‘Tell him, Clem. I know it’s only words, and we both know how he feels about you – but if you say it it’ll make all the difference.’
‘What if he doesn’t, though? I’ll feel so stupid.’
‘But he will because he does,’ Paula insisted. ‘And he probably feels just the same as you do. He’s probably scared to say it as well. Now – what do you think of this? Shall I buy it? Will Nick like it?’
Paula and Nick Rayner were still together. Wearing thigh-high boots and the shortest skirts in the world, she roared through the village on the back of his motorbike, making all the parents – mine included – tut their disapproval.
‘Nick’ll love it. Paula, can I ask you something else?’
‘Uh-huh,’ she nodded as she struggled back into her skinny sweater, careful not to dislodge her false eyelashes.
‘Are you on the pill?’
Her glossy dark head popped out of the neck of her jumper like a jack-in-the-box. ‘Course I am! Do you think I’m stupid? Why, aren’t you?’
I put the floppy purple hat carefully back on its stand. ‘Oh, yes … Yes, of course I am. I’m not stupid either.’
Which is why I made the appointment to see Dr Dawson as soon as possible.
Two days later I scuttled into the waiting room of Ashcote Surgery, avoiding everyone’s eyes, sure that they’d know why I was there. They were all friendly with Mum and Dad and had known me since I was born. Fortunately they were too busy swapping stories about their ailments and commenting on the weather and the space race and all the village gossip, to have noticed me.
‘You looking forward to university, Clemmie?’ Mrs Turner, the receptionist, shouted, poking her head over the desk and immediately drawing me to the attention of the entire waiting room. ‘Your mum and dad are as proud as punch.’
I nodded noncommittally and hoped everyone would go back to talking about the minutiae of Ashcote life. Of course they didn’t. They all stared at me.
‘You got that summer bug, young Clem?’
‘She’ll be in for her jabs before she goes off to university.’
‘Maybe it’s women’s trouble. She’s at that funny age.’
I was never more delighted than when Dr Dawson’s imperious voice crackled my name over the intercom. I shot into her surgery and sat down, staring at my feet.
‘And what seems to be the trouble?’
I looked up at her. She was about a hundred years old and had treated me all my life. I was absolutely terrified of her and squirmed with embarrassment. I seemed to have had to do an awful lot of growing up in a very few weeks. It was ironic that when I first met Lewis I hadn’t even kissed anyone and now I was here, taking this huge adult step.
I swallowed. ‘Er – well … that is …’ I couldn’t do this. Yes I could. I took a deep breath, knowing I was blushing scarlet. ‘Urm – I want to go on the pill.’
Dr Dawson peered at me over the top of her glasses. ‘And is this because you intend to behave promiscuously at university?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘So you have a fiancé here in the village, do you? I don’t remember your parents telling me you were getting married.’
‘I don’t … I’m not.’
Dr Dawson sat back in her chair. ‘Clementine, the contraceptive pill is not to make it easy for young girls like you to throw their morals out of the window, you know. It’s for married couples to be able to regulate the size of their families. I don’t approve of the moral decline in this country and will not condone it professionally. You are far too young.’
‘I’m seventeen and a half. And I’m – I mean, it’s 1969 – and the pill –’
‘Is available to be prescribed at my discretion. And I will only prescribe it for married couples.’ She leaned forward. ‘The best advice I can give you, Clementine, is simply to say no until you are married.’
I thought about Paula. ‘But other people are on it –’
‘So they might be, but unless they’re married they wouldn’t have been prescribed it by me. I’m not prepared to add to the morass of iniquity among the youth of this country. I’m sorry.’
I slunk out of the surgery feeling grubby and embarrassed. The Swinging Sixties were clearly never going to reach the darker corners of Ashcote. I knew I’d have to ask Paula how she’d got the pill, and where – then realised that I couldn’t because she already thought that I had.
And of course by the time I got home everyone in the waiting room had told my mum I was there and I had to endure the Spanish Inquisition all over again. Inventing a sudden bout of hay fever, I sneezed a lot and took to wearing sunglasses all the time and felt even more guilty than I had before.
