Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon

by Linda Newbery

  Olivia sobbed quietly as she stuffed a felt dog for her bounty box, her fringe drooping over red and swollen eyes. Other girls tried to comfort her: ‘Think of having your life back, being able to do what you want!’ And, ‘You can have another baby, when you’re older. When you find the right boy.’

  There was a lot of talk about boyfriends. Tracy’s came to visit, a shy, spotty youth who looked far too young to be a father; Marion had a photograph of hers on the only shelf. One of the girls was pregnant by a married man, who did not visit.

  ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Sandy?’ They all wanted to know that.

  The first time she was asked this, a reckless impulse made her reply, ‘No. He died. Drowned.’

  She didn’t know why she said it, but it gave her a tragic air that made the other girls treat her with respect. Having lied once, she had to carry on lying, elaborating. Almost she began to believe in this version of her story. In her imagination it was Phil who had drowned, who had gone from her life for ever.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Anna hadn’t yet made use of Ruth’s bike, and was spending far too much each week on taxis to and from the tube station. She was living cheaply in other ways, offsetting the cost; but she’d have to think ahead, invest in a small car, perhaps. When the mornings and evenings lightened, she could use the bike, but for now she didn’t relish the thought of cycling along the country lanes in darkness, with vehicles swooshing past.

  She didn’t much like arriving home after dark, either. For those few moments after the taxi left her, its headlights sweeping the hedgerows as it turned back up the hill, she stood alone in thick, stifling darkness. She had bought a pocket torch to keep in her bag, and always had her key ready in her hand; she resolved to ask Ruth about fitting a security light.

  Indoors, she went through the ritual of locking and bolting, going round the house to draw curtains, turning on the radio. Then she could relax, put the kettle on or pour a glass of wine, change from her office clothes into jeans and a sweater.

  On Friday night, late back, she was gearing herself up for an early start in the morning. Her taxi was booked, her rail tickets ordered online, to collect at the station tomorrow. She heated a pasta dish and ate it with salad, quickly, hardly tasting it, and was washing up when the doorbell shrilled.

  She tensed, aware of the darkness outside, her isolation. There was no spyhole on the door, no chain. It could be anyone. Someone might have been watching her movements, knowing she was alone.

  Don’t be neurotic. It was probably the neighbour she hadn’t yet spoken to, or maybe Ruth.

  Cautiously she slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack, ready to slam it again, to kick hard if a foot tried to insert itself into the gap.

  It was Martin who stood there.

  Her hand went to her throat. ‘Oh! You scared me.’ Her voice came out husky with relief. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Are you going to let me in? It’s bloody cold out here.’

  She stepped aside, closed the door behind him and stood with her back to it. He wore his black overcoat, a suit underneath, with a white shirt and dark red tie. She had always liked the dramatic contrast of red, black and white against his dark colouring; now it annoyed her to acknowledge how good he looked, how he brought masculine assurance into the hallway where she’d stood dithering moments before.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated.

  ‘Come to see you – what does it look like? I’ve been visiting a client in Cambridge, so I made a detour.’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I know it’s late. Sorry if I’m putting you out. Thought I might get some sense out of you, if I came round.’

  ‘I see,’ Anna said coldly.

  ‘Look, are we going to stand in the hall or can we sit down and talk?’

  ‘We can sit down, I suppose. If you’re willing to enter the hovel, as I think you described it.’ She led the way into the sitting room. Martin threw his overcoat over a chair-back, and sat down; she stood by the fireplace, facing him.

  He said flatly, ‘Ruth says you’re meeting someone tomorrow.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Thanks, Ruth.

  ‘You haven’t wasted much time. Or – is this a new thing?’ His coolness matched her own. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake! Considering Ruth knows nothing about it, I can’t see why you’re both jumping to conclusions. Unless it’s because you want to think badly of me.’

