“I would be very grateful Mrs Williams. Just for a little while. Until she looks better and I can sort something else out.”
“Why is this your problem Idris? The child is no relative of yours, you barely know her.”
“Because there is no one else.”
“Very well then. It is the Christian thing to do after all. Just a few days mind.”
“Thank you, Mrs Williams.”
“I’d best get that bed made up then. I’ve made us cawl for tea – plenty of good neck of lamb, swede, onions and potatoes – that’ll help get her back on her feet. Maybe I’ll make her an egg custard too, they are delicious and easy to digest.”
“You are very kind, Mrs Williams.”
“Get away with you boy. You do know you are going to have to consider how you present the news of your visitor to Aeronwen. I am sure you do not need me to tell you that that poor girl Jean is in love with you.”
*
Aeronwen is of a sunny disposition. It is one of the reasons Idris has fallen for her. Because she smiles and jokes all the time. Her response the following day after church when he tells her about Jean surprises him. He tells her more than he told Mrs Williams but still not the full picture. He leads Aeronwen to believe that Jean was able to lock Mr Barraclough out of her room that night.
“Why have you never mentioned this girl and her sister to me before Idris? How can someone you have not seen fit to tell me about be so important to you that you must now take care of her? Get rid of her as soon as you can.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, Roni.”
“I am not being unreasonable. And don’t call me Roni. Only my family are permitted to do that. Now you’ve given me a headache and I shan’t be coming for a walk with you.”
The few days that Mrs Williams promised pass, but there is no mention of it being time for Jean to move on. Instead Mrs Williams moves her sewing machine out of the third bedroom upstairs and sets it up in the front parlour, pushed up against the pictures of her son, to make more room for Jean upstairs.
When Idris gets home from work the next day, he finds Mrs Williams not in the kitchen where she normally is at that time but busy at her sewing machine. She has opened the net curtains and the sunlight floods in.
“Can’t have the poor girl with nothing but the clothes on her back, can we?” she says. “I don’t know what I thought I was going to do with all this material I had kept by anyway. No point wasting it.”
After tea that night, Mrs Williams presents Jean with a new skirt and blouse.
“You are so very kind, Mrs Williams. You are a talented seamstress and I’m very blessed.” It is the first time since she turned up at the house that Idris has seen Jean smile properly.
Aeronwen is not as gracious. When Idris calls on her, she is short with him.
“Is that girl still living under the same roof as you?”
“Yes, for now, at least until she is well enough to find employment.”
“It’s been almost a week. Surely she’s well enough by now!”
“Not exactly Aeronwen. She has been very badly beaten. It will be a little while yet.”
“You know what people say about these orphan children from the old country? They say they are children from the gutter. Scum from the slums. How do you know that she wasn’t trying to trick that farmer and his wife?”
“Because I just know she didn’t.”
“Seems to me that you know her rather too well and that there must have been something going on between you on that boat. I’ve asked you to get rid of her. It displeases me that you have not done so.”
“I promise you, Aeronwen, that there was nothing going on between us on the boat. She was 14 years’ old for heaven’s sake and me a grown man. I will help Jean find a job and accommodation, just as soon as I can. Not because I want to get rid of her, but because I want to help her.”
“Very well, Idris. You may leave now. Only call on me again after she has gone.” Idris is convinced that as he leaves the room, Aeronwen stamps her foot. Her small, pretty, spiteful foot.
Over the next week, the bruises fade and Jean puts on a little weight. She and Idris play draughts in the evening while Mrs Williams sews and Mr Williams reads the paper.
Jean insists on helping Mrs Williams round the house. Reluctant at first, eventually Mrs Williams relents.
“She’s a fine little worker,” Mrs Williams tells Idris, “and if that farmer’s wife did nothing else for her she taught her very well how to bake bread. I’ve been asking around, and I’ve noted down a couple of big houses in this area with vacancies. She’s just about ready to start applying. Not that Mr Williams and I want her to leave our house, but I know your Aeronwen is refusing to see you until she does. Rather full of herself your Aeronwen is, if you ask me.”
Every afternoon Jean goes off to search for work but returns each night unsuccessful. She remains positive though until finally she is told by one blunt housekeeper why.
“It’s because you’re a pauper immigrant. Canada is not a dumping ground for children the old country didn’t want.”
“Perhaps you need to be a little less honest,” Mrs Williams advises her. “I’m not suggesting you lie, of course. That would be a sin. Just leave out the Quarriers part of your story. Tell them you’ve been working for me but have outgrown the job. I’ll give you a reference. Anyway, like I keep telling you, dear. There’s no rush.”
But it turns out there is a rush.
Jean creeps down the stairs quietly before Idris leaves for work one morning, before Mr and Mrs Williams are even up.
“I have something I need to tell you.”
He knows what it is. It is something he has feared since she arrived at the house in Fairlawn Ave. A fear he did not dare to put into words and one which he had hoped with the passage of time would be unrealised.
“It’s my monthly. It has not come.”
“Could you possibly be mistaken?”
She shakes her head. “I would rather die than bring that man’s child into the world.”
“Then there are ways to put this right. I will find them.”
