Mary always had her husband’s cooked meal ready for him as soon as he came in from work at around six o’clock, she and Fiona having had their main meal at midday and a lighter meal at teatime.
‘Leave me to tell your dad,’ she said to Fiona. ‘I’d best wait till he’s had his dinner, or else he may not feel like eating at all.’ She sighed deeply. ‘You’ve got a lot to answer for, young lady. I never thought I’d have to tell him that our daughter has got into trouble.’
‘Leave it, Mum,’ said Fiona wearily. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, haven’t I? Don’t keep reminding me.’
‘You’ll be reminded of it for the next nine months,’ retorted Mary. ‘Just think on that, and ask God to forgive you.’
I thought God would come into it sooner or later, Fiona thought as her mother left her alone.
She didn’t hear what went on between her parents. She stayed in her room for what seemed hours and hours. It was half past seven when her mother came to tell her to come down and see her father. ‘He’s had the shock of his life,’ she said. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t have a heart attack. He’s very disappointed with you, Fiona. Anyway, you’d best come and explain yourself to him if you can. Come along now; shape yourself.’ Fiona had actually fallen asleep on the bed, mentally exhausted with all the trauma of the day.
Her father appeared more sad than angry. Fiona was distressed to see the look of anguish in his eyes, but she felt there was more compassion there than her mother had so far shown.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she said, before he spoke to her. He did something that her mother had not yet done. He put his arms round her, holding her gently.
‘I can’t pretend I’m not shocked at your behaviour, Fiona,’ he said. ‘Your mother and I are both very disappointed. But it’s done now, and it has to be faced. Sit down, and we’ll tell you what we’ve decided to do.’
Twelve
Fiona’s parents had decided that no one was to know about her condition, no one at all. Wilfred had vetoed Mary’s intention to go to the youth club to find out who had done this dreadful thing to their daughter.
‘No . . . we shall tell no one,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that Fiona has been ill, and maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. We must go on pretending now that she’s still poorly and can’t see anyone. We could say, maybe, that she’s had a nervous breakdown.’
‘And has to go away somewhere,’ said Mary. She was starting to think that her husband’s idea of secrecy was the best – the only way – to get over this problem. ‘Yes, I think you’re right, Wilfred. I’m so ashamed . . . I would never be able to hold my head up in that church again if they knew the truth. Just imagine what the Reverend Cruikshank would think! He would be appalled.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Wilfred. ‘We will need to confide in someone though . . . Perhaps she could go and stay with our Beattie for a while. That’s far enough away.’ Wilfred had a sister, Beatrice, who was married to a man called Donald Slater who owned a farm in Northumberland. They were in their late fifties and their children were married and living elsewhere. ‘It’s a long while since I heard from Beattie but we always got on well enough. We could make it worth their while, although they’re not short of a bob or two. The last I heard the farm was doing quite well.’
‘And what about . . . the baby?’ said Mary. ‘She mustn’t be allowed to keep it?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Wilfred. ‘You weren’t thinking that she could, were you?’
‘No, there’s no question of that,’ replied Mary. ‘And I couldn’t pass it off as mine, like some do.’ They both knew of instances where a child had been brought up by the grandmother, not knowing that the supposed elder sister was really the mother. Such happenings were not uncommon. ‘There are places, aren’t there, where unmarried girls can go, and then when the baby is born it’s adopted?’
‘It would be the best solution,’ agreed Wilfred. ‘But I can’t believe this is really happening to our precious little girl. I would never have believed it of her.’
‘She can be wilful at times,’ said Mary, shaking her head. ‘She’s never learned to ask for God’s guidance in her life, has she? Not like you and I.’
Wilfred nodded. ‘That’s true, my dear. Maybe this will make her realize that this is what can happen when you stray away from the straight and narrow pathway.’
When Fiona came to listen to what they had to say it seemed to her that it was all cut and dried. They had made a peremptory decision without even asking her how she felt about anything. She was so stunned by her father’s words – it was Wilfred who was doing most of the talking – that she did not hesitate to tell them what she thought, forgetting for a moment that she was in deep disgrace.
