Fran began to unpack as Kerry added mousse and then backcombed her hazel hair for more volume. She applied lip liner to a mouth far too sensual for a fifteen-year-old and clipped pink, spiral earrings on to her lobes. Fran worried about those earrings – one wrong turn and your throat was cut.
‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’ she asked again.
‘Nah, see you later, alligator.’
‘In a while, crocodile,’ Kerry replied in what had fast become a ritual.
Fran braced herself for the slamming of the door. Kerry didn’t do anything quietly. She settled herself cross-legged on her bed with her biology material and remembered that Alicia had told her to ring the moment she arrived. Was it some latent concern for her safety? Fran doubted it. I’ll let her wait a while, she decided, and continued to read the sections that she’d marked, chewing the end of her pencil.
What was Kerry doing? she wondered. Kissing boys, more perhaps? Was she being held, hugged? Fran recalled an incident when she was about seven. She’d run across the gravel drive, full of excitement about the ponies Mr Thomas had taken her to see. She fell, grazing her knee, causing a gravel rash. As what felt like hundreds of bricks entered the raw cut she cried out in pain. The tears were immediate as she ran inside to her mother, who was on the telephone in the White Room. She held up her hand to stop Fran entering while she finished the conversation. Fran stood there with silent tears running down her cheeks as her knee and hand stung. Alicia replaced the receiver and moved towards her. Fran held out her arms ready to be pulled close.
Alicia stopped two feet away from her, remaining within the boundary of the White Room. ‘Call Mrs Thomas to see to Frances,’ she instructed Mr Thomas, who was breathless from running after her.
‘She’s in town—’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ Alicia stated, flustered.
She looked around for assistance. Knowing that Mr Thomas would not be able to help in such a situation, Alicia did the only thing she could.
‘Mr Thomas, drive Frances to the hospital. It may need a stitch.’
Mr Thomas nodded and returned to the car. When her mother smiled, as though she’d solved a problem, and turned away, Fran followed Mr Thomas.
She sat on a stretcher while an elderly nurse tended her wounds, shaking her head every few seconds. Even Fran knew that her injuries didn’t warrant a hospital visit. She returned home after tea and went straight to her room. All she’d wanted was a hug.
Fran realised how long she’d been studying only when she attempted to move from her cross-legged position to get a packet of crisps from her bedside cabinet. She shuffled like a hunched, stumbling wreck. As she tried to loosen the set muscles in her thighs she cursed. Finally upright, Fran made her way through the congregating crowds of schoolgirls who stood talking animatedly of foreign holidays and shopping trips. Having nothing to contribute she continued on her way to the communal phone points.
She was back in the dorm when Kerry returned.
‘Oh my God! What happened here, World War Three?’ she asked, surveying the strewn boxes and clothes that littered the room.
‘I’ll clean it up,’ Fran sniffled from underneath a blanket of loose, unruly curls.
‘Hey, hey, what’s wrong?’ Kerry asked, sitting beside her.
Fran struggled to find the words. The red-hot tongue of anger still coursed through her. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘Who? Where?’
‘My parents, to the Caribbean,’ cried Fran.
‘Yeah, so?’
Fran turned her red swollen eyes on Kerry. ‘I’ve just been home for six weeks. Every single day they’ve had to work, yet the day I return to school…’
‘You didn’t know?’ Kerry asked incredulously. ‘I’m sorry, Fran, I don’t move in a world where people just up and go on exotic holidays. My parents know six months in advance about a week at Butlins.’
Fran shook her head. She’d had no idea.
‘Ignore them. Parents were only invented as a character-building exercise for us teenagers. Imagine them thirty years from now when they’ll be begging for the angina tablets and you’ll take your time.’
Fran chuckled at the image.
‘That’s better. Now what you need, my dear, is to get out a bit more. The boys we met tonight were fun. Come tomorrow?’ Kerry asked.
