Roxy's Baby

by Cathy MacPhail

She took money from her mother’s stash in the kitchen. She wanted to write a note saying she would pay it back, but she probably wouldn’t. Jennifer was at a sleepover and wouldn’t be home until the next day. How would she feel when she knew Roxy had gone? Guilty? I don’t think so, Roxy thought, she’ll probably just be glad to get the bedroom to herself.

  She pictured her mother, waiting up for her coming home, striding backwards and forwards across the living room, as she had done on so many nights recently. Watching at the window for Roxy running up the street or getting out of a taxi. She would grow angrier and angrier but it would be morning before she would raise any alarm. She would phone the friends she so disapproved of, and it would take perhaps all day before she realised that Roxy was with none of them and might not return this time. And by then, Roxy planned to be in London, melted into the crowd.

  Alone.

  She would have to get used to being alone.

  She stood in the dark hallway of her house for a long time remembering. Remembering the happy times here. Her dad sneaking presents into the front room on Christmas Eve. Her tenth birthday party, before Dad became ill, when they’d presented her with a bike. She remembered the sad times too. How often Dad was rushed to hospital from here, how often she and Jennifer had sat on the stairs waiting for the phone to ring to tell them how he was. And she remembered the angry times. The night Mum had brought Paul home and Roxy had known, she had simply known that this was the one who was going to take her dad’s place. No matter what she said, or what she did, he was going to become part of the family.

  Yet, at that moment as she listened to the sounds of the house she had grown up in, she would have done anything to change things. To be able to stay here, safe and secure. Especially now.

  She was afraid. Afraid to go. But even more afraid to stay. Let’s face it, Roxy, she thought, they’d put you out anyway when they found out your dark secret. Roxy, the black sheep, spoiling the image of the happy family.

  Roxy – all alone.

  She looked at the big clock above the fireplace. It was almost time to go for the train that would take her to Glasgow, where she would catch the overnight bus to London. The red eye, they called it. The article from the magazine was wedged tight into her rucksack. At least she knew where she was going.

  ‘Goodbye, house.’ She said it softly and waited for a moment, almost as if she expected an answer. Then she quietly closed the door behind her and was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Roxy slept all the way to London. She hadn’t thought she would. She’d been sure the fear, the uncertainty about her future, would keep her awake and alert on the long dark journey. Yet, she slept.

  She woke just as the bus was coming into the outskirts of London. People waking up, pavement cafes opening and tables and chairs being prepared for the springtime customers.

  She’d been to London only once before. Just after Dad had died her mum had taken her and Jennifer for a weekend treat. Staying at a big hotel, going to a show.

  Now, here Roxy was, back again, and this time there was no money for hotels or shows or fancy restaurants.

  For the first time in days she didn’t feel sick, and she took that as an omen. She’d done the right thing. She even ate breakfast in a typical London ‘caff’, the only place that was open so early in the morning. It was filled with lorry drivers and taxi drivers munching on hot bacon rolls and hugging mugs of steaming hot tea and all talking like the cast of EastEnders.

  After her second cup of tea she noticed that the eyes of the fat waitress were on her too often and for too long. It was time to move on. Roxy unfolded the article from the magazine and laid it flat on the table. She read it over again, and it sounded too good to be true, this haven waiting for her. Mayflower House. This woman, Jessica Jones. Too good to be true. ‘You’re so cynical, Roxy,’ her mother was always telling her, because she was always suspicious of other people’s motives. ‘They must be after something,’ Roxy would say, and her mother would always reply, ‘There are a lot of nice people in the world.’

  Well, there were a lot of nasty people too. Was Jessica Jones one of them?

  She asked one of the drivers sitting at the next table which line she should take on the Underground. Not the waitress, because she already looked too suspicious, staring at Roxy from under a dyed blonde fringe.

  He answered, spluttering breadcrumbs all over her table. ‘You get the Piccadilly line, darlin’, that’s the one you want. Know where you’re going, love?’

  ‘My aunt’s, I’m down here for a holiday,’ Roxy said at once, with assurance and a broad smile, as if it was the truth. She was a good liar, always had been.