And there was still the love thing to get out of the way …
One night, in the middle of July, we were travelling home from a particularly hectic gig, and the night was like deep black velvet, the way it is in high summer just before the dawn. Gus, Berry, and Vin were asleep on the seat behind us, and I was curled on Lewis’s lap, trying to hold on to the moment, trying not to think how desperately lonely I was going to be without him.
Jez leaned over from the steering wheel and turned on Radio Luxembourg. ‘I Guess I’ll Always Love You’ rang out jauntily into the warm, dark silence. I snuggled against Lewis and sang the words under my breath.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ he spoke softly in my ear. ‘I thought it was just me….’
I stopped singing. I almost stopped breathing. ‘Sorry? I mean –’
‘I love you, Clemmie. I love you so much it hurts. I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you. .’
I could have cried with happiness. ‘I love you, too.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ Jez laughed. ‘Mind you, I never thought there was any doubt myself.’
I hugged myself with glee. It was going to be all right. Just as Paula had said it would be. Lewis loved me. And because he loved me we’d survive the imminent parting and our later separations and nothing, nothing in the world would spoil it.
On July 20th, I stayed up all night in the cottage with the rest of Solstice, and I had my first ever taste of champagne as, with open-mouthed amazement, we watched Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin emerge from Apollo 11 and walk on the moon. It was one of those spine-tingling ‘do you remember what you were doing when?’ moments. I knew that one day I’d bore my grandchildren rigid with stories of sharing this history-making event with a beautiful, way-out-of-my-social-sphere, love-of-my-life, bohemian musician who I’d never, ever forget even when I was very, very old.
The moon landing also seemed to sum up the era. Things were changing, everything was exciting and forward looking. Nothing was impossible. Everyone could achieve whatever they wanted: it was a year for dreams to come true, mine included.
The last days of July arrived far too quickly. All too soon I knew that Lewis would be leaving for Germany, and our time together would be at an end. I’d decided to wait until after he’d left for Germany and then tell Mum and Dad about him. That would give them a few months to get used to the idea before they actually met him, during which time there’d be all the excitement of me leaving Ashcote and starting college; and of course I knew I’d have to confess all – well, some – of my untruths, but they’d understand, I knew they would.
Saying goodbye to Lewis was one of the most painful things I’ve ever done. Solstice were to fly out from the latest recently-opened terminal at London Airport, and much as I wanted to spend every last second with Lewis, I knew that a trip to London and then having to find my way home while completely heartbroken, was out of the question.
Which was why we said our goodbyes at Honeydew on a shimmering golden morning. All the equipment and musical instruments had been crated and carefully packed and had left the day before. Vin, Berry, and Gus could hardly contain themselves. Jez was quiet and sad, having spent two days in Bournemouth with Hazel, and Lewis and I were simply desolate.
Of course he wanted to go; i
t was his career, after all. I knew how torn he was, and there was no way I’d make it more difficult for him. Eric, the night-club owner in Germany, had even arranged for a taxi to collect Solstice from Honeydew and take them to the airport. The driver sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, as Lewis and I clung together. It was just like ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’ …
‘Why do you have to go to Durham?’ Lewis muttered into my hair. ‘Why couldn’t you have gone to university somewhere nearer? Durham’s the other end of the country!’
I sniffed. I knew that. And Germany might as well be on the other side of the world.
‘You’ll write as soon as you get there, won’t you?’ I mumbled.
‘I’ll write when I’m on the plane and every day after that.’ Lewis tipped my chin up. ‘I hate to see you cry … And you’ll let me know your address in Durham won’t you? And – oh, God, Clemmie …’
‘Much as I’m reluctant to break up you lovebirds,’ the taxi driver laughed, ‘I’ve been instructed to get you to the airport by midday and you’ll miss the flight if we hang about any longer.’
We kissed goodbye then.
‘I love you,’ Lewis whispered. ‘And I need you and I want you and I’ll see you really soon.’
