by Mia Dolan
Downstairs a nonchalant Johnnie was placing a record on the radiogram: Duane Eddy singing ‘Come on Everybody’. It was the first record he’d ever bought. He’d told Marcie once that ‘Twist and Shout’ by the Beatles was his favourite. The truth was he couldn’t stand them – their hair, their dress sense or their simple, sentimental songs.
Just as he’d expected, both parents came into the room and turned the atmosphere oppressive. The room already felt clammy and darkened quickly as the clouds gathered and the rain began to fall.
His mother’s eyes stayed fixed on his face as she lowered herself into a chintz-covered armchair. His father stood unblinking in front of the fireplace as though he were about to impart a sermon.
To some extent that’s exactly what he is going to do, Johnnie thought. I’m the sinner who’s strayed from the path. He stayed in cool dude mode and waited for the storm to break.
‘John, my son, perhaps I was naïve to think that your life would run along tramlines, but I truly think I believed that. I even once entertained the hope that you might follow in my footsteps and enter the Church. However, I did not expect you to bring a young woman here in such an advanced condition.’
‘She’s pregnant,’ snapped Johnnie, eyes lowered, hands shoved in pockets. Why couldn’t his father ever get straight to the point? Why couldn’t he use the right words, or even the less welcome phrases? ‘Or to put it another way, Dad, she’s up the duff or got a bun in the oven, and I did it!’
Johnnie’s smile was purposely disrespectful. His parents had bred that in him, though they wouldn’t see it that way. Wishing to appear modern, they’d chosen to explain things to him rather than use any enforcement whatsoever. Half the time he hadn’t understood what they were on about. Whatever had made them believe that a nine-year-old could understand the subtleties of an adult relationship?
His father took a deep breath and shot a worried look at his wife. ‘The point is, John, what are you going to do about it?’
Throwing one leg over the chair arm, he slung himself into the chair matching the one his mother was sitting in. ‘Marry her, I suppose.’
Again a look flashed between his parents. He guessed what was coming. Who said charity begins at home?
His father opened the proceedings. ‘And what about your studies? You’ve been working so hard at them these last few weeks. Indeed, you’ve hardly left the house. Do you still wish to attend Oxford?’
Johnnie shrugged. ‘Not now.’
He didn’t confess that he’d been chewing things over for a few weeks, deciding which meant the most to him. He’d decided on Marcie.
‘Where is she from?’ his father pressed.
‘Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey.’
He made a tutting sound. ‘Just as I suspected. The wrong side of the tracks for you, my boy. You cannot possibly contemplate marrying her. Just think of it. All that education wasted and for what? A lapse of judgement on a one-night stand should not stand in the way of a university education.’
Johnnie looked up at him from beneath a thick fall of hair. ‘Marcie was not a one-night stand.’
‘All the same, John—’
What are you saying, Father?’ Johnnie snapped. ‘That she’s working class and we’re not? If you want your parishioners to think you’re modern, Father, then you’re going to have to shelve that attitude. I thought that everybody was supposed to be equal in this day and age. Is that right?’
He saw his father’s jaw clench and knew that not for the first time the urge to lash out at his son’s disrespect had almost overpowered him.
His mother joined the fray. ‘You cannot marry that girl, John!’
Now it was his turn to be firm. He was almost as tall as his father when he got to his feet. He looked straight into his eyes.
‘I’m going to marry Marcie. I WANT to marry Marcie! I’m going to the café. Tell Marcie I’ll be back later.’
He stormed out of the room.
Maurice and Jane Haskins were the epitome of controlled emotions. The Reverend Maurice Edward Haskins remained standing at the mantelpiece, pipe clenched between his teeth, his dark eyes appearing to be staring into infinity. His wife, Jane Alicia Haskins, sat primly in her armchair, knuckles tightly clenched.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘That’s all the thanks we get for looking after him all these years.’
‘He’s not a puppy, Jane. We didn’t buy him from a pet shop.’
‘It wasn’t that different. A little gratefulness wouldn’t go amiss.’
Her husband sighed. ‘He doesn’t know he’s adopted, Jane, so why should he be grateful?’
Marcie didn’t hear his bike rumble into life and roar off in the direction of the North Circular. The past few months had drained her. She slept in the best bed she’d slept in for a long time.
It was the sound of the front doorbell that finally awoke her. The glow of sodium streetlights streamed through the window, turning the grey walls yellow.
Her heart raced as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Surely her father hadn’t found her that quickly?
Dragging herself to the edge of the bed, she sat gripping the dusky pink counterpane. The voices from downstairs were muffled. It couldn’t possibly be her father. He’d be trumpeting by now if he thought he’d found her.
All the same there was something worrying about the tone of the visitors’ voices and that of the vicar and his wife.
Her shoes had come off and it wasn’t easy getting them back on. Her feet were swollen. Barefooted she went over to the window and looked at her watch. One-thirty. Crikey! Had she been asleep that long?
She looked beyond the laurel hedge to the street and saw a police car. It occurred to her that perhaps her father had enlisted their help in finding her. On the other hand he tended to shy away from the law.