  She felt the waitress’s eyes follow her as she left the caff and she deliberately beamed a smile at her, catching her off her guard. The waitress smiled back, her fat face like the dough of an unbaked bread roll. ‘Have a nice day,’ she called out, as Roxy stepped out into the sunshine.

  ‘You too,’ Roxy called back.

  She hated the Underground. Hated the crowds and sounds and the smells. Hated the swoosh of wind that came out of a tunnel with every train as if it was going to carry her off. It was rush hour and every seat was full. There was hardly any room to stand up. She was constantly afraid she wouldn’t be able to fight her way out of the crowd and she would miss her stop. When she reached ground level and saw the sky again she took a moment to rest and breathe in fresh springtime air. Then she was ready to move on. She bought a street map from a pavement stall, and followed her route street by street. Her legs were aching and she was exhausted by the time she reached her destination.

  At last there it was. Mayflower House. It stood right in the middle of a sweep of houses in a half moon crescent. They looked like the old Georgian buildings in Edinburgh. The kind they used in fog-shrouded melodramas, where husbands tried to drive their wives mad, or bodysnatchers sneaked out into an eerie street looking for their next victim. The houses here all looked run-down, and that disappointed Roxy. These houses could have been beautiful, but paint flaked from the graffiti-stained walls and windows were boarded up or had grilles in front of them. Some of the houses looked as if they had been turned into grotty flats, with filthy once-white net curtains draped across the windows.

  The front door of Mayflower House was flanked by two chipped columns. The wood on the high windows was breaking up and the stonework was crumbling. She thought of her own neat little terraced home, the front garden with the pot plants and the climbing wisteria and honeysuckle, once her dad’s pride and joy. For a moment, hurt by the memory, Roxy felt on the verge of tears, but she sniffed them back. That was then, she told herself. This was now. No going back.

  The brightly shining brass plate on the column restored her confidence. Someone at least took care of this house. The front door was lying open, letting the morning sunshine flood into the hallway. A girl was arranging some flowers in a vase and Roxy stood watching her for an age. She was very thin, with pale fair hair. Her mouth was hanging open as she concentrated on her task. She doesn’t realise anyone’s watching her, Roxy thought, or that mouth of hers would be shut. Almost as if she had heard her, the girl turned, saw Roxy and her mouth snapped closed.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ she asked. She saw Roxy hesitate, and she came forward. ‘Come on in.’ She smiled, but Roxy didn’t smile back. She didn’t move.

  ‘My name’s Doreen,’ the girl said. ‘I work here. Mrs Jones is out but she’ll be back soon. Fancy a cup of tea?’

  Roxy stepped into the shabby hallway. It was brightened up by the flowers and multicoloured throws draped over a couple of sofas against the walls. Doreen followed her gaze. ‘I know, it doesn’t look much, but there’s never enough money to do it up. That’s where Mrs Jones is now, trying to get some more sponsors. Run away from home, have you?’

  Roxy blushed, but Doreen didn’t seem to notice. She hardly paused. ‘I ran away too, long time ago. Now I work here. Trouble at home?’

  Roxy didn’
t answer her and Doreen shrugged. ‘Tell me to mind my own business. I’m so nosy it’s unbelievable. I’m always getting into trouble for it.’

  Roxy said softly. ‘Aye, trouble at home. That sums it up.’

  ‘From Scotland, are you? Well, so far there’s been nothing on the telly about you, so have you just left home? Just a couple of days ago, eh?’

  She is right, Roxy thought, she is nosy. She was glad that only a few moments later a woman stepped into the hallway. Roxy recognised her right away as the woman in the article, Jessica Jones. She was thinner than she’d looked in the photograph and her grey hair was untidy and pulled back with clips. She put her briefcase on the hall table and stared at Roxy. She did not at that moment look like a woman who was going to welcome her with open arms.

  Doreen immediately began telling all. ‘She’s from Scotland, Mrs Jones, she’s just run away. Trouble at home, she says. Young, isn’t she?’

