Cast the First Stone (21 page)

‘Arthur's thrilled with him,' she said. He had visited her earlier on that Saturday afternoon. ‘And guess what? Me mam and me da are coming to see me tomorrow. That's a turn up for the book, isn't it? Seems as though they're coming round to the idea.'

Fiona shed a few tears when her friend left two weeks later. Ginny was tearful as well. The two of them had formed a close bond.

‘It won't be long for you now,' said Ginny. ‘And it's not too bad, honest. You mustn't worry about it. It'll soon be over. Oh, Fiona . . . we must keep in touch, whatever happens. Promise me you'll write, won't you? And when you get back to Leeds, let me know how you go on.' Fiona, fighting back her tears, promised that she would.

There were only two of them left in the room now. There seemed to be a temporary dearth of unmarried mothers. Bridget was very quiet, but happier now that Hazel had gone. She was actually due to give birth the week before Fiona, but it didn't turn out that way.

It was at about nine o'clock on the Saturday evening, May seventeenth, when Fiona became aware of a sharp pain in her abdomen. She was in the lounge with some of the other girls, listening to favourite records on the Dansette record player.

‘They try to tell us we're too young,' sang Jimmy Young as Fiona's pains grew worse. She had tried to ignore them at first – she was more than a week early – but after about twenty minutes they were recurring regularly and she knew she must be in labour.

‘I think I've started,' she whispered to Bridget.

‘Do you, really?' said the other girl. ‘I'll go and tell somebody.'

She came back in a few moments with Nurse Grant. ‘Now, what's the problem?' she asked a trifle brusquely.

‘I think I might have started in labour,' said Fiona. ‘But it's early.'

‘Oh, babies are a law unto themselves,' said the nurse. ‘Come on then; let's be having you. We'll go and find out what's happening.'

It was when Fiona entered the labour room that her waters broke. ‘Oh, oh!' she cried. ‘Oh dear! How awful!'

‘It's just part of the process,' said the nurse briskly. ‘Get undressed, there's a good girl, and put this gown on.'

It was all a blur in her mind from then on, when she looked back at it. She was subjected to the indignity of an enema, something she had heard of but never experienced before. Then she was left on her own for what seemed ages, to cope with the pains as well as she could. The nurse was within calling distance but Fiona didn't want to make a fuss, so she tried to grin and bear it. The pains went on until the early hours of Sunday morning, and then Sister Travers was there to assist with the birth. Fiona was given access to the gas and air machine and she clung to it like a lifeline. As one pain receded and she awaited the next she reflected that she was paying dearly for those few passionate moments in Battersea Pleasure Gardens.

When she was told to ‘Push . . . push like mad, Fiona, there's a good girl,' she did as she was told. And then, suddenly, it was all over. There was a moment when she felt that she was being ripped apart, and then she heard Sister Travers say, ‘It's a girl! You have a lovely little girl, Fiona.'

There was a faint cry, like a kitten mewing, then a louder wail as the nurse cleaned the baby and wrapped her in a blanket.

‘Can I see her?' asked Fiona.

‘In a minute,' said the sister, ‘when we've dealt with the afterbirth.'

A few moments later the baby, cocooned in a soft woollen blanket was placed in her arms. ‘Just for a little while now. You understand, don't you, Fiona?' said Sister Travers, firmly but not unkindly.

Fiona looked down at the tiny infant in her arms, her eyes misted with tears. She blinked them away, then wiped them with a corner of the sheet. She had known that this moment would come, and she must try to be brave. The baby seemed to be staring up at her with misty blue-grey eyes, but Fiona knew that she couldn't really see her; her eyes were unfocused as yet. Her hair was dark-brown – like Dave's, Fiona remembered; her own hair was blonde – a downy covering of curls clinging damply to her scalp. She had the tiniest little rosebud mouth and a pink and white complexion. It was not true, then, that all babies were red and wrinkled. She really was an exquisite little thing. Fiona felt a sob in her throat as she gently pulled back the blanket to reveal a tiny hand like a miniature starfish. She placed a finger in the palm and the baby's fingers instinctively curled round it, grasping it for a moment.