  ‘I don’t want to think badly. I just don’t know what’s got into you. Whatever you’re playing at, I don’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t you? Well, get used to it. I’m not playing. That’s one of the main reasons I like it here. Being on my own. Being able to come and go without having to account for myself.’

  ‘I see. Don’t you owe it to me to be clearer about your intentions?’

  ‘What intentions?’

  ‘Ah,’ Martin said, maddeningly calm. ‘Precisely. For instance – are you planning to collect the rest of your things from the flat, move out properly? Or carry on with this halfway arrangement?’

  ‘You keep on about what I’m planning.’ Anna leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘Why do I have to plan? Why can’t I let things happen?’

  ‘Because you’re an adult, supposedly, with other people to consider. For God’s sake, Anna – you want it all ways. You want to be independent, but you’re stopping short of making a complete break. Maybe you haven’t got the courage.’

  ‘It’s not courage,’ she retorted. ‘It’s a simple matter of sorting out where I’m going to live.’

  ‘Simple, is it? So I’m nothing more to you than a flat mate you’ll abandon the minute it suits you?’ He looked at her in exasperation. ‘Can’t you sit down? I’m getting neck ache looking up at you.’

  She moved away from the fireplace, but turned towards the door. ‘Would you like something? Wine, coffee?’

  ‘No, I want to sort this out. Could you please give me a sensible answer for once? Either come back with me now, or collect your things and give me your key. If you have moved out, I don’t want you dropping in at odd times.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, her voice rising triumphantly. ‘Did that mess things up with Lenka, just when you were getting cosy?’

  Martin gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Don’t try to make something out of nothing. Lenka came round for a sandwich and a chat. You know that’s all it was.’

  ‘You don’t exactly have a good record for faithfulness,’ Anna flung at him.

  He looked at her, brows lowered. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Ruth told me about your affair.’ Her turn to play the Ruth card. ‘With a married woman called Hilary.’

  ‘Oh, did she?’ He glanced down, then up again, meeting her gaze. ‘Well, that was years ago, and all I can say is I’m not proud of it and I wish I hadn’t been so bloody stupid. But it’s nothing to do with you and me.’

  Anna shrugged. ‘Easy to say that. It’s who you are.’

  So he wished it hadn’t happened, did he? Which meant he wished he was still with Ruth? For a moment Anna saw it as a noble gesture she was making, clearing out, clearing their way.

  ‘Let’s not drag up the distant past,’ Martin said. ‘I can’t see how that helps. Why don’t you come home? I’ll wait while you pack your bag.’

  ‘Home – you mean your flat? It’s never felt like home to me. I don’t like living in London. I prefer it out here.’

  He threw her a look of incredulity. ‘You’ve never said that! Never a word. Am I supposed to be telepathic?’

  ‘What’d be the point? You’d never move out of London. You’re there and I’m here, and it suits both of us.’

  Martin shook his head slowly. ‘This is another excuse, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not! I do like it here – it feels more like home than the flat ever has.’

  ‘So – that’s it, then? You’re not coming back?’

/>   Anna shook her head. ‘I’ve told you, I can’t go anywhere now, even if I wanted. I’m busy tomorrow.’

  ‘You could cancel.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Look,’ she said, capitulating slightly, ‘I’ll phone you when I get back, shall I, on Sunday?’

  ‘Sunday?’ Martin was visibly taken aback. ‘You’re away till Sunday? So you’re planning to spend the night with whoever it is?’

  ‘There you go, on and on about planning!’

  ‘I’m wasting my time.’ Martin sprang to his feet, reaching for his coat. ‘Sorry to have taken up so much of yours.’

  ‘OK. I’ll do it, since that’s what you want.’ Anna felt suddenly reckless. ‘Hire a car next week and come for my things.’

  He stood for a long moment looking at her; she couldn’t read his expression. Then he turned away. ‘Fine. It’s probably best. Come when I’m not there, will you?’