Fran opened her mouth to refuse the invitation, as she always did, but the words that came out were, ‘Okay, I’ll come.’
It was later, much later, after Kerry’s deep breathing confirmed sleep, that Fran let the tears fall. She stared up at the high ceiling, visions of her parents jumping into a car ten minutes after she’d left, laughing at how gullible she was. She’d held the tears back while Kerry worked hard to keep her spirits high but she couldn’t hold them any longer. The fact that their cases were packed, the tickets arranged and not one word to her. The tears slid silently from her eyes while she lay and made excuses for them. There had to be a reason; she just knew it.
By the time half term began to approach Fran knew she had a problem. She checked her diary. Her index finger shook as she physically counted off the days to be sure.
‘Nine days. I was right the first time.’ The diary dropped to the floor with a resounding thud.
‘Don’t panic, don’t worry. Now let’s think—’
‘WHAT?’ Fran screamed. ‘I’m dead, twice!’
Kerry paced the room. ‘First, we have to get it confirmed. We’ll go to Boots and get a test.’
‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!’ Fran lamented, rocking to and fro, holding her stomach to keep the nausea down. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘Look, don’t panic… you might just be late.’
Fran shook her head. ‘I’m not, I can tell. I feel strange… sick. I just want to die and that choice won’t be mine once my parents…’
‘It may not have to get that far.’
‘How am I going to hide it? What am I going to—’
‘There are other options.’
The meaning of Kerry’s words stilled her rocking. She shook her head vehemently.
Kerry let out a huge breath. ‘You can’t have it both ways. You don’t want your parents to know yet I think they may become suspicious when you take it home for the holidays.’
‘What have I done? I didn’t even enjoy it,’ Fran cried.
‘I hardly think that’s the point at this stage, do you?’
Fran remembered the night it happened. It could only have been one night. Justin had sneaked her into his dorm and she had known what was about to happen and she’d welcomed it. Sex had to include hugging. It just had to.
Justin had paid attention to her from that first night she’d gone with Kerry. He’d complimented her, made her laugh and held her hand. A few kisses and furtive gropes beneath layers of clothing to protect against the late October wind had failed to satisfy him or produce any response from her. In the silence of his dorm it had felt comfortable to have his arms around her. His skin had felt warm against hers. His kisses had been pleasant and undemanding. But when he had entered her it hurt more than she’d expected and only made her want to cry. She’d read about it in magazines but the few chaste kisses had not prepared her for the reality. A few seconds of pain followed by even less time humping and pumping had failed to bring her to even a moderate sweat. Fran had decided it was a cosmic joke that she was now part of. It hadn’t made her feel any of the things she’d hoped for: no bond, no connection, no love.
Without warning, like a tropical storm the tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘Kerry, I’m scared,’ she whispered.
But Kerry had no soothing clichés to offer. For once she was stuck for words so she did all that she could: she held her friend while she cried.
Fran didn’t need to face the agonising torture of telling her mother. That was done for her when she fainted during English Literature.
The revealing blood test and physical examination were nothing compared to the coldness she received fro
m her mother. The situation was not discussed; no decision from Fran was necessary. It was taken totally out of her hands and decided by Alicia and the school headmistress.
‘It’s settled then. Frances will go to Inverness until it is over,’ Alicia stated flatly.
Fran stroked the invisible mound that contained it. She didn’t raise her head as her mother and Miss Milton discussed her. Instead she focused on a loose fibre protruding from the slate-grey carpet tiles that mirrored Miss Milton’s complexion.
The cold emotionless voice continued. ‘As I said before, I want no contact with any of the pupils at this school.’
‘Have arrangements been made?’ asked Miss Milton softly. Her concern was abruptly met.
‘Don’t concern yourself. It will be placed appropriately.’
‘I meant for her schooling,’ said Miss Milton abruptly.
‘Yes, yes,’ Alicia waved away the principal’s concern. ‘Her fees have been paid to the end of the year and I would hope that I can rely on your discretion even though I could not rely on your protection.’
