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They took him from me. That’s what they did. They took him. Tied me down, I screamed. I yelled out for my mum. I told them it was my baby, my kid, my child. I called them terrible things; I used words I should not have used, terrible words. They took him from me. I needed Bob, where was he? Where did he go to? I needed him by my side. I’d heard about this stuff. Where they take babies from girls like me. Girls who are not married, proper like. Lost two girlfriends because of this. One in the Yarra. One under a train.
I had to tell my mum I was pregnant. Told her one Saturday afternoon in the kitchen. She got up and left the table and walked into the dining room and slammed the door. I followed her there after a while. She told me about shame. My father. The extended family. I thought she would never stop. I wanted a hug. I wanted to be held. All she could do was clutch a wet handkerchief and rock backwards and forwards and mutter about getting rid of it. And the shame, the terrible shame. This is all I could hear. It could not have been worse if I had murdered the Pope. I wanted love from her. That’s what I wanted from her, I wanted some love.
“And where is this lover boy of yours?” she said, glaring at me. “Now that he’s had his bit of fun, where is he?”
“Bob’s his name. I will see him tomorrow. We were only together just the one time, just the once, that’s all. I like him a lot, and I know he likes me as well”.
“Likes you? Well, my little girl. I can tell you what he likes, and it sure is not your pretty face, make no mistake about that. He’s a bloke and they are all the same. All the same. The whole lot of them.”
