So I’m nervous about sex, he told himself. Nothing unusual there. So I want the safety of closeness. So I want the no-fail-zone of love. It’s a start.
At the top of the sloping wooded hill, just where the path emerged through a broken gate onto the bare sheep-grazed summit, there stood a ruined barn. The barn had been built into the hillside, its back wall made of flints hammered into the chalky soil. Its other walls, once lapped boards, had rotted away, leaving the oak frame standing like a scaffold. The roof was entirely gone. At one end of this abandoned structure grew an ash tree, within the walls, its upcurved branches and gray-green leaves forming a second roof. Beneath this canopy the leaves of many autumns had blown in from the beech wood and heaped up against the one remaining wall, forming a soft and sheltered bed. Rich came here sometimes with his books and lay in the speckled light and read and dreamed.
Dusk was deepening to night as he reached the tree barn, and he could barely make out the burrow beneath the ash branches. Rich liked the sheltered darkness. He stayed for a while in the quietness, looking up at the rafters black against the fading sky. One day, he thought to himself, I’ll come here with Grace.
Later he wrote in his diary:
If being in love means thinking about someone all the time. If being in love means wanting their happiness more than you want your own. If being in love means wanting someone to know you as you truly are. Then I am in love with Grace. So here’s the big question. Could Grace ever be in love with me? Honest answer: unlikely. Even more honest answer: I only tell myself it won’t happen to protect myself from rejection. Final truth-drug answer: if Grace never loves me the rest of my life will be joyless, lonely, and futile.
Rich’s mother said to him at breakfast, “Don’t you know any nice girls who could help out at Gran’s party?”
“He knows Grace Carey,” said Kitty. “She’s a nice girl.”
Rich gave Kitty a death stare.
“Do you think she’d help us out? I suppose we could offer to pay.”
“Don’t be silly, Mum.”
Money was tight enough without paying friends what they should do out of friendship. Except Grace wasn’t exactly a friend.
“She could sing ‘Bushel and a Peck’ with Tiny Footsteps,” said Kitty.
“Oh, does she sing?”
“No, Mum. Kitty’s just being moronic as usual.”
However, the notion took root in Rich’s mind. He had to take a next step of some kind with Grace; something more than talking in break time, but less than an actual date. Why not ask her if she would help out at Gran’s eightieth birthday party? It would be public and unthreatening, not a date at all, but at the same time it was personal. She might think it would be fun.
Then again she might laugh in his face.
Here was the difficulty he faced in making any move that required an answer from Grace. The prospect of open rejection appalled him. He could picture so vividly the expression on her face as she tried to find a way to tell him he was living in dreamland. The thought of those moments before she spoke the words made his face flush and sweat break out on his brow. What he needed was a way to make his offer and receive her response indirectly.
He couldn’t ask Maddy Fisher to act as go-between again. He couldn’t text because he didn’t have a phone. But he could write Grace a letter.
The more he considered this idea, the more he liked it. No one wrote letters anymore. The very act of committing words to paper had an eccentric novelty. Grace would find it unusual but not incomprehensible. Then having read his letter she could reply to it by the same means, and if it was a rejection he could take the blow in the privacy of his own room.
So he sat down and wrote Grace a letter. It was a simple request for help, not an invitation.
My mother asked me if I knew any girls who’d be willing to help and I thought of you. It’ll be quite a strange party, with lots of tiny tots and lots of oldies, but I think it’ll be fun. I expect you’re busy that day—
this was to allow her a get-out—
but if not, maybe you’d like to come and lend a hand. It’s 1 p.m. next Saturday. Write me a note to say if you can do it or not.
Then he had a further idea. He drew out a second sheet of paper and headed it “Vatican City, Rome.”
Dear Miss Carey,
A big hello from the pope. I expect you’re wondering whether to go to Rich’s gran’s party. You’ve never met Rich’s gran. You hardly know Rich. So what? The earth may be destroyed by a meteorite tomorrow. Live now! Say yes to life! That’s how I got to be pope.
Yours infallibly,
Benedict XVI
Rich went to school the next day with both letters in a single envelope, and the envelope in his book bag. He saw Grace twice before lunch, both times at a distance, but his courage failed him. Then he came upon Maddy Fisher and her friend Cath Freeman, and tried out his idea on them, without saying who the letters were for.
“A letter from the pope?”
Maddy burst into laughter.
“You think the pope’s a mistake?” said Rich. “You think it would be better coming from the Archbishop of Canterbury? Or Bob Geldof?”
Cath now realized Rich was mocking himself. She started laughing along with Maddy.
Maddy said, “You are seriously strange.”
Cath said, “I’d love to get a letter like that.”
“You would?”
“God, yes. Mind you, I get excited when I get junk mail.”
“You get junk mail?” said Maddy.
“Well, no, actually. But my parents do. They bin it, but I take it out and open it. Is that sad or what?”
“It’s sad, Cath.”
Rich felt encouraged.
“So we vote I deliver the letters?”
Maddy hesitated. She knew who the letters were for.
“She might not get it quite the way we do.”