‘Half-term …’ I didn’t even try to stop the tears. ‘I’ll be here at half-term. I love you so much.’
I stood and watched through a blur as the taxi rattled out of the courtyard, spitting up clouds of dust, and waved until it was out of sight. Then in the scorching heat which had suddenly turned icy cold, I walked away from the cottage and the courtyard and Honeydew, and my world seemed dark and empty.
For the next week or so, Mum and Dad, still planning the celebration party and not knowing why I was so miserable or why I spent a lot of time playing ‘Make It Easy On Yourself’, discussed it all with Jenny and Dawn’s parents. I heard them all huffing over the difficulties of having teenage daughters with their emotional upheavals. It was like living on a roller-coaster, they said, which was exactly how I felt.
As the days went by, Paula, Jenny, and Dawn helped a lot, of course, and I still had Sheldon Busby’s to keep me busy. I worked practically full-time because I simply couldn’t face fruit picking at Honeydew. I’d never felt so awful. I couldn’t eat, felt sick, slept badly, and for no reason at all, cried over the most ridiculous things. Rollercoaster summed it up perfectly.
Lewis, true to his word, wrote straight away and told me about the club and the flat which Eric had found for them, and about Germany – but mostly about how much he loved and missed me. Mum and Dad assumed I now had a German pen-pal and I didn’t disabuse them of this notion. I wrote long airmail letters by return, telling him every tiny detail of my life, and taking them to be weighed and posted at the Ashcote Stores became the highlight of my day.
I missed him more and more. I didn’t get used to being without him: on the contrary, the gap in my life grew wider, the ache in my heart seemed to grow more painful each day. I wondered how on earth couples had coped in the war when they’d been torn apart never knowing when, or even if, they’d see each other again.
And then came the day that changed everything for ever: Thursday, August 19th 1969. Two letters arrived for me, neither of them from Lewis. The first contained my A-level results. The second confirmed that I was pregnant.
‘What time is it, Clemmie?’ Mum calls across the garden. ‘Should we be getting ready?’
Her voice makes me jump. The memories are so vivid that for a moment I’m completely disorientated. Gathering my scattered wits, playing for time, I slowly take off my sunglasses, fold the Sunday papers, and look at my watch. It’s new. Beautiful. My parents’ present to me. ‘Er – oh, almost eleven. The restaurant’s booked for twelve thirty and we’re going to walk, so it depends how long it’s going to take you to get glammed up.’
‘Hours,’ Dad laughs. ‘She’s as bad as you, Clem. You might both be ready by teatime.’
‘Excuse me,’ I look at him indignantly. ‘I’m ready. I’ve been ready for ages. It doesn’t take me long to put my face on these days. Less is more when we women reach a certain age.’
Dad winks at me. ‘Not like it was when you were a youngster, eh? All those thick black lines and false eyelashes! You used to look like Dusty Springfield!’
They both stand up, smiling, and head for the house.
Dusty Springfield … Lewis always said he loved my Dusty Springfield eyes …
I try really hard to think about now. About today. About my new outfit – slim, black trousers and a pale blue silk shirt – classic and unfussy, although I still prefer to wear jeans … No, I mustn’t look back. I must concentrate on today. On the impending lunch at Cookery Nook, Ashcote’s newest and trendiest restaurant. It’s very difficult. After so much reminiscing, the past is still very, very real.
On the day that those two earth shattering envelopes arrived I’d fled out here into my parents’ garden, crouched under the cherry trees, and opened them with cold, shaking hands. I’d been swamped with a terrified, stomach-churning foreboding. I’d looked at the letters and the words had danced before my eyes. If the result of the pregnancy test had confirmed my worst fears, the A-level results simply compounded them.
A in English … C in History of Art … D in RE …
Nowhere near good enough to get into Durham. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t be going to university. I wouldn’t be going anywhere ever. Sometime, just before my 19th birthday, I’d be a mother.
Feeling sick, giddy, terrified, I clumsily stuffed the envelopes into the back pocket of my jeans and hurried out of the garden. I had to find Jenny and Dawn before they came whooping round to the house, and Mum and Dad discovered the awful truth.
