But even as she spoke, Gabs knew that she was in for a battle, for a girl who wouldn’t dream of using a contraceptive was hardly going to take kindly to the idea of a termination.
“I can’t,” Steph wept. “I simply can’t. It’s taking a life. A human life. It’s — it’s murder!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Don’t be so ridiculous,” Gabs said. “It’s just a few cells. No more human than — than that plant over there.”
Steph gazed at the rather spindly spider plant that languished, unloved and unwatered, on the sideboard, and shook her head.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“Oh, I understand all right,” said Gabs grimly. “You’re prepared to throw your life away for something that, right now, barely exists. Something that mightn’t come to anything anyway. The bloody Catholic Church has a lot to answer for.”
“This isn’t about the church. It’s about me. My conscience,” Steph said. “But of course you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? I don’t think you’ve ever had one. A life is a life. It doesn’t matter how small it is. It still deserves a chance.”
The age-old argument raged back and forth, complete with all its clichés: Gabs citing the woman’s right to choose and the little bundle of cells; Steph countering that size wasn’t important, it was the fact that it was human that mattered.
“So,” said Gabs finally, “you’re going to have this child, are you? And how exactly do you propose to manage? What about your job? What about money? And the father — are you going to tell him? What part is he going to play in this — this mess?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought,” said Steph.
“No. So it seems. And you didn’t think when you had those drinks and got into that car and took off your knickers for this — this man of yours.”
“I didn’t take off my knickers for anyone!”
“Well, if you didn’t, it’ll be some kind of first. A knickers-on conception must be something of a rarity.”
“Gabs, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that!”
“This,” said Gabs tightly, “is no time to be prudish.”
“No. You’re right.”
“Okay. First, let’s get this child’s father involved. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“He’s — he’s not around anymore.”
“What do you mean, he’s not around? Has he died? Emigrated?”
“No. But we finished it. It wasn’t really going anywhere.”
“Well, it is now. You’re going to be parents, and he needs to play his part.”
“Oh no, Gabs. Please. I don’t want him to know. I don’t want anyone to know.”
Gabs resisted the urge to shake her sister.
“Steph, this is a real situation with real problems. You can’t bury your head in the sand and pretend it’s not happening. If you’re determined to keep this child — and I still think you’re mad — then you have to tell its father. You have to. Now, who is he?”
“He’s — it’s Clive,” Steph whispered.
“Great.”
This really was the icing on the cake. Wispy Clive, of the lanky limbs and the frightened, helpless expression; Clive, who had grown from a skinny altar boy into an equally skinny and unprepossessing young man; Clive, with the downy cheeks that somehow refused to sprout anything resembling a proper grown-up beard, and the traces of the acne that had dogged his adolescence. How on earth had he managed it?
“I know,” said Steph, reading Gabs’ expression. “But I really liked him. Well, I did for a while. And I trusted him.”
“But you don’t like him anymore.”
“No. Not really, and that makes it so much worse, doesn’t it? Because I always wanted to save — that — for someone special.”
“No good crying over spilt milk,” said Gabs, thinking that spilt milk was a great deal easier to deal with than spilt other things. “I know,” she said with sudden inspiration, “Father Augustine. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas. He’s a good listener, and he seems pretty unshockable. I’m sure it would help you to talk to a priest.”
Steph looked at her suspiciously. “Are you sure it’s not you who wants to see Father Augustine?” she asked.
“Oh no,” said Gabs airily. “That’s all in the past. A foolish aberration.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something.”
“Yes.”
Gabs wondered what it was that had led her to lie so smoothly to Steph. She certainly hadn’t meant to, since despite their differences, the two of them rarely kept secrets from each other. But she knew that if Steph suspected that she still had designs on Father Augustine, she would insist on seeing him on her own, and Gabs was desperate for any opportunity that might bring her into contact with him, even if the focus were to be on someone else.
Father Augustine was very kind. He was non-judgemental and sympathetic — in fact, all the things that the Catholic Church isn’t supposed to be in the face of sexual immorality or its fallout — and he listened carefully to everything Steph had to say.
“Well, Steph, this isn’t going to be easy,” he told her. “But you’ve made the right decision. Too many people just get rid of their unplanned babies these days, forgetting that there’s no such thing as an unwanted child.”
“But Steph didn’t want this one,” Gabs pointed out.
Father Augustine turned a disappointed gaze on Gabs. “Steph may not want this baby now, but I’m sure she will when it arrives. And if she doesn’t, there are many families who long for children and can’t have them — good Catholic families.”
“Oh, please,” muttered Gabs.
“What was that you said, Gabs?”
“Nothing. But I can’t believe you expect Steph to go through all this, have the baby, and then give it away!”
“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, but it is an option that she can consider.”
“I suppose so.”
“Now —” Father Augustine steepled his fingers and smiled over them at Steph — “what’s the next step?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I came to you.”
“Well, I think you should tell the baby’s father. He has a right to know.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Gabs, who could see her tally of brownie points dwindling during this interview, and wanted to give them a small boost. “He deserves to know.”
