The Girls from Greenway

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘You said it was for business.’

  ‘Well, it was. It was for the business of divorce. You know, they have to catch you with someone.’

  ‘I thought that’s only what . . . sleazy people did.’

  ‘Oh, come on, babe. It’s what you have to do.’

  She put her head on one side and looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘Anyway.’ He took the papers from her and folded them back into the envelope. ‘Six weeks from now I’ll be a free man.’

  ‘Six weeks,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Yup! And now . . .’ He stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the shop. Are we OK?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going up to London, to enjoy the last few days of my job.’

  ‘Well, here’s a tenner,’ he said, pulling out his roll of notes. ‘Buy yourself a nice sandwich for dinner.’

  Outside the Saracen’s he kissed her on the top of the head and walked off towards the boutique. Slowly she walked past the Shire Hall and along Duke Street to the railway station. There was a lot to think about. She felt so tired. This had all been so emotional. She couldn’t bear to think about him and Doreen. But he was almost divorced. He’d shown her the papers. This could be the start of something new. But could she ever trust him again? Should she?

  CHAPTER 29

  DOREEN WAS LYING ON HER BED, staring at the ceiling. She’d been lying here for an hour. She still had her coat and shoes on. Her lipstick had worn off. She knew she looked a wreck.

  The house was empty which was something. I should get up and start making the tea, not lying here like a wet weekend, she thought. I should pull myself together.

  Now, when she needed someone to talk to, she was alone. Usually, Angie was the first person she would tell. But she and Angie hadn’t spoken for days. And she certainly couldn’t tell Mum. She couldn’t do it to her. Mum was on the edge of a nervous breakdown herself worrying about Dad and the debt they were all in. And she would go mad, shout at Doreen, tell her what a fool she’d been. Doreen couldn’t bear that at the moment. She couldn’t even tell Janice because she was the biggest gossip in the world. And this was such a huge, terrible secret. No, there was no one. She was going to have to deal with this on her own. She was so scared.

  An unmarried mother, that’s what she would be, forever known by that name, whatever else she achieved in her life. An unmarried mother, a slut, a sex-mad tart who couldn’t keep her legs together. She’d got what she paid for. She could hear them now, people in the shop, people on the bus, looking at her and murmuring behind their hands. It would be awful. She saw herself, walking round the Crescent, smiling at people, saying hello and what would they be thinking? She could almost hear the curtains twitching as people looked out and turned back into their front room, saying, ‘Well she got what she deserved. Showing her knees, driving that car, laughing so loud.’ She couldn’t bear it. She turned over and buried her head in the pillow. She had never felt so alone in all her life.

  She had a bun in the oven, they would say. She was in the family way. The next thing they’d say is, she had to get married. Was that it? Was that what she could hope for? To get married to the father? Of course there wouldn’t be a word said against the father. He might be expected to do the decent thing, to help her out, to walk her down the aisle to hide her shame. But otherwise, it was all on her shoulders. She was the one who had to sort it out.

  Well, guess what! she shouted silently to her invisible critics, the father’s married already, so there! A tear trickled onto the pillow. She turned onto her side and pulled her knees up to her stomach. How far gone was she? Two months, she reckoned, working backwards. Another seven months of this worry, guilt, shame, in the middle of this big ocean of debt that the family was drowning in. All the debts she had, mounting up, week by week. How could she hope to pay them off? Her job wasn’t safe. She couldn’t stay at Bolingbroke’s much longer, selling wedding dresses in her condition. And she was sure they wouldn’t let her have her job back afterwards. An unmarried mother selling wedding dresses to virgin brides! She was sobbing now. She loved her job at Bolingbroke’s. She didn’t want to leave it. But she’d been sick every day for a week. The first time it happened she’d hoped it was just something she’d eaten or a touch of flu. But no. She was pregnant. Just this morning she’d had to rush away from a client, dashing to get to the toilet, to throw up.

  No job, no money. She couldn’t bring up a kid on fresh air. And even if she got a job, if she was out working all day, how was she going to look after it? Being an unmarried mother might have been possible when they had money, but not now.

  Well, there’s only one thing for it, she thought. She would just have to get rid of it and then they could all get on with their lives, like it never happened. She’d been trying already. She’d drunk what felt like ten gallons of gin. She’d done a lot of jumping, and last night she rolled down the stairs when everyone was watching Emergency Ward 10. But of course, it didn’t work. She was still pregnant.

  She had to do something and do it soon. It wouldn’t be long before Mum guessed. A bit thicker round the tummy, not able to fit into her tight skirts, not wanting to eat sardines on toast any more, her favourite thing for tea. Doreen heaved just thinking about sardines.

  She shivered. She was cold. She pulled the eiderdown round her. She rocked from side to side. What was she going to do? Get an abortion? It was illegal, everyone knew that, and it was dangerous. She’d heard the stories. Sad women, going into someone’s dirty basement where knitting needles and washing-up liquid sat in a dirty bowl. Women died, she knew that, bleeding to death on their own, or butchered inside so badly they could never have children. It was terrifying. She curled into a ball. Anyway, she hadn’t a clue how to go about getting an abortion.

