course, highly dangerous.

So for nine months, Homeland was her home. And for six weeks after the event.

For on March 6^th. 1954, after her labour, she gave birth to her son, whom she named Ian, after her brother.

For six weeks, she looked after her child. Bathed him, suckled him, dressed him, loved him. By now, of course, she was sixteen, suddenly having to grow up fast, without the network of family support she might have expected in normal circumstances.

As the days passed, so she knew that the inevitable sadness would come. For her Ian would no longer be her Ian. Indeed, no longer her’s at all. Adoption was the only route available for the little boy, and mum knew that this was approaching fast.

She used the time wisely, and among all the other mumsy things that she had to do, she began to knit. A blue cardigan for her little boy. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had, and all that she was allowed to give.

The Salvation Army lady was very gentle, of course, as she took Ian from his mum’s arms. ‘He has to go now’, she said, amid tears.

A final kiss on the forehead, a caress of the hand, and he was gone.

She went over to the window, and from there, through the curtains, she saw Ian’s new parents come out of the front door, carrying her child. She wanted to cry out, but sometimes even silent screams are hard to come by.

They all got into the car, and they drove off, and she wept.

And wept.

And wept.

She was just fifteen.