Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon (32 page)

Chapter Twenty

Sandy, 1967

Although Sandy feared that she would swell like a balloon, her pregnancy did not show until well into the summer, and even then she could conceal the bulge under a loose sweater or tunic. For the last two weeks before she went to Bridge House, she and her mother went to stay with widowed Aunt Vera in Paignton. The pregnancy was never referred to, though Aunt Vera – her mother’s sister – must have known. Sometimes Sandy caught her mother and aunt talking together in hushed voices, looking up at her with bright fake smiles as she entered the room.

At the beginning of November her mother took her to a red-brick Victorian building in Maidstone. It had a bleak, institutional look, though nothing outside announced that Bridge House was a home for unmarried mothers. Sandy had resigned herself to this, almost welcomed it, as a way of shutting herself away from everyone’s disapproval. But as she got out of the taxi in the forecourt, she was filled with dread, thinking of the workhouse in
Far from the Madding Crowd
, Fanny Robin’s last hope. How would she get through this? Could she switch off her mind, simply endure from day to day until her sentence was served?

The matron, a woman in her forties called Mrs Pickard, was less formidable than Sandy had expected. Over a cup of tea in her office, she told them that the girls could have visitors on Saturday or Sunday afternoons.

‘That’ll be nice, won’t it?’ Sandy’s mother said, in the crisply cheerful voice she was adopting for the occasion. She would come alone for visits, Sandy knew. Dad had refused to bring her, even though, as Mum didn’t drive, it had meant coming by train and taxi. His farewell to Sandy had been stiff and awkward; he’d see her in a few months, he said. At the last moment he had given her a kiss, the first for weeks; she felt the tremble in the hand that gripped her arm before he hurried indoors, closing the door behind him.

‘Don’t fret, darling,’ Mum had said, on the train. ‘Things will eventually get back to normal. He’s finding this very difficult.’

Mrs Pickard showed the way to the bedroom Sandy would share with two other girls, and the bathroom nearby. There were two drawers and a narrow wardrobe; a single shelf held two books and a stack of magazines. Sandy saw her mother’s face registering the sparseness, her smile wavering slightly.

‘I’ll be all right.’ Sandy wanted her gone.

‘You can phone home, dear, whenever you want,’ said Mrs Pickard. ‘There’s a public telephone in the hallway.’

So far Sandy had seen only two other girls, both heavily pregnant, coming out of what appeared to be a kitchen, each carrying a plate with a slice of cake on it. They looked at her with curious, hesitant smiles; Mrs Pickard introduced them as Tracy and Maggie. ‘Most of the other girls are out at the moment. This is the time when they can go for a walk or to the shops.’

When her mother had left, Sandy unpacked her clothes in the bedroom and looked out at the autumn garden, hating the feeling of being new, and the lack of privacy – where would she find solitude? She had never shared a bedroom before, only occasionally when she’d had a friend to stay. But alongside her qualms there was a feeling of relief: here, no one would judge her. Everyone was in the same situation. They’re only girls like me, Sandy realized, girls who’ve been silly or unlucky. Not the tarts and streetwalkers Dad said would live in a place like this.

There were sixteen residents of Bridge House, five of whom already had babies. One girl, who was keeping her baby son, left the home after a week of learning how to care for him. Most of the babies would be adopted at six weeks.

Sandy tried to avoid the babies. A year ago she would have thought they were sweet, but now they frightened her with their demands, their flailing hands, their messes and smells, their pink mouths that opened to wail in inconsolable distress. She didn’t want to think of the thing inside her as a potential human being. Her parents had stipulated to the matron that the baby must be taken away at birth; they thought it best, and when the case worker asked if Sandy agreed, she said that she did. A girl in the next bedroom could be heard weeping over the imminent parting with her baby, making Sandy glad of her decision. Why put herself through such a prolonged ordeal, if it could be done swiftly?

