The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘Each scale,’ he was saying, ‘points in the wrong direction, but if you look here’ – he unhinged a section, pointed to a yoke made from matchsticks – ‘there’s a wooden yoke that fits over each person’s shoulders.’ He hooked it back together. ‘Altogether it will be about thirty feet long. I reckon the body will need about twenty grown-ups to carry it, and then the children can carry the tail.’

  ‘Children?’ Betty said.

  ‘In ever diminishing sizes. Why not? They’d love it, and we could really get the message across. Take it everywhere. Schools. Parks.’

  ‘What’s it made of?’ Betty asked, thinking of Graham and Martin.

  ‘Well, the head will be of papier mâché. The frame, balsa. And the scales tarpaulin. Painted. Varnished. It goes stiff then, so won’t flap. And we’ll strap it taut, anyway.’ He smiled at her. ‘It won’t be heavy, if that’s what you’re thinking. A woman could lift it.’

  Betty nodded, but she wasn’t sure she liked him after that comment, even if his idea was exciting.

  ‘But, comrade, how long will it take to make?’ Betty turned and looked at an intense young man with black hair and a deep voice, an oboe of a voice, she thought.

  ‘A few months,’ the young man replied. ‘Section by section. But we need a workshop…’ He looked around at his audience. ‘Anyone have a garage, a shed?’

  Betty followed his eyes. They were all young. None of them would have that kind of space.

  ‘I know,’ the man with the oboe voice said. ‘The Theatre Royal, Stratford. They’ll have room. I can ask Joan…’

  The young man smiled. ‘That’s brilliant, Ralph,’ he said. ‘They’ll have a proper workshop. Props. Of course.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  He lifted the homeosaurus and put it in a shoebox. ‘I’ll need help, though.’

  She longed to do something practical with her hands. It would take her mind off things.

  ‘I’ll volunteer,’ Betty said. And then it came to her. ‘Why don’t we make its head look like Macmillan? Could we do that, in papier mâché?’

  She could hear others laugh, but they were nodding.

  ‘Genius,’ the young man said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Betty.’ She smiled, at home, here in the Partisan.

  §

  Perhaps she was just late. She’d had a few shocks lately. That could have an effect. She looked at herself in Dee’s bathroom mirror. She didn’t look any different, not on the outside, at any rate. Lieselotte had looked the same too, standing in the window of their bedroom, her flimsy frame silhouetted against the sun.

  ‘I’m pregnant, Bettelein,’ she’d said, just like that, matter-of-fact. She was wearing her faded cotton skirt, and a clean blouse, her hair pinned back from her face with Mutti’s tortoiseshell comb. ‘I’ve heard of a doctor who’ll help.’

  Betty had no doctor to help her. Or anyone. None of her friends were fast, had ever needed those kinds of services. Or if they had, they’d never admitted it. Perhaps she should approach one of those call girls in Soho. They’d know who to go to. But how would they know she wasn’t a policeman on the sly? They wouldn’t talk to her, and in any case Betty wasn’t sure she could go to some backstreet abortionist. There were terrible stories about them.

  ‘Hurry up, Betty.’ Dee was banging on the door. ‘I need to clean my teeth.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Betty said. ‘You can come in. I’m just putting my face on.’ She reached over and opened the door.

  ‘Dee,’ she said, dabbing on lipstick, ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘Fire away.’ Kevin was downstairs making tea. A door slammed and Martin burst into the bathroom.

  ‘Mu-um,’ he said. ‘Graham said I was a selfish, fishy-faced idiot.’

  Dee rolled her eyes. ‘How many times have I told you to knock before you come into the bathroom?’

  ‘Well, he did.’ He glared at Dee. ‘Do something.’

  ‘Go down and help your father.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell him off?’

  ‘I’ll deal with this in a minute. I need to talk to Auntie Betty.’

  He glared at Betty now, and Betty smiled back, winking. She waited until he’d left the room. Dee shut the door.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Later,’ Betty said. ‘After the children have gone to bed.’ She put the lipstick back in its holder and lifted her comb from her cosmetic bag.

  ‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’

  Betty turned her head fast, her neck cricking. She felt dizzy, nauseous.

