Kate had arranged to meet her after work in the Bad Ass Café for pizza and to go the cinema. Romy’s stomach had almost turned over at the sight of the plates of pizza and feeling queasy she had contented herself with eating the garlic bread and salad and two huge glasses of Coke.
‘You OK?’ joked Kate. ‘I’ve never seen you turn down the offer of pizza before.’
‘My stomach was sick during the week, so I guess I should rest it.’
Kate put down the menu and stared at her.
‘Now you say it, you do look a bit peaky. Are you still on for the cinema?’
‘Sure.’
They went to Sleepless in Seattle in the Savoy, tears rolling down Romy’s face as Meg Ryan waited for Tom Hanks at the Empire State Building. She was so weepy and miserable at the moment that the slightest thing got her started.
‘College going OK?’ asked her big sister as they walked back along O’Connell Street afterwards.
‘Why does everything always have to be about college with you?’ she snapped.
‘I just wondered, you seem tired. Maybe you might need a grind or some help. I don’t know.’
‘Yes, Kate. You don’t know. I am tired but I’ll get over it. We can’t all be geniuses like you. Studying and lectures and all that crap gets some of us down, OK?’
Kate Dillon studied the pale face under the freckles, the greasy tied-back hair and thrown-together ragbag of dirty jeans and T-shirt. The poor kid, she thought, determined to phone her mother the minute she got in and get her to make Romy go down home for a few days’ break.
Down at home in Rossmore Romy curled up in her own bed, studying the familiar pattern of the wallpaper, wishing she never had to put foot out of it again for the rest of her days. She looked around at her noticeboard full of invitations and college timetables and pictures of dogs and horses and one of Brian playing the guitar and old tickets for a few of the gigs his band played locally and for U2 – the best band in the world. Her desk and chest of drawers were covered in photos. Some were of herself and Brian when they were younger, one of the two of them in their school uniforms. She swallowed hard. It seemed like all her life she had been waiting for him, waiting to be loved by him, and now when she needed him most he had simply disappeared. She knew he’d been seeing a girl in London, Gina something or other. He hadn’t hidden it from her. The night they’d had together after the wedding had been special, a reminder of times past. Perhaps that was all it had been to him and he would have no interest in the child she was carrying now.
Hot tears slid down her face, her throat aching with the hurt inside.
‘Are you all right, Romy love?’
Maeve Dillon took in the tearstained face and the utter misery of her youngest daughter, who looked like every bit of wildness had been crushed out of her, as she lowered herself onto the corner of the bed.
‘Do you want to talk, Romy? You know there is nothing you can’t tell me. No bad thing, no trouble you’re in, nothing awful you’ve done that I won’t try and help you. I promise.’
A shudder went through the long thin frame.
Maeve tried to brace herself. Maybe it was drugs or she’d been expelled from the college, or was having some kind of a breakdown. She ran her hand along Romy’s shoulder.
‘You can tell me, pet. No matter what it is, you can tell me,’ she urged.
The silence filled the small bedroom, stretching between them as Romy turned to the wall, hiding.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Maeve stopped. Had she heard right?
‘Pregnant?’
Romy sat upright in the bed, almost screaming it out.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve been to the doctor.’
‘To Myles.’
‘No, not to Dr Deegan, I went to the doctor in college. The baby’s due in May.’
Maeve Dillon could feel her heart pounding, her breathing almost stop, a panicky tightening in her chest.
‘May, when you have your exams?’
‘Mam, I don’t give a feck about those exams. They are the least of my problems!’
Maeve pulled Romy into her arms like she used to when she was small and sick and scared.
‘You poor old pet.’
‘Mam, it’s so awful. I don’t know what to do.’
‘What about the father? Have you told him yet?’
She shook her head.
‘Who is it?’
She was tempted to tell the truth but instead just shrugged ‘I’m not sure.’
Maeve Dillon felt dizzy. How had she let Romy’s behaviour get so out of hand and crazed that she couldn’t even be sure who was the father of her unborn child?
‘Just some guy.’
Maeve was sick with disappointment. Her beautiful live wire of a daughter, intelligent and full of high spirits, caught in the trap of an unwanted pregnancy.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. The doctor has booked me into Holles Street.’
Maeve breathed a sigh of relief. It was much better Romy have her baby in one of the big maternity hospitals in Dublin than in the small local hospital where everyone would know her business.
‘That’s if I have the baby.’
‘Not have the baby?’
‘I don’t have to have it, Mam, not if I don’t want to. I can go to England. And then get on with my life.’
Maeve could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She firmly believed in the right to life and here was her daughter telling her she planned to get rid of her baby.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Romy, you can’t do that! Destroy your own child?’
‘It’s my decision.’
‘Oh I know that, love. It’s just you need time to think, to get used to the idea of having a baby.’
‘I don’t want a baby, can’t you understand that!’
‘But for the love of God, Romy, you don’t know what it is like to lose a child. You might never recover from it, never.’
The tenor of the raised voices attracted her father, who had been shaving in the bathroom and was still in his dressing gown.
‘What are you two fighting about?’ he interrupted.