‘So you have decided, have you?’ she said. ‘What about how I might feel, or what I might want to do? And have neither of you realized how deceitful all this is? You’re prepared to tell lies so that your precious vicar and all his cronies don’t find out that I’ve . . . well, I suppose I’ve sinned, haven’t I, in your eyes?’
‘How dare you speak to us like that?’ said her mother. ‘Yes, you have . . . done wrong, and it’s up to your father and me now to sort it out. You will never go near that youth club or that church again. You will stay in this house until we’ve made arrangements about what can be done for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ countered Fiona. ‘That I can’t go out at all? You can’t keep me a prisoner here. Are you really so ashamed of me that you have to hide me away as though I’m a leper or something?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we are . . . deeply ashamed,’ answered her mother. ‘Ashamed that a daughter of ours should disgrace us like this.’
‘Yes, that’s all you’re bothered about, isn’t it? The disgrace – as though you’ll be blamed for not bringing me up properly?’ She looked at her mother imploringly. ‘But it’s not your fault, Mum. You and Dad have brought me up well, to be obedient and truthful. I’m sorry about what has happened. I can’t say any more except that I’m sorry. But you heard what Dr Mackintosh said. It happens all the time. I’m not the first and I certainly won’t be the last girl to find out she’s having a baby.’
‘You’ve got a great deal to say all of a sudden, young lady,’ said her mother. ‘All I know is that it’s never happened in our family. And you’re not being truthful now, are you? You won’t tell us who’s responsible for this, apart from you, of course!’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Fiona as defiantly as ever. ‘Perhaps you might be more understanding if I told you it was a gift from God, that it had been conceived by the Holy Ghost?’
‘Fiona! You wicked girl!’ screamed her mother. ‘That’s blasphemous, taking God’s name in vain! How could you?’
‘Aye, that’s going a bit far, love,’ said her father, more gently. ‘There’s no need to be irreverent.’
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ said Fiona meekly. ‘But I don’t suppose they believed Mary at first, did they?’ she added, almost to herself. Suddenly she burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . But I did expect a bit more sympathy, once you got over the shock. You’re supposed to be Christians, aren’t you? Shouldn’t Christians be able to understand . . . and forgive?’
Again it was her father who put his arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there, don’t take on so,’ he muttered, glancing uneasily at his wife. ‘We’re trying to help you, you know.’
‘That’s quite enough of that,’ said Mary, ‘throwing our faith back in our faces. We’re trying to do what’s best for you.’
‘So it doesn’t matter to God if you’re telling lies?’ Fiona sniffed, trying to fight back her tears; she was not easily driven to them. ‘Pretending that I’m ill and making me hide away.’
‘It’s for the best,’ said her father quietly. Her mother remained silent.
‘I won’t be kept a prisoner,’ said Fiona again. ‘I want to go and see my gran. I will go and see her, and you can’t stop me.’
Mary and Wilfred l
ooked at one another. Wilfred nodded. ‘Yes, we’d best tell your mother,’ he said to his wife. ‘It wouldn’t be right to keep it from her.’
‘No, I’ve been thinking about that,’ agreed Mary. ‘We’d best go and see her one night and tell her what’s happened. Although it’ll give her the shock of her life, especially at her age.’ She cast a reproachful glance at her daughter.
At least she’ll be more sympathetic than you are being, Fiona reflected, but she wisely kept the thought to herself.
‘I shouldn’t worry; she’s a tough old bird,’ replied Wilfred with a wry smile. ‘I dare say your mam’ll take it in her stride.’
‘Yes, I’ll allow you to go and see your grandmother,’ said Mary. ‘But I can’t imagine how she’s going to react to all this.’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Many a time your gran’s said to me, “That little girl is the light of my life.” She’d waited a long time for a granddaughter – our Eddie had three lads – and she made such a fuss of you. She’s going to be bitterly disappointed in you, Fiona.’