“If whoever it’s for doesn’t get it,” said Cath, “she doesn’t deserve it.”
“She might just think you’re crackers.”
“I don’t mind being crackers,” said Rich. “I just don’t want to be pathetic.”
“No, it’s not pathetic. Sending someone a letter from the pope isn’t pathetic at all.”
Maddy started laughing again, and that set Cath off. Rich was gratified.
All at once he realized that Grace herself was approaching them.
“What’s the big joke?” Grace said.
Maddy and Cath fell silent and looked at Rich. Rich went pink in the face. A ringing sound filled his ears. He took the envelope from his bag, pushed it into Grace’s surprised hands, and turned and walked away. He didn’t run, but only by a supreme effort of will.
He went to the English classroom, expecting to find it empty, wanting to be alone. He was shivering all over.
Mr. Pico was sitting at the teacher’s desk.
He looked up as Rich entered. For a fraction of a second Rich caught on his face a look of blank desolation. Then he removed his glasses and wiped them. When he put them back on his usual ironic manner had returned.
“Can you be hungry for more learning, Rich?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. I thought the classroom would be empty.”
“And so it is.” He rose and packed up his books. “I’m on my way. As no doubt you know, it’s a school rule that a member of staff must never be alone in a room with a student.”
“No,” said Rich. “I didn’t know that.”
“Adults can no longer be trusted with children. The modern child has no concept of self-restraint.”
So speaking, he left.
Rich sat down at his desk, opened his copy of The Tempest, and pretended to study. He tried not to think of Grace reading his letter, and thought of nothing else. He felt the shivering deep in his stomach and a dryness in his mouth.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he told himself.
But the others had laughed. If Grace laughed it would be all right. She might laugh
.
Please laugh, Grace.
14
Maddy sees the doctor
“Hey, guess what, Joe?” Maddy said to Joe Finnigan, adopting a light and casual tone of voice. “Your brother’s going out with my sister.”
“Since when?”
“Well, maybe not quite going out. But they talked on the phone for ages last night.”
“Tell her not to trust him one inch,” said Joe. “Leo’s a bad boy.”
Maddy and Joe and Grace were gathered in the dance studio waiting to begin the rehearsal. Mr. Pico was late. All the cast were present, but for once there was no sign of Gemma.
“What happened to Gemma?” said Grace.
“Hospital,” said Joe. “She’ll be off for a couple of days.”
“Poor Gemma,” said Maddy. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
Joe met Maddy’s eyes.
“Very minor,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
To Maddy it was as if he was saying: We’ll be fine.
“That’s all right then,” she said.
A small boy appeared at the door, out of breath. He’d been sent with a message from the staff room. Mr. Pico couldn’t come. The rehearsal was cancelled.
Maddy moved slowly as the group dispersed, half expecting that Joe would hang back too. But he called out, “Gotta go!” and went loping off.
Maddy walked back to the Sixth Form Center with Grace.
“So what do you think’s up with Gemma?” said Grace.
“I’ve no idea,” said Maddy.
“Joe dodged telling. Did you notice?”
“I suppose he did.”
“So what’s this about Leo and your sister?”
“It’s true. They met at some thing in Norfolk.”
“Well, there you are, then.” A spiteful edge entered Grace’s voice. “Imo and Leo. You and Joe. You could have a double wedding.”
At the end of the school day Maddy parted from her friends as usual outside the station and set off home along the river path. Once out of sight she moved more slowly, and finally sat down on a riverside bench. She had time to kill. In just under an hour she had an appointment at the health center.
Now that the appointment was near she found herself looking back wistfully over the last few days. She realized she had loved the secrecy, the wordlessness, the exchanged looks, the emails waiting when she got home. Now, although nothing had changed with Joe, she sensed that the first innocent phase was coming to an end. Gemma was away. Joe would be free now to speak openly. And after the appointment with the doctor a whole new world of possibility would open up.
Maddy was not looking forward to her appointment. She felt shy of talking about personal matters, and squeamish about the physical details. Also she couldn’t help feeling superstitious about it. Up to now she had had no need for contraception. It had seemed to her that going on the pill would be like dressing up for a party to which she hadn’t been invited. She didn’t like the way it made sex into a premeditated act. She wanted it to be sudden and close, so close that you felt it but never quite saw it. She wanted it to sweep over her like a summer storm, leaving her giddy and breathless: an act without self-awareness, without distance. It had to be wild and liberating or it would be ridiculous.
She watched the swans circling on the river. Swans were supposed to mate for life. Animals didn’t need contraception, they just multiplied. There’d been a woman on TV recently who’d had fourteen children. Such a long way from Amy-the-bunny. Sex wasn’t one thing at all, it came at you in so many forms. It was pornography, and it was childbirth, and it was love.
Maybe taking the pill will clear up my spots.
She rose at last from the bench and walked slowly down the river path back into town. What if she met someone she knew in the health center? Better have a cover story. A rash on her back, nothing too serious, only sensible to have it looked at. Very minor.
That’s what Joe had said about Gemma’s visit to the hospital: very minor.