Romy clenched her lips. She wasn’t saying a word.
‘Tell him!’ urged her mother.
‘Tell me what?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
Frank Dillon stumbled for a second in the bedroom doorway.
‘But you’re only a child. Are you sure?’
‘I am, Daddy.’
He banged his fist on top of her desk, sending the photos flying onto the bedroom floor.
‘Well who’s the bright bucko got you in this position?’ he demanded. ‘I have a few things I want to say to him.’
Romy said nothing. She could have put a bet on about her father’s over-the-top predictable reaction.
‘Tell me who he is and I’ll knock some bloody sense into him! Is he going to marry you?’
‘No.’
‘No!’ He roared so loud that the house seemed to shake.
‘Maeve, do you know who he is?’
‘He’s just some guy from college, Daddy, it was a one-night stand, an accident.’
‘A one-night stand? By Christ, are you some kind of easy lay, the college slut?’
‘Leave her alone, Frank.’
‘She’s obviously some kind of tramp, with the morals of an alley cat,’ he blustered, his face red and still flecked with remnants of shaving cream.
‘She’s your daughter,’ her mother reminded him. ‘Don’t you dare speak about her like that!’
‘She’s your daughter too, Maeve. What’s that they say – like mother like daughter!’
Romy watched, incredulous. For one second she thought her mother was actually going to slap him across the face, as they turned on each other and began fighting. What had her dad said about her mother? She didn’t understand it.
‘How dare you, F
rank!’ screamed Maeve, jumping up off the bed. ‘How dare you?’
‘She’s not bringing some good-for-nothing’s bastard into this house.’
‘Don’t you dare talk about Romy’s baby like that!’
‘This is my home and I won’t stand for it,’ he ranted furiously. ‘People have respect for the Dillons, look up to me. In this town I stand for something. The child won’t be raised in this house.’
‘Might I remind you that this is my home too. I inherited this house from my father so I have some say in what happens under this roof. Some say.’
‘We’ll be disgraced,’ he threatened. ‘We’ll be the talk of the place.’
‘We’ve survived worse scandals and rumours,’ Maeve Dillon said coldly.
Her father fell silent momentarily but blustering, began again. ‘She’s got to go away, stay in Dublin.’
‘Going to Dublin was what caused all this,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t you think she’d be better off home here with us? We could look after her till the child is born, help out afterwards.’
Romy turned to the wall. She didn’t want there to be an afterwards.
‘I don’t want it! I don’t want a baby!’
‘Stop that talk immediately!’ ordered her mother. ‘I won’t have it in this house.’
‘Listen, Maeve, maybe she’s right. She’s young and has made a stupid bloody mistake. Maybe she should put it behind her. Make a fresh start, not ruin her life with a child no-one wants!’
Appalled, Maeve Dillon shook her head.
‘And I suppose you’d write the cheque, pay for it, you self-centred bastard. You’re not thinking of Romy or the unborn child. All you’re thinking about is yourself. What will people think of the great Frank Dillon with a pregnant daughter! Frank Dillon’s stupid young one got herself into trouble. You’re pathetic.’
‘Shut up, woman!’
‘This is my decision,’ interrupted Romy. ‘I have to decide what to do, it’s my fecking life, not yours!’
‘Don’t mind whatever your father says. You’ll get through this,’ promised her mother. ‘I’ll help you, help with the baby, do whatever you want. Just don’t rush into a decision you might regret.’
She could see the rage on her father’s face. He was used to getting his own way in deciding what happened within the circle of the family, he wasn’t used to being challenged, having his leadership questioned.
‘Please just leave me alone, the two of you. I feel shite!’ she said and rolled over, pulling the blanket around her shoulder.
‘I mean it, Romy,’ insisted her mother.
She only relaxed when they’d left her room. Her mind was in turmoil. This was splitting the family apart. Her mother like some kind of holy flipping Joe, spouting on about the precious unborn’s right to life – she was sick of it! And as for her father, all he wanted was for her to disappear into some hole in the ground lest she embarrass him. She’d made a mistake coming home, thinking that her parents could solve her problems just like they did when she was a kid. That day was gone. For now she was on her own. She turned on the stereo, Bono’s voice filling the pressing silence of her room.
Chapter Eighteen
CRAZY AND DEMENTED, Romy was determined to have an abortion. It didn’t matter what her mother said. She didn’t want the baby! She’d go to London and get rid of it. It was a nothing at the moment, a blob of jelly growing inside her. Bye-bye, blob! She’d scrounge and scrape the money together before it got any bigger. No-one would know about it. She should never have told her parents, got them involved. Somehow she’d get the money to get to London.
Kate had money. Pretending she was so behind in her work from skipping lectures, she’d arranged to meet her for soup and a sandwich at O’Sullivan’s on Dawson Street.
‘I just need to get a grind for the rest of term, that’s all. I know it’s expensive but this guy is meant to be great. One of the girls who went to him last year ended up getting a first in her exams.’
Kate reacted generously, offering to pay the full cost of the extra tutoring needed.
