‘Paula? Your dad’s upstairs in the lav with his newspaper. He’ll be there for another five minutes at least. Are you going to talk to me or what?’
‘What do you want to know?’ Paula’s head came up, defiant, and she glared at Dot.
‘I want to know if you’ve been up to something you shouldn’t.’
‘Yes, Mum. I’m pregnant. Are you satisfied now? You’ve been staring at me for days…’
‘Oh my God, Paula. You stupid girl. And who is he? The lad, I mean? Is he going to wed you?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Mum, it’s 1976, not the Dark Ages. I’m assuming you’re not going to throw me out and tell me never to darken your door ever again.’
‘Shhh,’ Dot hissed, ‘your dad’ll hear.’ She hurried to close the kitchen door that led upstairs, knocking over the milk jug over she did so. ‘Damn, now look what you’ve made me do.’ Dot snatched Paula’s toast-crumbed plate, shoving it under the spreading wet stain in order to protect the oak veneered table.
‘He’ll have to know sometime.’ Paula felt defeated; didn’t know what else to say.
‘What will Maggy-from-number-ten say? What will our Linda think? And the Trinders? What will they think when they know their new daughter-in-law’s unmarried sister is in the family way?’ Dot frowned furiously. ‘I can see Mrs Trinder now, pulling that face, like she’s been sucking lemons. You know, like she did when she saw the sausage rolls at the reception.’
‘Mum, I don’t give a damn about the bloody Trinders, Maggy or Linda. And, I don’t give a shit about sodding sausage rolls.’
‘Paula,’ Dot raised her voice and glared. ‘There’s no need to swear. I just don’t know where we went wrong with you.’
Paula stood up. ‘Oh, for God’s, sake, Mum, I’ve heard it all before.’
‘But look at you! It’s not normal, Paula, to not brush your hair and to wear all them long dark clothes.’ Dot paused. ‘So, who is he, Paula? Will he marry you, accept his responsibility?’
Highly unlikely, Paula thought, seeing as how not only did Rowan have no idea that she was up the duff but, more importantly, she had no idea where the bastard had gone. Up the creek without a paddle, as Norman always used to say whenever he came home with news that one of the girls where he worked, at the fishmonger’s in Midhope’s inside market, had gone and got herself pregnant. Well, he’d be saying it about his younger daughter now.
Bloody stupid thing to say anyway: ‘got herself pregnant’, Paula thought as she stomped upstairs away from her mother’s probing and went to lay down in her room. Nobody gets themselves pregnant unless they’re the Virgin Mary.
Paula suddenly felt very tired. Turning over on to her side, she switched on the tiny transistor she’d been given for her fourteenth birthday and it crackled into life, Ed Stewart’s jocular voice tinnily celebrating the fact that Pussycat’s ‘Mississippi’ had finally managed to knock ‘Dancing Queen’ from the number one slot after Abba’s tenacious hold on it for the past six weeks. ‘Thank God for that,’ Paula muttered, but none the less continued to fiddle with the control in an attempt to find something less banal. When The Sunday Service invited all those tuned in to pray, she threw the radio across her bed, slipped under the pink candlewick bedspread and, curled up in a foetal position, tried to figure out what to do.
*
It had all been going so well the night of the picnic. Rowan, she knew, had been impressed with the Brie and taramasalata. Of course, living in Hong Kong for most of his life, apart from his days at boarding school where, he’d assured her, the food was ‘total shit, man’ he was used to such exotic fare.
It couldn’t have been more perfect. He’d made love to her as if he really loved her, stroking her hair, kissing every bit of her until she was almost pleading for more. She knew she’d had too much alcohol – half a bottle of wine had gone straight to her head – and combining that with the unaccustomed joint had made her head spin.
In that small back bedroom, huddled under her candlewick bedspread, Paula clenched her fists and went over, yet again, what happened next.
‘Hey, you’re some chick, Paula,’ Rowan had said, smiling down at her. ‘I’ll really miss you. You know?’
Paula had struggled up from her supine position on Dot’s tablecloth, lifting Rowan’s arm that had grown heavy across her waist and stared down at him. ‘What do you mean, you’ll miss me? I’m not going anywhere. I can see you tomorrow. Any day.’
