At last even Gerald began to notice that something was wrong. Looking at her across the breakfast table one morning as she picked at a slice of toast and sipped her half-cold coffee he noticed that she looked unwell. The crop of summer freckles stood out sharply against her pallid skin and her normally bright eyes were dull with anxiety.
‘Why don’t you go and stay with the Johnsons for a few days?’ he said suddenly. Cathy looked up in surprise. ‘You’ve been looking peaky for a couple of weeks,’ he went on. ‘Maybe a break will do you good.’
The thought of seeing Johnny and sleeping in her old room filled her with nostalgia. ‘Oh, Gerald. That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘I’d love to go.’
‘Ring her this morning and lay it on then,’ he said. ‘Stay as long as you want.’
When she heard Johnny’s voice at the other end of the line Cathy’s throat tightened so much that she could scarcely speak.
‘Hello, Johnny. It’s me — Cathy.’
‘Cathy! What a lovely surprise! What can I do for you?’
‘Can I come and see you, just for a few days?’
‘Of course you can. Stay for as long as you like, dear. It’ll be lovely to have you. Your old room is always ready for you. You know that.’
‘It’s not too much trouble?’
‘Bless you, no. Matthew’s gone up to Bradford on a six-month course and Mother is in a nursing home. I felt bad about letting her go but I couldn’t manage her at home any longer. I miss her though, Cathy. I miss you all. It’ll be wonderful to have you back.’
*
Sitting in the train Cathy went over and over what she could say. She had never needed Johnny’s advice as desperately as she did now, yet how could she tell her about Simon and the shameful mistake she had made? It was out of the question. Johnny had always had such high moral standards. She would feel so shocked and let down.
The little house in Chestnut Grove was just as she had left it. It seemed smaller and shabbier, but infinitely comfortable and dear. Cathy’s old room was spick and span, the bed made up with Johnny’s best linen sheets, and the bedspread and curtains freshly laundered. She unpacked and went downstairs to her favourite meal of roast ham with potatoes and broad beans from the garden. Johnny kept eyeing her closely as she ate, and over Cathy’s favourite treacle pudding she asked, ‘Are you all right? You’re not looking very well, dear.’
‘We’ve been so busy,’ Cathy said, avoiding her eye. ‘Run off our feet with the concerts and everything. It’s been a great success. Gerald is so pleased.’ She looked up. ‘I didn’t tell you. He is going to New Zealand in November. There’s a surgeon there who has perfected an operation to cure his muscular problem.’
‘That’s good news. Are you going with him?’
‘No.’ Cathy looked down at her plate again. ‘It’s going to be very expensive, you see. The operation will have to be private, of course, and then there will be hotel bills and a lot more besides. We couldn’t afford for both of us to go.’
‘I see. Then perhaps you could come and stay here while he’s away?’
‘Oh, Johnny, that would be lovely!’ Cathy paused. She had forgotten that by November she would be six months pregnant. There would be no hiding her condition from anyone by then. ‘I’d love to come, of course. But I think Gerald wants me to stay at Melfordleigh and look after the house,’ she added.
‘Then maybe I could come and stay with you instead,’ Johnny suggested cheerfully. ‘I could spare a few days. Mother hardly recognises me when I go to the nursing home these days and Matthew will still be away. I could easily take a week or so off.’
Cathy flushed, searching her mind frantically for an excuse. ‘Yes — that would be nice.’ Suddenly she wished she hadn’t come. Johnny was so perceptive. She’d already sensed that something was wrong. How would it be possible to keep the truth from her for two whole weeks?
Johnny had arranged to visit Mrs Bains in the nursing home the following day and Cathy was relieved when it was suggested that she take herself Up West on a shopping trip.
‘Mother probably won’t know you. Her memory is very erratic,’ Johnny explained. ‘She can sometimes be rather difficult — she gets strange ideas about people she doesn’t know. Better for you to remember her as she was.’