  Mrs Jones silenced Doreen with the merest lift of her eyebrow. Then she turned back to Roxy. ‘You read the article in that magazine, didn’t you?’ She didn’t wait for Roxy’s answer. Jessica Jones pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘I knew I should never have agreed to that interview. Since that article I have been inundated with silly girls who have one quarrel with their parents and decide to run. And where do they run …? Here!’

  ‘I’ve not just had one quarrel with her …’ Roxy began to say, but her voice broke in a sob. Maybe it was the sob that made Jessica Jones’s eyes soften, the line of her jaw become less hard.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not usually this judgemental. Did you come down on the night bus?’

  Roxy nodded.

  ‘Then I think before we have a really good talk you need a good sleep in a comfortable bed.’ She turned to Doreen. ‘Get a bed ready upstairs. I’ll have a cup of tea with … what is your name?’

  Roxy almost told her, held back at the last minute. ‘Ro — Rosemary,’ she muttered.

  Doreen didn’t want to leave them. She fumbled with the flowers as Mrs Jones led Roxy into another room. She closed the door before she said a word. ‘Try not to tell Doreen too much of your business, Rosemary.’ She sat on the sofa and motioned Roxy to sit beside her. ‘Now, why exactly did you leave home?’

  Roxy thought about what to tell her. If this woman was going to give her the chance to stay then she couldn’t tell her the truth, not all of it. ‘Trouble at home,’ she said.

  ‘Lots of girls have trouble at home, they don’t run away. Your parents – your mother and father – they’ll be worried about you.’

  Roxy shook her head. ‘No. They won’t. They don’t want me any more.’ She looked straight at Jessica. ‘Anyway, my father’s dead. I have a stepfather now.’ She let the implication of that sink in. They were bad to her. He was bad to her.

  Jessica nodded very slowly as if she was mulling that over. ‘Have they been violent towards you? Have the police ever been involved?’

  Roxy shrugged. ‘No. Not the police. But I can’t stay there any more. And I can’t go back. You won’t make me, will you?’

  It took a long time for Jessica to answer. ‘I would never make you go back. But since that interview, this is the first place the police seem to look for runaways. And if they come to me, I can’t lie about you. You must see that.’

  Roxy saw her dreams of staying here fading fast. But if she couldn’t stay here … where could she go?

  ‘The article said you always helped, you never tell on anyone.’

  ‘I believe you’re under age,’ Jessica said. ‘That makes all the difference. I do help all I can, but I will not break the law. I’m sure you could get something sorted out once the police are involved. They wouldn’t make you go back either.’

  Roxy drew in a deep breath at the mention of the police again. Anything but that. ‘You’re going to tell them I’m here?’

  Jessica said nothing for a moment, till Roxy asked her again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosemary, but if the police are looking for a runaway under-age girl I couldn’t possibly not inform them you’re here.’

  Roxy had to know at least that she was safe here for the present. ‘Please don’t tell them about me now. Not today. At least give me until tomorrow.’

  Finally, Jessica smiled, her pale thin lips drawing back and tightening her skin. She looks as if she’s had a lot of worries, Roxy thought.

  ‘I’ll wait till tomorrow, I promise that. I want you to rest without worrying about that at least.’

  It was as much as she could ask for. Roxy sank back on the sofa. She was suddenly very tired.

  Jessica took her arm gently. ‘Do you really want some tea?’

  Roxy shook her head, told her about breakfast at the cafe. Jessica nodded. ‘Then I think you should get to bed now. You’re tired. Sleep, Rosemary, that’s what you need.’

  Roxy was sure she would never sleep again, not till she knew she was safe. ‘You promise you won’t tell anyone I’m here. Not yet.’

  Jessica smiled again. It seemed sincere, but Roxy had never trusted sincere smiles. ‘Sleep, Rosemary. We’ll talk when you wake up. But for the moment you have my word that no one will know you’re here.’

  Chapter Four

  It was dark and the house was quiet when Roxy woke up, and for a moment she was totally disorientated. She felt as if she had been asleep for hours. Where was she? She expected to open her eyes and see Jennifer asleep in the bed across from her. But it wasn’t Jennifer who lay there. It was the girl, Doreen, letting out gentle snores.

