A Sense of Guilt

by Andrea Newman

  ‘Are you happy with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. We suit each other. We have a good life. It’s warm and friendly and calm. His ex-wife is a pain in the arse, but that’s the only snag.’

  ‘You haven’t said anything about love.’

  Now she felt uncomfortable, pinned under the microscope and dissected. ‘And we love each other.’

  ‘So you’re not even slightly bored?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m bored with Marsha,’ he said, sounding defiant.

  ‘You were bored with me too,’ she reminded him.

  He turned to her in bed and held her face in his hands. ‘Oh Helen. We were too young. It could have worked if we’d been older. And richer.’

  She said, ‘Perhaps,’ and wondered if she meant it.

  * * *

  Driving home she thought that now it was really finished in a way it had not been before, although she had not realised. How strange to be carrying all that for so many years without knowing. She was free of him now and she could also forgive Richard for not being accessible in her dilemma. She had balanced her scales.

  * * *

  Sally came to Felix for what he sensed was a last-ditch attempt. He felt pure terror. It was like war-time: he was under fire and he did not know if his nerve would hold. Not that he had ever been in a war but he was sure that was how it would feel. All her guns were blazing at him. He saw her as a woman for the first time, grown-up and alarming, protecting her half-formed child. But he had a marriage to preserve, and he was stronger than she was because he had lived longer and had more practice in self-defence.

  He said gently, ‘Darling, I’m sorry, but Helen’s right.’

  ‘You really don’t want it.’

  ‘It’s not that, it would have been wonderful, but… you’re going to college… Elizabeth would be terribly hurt…’

  ‘I could go away,’ Sally said, suddenly young again. ‘Nobody would know. My father might help me. Then when I’ve finished at college I can get a job. You could visit me and… the baby.’

  What a long view she was taking; how fast she made the years go by.

  ‘My love, it’s a fantasy,’ he said. ‘It’s just not practical.’

  ‘You want me to kill it instead,’ she said, the angry woman again with her gun.

  ‘That’s not the way to think of it.’

  ‘It’s practical. And that’s how it feels.’ Then suddenly she crumpled up. ‘I’m frightened.’

  He went to her and tried to embrace her, but she pulled away.

  ‘Mum says Elizabeth wanted children but you wouldn’t let her have any. Is that true?’

  Now it was the really big guns and he felt quite steady.

  ‘No.’

  In the silence that followed he could tell that she knew he was lying.

  ‘We’re finished, aren’t we?’ she said. She sounded very sad.

  ‘No. We’ll get through this, I’ll come down to Sussex. It’ll be all right, I promise you.’

  But she was too young.

  ‘You really didn’t mean any of it, did you? All those things you said. It was just a game.’

  It hurt to see her face change, that new look of disillusion and disgust that he had put there. He wasn’t proud of that.

  He said, knowing she wouldn’t believe him, ‘Sally, I love you. Nothing has changed. Only we can’t have a baby and I never said we could.’

  * * *

  Mum left me alone with Richard tonight. Not that I couldn’t manage to be alone with him any time if I wanted to, but she did it very pointedly as if to say there now, there’s your chance, don’t say I’m forcing you into anything. She went to bed early and there we were, Richard and me.

  He was going through a whole pile of probation reports. He looked so nice, so concerned, so remote. I only had to speak. I imagined how it would be if I told him, shock, horror, and a big row with Mum and Felix, and lots of help for me to keep the baby. I nearly did it. I don’t know what stopped me. Somehow when it came to the point I was more scared of telling him than not telling him. I felt it would all be out of my hands, although of course it isn’t in my hands, it’s in Mum’s. It seemed such a huge thing to do. It would start such a long chain of events, I’d lose control of the whole thing. Only I don’t have control anyway.

  I got so close to telling him he actually realised there was something the matter and then I panicked and had to pretend I was nervous about going to Sussex. He was lovely about it and said he’d come and fetch me any time I wanted to come home. I knew more than ever then that I couldn’t tell him.