‘Of course,’ replied Miss Milton sourly.
‘Are you ready, Frances?’
‘Y… yes… Mother.’ Fran was startled. It was the first direct address she’d received from her mother since she’d arrived three days earlier.
‘Then I suggest you go and collect your belongings.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Oh, and Frances…’
She turned and faced the emotionless eyes that burned through her. ‘…Be sure not to leave ANYTHING behind.’
Fran closed the heavy, carved oak door behind her, understanding fully her mother’s words.
‘Is it time?’ Kerry asked as Fran slowly opened the door.
She nodded. They sat together on Kerry’s bed, staring at the suitcase by the door, both of them afraid to speak. ‘Will you see it before it’s taken?’ Kerry whispered.
‘No, Mother says it will be taken immediately.’
‘God, Fran, I’m going to miss you so much!’
Fran sat beside her, letting herself be held by her best friend as they both cried, afraid to let go. It was then that Fran realised she was leaving home.
Kerry shoved a piece of paper into her hand. ‘This is my address, write to me.’
Fran nodded blindly. ‘How will I manage without you?’
‘Don’t, Fran, we’ll see each other again when it’s all over.’ But the words sounded hollow. Fran knew they never would. Her mother would never allow her to carry forward any links to this shameful event. She disengaged herself from the embrace, unable to stand the pain any longer, and picked up the case.
Kerry stood. ‘See you later, alligator.’
Fran forced a watery smile. ‘In a while, crocodile,’ she whispered, closing the door behind her.
Without once addressing Fran directly, Alicia instructed Mr Thomas to drive to the train station. Fran took her suitcase from the boot of the car and saved the tears until she was on the train, alone. Mrs Thomas could not be spared to go to Scotland with her – Alicia needed the housekeeper too much.
The woman ensconced in the small cottage could not have been a better choice as far as her mother was concerned, Fran quickly realised. As a devoutly Catholic spinster who had aged prematurely, she was perfect. Fran knew only that her name was Maria and that she’d been the resident nurse at a girls’ school for over twenty years. She would have liked to form a friendship with the stern woman but she betrayed her moral superiority with the thin mouth and narrowed eyes set in a gaunt, worn face that mocked Fran every day. My, how the mighty have fallen, her expression said. Her obvious intolerance of the wealthy and their disregard for morals made the days very lonely.
It was hard to tell what day it was other than the weekly phone call from her mother. The ringing of the telephone jarred Fran from the seclusion she had found inside. She waited hopefully as Maria gave the weekly progress reports on her health, diet and appearance. Each week she wondered if her mother would ask to speak to her – she didn’t.
It wasn’t until the baby kicked that she finally thought of it as a life growing inside her. She was sitting by the river when it happened. Immediately she stood up. The movement filled her with an undeniable joy that she desperately wanted to share but her only companion was Maria so she sat back down and remained where she was with her hand placed protectively over her stomach.
Gradually she stopped seeing the bulge through her mother’s eyes. No longer an embarrassment, an indiscretion from which she would return to a normal life, it was a baby, a child – her child. The feelings of warmth and protection that she’d felt at the very beginning of her pregnancy had been hidden behind the fear of her mother’s disappointment and disapproval.
She talked to the child of everything, every day, almost like a diary. She decided it was a boy and named him Jamie, explaining to him that it was a temporary name, that his new parents would give him another.
She walked all day, climbing the tree-lined hills of the U-shaped valley in which the cottage stood. Each day she fell short of the previous day’s resting-place as her stomach got bigger.
During the long walks she described the changing season to Jamie. The biting winds that were being replaced by chilly breezes. The softening of the frost and the rebirth of the trees. She described it daily in detail as though painting a picture for him. The thought of his new parents brought a gnawing ache to her heart, which she tried to banish in case he felt her sadness.
