The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Cass? Cass! Please talk to me. Please say something.’ Mum’s voice was small, almost childlike, and I was filled with unreasoning rage. How could she do this to me; to us? What could she have been thinking of? I could imagine — just — a scenario in which I might have to confess an unwanted pregnancy to my mother, but I had never in my wildest dreams imagined that it could be the other way round. It was all wrong. She was the adult. She was the one who was meant to be sensible and responsible, and although I knew only too well that I couldn’t always rely on Mum to be either of these, she was still my mother.

  ‘How?’ My voice came out in a strangled croak, and I held on to the window sill, concentrating my gaze on the lawn outside, where Lucas was playing with The Dog.

  ‘Well, the usual way, I assume.’ Mum gave a little laugh.

  I rounded on her. ‘How can you? How can you laugh at a time like this?’

  ‘No. You’re right. It’s not funny. I’m sorry.’ She looked down, her fingers plucking at the counterpane. ‘But it’s not the end of the world, Cass. It might even be — fun.’

  ‘Fun? You call this fun? You announce that you’re pregnant, and you think it’s going to be fun? You’ve got no husband, in case you haven’t noticed, and Lucas and I haven’t even got fathers. Has this — this baby got a father?’

  ‘Well, of course it had a father —’

  ‘Had.’

  ‘Well, yes. I mean —’

  ‘I know what you mean. You mean this poor little sod won’t know its father either!’

  ‘Language, Cass!’

  ‘Language? You talk to me about language? Mum, how can you expect me to show you any respect if you — if you go around behaving like this. At your age, too. It’s — it’s disgusting!’

  ‘I didn’t go around behaving like anything. And I’m not even forty yet, Cass. I’m not — old.’ Her voice was a whisper now, and there were tears on her cheeks.

  ‘Old enough to know better, though.’ I had the upper hand now, and the feeling was not unpleasant.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But I hoped you’d understand.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I’m not meant to understand. I don’t even want to understand. I just — I just want things to be the way they were!’

  ‘So do I. Believe me, so do I.’ Mum looked up at me. ‘Cass, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean this to happen.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you meant Lucas to happen, or me to happen. We’re all your — your little mistakes, aren’t we?’ I said bitterly. ‘After all your little talks about birth control, too.’

  ‘Well, you needed to know.’

  ‘No. We didn’t. You’re the one who needs to know, and look at you!’ I moved away from the window and came towards her. She looked small and vulnerable and beautiful, and at that moment, I hated her. ‘This isn’t just your life we’re talking about. It’s mine and Lucas’s and — everyone else’s. This is going to ruin everything.’

  ‘We’ll be OK, Cass. We’ve always been OK. We’ll get by. And I’ve never looked upon you and Lucas as mistakes. You might not have been — well — planned exactly, but you’re the best things that ever happened to me. I can’t imagine life without either of you. And this baby will be special too. We’ll make it special.’

  ‘We?’

  I was in no mood to extend a welcome to my unborn sibling or to have any involvement in this situation. Unmarried mothers still carried a stigma, and while Mum had managed to shrug hers off so effortlessly that we were barely aware of it, I knew that people talked about us. It seemed to me that just as everyone had got used to the fact that there was no father in our household, Mum was going out of her way to remind them.

  ‘Cass, of course you’re upset. I understand that. But there’s nothing more I can say or do.’ She hesitated. ‘Except, I suppose, get rid of it.’

  ‘What?’ Even I had heard unsavoury tales of gin and hot baths and women in dingy parlours armed with knitting needles. In those days before the 1967 Abortion Act, it was often the only resort for women who didn’t have a very good medical reason to get rid of their unwanted babies.

  ‘Well, I could. People do. I could — find someone to do it.’

  The words hung in the air between us, serving only to fuel my anger. For with that clever little twist, Mum had somehow managed to shift her problem from herself onto me, and it felt as though she was asking me to make the decision for her; as though she was telling me that if I wanted her to get rid of her baby, she would.