  He’d be so disappointed in me. But it wasn’t just that. I was disappointed in him too, that he couldn’t read my mind. Unfair, I know, but if he’d guessed, then I could have told him. It doesn’t make sense. Only I’m so bad at pretending, how can he help me if he can’t even see through me? He's just not powerful enough.

  Felix is powerful. He doesn’t want the baby and that’s that. He’s not going to give an inch. I tried to talk to him but it wasn’t any good. He kept saying he loved me and Mum was lying about him not letting Elizabeth get pregnant, but I know he was lying, I just know it. He’s frightened too that I might tell Richard. I hate seeing him frightened. It’s awful that he and Mum hate each other and yet they’re in total agreement about this. I don't stand a chance. I've lost Felix by getting pregnant and now I’ve got to lose the baby too. Oh, he says he wants to go on seeing me but I just can’t imagine it, not after all this.

  Mum is the really powerful one. She’s just going to take charge of everything and no one can stop her. I could if I had the guts or someone to help me, but I haven’t. Maybe in my heart I think she’s right. That’s the worst part. Not being sure what I feel.

  Next week I’ll go back to the doctor and tell him I’ve made up my mind. And he’ll believe me.

  * * *

  Helen thought they had made it as nice as they could. A large anonymous clinic looking out on to flowerbeds and trees, an atmosphere of luxury and comfort, contrasting sharply with the bleak austerity of her own abortion, fifteen years ago. She caught herself feeling terrified that Sally might actually run away at the last moment; she wanted them to sedate her immediately and knew they would not. She couldn’t bear the waiting; she wanted the time to pass as quickly as possible and the whole thing to be over. Never mind the guilt and blame, she would cope with that. She could cope with anything once Sally was no longer pregnant by Felix.

  Sally’s room was small but full of everything she needed: a bed, chair, phone, television and flowers that Felix, damn his eyes, had sent despite her prohibition. Sally read the card and put it in her handbag. She looked around.

  ‘It’s very smart here,’ she said. ‘It’s like a hotel. Did you make him pay for all this?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Helen said. ‘But he offered. Don’t you think he should?’

  ‘Why not?’ Sally said. ‘It’s all he can do, isn’t it? And we couldn’t, could we? But I don’t suppose it’s a lot of money to him.’

  She wandered round the room, fiddling with things and looking out of the window. She opened a door and found a bathroom. She disappeared into it and presently came back. She looked very pale and Helen wondered if she had been sick, although she had heard nothing other than the sound of running water. They had both slept badly and she looked pale herself when she glanced in the mirror. Lying beside Richard at night and blaming him for not divining her secret, yet being grateful he did not, getting Sally ready and bringing her here, all that had exhausted her. She felt close to the end of her resources; she hoped the relief of having it all over soon would give her fresh energy to cope with the aftermath.

  ‘Lovely pink towels,’ Sally said. She was talking very fast. ‘Only I’ll hardly have time to use them. I suppose the next person will. Funny to think of people coming in here all the time to have abortions. Must be quite a rapid turnover if it only takes fifteen minutes. I wonder how long they let you lie down for
? Bit like being a blood donor really. D’you remember that Hancock sketch? I wonder if they have a high season and a low season. What d’you think?’

  ‘Oh darling,’ Helen said, ‘it’s going to be all right.’ She could see the scare in Sally’s face and longed to hug her but sensed this would not be welcome at all.

  ‘They’re all being so nice to me,’ Sally said. ‘I never imagined it would be like this.’

  ‘Of course they are. Why ever not? It’s the least they can do.’

  ‘It just seems wrong somehow. But then the whole thing seems wrong.’