They caught the bus together, Cathy alighting at Edgware tube station and catching a train for Oxford Circus. It was nice to be in London again. She wandered along Regent Street, stopping for a cup of coffee in a new coffee bar, then she looked round Liberty’s, admiring the exotic jewellery and exquisite materials on display. She was looking at the latest autumn fashions in the window of Dickens and Jones an hour later and thinking about lunch when a voice called her name.
‘Cathy! Of all the people to run into!’ She turned, startled, to see Carla Maybridge standing behind her. ‘I’d have known that red hair anywhere!’ The other girl hugged her warmly. ‘How are you? And how is married life?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you? You’re looking wonderful.’
In actual fact if Carla hadn’t seen her first Cathy would probably have walked right past her. The young woman standing before her was a very different Carla from the one she had known two years ago. She had grown her hair long and wore it straight and smooth. The red and black dress she wore was of the latest fashion; it was very short with a geometric pattern. And all her accessories were of expensive-looking cream leather: shoulder bag, gloves, and tight-fitting knee-high boots.
Carla took her arm. ‘This is really wonderful. Come and have lunch with me.’ She glanced around. ‘You are on your own, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’ve come up to spend a few days with Johnny.’
‘Then we must have lunch and a lovely long gossip. I can’t wait to hear all about what you and that devastatingly handsome husband of yours have been up to!’
Carla took her arm and dragged her into Dickens and Jones. ‘I’m working here,’ she explained as she bundled Cathy on to the escalator. ‘I model for an agency, modelling outfits in the restaurant. There are four of us and I’m taking my lunch break at the moment.’
‘What happened to the A level course and the career in teaching?’ Cathy asked as they went up in the lift.
Carla laughed. ‘You’ve got to be joking! The sixth form was the living end. All those rotten little swots with their spotty noses to the grindstone. I couldn’t stick the thought of two years of that. I threw the towel in after the first term and managed to get into the modelling school.’
In the top-floor restaurant someone was playing soft romantic music on a white grand piano. They were shown to a table by the window.
‘You look as though you’ve done well,’ Cathy said as they settled themselves.
‘Not bad.’ Carla grinned the old familiar grin and held out her arms. ‘Like the outfit? It’s by Mary Quant. She’s an absolutely great new designer. Everyone is going to be wearing her clothes soon.’
‘What did your parents think of you giving up the A levels?’
Carla pulled a face. ‘What do you think? You know Dad, even teaching came a poor second to the bank! But I don’t live at home any more. It always was so crowded. Well, you must remember. And as we all grew older it was worse. No privacy anywhere. I got myself a little flat in Fulham — sharing with two other girls. It’s no palace but we do each have our own space.’ She grinned. ‘We have fun too.’
Cathy felt a sharp pang of envy for the happy-go-lucky life Carla clearly led. ‘And you like modelling?’ she asked.
‘Love it. At least there’s variety to the work and you get to meet some interesting people.’
They ordered the sole, which the waitress recommended. Carla leaned back in her chair and took a long, critical look at her friend. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so you could do with taking in hand, my child,’ she said with mock severity. ‘You’re looking distinctly countrified. Why don’t we meet up tomorrow? That’s my day off. You can get that husband of yours to treat you t
o some new outfits. There are super new boutiques springing up all over the place in the King’s Road. I get a discount at some of them.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks, Carla.’
‘Why not?’ The other girl frowned and leaned towards her. ‘What’s up, love? You look as though you’ve got something on your mind.’
Cathy sighed. Carla was her oldest friend. If she didn’t confide in someone soon she’d go crazy. ‘As a matter of fact — I’m pregnant,’ she said softly.
Carla looked at her. ‘And you don’t want to be, is that it?’
‘I do want to be. I want a baby very much. But Gerald…’
‘Doesn’t?’ Carla looked at her, her head on one side. ‘He doesn’t want anything getting in the way of this new project of his?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I take it he doesn’t know?’
Cathy shook her head miserably. ‘No.’