‘It’s final, that’s what it is,’ said Tracy, whose own baby was due in a fortnight. ‘Once you sign the consent form, that’s it. You can’t change your mind. You’ll never see your baby again. Ever.’

The inmates spent most of each morning doing jobs around the house: cleaning, helping in the kitchen, or working in the laundry. ‘Slave labour,’ some of the girls complained, but the work was not demanding, and it passed the time. Exercise classes took place before lunch, which was the main meal of the day. Afternoons and evenings were mainly free, and the girls made their own tea in the kitchen. It was like another kind of school: the friendships and rivalries, the squabbles when one girl used another’s make-up or was thought to do less than her share of kitchen chores. Sandy fitted into the daily routines. On winter afternoons, the curtains drawn against the early dark, the sitting room softened by a pool of light from a standard lamp and the glowing bars of an electric fire, Sandy felt that this would last for ever, her own life held in waiting for the emergence of the other she was carrying. For all the petty jealousies, the lack of privacy and the sparse surroundings, she felt safe here, where pregnancy was the norm, and all the girls shared the same doubts and fears.

In twice-weekly craft sessions they made ‘bounty boxes’ – shoe boxes covered in collage, lined with paper and filled with small toys and gifts. These boxes went with the babies to their adoptive parents. Sandy learned basic knitting, and sewed plain-and-purl squares together to make a patchwork blanket which could be used on a cot. Following a battered pattern book she made a duckling from yellow felt and stuffed it with kapok; she sewed on an orange beak and flipper-like feet, and embroidered black eyes with lashes. When the toy was finished she felt an unexpected pride in it; almost, she thought, she’d be sorrier to part with this duckling than with the baby. She made a collage to cover her shoe box, collecting pictures of flowers and animals from magazines and postcards. Then, when the box was finished and its contents packed inside, she took no further interest.

Olivia sobbed quietly as she stuffed a felt dog for her bounty box, her fringe drooping over red and swollen eyes. Other girls tried to comfort her: ‘Think of having your life back, being able to do what you want!’ And, ‘You can have another baby, when you’re older. When you find the right boy.’

There was a lot of talk about boyfriends. Tracy’s came to visit, a shy, spotty youth who looked far too young to be a father; Marion had a photograph of hers on the only shelf. One of the girls was pregnant by a married man, who did not visit.

‘Have you got a boyfriend, Sandy?’ They all wanted to know that.

The first time she was asked this, a reckless impulse made her reply, ‘No. He died. Drowned.’

She didn’t know why she said it, but it gave her a tragic air that made the other girls treat her with respect. Having lied once, she had to carry on lying, elaborating. Almost she began to believe in this version of her story. In her imagination it was Phil who had drowned, who had gone from her life for ever.

Chapter Twenty-one

Anna hadn’t yet made use of Ruth’s bike, and was spending far too much each week on taxis to and from the tube station. She was living cheaply in other ways, offsetting the cost; but she’d have to think ahead, invest in a small car, perhaps. When the mornings and evenings lightened, she could use the bike, but for now she didn’t relish the thought of cycling along the country lanes in darkness, with vehicles swooshing past.

She didn’t much like arriving home after dark, either. For those few moments after the taxi left her, its headlights sweeping the hedgerows as it turned back up the hill, she stood alone in thick, stifling darkness. She had bought a pocket torch to keep in her bag, and always had her key ready in her hand; she resolved to ask Ruth about fitting a security light.

Indoors, she went through the ritual of locking and bolting, going round the house to draw curtains, turning on the radio. Then she could relax, put the kettle on or pour a glass of wine, change from her office clothes into jeans and a sweater.

On Friday night, late back, she was gearing herself up for an early start in the morning. Her taxi was booked, her rail tickets ordered online, to collect at the station tomorrow. She heated a pasta dish and ate it with salad, quickly, hardly tasting it, and was washing up when the doorbell shrilled.