This is not a problem he can expect Mr and Mrs Williams to share with him but there is always someone amongst the hundreds of people working on the railway viaduct who knows how to get what a person needs. Within a day of asking, Idris is handed a small piece of paper by one of the Czechoslovakian men who work alongside him. The man says nothing as he hands him the paper. On it there is an address of a physician in Oshawa, some 40 miles west of Toronto. Idris makes his first ever telephone call to arrange an appointment.
The journey by train along Lake Ontario to Oshawa is pleasant. Idris and Jean have almost convinced themselves that the story they have told Mrs Williams of an overnight trip to meet Janet there and celebrate Jean’s 16th birthday is true. Idris wears his best trousers and coat. Jean is wearing a pale green dress with long sleeves and a round collar, made by Mrs Williams. They look like a couple on a birthday trip out – not two people on their way to commit an illegal act.
They find the address they have been given easily. It is an ordinary looking, red brick house, with a white painted picket fence and a small porch at the front. The lady on the telephone instructed Idris to go round to the back of the house on arrival and that the back door would be left open for them. Idris pushes the door hesitantly, not sure if he should knock first or call out. He and Jean find themselves in an oak panelled waiting room, with a reception desk and chairs and low tables with copies of National Geographic magazine.
“It looks like a proper doctor’s waiting room,” Jean whispers.
“That’s because it is a proper doctor’s waiting room,” a voice says, crisply. “Come right through, you are my only appointment today.”
Idris and Jean enter the treatment room. The doctor, who seems young to Idris, no more than in his early thirties, stands up to greet them.
“I’m Dr Abraham. Please, take a seat, and we will complete
the paperwork. Now Jean, I understand this pregnancy is in the very early stages, is that correct?”
“Yes, it happened four weeks and two days ago.”
Dr Abraham does not seem surprised at Jean’s precise recollection.
“In that case, my dear, this will not take long and will be over quickly.”
“Will it hurt?”
“A little, yes. Would you like your friend to stay with you?”
“Yes please, very much, if that’s possible?”
“It is, he can hold your hand while I undertake the process. Please go to the bathroom to empty your bladder and remove your underclothes.”
While Jean is out of the room, Idris attends to the financial part of the transaction. Dr Abraham writes down Jean’s name in a large ledger and then places it and the money in a desk drawer which he then locks. Afterwards he washes his hands carefully at the sink, taking a long time over it and scrubbing his fingernails hard.
“I take it you are not the father?” He asks, his back still turned to Idris.
“No.”
“And that this pregnancy is the result of a non-consensual act.”
“It was rape, if that’s what you mean.”
Dr Abraham finishes washing his hands and turns to face Idris.
“It is an absolute aberration that the law would require this young woman to go through with this pregnancy and that we are all criminals for what we are doing today. This is a therapeutic termination. No one here is a criminal.”
“Will it stop her having other children?”
“It shouldn’t. She’s young, it’s being done early, and I’m a good doctor.”
When Jean returns to the room the sight of her, pale and frightened, holding her neatly folded underwear to her chest, makes Idris feel a fierce desire to protect her.
“Alright Jean, put your things down on that chair and please go lie on the bed, with your bottom at the very edge of the bed. Lift your skirt and use this sheet to cover yourself. Idris, you should stand by Jean’s head and hold her hand.”
Jean does as she is instructed. One hand grips the sheet she has placed over her knees and the other grips Idris’ hand tightly.
“You will stay with me all the way through, won’t you?” she asks him.
He says nothing but with his other hand he draws a cross across his heart. Jean smiles, just a little, and turns her face to the wall.
Idris doesn’t know where to look but cannot avoid seeing the tube that Dr Abraham is inserting into Jean. She does not cry out or wince but keeps looking at the wall. Idris sees Dr Abraham pumping vigorously, hears liquid from the tube gush into a bucket on the floor.
Then it is over. Dr Abraham places a cloth over the top of the dark red contents of the bucket.
“I’ll leave you for a few moments now Jean, to gather yourself and to get dressed. Take your time. Ideally you should take things very easy over the next few days.”
Idris had seen an advertisement at the station for a place called The Homestead, offering Tourists’ and Travellers’ Rest, on King Street, West. They book in as Mr and Mrs Maddox. The receptionist does not look like she believes them but nor does it look like she cares.
“Why don’t you have a lie down for a couple of hours? I’ll take myself off for a walk and then when I come back, we can go get something to eat perhaps?”
Jean nods obediently. She lies down on top of the bedclothes, without even taking her shoes off, and closes her eyes. Idris bends down and kisses her on the forehead before leaving.
Oshawa is a thriving industrial city with a growing population due to the number of large industries based there including metal- and steelwork, tanneries and, largest of all, General Motors of Canada. Idris walks around the city, noting the many businesses that serve this growing population – bakers, beauty parlours, stationers, laundries and grocers. There are many advertisements directing tourists to visit Lakeview Park and Idris wonders if Jean may perhaps feel well enough later to go for a short walk.
