‘Tessa?’ Vicky called, her voice anxious yet impatient as she jumped the three steps in one bound. ‘Ah, there you are! I couldn’t see you anywhere. Why on earth did you dash off like that? Poor Colin’s doing his nut!’
Tessa dragged herself up from the bench, gave a wan ghost of a smile. ‘I was just feeling a bit sick.’
‘Bad luck! You probably pigged too many chocolates, and what with the boozing and this heat … Are you okay now, or d’you want to sit and rest a bit? I’ll stay with you, if you like. We can always catch the others up.’
‘No, I think I’ll be all right. I could do with a glass of water, but I can get that in the pub.’
The rest of their crowd had disappeared, except Anne-Marie and Colin, who were waiting by the Bodleian. Colin made a beeline for her, as if to reclaim his rights. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ he asked, passing the roses to Vicky so he could support her with an arm. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. Are you sure you’re not going down with a bug?’
No, she thought – not a bug, a baby. The unspoken word set off a second surge of panic, more intense than the first. A child would ruin everything – her career at Oxford, her relationship with Michael. She couldn’t even tell him. He’d be horrified, incredulous, maybe even angry. He’d asked if she was on the pill, and she’d told him yes, she was. He’d imagine that she’d tricked him, been completely irresponsible. She’d have to get rid of it – except if she wanted an abortion, she’d be sent to the John Radcliffe – Michael’s hospital. His flatmate, Tristram, planned to do obstetrics. He might actually examine her, ask her who the father was. And, anyway, she wasn’t sure she even believed in abortion. They’d had a debate on the subject at the Union, at the beginning of last term, and she’d found herself feeling more and more uneasy. Most of the girls who’d spoken had stressed the woman’s right to choose, but she herself had sat in wavering silence, plagued by doubts, misgivings; maybe influenced by her mother, and by a vague suspicion that half the people there were spouting theories they hadn’t followed through emotionally.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Anne-Marie.
‘Just tired,’ she said, only now aware she’d missed every word of the others’ conversation.
‘It’s a good thing you’re not going to a ball, then.’ Vicky gestured towards Wadham as they stopped outside the pub. A pink-striped canvas awning had already been erected at the entrance to the college, and several vans were parked outside, unloading trestle-tables, potted palms, crates of beer and wine. A minibus had also just drawn up, and was disgorging a dreadlocked reggae band – six brawny men in jeans and vests, hauling out their sound-system.
Tessa barely registered them, more concerned about the uproar in the pub – the mass of jostling bodies spilling out on to the pavement and blocking the main door. She was tempted to skulk off, escape the racket and the crowds, the yowls of laughter, drunken cheers and shouts. But Vicky had cleared a path for her, using the roses as a cudgel, and Colin was already asking if she’d like a brandy for her stomach.
‘No, I’ll stick to water, thanks.’
They found the others at a table in the corner; Rob already draining his first pint; Sally with her shoes off, her grubby feet up on Richard’s lap. Tessa squatted on his chair-arm. No one seemed to notice she felt ill, especially as she made an effort to chip in the odd remark, while continuing her anguished speculation underneath. How could she survive the whole weekend with Michael, and not give anything away? Or was she over-reacting, jumping to conclusions, without any solid proof? She’d only missed one period. Her second one had been due just yesterday. Okay, it hadn’t come, but that was actually a blessing. She didn’t want stomach cramps in the middle of exams. She had probably delayed it by sheer determination. But now the papers and the stress were over, it would start at any moment.
There was a sudden burst of laughter from their table. John had spilt his Guinness on Sally’s feet, and Anne-Marie was scouring them with a beer-soaked handkerchief. ‘I know bathrooms are in short supply in college,’ she grinned. ‘But your feet are quite disgusting, Sal. Have you washed them yet this term?’
Sally jabbed her in the belly with a still damp and smelly foot, while John stood up to order another round. ‘Aren’t you drinking, Tessa?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve had too much already.’ Safer to pretend she was a bit the worse for wear. Her friends could deal with that, whereas pregnancy would appal them. They couldn’t help her anyway. Term was over, and everyone was going down tomorrow or the next day. Some had gone already – those who hadn’t had exams – and there was nothing left of Oxford save an aching gap of empty time until the next term began in mid-October. It hadn’t felt empty till today, but all her busy happy plans now seemed meaningless. She couldn’t go home – couldn’t face her mother – but neither could she beetle off to Juxon Street, or join Michael in his new hospital flat; couldn’t make a single move until she knew she was all right.