She tensed, aware of the darkness outside, her isolation. There was no spyhole on the door, no chain. It could be anyone. Someone might have been watching her movements, knowing she was alone.

Don’t be neurotic.
It was probably the neighbour she hadn’t yet spoken to, or maybe Ruth.

Cautiously she slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack, ready to slam it again, to kick hard if a foot tried to insert itself into the gap.

It was Martin who stood there.

Her hand went to her throat. ‘Oh! You scared me.’ Her voice came out husky with relief. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Are you going to let me in? It’s bloody cold out here.’

She stepped aside, closed the door behind him and stood with her back to it. He wore his black overcoat, a suit underneath, with a white shirt and dark red tie. She had always liked the dramatic contrast of red, black and white against his dark colouring; now it annoyed her to acknowledge how good he looked, how he brought masculine assurance into the hallway where she’d stood dithering moments before.

‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated.

‘Come to see you – what does it look like? I’ve been visiting a client in Cambridge, so I made a detour.’

‘It’s late.’

‘I know it’s late. Sorry if I’m putting you out. Thought I might get some sense out of you, if I came round.’

‘I see,’ Anna said coldly.

‘Look, are we going to stand in the hall or can we sit down and talk?’

‘We can sit down, I suppose. If you’re willing to enter the hovel, as I think you described it.’ She led the way into the sitting room. Martin threw his overcoat over a chair-back, and sat down; she stood by the fireplace, facing him.

He said flatly, ‘Ruth says you’re meeting someone tomorrow.’

‘Did she?’

Thanks, Ruth.

‘You haven’t wasted much time. Or –
is
this a new thing?’ His coolness matched her own. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

‘Fuck’s sake! Considering Ruth knows nothing about it, I can’t see why you’re both jumping to conclusions. Unless it’s because you
want
to think badly of me.’

‘I don’t want to think badly. I just don’t know what’s got into you. Whatever you’re playing at, I don’t like it.’

‘Don’t you? Well, get used to it. I’m not playing. That’s one of the main reasons I like it here. Being on my own. Being able to come and go without having to account for myself.’

‘I see. Don’t you owe it to me to be clearer about your intentions?’

‘What intentions?’

‘Ah,’ Martin said, maddeningly calm. ‘Precisely. For instance – are you planning to collect the rest of your things from the flat, move out properly? Or carry on with this halfway arrangement?’

‘You keep on about what I’m planning.’ Anna leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘Why do I have to plan? Why can’t I let things happen?’

‘Because you’re an adult, supposedly, with other people to consider. For God’s sake, Anna – you want it all ways. You want to be independent, but you’re stopping short of making a complete break. Maybe you haven’t got the courage.’

‘It’s not courage,’ she retorted. ‘It’s a simple matter of sorting out where I’m going to live.’

‘Simple, is it? So I’m nothing more to you than a flat mate you’ll abandon the minute it suits you?’ He looked at her in exasperation. ‘Can’t you sit down? I’m getting neck ache looking up at you.’

She moved away from the fireplace, but turned towards the door. ‘Would you like something? Wine, coffee?’

‘No, I want to sort this out. Could you please give me a sensible answer for once? Either come back with me now, or collect your things and give me your key. If you
have
moved out, I don’t want you dropping in at odd times.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, her voice rising triumphantly. ‘Did that mess things up with Lenka, just when you were getting cosy?’

Martin gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Don’t try to make something out of nothing. Lenka came round for a sandwich and a chat. You know that’s all it was.’

‘You don’t exactly have a good record for faithfulness,’ Anna flung at him.

He looked at her, brows lowered. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Ruth told me about your affair.’ Her turn to play the Ruth card. ‘With a married woman called Hilary.’

‘Oh, did she?’ He glanced down, then up again, meeting her gaze. ‘Well, that was years ago, and all I can say is I’m not proud of it and I wish I hadn’t been so bloody stupid. But it’s nothing to do with you and me.’