Cast the First Stone (16 page)

‘It's for the best,' said her father quietly. Her mother remained silent.

‘I won't be kept a prisoner,' said Fiona again. ‘I want to go and see my gran. I will go and see her, and you can't stop me.'

Mary and Wilfred looked at one another. Wilfred nodded. ‘Yes, we'd best tell your mother,' he said to his wife. ‘It wouldn't be right to keep it from her.'

‘No, I've been thinking about that,' agreed Mary. ‘We'd best go and see her one night and tell her what's happened. Although it'll give her the shock of her life, especially at her age.' She cast a reproachful glance at her daughter.

At least she'll be more sympathetic than you are being, Fiona reflected, but she wisely kept the thought to herself.

‘I shouldn't worry; she's a tough old bird,' replied Wilfred with a wry smile. ‘I dare say your mam'll take it in her stride.'

‘Yes, I'll allow you to go and see your grandmother,' said Mary. ‘But I can't imagine how she's going to react to all this.' She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Many a time your gran's said to me, “That little girl is the light of my life.” She'd waited a long time for a granddaughter – our Eddie had three lads – and she made such a fuss of you. She's going to be bitterly disappointed in you, Fiona.'

‘I think we've said enough, Mary,' said Wilfred quietly. ‘Off you go now, Fiona love.' He smiled at his daughter. ‘Go up to your room and read a book, or listen to some records or summat . . . We'll get through it somehow,' he added in a whisper.

Annie Jowett listened almost in silence to the tale that her daughter, Mary, was telling her about how Fiona had ‘got into trouble' and the disgrace that she was bringing to the family.

‘Wilfred and I are mortified,' said Mary, ‘and so ashamed. To think that our daughter should behave like that! And she's even admitted that she was partly to blame. Maybe there might have been some excuse if she'd been forced, been taken advantage of, but she says not. And she refuses to tell us who it is. I was all for going to that youth club and finding out, but Wilfred convinced me that we must keep it to ourselves. Nobody has to know.'

Annie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye, I can see how you might be thinking you've to hush it up . . . but I'll tell you what I think. It seems to me that you're more worried about how this is going to affect you, than showing concern for that poor lass.'

‘Of course we're concerned, Mother,' retorted Mary. ‘We're just trying to do what's best for her.'

‘By pretending it's not happening, eh? By sweeping it under the carpet?' Annie gave a wry chuckle. ‘Oh aye, I can see that you're worried about what the folks at church would say, and your precious vicar.'

‘Yes . . . I'll admit that we don't want them to know,' replied Mary, a trifle grudgingly. ‘We're ashamed, like I've told you. This sort of thing doesn't happen in respectable families like ours.'

‘Huh! That's what you think!' replied Annie. ‘I'll tell you something then. My young sister, your aunt Gertie, she “had to get married”, if you want to put it that way. But nobody made a song and dance about it from what I can remember, and our mam and dad didn't go on at her like she'd committed a crime. Her and Wally, they just got married a bit earlier, that's all, and your cousin Fred was born five months later.'

‘I never knew that,' said Mary.

‘No, why should you?'

‘But that was different,' Mary went on. ‘They were engaged, weren't they? Not like this with our Fiona, carrying on with some lad from church.'

‘At least he goes to that church that you're always on about,' said her mother. ‘He's probably a very decent sort of lad.'

‘How can he be?' retorted Mary. ‘To behave like that! We didn't even know she had a boyfriend. It's all been going on behind our backs.'

‘Aye, maybe it has.' Annie nodded sagely. ‘You're so self-righteous these days that she probably didn't dare to tell you. And I don't suppose there's been much going on at all. It sounds to me as though they just got carried away, with being on holiday and away from home an' all that. Aye, she's been a silly girl and she's made a mistake. But can't you show a bit of that there Christian love and forgiveness that you're always harping on about? She's going to need her mam and dad, you know, whatever happens.'

Mary did look a bit abashed. ‘We do love her, don't we, Wilfred?' She looked at her husband and he nodded.

‘Aye, of course we do. But we think this would be best, Ma. To get her right away from here where everybody knows her.'