Steph looked at her suspiciously, but Gabs maintained an open, sympathetic expression and refused to meet her sister’s eyes.
“Well, then, that’s what you should do first. And see how much support he’ll give you. I’m not suggesting you marry him — not at this stage, anyway. But get him involved.”
Gabs tried to imagine weedy, useless Clive being “involved” with a baby — pushing a pram, changing a nappy, and doing all the other things modern fathers are supposed to do so well — and failed utterly.
“I’m not sure he’d be a lot of help,” she said.
“But he should be given the opportunity,” said Father Augustine firmly. “Is he a Catholic?”
“Yes,” Steph said.
“Excellent.” Father Augustine smiled again.
Oh, what wouldn’t Gabs have given to have that smile directed at her! So far, Father Augustine seemed to be doing his best to ignore her. And besides, why was it excellent that Clive was a Catholic? Was Father Augustine really pleased to discover that he had two fornicating Catholics on his hands rather than just one?
“Yes.” Steph sounded doubtful.
“And when you’ve told him, the two of you can come and see me together. How would that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, never mind. We’ll leave that for the time being. One step at a time.” Father Augustine stood up. “I’m afraid I have to be somewhere else in fifteen minutes, but in the meantime, you’ve got Gabs to help you, and that’s a blessing, isn’t it? And always remember: I’m here if you need me.”
On th
e way home, while Steph prattled away about how much better she felt and how wonderful it was to have a church to turn to in times of stress, all Gabs could think about was Father Augustine: Father Augustine’s words (he’d actually called her “a blessing” — had he meant Gabs herself, or the fact of Gabs, the fact that Steph had a sister?) and those parting words to Steph: he would always be there if she needed him. Oh, lucky Steph! Did she have any idea how fortunate she was? She now had carte blanche to visit Father Augustine anytime she wanted, while Gabs, who loved him so much, had no excuse at all. Briefly, she wondered whether it might even be worth getting pregnant in order to have nine months of support from Father Augustine, but she dismissed the idea. There were some sacrifices that were not worth making, even for a reward such as this one.
“I think I’ll leave telling Clive for a while,” Steph was saying. “Just until I’ve got used to the idea myself. Then perhaps we could tell him together. Would you mind doing that, Gabs? I don’t think I could do it on my own, but with you there, I might manage it. Gabs? Gabs! I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying!”
“Of course I have.” Gabs dragged her thoughts away from her reveries and patted Steph’s shoulder. “And you’re going to be just fine.”
“You’ve certainly changed your tune!”
“Well, if I can’t dissuade you, then I’ll have to support you, won’t I?”
“Oh, Gabs! Father Augustine was right. You really are a blessing.”
Gabs grinned at her. “Yes, aren’t I?”
The Third Meeting: June
It was Gabs who had suggested the picnic, and at the time, it had seemed a good idea. The weather was warm, and there was a pleasant park within fairly easy reach of all of them. It would make a nice change from their indoor meetings and would exonerate anyone (Gabs herself, as it happened; it was her turn) from playing host. Everyone could contribute food, and Gabs said she’d bring some wine. Mavis herself would take a flask of coffee. And, rather unfortunately, Maudie.
A friend had said she might be able to sit with Maudie, but at the last minute she phoned to say that she couldn’t make it.
“I’m sorry, Mavis,” she said, “but I have to be honest with you. It’s that cat. He doesn’t like me.”
“He doesn’t like anybody,” Mavis said. “I’ll shut him in my bedroom. He’ll be fine.”
“You did that last time, and your mother let him out.”
“Just keep an eye on her. The cat will be all right. His bark’s worse than his bite.”
“That’s what you say, but last time, he ruined a new sweater and scratched me quite badly. And all without, as you put it, barking.”
“So that means you won’t be coming anymore?”
“Oh, I’m very happy to visit you both. You know that. I’d hate to lose touch altogether. But I can’t sit with Maudie anymore.” There was an apologetic pause. “You know how it is.”
Looking at Pussolini now, lurking at the top of the stairs and batting at imaginary prey with extended claws (should she get them cut? Would anybody dare?), Mavis had to admit that he was getting worse and that nowadays he more or less ruled the roost. He hid behind things and on top of things, and pounced on unsuspecting visitors, emitting big cat noises and generally finding entertainment at the expense of unsuspecting visitors. He never attacked Maudie, whom he adored, and knew better than to take on Mavis, who was responsible for feeding him, but anyone else was seen as fair game.
Mavis had tried seeking advice about his increasingly feral habits, but the vet had been no help at all.
“He must have been mistreated at some time in his life,” he said. “He just needs a bit of understanding.”
“Oh, I understand him perfectly,” Mavis told him. “He’s a thoroughly evil animal.”
“I don’t believe there’s any such thing,” said the vet.
“You’ll be suggesting counselling next.”
“Well, you may joke, but there are people who do that kind of thing. Animal behavioural psychologists.”
“Who are very expensive, I don’t doubt,” said Mavis, who thought that Pussolini would make mincemeat of anyone who tried to get inside his nasty little brain.
