Trio (28 page)

‘Bloody hell!’ said Ruth.

‘It must be awful,’ Letty said, ‘having a baby and giving it up.’

‘What else can you do?’ said Rita.

Theresa winced. It was only a week since SPUC had brought their gruesome slide show into school and the Third Form had been forced to look at pictures of embryos and foetuses and babies and basins of blood accompanied by a savage commentary. Afterwards Father McEvoy had made an impassioned plea to the girls to stand up for Jesus and fight the wholesale slaughter of the innocents. There would be a LIFE rally in London, they were all enjoined to come and save the babies.

‘If I got pregnant I’d keep it,’ Ruth said.

‘It’s easier nowadays,’ Rita said.

‘I don’t think abortion’s always wrong,’ said Letty.

‘God!’ Ruth shuddered. ‘How can you say that?’

‘It’s got to be up to the person who’s having it.’

‘That’s like saying murder’s up to the person doing it,’ Theresa said.

‘It isn’t.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Keep your legs crossed,’ said Rita. ‘Just don’t let them go all the way.’

‘You can get the Pill from the doctor,’ Theresa said.

‘Clinic’s better, that Brook place. Our Lucy goes there. They don’t know your Mum and Dad like the doctor does,’ said Letty.

Theresa finished her fag. Ground it out on the side of the wastepaper bin.

‘If you had a baby though, it’s your whole life gone, isn’t it?’ Letty said.

The bell for the end of break rang and the girls got to their feet.

‘I’d never have an abortion,’ Ruth repeated, bending over to stub her cigarette out. ‘No way.’

‘I’d never have a baby adopted,’ Theresa said vehemently, her chocolate eyes flashing. And the declaration astonished her even more than her friends. Adoption had been fine for her, and her brothers. Why had she said that? She felt unsettled for the rest of the day.

Kay

The glaze is beautiful,’ Faith said.

‘You were right to use the deeper blue,’ the pottery teacher told Kay. ‘It’s perfect for the red clay.’

Kay placed the large bowl on the work bench at the side of the kiln. It would look lovely filled with fruit and would give her something to talk about the next time she had to make conversation with more of Adam’s business wives. The agency were involved in a takeover bid; if it was successful they’d be selling property throughout most of Lancashire. The expansion would mean more functions, more dinners. Thinking of Adam brought the familiar twist of anxiety to her stomach. Was she imagining it all again? It wasn’t as if she’d caught him out. She shuddered at the memory. The sight of Joanna and Adam naked together was frozen in her mind, etched indelibly even after seven years.

But this time there was no evidence. No lipstick on his collar or perfume on his skin. No unexplained bills. Nothing except an air of distraction and the fact that he had been attentive. He brought her flowers, told her he loved her after they made love. He never did that, not usually.

She wrapped the bowl in newspaper to protect it on the way home. It was the final class of the year. She’d come back again in the autumn. She had the knack. Faith wasn’t so sure. ‘I might try French. I could still give you a lift, it’s on Wednesdays as well.’ Kay didn’t drive, had never learnt, but Faith did. Faith was working now, teaching, and her mother looked after the children on a Wednesday night. Mick never saw them. The divorce had been acrimonious and costly.

Kay held the bowl on her lap in the car. When Faith drew up outside the house, Kay turned to thank her.

‘I think Adam’s having an affair.’ The words came out in a rush.

Faith looked shocked. She turned the engine off. ‘Oh, Kay!’

‘It’s just a feeling, I’ve no proof. I don’t know whether to say anything to him or not.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Faith looked at her, considering. ‘If you’re not sure . . . I mean, Adam’s never done anything like this before, has he?

‘Once,’ Kay said. ‘A few years ago.’ She didn’t elaborate.

‘You never said anything.’

There was an awkward pause. Kay imagined Faith feeling hurt that Kay hadn’t told her about it.

‘I didn’t tell anyone. It was a long time ago.’ Implying it was before they met.

‘What if you’re wrong?’

‘You think I should wait and see?’

‘There are places aren’t there, private investigators.’

‘Oh, God! I couldn’t do that.’ She saw some seedy type in an old coat trailing after Adam, spying on him, taking horrid photos. ‘You’re probably right, I’d look a real idiot if I was wrong. It would be awful.’

But the feeling of unease wouldn’t leave her, and suspicion made everything between herself and Adam seem shallow and false. She kept up the act for a further two weeks but the gnawing in her stomach grew stronger and she had vivid dreams where she came upon Adam with someone in their own bed and he laughed and pointed at the door and then he resumed having sex, his buttocks moving furiously, the woman beneath him obscured from view.

On the Saturday night they went to dinner with Adam’s partner and his wife and another couple from the chamber of commerce. It was a pleasant enough evening but she couldn’t relax. She thought about the tablets. She hadn’t had them for eighteen months but at times like these she missed their numbing effects and began to feel edgy and anxious. It had been hell coming off them and staying off them and she’d no wish to go through it again. There were cases in the papers all the time, women who were addicted. Kay ate little of the meal and drank too much. She was able to disguise her inebriation because she was aware of it. She thought before speaking and was careful not to slur her words or knock her glass over.

When they got home Adam asked her if she wanted a nightcap. She accepted and watched him pour a Drambuie for her, a brandy for himself. He seemed at ease and when she spoke she watched him avidly for any sign of guilt or embarrassment.

‘Are you having an affair, Adam?’

What she saw was shock, his face jerked as through he’d been slapped, his pale-blue eyes widened and then he looked wounded. ‘No! Christ, Kay, why do you think that?’