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ Sniffed, peered into the mirror at a spot on her chin, combed her hair behind her ear. ‘Well, yes. Maybe. How did you know?’

  ‘Tone of voice,’ Dee said. ‘It was either that. Or nits. I took a guess.’

  ‘Graham.’ Kevin had bounded up the stairs, crossed the landing, hammered on the boys’ door. ‘Come down now.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Betty said. ‘Can we talk later? Please?’

  ‘You’ll have to have it adopted,’ Dee said. ‘Won’t you?’

  ‘Please, Dee.’ Her voice was quavering and her eyes were tearful. ‘This evening?’

  Dee blew through her mouth. ‘God, Bets, what a mess. I mean, this changes everything.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Got to dash.’

  She ran out of the bathroom, down the stairs. Betty could hear her in the kitchen. Bye, kids, be good. Bye, Kev. Must rush. Auntie Betty’s taking you to school.

  She’d forgotten it was her day.

  §

  Kevin was in the sitting room listening to the wireless, Dee and Betty in the kitchen. Betty had made some tea and they sat at Dee’s new Formica-topped table, hands round blue-striped mugs.

  ‘How far gone are you?’ Dee said.

  ‘How should I know?’ She’d never been pregnant before. When had Lieselotte known?

  ‘Well, how long since your last period?’

  ‘About two weeks,’ Betty said. ‘Perhaps three. I’m not always so regular.’

  Dee thought a moment.

  ‘So you’re due April sometime,’ she said, adding, ‘It’s John’s?’

  Betty nodded. ‘I didn’t think you got pregnant the first time.’ She looked out of the window, at the garden beyond, the swing on the cherry tree, the lilac bushes.

  Dee laughed. ‘Crumbs, Betty, where have you been? Why didn’t he use something?’

  Betty shrugged, turned to her friend. ‘We weren’t planning to do anything.’

  ‘He could have withdrawn,’ Dee said, raising her eyebrow, adding, ‘Oh, never mind. That never worked. What are you going to do? Only…’ She paused, rubbed her nail against the rim of the mug. ‘I don’t think you could stay here. We don’t have room, and I don’t think Kev would approve. Bad example to the kids, and the neighbours, you know, gossip.’

  ‘Kevin? He’s a fine one to talk. He got you in the family way.’

  ‘But he married me, before I showed,’ Dee said. ‘You’ll have to marry John.’

  Betty screwed her eyes tight, shook her head. ‘I don’t want him to marry me if he doesn’t love me. I can’t think of anything worse.’

  She’d rather live in purgatory than with a man who felt trapped by her.

  Betty stared into her mug, at the tea leaf floating on the top. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dee said. ‘Does John know?’

  Betty shook her head.

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  She looked up at Dee. ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think he has a right to know?’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘Why? He doesn’t care. Obviously. He wouldn’t have ditched me otherwise.’

  ‘Bets.’ Dee put her mug aside and reached over for Betty’s hands. ‘He might change his mind when he knows.’

  ‘And what difference would that make? If he doesn’t love me, he doesn’t love me.’


  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Betty said, pulling her hand free. ‘I don’t want his baby.’

  Dee sipped her tea, both hands cradling the mug, elbows on the table. ‘Have you thought about adoption?’

  Betty nodded. ‘I can’t be pregnant. I’d lose my job. Then what would I do? And where would I go if I can’t stay here?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not going to some mother and baby home run by a bunch of sadistic nuns.’ She took a gulp of tea. It was lukewarm.

  ‘I don’t think you have any choice, Bets.’

  ‘Perhaps I could get rid of it,’ she said. ‘Can you help?’ She had no alternative but to say it.

  Dee’s forehead furrowed. She was cross. Or shocked. Betty had forgotten. Dee still went to church, dragged the boys there every Sunday. Graham even served at Mass. She should never have asked her.

  ‘How do you think I can possibly help?’

  Betty hesitated for a moment. She knew what she was about to say would be hurtful. ‘You’re a nurse,’ she said. ‘Don’t nurses know these things?’

  ‘That’s a shocking thing to say,’ Dee said. ‘Who do you think we are?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Betty said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought, you know, midwives, I mean, they must know things?’