  ‘It’ll soon be over and you’re going to be fine.’ She was reminded of taking Sally to the dentist as a child, something else that had to be done, and how hard even that had been, subjecting her to short-term pain for her long-term good. She didn’t expect Sally, at this moment, to believe that she would willingly sacrifice her own life to protect her child from suffering of any kind. She would not have believed it of her own mother either. But it was a bitter thing to know it could not be done. ‘I’m just so sorry you have to go through this,’ she said inadequately.

  ‘I could still change my mind though, couldn’t I?’ Sally said. ‘Right up to the last minute.’

  Helen looked at her. It was true and there was nothing she could do about it. She knew there must be a look of dread on her face and wondered if that counted as blackmail. Yet she was still sure she was right or she couldn’t have persisted.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sally said. ‘I’m not going to. I know when I’m beaten.’

  ‘Don’t punish yourself. You don’t deserve it.’ Helen tried to hug her then, instinct defeating judgment, and Sally predictably pushed her away. Perhaps they both needed that act of rejection, she thought.

  ‘Could you leave me alone please? Only I haven’t got much more time.’ She tolerated Helen’s kiss. ‘Please. It’s all right. I just want to be alone with it, whatever it is.’

  * * *

  Helen went and waited in the waiting-room but she couldn’t settle down with magazines, and other people looking anxious. She went out and walked around; she looked at the flowers and confronted the fear that Sally might actually die and she would have killed her. But it was less likely than death in childbirth and she would not have feared that. Yet even in this extremity she still had no doubts that it was wrong for Sally to have Felix’s child, or any child, at eighteen, and she had to save her from it. The decision was entirely hers. She thought of Richard at work, caring for other people and taking on their problems; she thought of Carey, escaping into music and letting Marsha look after him; she thought of Felix, merely writing a cheque and going home to be adored by Elizabeth. She had never felt so alone. When she went back inside, a nurse came up to her and said, ‘Oh, Mrs Morgan, I’ve been looking for you, your daughter’s fine.’

  Helen resisted the impulse to kiss her, to fling her arms round her and sob with relief. She didn’t seem much older than Sally herself. Would she learn anything from her work?

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘In a little while. She’s only just come round and she’s having a little weep.’

  The knowledge that Sally was crying seemed impossible to bear.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ the nurse said. ‘They all do that.’ And then Helen remembered doing it herself, a buried memory, only she hadn’t known it was universal. The nurse put her hand on her arm.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a nice cup of tea?’

  * * *

  She sat with Sally until it was time to go home. She had stopped crying but she looked very white. She didn’t speak or look at Helen. When she got up she moved stiffly and she wouldn’t let Helen touch her to help her down the stairs or into the car. Helen drove her home and she went straight to bed. The house seemed very quiet. Helen sat alone downstairs for a long time, not moving. If she had been religious she would have given thanks to God.

  * * *

  On the day of the abortion Felix took Richard out to dinner, as he had promised Helen he would. It would help her, she said, to have as much time as possible to get Sally settled after it was all over. Then the next day, if need be, it could all be passed off as a bad period. She was crisp and clinical about the whole thing: he was to pay the money into her bank but he was not to send flowers to the clinic. Above all, he was not to telephone or visit.

  He was glad to pay the money, almost wishing it were more, and shocked to find he had no inclination to phone or visit. He resented being cast in the role of villain when he did not see how any of this was his fault, when all he had done was trust Sally to go on taking the pill. He was also terrified that she might be the one in a million or whatever it was who would confound statistics and actually die. He couldn’t talk to her any more; they had said everything they could possibly say. But he still feared she might ring him up at the last moment and beg him to save her from the ordeal. This fear made him feel that, far from avoiding such a risk, he actually had to answer the phone all the time in order to give her maximum opportunity to put him on the spot. It was insane generosity, or uncharacteristic masochism, or perhaps he felt more guilty than he knew, because he still had no intention of changing his mind if she did contact him. But of course she didn’t phone, and of course he did disobey Helen and send flowers. He couldn’t think of an appropriate message when it came to the point, so he just put ‘from Felix, with all my love’. Even as he did it, he had the distinct feeling that whatever he said would be wrong.