  What was she doing here in this house, with strangers? Why wasn’t she at home with her mother and her sister? Safe. Secure. She imagined she could hear her mother rattling about in the kitchen, almost picture her with a towel wrapped around her head, just out of the shower, fixing breakfast for them before drying her hair.

  One phone call, and they would surely come for her. I could be there now, Roxy thought. Why don’t I just go home?

  In that instant, almost as if she was being told the answer, her stomach began to heave. She sat up, desperately trying to remember where the bathroom was in this strange house, hoping she could make it in time. She jumped out of bed and ran for the door.

  When Roxy stumbled back into the bedroom Doreen was awake, sitting up in bed, waiting for her.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked.

  Roxy slipped back into bed before she answered her. ‘Fine.’ She pulled the covers up to her chin, shivering. She just wanted to sleep again now.

  Doreen lay back down, resting her head on her hand. She still watched her intently. ‘You’re going to have a baby, aren’t you? Know the signs.’

  Roxy peered at her in the darkness. Could she trust her? ‘You won’t tell on me, will you?’

  Doreen muffled a giggle. ‘You won’t be able to keep it a secret for long.’

  That was true. Time was against her. ‘That woman, that Jessica, she’ll help me, won’t she?’

  Doreen hesitated. Roxy could make out her eyes now, her face. Doreen was thinking hard. ‘She’s really nice, Jessica, don’t get me wrong. But she will send you back. You’re under age, you see, and you’re pregnant. Of course she’s going to inform the authorities. She won’t think she’s got a choice. She’s a typical do-gooder. They do good, but only up to a point.’

  Roxy felt like crying. She’d come all this way and she was no further forward. She’d be sent back, like an unwanted package. Perhaps Jessica Jones had lied to her and had already phoned the police and they were on their way, wailing towards her in police cars, on trains, in planes, hurrying to get her.

  ‘I won’t go back,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘I can’t go back.’ Yet now it seemed she didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  Doreen got up from her bed and crossed to Roxy’s. She sat beside her and clasped both her hands. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this …’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Doreen hesitated. ‘Maybe I know people who can really help you.’ Her
voice was almost a whisper, as if she was afraid someone might be listening. ‘People who definitely won’t send you back. I know that for a fact. Real do-gooders. They’ve helped lots of girls in your situation.’

  ‘Who are they? How can I find them?’ Roxy was suddenly desperate to get away from this house, sure that at any moment, her mother, Jennifer and Paul could come charging up the stairs, accusing her of hurting them, being selfish, not caring about anyone but herself. Then it would begin all over again. Only worse this time because of what she carried inside her.

  ‘Can you get in touch with them?’ she asked Doreen.

  Doreen put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ll contact them.’

  ‘Today,’ Roxy said. ‘It has to be today.’

  Doreen didn’t disagree with that. ‘I know.’

  Roxy lay down and tried to sleep again, but it was impossible. She was enveloped in fear. She had thought she could feel safe here, but she didn’t. If anything, she was more afraid. Why had she believed that stupid article? She would have been safer going anywhere but here. When Jennifer Jones informed the police, her family would know she was in London. They would find her. But now, she had hope again. These people Doreen knew, she prayed they would be able to help her.

  She managed to fall asleep again, but as soon as she heard sounds coming from downstairs she was up and dressed. She shook Doreen. ‘When are you going to phone them?’

  Doreen opened one bleary eye. It was as if she was trying to remember, then she smiled. ‘Soon as I’m up. I promise.’

  Then she stretched and closed her eyes again. ‘Just give me another hour.’

  Roxy went downstairs. So far she had seen no one else in this house. It had been quiet when she arrived and here, in the early morning sunshine, apart from the noises coming from the kitchen, it was still quiet. She had slept for a long time.

  There was a delicious smell of hot bread wafting towards her and Roxy suddenly remembered just how hungry she was. Eating for two, a voice murmured. She imagined the baby inside her for the first time, a real person. Calling out for food. ‘Feed me!’