‘You mean . . . you? You’re telling me that you’re . . .’ Simon’s mouth stayed open in astonishment.
‘Yes . . . I’m pregnant,’ she replied. ‘We’re having a baby, Simon. At least . . . well, yes, I’m almost certain.’
‘Oh, my darling!’ He got up from where he was sitting at the breakfast table and went over to her. ‘That’s the most wonderful news. When . . . do you know?’
‘As I said, Simon, I can’t be absolutely certain, not yet. But I’m pretty sure, and I have a feeling that I am.’ She was only just over a week late, but that was unusual for her; besides, she felt confident in her mind that it was so. ‘Sometime in December, I think.’
‘A Christmas baby! Better than ever,’ Simon exclaimed. He kissed her soundly on the lips.
‘Rather earlier than that, I think,’ she replied. ‘I shall have to find out definitely. I’ll wait a week or so, then I’ll go and see Dr Entwistle and make sure.’
‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Simon again. ‘I feel as though I want to go and tell everybody, to shout it from the roof tops.’
Fiona laughed. ‘Hold your horses, darling. We’ll know for sure in a little while. Until then it’s our secret, isn’t it?’
Twenty-Four
‘Three little maids who all unwary,
Come from a ladies’ seminary,
Free from a genius tutelary,
Three little maids from school,
Three little maids from school.’
Simon and Fiona exchanged a fleeting glance and a secret smile as the trio of Japanese schoolgirls sang the popular chorus. Simon was seated in the centre of the front row, while his wife performed. He was taking no part in the concert apart from doing the welcome speech, and he would give the appropriate word of thanks at the end. Nor had he had much to do with the arrangements. They had been done by a committee chaired by Henry, the organist, who, with Fiona and four others, had planned the programme. Fiona, however, had asked Mrs Bayliss if she would take charge of the refreshments, as she usually did; a sop, in truth, because the said lady had no part in the organization of the concert itself. Fiona had told Simon that she had graciously inclined her head and agreed to do so, adding, a trifle grudgingly, that she was looking forward to the event although, for her part, she preferred music of a more serious nature.
Fiona looked very different in her black wig with the pink lotus flower, wearing her brightly flowered pink and blue kimono and fluttering a gaily painted fan. He was proud of her. She had a lovely singing voice along with her many other attributes.
This was the last act before the interval; Simon then mingled with the members of the audience who all agreed that it was a superb performance. It had attracted a goodly number of folk who didn’t normally attend the church services; but he would invite them, at the end of the evening, to join in the worship at St Peter’s the following day if they wished to do so. He was pleased that the new guitar group, playing and singing a medley of Beatles’ numbers, had been well received. Most people, he believed, even if they insisted it was not to their liking, found themselves humming or singing quietly along to such numbers as ‘She Loves you’, ‘Eleanor Rigby’, or ‘When I’m Sixty-four’. Simon had done so and had been unable to stop his feet from tapping in time to the rhythm.
He did not see his wife as she was changing out of her Japanese costume into the choir ‘uniform’ for the final act of the show. On a Sunday they wore their traditional robes and the ladies wore a sort of mortar-board hat. Tonight, though, they had agreed to dress in black and white – black trousers or long skirts, white tops or shirts – with red ties for the men or red scarves for the ladies.
Simon enjoyed the second half just as much as the first. It didn’t matter that a couple of the conjuror’s tricks were transparently obvious, or that some of the comedian’s jokes ‘came out of the ark’. The lady pianist’s performance of ‘Clair de Lune’ was note perfect, and the monologue ‘Albert and the Lion’ was still as amusing no matter how many times one heard it.
The choir’s selection of songs by Jerome Kern was a splendid ending to the show. The audience clapped and cheered as the last notes of ‘Old Man River’ died away, and Simon waited several moments until the applause died down.
‘Yes, that was superb, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘As, indeed, all the acts have been.’ He expressed his thanks to all concerned, and after his invitation to everyone to ‘join us again tomorrow’, he closed the evening with a short prayer. It was Simon’s belief that in all church activities, religious or of a secular nature, God should be seen as the main reason for everything in which they took part.