‘I think we’ve said enough, Mary,’ said Wilfred quietly. ‘Off you go now, Fiona love.’ He smiled at his daughter. ‘Go up to your room and read a book, or listen to some records or summat . . . We’ll get through it somehow,’ he added in a whisper.
Annie Jowett listened almost in silence to the tale that her daughter, Mary, was telling her about how Fiona had ‘got into trouble’ and the disgrace that she was bringing to the family.
‘Wilfred and I are mortified,’ said Mary, ‘and so ashamed. To think that our daughter should behave like that! And she’s even admitted that she was partly to blame. Maybe there might have been some excuse if she’d been forced, been taken advantage of, but she says not. And she refuses to tell us who it is. I was all for going to that youth club and finding out, but Wilfred convinced me that we must keep it to ourselves. Nobody has to know.’
Annie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye, I can see how you might be thinking you’ve to hush it up . . . but I’ll tell you what I think. It seems to me that you’re more worried about how this is going to affect you, than showing concern for that poor lass.’
‘Of course we’re concerned, Mother,’ retorted Mary. ‘We’re just trying to do what’s best for her.’
‘By pretending it’s not happening, eh? By sweeping it under the carpet?’ Annie gave a wry chuckle. ‘Oh aye, I can see that you’re worried about what the folks at church would say, and your precious vicar.’
‘Yes . . . I’ll admit that we don’t want them to know,’ replied Mary, a trifle grudgingly. ‘We’re ashamed, like I’ve told you. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in respectable families like ours.’
‘Huh! That’s what you think!’ replied Annie. ‘I’ll tell you something then. My young sister, your aunt Gertie, she “had to get married”, if you want to put it that way. But nobody made a song and dance about it from what I can remember, and our mam and dad didn’t go on at her like she’d committed a crime. Her and Wally, they just got married a bit earlier, that’s all, and your cousin Fred was born five months later.’
‘I never knew that,’ said Mary.
‘No, why should you?’
‘But that was different,’ Mary went on. ‘They were engaged, weren’t they? Not like this with our Fiona, carrying on with some lad from church.’
‘At least he goes to that church that you’re always on about,’ said her mother. ‘He’s probably a very decent sort of lad.’
‘How can he be?’ retorted Mary. ‘To behave like that! We didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. It’s all been going on behind our backs.’
‘Aye, maybe it has.’ Annie nodded sagely. ‘You’re so self-righteous these days that she probably didn’t dare to tell you. And I don’t suppose there’s been much going on at all. It sounds to me as though they just got carried away, with being on holiday and away from home an’ all that. Aye, she’s been a silly girl and she’s made a mistake. But can’t you show a bit of that there Christian love and forgiveness that you’re always harping on about? She’s going to need her mam and dad, you know, whatever happens.’
Mary did look a bit abashed. ‘We do love her, don’t we, Wilfred?’ She looked at her husband and he nodded.
‘Aye, of course we do. But we think this would be best, Ma. To get her right away from here where everybody knows her.’
‘And pack her off to a load of strangers?’
‘Our Beattie and Donald aren’t strangers,’ replied Wilfred. ‘I know Fiona hasn’t seen them much lately, but we had a couple of holidays at their farm when she was little. I remember how she loved the animals. Beattie offered to have her during the war – as an evacuee, like – but we couldn’t bear to part with her.’
‘But you’re prepared to make use of ’em now, eh?’
‘It’s rather different now,’ said Wilfred, looking a little uneasy. ‘Anyroad, we’ve still to contact them and make arrangements.’
‘And what does Fiona think about it all?’ asked Annie.
‘She’s got no choice, Mother,’ said Mary, sounding just as intransigent as before. ‘I’m afraid she will have to abide by what her dad and I decide is best for her.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s got nowt to do with me,’ said Annie. ‘You’re her parents and I suppose you’re doing what you think is best. I don’t like all the deceit though . . . Anyroad, I’ll go and make us a cup of tea.’