‘Surely keeping it from him is unavoidable — unless you’re planning to … ’ Carla frowned. ‘Look, forgive me if I’ve got it wrong, Cath, but are you saying that — it isn’t his?’ When Cathy didn’t reply she shook her head. ‘God! Poor you. What a mess! How on earth did you get into it, Cath? I mean — an affair is one thing, but … ’ She bit her lip. ‘I suppose there’s no chance you’re wrong?’
‘None at all.’
‘Well — is there any chance it might actually be Gerald’s?’ When Cathy shook her head again she reached out and touched her wrist. ‘Oh, please don’t look like that, love. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘It feels a lot like it,’ Cathy said unhappily.
Carla bit her lip. ‘Look, I think I might be able to help. How far are you?’
‘I don’t know. Ten or eleven weeks.’
Carla drew in her breath sharply. ‘You’re running it a bit fine. Why didn’t you do something about it before?’
‘I — thought it might be a mistake. That it might all come right. Anyway, I didn’t know if there was anything I could do.’
Carla looked at her pityingly. ‘You always were the naive one when it came to sex, weren’t you?’
Their food arrived, but Cathy pushed hers round the plate disconsolately.
‘Look — I know of this doctor,’ Carla said quietly. ‘He’s been struck off as a matter of fact, but he’s good. One of my flat-mates had a panic like yours a few months ago. He fixed it for her and she was fine. I can get his phone number for you if you like.’
Cathy swallowed hard. ‘An abortion you mean?’ she whispered, her eyes round. ‘I couldn't, Carla. The idea of it makes me feel sick.’
She shrugged. ‘Okay, so what’s the alternative? What about this chap — the father? Would he want you to have it?’
‘No! I don’t want him to know either.’
‘You don’t love him then?’
‘No! The whole thing was madness. It should never have happened.’
‘Mmm.’ Carla smiled wryly. ‘Famous last words!’ She sighed. ‘Well if you change your mind, give me a ring and let me know.’ She scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and passed it to Cathy. ‘You needn’t worry. I can guarantee you’d be safe enough with this doctor. It’s not like having it done by some old crone in a back street with a crochet hook. Think about it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘God! Look at the time. I’ll have to fly. Give me the bill. My treat. I’ll settle it on my way out.’ She patted Cathy’s shoulder. ‘And cheer up, love. It might never happen. It won’t if you take my advice.’
Cathy lay awake all that night, thinking about Carla’s suggestion. More than anything in the world she longed to have the baby she carried. To give it birth, love it and hold it in her arms. But she had to acknowledge that it was a vain hope. Going through with it was out of the question. She told herself she was being punished for the wrong she had done. But far worse than the fear and the pain of the ordeal she must suffer was the heartache of sacrificing her child.
She tried to comfort herself with the thought that when Gerald was cured perhaps things would be as they were before between them. Then perhaps they would have another child and she could put all this behind her. At least now she was offered a way out. It seemed like providence that she had met Carla today. Perhaps meeting her like that was a sign that she was meant to take her advice.
She rang Carla the following evening while Johnny was making the bedtime cocoa. Next morning she went out to a phone box and rang the doctor’s number. A receptionist told her in a brisk, impersonal voice that she could come the day after tomorrow, at two-thirty. She was told the fee for the ‘consultation and treatment’ which she must pay in cash on the day of her visit. She was given an address in Islington and asked to try to arrive on time.
She arrived early. She had told Johnny she was going to visit a married school friend and might be away till late evening. She had no idea how long the ‘treatment’ might take. She found the house easily, a crumbling Victorian town house with peeling paintwork and an air of faded respectability. The doctor occupied rooms in the basement, reached by winding steps. A sharp-faced nurse ushered her into a room with fawn wallpaper and uncomfortable chairs upholstered in chipped brown leather. And there she sat, her heart thudding dully in her breast and her stomach churning as though awaiting execution.
When she was shown into the surgery she was reassured by the powerful smell of Dettol and the fact that everything appeared to be clinically clean. The doctor was a tired-looking man with stooped shoulders and pale blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He enquired about her health and her circumstances — whether there was any chance she might change her mind. But his questions sounded as though they were part of a routine that he had waded wearily through a thousand times before. He reminded her of the risk she was taking and warned her that any complaint she might make would involve her in criminal proceedings too.
