Roxy's Baby (4 page)

‘Well, did you talk to them?'

‘Sure did. Just off the phone to them.' Doreen filled a bowl with cereal. ‘They'll meet you this morning. There's a coffee shop a couple of streets away. They'll
meet you at eleven o'clock.'

She grinned at Roxy. ‘Don't look so worried. The Dyces are wonderful people. You're sorted, Rosemary.'

It was easy to sneak out of the house without anyone seeing Roxy. It was as if she was invisible. It made her realise how insignificant she was in this house of runaways. Today she was glad to be invisible. The last thing she wanted was for Jessica Jones to see her leave, realise she had no intention of coming back, and stop her.

Doreen had given her directions to the coffee shop where she was to meet Mr and Mrs Dyce. It was easy enough to find, up one of the back streets where there was more litter and broken windows and drab buildings. Coffee shop was a rather grand title for the dilapidated cafe that stood on the corner.

As Roxy stood at the door she was suddenly afraid. Here she was meeting up with strangers, expecting them to help her. She was frightened of what was ahead. The unknown. Was she ready for it? Not for the first time she thought how stupid all this was. She could just
go home now. Head for the bus station. Be back in her own bed tonight.

If her family would take her back, that is.

Were they worried about her? Or just glad to be rid of her?

Just glad to be rid of her, probably. That thought decided her. She took a deep breath and went inside.

Nobody seemed to notice her. Only the untidy waitress in the corner glanced her way, and that for just a second. Roxy scanned the tables looking for the Dyces. A woman sat reading a newspaper and smoking. Roxy studied the headlines to see if there was any mention of her going missing. There was a story about a football player who'd been arrested, and a pop singer who'd just won an award. Nothing about her. Yet. At the next table, another woman fanned the cigarette smoke away furiously. A young couple, both looking ridiculous in matching red berets, sipped coffee and muttered sweet nothings to each other. Could they be the Dyces? No. Of course not. They looked too young, and too stupid. She wouldn't go anywhere with them. She'd never trust them.

There was no one else here. She was almost ready to leave when a hand gripped her elbow.

‘Rosemary?' The voice was a whisper in her ear.

Roxy swung round. A thin woman, her hair looking newly permed, was smiling at her. ‘You are Rosemary?' she whispered again. It was as if her voice was always a whisper. ‘We've got a table over there.' Roxy followed her glance to a dark corner of the cafe, beside a side entrance. All she could see at the table were a pair of chubby hands folded together. The rest was hidden by the wall. ‘You go and sit down with Mr Dyce. I'll get us some tea. Is tea OK?' Her voice never rose above a whisper. There was something reassuring in that.

As Roxy drew closer to the far table the hands grew into arms and then a body and a face. Whatever she was expecting, she certainly wasn't expecting this. She was looking into the face of Santa Claus. Round, with apple-red cheeks and a trim white beard.

‘Is it you, my dear? Is Mrs Dyce bringing the teas?' He looked beyond her to the counter. ‘Come, sit down.' He patted the seat beside him. Roxy sat down nervously.

‘I'm Mr Dyce,' Santa Claus said. ‘I don't really like this place. It's frequented by some very strange people.'

None stranger than you, Roxy was thinking.

He leaned towards her. ‘I don't suppose Rosemary's
your real name, but you'll tell us when you're ready. Ah, here comes Mrs Dyce with the tea.'

He looked vaguely excited at the prospect. Not just tea, but scones too. Hot and oozing with butter.

‘You had them warmed up, dear?' Mr Dyce sounded delighted, as if his wife had just discovered penicillin. Mrs Dyce lifted one of the scones and put it on his plate. She even cut it in half for him. He beamed at her, and she beamed back at him. Love's young dream, thought Roxy, feeling sick.

Then Mrs Dyce turned to Roxy. ‘Now, my girl, tell us all about yourself and let's see if we can help you.'

The lies flowed easier this time. She told them of the hard time she'd had at home. The classic evil stepfather – she almost made Paul sound like a dangerous psychopath. That was a joke. She remembered the first time Paul had tried to dig in the garden. He'd come in, terrified after ten minutes, because there were ‘too many bees. I'll get stung out there.'

