‘I thought I’d go off on the boat again for the weekend,’ said Bard to Francesca on Saturday morning. ‘Just sail along the coast a bit. Unless you want me to be here.’
The meaning was very plain. She looked at him and said, ‘No. No, that’s fine. I might go and see your mother. I haven’t seen her for ages.’
He looked at her, uneasy suddenly. ‘Francesca, I hope – ’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bard,’ she said, her voice low with distaste, ‘what do you take me for? Just go off on your boat and leave me alone.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll be back tomorrow night, then.’
‘Fine’.
He left without another word, without even the briefest embrace. She watched him leave, still feeling absolutely nothing. She wondered when it was going to end, the nothingness. Perhaps it never would.
‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ said Tory tenderly.
She had arrived at Kirsten’s flat that morning to find her glassy-pale and tear-streaked; shortly afterwards she disappeared into the lavatory. Tory could hear her vomiting. When she came out she sat down, smiled at Tory sheepishly. And Tory asked the question.
‘Yup. ’Fraid so.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘Tory, I don’t want to talk about that. And I don’t want you making any wild guesses either, OK?’
‘All right, I won’t. Does he know?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten briefly.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I suppose have an abortion – oh, I don’t know. Oh God, Tory, how could I have done it again?’
‘Kirsten, I – look, how far gone is it?’
‘About – about seven, eight weeks. Not that far.’
‘Are you quite quite sure? That means only one period, it can’t be that definite – ’
‘Yes, I’ve had tests done. But anyway, I know, I’ve been through it enough. I keep being sick, my boobs hurt, I keep crying.’
‘It’s not – Toby’s, is it?’
‘No it isn’t Toby’s. Look Tory, I said I didn’t want to talk about that. Just tell me what you think I ought to do. Please.’
‘Kirsten, I don’t see how you can possibly have it. But I do think you ought to tell him. Whoever he is.’
‘I can’t,’ said Kirsten wretchedly, tearing at her handkerchief. She saw Tory looking at it, stuffed it hastily up her sleeve. ‘I just can’t. It would be the most awful thing to do.’
‘Some people would think it was awful not to,’ said Tory.
‘I know. But this is so complicated. You couldn’t begin to understand. But I just don’t know that I can face another abortion. I really don’t.’
‘Well, look. You have a bit of time. Don’t rush into it. Talk to – ’
‘Yes? Who do I bloody talk to, Tory? Who do other girls talk to in this situation? Their mothers? Fat lot of good mine would be. Their best friend? You and Barnaby are my best friends. Oh shit, Tory, it’s not fair, why do I have to be so fucking fertile?’
‘She is pregnant,’ said Tory to Barnaby on the phone much later that day, having left Kirsten asleep on the sofa. ‘She told me herself. She’s in a terrible state.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tory slowly, ‘she won’t tell me. Says we’re not even to try and guess. But I do think it’s Oliver’s, honestly. She was using a handkerchief of his this evening, it had his intials on it and when she saw me looking she stuffed it up her sleeve. But she made me promise not to tell him. Well – not him. Whoever it was.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Barnaby, ‘self-righteous little turd – ’
‘Barney, you’re not to. Absolutely not to. It would be a terrible thing to do. Promise, promise me you won’t.’
‘Yeah all right, all right, calm down. What do you think she’s going to do?’
‘She doesn’t know what to do. You know how screwed up she gets each time she has an abortion. I wish I could think of someone sensible to talk to about it. I mean it’s no good talking to Mum – ’
‘’Fraid not. Well, we’d better keep an eye on her. Poor old Kirsten. Bloody shame.’
‘I’m just worried,’ said Rachel, ‘about Mary living in London. I don’t know how she’s going to take to it. What she’ll do.’
‘No, she’s very much a country girl, I’m afraid. But – ’
‘She has to leave you, does she? I mean, she’s one of the prime candidates?’
‘She doesn’t have to, no. But as I said, a third of them will have to go, and I’m afraid there are many others who have no families, no homes to go to. I have to keep them.’
‘What about alternative homes?’
‘Well, there are none in the area. In the immediate area, that is. The nearest alternatives, and the most like ourselves, are the Dunlop Trust communities; there are several of them. Mostly full, with long waiting lists. It could mean going into somewhere much less suitable, for a time, while they waited. For some, Peggy for instance, I fear it might even be a nursing home.’
‘A nursing home? But they’re full of old people. Peggy’s only – what, in her forties?’
‘I know that, Rachel. But she is quite helpless, she is doubly incontinent, she wanders unless she is watched all the time …’
‘But surely, then, she should stay here.’
‘Of course she should. But not everyone can stay here. I have to make some very difficult decisions. And I thought for Mary at least, it would not be so hard.’
‘No,’ said Rachel, ‘no, of course not. Er — might it be a nursing home for her? If – well, if she didn’t have a family?’
‘Hopefully not. But you see all the better places – and many of them are not nearly as good as ours – have waiting lists. I mean, there is a place in Taunton I’ve been talking to. It’s not so bad. Go and have a look at it, if you like. You can borrow my car.’
