The Tower Mill (6 page)

‘I feel so guilty that he does that to me, Mike. I loved him so much and now I can’t stand to be near him. I can’t tell them at the hospital, can’t tell Mum. Bloody Mum, she goes on like this is a trial sent to test me and all the time I can see behind her eyes how relieved she is that there’ll be no more Terry, not the way it was before.’

I stopped, expecting Mike to be angry with me, yet what I saw in his face was pity, not for Terry but for me, his eyes like outstretched hands and then I was launching myself across the seat, latching on to him.

‘Help me, Mike. I’m so ashamed.’

TOM

A
ll children are
suckers for the story of their own birth: they are fascinated by pictures of a mummy unaccountably younger than the one who now tucks them into bed, her hands resting on a watermelon that’s been shoved up her front. She’s invariably smiling. Maybe that’s the attraction.
That’s you inside my tummy, darling. I’m smiling because of you.

Some must ask how they got out, I suppose, and are told it happened at the hospital, which isn’t the answer they were looking for, but distracts them enough to avoid the need for diagrams and blushes.

‘Did you ever take a photo of Susan while she was pregnant?’ I’d asked Dad when the fascination overtook me years ago. I guess I must have been sixteen, maybe seventeen.

‘A few,’ he said. ‘They’re at Grandma’s, in with the other albums,’ and the next time we visited, he hunted them out.

Did he save them for me? He didn’t keep the wedding photos – I asked about those, too, soon after, and was told they were gone, not destroyed, just let go, left behind and best forgotten, like the marriage itself, I suppose.

If it took me longer than usual to show any interest in my genesis it was because I’d always known the mum in my daily life wasn’t the one who’d carried me around like a melon. But I’m not that different. I did gestate inside my mother for nine months, like everyone else.

Susan was pregnant right through those terrible weeks while she waited to know whether Terry would live or die and once that was no longer her fear, while she suffered assaults of grief, anger, shame and finally despair. I was with her through all of it.

That’s you inside my tummy, darling, even though you are too small to see, too small to make my dress bulge outwards, too small even to remind me you are there.

SUSAN

Late September, 1971

‘J
udging from the
dates you’ve given me, Susan, I’d say you’re thirteen weeks.’ She was the first woman doctor I’d ever been to, and worked at a place I hadn’t known existed until a few days before. Not that I would have made an appointment at the
uq
clinic any earlier even if I had known she was there. My head was too full with other things.

Afterwards, I sat alone in the refec, with a coffee going cold in front of me. I wasn’t afraid of public tears; I’d shed so many over the weeks since the Tower Mill that I knew the signs, but this time they didn’t come, even as I made myself think of
Terry.

‘He’s dead. It’s all gone,’ I muttered. I simply couldn’t make a connection between Terry Stoddard and the baby inside me, as though it had lodged itself there spontaneously. It didn’t seem anything to do with me, either. It was just there. A decision had already been made before . . . before, before, before. Oh fuck!

How would I go about it? Abortion had only ever been an abstract thing, an issue, condemned at Avila without discussion, debated hotly at uni, but never as an act that had to be arranged.

For weeks I’d lain on my bed without a reason to do anything, yet that wasn’t me. I’d been waiting for a life that was never coming back, floored by my own powerlessness. It was time to break out.

I stood up from the table and found myself oddly galvanised by what I was about to do, by my own efforts and however hard it might be, it was a challenge I was up for.

At a phone box on the ring road, I called a number I still knew by heart, even though I hadn’t dialled it for two years.

‘Mrs De Jong, it’s Susan Kinnane. Could you please give me Karen’s number at work?’

I met my old school friend the next day in Anzac Square, finding a bench below the cenotaph away from the paths and prying ears and there I laid out the problem, tearlessly and in a voice that didn’t waver on a single word. It wasn’t heartlessness, I told myself, it was the need to feel in control at last.

My composure broke a little, though, when Karen started talking about money.

‘Where did your sister get that kind of cash?’

‘Mum and Dad, of course.’ When I looked stunned, she added in a sardonic tone: ‘Oh, they’re good Catholics on Sunday, but Barbara was pregnant on the other six days as well.’

Karen promised to ring that night with the phone number. I would take the call in the lounge room, with Mum and Dad watching television only a few feet away. There was nothing suspicious about copying down a phone number, and when I made my own call I would go to the phone box on Logan Road.

‘Shit,’ I said under my breath while I waited for the bus in Queen Street. I had no idea where I was going to get that kind of money.

And money was the biggest hurdle. Friends came good, without asking why I needed whatever they could spare, or when I could pay it back. Others said they couldn’t help, sorry. In the week after meeting Karen, I must have asked a dozen people. Then I came home one afternoon and found Mum sitting on the sofa.

My wariness flared. A silent television was the clue I’d picked up without realising. She never sat in the lounge room by herself, unless the television was on.