He wanders around, filling in the time till he can go back to the room and see how Jean is bearing up. He is hungry but he is conserving his money and resists the temptation to call into the Nut-Krust Electric Bakery which advertises bread, buns, cake and pastry that are “Good to the Last Crumb”. He finds himself at the entrance to a grand house called Parkwood. There is a job advertisement pinned to the gate inviting applications for domestic staff. He hesitates only a short while before starting to walk up to the house.
He walks round the back of the house to the servants’ entrance and rings the bell. A maid opens the door and when he explains the nature of his query, she tells him she will go fetch the head housekeeper.
“Can I help you?” The head housekeeper is a tall lady in her forties, dressed in a black skirt and a white high collared blouse.
“Good afternoon. I am enquiring on behalf of a friend about the positions for domestic staff.”
“We have two vacancies for maids. One for assistant cook and another for under-gardener. Which position might your friend be interested in?” She has a Scottish accent. This, Idris thinks hopefully, must surely be an advantage for Jean.
“The position of maid would suit her. She emigrated from Scotland last summer and has been working in a private house in Toronto but would relish the opportunity to work in a beautiful house such as this.”
“Then she should apply in writing to me, Mrs Meikle, with references. If she is considered suitable I will arrange an interview.”
“We are only here on a short visit, Mrs Meikle, and due to return to Toronto tomorrow. Is there any possibility you might be willing to give her an interview before we leave? It would be greatly appreciated.”
Mrs Meikle takes a long look at Idris. He sweeps his fringe of thick dark hair from his eyes, stands up straighter and holds her gaze.
“Tomorrow is Sunday, Mr Maddox.”
“I realise that, Mrs Meikle. Could you maybe spare 15 minutes, on your way to church perhaps?’
“Very well. Tell her to be here at 8.30am sharp. I go to early service.”
Chapter 14
Grace can hear Jake talking to himself in his bedroom. He isn’t crying but that comes next if his loud babbling doesn’t prompt someone to come along. Usually Gareth is up by now but he was late home last night and he and Rachel must still be sleeping.
Grace eases herself gently out of bed. She is sleeping on a pull out bed which is perfectly comfortable but takes up virtually all the floor space in Eloise’s bedroom. Eloise is still fast asleep in her bed. It has a white wrought iron bedstead which Eloise loved when she was 12 but hates now. She wants to spray it black but her mother won’t let her. She is curled up tight in her duvet, like a hot dog, just the top of her head showing. Grace can see the red roots coming through the black hair dye.
Still in her pyjamas, Grace creeps down the spiral staircase and into Jake’s room. He beams when he sees her, a wide grin that shows off his two sharp, shiny, bottom teeth.
“Wakey wakey Jakey,” she says and lifts him out of the cot. He is compact and plump in his white towelling Babygro, the towelling grown rough from being washed so often. He puts his arms around her neck and drops his head onto her chest and Grace feels what is now becoming a familiar feeling when she cuddles Jake rise up through her. Not just love, but joy.
Downstairs in the kitchen, she warms milk for Jake and opens the backdoor for Oscar. Grace has to poke him to go out for a wee. Reluctantly, he heaves himself off the faded red sofa that Rachel says at least once a day is only fit for the tip but is probably the most used piece of furniture in the house. Grace plops herself down on the sofa and Jake positions himself across her lap to guzzle his milk.
When the kitchen door opens suddenly, Grace jumps, startled.
“Sorry, Grace,” Iris apologises. “Did I frighten you? Expected to see my dad.”
“Still sleeping, I think.”
Iris pours herself a large bowl of Fruit and Fibre and settles h
erself next to Grace and Jake. Oscar returns from his inspection of the garden and squeezes himself into the gap next to Iris. For a few minutes the only sound is of slurping milk.
“Can I ask you a question?” Iris’ mouth is still full of cereal.
“Er, yes.”
“Those marks on your arms… Have you been cutting yourself? Only we’ve been doing it at school and that’s what it looks like to me.”
Grace immediately yanks the sleeves of her pyjamas down but says nothing.
“Because if you’re not happy, and feel like you can’t cope, that’s normal. You don’t even have to have a proper reason for being unhappy, they said at school. Sometimes people just do feel sad. It’s because teenagers have lots and lots of feelings…”
“And they’ve nowhere to go and it gets overwhelming and cutting yourself, making yourself hurt, really hurt, that makes the feelings go somewhere else and gives you something else to feel instead of sad,” Grace whispers.
“Is that why you do it?”
“I don’t know why I do it. But yes, I think so. It feels outside like I feel inside.”
“Oh.”
“Does that sound silly?”
“Not silly, no. Just I wish you didn’t feel that sad. Or that when you feel sad, there’s another way of coping than slicing up your skin. When I feel sad I go out and play football.”
Grace smiles. “You do that when you are happy too! I don’t feel as sad here, actually.”
“But you do feel sad in your own house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m lonely. Because my mother goes on all the time about how she really wants me to get fantastic GCSE results so she can put it on Facebook and brag to all her friends in Qatar that the school I’m at now is every bit as good as the one I went to there. The pressure of it all made me feel sick all through the exams. She totally stressed me out. And when I think about results day I feel sick all over again.”
Thicker Than Water Page 13