She was returning from a short night-time walk when she had the first pain. A warm stickiness crept down the inside of her thighs. Clutching her stomach, she stumbled to the cottage door.
‘He’s coming, Maria! My baby’s coming,’ she cried, breathlessly.
Maria made no attempt to help her and instead strode to the phone.
‘She has started, her waters have broken,’ she explained unemotionally. She nodded at whatever was being said on the other end of the phone then placed it back in the cradle without any salutation.
‘They will leave in the morning. I am to make you comfortable.’
‘What do you mean in the morning? Why not now?’ Fran stormed hysterically. I need my mother, I need someone, she cried inside. I’m frightened. What if I die?
How could they just go back to bed knowing that molten spears of pain were searing through her body? Surely her mother could remember that. Who was going to help deliver him? What had she done to make them hate her so much?
A pain that felt like a lightning strike cut through her stomach and she screamed out. Maria busied herself in the kitchen while Fran placed a cushion between her teeth as a relief from the pain.
‘Don’t push,’ were the only instructions given to her.
She lay for twelve hours drifting in and out of consciousness. The sweat that had poured from her matted the red curls together and welded them to her neck. Her jaws ached from the pressure of clamping them together.
Finally the sound of a car raised her hopes. They were here now, everything would be okay; the pain would stop.
At the last possible second Maria materialised beside her and began wiping her brow as though she’d been there all night.
Through the haze borne of pain and exhaustion Fran could see that they’d brought Doctor Treadwell, their family doctor.
Alicia stood over her. ‘It’s nearly over, Frances,’ she said almost warmly. She made no effort to touch her daughter.
The doctor examined her and whispered a few words that Fran didn’t hear.
‘Mother,’ she croaked as loudly as she could. She had to tell her mother her decision; she had to tell her now. It was important to get the words out.
Alicia moved closer.
‘I want…’ she swallowed in an attempt to moisten her throat ‘…I want to keep my baby. I want to keep Jamie, he’s my…’
Alicia moved away quickly and whispered something to the doctor.
‘This is for the pain,’ he said
without emotion as a long needle pierced the skin of her thigh. Within seconds the room spun and a black curtain descended over her eyes. She didn’t know where it came from but she welcomed the peace it brought.
It was the soreness that woke her. Her whole body had been tortured. Cuts and bruises must be covering her skin, she thought, automatically reaching towards her stomach – a sterile dressing stretched across the width of it.
The motion brought Alicia to a sitting position.
It took a moment for Fran to remember what had happened. She lay back down when her head threatened to spin so hard it felt like it might disengage from her shoulders and whirl off into the distance.
‘You’re awake,’ Alicia stated.
‘Where is he?’ Fran croaked, listening for his cries. In spite of the pain and soreness that consumed her body, her arms needed something to do. They knew they should be holding something.
‘Where is he?’ she asked again with a little more strength.
‘Try to rest, Frances. Drink some water.’
The glass shook slightly as it came towards her. Something was wrong, she knew it.
The glass fell between them as Fran made no attempt to grasp it.
‘Mother, where is he? Where’s my son?’ she screamed.
Alicia shook her head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, Frances. He’s dead.’
Fran stared at her mother’s face, bored into her eyes, waiting for the punchline. Any minute now the doctor would appear, place a blanketed bundle in her arms and congratulate her on a bouncing, healthy baby boy.
Her mother’s set expression told her that it was not going to happen.
She’d never grieved for anything in her life. Not a dog, hamster, nothing. She wasn’t prepared for this: to grieve for her own child. No, this was sick, it was wrong. It couldn’t be happening. Maybe she hadn’t woken up yet. This could be a nightmare, but as she looked at Maria’s slightly hunched back in the kitchen she knew it wasn’t.
This was a pain she couldn’t bear. It ripped at a part of her so deep she didn’t even know it existed. The physical pain could have been no worse had they ripped out one of her kidneys but at least that she could have lived without.
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 7