‘Come and sit down,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you. Or maybe there’s something you want to tell me.’

My mouth was instantly dry. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because I do your washing.’

‘My washing! Mum, what are you on about?’ I managed a laugh. This might not be the moment I’d dreaded after all.

But it was.

‘There hasn’t been any blood. You’ve never been careful with pads and things, have you Susan? I have to soak your underwear, only there’s been nothing to soak for months.’

‘My period’s playing up because of what’s happened to Terry, that’s all. It’s stress.’

‘When you’ve been sleeping with your boyfriend there’s a more common reason.’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You think it’s not my business if my daughter’s pregnant?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Aren’t you? I should have guessed weeks ago. Your face has been white as a sheet every morning.’

‘Mum, my boyfriend’s half-dead in hospital! Why wouldn’t I look pale?’

‘You’re anaemic, like I was every time, and Diane’s the same. I’ve made an appointment for you with Doctor Tunbridge. If I’m wrong about this, you’ll have my sincerest apology.’

That was it. She got up off the sofa and went into the kitchen without another word.

I struggled through a sleepless night, but in the morning there was no point holding out any longer. After Mum was done with the rush of getting men out of the house, I sat down heavily at the kitchen table and ended the pretence, expecting Krakatoa to flatten half of Holland Park.

It didn’t happen, and once I saw there weren’t going to be any pyrotechnics, I almost convinced myself the baby was gone, too.

Phone calls were made. Diane came round with her little Rosanna, gave me a hug and told me it would be all right,
really
. The boys were left in ignorance, but Dad certainly knew by the time he came home. The anger was there in his face, but he said nothing, his eyes flicking towards Mum.

My stomach tightened. There was something going on here. By now the house should have been echoing with shouts of ‘slut, promiscuous little fool, family disgrace, brought shame on us all’. The only conclusion I could draw was that Mum was still wearing the kid gloves she’d donned after Terry’s accident. I wasn’t convinced by this, though, and spent a second night dreading the day to follow.

‘Susan,’ Mum called through my bedroom door about ten the next morning. ‘Come into the lounge room. Your father and I want to discuss your situation.’ ‘Situation’ was the word my parents had assigned to the news.

They were sitting side by side on the sofa when I arrived, leaving me the overstuffed chair that faced them. I slumped into it, my body to one side, resting my weight on an elbow. I dared to look across at them, still certain it would turn hostile at any moment.

‘The baby is due in March,’ said Mum.

‘The nineteenth,’ I confirmed. We’d been over this yesterday.

‘The situation has to be faced. You are going to have a baby.’ This from Mum, also, as though she were measuring out her words by the ounce.

I didn’t interrupt. I knew there would be no drive down to Tweed Heads, no need for the hundreds of dollars I hadn’t yet raised. That was a relief of sorts, at least.

‘It’s terrible what’s happened to poor Terry and we don’t doubt that you loved him, and still do. The fact is, though, he can’t help you with this child. Instead, your father and I must step in, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. You’re our daughter and we love you – you shouldn’t doubt that for a minute. We’ll support you one hundred per cent.’

It all came out so neatly, a speech – no, a tutorial presentation that showed they’d already thought much further ahead than I had. Until I’d come home to find Mum waiting on the sofa, the ‘situation’ wasn’t going to exist much longer, so why would I have thought any further? Even last night, with the landscape changed dramatically, all I could think about was how my parents were taking the news. Their disapproval hadn’t materialised and now that was making me uneasy in itself. Mum was practically measuring me up for maternity clothes while we sat there.

‘I might give the baby up for adoption,’ I said solemnly.

‘No, no, darling –’ this time it was Dad who spoke up – ‘your baby will be our grandchild.’

That was the second time I’d heard them say ‘your baby’. It disturbed me, made it harder to concentrate.

‘A cousin for Diane’s little girl, a Kinnane. There’s no need for adoption. You and the baby will have everything you need, a home, a loving family to care for you both . . .’

Mum stayed mute while beside her Dad laid out how it would be, but it was in her face that I found the real story. I would raise the child myself, in this house.

No wonder there had been no tirades. Mum was quietly over the moon, and even though she hid behind her silence while Dad delivered the lines she’d primed him with, she couldn’t quite keep the delight from her face. Her wayward daughter would be tamed after all; I would be dependent on them, on her, for everything. The only money I’d have would come from them; when I left the house, Mum would want to know where I was going and when I’d be back, for the baby, of course.

While I tried to fight off these horrors, Dad canvassed my prospects as a woman. ‘There are plenty of blokes who’ll take on a wife when she’s already got a kiddie. Happens all the time these days. Got a fellow in the workshop now who’s just married a divorcee with two little ones.’

