She lowers her eyes. This is the thing she’s been trying not to think about. She’s read that missing one month is normal. It happens during times of upheaval, like moving away from home. That must be the explanation. But even as she thinks this, she knows it’s not so; everything is not going to be all right. They call it the curse, but it is surely the absence of her period that will damn her.
*
A week later, Dr Sarka confirms the thing that she has most dreaded, the thing that cannot possibly be true. She feels different somehow, not herself. The doctor suspects her funny turns may be connected: strange things happen to women when they’re expecting, he says, especially when the pregnancy is unplanned. He asks if she and the baby’s father are intending to marry, and she shakes her head. He raises his eyebrows as he looks at her.
Maggie looks at her hands. Tell him what happened, she urges herself. He’s a doctor; just tell him. But how can she tell him when even she doesn’t know?
The doctor looks at her again, not unkindly. ‘Maybe if you tell him about the child?’
Without looking up, she shakes her head again. ‘I – I don’t know where he is.’ She can feel her face colouring. What must the doctor think of her?
The doctor sighs. He writes the addresses and telephone numbers of three nursing homes on a notepad, tears off the paper and hands it to her.
There was a waitress Maggie knew at the hotel in Hastings who went to one of those places. It turned out to be more like a workhouse. She stuffs the note into her handbag, thanks him and scurries out through the waiting room, past Herta and her accusatory stare into the sleety March morning.
The doctor watches the door close, sighs again, and presses the buzzer for his next patient.
*
When Maggie wakes on Sunday morning, the appalling truth of her condition has crept across her brain and is hanging there like poison ivy. Usually, she enjoys Sundays; she doesn’t have to go in until lunchtime because it’s the day they strike the set, pack away the old props and lay out the new ones. Jimmy will be painting the flats and everyone will be moaning about having to read a new script while trying not to muddle the play they’ve been performing all week with the one they’re rehearsing.
She puts her housecoat on and paces a little, smoking cigarettes as she tries to think what to do. Gin; there’s something you can do with gin and a hot bath. And mustard. She’s not even sure whether you’re supposed to drink the gin or bathe in it. And there are pills, she’s heard. Quinine? If she’s going to do the gin thing, she needs to do it soon. Who can she ask? For the first time since she’s been in Sheffield, she’s aware of how far from home she is. Back in Hastings, there are people she could talk to, but she’s been here for three months now, and apart from a couple of hurried postcards when she first arrived, she hasn’t been in touch with any of her old friends. She can’t just suddenly get in contact now and ask them if they know how to get rid of a pregnancy.
Later, when she’s packing away the rubber snake from the last play, it comes to her: Vanda! She gets the address from Una, and manages to slip away from the theatre that afternoon, ostensibly to search for props for next week’s play. As she walks up the hill towards Vanda’s, she almost veers into the road to avoid the passageways between the houses. Her heart beats too fast and her breathing is shallow. Halfway up the hill, she hears someone cry out as if in terror. She stops and flings her head around but the street is empty; then she realises, because its echo is still caught in her throat, the cry came from her own lips.
She tries to walk on but there’s a whooshing sound in her ears and she’s struggling to take a breath. Something is crushing her, a hot, suffocating mass, sucking the air from her lungs. The next thing she knows, she is lying on the pavement and someone is throwing water at her face. She gasps as she opens her eyes.
‘Come on, lass. That’s ’ ticket. Let’s get thee to tha feet.’ A solid, whiskery man who smells of pipe tobacco helps her up. A stout woman in a wrap-around apron dips her fingers into a glass and flicks more water into her face.
‘Give over, Florrie; ’ lass is coming round.’
The woman mumbles an apology and offers the glass to Maggie’s lips. A small crowd has gathered and someone suggests calling a doctor.
‘Thank you,’ Maggie says, taking a gulp. ‘I’m fine now, really.’
‘You passed out cold,’ the woman says. ‘I was cleaning me windows and I saw tha grab on’t lamp post, then tha dropped like a stone, didn’t she, Stan?’
‘Aye. Gave tha head a right crack, lass. How’s tha feeling now?’