This time Roxy added an extra dimension which she thought was rather clever.

‘He brought his own daughter into the house too … and they prefer her to me.'

They listened quietly. Well, not quite quietly. She'd
never heard anyone eat as noisily as Mr Dyce did. Or make so much mess. He spluttered scone all over the table and Roxy couldn't take her eyes off the currants lodged in his beard.

‘Delicious scones. Who would have thought it in a place like this?' He sounded so pleased with himself that Roxy found herself smiling at him.

She still felt sick. The scones didn't taste so delicious to her, or the tea. Everything tasted funny just now.

His wife only tutted. ‘Look at the mess you're in.' And she began picking the currants out of his beard and placing them on his plate. Roxy was disgusted. She'd never love anybody that much. When Mrs Dyce was finished she squeezed his cheeks with her fingers and grinned at him.

They're acting like teenagers, Roxy was thinking, and yet there was something touching about the obvious affection they had for each other.

It reminded her suddenly of her dad, and the way he would wink at her whenever Mum would moan at him over something he'd done. A secret wink, just between them.

‘Look at the mess you've made of my kitchen!' Mum would shout whenever he'd try his hand at some
cooking. And Dad would wink and grin, just the way Mr Dyce did.

Roxy felt her eyes fill with tears. It was so stupid to feel like this. It wasn't like her.

Mrs Dyce saw the tears and reached out and touched her face. ‘Doreen told us some of the things about you. But I don't know what she told you about us.' She raised an eyebrow and Roxy noticed that one long hair trailed from her eyebrow to her cheek.

‘She said you'd help me.' In the end that was all that mattered, that they would help her.

Mrs Dyce drew in a long sigh. ‘The first thing I'm going to tell you, or advise you, is to go home. Things probably aren't half as bad as you think.'

Here we go again, Roxy thought, no one really wants to help. They just want to send me back. ‘No! Can't do that. You don't understand.' Her voice became as soft as a mouse's whisper. ‘I'm going to have a baby.'

She knew by their reaction that this wasn't news to them. Doreen had filled them in on this too.

‘You want to go somewhere safe, with us? Now?' Mr Dyce said softly.

All her mother's warnings of never going off with strangers rang in her mind. ‘But why are you doing
this? Why should you want to help me?' she asked them.

Mrs Dyce sighed. ‘I was in your position once, a long time ago. My parents made me go to a home … for unfortunate girls.' She paused as if the memory still hurt. ‘They made me have my baby adopted. I wasn't able to have any more.' At that Mr Dyce clutched at her hand. ‘So I decided that I would never let that happen to any other girl if I could help it.'

‘We have a nice house in the country,' Mr Dyce said. ‘There are other girls there. You could come with us today … it would give you time to decide what you want to do.'

‘You won't tell on me … even though I'm under age.'

Mrs Dyce shook her head. ‘We won't tell. Though we would still advise you to go home.'

Roxy felt better, in spite of her misgivings. If they were advising her to go home, then they must have her best interests at heart, surely? It would be OK. She was sure of it.

‘Mr Dyce will go and get the car. You wait at the front door, I'll just go and make sure I've paid for all this.'

Mr Dyce left by the side door and as Roxy waited
outside the cafe she began to feel tired and sleepy. Being pregnant was exhausting. Too much on her mind, too much happening.

It was almost five minutes before Mr Dyce's car appeared at the corner, and by that time all Roxy wanted was to sit down and rest. He drove a wood-trimmed Morris Minor estate, and that seemed like an omen too. It was her dad's favourite car. ‘You can always trust a man who drives a Morris Minor,' he would say, laughing. She was sure that car was a message. A message from her dad saying she was doing the right thing.

Mr Dyce beckoned her over. ‘I got lost. It's all oneway streets here. Don't tell Mrs Dyce.' And he winked at her, and there was her dad again.

Roxy climbed into the back seat. A moment later Mrs Dyce appeared from the side entrance and climbed into the front seat. She turned and smiled at Roxy. ‘I know you must be worried. We're perfect strangers and here you are going off with us in a car. Normally, I'd be telling you never to be this stupid. But these are strange circumstances that you're in. On the streets, anything could happen. At least, I know you'll be safe with us. Me and Mr Dyce.'

