Born of Woman

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘I think Sparrow’s the real father.’

  ‘Sparrow?’

  ‘You know, the big one with the motorbike. He used to be my steady. He came here once or twice—showed the boys his tattoos.’

  ‘But I thought you said you’d … given him up?’

  ‘Yeah. Had to, didn’t I? He doesn’t fancy birds with babies. He’d go spare if he heard about the kid. He couldn’t help me, anyway. He’s broke—continually. Either on the dole or blueing what he’s got by rushing off abroad or buying bigger bikes. I had to give him the push before he deserted me, so I said I was going to Dublin to live with some Irish bloke I’d met at a party. He was quite upset, I think.’

  Jennifer jabbed at her thumb with a hairpin. ‘He made the bulge, for heaven’s sake. It’s just as much his responsibility as yours. I mean, what about all that women’s lib stuff? Why should he go scot free, when you’re left with all the hassle and expense?’

  ‘Because I can’t prove he’s the father.’

  ‘Who’s the third, then? Can’t he help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He can’t, that’s all.’ Susie rolled off the bed, picked up a comb and tore it through her hair with an ugly ripping sound.

  ‘Look, tell me, Susie. If I’m going to help you, I’ve got to know the facts.’

  ‘He’s … foreign. Lives abroad. He was only in London for a month or two—sort of passing through. He’s gone home now and I don’t have his address. Even if I did, I couldn’t write. It wouldn’t be fair. He’s got a … wife … and kids of his own and …’

  ‘Well, he should have thought of them before. These men are so damned casual. I mean, why should they …?’

  ‘Cool it, Jen. I’m on my own in this.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I’m here and I intend to see you through it.’

  ‘Why should you?’

  ‘No reason.’ Hester was a reason. And her own lost baby. Babies must survive. Jennifer started tidying up the room, plumping cushions, folding clothes. Must keep busy, mustn’t think.

  Susie took a step towards her, hugged her suddenly. ‘Thanks, love, you’re an angel.’

  Jennifer stood a moment, Susie’s body merging into hers, smelling her hair, her lily-of-the-valley chain-store scent; feeling her breasts swollen as she’d said; her own body hollow and unfruitful. She pulled away. ‘Look, I’d … er … better get the lunch.’

  ‘Who for?’ Susie was drooling ash into her make-up drawer. ‘I packed the boys off to the swimming baths and gave them money for some fish and chips. Told them not to come back here on pain of death till tea-time at the earliest—and if they could make it midnight, all the better.’

  ‘Susie, I don’t think Anne would …’

  ‘Anne’s not here. It’ll do ’ em good. Make ’em independent. They’ll grow up rotten selfish bastards, the way she waits on them.’

  Jennifer sank down on the bed. She felt pulled in all directions at once. She ought to go and search for Lyn, stay and comfort Susie, had a duty to Anne and Matthew to make sure the boys were safe. ‘Look, I’ll get us lunch.’ Cooking a meal would be a simple solid chore, anchor her mind to something.

  ‘Not hungry, thanks.’

  ‘You ought to eat, you know, now you’re pregnant.’

  ‘Oh, stuff it, Jen. I had enough of that from the doctor. You eat if you want.’

  Jennifer wasn’t hungry either, but she walked down to the kitchen, counting on her fingers. Fourteen weeks, Susie’s GP had said. That meant Susie had conceived at the end of April—the same month she had conceived, a year ago. She stood at the kitchen door, stared in horror at the mess. Every surface was cluttered with dirty dishes, the floor a maze of footmarks, sink clogged with soggy teabags and old potato peelings. She felt a sudden pang of guilt. She had been planning to escape with Lyn, leave Susie in sole charge. This was the shambles Anne and Matthew would have found on their return.

  She scraped back her hair in a rubber band, tied on a dirty apron. She was glad no one could see her. The girl who had gilded Newcastle was now a Cinderella. Half the North had flocked to worship her, yet back in London, her own husband hadn’t bothered to say hallo. And when he did show up, she would have to face his shock over Susie’s baby. If he found it so upsetting that a girl who meant nothing to him should be pregnant and unmarried, then how would he react to the news of his mother‘s bastard? She hoped to God he would never hear about it. Rowan Childs had been mercifully quiet, using her column to attack Irish Catholics and anti-vivisectionists rather than describe further forays to Hernhope. Yet she could still be secretly ferretting out the facts, Jasper Prince sharpening up his pen.