‘Hello, little girl,' she whispered. ‘You're beautiful, aren't you?' At that moment she felt as though she would do anything to keep her baby. She would put up with the shame, the ostracism; she would live in one room; she would be poor and lonely and friendless if need be, if only she could keep her. And if her parents were to see this lovely little child, surely they would relent? No one could be so hard-hearted as to reject a little baby such as this, one of God's children, when all was said and done.

They left her alone with the baby for a little while, then Sister Travers returned. ‘Come along now, Fiona. I know it's hard for you, but it's the best way, really it is. And you signed the form, didn't you, agreeing to give up your baby for adoption?'

‘But how can I?' pleaded Fiona. ‘Not now that I've seen her; she's so lovely. If I managed to persuade my parents?'

‘No, I'm afraid that won't happen,' said the sister firmly. ‘Your baby will be going to a good home, it's already been arranged, and it really is for the best, Fiona. You made a mistake, like hundreds of girls have done – you're not alone in this, you know – and it could have been much worse. The birth was straightforward and there is no reason why you shouldn't conceive again, in happier circumstances. So . . . give her to me, there's a good girl.'

Fiona hesitated for a moment, unwilling to let go of her baby. Then she had a sudden thought. ‘Sister Travers,' she said, ‘would you pass me that little pink teddy bear, please? It's sitting on the cupboard.' The Sister did so, and Fiona tucked it under the blanket that was around the baby. ‘It'll be nice to think of her holding this when she's older,' she said, her voice choking with tears.

Sister Travers held out her arms. ‘Come along now, dear.' Fiona kissed the baby's forehead. ‘Goodbye, little one,' she said, then she handed the baby over. She felt as though her heart would break . . .

Fiona had formed an attachment with the auxiliary helper, Claire Wagstaff, during her stay at the home. It was not exactly a friendship; the members of staff were warned not to become too involved with the girls. But Claire was sympathetic, and at only thirty was much closer in age to the girls. She had gone off duty when Fiona had started in labour, but was back there the next morning after she had given birth. She popped into the room to see Fiona, who had been left on her own for a time, to come to terms with everything.

‘Hello, love,' she said in her usual cheerful way. ‘So it's all over now?' Her smile was full of understanding.

Fiona nodded. ‘They keep trying to tell me it's for the best. Claire . . . you don't know where she'll be going, do you, my baby?'

The young woman shook her head but she didn't actually say no. ‘We're not allowed to say,' she answered. ‘You know that, Fiona. The fewer people that know, the better. You just concentrate on yourself now, and try to look forward, not back. You'll be going home soon, won't you, and you can have a fresh start? It'll get easier as time goes on, and you're still very young, aren't you?'

‘I shall be eighteen next Thursday,' replied Fiona. ‘Then I'll be going home soon afterwards, I suppose.' She knew she didn't sound very enthusiastic about the prospect, and nor was she. She couldn't imagine what sort of a reception would await her back in Leeds.

‘Cheer up then, love,' said Claire. ‘You'll feel better when you get back with your friends. There's a new girl coming into your room today.'

But Ginny had gone, and Bridget was not very chatty; and Fiona had not formed a close attachment to any of the other girls. She went back to her room later that day, where she would need to stay in bed for a week to make sure that all was well. She was given tablets to deal with the problem of her milk, which would not be needed. Her breasts were sore for a while but the ache passed. She knew it would take longer for the ache in her heart to subside.

Her aunt and uncle were surprised, when they visited her on the Sunday afternoon, to learn that it was all over. They behaved in a cheerful and practical way, and Fiona tried hard not to break down and cry. It was decided that she would be allowed to go home in a fortnight's time, on the last day of May, provided all was well. Once again, her Uncle Donald agreed to take her.

‘I'll write and tell your parents about the baby,' said her aunt, ‘so you don't need to worry about that. We're relieved that everything went well, Fiona love. I know it's sad for you, but don't forget that Donald and I will always be there for you whenever you need us. You feel like another daughter to us now, so some good has come out of all this, hasn't it? Every cloud has a silver lining, as they say.'