I met them at the bottom of the lane, and knew from their ear-to-ear smiles that they’d achieved exactly the grades they’d needed. Trying not to cry, not to feel eaten up with envy, I muttered that, apart from English, mine hadn’t been very good at all and that I’d tell Mum and Dad later and would appreciate them keeping out of the way.
They looked at me with sympathy and said it didn’t really matter, that Durham would probably take me anyway on the strength of my English grade and my interviews. Which might very well have been true if it hadn’t been for the fact that I was pregnant.
In a complete daze, I caught the bus into Reading, and stared out of the window at the scorched, parched countryside seeing none of it. What on earth was I going to do?
I couldn’t tell Lewis. I simply couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He’d leave me, of course. He was far too young to want to be tied down with a baby. He’d probably deny it was his. I had to face this alone.
Oh, but Mum and Dad! How ever would I tell them? They’d go completely crazy. They’d be so angry, so disgusted, so ashamed of me. And so hurt. And disappointed. I’d let them down in the worst way possible. They’d never get over this. I whimpered and brushed the tears away from my cheeks. My life was in ruins – and it was all my fault.
Sheldon Busby’s was hot and packed. ‘Honky Tonk Women’ was blaring from the speakers.
‘Hello, Clemmie,’ Mr Smithson yelled. ‘Come in to give us a hand, have you? We could do with it!’
I shook my head. ‘I – um – just wondered if I could see Paula, please?’
‘She’s on her break. Upstairs.’
The tea room at the top of Sheldon Busby’s was built into the roof space, and the sky was pure blue through the skylights and the sun beat down in shafts of molten gold. I shivered. Paula was drinking coffee and eating a doughnut at a corner table. My stomach lurched and I suddenly felt very sick.
‘Hiya,’ Paula waved the doughnut. ‘I didn’t think you were in today.’
‘I’m not,’ I sat opposite her, trying not to look at the doughnut or smell the coffee. ‘I needed to talk to someone … to you … oh, Paula …’
‘There, there.’ She patted my heaving shoulders. ‘It can’t be that bad, Clem. Nothing’s that
bad.’
‘This is,’ I gulped. And told her.
When I’d finished she said nothing. Her eyes were wide with shock and sympathy. Leaning across the table she called to one of the other girls who was just finishing her break. ‘Linda, tell Mr Smithson I won’t be down straight away, will you? Tell him I’ll work through my lunch hour. Ta.’
She looked at me. ‘What a mess, Clem! What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But how – I mean – you’re on the pill.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not. I wasn’t. I lied. And Dr Dawson wouldn’t prescribe it … but it was too late by then anyway …’
‘And Lewis?’
‘I told him I was on it,’ I looked down at the orange plastic-topped table. ‘It seemed easier. I wanted him to think I was grown-up and sophisticated.’
‘Oh, Clemmie!’
‘The baby’s due in March so even if Dr Dawson had said yes it would have been too late and –’
Paula exhaled. I blessed her for not telling me again how stupid I’d been. I already knew. I’d been doubly stupid – messing up my A-Levels and getting pregnant – just because I’d fallen once-and-forever in love with the most beautiful boy in the world.
‘So you won’t be able to go to university? Blimey! Your mum and dad will go mad!’
‘I know. I know. Oh – what am I going to do?’
We looked at one another. We both knew that despite the enlightened Swinging Sixties, girls who ‘got into trouble’ really had few options. There had been plenty of girls in Ashcote who had been in my position and they’d either disappeared to stay with distant relatives, or were booked into one of the far-flung mother and baby homes, having the baby adopted, and returning to the village alone looking pale and distraught and with their reputation in tatters.
‘Look, you’ve got to tell your mum and dad. It’ll be awful, I know – I wouldn’t fancy it – but they’ve got to know. And you should tell Lewis –’
‘No!’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t want him to know!’
Paula frowned. ‘Why on earth not? He loves you, and it’s half his problem, after all. If it was me I know Nick would be –’
Summer of Love Page 8
