by Juliet West
‘We’ll find you a nice comfortable clinic,’ said Francine decisively. ‘The baby can be . . . dealt with, or adopted, and you can start afresh. If we’re careful no one need know. You’re only just showing now. It must be a small baby.’
‘I can feel her kicking.’
‘Feel “it”, darling. You mustn’t give in to sentiment.’
Hazel put her hands on her stomach and began to cry again. The bump was quite visible with Hazel’s palms pressed to it like that. Tears dropped onto her pale young hands, sliding into the smooth dips between her knuckles, and Francine felt a sudden surge of abhorrence, to think that her daughter’s hands had been wrapped around a man; hands that only a short while ago had been happy to build sandcastles or thread together a daisy chain. It was too soon. It made her feel sick and it made her feel old. Hell. She was going to be a grandmother.
No.
Francine stood, a quick flush spreading from her chest. Her thoughts whirled and she wanted only to get away from the room. But she must hold her nerve because there was more to discuss.
‘I’m glad we’ve had this chat,’ she said. ‘At the moment the main thing is to keep it a secret. Your father mustn’t know. He’ll be safely back in Paris within the fortnight.’ She bit her lip and walked towards the window, speaking to herself as much as to Hazel, working out how it would be. ‘And if Paul wants to come home again soon, we’ll send you away, tell him you’re on a school trip. Oh, there are plenty of discreet hospitals for girls like you. July, you say, so if you were to have the baby it would be born –’ she splayed her fingers on the windowsill and counted out the months – ‘seven, eight, nine . . . April some time. A spring baby. Everything will be back to normal by summer next year. And you’ll be almost eighteen with your whole life ahead of you – we need never speak of the trouble again. But the father . . . ?’ She spun round from the window. ‘Will the father make a scene, Hazel? Really, darling, you need to tell me who he is. I can’t fully help unless I know what we’re dealing with.’
‘It’s nobody you know.’
‘Is it Guy Nielsen, darling? From the Fairway? Or his younger brother. I’ve seen you dancing—’
‘No! It’s someone from London. It was a mistake, in the summer. He was here on holiday.’
‘A holiday romance? A fascist from London, was it?’
‘What?’ Hazel’s face told Francine all she needed to know. ‘How did you—?’
‘People talk, darling. You were seen at a blackshirt meeting. Honestly, how on earth did you fall in with such an unsavoury crowd?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It was just a . . . fleeting friendship.’
There was something to be said for that, thought Francine. A summer passion, quickly spent. Boys like that were bound to disappear, tout de suite, once they’d had their fun. He wouldn’t come knocking on the door and, frankly, that was for the best.
‘So you’re no longer in touch?’
‘No. I’ve never seen him again.’ Hazel had stopped crying and her voice was flat and bitter. She bunched the eiderdown in her fists and her knuckles strained white. ‘I’m never seeing any man again.’
‘Now you’re being overdramatic. We can find a bright side, darling. You were desperate to leave school anyway, weren’t you? I’ll tell Miss Lytton you’ve decided not to stay on. And to your friends we’ll say you’re unwell, tonsillitis – you’ve had it before, do you remember? – and perhaps you’ll have the tonsils out, and you’ll need some time to recuperate. A visit to your uncle Edward in Bristol. Don’t worry –’ Francine picked up a Christmas card from the sill and fanned her face – ‘we’ll solve this problem. I promise, darling.’
Francine sighed and pushed the newspapers away. She had done all she could to help Hazel overcome the hiccup – she’d worked out a perfectly good plan. Veronica Cutler could have taken care of everything, and when that failed there were the Misses Shaw. But no, Hazel had her own ridiculous ideas.
Yet she had seemed so compliant at the outset. When Francine suggested a shopping trip to London, a few days after the initial chat in the bedroom, Hazel had been keen, agreeing that she would need new clothes. Of course, Francine hoped there’d be no need for new clothes. She hadn’t actually mentioned that their trip would include a visit to Dr Cutler; Hazel might only worry and become tearful again.
