“No.” Alice picked up her handbag. “We’ll go now and leave you in peace. You’ve had quite a day, and I expect you’re ready for your bed. Will you be all right, Mavis?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.”
But when they had gone, Mavis didn’t feel fine at all. All the euphoria induced by the wine and the company dwindled away, and a great wave of loneliness swept over her. Of course there wouldn’t be any travelling, any ‘gap year’. It was all a silly dream. In fact, now that this year was over, she doubted whether Alice and Gabs would want to keep in touch with her anymore. In the meantime, she would have to grovel to Mr. Strong to keep him sweet, and she would work among the socks and ties until it was time for her to retire.
What had she to look forward to? As she brushed her teeth and put on her sensible brushed cotton nightdress, Mavis contemplated a bleak future: a future without Maudie, without Clifford (and in a way, even now, Clifford might be better than nothing), and with few friends. She found that she even missed Pussolini. At least he had been there; he had been a living presence — albeit a malevolent one — in the house. But she wouldn’t get another cat. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to become that cliché: the lonely old woman with a cat. A dog, perhaps? Mavis knew nothing about dogs, but she didn’t fancy having to pick up their nasty little doings and take them home in a plastic bag. At least Pussolini had had the decency to bury his in the garden.
When Mavis checked her mobile, she found there was a message from Clifford. For a moment, she hesitated. It wasn’t too late to go back. Clifford hadn’t expected her to keep her threat, so she could back down without losing face. But then she was reminded once again of Clifford’s recent lack of consideration, his self-obsession, his unkindness; and she deleted the message without even reading it.
The next morning, Mavis awoke with a splitting headache. As she cleared away empty cups and glasses, the curled remains of ham sandwiches, and the empty wine bottles (had they really drunk all that?), she tried to push away the tide of gloom that kept threatening to envelop her. She must pull herself together. It was the day after her mother’s funeral; of course she was miserable. How did she expect to feel?
It was nearly lunchtime when Gabs and Alice arrived in a taxi. They seemed very excited and were carrying a pile of maps and brochures.
“We’ve come to cheer you up,” Gabs announced, dumping her burden on the table. “We’ve come to make plans.”
“What plans?” Mavis asked, wondering whether she should put the kettle on.
“Gap year plans.”
Hazy memories of the last night’s conversation began to surface in Mavis’s aching brain. “Oh,” she said.
“You’re going to love this, Mavis,” Gabs continued. “We’ve been working it all out. It’ll be expensive, but if you can manage it, so can we. Have a look here.” She opened out a map. “We can either fly direct to, say, Australia, and then make our way back. Or we can get the Eurostar and then travel by train across Europe.” Gabs’ finger (black nail polish) moved rapidly eastward across the map. “Then there’s this train we can take down through Yugoslavia, and if we cross to Turkey here, we can —”
“Hang on a minute, Gabs,” Alice said. “Let the poor woman get her head round the idea. Could we have some coffee, Mavis?”
An hour and several cups of strong coffee later, the plan was taking shape, and even Mavis was becoming excited. They would have to wait until after Finn’s exams, of course, but then they really could take off for six months.
“It sounds almost too good to be true,” Mavis said. “But it’s going to be awfully expensive.”
“We’ve thought of that,” Gabs said.
“Yes.” Alice put down her coffee cup. “I’ve been putting money aside for Finn if he goes to university, but as he seems determined not to, I thought I might spend some of it on myself. I might even persuade my newspaper to pay me to write about it, although I doubt whether they’ll pay my expenses. They could decide to get rid of me altogether, but I can always do some freelancing when I get back.”
“I’m okay for money,” Gabs said, “so there’s just you, Mavis. Do you think you could manage it?”
“Well…” Mavis thought for a few minutes. “Mother did have a few thousand in her building society account, and I have some savings. But it seems a bit — well, frivolous to spend it on a holiday.”
“It’s not a holiday. It’s an experience,” Gabs said. “And knowing Maudie, I’m sure she would have been delighted for you to do this. It’s an adventure, Mavis. It’ll be fun. When did you last have fun?”
Now that she came to think about it, Mavis realised that fun wasn’t something that had played much part in her life. Certainly she had had fun as a girl, but not as much as most of her friends, to whom fun tended to mean boys and parties. Mavis hadn’t been very successful with either boys or parties. When she had first got together with Clifford, they had certainly had fun; they had had secret picnics and small intimate celebrations, and they had laughed a lot. But since his retirement, Clifford had become increasingly serious and had shown little interest in anything that might be construed as fun, not least because, as he frequently explained, he was unwilling to do anything to compromise his health. Fun, it would seem, carried risks that he was not prepared to take (although Mavis was unsure as to what those risks might be).
Now, she looked at Gabs and Alice — at their anxious, expectant faces, at the maps and the leaflets and the sheets of notes in Gabs’ untidy handwriting — and she knew what her answer would be. How could it be anything else?
“All right. I’ll do it,” she said, feeling very brave and not a little reckless.
The other two breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, that’s great!” Gabs hugged her. “You won’t regret it.”