Roxy didn't answer her. Her mind was in a turmoil,
and she ached all over. She felt her eyes grow heavy as she leaned back and watched as the car sped out of London.

They were fascinating to watch, this Mr and Mrs Dyce. She fussed around him like a mother hen, picking flecks of dust from his jacket, patting down his hair, constantly touching him. He drove like some old duffer who had just passed his test. Twenty-eight miles an hour, weaving across the white line and fiddling with the air conditioning, winding the windows up and down, trying to find the right channel on the radio.

Both of them wanted to listen to some play. ‘You don't mind, do you, dear?' Mrs Dyce turned and asked her.

Roxy didn't mind. She was tired, felt her eyes heavy with sleep, but she was trying desperately to stay awake. They could listen to anything they wanted, as long as it wasn't the news. Because the news just might be about her, and she might have to listen to her mother, tearful, begging her to come home – or would she? Maybe she
wouldn't even bother with any kind of appeal and deep down that was what frightened Roxy more than anything else.

She was scared too that if they heard her mother on the radio, they would know she'd lied – that her whole story was lies, and then, what would they do? Put her out, dump her here on the streets of London?

‘Where is it we're going?' she asked sleepily.

‘We have a lovely house in the country. In its own grounds. Secluded, plenty of fresh air, no one to bother you there. Just what you need for a growing healthy baby.'

‘Doesn't that cost a lot of money?'

‘We have money, and no one to spend it on.' Mrs Dyce tugged at her husband's ear fondly. ‘Isn't that right, dear?'

‘This is a dream come true for us,' he replied.

Roxy was finding it hard to understand. Doing all this for her, for other girls like her, and wanting nothing in return? No one was this nice, surely? This sincere? Everyone wanted something. So what was it they wanted?

Yet, here she was in their car, and as she watched them, they seemed so ordinary, so like everyone's
favourite aunt and uncle. She had a sudden moment of disorientation, thinking that this wasn't happening. It was all a dream, she wasn't really here, she couldn't be. And soon it would turn into a nightmare. When they reached this lovely house in the country – was there really such a place? – they would turn into monsters and the house would be some dark Victorian prison.

‘You look tired, dear,' Mrs Dyce said softly. ‘Why don't you try to sleep?'

Roxy had promised herself she wouldn't sleep. No matter how tired she was. She wanted to watch where they were taking her, see exactly where this idyllic house was situated. But she couldn't help it. It was as if her eyes were being dragged shut with weights. She leaned back in the seat. She would only close them for a moment, she told herself, because she wouldn't, couldn't sleep. She had to see where they were going.

It was Mrs Dyce shaking her that woke her up. ‘We're here, dear,' she was saying.

Roxy's mouth was dry and she felt sick. She could hardly open her eyes, they were so heavy. She looked around. The car was on a long winding gravel drive with a wide sprawling lawn on either side. A man was
working at some hedging and he was watching her closely. Mr Dyce acknowledged him with a wave.

‘Stevens,' he said. ‘Our odd-job man.'

Roxy looked at him. Odd was just the right word for him. She turned away from his stare to study the house.

‘Like what you see?' Mr Dyce asked her.

What was there not to like? Roxy thought. The house was like something out of
Country Life
magazine, the kind that she would sift through in the doctor's surgery. An impressive four-storey building built of grey stone, with high windows and attics. Curtains fluttered from the open windows on the first floor, baskets hanging from archways swayed in the breeze, roses curled round the front door.

‘It's a big house,' was all she said.

Mr Dyce opened the car door to help her out. ‘We don't use it all. We've closed off some of the rooms. It's too big for just me and Mrs Dyce.'

Now was the moment when the stupidity of what she was doing hit Roxy full blast. She was here alone, no one knew where she was. She had been so stupid to come here. Her eyes darted about in a panic, looking for a place to run, and she saw Stevens again, a dark sinister figure watching her. There were three of them,
and only her. Were they all in on it?

In on what?

She didn't even know what she was thinking. She only knew that suddenly she had a really bad feeling that she'd done the wrong thing … again.