Rachel went. She was appalled. The residents were kindly treated, but the place was in the centre of the town, there was nothing to do but walk endlessly round the shops and the small parks, and no activities apart from housework and weeding the patch of garden. There was a sewing room, but it was largely unoccupied, a few books in the dining room, and the cooks discouraged patient-participation, as they called it. Long hours were spent by most of the residents watching the television, which blared incessantly, horribly loud. She drove back, deeply upset, went and found Mary who was painstakingly sticking labels onto jars of honey.
‘Mary darling, what would you think about coming to live with me?’
Mary smiled at her sweetly. ‘Have you got bees?’ she said. ‘Bees made this honey, our bees.’
Francesca was drinking some rather nice white wine and watching television when Barnaby came in. It was a classic Saturday evening documentary on BBC2, about a tribe in West Africa, principally designed, as far as she could see, to make the people watching it feel they were in some way superior to the people watching the game shows on BBC1 and ITV and the soap opera on Channel 4. She looked rather doubtfully at Barnaby; she was very fond of him, and he made her laugh, but he was also very demanding and demands required resources. And she had no resources left, none at all.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘is everything all right?’
‘Yes, of course it’s all right,’ she said, knowing why he had asked, knowing she and Bard were scarcely speaking to one another, unable to acknowledge the fact even.
‘Good. I just wondered. Um – Francesca, can I talk to you? About something?’
‘Oh, Barnaby, not now. I’m sorry. I’m terribly tired.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and for a moment he looked just like Jack, crestfallen and totally dejected. ‘Oh well, never mind. Doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again (telling herself how easily he could turn on such performances, that it was quite possibly only a rejected cash card, a request for a loan for the evening), ‘maybe another time,’ and then promptly f
elt filled with remorse. What was the point of her struggling to make some kind of responsible, thoughtful decision for her family, and then turning her back on one of her favourite members of it? She patted the sofa beside her, smiling up at him.
‘All right – come on,’ she said. ‘Tell your wicked stepmother.’ (And oh, God, if only he knew how wicked.) ‘What have you done?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said, sitting down, crossing his long legs in their ripped jeans, ‘it’s Kirsten.’
‘Oh Barnaby. What’s happened to her now?’
‘Nothing. Well – oh God. This is really hard.’
‘Barnaby, come on! It isn’t like you to be so lost for words. Here, have a glass of wine, maybe that’ll help.’
‘I’m not sure I should be telling you at all. But Tory said if only we had someone sensible to talk to – ’
‘Tory!’ said Francesca. ‘Is she involved as well?’
‘Only – only indirectly,’ said Barnaby carefully, taking the glass.
‘Go on.’
‘Like I said, we wanted someone sensible to talk to. And we – well, I – thought of you.’
‘I’m very flattered. Now tell me what it is. Come on, drink your wine.’
‘Thanks. The thing is, Francesca – and this is terribly confidential and you’re not to say anything to her. Promise?’
‘I very seldom get a chance to say anything to Kirsten,’ said Francesca, ‘but yes, I promise.’
‘Yes, well, she’s – she’s pregnant. Kirsten’s pregnant.’
‘Oh Barnaby. Not again!’
‘That’s what everyone says. But yes, again.’
‘Oh God. Who’s the father?’
‘I don’t know. For sure. We think we do, me and Tory, but – ’
‘Well, let’s leave that for now. What does she want to do about it?’
‘She doesn’t know. The thing is, Francesca, I know she’s a bit of a nightmare, and I know she’s awful to you, but actually deep down she’s pretty vulnerable. And very mixed up.’
‘I buy the mixed up. I’m not so sure about vulnerable.’
‘Well anyway. She gets so upset when she has these abortions – ’
‘Barnaby, anyone would get upset when they had an abortion,’ said Francesca sternly. ‘Unless they had a heart of steel.’
‘Yes, I know, but really upset. I mean I was really worried about her last time, she was talking about taking an overdose – ’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. Tory and I stayed with her night and day for weeks. It’s the Catholic thing you see, she knows it’s murder and – ’
‘Well – ’ She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound critical, reactionary. ‘I can see why she should feel like that, and with the Catholic doctrine thrown in – ’
‘Exactly. She was put on anti-depressants by the doctor, everything. And now it’s happening again.’
‘Yes, Barnaby, I can see that. And I can see why you’re worried. But if she felt so terribly strongly about it, I can’t understand how she can have let it happen again. Getting pregnant. I mean it isn’t very difficult to avoid these days.’
‘I know, I know. But she’s – well, she really is terribly unlucky – ’
‘I’m afraid I don’t call that unlucky,’ said Francesca drily. ‘I call it careless.’
‘Yes, I know. And I can see why you’re not too terribly sympathetic, but – well, we really are so worried about her. And she hasn’t got anyone to go to, I mean Mum’s useless, but if you don’t feel you can help I’d understand, I mean I know she’s behaved really badly, of course – ’
‘Look,’ said Francesca, her mind entirely engaged now on this new crisis, her own briefly forgotten, ‘look Barnaby, let’s be a bit practical abut this. How pregnant is she?’