Then another thought hit her, a thought so terrible that she felt her throat closing in and her chest tightening.
Throwing her shoes to the floor, she hurried as best she could along the top landing, down the stairs, along the second landing and the last flight of stairs.
Johnnie’s parents were sitting in the room they’d been in earlier when Johnnie had told them about the baby. They looked ashen and pale and didn’t look up when she entered the room. There were also two policemen, both standing, both looking very serious.
One of the policeman’s eyes flickered over her swollen belly.
A claw of fear tightened around her heart. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Johnnie?’
They didn’t ask her who she was. They just told her that he’d been speeding along the North Circular Road towards the Mile End Café. He’d lost control on a bend.
‘A tanker had spilled oil on the road earlier that day. I’m afraid he skidded into the path of an oncoming bus.’
Chapter Thirty-eight
The funeral was quite an event – Johnnie’s friends heard about it and came along en masse on their motorbikes, their leather jackets shiny black in a downpour of rain.
The Reverend and Mrs Haskins shared a large black umbrella. The service was being conducted by a bishop, a friend of the family.
Mrs Haskins had hardly spoken since the accident and when she did it was in sharp, minimal staccato. Johnnie’s father seemed more self-contained, his expression stoical as though maintaining a front for the benefit of the relatives, even though he was the closest of the relatives.
Marcie found it difficult to understand how self-contained they were. She sensed they were grieving, but hadn’t seen them cry. There was just an anguished look in their eyes, as though they were reliving Johnnie’s life somewhere deep in their minds.
She consoled herself with the fact that they were of a different class and born into a different age than she. They were grieving in their own way, a way she didn’t quite understand.
Alone beneath a black umbrella loaned to her by Johnnie’s parents, Marcie followed the proceedings as if in a dream – this couldn’t really be happ
ening. Whoever heard of a funeral where the graveside was lined with so many young faces mourning the loss of one of their own?
She’d not written to her family, even to tell them what had happened. Somehow putting pen to paper made things more real than they actually were – if she didn’t write the details down, then they might not be true and Johnnie would come swinging through the door, his white silk scarf hiding the lower half of his face.
Her family didn’t have Johnnie’s address so wouldn’t come looking for her and there was no point asking any of his friends – Johnnie had been careful not to disclose the fact that he lived in a vicarage and that his father was a vicar. He’d even changed his name to something less ordinary: Johnnie Hawke, not Haskins.
She’d made further attempts to write, but on each occasion she was overcome with a sudden bout of shivering. She was numb, too shocked by what had happened, and in despair at her circumstances.
Weeks passed before she finally began to get a grip on things. Even Jane Haskins returned to being her normal self before Marcie did and she got the impression she was not wanted there.
They urged her to write to her family. She explained that her mother was dead, that her father had remarried and that there was nobody else to go back to, except her grandmother.
‘I think they’ve disowned me,’ she lied.
It hadn’t been her intention to lie, but something about their attitude angered her. Her grief for Johnnie was still so raw – like an open wound. She couldn’t understand how his parents could be moving on so quickly, and yet ignoring the one link to Johnnie that remained. For God’s sake, they had only just lost their only son. Didn’t they want any part of their grandchild? Despite all their imperfections, her own family wouldn’t have acted like this. Their constant nagging only made her more determined to stay – simply to annoy them.
Seemingly resigned to the fact that she wasn’t yet ready to move out, Jane Haskins made sure by having coffee with her every morning and tea every afternoon. On each occasion she began doling out advice, sympathising with Marcie for her predicament, and making suggestions about what she should do next.
‘There’s no point in ruining your life. Think of the future. Think of what is best for you and the child. Where will you live if you keep it? A cheap room somewhere with a childminder to look after it when you go out to work? National Assistance? You won’t get much from them, I can tell you.’
The same advice was given over and over again. Marcie was not immune to her advice. What she was saying made sense. As an unmarried mother she could offer little to this child. One question kept raising its head, and it was all to do with Jane and Maurice Haskins. One day she asked it.
‘This child is your grandchild. Why don’t you give it a home yourselves?’
Jane had very thin lips and wore a muted tone of pale pink. When her jaw tightened it was as if her lips had been sucked into her mouth.
Thoughtfully, she placed her cup and saucer back onto the silver tea tray.
Marcie sensed an announcement was about to be made. It turned out she was right.
‘Besides the fact that we are too old to cope with an infant, I think you should know that Johnnie was not our own flesh and blood. He was adopted.’ Jane waved a hand at their comfortable surroundings. ‘He was brought up in comfort. He had everything a boy would want. This is what your child could have if you opt for adoption with a childless couple who are young enough and fit enough to cope with a baby. It would be a very Christian thing to do. The child would be happy and so would the new parents. It makes sense. You know it makes sense.’
A time followed when she felt more alone than she ever had in her life. The big rooms of the vicarage echoed with secretive whispers. She knew without being told that Johnnie’s parents were discussing her future.
She spent most of her time thinking about what Jane had said. This lump was her baby, but in all honesty what did she have to offer it? Not nearly so much as Johnnie had had, that was for sure.