  In the hall she relented enough to move towards at least a sociable farewell kiss – they could be grown up about this, couldn’t they? – but he was brisk now, already out of the door, calling only a curt ‘Bye, then.’ He zapped his key-fob and the car unlocked with a loud obedient click; Anna closed the door and stayed there, listening, until the sound of his engine had faded.

  The house felt empty now, with him gone. She closed her eyes, imagining a different scenario, if she’d gone to him and said, ‘Don’t go, Martin. Stay with me. Please, stay.’ They could have snuggled together in the night-time chill of the bedroom; she could have told him where she was going and why; asked him, even, to go with her. Would he have agreed? He might have offered to drive her to Devon; he was always good at helping in practical ways.

  It was pointless, wondering, and too late, now. She’d do this alone. It was a part of her life that Martin had never understood.

  In bed, Cassandra is propped up against pillows, leafing through her gardening magazine. She flicks past advertisements for gazebos, conservatories and stylish wellingtons, pauses for longer over photographs of summer gardens, velvety lawns and rose-clad arches. Her attention is caught by a border planted in white, cream and blue; she reads the caption, reaches for the notebook on her bedside table and writes down Sisyrinchium striatum.

  Don is getting ready for the morning, for an early round of golf with Malcolm; his shoes are clean, his bag of clubs propped against the wardrobe.

  ‘Have you seen my cap? The dark red peaked one?’

  ‘It’s in there somewhere. Second shelf down, I think.’ Cassandra doesn’t look up from the irises, the foxgloves, the scrambling white rose. She is thinking of summer, of new gardening projects. She wonders whether a wrought-iron bench like the one in the photograph would look better under the pear tree than the heavy wooden one that’s beginning to peel and flake.

  ‘Who are these for, love?’

  She looks up at Don, over the top of her reading glasses. He’s lifting the paper carrier bag in one hand, the purple shoes in the other, holding them by the straps. Cassandra stares at them and feels herself blushing hotly.

  ‘Is there some great mystery? What’s going on?’ Don gazes at her. ‘It’s not – you don’t mean – oh, love, is Anna expecting?’

  She gives a slight nod. It’s the easiest answer, the obvious one. And, even, possible.

  ‘Well, why on earth didn’t you tell me!’ He’s beaming now, placing the little shoes side by side on the bed, leaning over to give her a hug and a kiss. ‘Why the big secret?’

  She returns his embrace. ‘It’s not certain yet – I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘But you couldn’t wait to start shopping. Well, that’s fantastic news! Grandparents at last, hey? Won’t that be great?’

  She envies him his uncomplicated pleasure, his wide grin. For as long as she remains silent, she can pretend it’s true.

  ‘Do you think she’ll tie the knot with Martin, then? Will they be shopping for a ring? Living in Hatton Garden they’ve only got to pop downstairs.’ It’s a joke he’s made before.

  ‘That’d be nice.’ Cassandra finds herself wondering what she might wear to a wedding. Anna would never go for a big fussy church occasion, she’s sure of that much.

  Don picks up one of the shoes and holds it in his palm. ‘What if it’s not a girl she’s expecting, though? Too early to tell, surely? Would the shop let you swap these for boys’ shoes?’

  ‘Oh …’ she says vaguely. ‘It’s a hunch.’

  ‘One of your Cassandra moments, was it?’ Don rubs his hand up and down her arm. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. We’ll see. We must celebrate, all four of us. Go out for dinner. Shall I see how they’re fixed for tomorrow night?’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sandy, 1967, 1968

  Two weeks before Christmas, it was Sandy’s turn to go to the nearby hospital. She went unaccompanied in the ambulance, as none of the home staff could be spared. On arrival she was taken charge of by brusque strangers. ‘Well, what did you expect?’ said the midwife, when she whimpered with the shock of labour pains. ‘No one said it’d be easy, did they? You should have thought of that.’