  ‘It’s illegal,’ Betty said. ‘You do know that, don’t you? Not just immoral. Illegal. No one I know would risk it.’

  ‘Please, Dee, can you just ask around? It wouldn’t get you into trouble, would it?’

  Dee pulled her hands back, lifted the teapot.

  ‘There’s a drop more,’ she said. ‘Would you like it?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Betty said. Dee poured the stewed dregs into her mug, spooned in a teaspoon of sugar.

  ‘How can you drink it like that?’ Betty thought of Mutti’s Meissen tea set, the golden liquid she drank and savoured, a treat to live for. She’d died before she knew what happened to Lieselotte, to herself. Perhaps it was just as well.

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ Dee said. ‘You need to make your own enquiries too.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Betty said. ‘Thanks so much.’

  §

  The model-maker was called Nick.

  ‘Can you sew?’

  ‘No,’ Betty said. ‘But I can glue. Or paint.’

  He rolled his eyes. He wanted a man. Too bad, Betty thought. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  ‘Come back when the frames are made,’ he said. ‘And we can put you to work on the scales.’

  She left them, the men, boys really, sawing bits of balsa and tapping them in place with tacks. She caught the train home, sat in the carriage, knots in her gut twisting and tightening. Was it hot baths and gin? Difficult to do in Dee’s house. She’d have to book a hotel room. Could she will this thing out? Could her body absorb it, get rid of it? Like a giant panda. She’d read that. If she wanted it enough, could it happen? But an abortion. She should never have asked Dee. It went against everything Dee believed in. And what if something went wrong? She’d heard stories about women bleeding to death, or getting blood poisoning, or going batty. What if she was caught? She’d end up in prison, her reputation, her life, ruined. She couldn’t go through with the pregnancy either. How would she survive without a job, or somewhere to live? She couldn’t go home, even if she wanted to. Her father would throw her out for sure. She was trapped. Whichever way she turned, there was no exit point. Ruined. An old-fashioned word, but it hit the nail on the head. It was all right for John. He got off scot-free. Lieselotte’s words came back. Why is it always the women who have to pick up the pieces? Why did women always pay the price?

  §

  Dee took her into the kitchen when she arrived home.

  ‘We’ve kept your tea warm,’ she said, taking it out of the oven and placing it on a mat on the table. ‘Toad in the hole.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Betty poured herself a glass of water and sat down. The batter looked heavy and the gravy thick and lumpy.

  ‘Ah, Bisto,’ she said, sniffing.

  ‘Well, the kids like it.’ Dee shut the kitchen door, pulled out a chair and sat next to her.

  ‘Don’t ever ask me to do this again,’ she said, pulling out a piece of paper from her pocket, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. ‘Seems you have two options.’

  Betty felt as if the weight had dissolved, her shoulders freed from their burden. ‘You’re an angel,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t approve,’ Dee said. ‘I hope you know that. You put me in a very difficult position.’

  Betty nodded. ‘I know that, Dee,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t been desperate.’

  ‘This is a mortal sin. I mean, I believe in the sanctity of life and all that,’ Dee said. Her mouth was tight and she shifted in her seat, adding, ‘But I know what it is to be up the duff too.’ She paused, nodded at the food. ‘Start before it gets cold.’

  Betty cut into the sausage, shoved a piece into her mouth. She wasn’t hungry.

  ‘Right,’ Dee went on. ‘If you can get two doctors to say you’d be reduced to a mental wreck, you can get it done legally.’ She smiled. ‘That’s the good news.’

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘It would cost about a hundred guineas, plus you’d need to pay the psychiatrists. God knows what they charge.’

  Betty coughed hard, her stomach tightening. ‘A hundred? Where could I get that kind of money? That’s four months’ wages.’ She pushed the plate away. The batter was cold anyway. ‘You said there were two options?’

  Dee opened the piece of paper, pushed it across the table. Betty pulled it towards her. A name, a telephone number. And written below it, £30 or £40? Depending. She shut her eyes. If she did it after payday, and lived on next to nothing for a month or two, she could rustle up perhaps a tenner. She had just over five pounds in savings. She fingered the gold chain round her neck. Her father had given it to her for her twenty-first. She could sell that. But even so. She twisted the ring on her finger. Mutti’s ring. She could pawn it. She’d never been into one of those shops, but then she’d never been in this position before. What did Dee call it? Up the duff?