Divorcee
. I had joined the ranks of those my parents gave labels to, looked down upon, patronised. I was to be an Unmarried Mother whose loving parents were guiding her back to respectability, which meant that all the battles I’d fought over the past two years were null and void. I’d lost the war.

I stared, disbelieving, across the room at Mum’s magnanimous smile, and knew it was all she could do not to dance a victory jig around the room.

Days passed without interest or meaning. I became aware of the daily rhythms in our house that I had never noticed before – the regular phone calls, visitors at the door, Mum’s trips to do the shopping. That’s what you get when you mope about the place too much, I scolded myself when I realised what was happening, but without enough passion to feel guilty about it. Or to do anything differently. I was just grateful the morning sickness had eased. I’d let it debilitate me more than it should have and couldn’t muster any guilt over that, either. The house had been remarkably quiet concerning my ‘situation’, which had settled seamlessly into fact, and we were all simply getting on with it.

Then, a fortnight after my parents had laid out the future for me, Diane arrived with Rosanna perched comfortably on her hip and a lighthouse glow in her face. With the one-year-old playing happily on the carpet and a cup of tea in her hand, she said, ‘I’ve just come from the doctor’s. I’m having my second. In May. Our babies will be only months apart,’ she said, beaming at me. ‘We’ll pretty much be pregnant together, Suze.’

I hugged her and said all the right things.

‘Three grandchildren in two years,’ said Mum, as though it was all her own work. It damn well was!

I made an excuse and went up to the phone box to call Donna Redlich.

Donna had come to the hospital with me more than anyone else from uni, except Mike, of course. None of them had been close to Terry in the way I had, but they came to support me. Now I was discovering how even the steadiest of friendships fade when you don’t see people every day. Donna was frantic with exams and as gently as she could, put me off. I would have done the same, and with considerably less grace.

I called two more lapsed girlfriends and met with similar regrets; then I dialled Mike’s number.

He sounded weary as he asked how things were going with the baby. His sister, Jane, had suffered terribly from morning sickness, apparently.

‘Listen, Mike, what are you up to at the moment?’

‘I’m under three feet of notes. Haven’t seen daylight for a week. My last exam’s the day after tomorrow and that’s it for my arts degree. Just have the Dip. Ed. next year, then look out world.’

My weariness was lifting. I allowed myself to hope. ‘You wouldn’t be able to come round, would you? I’ve got to get out of this house before I go mad.’

Oh God, he was hesitating. ‘It’s that last exam, isn’t it?’ I sounded pathetic and hated myself for it.

‘Look, give me a few hours to get on top of this. Is after lunch okay?’

Mum hovered by the front door when the Cortina pulled up. I was about to assure her we’d only be an hour or two but stopped myself. That was what she wanted. I kept quiet, but there was no way to stop Joyce Kinnane from running an eye over Mike to see if she approved. The door swung back to reveal a young man in tailored shorts and brand new Dunlop Volleys, his hair washed that morning and shorter than last time I’d seen him, even if it did fall halfway to his shoulders. He was tall, like my brothers, whom Mum always stared up at with pride.

‘Hello, Mrs Kinnane,’ he said, with a tentative smile.

And Christ, Mum was smiling back at him and suddenly I wished he’d turned up hung-over and scratching at a three-day growth.

But if he had, Mum would have jacked up and then where would I have been? Shit, shit, shit! I was losing control of my life and the baby wasn’t even showing yet.

Mike held the gate aside for me then hurried across the footpath to open the car door. The chivalry was overdone, a signal, maybe, that he wasn’t thrilled to be hauled away from his books.

‘I’m sorry about this. You’ll still pass, won’t you?’

‘Pass! It’s Twentieth-century Poets, Sue. Eliot, Hughes, Larkin. I’m hoping for a high distinction.’

‘I’m sorry, Mike. I was desperate.’ Surprising myself, I reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

‘You can play me like a fish, Kinnane,’ he said, laughing. ‘All right, Larkin and the rest can wait. Do you want to visit Terry?’

‘No, I went last week and it was awful. I just sat there crying like his mother with all the other human wrecks around us. I don’t care where you take me, as long as I’m out of the house.’

Then I was crying again, as bitterly as I had on the night of the Tower Mill, and I didn’t care. ‘They’re manipulating me, the pair of them. Mum can’t get over herself. She waltzes around the place like the most forgiving, caring mother on the planet. If they loved me, they’d help me get on with my life, but she’s keeping me helpless. I’m scared, Mike, really scared that I’ll end up like Terry, with what I used to be lost somewhere inside me and gone forever.’

Mike listened, said nothing, a witness to my misery as he guided the car wherever he’d decided to take me.

‘McLean’s Bridge,’ he said, when I asked, and it instantly became just the right place. I knew it from childhood picnics, carefree games with Ritchie, and my dad in a playful mood. On Beaudesert Road I began to escape my self-pity while the warm breeze toyed with my hair.