  Of course, the one person who might know was the person she didn’t want to talk to ever again.

  Perhaps she should just go to Australia and be done with it, start a new life there, say she was a widow, buy a wedding ring from Woolworths, think up some tragic way her husband had died, be a new, different person, leave this horrible steaming mess behind. But was that what she wanted from her life?

  She let out a deep sigh. What were her options? Should she tell him? Should she tell Gene that he was the father of her child? What would he say? And apart from the fact that he was already married, did she want to be tied to him with all his charming philandering ways for the rest of her life? And oh God, what would Angie say? It was bad enough now when Angie thought all they’d done was have a couple of drinks in the Fleece. It would destroy her. Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse – she’d lost her dad, lost all the money he’d promised and along with that she’d lost all her dreams, the lovely job she’d started.

  She stared up at the ceiling again. A tear ran from the corner of her eye. What did she want? What did she really want? A baby? Her job? A husband? A life in Australia? An abortion? She didn’t know. And there was no one to talk to.

  It was all too much, Doreen thought. She needed to be outside, breathe in some fresh air. Take a walk, clear her head.

  She walked down Sperry Drive and along the Main Road. As she passed the Parade, someone shouted, ‘Cheer up! It may never happen.’

  ‘It already has,’ she called back, dully. She wondered if she should look for the nearest river. She wondered where it was. London Road? The High Street? It was all so public. The rec? She walked along Broomfield Road, occasionally shaking her head, kicking at stones, swearing to herself.

  A car stopped on the other side of the road. It was black, shiny and smooth and looked foreign. The driver rolled down his window. ‘Hallo, my darling.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Charlie Drake,’ she said. It was the comedian’s catchphrase. Of all people, it was Gene. Her stomach gave a small flip. Was this a sign? Should she tell him? Oh, Angie would never forgive her, but if Gene was about to be a fat
her . . .

  Carelessly she walked across the road and a passing car hooted. She stuck up two fingers. She went round to the passenger side and Gene leaned across the seat and opened the door. She slid into the car. It was comfortable and warm.

  ‘What are you doing out on a fine evening like this?’ he said.

  ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  ‘I’m giving the new motor a run. I just bought it. In Braintree. Welcome to my gin palace.’

  ‘I could do with a gin. And then another one.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. He turned into Fourth Avenue, made a big show of reversing the car into a driveway, and drove back out onto the main road, in the direction of the estate.

  ‘Where are we going? I’m not going home.’

  ‘I found a nice little pub right out in the country recently,’ he said, turning into Patching Hall Lane. He crashed a gear. ‘Sorry, just getting used to the car.’

  They sat in silence and Gene concentrated on driving. Doreen watched him, a half-smile on her face. She was better at driving than he was. She shook her head. She couldn’t decide whether or not to tell him.

  ‘You OK?’ Gene glanced across at her. ‘You look like death warmed up.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. I’ve just had a bad day.’

  ‘You should have come into the shop,’ he said. ‘I’d have cheered you up.’

  ‘That’s not what we do anymore, is it? Where are we going?’

  ‘The Pig and Whistle.’

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be seeing Angie tonight?’ Doreen asked.

  ‘Yes, but not till later. We’ve got time for a drink.’

  She settled into the seat. She felt easy with him. That and the warmth of the car made her feel comfortable, comforted. She stretched her legs and let her sandals fall from her feet. ‘Actually, I don’t care where we go. I’ll just sit here and you can go where you like.’

  ‘Promises promises,’ he said.

  Doreen sighed. ‘Oh, don’t start that again.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Wake me up when we get there. Mine’s a triple gin.’ The engine of the car purred smoothly. The shadow of the trees flickered on her eyelids. Her thoughts drifted. If she went to sleep here, perhaps she wouldn’t need to wake up. She shook her head. Tears pricked her eyes. Her hands crept protectively of their own accord across her belly. She didn’t know what to think. How could she get rid of it? Was that what she wanted? But how would she even go about it? You could hardly go into a shop and ask for an abortion. It was illegal. You couldn’t even go to the doctor. But people knew people. She’d heard Mrs Evans knew people. But wouldn’t it be dangerous? She was sure it would hurt. What if it went wrong and didn’t work but something happened to the kid? Oh, let this journey go on and on. And what about Gene? What would he think, if she told him, what would he say?

  There was a crunch of gravel and the engine stopped abruptly. ‘Right we’re here.’ Gene was leaning over the seat, grabbing his jacket from the back of the car. ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.’

  ‘Was I asleep?’ But he was out of the car, looking at the tyres. As if he knows what he’s looking for, she thought. She slipped her feet back into her sandals and swivelled out of the car. She rubbed her finger under her eyes to wipe away any smudged mascara and blew her nose.

  ‘All right?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll live. Unfortunately.’

  ‘God, we’d better get that gin down you.’ He put his arm loosely round her shoulders and she felt a pang of something she thought had gone. He guided her towards a jumble of shed-like buildings with a low roof. He opened the latch on a small door and they stepped into a room filled with dark wooden furniture and peach coloured lights and the comforting sound of ordinary people having ordinary conversations.