  Jennifer sank on to a stool. The sun was streaming through the window, rainbowing the dust—a tranquil summer morning, too bright for all these problems. She screwed up her eyes against it. Everything was so confused—remorse over Oz tinged with triumph that he had desired her at all; concern and pity for Susie all mixed up with envy of her pregnancy and anger at her carelessness; a longing for Lyn contradicted by worry and resentment.

  She picked up the dishcloth, swatted at the work-top, put it down again—felt too weary to tackle such disorder. Best to springclean herself first, scour off all the traces of last night.

  She trailed upstairs again, ran a bath. There was a tidemark all around the tub and one grubby towel flung into a corner. She took off her clothes, stared at her naked body in the mirror. Shouldn’t it look different after …?

  ‘Fancy a drink, love?’ Susie was standing in the doorway, clutching a bottle of gin.

  Jennifer grabbed the towel to cover herself. ‘You shouldn’t drink, Susie. It’s bad for the baby.’

  ‘Look, this kid’s a hundred per cent shockproof. I tried everything to budge it. Bottlesful of vodka after boiling hot baths, roasting myself on the top shelf of a sauna, riding pillion on a 1000cc Kawasaki—even some herbal stuff I got from an Indian girl who swore it would bring on my period in an hour. All it brought on was diarrhoea and a blinding headache. So if you think one mingy little gin’s going to upset it …’

  Jennifer turned away. She had done everything she could to save her own child—stayed in bed, hardly moving even there, swallowed every vitamin, called on Hester’s powers, prayed to a God she didn’t quite believe in. And there was Susie gulping gin and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Smoking’s bad, as well. It affects the …’

  ‘Do lay off, Jen. Have a gin yourself. You sound as if you need one. Let’s drink to the little bastard.’

  Jennifer turned the taps off. She did need a drink, to calm all the confusions, lull her constant dread and hope of Lyn’s return. She was worried by his absence, yet almost relieved to have an hour or two without him. She couldn’t face his fears on top of all the other turmoil. Susie was slopping gin into a tooth-mug.

  ‘Isn’t there any wine, Susie?’

  ‘No—I drank it all last week. Had to steel myself to make that appointment with the doc. There’s some very classy whisky, though.’

  Jennifer shuddered. Not whisky again. She could taste Oz’s Haig-flavoured kisses, tongue searching out her …

  ‘Tell you what—’ Susie sprang up from the bathroom stool, hair flicking in Jennifer’s face. ‘Let’s make cocktails—you know—those ones you had with Jonathan.’

  ‘We can’t. They’re made with liqueurs and grenadine and things. Matthew hasn’t got those.’

  ‘Yes, he has. Well, not grenadine, maybe, but lots of other stuff. His sideboard’s bulging with it. Anne told me to help myself to what I needed.’

  ‘She meant … food, though.’

  ‘What’s the difference? We’ll have a liquid lunch instead of … Oh, go on, Jen—don’t be such a meanie. You’ve been knocking back cocktails all week. Can’t we have just one?’

  ‘Susie, I love you.’

  ‘Love you, too, mate. Love Micky Mouse. Love Mohammed Ali. Love …’


  ‘Hey, stop splashing, will you? The water’s tipping over the side. This bath wasn’t built for two.’

  Jennifer shifted her bottom, unhooked her feet from Susie’s, displacing still more water, and peered over the edge of the bath. The floor was soaked, their clothes a sodden jumble. She giggled.

  ‘Want another Brain Buster?’ Susie grabbed one of the liquor bottles ranged along the side of the bath next to the pine-foam and shampoos.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Jennifer clutched the taps for support. The whole room was shimmying. ‘I prefer the Double Devils. D’you think we should have mixed them, though? I feel a bit … well … floty.’

  ‘Shouldn’t worry. They’re all the same basically. Have some brandy straight. It works like medicine. Here, swig it from the bottle.’

  Jennifer swigged. The bottle felt cold against her pink-flushed breasts. She lay back in the water. Susie had poured in at least a pint of Crazy Foam. The bubbles seemed to be seeping inside her skull, shimmering and popping in her head. She wasn ‘t exactly sure how she and Susie had landed up in the tub together. They had been sitting on the bathmat, mixing cocktails, she wrapped only in her towel still. Susie had brought up half of Matthew’s sideboard, turned bathroom into bar. The bath was ready run and cooling. At some point, Susie had started slooshing gin into the water.