  ‘Promise me one thing,’ Dee said. ‘That you’ll think very hard about what you decide to do.’ She stood up, added, ‘The woman used to be a nurse.’

  Betty nodded. She looked at the debris on her dinner plate, the empty surface of the tabletop, the bare walls of Dee’s kitchen, and beyond, the garden with its patch of worn earth below the swing. She folded the paper and put it in her pocket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  London: September 1958

  It was over four weeks now.

  ‘Hide away,’ Arthur had suggested. ‘Lie low. Think about your options.’

  ‘And Betty?’ John said.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to Betty unless you’re around.’

  A damp cottage in mid-Wales miles from anywhere, outdoor privy, spring water, Rayburn cooker. Just the job. There was a wireless, but nothing else. The beds were old, the furniture shabby. The previous owner had died and his children rented the house out.

  ‘Born in it,’ they’d said as they handed him the key. ‘It was his father’s before him. Goes right back, it does. Great-grandfather and all. Was a wooden house once, you know? Our father bricked it in. That’s why it’s called Larch Cottage.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the forest then?’

  ‘Oh no. These were put up for the navvies working on the railway. Jerry-built, the lot of them.’

  It was by chance he’d found it, really, stuck a pin in a map. Pantydwr. A bit of a palaver to get there, especially with his bicycle and rucksack, but now he was settled in, it couldn’t be better. The land sloped down to the Marteg.

  ‘It’s illegal to fish, though.’ All he saw were tiddlers anyway, and keen-eyed kingfishers. He woke in the morning with the chatter of the house martins, went to bed with the screech of the barn owl. There was a farm up the road which sold eg
gs, and it was a short bike ride to the village for the basics and a newspaper.

  He was used to living by himself. Once he had a routine, it wasn’t so bad. Out by day, cycling or walking, packing a sandwich and a thermos of tea, rain or shine. A pint after supper in the pub. The landlord was called Berwyn, spoke Welsh to the locals, English to him.

  ‘From London, eh? I expect it’s a bit quiet for you round here.’

  ‘That’s what I want,’ John said. Anatoly wouldn’t find him here.

  ‘You’re not married then?’

  John shook his head, sipped his beer.

  There was an old man in the corner with grey whiskers and unkempt hair. His brown trousers were tied up with binder twine and his baggy tweed jacket was ripped at the shoulder seams. A Welsh collie with matted fur curled at his feet.

  The barman beckoned John close, eyeing the man in the corner.

  ‘If it’s peace and quiet you want,’ he said, ‘avoid Dai. He may be the richest farmer round these parts but he talks the hind legs off a donkey.’ He smiled. ‘I’d go outside if I were you.’ Added, ‘Before he spots you.’

  John sat on the bench, leaning against the wall, soaking in the evening sun. Perhaps he could jack in his job, get another one round here? Teach in the village school? Live in the cottage, get a dog for company. Who would ever find him?

  Anatoly.

  Though how Anatoly had traced him was a mystery.

  §

  He stepped off the train at Paddington, wheeled his bike along the platform. The train had been crowded and he’d retreated into the guards’ van with his luggage, sitting on the floor for hours. Now the noise and bluster of the city bombarded him. He took a moment to get his bearings, to take in the traffic, the double-decker buses and the taxis, the people scurrying like uncovered woodlice. He had been used to solitude, the gentle sounds of sheep and the wind rustling through the birch and larch trees round the cottage.

  His flat smelled stale, airless, his mail was piled on the hall table. He’d thought it best not to get it redirected in case, somehow, Anatoly discovered where he was. He opened the windows, let in the noises and the fumes, looked around him, at his books ordered alphabetically, his saucepans tucked inside each other, the clock on the shelf that had stopped at twenty past five. Perhaps he should move. Get somewhere bigger, with fresh air and a garden. In the country. He heaved his rucksack into the bedroom, pulled out his dirty clothes. He’d have to go to the launderette at the weekend, perhaps pay a visit to the Partisan, see what was happening in the world.