  ‘You can’t ask me to do this!’ I yelled at her.

  ‘Do what? I haven’t asked you to do anything!’

  ‘Yes, you have. But I won’t. I won’t! This is your baby and your decision. Leave me out of it!’

  ‘But Cass —’

  ‘No. No more. There’s nothing more to say. You got yourself into this mess, and now you’ve got to sort it out. I’ve got my own life to lead.’ And I rushed from her room, slamming the door behind me.

  ‘What on earth was that all about?’ Lucas met me on the landing. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘No. Not me. Mum.’ I wiped my streaming eyes and leant against the bannisters. ‘But I’m not supposed to tell you,’ I added, remembering my earlier promise.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to now,’ Lucas said reasonably. ‘You can’t not tell me after all that racket you two have been making.’

  ‘Well —’ after all, what had Mum done to deserve my loyalty? — ‘you and I are going to have a new little brother or sister. Isn’t that nice?’ I paused, enjoying in spite of myself that frisson of excitement which comes with being the bearer of bad news.

  ‘You’re joking!’ Lucas’s expression had changed from curiosity to horror.

  ‘Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Cass?’

  ‘Well, that’s what she’s told me.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I thought she was past all that sort of thing. Well, the baby bit, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. She seems to think she’s still a spring chicken. I told her it was disgusting.’

  ‘That was a bit harsh.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It is disgusting to go around flaunting yourself the way Mum does, and getting into trouble like this. Some example she is!’

  ‘Oh, Cass, you know Mum. She’ll never change. That’s the way she is.’ Lucas sounded suddenly very weary and very grown up and it infuriated me.

  ‘You mean you’re happy to let her go on making dear little babies until — until she can’t any more? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just mean that this is — must have been — a mistake, a one-off, and I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it.’

  We. That word again. Well, Lucas could join in this new cosy little game of happy families if he wanted to, but I certainly wasn’t going to have anything to do with it. Hitherto, I had been dreading leaving home and going back to school, but now it offered a welcome escape. At least no one could ask me for help or advice if I wasn’t here. At least at school I would have the security of being treated as the child that I still was, and not a cross between a best friend and an agony aunt to my feckless mother.

  ‘Well, you do as you like, Lucas,’ I said. ‘You can see her through this — this crisis, happy event, however she likes to think of it. I’m off again in a week.’

  ‘You mean you’re still going back to school?’ Lucas sounded shocked. ‘Even after this?’

  ‘You try stopping me.’

  ‘Leaving me to — to deal with this?’

  ‘No, Lucas. No! Leaving Mum to deal with this. This is her problem. We’ve got to let her sort it out herself. I’m sorry to be leaving you, I really am, but you don’t have to be her nursemaid. You’ve just got to get on with your life, like me. She managed having you and me without any help. She’s told us enough times. I’m sure Greta will make a wonderful nanny. A
fter all, she doesn’t seem to have anything else to do.’

  ‘Does Greta know?’

  ‘No one knows. Yet. But presumably they’ll have to sooner or later.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Lucas sat on the top stair and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Quite.’

  I knew I was being hard, but it was the only way I could distance myself from the situation, for I knew that once I allowed myself to sit down and really think about it, I’d feel compelled to stay at home and help. To be fair, Mum hadn’t suggested that I should, and it was unlikely that she would ask me to make any kind of sacrifice for her. Mum rarely actually asked for help; she simply made everyone aware of her problems, and sooner or later someone would offer whatever support was needed. There was a fragility about Mum which was hard to resist, but I was beginning to see through it. I know she never intended to trap or deceive any of us — in fact I’m sure that nothing was further from her thoughts — but her very neediness did it for her, and even if she wasn’t aware of it, it was a powerful tool in getting her what she wanted.

  ‘Lucky you.’

  Lucas sounded bleak, and I felt genuinely sorry for him. Poor Lucas. He was just finding his way out of childhood into the heady world of girls and the right kind of jeans and consideration of his future career, and Mum, albeit unwittingly, had neatly plunged him into a situation which was bound to be a rich source of anxiety and embarrassment.