‘No, man, I’m going. I need to split. I’ve had enough.’
Paula felt panic rise. ‘Enough of what?’
Rowan shrugged. ‘This. All this. He’d waved vaguely with his arm. ‘All getting a bit heavy…’
‘But I’m coming with you, Rowan. You said…’
When he didn’t reply, but simply stroked her arm, she went on: ‘Look, give me a week. I can give in my notice at work. I’ve some holiday money owing. And then, then I’ll ask my sister to lend me the rest. You said, Rowan, you said…’
Rowan stood up and stretched before stamping out the joint beneath his foot. ‘Don’t want to start a fire here,’ he said. ‘Come on, man, your coming out East with me was all a bit of a dream. I never promised anything…’
‘Yes, you bloody well did.’ Paula felt tears well and brushed them away angrily with her hand. ‘I’m all ready to give up my job and come travelling with you. I want to see India, Thailand…’
Rowan prised Paula’s fingers away from his arm before removing bits of dead grass and brushwood from his jeans. ‘Look, I need to go, Paula. I need to be somewhere later on. Come on, I’ll give you a hand with this lot.’ He bent down to pack the picnic basket but she slapped his hand away and started to do it herself. ‘Tell you what, Paula, I’ve got your phone number…’
‘Of course you’ve got my sodding phone number.’
‘… I’ll ring you in a couple of weeks from wherever I am. We can sort something then.’ Paula had looked up into Rowan’s face as he’d had the damned nerve to quote, ‘“To gain that which is worth having, it may be necessary to lose everything else.” The immortal words of Keir Hardie, Paula. Come on, I’ll go ahead first and once you’ve got your shit together you can join me…’
Paula had sat back down on the rug as Rowan set off for the hole in the hedge and the bus back into town. He turned when he realised she wasn’t following. ‘Come on, we shouldn’t be in here anyway. It’s someone’s garden.’
When she stayed sitting where she was in the same position under the tree, he shrugged and started walking once more. ‘Too heavy,’ he muttered, the words floating backwards in the warm, headily-scented midsummer night air.
‘I’ve got some pride,’ she’d said to his departing back. ‘And it wasn’t bloody Keir Hardie who said that – it was Bernadette Devlin.’
*
She must have fallen asleep – she’d been feeling desperately tired lately, almost unable to stay awake at work in the stuffy office as the long hot summer had eventually burned itself out like a forgotten fire – but opened her eyes as she felt the springs of her mattress depress.
Norman was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking down at her.
‘God, Dad, you made me jump, just sitting there. What’s the matter with you?’ Norman hadn’t stepped foot in her and Linda’s shared bedroom after they’d hit their teens, and it seemed strange to have him sitting there now.
‘Your mum’s just told me.’
‘Right. I supposed she would. But don’t you start having a go at me as well. I’ve had enough with Mum giving me the third degree.’
‘Come on, Paula. How did you expect her to react? Say well done, how bloody clever of you?’ When she didn’t say anything, but tried to pull the covers over her head in order to shut out his hurt face, he said, ‘You’re not the first, Paula, and you won’t be the last. I’ve seen it all afore, during the war. There were dozens of lasses left holding the baby – literally – when their men were killed or went back to wherever they came from
in the first place. You’ll just have to get on with it.’
‘But I don’t want a baby, Dad. I want to go travelling. I don’t want to stop round here and have to keep on working in that bloody awful office.’
‘So, does this lad of yours know? You’ve not mentioned him for a while.’
‘He’s gone back to his parents in Hong Kong,’ Paula said. ‘But I’m sure if he knew about this – that I’m, you know – I’m sure he’d come back and help me.’ Since the evening of the picnic, exactly eleven weeks and three days ago now, Paula had begun to build a story in her head even she was beginning to believe. That he’d gone home to his parents and that, if he only knew what state he’d left her in, he’d be back like a shot. Maybe even take her to Hong Kong with him. They’d have a quiet wedding arranged by his diplomat father and he’d help them find a little apartment where she’d have the baby and maybe they’d then go off travelling together, the baby snuggled into Rowan’s chest in one of those baby papoose things everyone seemed to have these days.