‘It’s been a huge success, darling,’ he told Fiona as they sat by the fireside enjoying their bedtime drink of chocolate. They were appreciating the advantage of the newly installed gas fire which had replaced that coal fire, and the radiators in each room. The workmen had finished the job earlier that week, and what a difference it had made to the normally chilly rectory.
‘And a good deal of the success was due to you,’ he went on. ‘Henry has told me what a help you have been to him. I don’t believe he would have considered putting on such a diverse show without your assistance. He used to be rather reserved – well, a bit “old hat” you might say – in his choice of music. He’s certainly moving with the times, now.’
‘It was a team effort,’ Fiona insisted. ‘I’ve done no more than anyone else. We worked well together because we enjoyed it, Simon.’
‘And so did the audience,’ he said. ‘Well done anyway, to all of you.’ He had noticed that evening that his wife now seemed completely at home amongst the members of the congregation. She had worried at first that there was some resentment from a few of the parishioners, and she had not found it easy, he knew, in her position as the new wife of the rector. Now, though, they all seemed to like and respect her. He silently gave thanks again for the joy and satisfaction, the completeness that she had brought to his life.
Fiona waited another week before she went to see the doctor, by which time she was certain in her own mind that she was pregnant. Dr Entwistle had been Simon’s doctor and Fiona had signed up with him on their marriage, although she had not had any occasion, until now, to call on his services. She knew him reasonably well; he and his wife attended St Peter’s, although not every week. She guessed that he was nearing retirement age, and she knew that he was well liked by his patients.
‘Mrs Norwood, how nice to see you,’ he greeted her. ‘May I say how much I enjoyed your performance the other night – all of the show, in fact. My wife and I were very impressed.’
‘Oh, the concert,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’
‘Yes, Doris and I enjoy these social occasions. Now . . . what can I do for you? Actually, I think I can guess . . . ?’ His kind grey eyes twinkled as he smiled at her.
‘Yes, perhaps you can,’ she said, smiling back at him, though a little unsurely. She was rather concerned about what she felt she ought to tell him. ‘Yes, Dr Entwistle, I think I might be pregnant.’
‘Well, that’s great news,’ he said. ‘Hop up on to the couch and we’ll take a look, shall we?’
He felt her stomach and examined her breasts which were already a little tender, and asked her the relevant questions about her periods. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s as you thought. You’re expecting a baby, Fiona . . . I may call you, Fiona, may I?’ She nodded. ‘What wonderful news for your husband. By my reckoning it should be around mid-December, give or take a few days, of course. Well done! I’m sure Simon will be delighted. Now, we must see about booking you into hospital, as it’s your first child . . .’
She interrupted him then. ‘Dr Entwistle . . . there’s something I must tell you. It isn’t, you see. It’s not my first baby.’ He looked at her a little concernedly, but not at all reproachfully. She went on. ‘I had a baby when I was seventeen. It was fourteen years ago, and my parents made me give it up for adoption – it was a little girl. I had to
go into one of those homes, you know, for unmarried mothers up in Northumberland and . . . the thing is, you see, that I haven’t told Simon. I know I should, but I haven’t, and I suppose he’ll find out, won’t he?’
He shook his head. ‘He won’t find out from me. There is such a thing as patient confidentiality. We can’t discuss anything we’re told in the surgery. But . . . you really should tell him, my dear. I can see, by what you’ve told me, that you went through an unhappy time. But it happens; it’s happening all the time. And I’m sure your husband would understand. Do tell him, Fiona, before someone else does. These things have a habit of leaking out . . .’ He raised his bushy eyebrows, looking questioningly at her.
She nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will . . . tell him.’
‘Good girl.’ He nodded. ‘Now, I’ll see about booking you into the Queen Elizabeth hospital in mid-December.’ This was on the outskirts of Aberthwaite and had been opened in 1938 by the queen, the wife of King George the Sixth,who was now known as the Queen Mother. ‘They will want you to attend their clinic each month to make sure all is going well. Now, remember what I’ve said, Fiona, and I’m sure it will be fine. Goodbye for now, my dear.’