  Once more, I was overwhelmed with anger, for whatever I might say, however brave and independent I might sound, I knew that fate had taken yet another cruel twist, and that life at home would never be the same again.

  Twelve

  ‘Octavia, I think. Octavia Fitzpatrick. How does that strike you, Cass?’ Mum was driving me back to school in the borrowed van for the beginning of the new term. Once again, my trunk was making its unstable presence known in the back, but at least The Dog had been granted a reprieve, because I absolutely refused to take him with us. I myself had little choice if Mum chose to subject me to this ordeal, but there was no need to inflict it on a helpless animal. Besides, his yelpings didn’t help Mum’s concentration, and on this occasion I badly needed her to concentrate.

  ‘What do you mean, “Octavia”? What are you talking about?’ I held on to my seat and closed my eyes as we rounded a sharp bend in the road.

  ‘The baby. If it’s a girl. I think Octavia’s rather nice.’

  ‘Octavia’s a ridiculous name.’ I was in no mood to discuss names.

  ‘It’s a very old name. A classical name. I think it’s rather nice.’

  ‘It’s inappropriate,’ I countered. ‘It means “eighth”. You have to have had seven children before you can have an Octavia.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Cass. Of course you don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Anyone can see you didn’t do Latin at school.’ Latin was one of my best subjects. ‘In any case, isn’t it time someone in our family had a normal name?’

  ‘Lucas, Cassandra and Octavia,’ Mum mused, ignoring me. ‘I think they go together rather well.’

  ‘Mum, we’re not going to be travelling around together for the rest of our lives. We’re not a circus troupe.’

  ‘It would look good on Christmas cards,’ Mum continued, undeterred. ‘I’m not so good on boys’ names, though. Have you any ideas, Cass?’

  ‘I wish you’d just concentrate on looking where you’re going.’

  ‘Oh, Cass. What’s happened to you? You used to be such fun.’

  Mum may well have had a point. I still had the eerie feeling that as I grew older, she was becoming inexorably younger; while I was being asked to grow up and face my responsibilities, my mother was contriving to turn a blind eye to hers. If we continued like this, I thought, as we swerved round another corner, we might eventually pass each other; she tottering happily back towards childhood and I struggling to make my way in the world of grown-ups.

  ‘Nappies,’ Mum said, as we lurched into a lower gear. ‘I got rid of all the nappies. Damn. I shall have to buy new ones.’

  ‘Mum.’ I took a deep breath. ‘This is our last day together. Would you please, please, stop talking about babies!’

  ‘Sorry, love. So. What would you like to talk about?’

  Of course, I couldn’t think of anything. Besides, I knew that whatever subject I might choose, I would be wasting my breath, for now that she had recovered from the initial shock, Mum was showing all the excitement and wonder which might have been expected of a first-time mother, and she seemed incapable of talking about anything else. Her thoughts were filled with cots and pushchairs, with the redecorating of the tiny box room (‘Pink or blue, Cass? Or would yellow be safer?’) and with the prospect of labour (‘I know it hurt, but I can’t remember how much’).

  Her mood might have been more muted if the reaction of the rest of the household had been less enthusiastic, but by the time she told them her news — several days after her traumatic revelation to me — she appeared to have made a miraculous recovery from the subdued and emotional state in which I had initially found her, and her excitement was so infectious that she soon had everyone thinking what a brilliant idea it all was. I almost expected them to ask why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  ‘A little baby,’ whispered Greta tearfully. ‘Iss wonderful, no? I look after? I help, yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Greta! That would be perfect!’

  Call Me Bill, although initially shocked (Lucas and I privately suspected that Call Me Bill was sexually uninitiated, and likely to remain so), soon came round to the idea, even going so far as to say that a baby in the house would ‘help to keep us all young’. Richard accepted the news with equanimity, and a visiting ex-Lodger — an ageing professor with a pronounced squint which had terrified me when I was younger — was fulsome with his congratulations. As for the neighbours, while they no doubt made the most of this nice little morsel of gossip, outwardly they appeared unfazed. One couple even made a coy appearance, bearing a little packet of bibs and a bunch of flowers, and I distinctly overheard snatches of conversation including such encouraging snippets as ‘think you’re amazing’ and ‘coping on your own ... so brave’.

