by Janet Tanner
‘Oh God,’ Helen said. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. But …’ she laughed bitterly, ‘it doesn’t actually help. It only makes the point even more clearly the awful things that can happen if we mess up.’
‘It comes with the territory,’ Paul said. ‘You have to put it behind you and go on. Hopefully you learn from your mistakes. And the job has its compensations. If we weren’t doing it, putting our own necks on the block, a lot more people would die.’
‘Well at the moment my neck feels very vulnerable indeed.’
‘I’m sure it does. But ride out the storm, Helen. You’ll get over it.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ Helen said.
They were back at the surgery now.
‘Why did you come to the inquest?’ she asked suddenly. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’
He smiled crookedly.
‘I thought you could do with a little moral support. And now, if I’m not mistaken, you could do with a large drink.’
‘I could, but I’ve still got a surgery to take.’
‘Afterwards?’ he said. ‘Would you like to meet up for a drink afterwards?’
She nodded. It was only later that the thought occurred to her; perhaps some good had come out of this whole horrible business. At least she and Paul were back on good terms. Of that she was very glad. But even thinking that she might have benefitted in some way from Ida’s death made her feel guilty all over again. Helen thought that it would be a very long time before she was able to
put it behind her.
Carrie stared at the letter Jenny had asked her to post for her and felt her stomach churning. Jenny was going to have a baby. There it was, in black and white, in Jenny’s own handwriting.
I knew it! Carrie thought. I knew there was something wrong with her! Oh, the stupid, stupid girl! After all I did to try and make sure something like this didn’t happen, the minute I let her have a bit of rope she goes and hangs herself with it.
As she so often did when she needed to settle herself down, Carrie went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. A cup of tea was definitely called for.
One of Jenny’s Pitman magazines lay on the table and Carrie flipped it open. The page was filled with lines of symbols for translating. They meant nothing to Carrie but Jenny was good at it, she knew. It was unthinkable that all that should go to waste. And it might very well do, even now, if she posted the letter. The boy might stand by her and Jenny would end up in married quarters somewhere, tied to a husband she hardly knew and a baby to bring up when she was scarcely more than a baby herself.
But why hadn’t she said something? She’d been going around looking like a wraith these last few weeks and Carrie had known deep down that it was more than simply heartache over that boy. There had been times when she’d almost confessed – Carrie could see it now – the times when she’d hovered, looking nervous as well as wretched, trying to summon up the courage to begin, most likely.
It’s a good job I decided to have a look, Carrie thought, justifying to herself the appalling invasion of privacy she had committed. It’s a good job I didn’t just put it in the drawer with the others. Goodness only knows when I’d have found out the truth if I’d done that.
She reread the letter and in spite of herself, in spite of everything, felt a stab of sympathy. Jenny was obviously going through hell. But then, you couldn’t expect to have your fun and not pay for it. Jenny wasn’t the first young girl to find that out and she wouldn’t be the last. Stupid, stupid girl! she thought again, angry now as well as upset. No wonder she was so anxious to get in touch with him.
Briefly she asked herself if she had done the wrong thing keeping them apart. Perhaps she had. She’d asked herself the same question more than once over the weeks, but somehow her course of action had been like a snowball rolling down a mountain slope and gathering its own momentum until it became an avalanche.
After the first time when she’d hidden Bryn’s letter to Jenny, it had been easy, too easy, to hide the next, and to refrain from posting Jenny’s letters to him too. The first guilt had been swallowed up in what had become a crusading spirit – it was for Jenny’s own good. When she thought it was over she’d forget him, get on with her life, and then, one day when the time was right, meet someone more suitable. Carrie could see it clearly in her mind’s eye – Jenny with a good job, marrying some nice local boy.
By the time she saw how unhappy Jenny had become and experienced a few more pangs of conscience it really was too late to change her mind. One letter might go astray – a whole series of them, in both directions … well, you didn’t have to be a Scotland Yard detective to work out that was highly unlikely. She’d worried about it a bit, imagining them comparing notes, putting two and two together and making four. And then the boy’s letters had stopped coming and she’d begun to breathe more easily. That was it, then. All she had to do was wait for the dust to settle and things to get back to normal.
And now this. Carrie stared at Jenny’s letter, feeling as if she was being carried along by a flood tide over which she had no control.
What now?
Again the thought occurred to her that if she posted this letter the boy might yet come back on the scene and Carrie couldn’t see that it would really solve anything. Simply make complications.
I don’t want her tied down yet, Carrie thought. That’s not what I want for her. She’s worth more than that. We’ll work something out. We did before. Look at Heather now – really happy. It would have been a very different story if she’d ended up with that no-good lad in Bristol who got her into trouble. And our Jenny’s got an even brighter future in front of her. We worked it out then and we’ll work it out now. Ourselves. As a family.
The other letters she had omitted to post were hidden in her underwear drawer. Just in case she should change her mind. But this one …
The contents were so abhorrent to Carrie she couldn’t bear for them to exist, even. She tore the letter into little pieces and threw them on to the living-room fire.
Then she made herself that much-needed cup of tea and sat down to work out what she was going to do next.