But she didn’t tell Simon. The more she though about it the more afraid she became, although she felt in her heart that it would be alright; Simon would understand.
Her first appointment at the clinic was in two weeks’ time. Simon drove her there, dropping her off outside the hospital. He had offered to come in with her and wait whilst she had her examination, but she had insisted she would be alright on her own.
The truth was that she didn’t want Simon with her. She was sure that the other women would not be accompanied by their husbands. Besides, she was very jittery about the forthcoming appointment with a doctor that she didn’t know. She was intimidated by hospitals in general, although she knew it was unreasonable of her; rather childish, in fact. Also she was in a quandary because she hadn’t yet told Simon, and the more she thought about it the larger it loomed in her mind. She knew she was playing games with herself; she would tell him tomorrow, or the day after. Now she had decided she would tell him today when she got home after the consultation.
She gave her name at the reception desk and then sat along with several other women awaiting her turn. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so worked up about anything, not since her first pregnancy. Her stomach was churning and she could feel the tension in her neck muscles. She did not look at any of the other women in the waiting room, so full was she of her own concerns.
Quite soon her name was called by a nurse who emerged from one of the doors. ‘Fiona Norwood, please.’
As she walked across the room she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, someone who looked vaguely familiar. She only caught a glimpse of her; a buxom blonde, dark at the roots, somewhat older than herself, and heavily pregnant. Then she forgot about her as she went into the surgery.
He was a doctor who was actually a surgeon and was therefore known as Mr Bellingham. He nodded curtly at her, and she decided at once that he didn’t have what was known as a bedside manner. He glanced at the form he had been given, confirming the details with her. ‘Fiona Norwood, age thirty-one. Your baby is due on or around the fifteenth of December according to your doctor. Not your first pregnancy; you had a child in May, 1952?’
‘Er . . . yes, that’s right,’ she replied. Already, it seemed, the secret was leaking out.
‘Very well, Mrs Norwood. Let’s take a look at you.’ Thankfully there was a nurse present, and she helped Fiona to prepare herself and climb up on to the couch. She knew it would be an internal examination, and she felt herself growing tense at the thought. She hated the indignity of it; she remembered from the first time what an ordeal it had been for her as a terrified seventeen-year-old. It ought not to be so this time. She and Simon were delighted about the baby, but she was still cringing at the surgeon’s touch.
‘Relax, Mrs Norwood,’ he said, quite sharply. ‘I have to make sure that all is well, and it will be worse if you don’t keep still.’
The nurse smiled understandingly at her and took hold of her hand. It was soon over. ‘Everything is in order,’ said Mr Bellingham. ‘Make an appointment for a month’s time from now, Mrs Norwood. It will most likely be one of the midwives who sees you next time.’
Thank God for that! she thought. Fiona didn’t speak the heartfelt words out loud. She dressed as quickly as she could and went to book her next appointment. She left the hospital, still not looking at any of the other women. She felt a little sore, but decided not to wait for the bus. The day was cold, but clear and bright. A brisk walk would perhaps clear her mind in readiness for what she knew she must tell Simon.
The blonde-haired woman, whose name was Hazel, turned to speak to the young woman sitting next to her as she watched Fiona walk across the room. ‘Do you know that person, by any chance?’ she asked. ‘Fiona Norwood . . . I’m sure it’s the same girl that I knew, but she was Fiona . . . Dalton, I think it was back then.’
‘I only know her by sight,’ replied the other woman. ‘Actually, she’s married to the rector at St Peter’s church, the Reverend Simon Norwood. I don’t go to church myself, but my next-door neighbour’s a big noise in the Mothers’ Union there, and she’s told me about her. You say that you used to know her?’
‘I did indeed! So she’s the rector’s wife now? That’s very interesting.’ Hazel gave a knowing little chuckle. ‘When I came across her she was in a home for unmarried girls up in Northumberland.’