‘Aye, well, you’ll just have to see what happens. That’s all you can do.’ And with that Norman had stood, shaken his head and followed his nose down to the kitchen where Dot’s Sunday roast beef was already beginning to make its weekly complaint at being cooked almost to cremation.
16
What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger…
By the beginning of October, the reality of being a deserted wife and single mum to two teenagers had set in. I hadn’t heard much at all from Mark: he’d transferred generous amounts of money into our joint account, which would more than enable me to carry on paying the mortgage and bills, but I’d heard nothing about whether he wanted a divorce or if he regretted doing what he did. Clare informed me that the pair of them were renting one of the modern mill conversion apartments over in Eastfirth, a large village about six miles away, but even knowing that, I prayed nightly that he would soon return, that he was going through some mid-life crisis and would realise what he’d done and come home. I was certainly ready to take him back with open arms.
My life basically consisted of two things: Little Acorns, and running the house and kids, with the school taking up most of my energies. In an effort to forget my personal situation I completely immersed myself in its running, sorting kids, parents, teachers, governors, and not forgetting a Lithuanian lollipop lady and a secretary who, now that they both knew of my situation, appeared to make it their combined purpose in life to bring me tea, cake and wise words of comfort.
‘What doesn’t murders you, Mrs Head, will only makes you keep fit,’ Deimante announced one Monday morning before school started.
‘Sorry?’
‘Jeans she tells me sis and I sink very, very good sing. Very wise lady, Jeans…’ Deimante nodded her head in agreement with herself as the Wise Woman of Westenbury herself walked into the office.
‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ Jean corrected, beaming at her protégée. ‘Very good, Deimante. Now, what have you got there?’
‘Skilandis. Very good breakfast. You needs feeding up, Mrs Head. Big shock of your mans leaving yous for best friend. Yous getting sin…’
God, did everyone know of my situation? And getting sin? I’d certainly not had any sin for the past month.
‘Sin?’
‘Yes, sin.’ Deimante grabbed my arm and gave it a good feel. ‘Too sin. Needs good meals. No lovers ever wants makes sex wis you wis sin arms. Now skilandis will sets you up for day. Betters than biscuits of chocolate. Fulls of goodness. Come on, eats, eats…’
A large slice of pig’s stomach stuffed with minced meat and matured (and for some time if the smell and texture had anything to do with it) was put into my hand while Jean and Deimante stood over me like a couple of doting mother hens, urging me to eat and not relenting until I’d had several bites of what I can only describe as smoked sweaty sock.
‘Gosh, that’s salty,’ I gasped, looking round for the bottle of Evian I usually had to hand.
‘Gira, you needs gira, Mrs Head. Here.’ Deimante rummaged through her huge carrier bag and produced a two-litre plastic Coca-Cola bottle of very dark sticky-looking liquid and poured a substantial amount into my empty coffee cup. ‘Sis nots Cokes,’ she shook her head vehemently. ‘Not rotting tooths. Now drinks, drinks up…’
‘It’s really quite delicious, Cassandra,’ Jean encouraged. ‘Made from fermented rye bread.’
‘Fermented?’ I asked, sniffing the contents suspiciously. ‘Are you sure it’s not alcoholic?’
‘No, no.’ Jean shook her head vigorously. ‘Apparently full of Vitamin B. I’ve had mine already.’
‘Bums ups,’ Deimante grinned. ‘Is freshly made last month.’
I took a sip and it really was delicious with a sweet, yet tangy yeast taste. It was a bit like drinking molten brown bread and I finished the cup, slaking my thirst before wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.
‘Are you sure there’s no alcohol in this?’ I asked as a rather familiar warm glow began to spread through my whole body.
‘Just goes wis flows like Jean say,’ Deimante admonished as she gathered up the remains of her booty and I finally managed to usher the pair of them out of the office in order to start the day properly.
‘Only dead fish go with the flow,’ I muttered to myself as I closed the door, but then immediately opened it again as I spotted Karen Adams walking into school.