She jerked up from the chair-arm, counting figures in her head. If she had conceived that day in Foxlow Woods, she’d be almost twelve weeks pregnant by the time she left for Newcastle on 31 July. She could hardly expect Michael not to notice – a fully-trained doctor, who must have done his stint in gynae and obstetrics. Perhaps it showed already. She was so ignorant, so clueless, she’d no idea what the symptoms were – except sickness, which she’d got.
‘D’you need some air?’ asked Colin, who was still hovering at her side.
‘No, just the loo,’ she said. She squeezed her way through the close-packed groups of students; their numbers recently swollen by an overspill from Wadham, who had breezed in for a drink before the ball – girls in sculpted silk creations, men in evening dress. How could anyone even contemplate going to a ball, stuffing themselves with steak and smoked salmon, dancing the night away? Still more inconceivable that she’d once enjoyed those things herself. In the last few minutes, she had become another person: one incapable of eating, queasy at the thought of drink, and whose mind refused to shift from abortion clinics, labour wards.
The noise was overwhelming – a roar which seemed to close above her head. She was foundering in it, choking; her own weak voice submerged by the boom and bray around her. She staggered down the stairs and along the passage to the toilet; the cool quiet of the basement a relief and an escape. She bolted the loo door, pushed her skirt right up, to get a full view of her stomach. It had never been exactly flat, and looked no different now – certainly no bigger, no suspicion of a bulge. But her breasts felt full and tight. She had blamed that on the pill as well – this peculiar new brand which had stopped her periods had swollen up her boobs. She unbuttoned her blouse, eased one breast from its bra-cup. It was larger, definitely, more solid and compressed.
She sank down on the toilet-seat, suddenly burning with resentment towards Michael. He should have used a condom, then he’d have saved her from all this. Okay, the sex had been spontaneous, and they’d both been carried away, but all the same, he had been irresponsible. The day after the picnic, she’d found herself reflecting on it – surprised and even shocked that a doctor, of all people, should disregard the warnings about safe sex. She’d been thinking then in terms of AIDS, not pregnancy, and however crazy it might sound, pregnancy actually seemed more threatening than a terminal disease, because it was more real and more immediate.
She touched her swollen breasts again; her bitterness now tinged with self-reproach. Was it really fair to blame Michael, when it was equally her fault? Women could carry condoms just the same as men, and if she was stupid enough to miss her pills, then …
‘Tessa? Are you in there?’ Vicky’s voice again.
‘Yes,’ she faltered. ‘I … I’m still feeling a bit off.’ Couldn’t she confide in Vicky, blurt it out right now, the whole confused and ghastly mess?
‘Everyone’s heading back to college,’ Vicky shouted through the door. ‘Colin says he’ll wait for you, but I’m afraid I’ve got to dash. That guy I met l
ast Saturday has just asked me out to dinner. He drives an MR2, so I’m hoping that the restaurant will live up to the car! See you in the morning – okay?’
Tessa heard the door slam before she’d said goodbye, then rapid footsteps fading into nothing. No one cared a jot. They were all bound up in their own lives – their plans, romances, pipe dreams. She’d been just the same, ignoring Colin; totally preoccupied with Michael and her First. Yet poor Colin was still there, waiting for her patiently but fruitlessly. She’d better fabricate some reason why she wasn’t free this evening; be as decent as she could to him, at least till seven-ish.
She was still embroidering her explanation as she and Colin walked into the garden quad, joined the others on the lawn. Someone had bought wine, which they were gulping from the bottles, passing them from hand to hand – those who weren’t already semi-conscious. Tessa sprawled out on the grass, closed her eyes against the sun, though she could still see the college in her mind: the majestic flight of steps leading up to Hall; the ancient twisted mulberry tree, a cool four centuries old; the green dome of the Sheldonian, just showing above the wall – the ceremonial theatre where successful students were granted their degrees. If she turned out to be pregnant, she’d miss that grand occasion; would lose everything she treasured here; chuck away her future, every hope she’d cherished since she was an intense and high-souled twelve.