‘And pack her off to a load of strangers?'

‘Our Beattie and Donald aren't strangers,' replied Wilfred. ‘I know Fiona hasn't seen them much lately, but we had a couple of holidays at their farm when she was little. I remember how she loved the animals. Beattie offered to have her during the war – as an evacuee, like – but we couldn't bear to part with her.'

‘But you're prepared to make use of 'em now, eh?'

‘It's rather different now,' said Wilfred, looking a little uneasy. ‘Anyroad, we've still to contact them and make arrangements.'

‘And what does Fiona think about it all?' asked Annie.

‘She's got no choice, Mother,' said Mary, sounding just as intransigent as before. ‘I'm afraid she will have to abide by what her dad and I decide is best for her.'

‘Well, I suppose it's got nowt to do with me,' said Annie. ‘You're her parents and I suppose you're doing what you think is best. I don't like all the deceit though . . . Anyroad, I'll go and make us a cup of tea.'

Annie's living room had hardly changed at all since Mary had lived there as a child. The same brown chenille table cover with a bobbled fringe – many of the bobbles missing now – was shabby and worn in places, as was the brown patterned carpet and the easy chairs. The huge Victorian sideboard still dominated the room. A myriad of framed photographs stood on top of it, together with the pair of Staffordshire dogs and the imitation Crown Derby fruit bowl, a long ago wedding present. A photo of Fiona stood in pride of place, an enlargement of a snap taken by Wilfred's box Brownie camera on a holiday in Scarborough a few years ago. Wedding photos too; of Mary and Wilfred; of her brother, Eddie and his wife, Elsie; and one of Annie and Frank on their long ago wedding day, towards the end of Queen Victoria's reign. Mary's father had died when she was ten years old, so her memories of him had grown hazy over the years. She remembered how her mother had always done her very best for them after she was widowed. Annie had always been brusque though, the gentler side of her nature showing itself more in her dealings with her grandchildren, particularly with Fiona. Mary admitted to herself that she was still, even now, a little in awe of her mother and didn't want to do anything to displease her.

‘You'll let her come to see me, won't you?' asked Annie as they drank their tea. ‘Before she disappears to . . . wherever she's going.'

‘Of course we will, Mother,' said Mary. ‘She said she wanted to see you. Don't be too soft with her, mind. She takes notice of what you say, and I don't want her to think you're condoning her behaviour.'

‘I think she's had enough harsh words thrown at her, don't you?' replied Annie. ‘I shall say what I think fit. When all's said and done, she's the one who has to go through it, poor lass.'

‘They're packing me off to Northumberland, Gran, to Aunty Beattie's,' said Fiona.

It was Saturday afternoon and she had travelled to her gran's house by tram and bus, as she usually did. It was the first time she had been out since the news had broken on Wednesday. She hadn't seen anyone she knew on the journey, something that her mother had feared might happen.

‘And how do you feel about going there, luv?' asked her grandmother.

‘I don't really mind,' she replied. ‘But it all depends on what Aunty Beattie and Uncle Donald say; Mum's waiting for a letter. It'll be a relief to get away, really. It's been awful at home. They've calmed down a bit now – actually, Dad's been a lot better about it than Mum – but they won't let me go out in case I see somebody I know. And tomorrow they're going to tell the folk at church that I've had a relapse or something, and that I'm going away to recuperate. It's all lies, Gran.'

‘Well, happen it is for the best, luv,' said Annie, ‘although I told your mam I didn't like the deceit. But what else could they do, eh? I believe you won't tell them who the lad is? And I take it you don't want him to know either? I'm not going to ask you who it is, seeing as you haven't told your mam and dad.'

Fiona shook her head. ‘I can't tell him, can I? It would cause such an uproar. We didn't mean it to happen. I didn't think it could happen so easily, Gran. I mean, I didn't really know what we were doing. It just . . . happened.'

‘Aye, I know it can happen more easily than you think,' said Annie. ‘That's Mother Nature for you, and you're young and . . . well . . . fertile, I suppose. But you'll still be young, you know, when it's all over. Still not quite eighteen. Young enough to put it all behind you and start again. This lad though, was he your boyfriend, luv?'