Paul waved them off from the front porch, and Francine felt curiously sentimental as she watched him through the taxi window, his smile broad and his eyes acorn-brown in the pale winter sunlight. She and Paul had been more than civil this holiday: they had actually enjoyed each other’s company, and the New Year party had been a tremendous success. After the party they had shared a bed and made love in surprising ways. Evidently the spell in Paris had broadened Paul’s mind, and there was no sign of the old trouble.
On the London train they settled in their compartment and Hazel took out her book. Francine remembered that she had brought the latest issue of Theatre World. Hazel was more keen on cinema than theatre, but Francine had imagined they might leaf through the pages together; Hazel might be tempted by one of the plays, and they might even plan another trip to London to see a matinee, once the trouble was over.
Strange, thought Francine, that this little crisis seemed to have united them as never before. It was their secret (not counting Mrs Waite, who had never again referred to Hazel’s condition), and for once Francine knew exactly what to do and what to say to her daughter. For the first time, she was able to speak to Hazel as an adult. Perhaps this had been the problem: she simply wasn’t cut out to mother a small child.
Pages and pages of Theatre World were devoted to pictures of Diana Wynyard and Emlyn Williams. ‘Look at her divine shoes,’ Francine said to Hazel, angling the page towards her. Hazel smiled and nodded, and said wasn’t the dress perfect, but Emlyn Williams didn’t look nearly as handsome with the moustache. Francine agreed and settled back into her seat. The train clattered along and she read the magazine to the very end, glancing finally at the restaurant directory and the miscellaneous advertisements for typewriters and clairvoyants and dry-cleaning services. One advertisement caught her eye:
RESIDENTIAL HOME for Infants and Small Children. Long or short visits. Expert personal care for mothers in confinement. Special attention diet and health. The Misses Shaw, Harris Road, Selsey.
Selsey. If Dr Cutler couldn’t solve the problem, the Misses Shaw might be ideal. Selsey was a little too close to home – gossiping distance – but it would make life so much easier in terms of visiting Hazel. And if a baby was born, the Misses Shaw could no doubt arrange for it to be taken care of. Yes, Selsey wasn’t a bad idea at all. She folded the magazine and tucked it into her handbag.
The appointment in Torrington Square began well. Francine told Hazel it was a routine check-up, and everything did seem to be routine at first – blood pressure, temperature, measuring of the abdomen. It was only when Dr Cutler began to talk about the procedure that Hazel became difficult. There was quite a scene. A gown was flung across the room, a kidney dish tipped from its stand, sharpened instruments scattered across the floor. There was no option but to leave.
Afterwards Hazel was quite hysterical. They checked into their room at the Grosvenor, and when Hazel finally stopped crying, Francine suggested miniature golf on the roof garden at Selfridges. This set her howling again.
Later, once Hazel had had a sleep and a bath, and allowed Francine to disguise the puffiness of her face with a little make-up, they went out to Pagani’s for dinner. ‘All the best people come here,’ Francine whispered to Hazel as the waiter showed them to their table. ‘Musicians and singers and radio announcers. They troop in from the BBC.’ Hazel gazed around, catching her reflection in the long mirrors that were painted with climbing flowers on gilt trellises. A man dining alone at a nearby table also saw Hazel’s reflection, ogling for a little too long so that Francine had to fix him with a stare. He couldn’t be blamed: Hazel did look lovely in the mauve dress, and th
e golden wallpaper and low lighting gave her face a gorgeous luminescent glow. Even Hazel’s hair was behaving itself, now that Francine had taken her to the hairdresser for a proper wave. The man couldn’t see Hazel’s thickening waist, of course, because she was still clutching her coat across her middle.
They were finishing their soup when Francine spotted Charles at the door. Her heart leaped and she hated herself for it. Hadn’t she and Paul just enjoyed a marvellous few days together? Still, she shouldn’t be surprised to see Charles at Pagani’s. It was his favourite restaurant, after all; she was quite aware of that when she asked the hotel to book the table.
Charles was chatting to the maître d’, gesturing towards a table near the window. In came a much older, hunched man who walked with a stick. Charles and the old man made slow progress to the table. As Charles was about to sit, he noticed Francine and peered in surprise. He said something to his dinner companion and handed the waiter his coat. Oh Lord, now he was coming over.