‘Ah, Karen, do you have a minute?’ I pounced.
‘Can it wait?’ she said, unsmiling. ‘I’ve got rather a lot to do before the children arrive.’
‘I insist,’ I replied, rather too gaily for a damp Monday morning. ‘I’m not going to take no for an answer. Come on. In. Now.’
‘Sorry?’ She looked at me with the same suspicion I’d given the cup of gira ten minutes earlier, but followed me into the office where I sat down leaving her to stand in front of my desk. I’d once read in Cosmo that’s how bosses get the upper hand.
‘Now, you might not like what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. You and I have to work together, and I’ve gone along with your decidedly snide comments, as well as your determined efforts to undermine me at every turn, for the last month. It’s up to you, Karen. You can carry on like this, making life unpleasant for me as well as the two new supply staff, or you can try changing your tune: accept I’m going to be in charge until a permanent head is found to take over – which could be at half term, Christmas, summer. No one knows when it will be.’ I paused for breath and then launched once more. ‘So, until then, I would appreciate your co-operation in working with me for the good of the school. Oh, and Karen, I should be grateful if any gossip you hear about my personal life is kept to yourself. I’m sure you get my drift?’
Karen opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, rather like a landed fish gasping for air, but then she gave me a look of utter disdain, wheeled round and left the office.
I burped discreetly and, catching sight of myself in the office mirror, apologised to my reflection and set off to find Harriet Westmoreland, the new supply teacher who worked Mondays and Tuesdays, and whom I was beginning to like enormously.
*
By break time I had a pounding head and was feeling hung over. Wait until I saw that Deimante. Having said that, I didn’t regret my little alcohol-fuelled confrontation with Karen Adams – one I probably would have had only in my imagination had it not been for the gira-induced Dutch – Lithuanian? – courage. And Deimante was right: I had lost weight. Being only five foot tall and with a love of good food as well as a tendency to bake – and then eat – I had gone from my wedding day size eight to what was probably no more than a ten, just before the break-up. Mark had teased me, taking hold of the new flesh around my waist and backside and calling me a little dumpling but assuring me he loved it all because it was mine. I should have taken heed: Tina is tall, very slim and extremely elegant. Maybe that’s why Mark went for her. Well, he’d have nothing to get
hold of now.
I took a couple of paracetamols, covered the reception class for an hour while Kath Beaumont dashed off to the dentist, and gave thanks that I’d not had to prepare assembly because we were having a visit from the RNIB to talk to the children about how they could help raise money for blind people. I always enjoyed these little talks. It meant I didn’t have to do much apart from introduce the speaker, give a vote of thanks at the end and basically sit back and let someone else take over for a while. The session this morning was particularly good, as we had four visitors: the charity fundraiser, a partially sighted man who showed the children the latest gadgets for helping blind people and, drawing oohs and awws from everyone including the staff, a trainee Labrador puppy and her foster mother. The children were totally in love with Sidney the puppy, particularly when he let himself down by leaving a puddle on the hall floor.
All was going well, apart from the occasional dagger winging its way in my direction from Karen Adams, when Beau Baxter, a usually rather quiet five-year-old, put his hand up.
‘My daddy’s going blind,’ he shouted down the hall to the fundraiser, his bottom lip trembling. Two hundred heads swivelled in his direction.
Oh shit.
‘Oh?’ the fundraiser said, giving me a panicked, you’re the head teacher, you sort it glance ‘Really?’
‘My mummy was talking to my auntie Bea last night on the phone and she said Daddy was going to go blind.’
‘You’re really going to have to help Daddy then.’ The fundraiser was floundering.
‘Well, we’ve got a new au pair to help as well. She’s very pretty.’
‘Right, OK, that will be a help, won’t it, then?’
‘Yes,’ he lisped, sadly. ‘Mummy told Auntie Bea that Daddy is going to go blind if his right hand gets any more exercise now that the new au pair has come to help.’
Harriet Westmoreland, sitting on my right, hurriedly turned a snort of laughter into a cough as I quickly jumped in to rescue the fundraiser whose reddening face was doing nothing to help her problem acne.
A Village Affair Page 15