  ‘In Hollywood they bath in booze, Jen.’

  ‘Champagne, though, not Gordon’s. And don’t waste it.’

  After that, things were more a blur—still were. She opened her eyes. Steam was billowing round the ceiling, drops of water sweating down the tiles. The room had lost its square and solid walls and was bulging out of shape.

  ‘D’you ever bath with Lyn?’ Susie was popping bubbles with her finger.

  ‘N … no.’

  ‘Sparrow’s got this thing about doing it in water. I suppose it’s because he’s Pisces. His great ambition was to do it under Niagara Falls in one of those plastic raincoat things they give you. Hey, Jen …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you really not notice my bulge? I imagine everyone’s sort of … gawping at me.’

  Jennifer was still cradling the brandy bottle. She took another gulp. ‘I felt that when I was pregnant. Thought the whole world was admiring.’ She glanced at Susie’s stomach, another blur beneath the bubbles. Her child had never made it to fourteen weeks.

  ‘Jen?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You know you said you loved me. Did you mean it?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘No one’s ever loved me. Not really. I mean, lots of blokes have said it, but only because I’ve sucked them off or something. It’s just lust with them, I reckon. Sometimes I wish I’d never slept with anyone.’

  ‘Why? Oh—you mean the baby.’

  ‘No, I don’t. It’s just that … well—it hasn’t ever really meant much. I mean, for you it all seems sort of … holy. I used to think you were just a prude, refusing to sleep with anyone but Lyn—and not even with him—but now I almost envy you.’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’ Jennifer lurched forward to replace the brandy, picked up another bottle. ‘Have a gin.’

  ‘No. I’m trying to be serious. Anyway, that’s beer shampoo, not gin. Listen, Jen, d’you think someone like me could change—be more like you? D’ you realise, I started when I was twelve and didn’t really care who the hell I had it off with. Yet you were still a virgin at nineteen—and you’ve stuck to the same one guy every single day since then.’

  Jennifer shut her eyes. Peacock coloured water was still frothing beneath her lids. ‘Not … quite.’

  ‘What d’you mean? I thought you said …’

  ‘I’m getting out now. My skin has gone all wrinkly. It must be that foam. It’s full of chemicals.’ Jennifer stood up. The bathroom walls were made of steam, writhing in and out.

  ‘No, tell me, Jen. If Lyn wasn’t your first, then who the hell …?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘You mean you had an affair after you were married?’

  ‘No. Well … not an affair.’

  ‘But you told me you’d never even …’

  Jennifer was shivering on the bathmat, little bubbles still pricking on her skin. ‘Where are all the towels? There’s only this grubby thing and it’s soaking wet already.’

  ‘There’s about half a hundred in the laundry basket. The boys went swimming every day and I never got round to doing a wash. Look, come upstairs to my room and you can borrow my towelling dressing-gown. That’ll mop you up. It’s even semi-clean. Hold on—I’ll get it for you.’ Susie heaved herself out of the water. ‘Seems a shame to waste these bubbles. Still …

  ‘She shrugged, followed Jennifer up the attic stairs, both girls dripping wet and naked. They dried each other with a combination of Susie’s towelling dressing-gown and a couple of Aertex shirts.

  ‘My feet are still wet.’

  ‘I’ll dry them.’

  ‘Don’t! It tickles.’

  ‘You’ve got funny feet, you know.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Nice and funny. Stop wriggling! You can’t be all that ticklish.’

  ‘I am. Ow! Don’t! Susie stop!’ Jennifer yanked her feet away. Susie lunged, grabbed them, tipped her off the chair. She sprawled on the carpet, still laughing, the scratchy cord rough against her breasts. She had lain like that with Oz, naked again, laughing again … She reached out her hand for Susie’s drunken golliwog propped against the skirting, its stuffing leaking, its limbs splayed out, as slack and pie-eyed as she was.

  ‘Listen, Susie …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you really want to know …’ She was addressing the golly—he was too stupid to be shocked. ‘I hadn’t slept with anyone—not until last night, that is.’

  Susie rocketed up. ‘Last night? You mean …?’