The new house that her parents had moved to during her absence felt strange at first, and she did not know the area at all well. It was much nearer to her gran's home, though, and she became a frequent visitor to the elderly lady.

As she had anticipated, her parents made no reference to the baby; it was just as though nothing had happened. They had welcomed her in a friendly enough way when she arrived back with Donald, her father appearing more touched at seeing her again than was her mother. Mary, however, had baked a cake for Fiona's birthday that had taken place the previous week, and Donald, as usual, added a touch of lightness to the little celebration. She was sorry to see him depart the next day.

Her parents had found a new church to attend. ‘Not quite the same sort of worship as we've been used to,' said her mother. Nevertheless they went there regularly each Sunday morning and evening, and Fiona was left to her own devices.

It was not long before she saw an advert in the local paper, for an assistant librarian at one of the branch libraries in Leeds. She applied, and was fortunate enough to be appointed to the post. Things were looking up, she reflected; and she made up her mind to concentrate wholeheartedly on her work, and not to look back.

Simon had known right from the start of their relationship that he did not know everything about Fiona. She was keeping something back from him, but he did not enquire too closely about the details of her past life. He considered himself to be a good judge of character and he knew that Fiona was an admirable person. She was kind and sympathetic, concerned for the needs of others, and made friends very easily. He had been attracted by her looks as soon as he had met her, as any normal red-blooded man would be. And on further acquaintance he had realized that she was as good as she was beautiful. He counted himself fortunate that she had been equally attracted to him; not just fortunate but blessed indeed.

He believed that a happy marriage was one of God's richest blessings. His first marriage to Millicent had not been ideally happy, but when Millicent had died suddenly and unexpectedly his grief had been genuine. It was regret, though, as much as sadness; regret that he had not been a better husband.

Simon's parents had taken to Fiona at once when he introduced her to them at their home in Bradford, the house in which Simon and his sister had been born and brought up. They had never really warmed to Millicent, feeling that she was too strait-laced and humourless for their go-ahead, energetic and fun-loving son.

‘You've got yourself a real bobby-dazzler this time, lad,' his father said to him when Simon's mother and fiancée were busy in the kitchen. ‘She's a pretty lass and no mistake. Not my idea of a vicar's wife, mind – no, sorry, you're a rector, aren't you, not a vicar? – but I reckon you know what you're doing. I hope so, anyroad. She does go to church, doesn't she? There'll be some raised eyebrows if she doesn't.'

‘Yes, she attends church regularly, Dad,' replied Simon. ‘She's sincere in what she believes, and I'm hoping she'll take a more active part when we're married. I'm determined, though, that she won't be known as “the rector's wife” like Millicent was. Fiona has her own career, and I want her to carry on with it, for a little while at any rate, if she wants to.'

‘Yes, no doubt you'll be wanting to start a family though, won't you? Don't leave it too long, lad. Your mother and I would like some more grandchildren. You've met Fiona's folks, I suppose? I guess she's Yorkshire born and bred, same as we are?'

‘Yes, she was born in Leeds,' replied Simon, ‘and she lived there until she moved to Aberthwaite. She has no parents now. She's not told me a great deal about them. Apparently they were both killed in a coach crash, about nine years ago, I think. She went to live with her grandmother, and when the old lady died she decided to make a fresh start at the library in Aberthwaite. And I'm delighted that she did. She's a wonderful girl, Dad. I'm glad you both like her.'

‘Yes, we'll be looking forward to the wedding, quite soon we hope,' said his father. ‘Have you fixed a date yet?'

‘No, not exactly,' replied Simon. ‘Sometime in June, we think. As you say, we don't want to wait too long.'

‘No, why should you? Especially as you've got the girl that you really want, and I can see that you have this time . . . Sorry, maybe I shouldn't have said that, but Millicent was never exactly right for you, was she?'

‘No, not at all, Dad. But I've been given another chance and I know it will be right this time.'

‘And we're very pleased for you, an' all. I reckon your mother'll be off to Brown Muff's before long to buy a new outfit. You'll be inviting your Aunt Gladys and Uncle Herbert, won't you? And our Chrissie and Tom, of course, and their kids?'