‘Oh, about six weeks. Seven weeks at the most.’
‘Right. So we do have time. And is she quite sure, had tests done and so on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what does she want to do herself?’
‘She doesn’t know. That’s the whole point. She can’t make any sort of sensible decision, because she’s so fu — screwed up. And there’s no-one to talk to. Only us, and her friends, and the priest of course, but he’ll just tell her to have it, or she’ll go to hell. Which she thinks she will anyway, because of the other two times.’
‘Yes, I do see.’ For the first time that she could remember, Francesca felt genuinely sorry for Kirsten. ‘But the trouble is, Barnaby, I don’t see how I can help. She hates me. It’s not just that she won’t want to talk to me about it. She wouldn’t talk to me about it.’
‘Well, that’s exactly why I’m talking to you,’ said Barnaby. The simple logic of this touched Francesca; she smiled at him.
‘OK. That’s sensible. Now who do you think the father is? It must be relevant. If it’s someone she’s really fond of, then she should talk to him. And anyway, he certainly has a right to know.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well, of course I do. It’s not just her baby.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘It’s not that brash Toby creature, is it? I really didn’t like him, the one time I met him.’
‘No. No it isn’t. She did say that. For definite.’
‘Is it someone she’s been having a steady relationship with? Because if so, then I would have thought, given all these psychological problems of hers, then keeping it, staying with him, is an option.’ Poor chap, she thought, whoever it is.
‘We’re not sure. How steady, I mean.’
‘Or is it some one-night-stand thing? Honestly, Barnaby, I can’t help her – help you – make a decision without some sort of knowledge. It’s crucial. Under the circumstances. So – first bit of advice. From a sensible person – ’ she smiled at him – ‘urge her to discuss it with the father. Whoever it is.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, OK. Thanks, Francesca. I knew you’d know what to do.’
‘I don’t really know what to do. And whatever differences Kirsten and I may have had, I do feel very sorry for her. I don’t know if you can convey that to her, tell her if she wants to talk to me she can, and I will really really not be in any way judgmental. But I’m afraid she won’t want to.’
‘OK. Thanks.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look terrible.’
‘Thanks, Barnaby. I’m fine.’
‘Good. Um – Francesca, you couldn’t lend me twenty quid, I s’pose? Just till Monday …’
She went to lunch with Jess next day; it was a mistake. She had thought, wrongly, that it would prove a distraction from her turmoil; and then she felt fiercely lonely, longing for Liam, dreading his call. As escape from the house seemed an answer, however temporary. In the event, Jess’s sharp eyes, and the sense of sternly honest virtue she exuded, were making her feel worse.
‘So why are the children down there?’ she said, ladling chicken casserole onto Francesca’s plate. ‘Eat that up, you look as if you need a decent meal.’
‘Oh – I thought it would be better for them. It’s so difficult at the moment. Everyone’s feeling the strain. And Jack’s so naughty, and Bard’s temper isn’t exactly long at the best of times … This is delicious, Granny Jess.’
‘Well, I can imagine how he’s behaving. But he’s a lot more patient with your two than he was with the others, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. We used to have the most terrible scenes with Barnaby and Kirsten. And Liam, of course. But then he was very, very difficult. And Isambard was under a lot of strain. Just after Marion died. Not that that excuses it, of course, I’m not saying it does. But at least I could understand it. There was a time, you know, when I took over, took Liam home with me for a while.’
‘Poor Liam,’ said Francesca, carefully casual, her heart, her senses thudding, beating sweetly painful at the simple fact of speaking his name. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘You do? Yes, well, he had a bad ti
me. It was very hard for him. The whole thing. It explains a lot – ’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, his behaviour ever since. His attitude to Pattie; his attitude to you to an extent, although there is less excuse for that. And I can’t say I greatly approve of the way he lives now, allows Naomi to keep him – ’
‘He can’t help that. Can he?’ Careful, Francesca; this is dangerous ground.
‘Of course he can help it. If a man can’t make a career work for him, he should find another one. He should have some pride.’
‘But the Bar is terribly tough. You need time, and luck, and – ’
‘That sounds like Liam talking to me,’ said Jess, looking at her rather sharply.
‘Well – we were talking about it, yes. Just one day when I went to visit him in hospital. You know.’
‘Yes, he told me you’d been to see him. That was very nice of you, Francesca. After the way he’s treated you all this time.’
‘Oh – we made it up a while ago. We’ve become quite good friends, I’m pleased to say. Talked quite a lot.’ She felt herself flush, moved her glass from one side of her plate to the other.
‘Francesca,’ said Jess suddenly. ‘Beware of Liam.’
‘Sorry?’ She was so surprised, she knocked the salt over.
‘He’s very charming, and I’m very fond of him. In spite of what I’ve just said. Throw a pinch of that over your shoulder, it’s unlucky to spill it. And I’m aware that yes, life has been hard on him, that Bard certainly has failed him. But he was born sorry for himself. And you’re very – persuadable, I’d say, and not very happy at the moment, and he’s extremely devious. Don’t forget that, will you?’
The Dilemma Page 59