The procedure was done surprisingly quickly. She gritted her teeth and submitted to the discomfort and the indignity, eagerly breathing in the gas and air from the mask the nurse held for her. When the doctor had left, the woman helped her down from the table. She gave her some painkillers and a packet of extra thick pads, telling her to expect to bleed heavily for a few days. Then she took the money that Cathy had withdrawn that morning and ushered her out into the street. It was oyer.
She walked slowly back to the main road feeling cold and stunned as the afternoon traffic thundered by. She reminded herself that it was all over. She wasn’t pregnant any more. But try as she would she could not see it as a reprieve. All she could think of was that she had just paid a stranger to kill her child.
She woke in the small hours, the pain gripping her like an iron band. Pulling her knees up to her chest she stuffed a clenched fist into her mouth to stop herself from crying out. As the pain slowly released her she felt the wetness flowing from her. Getting out of bed carefully she went into the bathroom and took two of the tablets the nurse had given her, washing them down with water from her tooth glass. She changed her nightdress and pad and was about to go back to bed when another spasm of violent pain gripped her. This time it was so agonising that she was unable to stop herself from crying out. With one hand against the wall she sank to her knees in the bathroom doorway, both hands clutching her stomach.
Johnny’s bedroom door opened and the landing light snapped on. ‘Cathy! My dear child!’ The shocked face looked down at her. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
Johnny helped her back to bed and stood looking down at the white-faced girl anxiously. ‘Cathy,’ she said gently, ‘I believe you’re having a miscarriage, dear.’ Cathy nodded, her teeth clamped over her lower lip. ‘I had my suspicions that you were pregnant when you first arrived,’ Johnny went on. ‘I think I’d better telephone for a doctor to come and see you. You seem to be losing an awful lot of blood.’
‘No!' Cathy half rose on the bed and grasped Johnny’s arm convulsively. ‘I’ll be all right. I don’t want a doctor. Please, Johnny!’
The older woman frowned and looked at her doubtfully. ‘It would be best, really. A doctor would give you something to help the pain and stop you from haemorrhaging. It could be dangerous, you know, and you might lose your baby — if you haven’t already.’
‘No — no. I’ll be all right — really I will.’
Johnny stood hesitantly in the doorway. ‘Shall I send for Gerald then?’
‘No! Gerald doesn’t know — he mustn’t. Please do as I say, Johnny.’
‘Oh, Cathy.’ With a sigh, the older woman sat down on the end of the bed. ‘What have you done? Have you been to someone? Have you had this miscarriage induced?’
When Cathy nodded and began to sob Johnny made up her mind. Getting to her feet she worked rapidly. Fetching an armful of Matthew’s heavy encyclopaedias from his room she raised the foot of Cathy’s bed on the books, then went to the airing cupboard on the landing, returning with a pile of sheets which she proceeded to tear up. As she worked she looked down at Cathy, her mouth set in a grim line.
‘I wish I knew who did this to you,’ she said. ‘And why you felt driven to do it too, but I don’t suppose you’re going to answer either of those questions.’ She drew up a chair and took Cathy’s hand. ‘Time for talking later. We’re in for a long night, child. And I’m warning you now — if the bleeding hasn’t eased up by daylight, you’re going to hospital whether you like it or not. I’m not having this on my conscience.’
By dawn the worst seemed to be over. As the sun came up Johnny drew back the curtains and went downstairs to make tea, which Cathy drank thirstily, propped up against the pillows, her face grey against their whiteness. Johnny regarded her as she drank.
‘Are you going to tell me about it now? I don’t want to press you, Cathy, but I really do think you owe me an explanation.’
‘I know. And I’ll never be able to repay you, Johnny,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m really sorry to have put you in this awful situation. I wasn’t prepared for what happened last night. I thought when I left the — the place where it was done that it was all over.’
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 33