“In that case, we ought to drink a toast,” Alice said.
“Yes! A toast!” said Gabs.
“Haven’t we all had enough?” Mavis was still nursing her headache.
“Just a tiny one.” Alice found the dregs of a bottle of wine and divided it between three glasses.
“To our gap year!” she said.
The others clinked their glasses.
“To our gap year!”
Epilogue: A Year Later
On a bright August afternoon, the bishop had conducted a service to bless the new font in Father Cuthbert’s church, and the two men were enjoying tea and cake in the presbytery garden.
“What happened to that little group of yours, Father?” the bishop enquired. “The… er…”
“Basic Theology Class?” Father Cuthbert suggested.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Basic Theology.” The bishop chuckled. “There were one or two rather intransigent members, as I recall.”
“Well, it’s odd that you should mention it, Your Grace, because I received a postcard yesterday morning.”
“A postcard?”
“Yes. I have it with me.” Father Cuthbert fumbled in his pocket and brought out a crumpled picture postcard showing a foreign-looking shepherd herding three sheep through a gateway. The bishop turned the postcard over. The card bore an Israeli postmark, and the message simply said: “Three lost sheep returning to the fold,” followed by three scrawled signatures.
“I wonder what it means,” Father Cuthbert said.
“Oh, that’s quite clear, Father,” said the bishop with a smile. “Your three — lost sheep have seen the light, and it looks as though they are paying a visit to the Holy Land. A little pilgrimage, you might say. How satisfactory. Well done, Father. Well done!”
Father Cuthbert cast his mind back and recalled the faces of Gabs, Alice, and Mavis. Had these three women really repented? Could it be true? Being a realist, he had his doubts, but he decided that on this occasion it would be best if he kept them to himself.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you very much,” he said. “Another cup of tea?”
BOOK THREE: RUTH ROBINSON’S YEAR OF MIRACLES
&n
bsp; Prologue
My Uncle Eric is telephoning the zoo to ask how many Thomson’s gazelles a lion can eat in a fortnight.
Uncle Silas is stuffing a weasel on the kitchen table by candlelight (we have a power cut).
A respectful knock at the front door heralds the arrival of yet another minibus full of pilgrims hoping for a miracle.
Outside it is raining — a typical, nasty, dank November drizzle — and a piglet is trying to get in through the cat flap.
In the midst of all this, I am trying to cobble together something for our supper (the weasel is being prepared for posterity rather than for consumption).
I pause to take stock.
Six months ago, I had a regular job, a monthly salary and a comfortable flat to go home to.
How on earth have I got into all this?
Part I: Summer
In the first three months following conception, the embryo develops from a single cell into a tiny recognisable human being. By the end of that time, it will measure up to 10cms in length and weigh about one ounce. Its head is almost half the size of its entire body, it has begun to move independently, and it will have fingernails and toenails. All its major organs will be in place.
Chapter One
Many women the wrong side of thirty-five seem to want a baby but not necessarily a man. I am on the wrong side of thirty-five, and all I ever wanted was the man. But it seems that I have got the baby instead.
I sit on the lavatory and cry. How many other women all over the country are also at this moment sitting on the lavatory and crying, either because they are pregnant or because they are not? The pregnancy testing kit is uncompromisingly positive. Good news, it seems to say. You’re going to have a baby!
But I don’t want a baby, I sob. I never wanted a baby. I don’t even like babies! And I’ve always been so careful. Besides, aren’t I supposed to be past my child-bearing best? There seems to be a proliferation of articles and programmes about the ticking of body clocks and the folly of women who Leave It Too Late. My body clock has kept a tactful silence for as long as I can remember, and apart from the monthly (and expected) reminder that I am not pregnant — that one more disappointed egg has gone unfertilised to its tiny grave — I have never given it a thought. But I have made one slip; one tiny slip; and now this. A cruel reminder that behind every sexual act between fertile couples of opposite sexes there lurks a baby waiting to be conceived.
I flush away the evidence and wipe my eyes. Maybe the test is wrong. They can be wrong sometimes. And I don’t feel pregnant. My stomach is still washboard flat, my breasts small and firm, and I don’t feel in the least bit sick. How can a silly little strip of paper be right when my body (not to mention my head) is in denial?
But I am not stupid. I know how these things work. And my oh-so-reliable period is a week late. Barring accident or interference, I am going to have a baby.
It couldn’t have come at a worse time. The orchestra in which I play the violin has recently had to make cuts, and as a lesser player in one of the back desks, I have been ‘let go’, as they kindly put it. This was a blow indeed, although not entirely unexpected, and to cheer myself up, I planned to award myself a belated gap year on the strength of a small legacy from my grandmother. And why not? I have no responsibilities, my mortgage is small and my life my own. My good friend Mikey — solid, dependable and reassuringly gay — was going to accompany me. We were going to scuba dive in the Red Sea, trek at the foot of the Himalayas and visit Petra. We had it all worked out. My small bedroom is littered with atlases and brochures, phrase books and useful telephone numbers. I was going to let my flat (the contract is already signed; a nice young Norwegian couple would look after it and feed the cat as well) and go off with a rucksack and my violin on my back (Mikey took issue with the violin, but as I explained, I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without it. I could always lock it up in a safe somewhere if we did anything really exotic). I was going to be free from the constraints and expectations of the world of work. I was going to have an adventure.