‘You’ve been preoccupied. And the flowers. You never buy flowers.’

He looked at her open-mouthed. ‘I buy you flowers and you accuse me of having an affair?’ he said incredulously.

‘I didn’t accuse you. I asked you. Maybe I need reassurance. After all, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, is it? Look at last time.’

She saw his cheek twitch. They never referred to his fling with Joanna. He hated the reminder. He walked over to her and took her hand. ‘I’m not having an affair.’ He held her eyes with his, his pupils large, swamping the blue. ‘Everything I want, everything I need, is here under this roof. I learnt my lesson, Kay.’

‘I had to ask.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I’ve been going up the wall. I’m sorry.’

He shook his head and pulled her to him. Held her by the nape of the neck. Kissed her. She let him. Catching hold of the relief that his denial brought and trying to quieten the whispering doubts that still clung to her.

Caroline

She marked each birthday. A little ritual that no one knew about. That in itself hadn’t been easy with a business to run and a young family, but she had no qualms about inventing a trip to town, a meeting with a potential supplier or even, one year, a hospital appointment to account for her absence. She would find a quiet place, somewhere tranquil, usually where there was water and stones and trees. The first years after her marriage it had been the gorge where the Avon flowed and when they moved again she had found this place on one of her walks. Farsands Cove. Tiny, virtually inaccessible apart from a steep scramble down red-mud cliffs and through a stand of conifers. But once reached it had been her sanctuary.

She found herself a spot among the rocks. The tide was well out and the fresh wind had dried the beach. She sat down, rubbed her palms in the sand, picked up handfuls and let it trickle from her knuckles.

The ritual was simple. She would recall her time at St Ann’s. She would try to remember as much as she could: the imposing building with its towers and gargoyles, doing the laundry, the perishing-cold bedroom she shared, the garden and the hours she spent bundled up on a bench. The other girls: Megan, who had been so lively and generous; Joan, who had been older but still in the same terrible situation. Did they ever think back? Remember her? She recalled the corner of the garden where she sat. The shawl she had brought. What else? Grandma dying and not being there for the funeral. Megan knitting. Porridge for breakfast. Her labour. The details still more clear to her than those of the boys’. And then it had changed.

The baby had become the centre of her life. Changing and feeding her. Holding her. Falling in love with her.

‘A very good family,’ Sister Monica had said. Caroline had nodded. Thinking, And I am not. Not good. Not family. What am I then? Nothing.

The worst part to remember was the night she had tried to rescue Theresa. She couldn’t just give her up like all the others: it was wrong to let her go. She loved her so. Caroline would talk to her and she would listen, really listen, her tiny face running through all these different expressions. She was so beautiful. A shock of dark hair, eyes like pools in the night. She loved the smell of her, she would sit breathing in the scent from her skin, feeling the weight of her in her arms. My lovely, lovely girl.

They hadn’t told Caroline what day the baby would be taken but her cot was next to the door in the nursery now. She would be next. Caroline had lain awake that night, her eyes hard and dry, her heart heavy and an awful pain in her stomach. It was wrong. She wouldn’t let them do it. She had slipped out of bed and opened the wardrobe. Wincing when it creaked. But no one woke. She pulled on a dress and coat, found her shoes and the bag she had ready with her few possessions.

She tiptoed across the hall to the nursery, where Sister Vincent and one of the girls were meant to be watching over the babies. She couldn’t see Sister Vincent but Deirdre was curled up on the truckle bed, out for the count. It was cool and Caroline was shivering but she could feel sweat sliding down the sides of her chest. Her heart was thumping in her throat. She went into the nursery and bent over the cot. She felt the familiar rush of affection, a dizzy sort of joy at seeing her little girl again. Quietly she pulled aside the blankets and lifted up the child, holding her against her left shoulder. She pulled the shawl from the bed and wrapped it around the baby’s back. She walked out and down the passage to the front door, thinking at the same time that it would be a long time till the first bus. The first bus to anywhere.

The door was locked and she couldn’t see the key. Her hands were shaking, she looked on the little table in the hall but there was nothing there. She could go out the back, then.

She turned and the snap of lights flooded the hallway, making her jump. Sister Vincent came towards her, her face hard. ‘Caroline.’

She felt her eyes flood with tears, her cheeks slither, the shaking spread to her ribs and her thighs. ‘Sister, I can’t! I can’t, I won’t!’ She buried her face in the baby’s neck. Soft skin, silky hair. The smell of milk and powder. She cupped her hand over the small skull, felt the pulse beating through the fontanels, used her thumb to stroke the small nub of Theresa’s left ear. ‘Please?’ she begged. ‘She’s my baby.’ She turned but her way was blocked again.

Then there were more footsteps and lights and orders whispered and they took her into Sister Monica’s office and she was shaking her head and begging them and they pulled the child from her arms.

She didn't see her again.

There was little to remember after that. A blur of pain and misery so she could barely swallow or talk. A stone inside her.

She thought about her baby every day. And once a year she came here to remember and to weep and to pray that one day the child would seek her out and she could begin to make amends. She would be fifteen years old today, practically grown up. Did she ever think of Caroline? Did she know she even existed?

She watched the sea suck and sigh through her salty eyes, blew her nose on one of the handkerchiefs she had brought. She prayed to the earth and the high, pewter sky and the wind to bring her daughter back. Then she walked the cove, searching for a small stone, a pebble or a shell. She would know the right one when she held it. This time she found a small, smooth, oval-shaped pebble, dark-grey with lines of white terraced through it. She held it and it fitted her palm. She would take it home and put it in her special box along with the fourteen others she had. Her only mementos.