The welcome when first arriving here with Johnnie had been restrained; it had been obvious from their tight smiles and muted kindness that they were disappointed with their son’s choice. A lifetime of preaching against sin – especially of the carnal kind – was difficult to discard even when faced with the prospect of an illegitimate grandchild.
She caught the Reverend and his wife exchanging looks just after interrupting their conversation when she’d come on them by chance in the kitchen, the drawing room or the library.
They’d clam up once she entered, but the day came when they finally laid it on the line.
The coffee and teatime advice had continued. She wasn’t actually being browbeaten, but they were presenting her with a very strong case for adoption. The world was her oyster if she were free of encumbrances.
‘Don’t let your heart rule your head.’
‘Think of the child.’
And all the time she lost herself in the splendid rooms of the vicarage. Her child too could have something like this.
Another coffee time, and her decision was made.
‘I think I’ve decided to have it adopted,’ said Marcie.
Jane Haskins breathed a sigh of relief, leaned across and covered her hand with her own.
‘Very wise, my dear. I’m sure you won’t regret it.’ She got to her feet. ‘We’ll make arrangements. Everything will be taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a thing.
It was some weeks later when they asked her to come into the drawing room. A pale winter sun was doing its best to brighten the day. The window faced south. Dust motes danced on the shaft of light piercing the plain net curtains.
The room was comfortable but plain. A pea-green rug sat in front of the black slate fireplace. If it had been earlier on in her pregnancy Marcie might have thrown up, but as it was she was well past that stage. The end was in sight.
‘We’ve made the arrangements,’ said Jane Haskins who was sitting in her usual place, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘Maurice will fill you in on the details.’
Stiffly, as though she were wearing a crown, she turned her head to her husband for support.
Johnnie’s father paced the room until he was standing in front of the window, the light behind him and his hands folded behind his back. Marcie had gone to church on a few occasions and had seen him standing like this in the pulpit.
‘You’re going away,’ he said. ‘Pilemarsh Abbey is in the country, so there’ll be nobody you know there. Everything will be paid for and everything will be taken care of. The establishment is well organised for girls who …’ He paused. It occurred to her that he was swallowing some remnant of a sermon full of fire, brimstone and damnation.
Girls who are no good and end up in hell.
He didn’t go so far as to say something like that, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them.
‘You’re telling me that I’m being sent to a home for unmarried mothers.’
‘They’ll look after you and do what has to be done. The child will be well looked after,’ said Maurice Haskins. ‘I’m sure they’ll find a very good home for it.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
The fat little bus snorted its way along the country road, the sound of its grating gears reverberating between high walls and hawthorn hedges.
Not everything was countryside because there was a town nearby. There was a factory making windows, obtrusive in the middle of fields. Storms of fallen leaves raced before the wind, a tumbling mix of red, yellow and brown.
Marcie sat silently staring out of the window, her gaze fixed on the passing scene. She was thinking how different things would have been if Johnnie hadn’t been killed. She missed him dreadfully but with every passing day their brief time together seemed more and more like a dream. She sometimes wondered whether the news of his death had reached the little house in Endeavour Terrace. Presumably not, seeing as no one had been in touch. She’d considered writing to tell them of her decision, but the lon
ger she put it off the harder it became.
Johnnie’s parents had wished her a stiff goodbye. They were generous enough, giving her an envelope containing ten crisp five-pound notes.
‘To set yourself up once the baby has been adopted.’
Refusing the money was considered and rapidly discarded. Only a fool would refuse it.
She moved her gaze from the window to her belly. Bigger and bigger it had grown. The doctor at the clinic in London advised her she would have a big baby.
‘Might even be twins,’ he said, ‘but I doubt it. I can only feel one head in there and I don’t like taking an X-ray at this late stage.’
She patted her bump. Strange how you get used to things, she thought. Even Sheppey seemed like a lifetime away. At times it felt as though she were floating in a great sea of trouble.
Pangs of regret accompanied her on the journey.
I should have written.
As for Alan – I shouldn’t have liked him so much.
It’s my fault in a way.
I shouldn’t have gone to his house that night.
I shouldn’t have accepted a lift in his car.
The family will be ashamed of me.
The prospect of being alone with strangers until the baby was born alarmed her.
There were three other people on the bus, one with a suitcase sitting on the seat beside her.
The other passengers were a man and a woman. As they got off Marcie watched them walk by. The woman was wearing a red and black checked mohair coat and ankle boots – the old-fashioned kind trimmed with fur and a zip up the front.
The bus trundled on. A small motorcycle overtook it. She heard the driver swear and exchange a few more well-chosen words with the conductor.
‘Bloody maniacs. Ought to be banned, the bloody lot of them!’
No! She wanted to shout. No! They are not.
She thought of Johnnie and the pride he’d had in his bike. Her heart ached for the sound of his voice, the casual off-handedness hiding his natural sincerity.
Her attention was brought back to the present. Blinking back the tears, she clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. She had to think of the future. The child would be better off being adopted just like Jane Haskins said.