‘Sort of,' said Fiona. ‘He's at the boys' grammar school, like I'm at the girls', and we've been seeing one another at church and youth club an' all that. But it was only when we went to London that we started to . . . well, you know. And he asked me if I'd be his girlfriend when we got back home. But then I was ill and now . . .' She shook her head. ‘I won't be able to see him. Anyway, he'll be going to university next year. He was – is – a very clever lad, far cleverer than I am. He'll be studying Chemistry. No, I couldn't mess all that up for him. Oh, Gran! What a mess it all is! I really liked him. He wouldn't have wanted this to happen. It probably never occurred to him that it might.'

‘No, I don't suppose it did,' said Annie wryly. ‘I can see that the last thing he'd want is to be saddled with a wife and a baby. That's what some parents would do, you know; insist on the pair of you getting married.'

‘That's not possible, Gran,' said Fiona pensively. ‘That's why I can't tell him. I suppose Mum and Dad are right there, wanting to keep it a secret. But Mum went mad at first, you know, for me to tell her who it was.'

‘And I suppose it's put paid to your plans an' all, hasn't it?' said her grandmother. ‘Going to college next year, like, and training to be a teacher.'

‘I think that was always Mum's idea rather than mine,' said Fiona with a half smile. ‘She liked the idea, you know, of her daughter being a teacher. And I sort of went along with it. I thought it would be nice to get away, you see, and have a bit of freedom. But now . . . well, I can't go back to school in September. I'll have to find something else to do when . . . when it's all over.' She looked at her grandmother in some alarm. Now and again a feeling of fear and panic seized hold of her.

‘Oh, Gran, it's all so awful! I can't believe it's really happening. But you'll be here for me, won't you? You're not terribly ashamed of me, are you? I'm really sorry about it all.'

‘No, lovey, I'm not ashamed of you. Like I told you, you've been a silly girl and you've made a mistake.' Annie moved across the room to sit next to her on the settee. She put an arm around Fiona, drawing her head on to the pillow of her comfortable bosom. ‘But we're all here for you. Your mam and dad love you very much, you know, in spite of everything. You'll get through this. It's not going to be easy, but it'll sort out, you'll see. We all find out sooner or later that life isn't always a bed of roses. You're finding out a bit sooner than some of us, but there'll be good times ahead for you, Fiona love, I feel sure of that.'

Fiona felt slightly less apprehensive after her talk with her grandmother. She knew that she had an ally in her gran. She would have liked to stay there, away from her parents' reproachful glances – her mother's at least. Her father did appear a mite more sympathetic; but it seemed as though he did not dare to show too much understanding for fear of what his wife might say. It was Mary, now, who was taking the lead in what was to happen to Fiona.

‘Your aunt and uncle have agreed to take you in for a few months,' she told her daughter on the Wednesday of the following week. ‘You are a very lucky girl, Fiona.'

Fiona did not think that the adjective was very well chosen. On the other hand, she was starting to think that the sooner she got away from home the better it would be. Mary had said very little since her and Wilfred's visit to church on Sunday morning. She had told Fiona, in quite a matter-of-fact way, that she had informed Colin Wilkes, the youth club leader, that her daughter was suffering from a breakdown following the attack of glandular fever and was going away to recuperate.

‘He sends his best wishes,' she had added curtly, ‘and says he hopes you will soon be better. But I've made it clear that you're not well enough to see anybody. I don't want anyone coming round here, so you stay put until we've heard from Beattie and Donald.'

Now, following the arrival of the letter, she told Fiona that she was to go to Northumberland the following weekend. ‘Your uncle has offered to come down and take you back in his Land Rover,' she said. ‘It's very kind of him to go to all this trouble.' Fiona was left in no doubt that she was the cause of the trouble. ‘He'll stay here on Saturday night, then you'll be off early Sunday morning. Beattie says you're welcome to stay for the first few months. So, like I say, think yourself lucky that somebody is willing to take you in.'

‘And . . . what's going to happen after that?' asked Fiona.