  She felt so ignorant. All the while, she had harboured the idea that her body couldn’t nourish a foetus that the world didn’t want; it would surely wither away, or slip out prematurely. More recently, when she felt it kicking, she imagined it balled up and angry, already resenting her. Often she had felt drained and ill, as if this alien thing was sucking all her energy into itself. At other times she felt a kind of perverse pride that her body could achieve such a feat.

  Between her and freedom loomed the inescapable ordeal of giving birth. Marion said that it was like being ripped to pieces; you’d scream and scream, and long for it to be over. Others, newly delivered, spoke of nurses who took relish in the girls’ fears and the pain they would have to endure, and talked in loud voices about adoption. Marion had been in a ward next to a woman whose baby had been stillborn, and who had shrieked at Marion in hysterical grief when she heard the nurse’s tactless remarks.

  I’m going to die, Sandy thought, gripped by the frightening power of contractions. Surely I’ll die; something must be going wrong. No one could survive this. Hours passed, in a terrifying private place where she could only strain and sob, wait for the next wave of pain, give herself up to it.

  ‘Push. You’re not trying! You’ve got to push. It won’t come out on its own.’ The voice floated towards her from a long way off, and at last she had the sense of powerful instincts overwhelming her, an irrepressible force taking charge. She was carried on a current, strong and deep, and at last it was over. She had come through the straining and sweating and heaving; she was alive, and so was the baby; she heard its thin cry. She lay back exhausted; damp hair clung to her forehead; tears ran down the sides of her face and trickled into her ears.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ said the midwife.

  Someone propped Sandy up on pillows and washed her face, and she was given the little wizened thing to hold; only briefly, because it was to be fostered until adoption formalities were completed. She stared at her baby in astonishment. How had such a tiny thing not been squeezed and crushed to death? Its eyes were closed; it moved its fists; it was alive. A living, separate creature.

  ‘Just for a few minutes, dear,’ said the midwife, in a kindlier tone.

  Sandy looked at the clenched face, the new skin, the scalp streaked with hair. She’d never looked at a baby with such intentness, had never fully understood what it was to see a life at its very beginning. Certain for some reason that it would be a boy, she had planned to call it Roland.

  Now this. A red-faced baby girl, gasping with the shock of being born, of breathing air.

  ‘Her name’s Rosanna,’ she said. ‘I want her to be called Rosanna.’

  Sandy’s parents had sold their Croydon house in the autumn, and moved, in December, to a smaller one in Tonbridge. Her father continued to commute to London, while her mother found work as secretarial assistant to a local vicar.

  H
aving been reluctant to go to Bridge House, Sandy now found herself equally unwilling to leave it and the friends she had made there, to re-enter a world that wanted girls like her brushed out of sight. The birth had loomed like a punishment, an end of something; she’d given little thought to what she’d do afterwards, and now found herself dumped back into a life that felt only slightly familiar. Even the expected sense of freedom meant nothing, and had turned to anti-climax and lethargy. She had done something almost miraculous, bringing that whimpering thing alive into the world, but her achievement must be hidden away, never referred to. Her body, swollen and bruised, aching for the baby it had toiled so hard to produce, wept blood and tears and milk, but soon recovered, guarding its secret.

  In spite of everything, she had done reasonably well in her O-Levels. Her mother, on her weekend visits to Bridge House – Sandy’s father had not come, not once – talked about secretarial courses and the shorthand and typing skills that would give useful entry to a variety of jobs. She enrolled Sandy at a local college, to begin a course as soon as she came home, or rather to the house that was now called home. Sandy also signed up for English A-Level, which she could take by attending a weekly evening class. She’d missed the first term, but the set books studied then were The Tempest and Tess of the d’Urbervilles; having enjoyed Far from the Madding Crowd, and seen the film, with Julie Christie so beautiful as Bathsheba, Terence Stamp imperiously handsome as Sergeant Troy, she felt sure she could cope with Tess. The other students were either adults, or teenagers who’d failed to make the grade for A-Level courses at school, so she didn’t feel as outclassed as she’d been by the few high-flyers at St Clare’s.