The concerned faces make Maggie feel a fraud. She declines the offer of tea and a sit down and is assuring them she’s fine when she sees Vanda hurrying towards her.
‘Maggie, darling! What happened? I was nosing out of my window and I saw you sprawled out on the ground. I thought, I’m sure that’s young Maggie from the Playhouse down there taking centre stage.’
There is an audible click of the tongue from the whiskery man. ‘Lass fainted, Elsie,’ he says. ‘In’t it obvious?’
Maggie had forgotten about the name, and wonders whether Vanda has a completely different personality to go with ‘Elsie’. She thanks the neighbours again and allows Vanda to lead her up the road. As they walk down the passageway, Maggie realises she is holding her breath and gripping Vanda’s arm a little too tightly.
The yard is like a bomb site, with piles of rubble and broken fencing heaped all around. ‘The back wall and both fences came down in the storm,’ Vanda explains. ‘Could have been worse, I suppose. Next door’s chimney collapsed into their front room.’
Vanda fills the kettle while Maggie looks around, surprised at how different the house seems now the furniture is back. The room is an odd mix of old and new, dark and light. A glass-fronted oak cabinet stands next to a G Plan sideboard; the settee looks modern, with thin wooden legs and tweedy black and white covers, but the fireside chairs remind her of her grandma’s. Theatrical photographs cram the mantelpiece – Vanda and Boris, the chorus, a magician, and various other performers, all with great flourishing signatures. There’s one of a man who looks like James Mason. Maggie used to have a crush on James Mason, but that was a thousand years ago.
‘So.’ Vanda takes two cups and saucers from the kitchen cabinet, bright yellow with white polka dots – vivid, like Vanda herself. ‘What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’
‘I was coming to see you, actually.’ Maggie’s stomach is doing somersaults as she sits at the little Formica table watching Vanda spoon tea into the pot. ‘I need some advice, really. You see, I . . .’ She can’t make the words come.
‘Advice about what?’ Vanda shouts over the whistling kettle. ‘I haven’t found the secret of fame and fortune, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘No, it’s . . .’ She hesitates again.
‘Maggie darling, do spit it out. I’m dying of curiosity.’
Maggie takes a deep breath. ‘I’m pregnant.’ It sounds harsh and vulgar, but expecting or going to have a baby don’t seem right at all. ‘I’ve seen a doctor so I know it’s definite.’ Just get to the point, she thinks; just ask her. ‘And I was wondering whether you knew, well, I don’t have much money, and I know there are pills you can get to bring on your monthlies but I don’t know what they’re called.’ She is babbling now, the words spilling out like water from a leaky gutter. ‘And I was wondering if you knew how to, you know, there’s that thing you can do with gin, isn’t there? But I don’t know how much you need or whether you have to use mustard as well . . .’ She stops. While she has been talking, she has ripped the tissue she was holding to pieces. She looks down with some surprise at the little bits of white, dotted like snow over the lino. She kneels to gather them up, failing to notice that Vanda has fallen silent in the kitchen and has stopped fussing around with sugar bowls and spoons.
‘And what makes you think I would be able to help you?’ Vanda is standing very still with her back t
o Maggie, her arms spread and her hands resting on the wooden draining board. Her voice has a steely edge; her back is rigid and seems to crackle with tension. Maggie gets to her feet.
‘I just thought—’
‘Did you think I was a prossie or something? Some sort of loose woman, just because I show a bit of leg on stage and I don’t have a husband?’ Vanda turns to face her, and she’s shocked at the black lights flaring in Vanda’s eyes.
‘No, no. I didn’t think that.’ She says it clumsily. She has made assumptions; not what Vanda thinks, but maybe not that far off. And based on what? The make-up? The flamboyant clothes? The fact that Vanda is older? She can feel her face flush.
‘You listen to me,’ Vanda almost spits. ‘It’s not my problem that you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble, and I have no intention whatsoever of helping you to get out of it.’ She turns away again, pours the tea so it slops into the saucers and says, icily, ‘Sugar?’ She stands with the sugar bowl in her hand, apparently impatient for an answer.