  Lucas and I looked at each other. It was as we had anticipated. Once again, Mum had everyone on side, leaving us to struggle with any fallout.

  I agreed with Lucas that, before I returned to school for the new term, we should at least attempt to establish the paternity of our new sibling. We had to accept that any trail leading us to discover the identities of our own fathers had long since gone cold, but we thought it unlikely that even Mum could have forgotten so recent an encounter as that which had resulted in her present condition.

  After some difficulty finding her on her own (I suspected she had been avoiding us), we finally ran her to ground in her bedroom, sorting out socks.

  ‘Mum. We need to talk to you.’ I closed the door carefully behind us.

  ‘Oh dear! You both look very serious.’ Mum laughed, but she looked uneasy.

  ‘Yes. We’ll come straight to the point.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Well, we — that is Lucas and I — we —’

  ‘Who’s this baby’s father?’ demanded Lucas, never one to beat about the bush. ‘We want to know, and the baby will certainly want to know. You owe it to us.’

  ‘Do I?’ Mum absently paired a blue sock with a grey one and rolled them in a neat ball.

  ‘Yes. You do. After all this — this disturbance, you certainly owe us something.’

  ‘Aren’t I allowed a bit of privacy? I don’t ask you personal questions, Lucas.’ Another pair of mismatched socks. ‘I don’t know what gives you the right to ask me this.’

  ‘What about the baby’s rights? Doesn’t it have a right to know its father?’ I interrupted.

  Mum sighed. ‘All right. I’ll tell you. But you’re not to tell anyone else. Is that understood?’

  We nodded.

  ‘And you’re not going to like this.’<
br />
  No surprises there, then.

  ‘Well —’ Mum abandoned the socks and sat down on the bed — ‘it was — it was someone I met at a party.’

  ‘Someone you met at a party,’ echoed Lucas.

  ‘And,’ Mum continued, ‘before you ask, no, I don’t know who he was. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. He was having a few problems and I — well, I cheered him up. I think he may have had a beard.’ The last sentence she added as though this might somehow make it sound better.

  ‘If you had time to find out about his problems and — cheer him up, you must know something about him.’ Lucas sounded exasperated.

  ‘It was very dark. We’d had a lot to drink.’ Mum paused. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It sounds awful, put like that, but that’s the way it was.’

  ‘But — but someone must know who he was. There can’t have been that number of men drifting around in the dark with beards and problems!’ I said.

  ‘There were a lot of people, we’d all been drinking. He and I fell asleep on the sofa, and by the time I woke up, he’d gone. He might even have been a gatecrasher.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. How could you?’

  ‘I was lonely, Cass. Lonely. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been really lonely, have you? I don’t expect you to understand. One day,’ she continued, ‘one day, you may understand, and you may even forgive me. I didn’t mean it to happen, and I certainly didn’t mean to — to get like this, but I’m going to make the best of it. I didn’t want it, I certainly didn’t plan it, but now it’s happened I really am looking forward to it. It’ll — well, it’ll give me a purpose. For when you two have left home. I’ll have something — someone — to live for.’

  I felt totally bewildered. Couldn’t Mum see that Lucas and I would always love her and need her? That her life wouldn’t come to an end simply because we’d left home (in fact, sometimes our house was so full, I used to wonder whether she would even notice our absence)? Evidently not. Mum’s need to be needed was such that a third illegitimate child obviously offered an unexpected lifeline, for even if our house were suddenly to empty itself of all its waifs and strays, a baby, Mum’s baby, would still be there. She had guaranteed herself another eighteen years’ companionship (or so she seemed to think); a further eighteen years of being at the centre of another person’s life. Little wonder, then, that she was so excited.