She tackled Jenny that same evening – no sense letting things go on any longer. David was out with his friends – since his lonely Christmas, which, to Carrie’s surprise seemed to have done him good, he’d taken to going out on a Friday night with the same crowd he used to get about with before he married Linda – and when Joe put on his muffler and went out for his pint at the Working Men’s Club, she and Jenny were alone.
Carrie pulled up the fireside chair so she was facing the one where Jenny was supposedly reading – supposedly since Carrie hadn’t seen her turn the page once. She got her knitting out of her tapestry work bag and clicked her needles for a few moments. Jenny was staring down at her book, chewing her lips. Her eyes flicked up once, and when they met Carrie’s she looked quickly away.
‘Is there something you want to talk to me about, Jenny?’
Jenny’s eyes flicked up again, full of apprehension.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, don’t you? Come on, Jenny, you might as well tell me the truth.’
Jenny had gone very red.
‘You … know?’
‘I’ve got a fair idea.’
‘Did Heather tell you?’
‘Heather?’ Carrie was shocked. ‘Does Heather know about this?’ Jenny did not answer and Carrie thought quickly. She didn’t like the idea that Jenny had talked to Heather behind her back, but if she had and if she thought Heather had talked to her, then she wouldn’t wonder how Carrie had known. ‘I want to hear it from you,’ she said.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry …’
‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you? You’re going to have a baby.’ Jenny nodded.
‘Oh, Jenny, how could you let yourself down like that?’
‘I’m really sorry …’
‘It’s a bit late for sorry, isn’t it? I tr
ied and tried to stop something like this happening. I’ve seen it coming ever since you …’ She broke off. There was no way she could say what she meant – ever since Jenny had lost her puppy fat and turned into an attractive young woman. To say that would be to admit she had been something of an ugly duckling before, something Carrie had always strenuously denied. And in any case, it wasn’t strictly true. She’d seen it coming for much longer than that. Getting pregnant outside marriage wasn’t the prerogative of attractive girls. Quite often it was the plain ones, the fat ones, the ones with low self-esteem who wanted so desperately to be loved that they fell into the trap of giving themselves to the first man who paid attention to them. No, it had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with personality and character, and right from the word go Jenny had been a prime candidate, even leaving aside the wild streak that must be in her genes as it was in Heather’s.
‘Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk,’ Carrie said shortly. ‘What’s done is done. But we’d better get some plans made – and made soon. You don’t want to be still round here when you start to show.’
‘But …’
‘You don’t want to get yourself talked about, do you? You want to be able to walk down the street with your head held high. You’ve done so well and everybody round here thinks you’re a nice girl. We don’t want them knowing any different, do we? Then, when it’s all over, you can come back and go on as if nothing had happened. That’s much the best thing.’
Jenny wanted to argue, wanted to demand some say in what happened. It was her body, after all, her baby. But the habit of the years was too strong. Carrie had always been the one who made the decisions. She knew best, or so she thought, and the rest of the family accepted her own valuation.
Besides … if Bryn were here, Jenny thought, she’d find the strength from somewhere to fight her mother. But Bryn wasn’t here. He had deserted her when she needed him most. The only person she could rely on to help her sort out this whole terrible mess was Carrie.
‘Is that you, Joe?’ Carrie called out as she heard the front door closing. She knew it was, of course – who else would it be at this time of night? – David was usually much later than this. In any case, Sally had been waiting by the door for the last five minutes – she always seemed to know instinctively when Joe turned the corner of the road.
‘It’s me, m’dear,’ yes.’ Joe came in, unbuttoning his sports coat – he had already taken off his overcoat in the hall and hung it on the bannister.
‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re home,’ Carrie said. She was sitting in the fireside chair, but her knitting lay in the tapestry bag beside her, the needles sticking out untidily, and a ball of wool had rolled out on to the floor unnoticed.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ Joe asked.
Carrie shook her head in distress. ‘Something terrible’s happened, Joe. I don’t know how to tell you. It’s our Jenny. She’s got herself in trouble.’
‘Our Jenny? No!’ Joe’s placid face furrowed.
‘Yes. I got it out of her tonight. That RAF boy’s the father.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ He could see now why Carrie was so upset – he was upset, too. Jenny was the apple of his eye; this was the last thing he’d have expected.
‘She’ll have to have it adopted,’ Carrie said. ‘There’s nothing else we can do.’
‘D’you really think so? Couldn’t we … ?’
‘No!’ Carrie said shortly. ‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since I found out, and it’s the only way. But oh, my goodness, this is something I could have done without!’
‘What about the boy? Perhaps if he knew he’d …’
‘Marry her? Is that what you want for her, Joe? I know I don’t! No, it’s far the best that she has it adopted and tries to make a fresh start.’
‘Well, I suppose you know the best, m’dear,’ Joe said. He was too shaken by the news to argue with Carrie. Truth to tell, he didn’t even want to think about it. His little Jenny – pregnant at sixteen. He’d seen her blossom, taken a quiet pride in the way she’d turned out, but he’d never thought it would turn out like this, not even knowing as he did what boys that age were like. He’d thought his Jenny was too special for something like this to happen. Now the taste of the beer he’d drunk at the club turned sour in his mouth, making him feel sick.