  ‘Yes. In Newcastle. Oh, Susie. I hardly knew the guy.’

  ‘And you had it away, you mean?’

  ‘Mm.’ The golliwog’s cheeks were two burning scarlet blobs. ‘I feel an utter slut.’

  ‘Come off it, mate! What’s one little screw when you’ve gone more than a year without it? I’d have been humping the whole of Newcastle.’

  ‘It wasn’t one. We did it at least five times—no, six.’

  ‘Christ! Who the hell was he? Son of James Bond?’

  ‘Well, he was introduced as Oz Steadman. But halfway through the night, he admitted he’d been christened Brian.’ Jennifer tried to laugh, but it came out like a sob. ‘Brian … B … Blenkins.’

  ‘Blenkins?’ Susie giggled. ‘I don’t believe it. Where did you pick him up? In the lift?’

  ‘No, he’s a … photographer.’

  ‘Cor! you lucky dog! Did he take your picture?’

  ‘Not … then, silly.’

  ‘Well, he might have had a Polaroid. I can just see you on Page 3, Jen!’

  Jennifer shuddered. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Cor! I’ve never had a guy come more than twice. Beginner’s luck, I s’pose. If it was me who’d gone to bed with him, he’d have been a premature ejaculator or into S.M. or something. Tell me what he did. I want a blow-by-blow account.’

  ‘No, Susie. It’s … embarrassing. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why not? In our Women’s Group, sex is the favourite subject.’

  ‘Yes, but only sexual rights and things. Not all the actual … details.’

  ‘You’d be surprised! Our leader’s a bit kinky, I suspect. She’s always on about sex and bodies and things. Jo, she’s called—probably short for Joseph. She’s so butch herself, I doubt if she’d want a bloke, but she laps up all our stories as if she’s dying for it. Then she turns round and says we don’t need men at all—we’ve got to love our own bodies. We’re meant to admire ourselves in the mirror and buy flowers for our own birthdays and give ourselves massages and … Tell you what, I’ll give you a massage.’

  ‘N … no, Susie. We ought to get dressed.’

 
‘What for?’

  ‘Well, we can’t just sit here naked all afternoon.’

  ‘Why not? Jo’s always telling us to strip off and walk around in the altogether. She says we’ve got to feel at ease with our bodies and tell ourselves we’re beautiful, even if we’re twenty stone or got leprosy or something. Want some of this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Boots’ Dry Skin gunge. My skin’s all grotty since that bath. It’s a wonder Robert hasn’t got leprosy himself if he always baths in Crazy Foam.’

  ‘He doesn’t use the whole bottle, though. Mmm—smells nice.’

  ‘It shouldn’t. It’s only shark’s oil or axle-grease or something. Hold on—I’ll rub some in for you. Lie on the bed. This carpet’s like a hair-shirt.’

  Jennifer eased up from the floor, flopped on to the bed. Her body still felt limp, limbs floppy like a rag-doll’s. Susie was a second doll sprawling there beside her, a doll with working hands. The Women’s Group was right—there was nothing wrong with bodies. It was only Lyn who had made her doubt her own. Susie was admiring it. So had Oz, last night.

  She closed her eyes. Thinking of Oz had stirred up strange sensations. Or was it Susie’s hands? They were stroking low along her back now, had already reached her buttocks. She could feel Susie’s own excitement feeding on Oz as well. She kept sipping at him like a new exotic cocktail.

  ‘Did he … kiss you? You know, lower down?’

  ‘Y … yes.’

  ‘A lot of men won’t, I find. They expect you to almost choke on them, but it’s all a one-way business. Was it good?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ It was good now, the soft lulling pressure of Susie’s hands, her tickly hair teasing across her shoulders.

  Susie dolloped out more lotion. ‘Turn round again.’

  She turned. Oz had given commands. She could feel his hands busy on her breasts, rubbing in the lotion. Hands too soft and gentle for a man’s. Yet how could a woman’s hands arouse her, stir up such deep feelings?

  ‘Susie, don’t … I …’

  ‘Have you ever used a paint-brush? One of those very soft ones made of squirrel hair? They’re fantastic on the nipples. Sparrow tried it on mine when I was doing art at night-school and had all the different brushes. He even painted my nipples once, but the brush feels better dry. Hold on a sec—I’ll show you. This is only a lip-brush, but there’s not much difference Nice?’