The shabby red-brick-and-glass facade of the health center was now before her. Odd how the new buildings always ended up looking more worn out than the old buildings. A plaque on the wall said it had been opened by Princess Michael of Kent in 1977. Over thirty years ago. The parade of shops beside it was Victorian, and ageing with pride.
A friend of her mother’s came up the pavement towards her, carrying a bulging Tesco bag.
“Hello, Maddy. Out shopping?”
“Just waiting for a friend,” said Maddy, blushing.
“How’s school?”
“Not so bad.”
“Tell your mum I’ll give her a call. I haven’t seen her for ages.”
She went on her way. Maddy looked up and down the street, checking for any other witnesses. Then she dived through the glass doors.
She was early. The receptionist took her name and told her to take a seat. She sat down alongside half a dozen others, none of whom she knew. She picked up a magazine and turned the pages inattentively. Then she started reading the notices on the facing wall. “We welcome breastfeeding on the premises,” said one. Another showed a baby in sunglasses with a speech bubble saying, “Keep it real, Mum! Real nappies are cool.” There were advertisements for baby massage and for Tiny Tiddlers Swim School. She heard a soft wail, and looking round she saw a young mother behind her with a baby on her lap. The young mother smiled, evidently believing that she and Maddy were sisters-in-arms, women braving the medical establishment together.
Maddy felt like a fraud. Everyone else was here to sustain life. She alone was here to thwart life, to trick her body into an unnatural infertility.
The baby started to cry. The mother’s smile faded, to be replaced with a look of weariness.
Not yet, thought Maddy. I’m only seventeen. Plenty of time for babies.
The thought of having a baby terrified her. It seemed to Maddy to be some kind of cosmic joke, the way that sex, the ultimate party game, was booby-trapped with babies, the ultimate killer of all social life. Not that she was much of a party girl. She just felt that she deserved a few more years with herself at the center of her own attention before she turned into a mother.
“Madeleine Fisher, Room Three, please.”
Her name sounded alien in its full form. She felt her heart start to pound. She went down the passage to Room Three. When had she last been here? It must have been spring half term when she had that cough she couldn’t shake.
“Come on in, Maddy. Take a chair.”
The door closed behind her, pulled by a strong spring. Dr. Hilary Ransom beamed across her desk, her mass of white curls bouncing about her plump red face. She must have been well over fifty, but she sported the jovial manner of a schoolgirl.
“How’s Maddy today?”
Maddy found herself quite unable to say why she had come. Somehow in this white-walled room, under the motherly gaze of this large-bosomed woman, it seemed indecent to speak of contraception.
“You’re looking well enough, I must say. Is it a personal matter?”
“Yes,” said Maddy. She could feel herself digging her fingernails into her palms.
“Well, let’s see. What could it be? Whatever it is, it’s all in confidence. Nobody else needs to know. But we must get on, you know.”
She laughed cheerily to make up for speaking of time pressures.
Maddy looked down at her hands.
“It’s about the pill,” she said to her hands. “I thought maybe I should be thinking about it.”
Dr. Ransom seemed quite unsurprised.
“The pill. Right-ho. I’d begun to think you’d come to tell me you were pregnant.”
She started tapping at her computer.
“Let’s run through a few quick questions.”
She asked Maddy if she smoked or had any serious illnesses or any history of family illnesses. She asked about her periods. Then in the same breezy tone she asked Maddy what she knew of her partner’s sexual history.
“It
’s more that I’m thinking ahead, really,” said Maddy, feeling like a fraud. “I don’t exactly have a partner. Not yet.”
“Thinking ahead. Smart girl. So I suppose you know all about STIs.”
“Yes.”
Maddy thought back to school talks on sexually transmitted infections. There were so many of them. Yes, she knew all about STIs, but what were you supposed to do? Ask a boy in mid-embrace if he was a source of infection? Some people had diseases without even knowing it, apparently. The statistics were scary: a huge percentage of teenagers had chlamydia and herpes and genital warts. They would all end up infertile. And yet somehow life went on. It was like smoking. Smoking killed you, but no one you ever knew actually died.
“Safer to use a condom if you’re not sure.”
“Yes.”
“The pill’s no use against STIs.”
Again Dr. Ransom laughed, making her bosom heave up and down.
“Coat off. Let’s check your blood pressure.”
Maddy felt the rubber sleeve squeeze her arm.
“No problems there.” The doctor returned to her desk. “Right. Let’s see, shall we? What’s likely to be the best one for you?” She studied her screen, scanning data. “Different pills suit different people. It’s all very personal. We’ll start you out on one and see how you go. Sound good?”
“Yes,” said Maddy.
“Side effects. I should bring you up to speed on side effects. Here we are. Mood swings, weight gain, breast tenderness, nausea, headaches.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t mean you’ll get them all at once, of course.” Another jolly laugh. “Or any of them ever, for that matter. But if you do, we can try something else.”
“Are there any with no side effects?”
Dr. Ransom gazed at her with a look of maternal affection.
“No, my love. But it’s usually nothing to worry about.”
She printed out a prescription and signed it and laid it on her desk surface between them, keeping her hand on it.
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