Francine pretended not to have noticed him, so that when he arrived at their table she exclaimed in amazement, ‘Charles! This is a surprise.’ She looked pointedly at Hazel. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’
‘Yes,’ Hazel replied, grabbing up her napkin and pressing it to the corner of her mouth.
Charles looked down at Hazel. ‘Wonderful to see you,’ he said. He rested his hands on the tablecloth and lowered his voice. ‘I would love to come and join you but it’s my father’s New Year outing. Trying to keep the old boy sweet.’
‘Your father?’ said Francine. She looked sideways towards the table, and then turned her head quickly back. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized him.’
Charles pulled a face. ‘Shadow of a man,’ he said. ‘Come over and say hello?’
‘Charles, I couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘No. No, of course. Look, telephone me once you’re home. You can tell me how it went with Dr Cutler.’ He slid his hand towards Francine’s so that their fingers were touching.
Hazel coughed and her spoon dropped into the shallow bowl. There was a loud clang of silver against china and the diners at the neighbouring tables turned to stare at the young girl crying into her soup.
On the journey home the next day Hazel barely spoke. She was tired, she said, and she fell asleep soon after the train left Victoria. They had shopped for several hours – the new clothes would be needed after all – and the trail around Oxford Street had not been without tears. Francine looked through the train window at the electric lights already burning in the back rooms of dreary terraces. Her view was obscured by a small rectangular sign that read NON SMOKING on the outside of the glass, and NO SMOKING inside. She wondered at the dull little railway committee agonizing over the wording, some self-satisfied pedant explaining the grammatical niceties. She lit a cigarette. If the guard came she would simply say she hadn’t noticed the sign.
Francine’s head buzzed. Seeing Charles last night had razored her nerves. She had been feeling so much more in control, so . . . serene, almost, to think that Paul might come back and she might have a second chance at being a wife and mother. She felt she was ready to play the part; might even attempt to become more domesticated, more like Bronwen’s mother who baked cakes and telephoned through her own weekly orders, and managed with that funny little cook rather than a live-in help. Francine drew hard on her cigarette, tapped the ash on the floor and attempted to kick it under the seat opposite. Hell. Two minutes in the company of Charles had made the domestic life seem laughable again.
She pulled down the compartment window and tossed her cigarette end onto the track. A London-bound train whistled past, but the noise and the blast of dirty cold air did not wake Hazel.
‘More coffee, Mrs Alexander?’
‘What?’ Francine hadn’t heard Mrs Waite creep in. The woman was like a skinny old cat, slinking around. ‘No, no, thank you.’ Francine frowned at her ink-smudged hands. ‘I’ll go up for a bath, I think.’ She had read enough about Cable Street. She looked out to the garden, where the leaves on the pear tree were already starting to mottle and fall. It would soon be winter. If Hazel refused to send her address, Francine would just have to find her. Next time she was in town she would go to the blackshirt headquarters and ask if they could put her in touch with Lucia. Surely that way it would be possible to get a letter through?
Of course there was another option – to give up on Hazel completely, to accept that she had ignored all sensible advice and gone her own way. But Paul was putting on pressure, accusing Francine of being an irresponsible mother, hinting that it would not look good in the divorce courts. So much for salvaging the marriage. Their union was sunk for ever, that was certain now. Francine preferred not to remember that Saturday in March when Paul had arrived home from Paris unannounced. She had tried to steer him into the study, but he had marched into the living room where he found Hazel, huge in a plaid smock dress, and Charles out on the terrace, drinking brandy from Paul’s best crystal.
Mrs Waite fussed around, clearing away the figs, the toast rack. Francine stood up. ‘I’ll be leaving for town tomorrow, Mrs Waite.’ She handed over her coffee cup. Yes, she’d go tomorrow. Charles could drive her to the blackshirt headquarters. The address was there in the news reports: Great Smith Street, Westminster. ‘I’ll be gone for a few days.’
‘Is there any word of Hazel?’
‘Not yet,’ said Francine. She couldn’t blame Mrs Waite for asking, but it was irritating all the same. ‘Do listen out for the telephone while I’m gone, won’t you?’