  It was a difficult day to get through: he didn’t know what time the abortion was actually being done and he really didn’t want to focus on it at all, though he would have liked to know when he could safely relax and think, Thank Christ it’s all over, poor little thing, I hope they didn’t hurt her. He felt obliged to give himself unpleasant tasks, instead of having a large lunch and several drinks, so he sorted out a lot of papers for his accountant and faced up to a chapter in the book that needed partly rewriting and partly throwing away. By the end of the day he was exhausted and irritable.

  At dinner Richard seemed perversely determined to talk about Sally: what a joy she had always been and how much he and Helen were going to miss her once she went to Sussex, although of course they would also enjoy being alone together for the first time. Then he bemoaned the fact that Helen had never been willing to have more children because she was so wrapped up in her work. Felix chafed at the irony of the conversation and tried his best to steer Richard on to safer topics, but only succeeded in talking about Helen’s paintings, which he thought were sterile and Richard thought were beautiful.

  ‘Beautiful and sterile perhaps,’ said Felix, aware that they were still on aspects of reproduction.

  ‘No, you can’t get away with that,’ said Richard, smiling tolerantly. ‘She’s a good painter and it’s very unfair she can’t give all her time to it. I had another go at Inge the other day about money but it didn’t work and the boys gave me a hard time.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you’re better off without kids.’

  But Felix knew he didn’t mean that. ‘Well, you can’t get it right, whatever you do,’ he said. ‘That seems to be the general message. Lizzie’s been very moody lately. I think it’s her age.’

  ‘How’s your little friend in Cambridge?’ Richard asked, reminding Felix of the lie he had almost forgotten telling before the fatal weekend. So they were still talking about Sally. The subject seemed inescapable, like chewing gum sticking to your shoes. The more you scraped and struggled, the more it clung to you.

  ‘Oh, that’s all over,’ he said hurriedly. The last thing he wanted today of all days was to have Richard reminding him of his amorous exploits, though such a conversation would have normally given them both pleasure.

  ‘You’ll soon find someone else.’

  ‘I’m not actually looking at the moment. The bloody book seems to take up all my energy.’ Perhaps they could talk about work; that would be safe.

  ‘Is Natasha pressing you?’
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br />   ‘Not really. She knows when she’s beaten. I’ve explained to her that I’m almost suicidal and one more nudging phone call could push me over the edge.’

  Richard laughed. Felix was glad to be amusing, and relieved to have got off the subject of Sally, babies and sex, but the irony of the situation left him discontented. If it were any other problem, he could have talked to Richard about it. He reflected how curious it was that he had led such a tranquil life, despite being generally regarded as a rogue, while Richard, the good Samaritan, had deserted his wife and abandoned his children. For a wild moment he wanted to throw himself on Richard’s mercy, confess and be forgiven. Richard of all people should understand; burdened with his own guilt, he should not condemn others. But he would. He would be outraged and it would be the end of the friendship. Felix knew that: he had finally trespassed too close to home. Suddenly he felt very afraid. He had been so preoccupied all day with the abortion that he had failed to notice that now and in the future lay the greatest danger. For ever more there would be a secret between them, like an unexploded mine.

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Richard said. ‘That’s exactly the effect Inge has on me.’

  ‘You’ll get her off your back one day,’ Felix said. ‘She’s bound to remarry eventually.’

  Richard sighed. ‘The boys say all she needs is a new man. As if they expected me to find one for her.’

  ‘Is she still as beautiful as ever?’ Felix had always desired Inge as indeed he desired Helen, though they could hardly be more different.

  ‘I suppose she is. I don’t really see her any more, I just see problems.’

  ‘You always marry such beautiful women,’ Felix said.

  ‘Both of them, you mean? God, you can’t be envious, after all the women you’ve had.’ But he sounded pleased and flattered.