  He brought the drinks over to the table and sat down beside her. He looked at her. ‘Go on then.’

  She blinked. ‘My dad’s left home.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘With all the money we thought we were going to have.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My mum still wants to go to Australia.’

  ‘I think I’d heard that too.’

  ‘Nothing’s definite,’ she said.

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know. Angie doesn’t want to go.’

  ‘So I understand. It’s funny because I’ve thought about going myself now and again.’

  ‘Australia? You?’

  ‘Yeah. You know – new start, new opportunities. I could take fashion to parts of the world that are starving for it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She toyed with her glass.

  ‘But, as awful as all this is, none of it’s new. Why is everything so terrible today?’

  She looked at his face. Remembered why she’d liked him, loved him even. He had made her whole body quiver with desire, he’d made her melt, he’d made her feel wonderful. She could feel tears in her eyes. ‘Oh. I might as well tell you.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Good God.’

  His expression made her laugh and kept her from saying it was his. ‘You’ve gone all white. Don’t worry – it’s not about you. You’re not the problem.’

  ‘But am I the father?’ He took a mouthful of beer. ‘I think I’ve aged ten years in the last ten seconds. What do you mean I’m not the problem?’

  She took a breath and made a decision, ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  He put his glass on the table. He smiled. ‘That’s a shame. Any child we made together would be brilliant and beautiful.’

  And there was the smooth Gene she knew. Charming, urbane, back in control. ‘D’you reckon?’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘So?’

  ‘So, what? I’m just telling you. That’s why today is a rubbish day. That and being sick all over the place.’

  ‘Who is the father?’

  ‘It’s no one you know.’

  ‘I should hope not. I’d have to kill him.’

  She wanted to tell him, Of course it’s yours, what kind of tart do you take me for? but she couldn’t. He didn’t belong to her. She couldn’t do it to Angie – not that he belonged to Angie really, but she couldn’t do it. This was her problem and hers alone. And she was alone. She looked at Gene.

  ‘Oh Reen,’ he said softly.

  ‘Don’t.’ She scrabbled in her bag. ‘Don’t be nice. I’ll just cry and . . . where’s my bloody hanky?’

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here.’

  She took it and dabbed at her eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

  ‘Have you told your mum?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She hiccupped.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I don’t know, I don’t know!’

  ‘Have a drink.’ He pushed her glass towards her.

  ‘Gin hasn’t helped so far.’ She took a sip. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’

  ‘Just take a breath. Calm down.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ she hissed. She twisted the handkerchief in her hands.

  ‘OK, OK.’ He held his hands up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit on edge. Look, can you help me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He moved closer and put his arm round her, and it was just easy to put her head on his shoulder, and reach up and hold the lapel of his jacket.

  He looked down and kissed the top of her head. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  She couldn’t speak, there was a lump the size of the iceberg that sank the Titanic in her throat. Maybe she should tell him.

  ‘Do you want me to marry you?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Gene.’

  ‘Don’t make up your mind, straightaway. Think about it. Now, I’ve just got to make a phone call.’

  Doreen watched him as he walked up to the bar to ask where there was a payphone. She watched him walk back out to the small vestibule. She thought about what he’d said. It wasn’t t
he most elegant of marriage proposals, but it would certainly be one way out of the problem. Get married. Give the kid Gene’s name. Be a family. Start a new life. They could go to Australia together. They’d certainly have to go somewhere to get away from the wrath and grief of Angie. Angie would probably never speak to her again. Could she live with that? And marriage, that was a bit final. The next fifty years, living with Gene, forsaking all others. Well, Gene certainly wouldn’t do much forsaking, she knew enough about him to know that. Take tonight, he was meant to be with Angie. She’d be wondering where he was. Now he was on the phone, making up excuses. That could be her, in five, ten years’ time. She didn’t want that. She’d rather have Angie, she realised, than Gene.

  *

  Angie was getting ready to go out. She had decided to wear her green dress. It was the most complicated dress she had made and she liked it. And so did Gene. And now she had black shoes to go with it. She was clipping on the charm bracelet when the phone rang.

  She threw a glance at her reflection. She smoothed her dress and smiled. She was pleased at what she saw. She ran downstairs and picked up the phone.

  It was Gene. ‘Hallo, babe,’ he said.

  ‘Hallo? Why are you ringing? I’m going to see you in a few minutes.’

  ‘Well that’s the problem, sweet pea. I’m a bit held up.’

  She heard the sound of laughing and clinking glasses. ‘Why? Where are you?’ Suddenly the sound stopped.

  ‘I – I’m in the pub.’

  ‘What pub? Where? I can come and meet you, can’t I?’

  ‘It’s business, honey.’

  ‘Well it can’t go on all night, can it?’

  There was the sound of laughter again, as if a door had opened in the pub.

  ‘No, but I’m out in the country. You couldn’t get here.’

  ‘Out of the country? Where are you?’ She had a sick feeling in her stomach.

  ‘In the country. Just the country, Chignal way, I think.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘I told you. It’s . . . it’s business.’

  ‘Business,’ she said. ‘It’s not more divorce business, is it?’