Annie’s living room had hardly changed at all since Mary had lived there as a child. The same brown chenille table cover with a bobbled fringe – many of the bobbles missing now – was shabby and worn in places, as was the brown patterned carpet and the easy chairs. The huge Victorian sideboard still dominated the room. A myriad of framed photographs stood on top of it, together with the pair of Staffordshire dogs and the imitation Crown Derby fruit bowl, a long ago wedding present. A photo of Fiona stood in pride of place, an enlargement of a snap taken by Wilfred’s box Brownie camera on a holiday in Scarborough a few years ago. Wedding photos too; of Mary and Wilfred; of her brother, Eddie and his wife, Elsie; and one of Annie and Frank on their long ago wedding day, towards the end of Queen Victoria’s reign. Mary’s father had died when she was ten years old, so her memories of him had grown hazy over the years. She remembered how her mother had always done her very best for them after she was widowed. Annie had always been brusque though, the gentler side of her nature showing itself more in her dealings with her grandchildren, particularly with Fiona. Mary admitted to herself that she was still, even now, a little in awe of her mother and didn’t want to do anything to displease her.
‘You’ll let her come to see me, won’t you?’ asked Annie as they drank their tea. ‘Before she disappears to . . . wherever she’s going.’
‘Of course we will, Mother,’ said Mary. ‘She said she wanted to see you. Don’t be too soft with her, mind. She takes notice of what you say, and I don’t want her to think you’re condoning her behaviour.’
‘I think she’s had enough harsh words thrown at her, don’t you?’ replied Annie. ‘I shall say what I think fit. When all’s said and done, she’s the one who has to go through it, poor lass.’
‘They’re packing me off to Northumberland, Gran, to Aunty Beattie’s,’ said Fiona.
It was Saturday afternoon and she had travelled to her gran’s house by tram and bus, as she usually did. It was the first time she had been out since the news had broken on Wednesday. She hadn’t seen anyone she knew on the journey, something that her mother had feared might happen.
‘And how do you feel about going there, luv?’ asked her grandmother.
‘I don’t really mind,’ she replied. ‘But it all depends on what Aunty Beattie and Uncle Donald say; Mum’s waiting for a letter. It’ll be a relief to get away, really. It’s been awful at home. They’ve calmed down a bit now – actually, Dad’s been a lot better about it than Mum – but they won’t let me go out in case I see somebody I know. And tomorrow they’re going to tell the folk at c
hurch that I’ve had a relapse or something, and that I’m going away to recuperate. It’s all lies, Gran.’
‘Well, happen it is for the best, luv,’ said Annie, ‘although I told your mam I didn’t like the deceit. But what else could they do, eh? I believe you won’t tell them who the lad is? And I take it you don’t want him to know either? I’m not going to ask you who it is, seeing as you haven’t told your mam and dad.’
Fiona shook her head. ‘I can’t tell him, can I? It would cause such an uproar. We didn’t mean it to happen. I didn’t think it could happen so easily, Gran. I mean, I didn’t really know what we were doing. It just . . . happened.’
‘Aye, I know it can happen more easily than you think,’ said Annie. ‘That’s Mother Nature for you, and you’re young and . . . well . . . fertile, I suppose. But you’ll still be young, you know, when it’s all over. Still not quite eighteen. Young enough to put it all behind you and start again. This lad though, was he your boyfriend, luv?’
‘Sort of,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s at the boys’ grammar school, like I’m at the girls’, and we’ve been seeing one another at church and youth club an’ all that. But it was only when we went to London that we started to . . . well, you know. And he asked me if I’d be his girlfriend when we got back home. But then I was ill and now . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t be able to see him. Anyway, he’ll be going to university next year. He was – is – a very clever lad, far cleverer than I am. He’ll be studying Chemistry. No, I couldn’t mess all that up for him. Oh, Gran! What a mess it all is! I really liked him. He wouldn’t have wanted this to happen. It probably never occurred to him that it might.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it did,’ said Annie wryly. ‘I can see that the last thing he’d want is to be saddled with a wife and a baby. That’s what some parents would do, you know; insist on the pair of you getting married.’
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