I spend a sleepless night worrying about my new and unwelcome condition. I know life isn’t fair, and I’ve never expected it to be, but do I really deserve this? I’ve always tried to be responsible, such relationships as I have had have nearly all been long term and monogamous, and I have always practised safe sex. Except this once. Just the once.
His name is Amos (his parents, like mine, are religious) and he is an old friend; a big bearded trombonist with hands like shovels and arms made to hug. I needed a hug — so, it seemed, did he — and this is the result.
Do I tell Amos? Over my second cup of Horlicks, I ponder the question, and decide that I shall not. Amos has his own problems; he has endured a recent and very messy divorce, and he too has lost his job (violinists are not the only ones getting the push). Besides, I know that whatever happens this will tie me to Amos, and I’m not sure this is something either of us will want. This is my pregnancy; my problem. Especially since I told Amos that I was on the pill (by that stage we were in a state of reckless undress, and lying seemed a much easier option than waiting for Amos to ‘pop to the chemist’, as he had kindly offered to do).
By four fifty-three am, having worked my way through the prospect of keeping the baby and, fleetingly, the possibility of having it adopted, I consider taking advantage of the Woman’s Right to Choose. It is not something I have ever given much thought to since I never expected to find myself in this position, but now it seems the least unattractive of my alternatives. I sit up in bed and switch the light on. Yes! I am a woman, and I shall choose. My gap year isn’t lost; it’s merely postponed. I feel faint stirrings of hope, thinking with satisfaction that with a bit of luck they are the only stirrings I am going to feel, for I shall have an abortion. After all, it’s a small procedure at this stage, neither I nor my unborn child will feel a thing, and in a week or so I will be back to normal. Fortunately, Mikey and I were leaving it until the last minute to book our tickets (Mikey likes nothing better than a bargain), so I can allow myself a little leeway. I’m sure the Norwegians can make alternative arrangements for a couple of weeks, and then everything will be back on track.
A week later, having persuaded two doctors that this unwanted pregnancy will seriously compromise my sanity, I am sitting in the waiting-room of the clean, clinical building where I shall be divested of my little problem. I decided to go to a private clinic because they could see me at once, and I thought I would be unlikely to bump into anyone I know. My gap year fund is shrinking by the minute, but I have some savings which will help. Mikey (who had to be told, for obvious reasons) has insisted on coming with me. Mikey is being unusually silent.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask him, thinking that really it should be the other way round. ‘You’re being very quiet.’
‘I feel quiet.’ Mikey turns the pages of a glossy magazine.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ He examines the price of a very expensive country mansion, and whistles through his teeth.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘You’re behaving like a woman,’ I tell him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s what women do. They say nothing’s wrong when it is, and then get cross if no-one tries to get to the bottom of the problem.’
‘Okay.’ Mikey puts down his magazine. ‘I don’t think you should be doing this.’
‘Doing what?’
‘The abortion.’
‘Now you tell me! Anyway, it’s not your baby, so it’s none of your business.’
‘It is my business. You’ve made it my business.’
‘No I haven’t!’
‘Yes you have.’
A passing nurse gives us as funny look, and it occurs to me that of course she assumes that Mikey is the baby’s father.
‘You insisted on coming with me. I didn’t make you. I didn’t even ask you.’
‘You had to have someone.�
�
‘No I didn’t!’
‘Yes you did. No-one should go through something like this alone.’
‘So you accept that I’m going through with it?’
‘I know you mean to. But Ruth, have you really considered what you’re doing?’
‘Of course I have.’ This is not entirely true. I have tried hard to push the whole baby thing to the back of my mind and look upon this in the same way as I would a visit to the dentist.
Mikey reaches into his pocket and takes out a small booklet. On the cover is a joyously pregnant woman, her hands smugly clasped round her bump. Inside are graphic illustrations of foetal development.
‘Look at this.’ He jabs a finger at a picture of a seven-week foetus. ‘Eyes and little arms, and a heart.’
‘So?’ The foetus looks like a cross between a seahorse and a new-born rabbit.
‘So, it’s a human being.’
‘Hardly.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Mikey sighs. ‘It has all the potential to be a person. It could be a brain surgeon or a nuclear physicist or —’
‘A chimney sweep?’
‘That too.’
‘Mikey, I can’t. Apart from anything else, I can’t let you down. We fly in a fortnight —’
‘Not necessarily. And anyway, a baby is more important than cavorting around the world with me.’
‘Mikey, please. This is hard enough as it is.’
‘Is it?’
I hesitate. If I’m honest, this hasn’t been hard at all. Apart from when I found out, I’ve been in very successful denial. It annoys me that Mikey is disturbing my comfort zone and putting unwelcome thoughts into my head.
Mikey wheels out his trump card.
‘I would give anything — anything — to be a father,’ he says. ‘But I never shall be.’
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 59