‘I can’t take it!’ Romy made a pretence at protesting. ‘You work so hard.’
‘Maybe I think you are a good investment,’ smiled Kate as she took her chequebook out of her black leather bag. ‘Who will I make it payable to?’ she quizzed.
‘Oh just cash,’ beamed Romy, hugging her. ‘I can’t remember exactly how to spell his name, it’s French. Thank you, thank you!’
‘I suppose that’s what big sisters are for,’ Kate reassured her, wondering how it was that Romy always seemed to get herself in a mess.
‘Promise you won’t say anything to Mum and Dad about this, you know what Dad’s like, Kate, he’ll say I’m squandering my time here at UCD.’
Kate had already decided this was another of Romy’s problems her parents didn’t need to know about.
Moya was different. Wearing her mankiest old sweatshirt and baggy trousers and a ribbed knitted grey cardigan, Romy had taken the bus out to her new house. She admired the carpets and the modern furniture and the pale yellow walls of the kitchen, before confiding that she had nothing nice or good to wear for an important date with one of the young medical students she knew.
‘If only we were the same size, Moya, I could borrow something from you,’ she murmured wistfully, knowing full well she was a good four inches taller than her sister and a dress size or two up.
‘I’ll help you to pick out something nice,’ her sister said, offering to come shopping with her on Saturday.
‘But I can’t make it on Saturday. I’m helping out with something in college.’
Moya insisted on giving her the money to treat herself to something nice.
‘I can’t take your money.’
‘Of course you can, that’s what family are for.’
She would raid the savings she had in her post office account and hold back on her gas and electricity money from her flatmates. Another few weeks and she would have enough. Then the post had come and with it what she supposed was her monthly rent cheque. Romy had stared incredulous, looking at her father’s large looped writing and distinctive signature. The amount filled in was for one thousand pounds. A simple handwritten note asked her to make no mention of it ever to her mother.
She had stared unbelieving, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Her father was ensuring she had enough money to pay her air fare and her expenses for the abortion at the clinic she’d chosen.
Brian had finally phoned her. Awkward, he told her that his girlfriend had travelled over unexpectedly from England to spend six weeks in Germany with him.
‘I have to go to London for a few days,’ Romy pleaded. ‘Couldn’t we meet up? I need to see you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get the time off work, and besides, I told you Gina’s here with me in Frankfurt.’
‘Don’t bloody bother,’ she said, banging the phone down on him. She was stupid to be so upset and hurt about his involvement with someone else. She didn’t own him! She didn’t need to consult him about something that had been an accident, totally unplanned. She convinced herself that it would be better if Brian didn’t ever know about her pregnancy.
The college doctor refused to help her with regard to the arrangements for a termination but none the less provided a medical letter outlining the state she was in. She was sorely tempted to beg Moya or Kate to come to England with her, but knew her sisters would do everything in their power to make her change her mind.
She’d opted to fly over on the early-morning flight to Heathrow and get the tube from there to Fulham where the Thames Clinic was situated. She stood on the steps outside the tall red-brick building with its discreet signage and opaque windows, nervous about going in.
Trying to get her courage up she watched other women, escorted by their boyfriends or woman friends, enter the clinic, then finally forced herself to join them. The receptionist, a pretty woman with a soft Northern Ireland accent, produced
a pile of forms for her to fill in. At the other end of the room a television was on with no-one paying it any attention.
She hadn’t a clue what to write. She was definitely not putting down her home address or her own GP’s name, determined to maintain some sort of privacy even during this awful procedure.
A lady doctor, Dr Bennett, had called her in, questioning her about the reasons for the termination and deciding if she was fit to have the procedure. Romy was almost out of her mind with the thought of what lay ahead, and her stomach was grumbling with hunger from fasting since the night before.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ the doctor asked one last time before signing off on the pale green form and telling her that she would not be going to theatre until almost four o’clock in the afternoon.
‘We’re a bit backlogged so you can rest in the room upstairs and watch the TV. The nurse will administer a sedative about an hour before we call you down. When the procedure is over you will be returned to your room to sleep it off and be under observation. You will be discharged by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
She was grateful for the simple professionalism of the woman in front of her, who showed no curiosity or made no comments on her condition.
Four women were to share the bright pink-painted room. Romy wondered how anyone could sit and concentrate enough to do the Times crossword. She didn’t want to talk to them. She had no interest in discovering how these women had arrived in the same circumstances as herself, she just didn’t want to know. She walked up and down the corridor trying to block out the sounds of sorrow coming from the small private room at the end. Back in the pink room the Times reader had already been taken down to the theatre. Romy, scared, closed her eyes not wanting to think. No matter how pristine and professional the clinic seemed it was like a funfair house of horrors. She tried not to think of the blob, think of its fingers and toes and head.
The nurse came in and gave her a sip of water and a tablet, telling her she’d be going down for her procedure soon. Drowsily, Romy pulled the sheet over her, trying to blank out her mind, and was half asleep when they brought her down to the theatre, the doctor patting her hand as he gave her an injection and asked her to start counting backwards, eight, seven, six, five, four bye bye bye.
The Stone House Page 14