‘And the doorbell. She might appear any day, tail between her legs.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Waite.’ Francine brushed past her into the hallway. How presumptuous of Mrs Waite to speak about Hazel like that. Francine imagined the chatter around the estate, the hushed conversations of domestics on their half-day outings. Let them gossip and judge; let them cast her as the faithless wife who couldn’t keep her husband, and you can only imagine the effect it must have had on the poor daughter. Small wonder the girl had got into trouble and run away.
Francine told herself that the gossip didn’t matter. What mattered was getting Hazel to see sense. By now she might have tired of motherhood. She might be exhausted by the reality of caring for a baby with no money and no one to support her but a crowd of ludicrous zealots.
Hazel might be ready to accept that Francine was right all along.
20
It was before six and Jasmin had started to snuffle and kick her legs. She was getting too big for the Moses basket. Lucia had promised to buy a cot, but Hazel didn’t like to remind her because she had already been so generous, insisting on paying the rent, bringing home extravagant treats from Fortnum’s food hall. Lucia had even offered to pay for a daily, but Hazel was firm about that. She didn’t want a maid in the flat. It was a relief to be free of Mrs Waite – why risk another pair of disapproving eyes? Hazel could clean and shop; her wages covered the grocery bill at least – the everyday food that Lucia never thought to buy. It wasn’t exactly an equal arrangement, but it was the best Hazel could offer.
She got up from her bed and began to potter around the room, folding clothes, pairing bootees. The noise seemed to soothe Jasmin, and she quietened back to sleep. Hazel looked through the window into the small patch of communal garden, the mansion block rising behind. How strange it still seemed to be in London, to call this city her home once more. She thought back to July, to the single staccato rap of the door knocker that had sounded her salvation. Mrs Waite had answered, and from the top of the stairs Hazel was astonished to hear Lucia’s voice. She raced down to see Lucia on the doorstep, her shirt as black as the look on Mrs Waite’s face.
Lucia lifted her sunglasses and smiled at Hazel. ‘You’re still alive, then.’
‘Lucia! You’re in Aldwick—’
‘Another year, another jolly camp.’ She fluttered her lashes, exaggerating the movement as if she were a doll blinking. ‘Can you come out to play?’
; Mrs Waite, who had not let go of the door, began to edge it shut. ‘Hazel’s been unwell,’ she said through the gap. ‘I’ll have to ask her mother.’
‘Mother is away for the weekend,’ called Hazel, grabbing the door and shouldering past Mrs Waite. ‘Yes, I’ll come out. Shall we go into town?’
Walking the beach path into Bognor, Hazel felt almost breathless in the warmth of Lucia’s friendship, the relief of conversation after so many months of secrecy and loneliness. She’d given up calling on Bronny. Mrs Vaughan would answer the door, her fixed smile polite but firm, and the script always prepared: No, Bronwen was busy with an essay. Sorry, Bronwen was horse riding with Patricia. Asleep in the garden. Now here was Lucia, glamorous in her dark glasses, saying how simply glorious it was to see her, and forgiving her absolutely for not replying to the letters.
‘I’m sorry I lost touch,’ said Hazel. ‘I haven’t been well – Mrs Waite was right about that.’
‘Poor thing, you do seem rather low somehow. Here, shall I buy us an ice? You can tell me all about it.’
They sat under a beach shelter east of the pier. Hazel began hesitantly, skirting around the truth, muttering about missed monthlies. Lucia soon drew out the meat.
‘You mean you fell pregnant?’ she asked, in too loud a voice. ‘Who’s the beau?’
‘There’s no beau,’ replied Hazel quietly. ‘It was no one special. A mistake.’ She remembered her mother’s comment about the Nielsen brothers. ‘A boy I met at a dance, we got carried away, and, well . . .’ Hazel glanced at Lucia’s wide-eyed stare. There was something admiring in her gaze, envious even, and Hazel had the horrible feeling that Lucia was going to start quizzing her on the particulars of the act. Sure enough, the question came.
‘Do tell. What was it like?’
‘I don’t want to talk about that, if you don’t mind,’ Hazel said. ‘I’m trying to forget it.’ She told Lucia instead about the miserable Christmas, the visit to Dr Cutler, her banishment to the Misses Shaw.