‘I’ll start sorting it out tomorrow,’ Carrie said. ‘It’s not going to be any picnic, mind. Not for any of us.’
Joe said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to. But Carrie was certainly right there – this certainly wasn’t going to be any picnic.
As good as her word, next day Carrie made an appointment to see Helen to discuss options. The day after that she contacted a social worker. By the time the week was out she had arranged for Jenny to go to a Catholic-run mother and baby home, not six weeks before the birth, but three months. Jenny would work there, helping out in the kitchen and doing domestic chores. The Church would arrange an immediate adoption so that Jenny could be back in Hillsbridge within two weeks of the birth. The home was within the catchment area for a secretarial college – if she could manage to continue her studies on her own initiative, she would be able to sit her examinations there.
Jenny went along with it all, numbed by the enormity of what was happening to her, regressing, almost, to the child she had so recently been – submissive, anxious to make amends, wanting only to be told what she should do. Heather made no further mention of taking on the baby herself but the fact that she had suggested it and Jenny’s violent reaction to the plan made an awkwardness between the sisters for a while.
As for Joe, he withdrew into himself, spending more time than ever pottering in the garden and in his shed. At the moment, it upset him just to look at Jenny, for seeing her reminded him that his innocent little girl had gone for ever. Jenny found his absence hurtful, but instinctively she understood, and was almost grateful, for she was as embarrassed in his presence as he was in hers. They both needed time to come to terms with what had happened – was happening – but she was in no doubt but that when the chips were down he would be there for her as he always had been. For the moment, he needed to do nothing. Carrie had taken charge, as she always did.
Chapter Twenty
‘Haven’t you done with those steps yet, Jennifer?’
Jenny sat back on her heels, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with damp puffy fingers as Sister Anne bore down on her. The strand of hair felt lank and needed cutting but she had resisted letting the sisters get their hands on it. She’d seen how they ‘barbered’ the other girls’hair – a pair of scissors that were practically shears and a pudding basin. A visit to a proper hairdresser was out of the question, so she scraped it back with a rubber band and hoped they wouldn’t notice it was longer than the regulations insisted upon.
‘I’ve nearly finished, Sister.’
‘Get on with it then. That’s the trouble with you girls – you’re born lazy. If you’d been brought up properly and taught how to keep yourselves busy you wouldn’t be in the mess you’re in now.’
Jenny wished she dared answer back, retort that she wasn’t lazy, just tired, tired, tired – more drained and exhausted than she’d ever been in her life – and bending double over a scrubbing brush gave her a cramp in the stomach, but she knew better than to argue. It did more harm than good. The sisters – especially Sister Anne – had ways of punishing girls who were insubordinate or cheeky and the sisters were all-powerful. The best course of action was to remain meekly silent and try to ignore the unfair and hurtful things they said. But inwardly Jenny burned with resentment.
Though her family hadn’t been practising Catholics for years she had been brought up to respect the Church and to think of nuns as gentle, kindly creatures who spent their days on good works or in prayer. As far as this lot were concerned nothing could be further from the truth. Most of them were hard and cold, embittered perhaps by their proximity with a procession of young girls who had achieve
d what they never could – motherhood.
To them, these girls were sinners, wild girls, wicked girls, girls with no morals, girls who had brought disgrace on themselves and their families. They had cheapened themselves, desecrated the temple of their bodies, lost the precious gift of their virginity in some back alley for a few moments’pleasure – or because they were so lacking in moral fibre they had been unable to refuse some greedy man his pleasure. They had not only let themselves and their families down, they had let down their sex, if not the whole of humanity. They were the damned, and the Sisters were determined not to let them forget it.
The penances they extracted were harsh. To those who complained they would reply, with the fierce zeal of the evangelist, that they were saving souls. And perhaps they believed they were doing just that, Jenny thought – but oh! how they enjoyed the process! Jenny hated them, every one, with the possible exception of Sister Agnes, old and wrinkled as a walnut, frail as a sparrow, who worked in the kitchen and seemed kindly. But Jenny didn’t think Sister Agnes would be at the home much longer. The others were impatient with her, and Jenny guessed they thought she lacked the authority to deal with the constant stream of fallen girls. If she didn’t die first, Sister Agnes would probably be sent off to a convent before long. And then there would be only the wardress nuns, as Jenny thought of them, for they reminded her more than anything of prison warders.
She had been here now for a month and hated every last moment of it. Up until that time she had continued going to college, wearing a tight strapping under bloused dresses that Carrie made for her to hide what there was of her bulge. Not that there was much, just a thickening around her waist, too high to shout pregnant from the roof tops, and on her mother’s instructions Jenny simply moaned to everyone that she was getting fat. Whether the deception had worked she wasn’t sure – Marilyn in particular, had given her some odd looks – and she wondered if when she had disappeared suddenly from the scene on the pretext of illness and a necessary recuperation with relatives at Bournemouth, they had guessed the real reason. But it scarcely mattered. Bath was eight miles away from Hillsbridge and it was very unlikely that anyone would ever know for sure.