Her neighbour gave her a curious glance.
‘Aye, I was there meself,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind admitting it. We were all in’t same boat, up the duff, you might say. I had a little lad; he’s fourteen now. I was supposed to be having him adopted, then at the last minute they decided to let me keep him. And then I find I’m preggers again after all this time. Would you believe it? I’m married though now. Oh aye, I’m quite respectable now. My hubby’s a builder, and we’ve just moved down here from Newcastle, only a month ago.’
‘You live in Aberthwaite then, do you?’ asked her confidante, who was agog with curiosity.
‘Just outside,’ said Hazel. ‘Just round the corner from here, so it’ll be handy when I start. Next month I’m due, an’ it can’t come soon enough, I can tell you . . . Anyway, like I was saying, I had young Gary in March, and Lady Fiona was still there when I left. I never knew what happened to her, and neither did I care, until now. She didn’t half fancy herself; thought she was a cut above the rest of us ’cause she’d been to a grammar school. The other lasses we shared with seemed to like her well enough but I never had much time for her, snooty little madam! How does she get on with t’church folk?’
‘I don’t really know,’ answered the younger woman. ‘My neighbour says she’s started a new Young Wives’ group, and some of the Mothers’ Union ladies are a bit jealous, like, from what I can gather. She likes things her own way.’
‘Aye, that figures.’ Hazel nodded. ‘I wonder if her husband knows about her fall from grace?’
‘I really couldn’t say. They’ve no children, I do know that. The rector was married before but his first wife died, and he married Fiona last summer. I believe they’re very happy . . . It’s not really any business of ours, is it? I mean to say . . .’
‘Happen it isn’t . . . or happen it is. At any rate, it’s food for thought.’
‘Hazel Cartwright, please,’ called the nurse, a different one this time, and Hazel stood up.
‘That’s us then. Been nice chatting to you. See you again, maybe.’ She gave a cheery wave as she followed the nurse across the room.
Her new acquaintance was astounded at all those revelations. As she had said, it was really none of their business. All the same she was only human, and it was too exciting a piece of gossip not to pass on to her next-door neighbour.
‘How did you go on, darling?’ asked Simon when he saw her at lunchtime.
‘It was rather an ordeal, to be honest,’ she said. ‘The examination . . . you know.’ She didn’t want to go into details. ‘But I won’t have to go through that again. I’ll be seeing the midwife next time.’
‘My poor love,’ he said. ‘I should imagine it’s not very pleasant, especially with it being your first baby. It’s all new to you, isn’t it? Never mind, it’s over now, and we’ve got such a lot to look forward to.’
‘Yes . . . we have, haven’t we?’ she agreed, without a great deal of enthusiasm, but he didn’t seem to notice. She knew she had an ideal opportunity then to tell him everything. But once again her courage failed her.
Two days later she was unable to evade the truth any longer.
Twenty-Five
Simon picked up the small pile of letters from behind the door and leafed through them. ‘There’s one for you, darling,’ he said, coming into the kitchen where they had just finished their breakfast.
‘That makes a change,’ said Fiona, ‘They’re usually all for you. I wonder who it’s from? I wasn’t expecting anything.’
‘Well, you won’t know until you open it, will you?’ teased Simon.
‘True,’ she agreed, looking at the unfamiliar writing on the envelope. It was addressed to Fiona Norwood, in block capitals, with no courtesy title. She slit open the envelope and quickly scanned the message inside, just a few lines which she read with increasing horror. There was no ‘Dear Fiona’ or any such greeting, just the bald statement: ‘Does your husband, the rector, know about the illegitimate child you gave birth to in 1952? If he doesn’t, then you had better tell him, hadn’t you, before someone else does so.’
She gave a gasp of panic and terror, and her hands started to shake as she held the shocking missive tightly in her grasp.
‘Darling, whatever’s the matter?’ asked Simon, his voice and his look full of concern.
She knew she could prevaricate no longer. She thrust the crumpled piece of paper at him across the table, then she sat looking down at her hands as he read it.
Cast the First Stone Page 23