‘Swine!’ yelled Richard, as Sally trickled wine between his shirt-buttons. The two began a wrestling match; laughing, swapping insults; Richard grabbing Sally’s hair, while she dragged off his shirt. Tessa half-sat up, forced her mouth to smile, envying their horseplay. How extraordinary that people could still laugh, lark around like kids. She looked beyond her group of friends to the stately college buildings; let her eyes track slowly from the steep-pitched chapel roof to the heraldic shields in the windows of the library, as if seeing the whole place afresh – no longer as an unencumbered student, but as the mother of a child. She could think of no environment less suited to a baby – a male-dominated academic forcing-house, where prams and nappies would be not just an irrelevance, but somehow in bad taste. And the whole ‘me-first’ student culture was alien to motherhood – the drink, the drugs, the deafening music, the late nights, the cult of self-absorption. Yet that inappropriate baby could well be growing by the minute; taking possession of her body like some alien yeast or mould; insisting on its right to live, oblivious of the fact that it could only be a burden.
‘Okay, you win,’ groaned Richard. ‘But give me back my shirt, Sal.’
‘Come and ge-t it!’ Sally taunted in a sing-song voice, then pranced away, Richard in pursuit. Anne-Marie joined in, caught the crumpled shirt which Sally threw her, and tied it like a sash around her middle.
Tessa watched them stonily. She was so tired she could weep. The term had been a gruelling one – first, all that hideous worry over Michael, then the non-stop slog for her exams. She just hadn’t got the energy to cope with all the extra hassle of a baby; to try to be a supermum, as well as a voluptuous courtesan, and a high-achieving student. Oxford was bad enough in any case, expecting undergraduates to excel in every field – to be actors, journalists, socialites, budding politicians, as well as slaving in the library half the day, and gutting books like fish. Add a kid to all of that, and she’d probably have a breakdown.
Well, she’d simply have to steel herself to go through with an abortion, though that option, too, had almost as many drawbacks. They cost a fortune, didn’t they – the private sort which would bypass the John Radcliffe? Or could she get one on the National Health if she returned home to Dr Cunningham? But that would mean confessing to her mother – endless talk and agonizing; April telling all her friends, even total strangers in the pub, as she’d already told them about her ‘brilliant daughter’s’ A-levels, as if she was the only girl in England who’d ever got to Oxbridge. And, anyway, April opposed abortion totally and vehemently; always took the pro-life view – for her own subjective reasons. ‘You’re the living proof it’s wrong, Toots. If I’d have pulled the plug on you, I could have been killing the next – what’s her name? – Joan Austen.’
Murdering Michael’s baby would be worse. Could she really flush his genes and skills and talents down the drain? Yet if she didn’t, then she’d lose him; lose her trip to Newcastle, her two years here in …
‘I’m going for a slash,’ John announced to no one in particular, as he heaved himself up to his feet.
‘Me too,’ said Lynn, following him across the grass.
Tessa watched them go. Maybe Lynn could help. She was a kindly tactful sort, and already twenty-two; had come to Oxford after dropping out of another course at Bristol – might know about abortions, at least advise her what to do. She ran to catch her up, but Lynn ran faster, hurtling down the steps to the basement of the JCR. ‘I’m bursting,’ she explained, as she slammed the toilet door.
Tessa slunk into the second toilet, rehearsing what she’d say. She’d have to get a move on, collar Lynn the moment she came out. It was already nearly seven, and she hadn’t even changed yet. She’d better have a pee herself, ready for the drive to Chipping Campden. She pulled her pants down, stared at them in shock. They were stained a brownish-red. Her period had come!