“Quite possibly.”
So Pussolini lived on, uncounselled and uncontrollable. If she had had her own way, Mavis would have had him put down, but Maudie loved him, and Mavis couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was little enough in Maudie’s increasingly narrow existence, and she was generally so undemanding. The least Mavis could do was put up with her cat. But this meant that soon she herself would be a prisoner in her own home, for while Maudie usually behaved perfectly when she was at work, she became particularly confused in the evenings and couldn’t really be left.
So Maudie would have to come on the picnic.
Gabs and Alice didn’t appear to object to Maudie’s status as honorary club member, and it had been a beautiful warm day, so Mavis gathered together her contributions (sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs), dressed her mother up in suitable clothing (Maudie had recently taken to spending all day in her nightie), and phoned for a taxi. The evening might not be so bad after all.
There were still quite a lot of people in the park making the most of the evening sunshine: teenagers flirting and messing about on the swings, couples strolling hand-in-hand, men in suits on their way home from work. Mavis was the last to arrive, and Gabs and Alice had already laid out rugs on the grass and opened a bottle of wine.
“Come and have a drink,” said Gabs, helping Mavis to set up the picnic chair she’d brought along for Maudie.
“Thanks.” Mavis put down her bags. “I’m not quite sure what to do about Mother. There’s no telly for her to watch, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to — well, to hear what we say, would it?”
“Not to worry. She can borrow my iPod,” said Gabs, fishing it out of her bag. “Here, Maudie. Have a listen to this.” She removed Maudie’s hearing aid and plugged her in. “What do you think?” she asked her.
“I can’t hear you,” said Maudie. “Someone’s put something in my ears.”
“It’s music,” Gabs shouted.
“What did you say, dear?”
“Music!”
“I can’t hear you, dear. I’m listening to this music.” Maudie helped herself to a sandwich and tapped her foot in time to whatever it was she was listening to.
“Well, that seems to be okay,” said Mavis, relieved. “Thank you, Gabs.”
“You’re welcome.”
This was always the awkward moment: the few minutes before things had warmed up, and everyone was waiting for someone else to start talking. They didn’t really see enough of each other, Mavis thought, peeling an egg for Maudie. The three of them still weren’t completely at ease with one another. They were all so very different, with nothing in common but their relationships. She noticed that Gabs was already on her second glass of wine, and Alice seemed rather quiet. Perhaps she should speak first?
“Well, I’ve had an interesting time,” she began, feeling oddly shy. “Clifford’s daughter got married two weeks ago.”
“Oh goodness! Poor you!” Alice immediately seemed to perk up. “How did you feel about it?”
“Awful.”
“I bet you did. And did you go?”
How good it was to be with people who understood, people who could see that she couldn’t possibly have missed this wedding. Suddenly Mavis felt as though her mental corsets had been unlaced, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, I did.”
“Did Clifford find out?” Gabs asked.
“Yes. He noticed my shoes.”
“Your shoes!” Gabs rocked with laughter. “They must have been pretty special.”
“Well, that’s the odd thing. They weren’t. In fact, he was rather rude about them.”
“Silly bugger,” said Gabs cheerfully.
“Yes, he is a silly bugger sometimes,” said Mavis, enjoying the sound of this unaccustomed word as it rolle
d off her lips. “A very silly bugger.”
“Language, Mavis,” said Maudie, who had disengaged the iPod. Gabs popped it back in again.
“And?” Alice asked. “What did he say?”
“Oh, the usual. I was sneaky. I was spying. That kind of thing.”
“Well, of course you were. You could hardly pretend to be a guest.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“And his wife — what’s her name — did you see her?”
“Dorothy. Yes, I did.”
“And what’s she like?”
“Very large, and absolutely terrifying.”
“No threat there, then,” said Gabs, feeding Maudie pieces of fruit cake.
“Well, not that sort of threat. No. Except that she is married to Clifford. But I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.”
Mavis recalled the spectacle of Dorothy as she left the church, dwarfing everyone around her, including Clifford. Even her handbag had been enormous — a proper Importance of Being Earnest handbag — and Mavis wondered again what could have been inside it. Apart from a handkerchief and perhaps a lipstick, what else would the mother of the bride need to carry with her? She pictured packets of safety pins, a spare pair of knickers, perhaps even a Swiss Army knife. The importance of being Dorothy. Mavis giggled at the thought.
“Come on, Mavis,” Gabs said. “Share the joke.”
So Mavis shared the joke, and was gratified to find that the others were amused (Mavis wasn’t usually very good at jokes). She then went on to describe the rest of Dorothy, from the trembling headpiece down to the vast shoes (size eight? possibly even nine?), and afterwards she felt a very great deal better. All these thoughts had been tumbling about in her head since the wedding, desperate to get out, and it was the first time she’d been able to put them into words.
Maudie interrupted with an observation.
“Michael Jackson,” she said through a mouthful of cake.
“You’re right. It is Michael Jackson.” Gabs looked impressed. “How does she know that?”
Women Behaving Badly_An uplifting, feel-good holiday read Page 14