‘It’s not quite like that.’ Maggie looks down. ‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I didn’t know who else . . .’ But she is making things worse. ‘I’d better go.’ Mumbling apologies, she opens the back door and says goodbye. She walks quickly through the passageway, feeling her breath quicken. Despite the chilliness of the morning, she is aware of a fine sweat breaking out on her forehead.
*
That night, Maggie does not sleep, not at all. She lies in her little bed, eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking. If Vanda won’t help her, she decides, she’ll have to do it alone. She spends the morning sitting on her bed, smoking, waiting for the off-licence to open. At ten to eleven, she puts on her coat and headscarf, grabs her handbag and hurries down the four flights of stairs to the hallway, pausing to check that Dot has definitely gone out. She heaves open the door to the basement. The damp, mushroomy smell triggers a wave of nausea, but when it has passed, she goes down to light the copper so that by the time she gets back with the gin, the water should be hot enough. There’s a sense of urgency now, a need to get this thing out of her. She has begun to picture it, its face grotesque, pitted and gnarled like something that’s been in the sea for days.
*
Drink a lot – no tiny tot! Where did she read that? She takes another gulp. She can hardly see to turn off the water, partly because the steam is so dense, and partly because she is so drunk. Drunk as a skunk, as Leonard would say. At first, she’d poured it into a glass and lit a cigarette to go with it, but now she’s swigging it straight from the bottle and telling herself it’s medicine. She holds it up to see how much she’s drunk, but there are two of everything. She tries what she’s seen Leonard do when he’s really sozzled; she puts her free hand over one eye, and it works! The two bottles move back into one and she can see she’s had just over half. Surely that should be enough? She puts the bottle on the floor and lurches forward, almost falling into the bath. This gives her the giggles. She fumbles with the tin of Colman’s mustard powder, and the lid comes off so suddenly she drops the whole lot into the water where it billows out like deadly yellow bath salts. She positions the wooden chair next to the bath so she can reach the bottle, takes another gulp and starts to undress. But as she pulls her sweater over her head, she loses her balance and stumbles, knocking the chair and the bottle onto the floor. She curses, grabs a towel and bends down to try and mop up the gin, but the room begins to spin and she hears a roaring in her ears before she is overtaken by nausea. She tries to stand but the room won’t keep still, so she crawls through the puddle of gin on the lino to the sink in the corner.
The retching comes from so deep within her she wonders if she will vomit the baby right up into the stone sink. She’s never been so sick. It seems to go on forever and she’s so consumed that she doesn’t hear Dot shouting down the stairs.
Dot has made a mistake; she forgot her WRVS meeting was cancelled this week so she came home, planning to get on with her needlework and then put her feet up and listen to the wireless.
‘Who’s in there?’ Dot shouts, banging on the door which immediately swings open because Maggie hasn’t bothered to lock it.
Maggie is hanging over the sink, thinking she’s about to die, when she feels a cold blast of air and notices the movement of the steam.
Dot is looking at her as though she cannot believe her eyes. Maggie retches again, then the roaring in her ears makes everything go red and she passes out cold on the floor.
She comes round to find Dot wiping her face with a flannel. It takes her a moment to work out where she is, then she remembers why she’s in the bathroom. She sits up, then tries to stand, but Dot tells her to stay still. The steam has cleared now and she can tell by the gurgling noises that Dot has emptied the bath.
‘Right,’ Dot says, straightening up. ‘How much did tha drink?’
‘About half,’ Maggie replies. She feels remarkably sober, considering.
‘With a bit of luck, you’ll have brought it all up.’ She doesn’t look at Maggie and she is talking through her teeth. ‘This is a respectable house, this is. I’m going upstairs now but I’ll be keeping an eye on thee. If owt starts to happen, I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No, please . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else—’
‘A respectable house,’ Dot says again, opening the door. Maggie can hear her muttering as she climbs the stairs: After all I’ve done . . . no gratitude . . . that sort of girl.