She clutched the cistern, as if physically to restrain herself from soaring through the roof. A hundred full-term babies had just been ejected from her stomach, and she was so light she could take wing. She had her pee, then peered into the toilet-bowl to make absolutely sure. Yes, a few more drops of miraculous blood had stained the water red. She scrabbled in her bag for a Tampax; had never put one in with such a sense of delight. She washed her hands, bounded through the door and up the stairs, leaving Lynn still primping at the mirror. She was eager now to make up for lost time – join in the celebrations, grab her share of wine. But first she ought to go and see if Michael had arrived. He wasn’t meant to stop outside the college, and she had visions of him fuming at the wheel, or running down some obstreperous traffic warden. It was only five past seven, so extremely unlikely that he’d have even left the hospital, but …
‘Michael!’ She dashed up to the car, kissed him on the lips with more fire and force than she had ever shown before.
He reeled back in the driver’s seat, pretending to cower beneath her assault. ‘Christ! I’ve got a hard on. You’re a highly dangerous female, Tessa Reeves! Let’s forget the Cotswolds and go straight up to your room.’
She backed away, her mood abruptly changing. What was triumph and relief for her, for him would be a bloody nuisance – literally. ‘My … my period’s just started,’ she muttered, looking down, blushing as she said it. Rob had hated periods, found them messy and embarrassing, always avoided sex with her till they were well and truly over. Michael hadn’t commented at all. Was he angry, disappointed, about to cancel their weekend?
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she began.
‘What for?’
‘Well, the mess and …’
‘Damn the mess! Who cares? Most women are more horny when they’re menstruating, and since you’re already the most horny girl I’ve ever had the amazing luck to meet, it should be an experience.’
She pressed her open mouth to his, in an encore to the first kiss; hardly caring that she’d attracted a small audience – two college porters and at least half a dozen tourists, all riveted by the scene. She was rejoicing in three miracles: she wasn’t pregnant, Michael wasn’t late, and she was the most horny girl he’d ever had the luck – no, amazing luck – to meet.
Chapter Nine
‘Thou shalt not kill!’
‘ABORTION: THE FIRST CHILDABUSE!’
‘DON’T THROW YOUR PRECIOUS BABY IN THE RUBBISHBIN!’
Tessa dodged back out of sight behind a clump of bushes, still staring in horror at the placards. Nobody had warned her about pickets – a group at least ten strong – one frightening-looking woman in a long black shiny mac, clutching a huge crucifix; the others with their accu
sing banners, or crude squares of painted cardboard: ‘THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS’.
She could hardly bear to look at the gruesome colour photographs of bloody foetuses; tiny tadpole-babies who appeared to be in tears, wiping their blind eyes. Another placard was held by a small boy – a child of only five or six, with curly white-blond hair – whose message read: ‘DON’T MURDER ME’. How could she walk past the group, brave their shouts, their pleadings? Yet she was already late for her ten o’clock appointment; had lost her way when she came out of the station, forked left instead of right. If only Charlotte had come with her, as she’d promised at the outset, but Charlotte had left for Italy at dawn; would be sipping cappuccino on the terrace of her grand hotel, tucking in to warm croissants and chilled melon. Tessa put her bag down, leaned against the fence. She herself had eaten nothing since a bowl of soup last night. She longed for a dry biscuit, a cup of sweet strong tea, but the clinic had insisted that she fast from midnight, and drinks were forbidden as well as food; even plain water strictly taboo.
She checked her watch again. Nearly 10.15. If she didn’t book in now, they might postpone her operation. She had a sudden grotesque vision of herself swelling up and up, until she was nothing but a grossly distended uterus, a bulging mass of cells remorselessly expanding. She pressed her stomach gingerly, barely able to believe that it didn’t show at all yet, and that she was still at what the doctor called a very early stage. The word ‘early’ seemed a mockery, when she’d been waiting, waiting, waiting for the last interminable fortnight – agonizing, counting days, whilst forced to pretend to Charlotte’s stilted family that she was simply enjoying a restful stay in Sussex with her friend. Better to face the pickets than endure another minute of that stiff and sleepless nothing-time, in which her whole attention had been focused on her body – her periods, or lack of them, her morning sickness (often bad throughout the day), her tender, bloated breasts. She took two nervous steps along the street. A dowdy matron in a drab beige anorak had seen her and was closing in. Tessa felt a hand snap round her wrist, a damp and clammy padlock, which contrasted with the warm and friendly voice.
Michael, Michael Page 13