Maggie starts to gather her things. She is too tired, too drained even to weep. Then her legs tremble and she feels dizzy again. She mustn’t faint; she puts her hand on the steam-wet wall to steady herself, but then a powerful cramp grips her stomach and spreads around her middle. My God, she thinks. This must be it; it’s actually working.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The six of them, all with white beards and pointy hats, are squashed together in what is little more than a broom cupboard at the rear of the auditorium. The idea is that if Sneezy appears in front of the stage just before curtain up, the audience will be so busy watching his antics that they won’t notice the rest of the dwarves creeping out behind them in the darkness, ready to hi-ho their way down the aisles and onto the stage.
Jonathan peers through the crack in the door. It’s airless in the tiny space, humid with exhaled breath. He tries to shift position but given the proximity of the other dwarves he can barely move. Sweat starts to prickle under his arms, and he runs his finger under his collar to lift it away from the clammy skin on the back of his neck. What doesn’t help is that he is absolutely certain he saw Ryan Jenkins just now, hanging around outside with a couple of other boys.
‘I’m sure it was him, you know,’ he whispers to Malcolm.
‘Unlikely. Not really their manor, is it? And – oh, here we go.’
Sneezy has started his major sneezing routine so the rest of them begin sliding out of the cupboard. At the cue, Dozy lifts his shovel onto his shoulder and sings a long, loud hi-ho. The others follow suit with their shovels, then begin singing the hi-ho song as they march down the darkened aisle towards the brightly lit stage. Jonathan is last in line, and as he sees all the heads turning around to watch them, everybody smiling, the rapt faces of the little kids, he begins to think that maybe life isn’t so bad after all.
And then smack, he’s on the floor. He scrambles to his feet. His wrist hurts and he’s grazed the side of his face.
‘You all right, mate?’ A pony-tailed man with a gold stud in his nose and a toddler on his lap hands him the shovel. ‘You must have tripped.’
Jonathan looks behind him. There’s no crease in the carpet, no handbag left carelessly in the aisle. The audience laughs.
‘Smi-ley!’ The other dwarves are standing at the front, hands on hips; Malcolm is giving him a look, doing his best to make it all part of the show.
Jonathan scans the laughing faces, but the lighting makes it difficult to see more than the few that are nearest to him. For a momen
t, he thinks he recognises a Year 10 boy a little way along the row, but he’s mistaken. Even the nose-stud man is grinning now.
‘Hurry up, Smiley,’ Malcolm shouts, still in character. ‘Snow White’ll be here soon and if she finds you hanging around down there, it’ll be early to bed and no telly for you!’
They’re all laughing at him now, enjoying his humiliation. He can feel the sweat beading on his upper lip; his heart is beating hard, like he’s just run up a flight of stairs. He looks around the auditorium; Fiona’s out there somewhere, witnessing this, seeing him made a fool of. He looks again at row upon row of laughing faces, but doesn’t recognise any of them. Maybe he is overreacting. He tries to gather himself, knows he should put on his biggest smile, sing a loud hi-ho and march merrily down the aisle with the others. But what if Ryan Jenkins is out there, poised to start heckling or throwing things at the stage? Jonathan’s anger is pulsing in his temples; he’s not sure he trusts himself any more. He begins walking slowly towards the front, trying to balance reason against suspicion. He can feel them all watching. They’re only kids, he tells himself; it was a coincidence. It’s just an audience full of kids, laughing at the panto like they’re supposed to. Now is his chance to pull it back; just march the march and sing the bloody song. Just do it. He continues down the aisle. All he has to do is walk up those wooden steps and onto the stage, then smile and bow and carry on with the show. But his legs seem to be acting on their own. As he walks, he has the strangest sensation that he has stepped outside of his own body. The expression beside myself comes into his mind as he watches himself walking towards the stage, then on past Malcolm and the others, and out through the door at the side. A moment later, he is almost surprised to find himself, light-headed and slightly shaky, standing behind the stage in the darkened space that doubles as a dressing room. He sits down among the bags and coats and boxes of props and considers what he’s just done; he’s actually walked out of a performance. What he wouldn’t give now for a cigarette. And then he hears the voices onstage, a wave of laughter, then another, louder, no doubt at his expense. Well, fuck them. Fuck the lot of them.
The Things We Never Said Page 14