by Laura Wilson
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘It’s a bit late for “sorry”,’ Stratton snapped. ‘You’d better tell me,’ he continued, ‘what the hell has been going on.’
‘He’s an actor,’ said Monica. ‘I met him at the studio. I was working on his picture. He started talking to me, and invited me out, and things just …’ Mouth wobbling and eyes blurred with tears, Monica blinked and gulped, trying to get the words out. ‘Just … sort of … he just …’
‘He’s married, isn’t he?’ asked Stratton, grimly.
Monica nodded miserably. ‘Last year. He didn’t tell me before.’
‘Why didn’t you know? Surely, with him being in the public eye, that sort of thing is common knowledge.’
‘Not with people like him. With male stars – the younger ones – the studio tends to keep quiet about that sort of thing because the fans don’t like it. Oh, Dad, I don’t know what to do.’
‘I do,’ said Stratton viciously. ‘He wants horsewhipping.’ Monica had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, one he’d seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times in the course of his work, but had never for one second imagined would be played on his own daughter. ‘Who is he? What’s his name?’
Shoulders heaving, face collapsed and soggy, Monica said, ‘Dad, you can’t. He said … he told me …’ the next words came out in a wet rush, ‘he’d pay for me to go to a clinic where it’s safe …’
‘An abortion,’ said Stratton, flatly. ‘That’s what he wants, isn’t it?’
‘He said it would be for the best. He got so angry, Dad. He said I was trying to trap him and if I told anyone he’d deny he’d had anything to do with it and no-one would believe me because we’d kept the whole thing secret, but it wasn’t like that, Dad, it really wasn’t … I didn’t know what to say.’ Monica stared at him, stupefied. ‘He was like a different person.’ Monica pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and buried her face in it, shoulders heaving.
‘I’ll bet he was.’ And if I ever get hold of him, thought Stratton, I’m going to tear his head off his shoulders and piss down the hole. Trying to contain his mounting fury he said again, through clenched teeth, ‘Who is he?’
Monica, face still hidden by her handkerchief, shook her head. ‘No … Dad … please …’
‘He’s got to face up to his responsibilities.’
‘He can’t, Dad. He’s married. He said he’d never leave his wife and he thought I knew that it was just a … a sort of … game. But that wasn’t what he said, not at the start.’
‘I’m damn sure it wasn’t. Bastard!’ Unable to stop himself, Stratton thumped his fist into his palm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted – ached – to hit someone so much. Jumping up, he began pacing up and down the room as Monica sobbed. ‘Tell me his name.’
‘If I do …’ Monica paused, gulping and snuffling, ‘you won’t … do anything, will you?’
‘What, thump him? No, I won’t – much as I’d like to. But something’s got to be done. As I said, he needs to face to up his responsibilities. He obviously thinks he can just shell out money to get rid of his mistakes and go sailing on regardless. Abortions aren’t just illegal, Monica, they’re dangerous. They can mess you up for life.’
‘But he says it’ll be safe – and that if I don’t he won’t have anything to do with me or acknowledge the baby or anything.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Stratton, grimly. ‘If he’s the father, then he needs to contribute to the child’s upkeep and that’s all there is to it. Now, who is he?’
‘His name’s Raymond Benson.’
‘And he’s a film actor.’
‘Yes. He’s not one of the biggest stars, though – at least, not yet.’
‘How old?’
‘Twenty-eight, I think. I am sorry, Dad,’ Monica wailed. ‘I truly am. I’ve let you down. And Mum.’
Stratton stopped pacing and stood over his daughter who, hunched in an armchair, seemed very young and very small. ‘Yes, well …’
Monica gazed up at him with enormous, wet eyes. ‘It was an accident,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen. I wish Mum was here.’
‘So do I,’ said Stratton, fervently. ‘So do I.’ Stiffly, he reached over and patted her on the back. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean it to happen, love.’
This reassurance produced more choking sobs and, without quite knowing how, Stratton found that he was standing with his arms around her and his chin grazing the top of her head. ‘It’s all right, love, it’s all right,’ he repeated, stroking her back. ‘Look,’ he said after some minutes of this, ‘why don’t you go up to bed? We can’t do anything about it tonight.’
Monica disentangled herself and picked up her handbag, saying meekly, ‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Have you told anyone about it, apart from Pete?’
‘Only Ray.’
‘Who’s— Oh, yes, of course. Well, it might be an idea to keep quiet about it for the time being. Until I’ve spoken to this man. I presume he’s on the telephone, is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know his number?’
‘Yes. He gave it to me when his wife was away once, on tour. She’s an actress.’
Stratton held up his hand. He didn’t think he could bear to hear any of the details, however marginal. ‘What is it?’
Monica dug around in her bag and scribbled it on the corner of a piece of paper on which was printed some sort of schedule, including the name of Raymond Benson. ‘Don’t you need this?’
‘No. The picture’s finished.’
‘He was in it, was he?’
Monica nodded.
‘Will he be in the next picture you’re working on?’
‘No, but he’ll be at the studio, on a different stage. He’s under contract. You won’t do anything to him, will you?’
‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Monica sniffed. The small sounds coming from her seemed to intensify the silence around them, and for a moment Stratton’s thoughts boomed so loudly that he wondered if they hadn’t somehow escaped from his head to reverberate round the room. Suddenly awkward, they avoided each other’s eyes as they said their goodnights.
Stratton sank onto the sofa. God, he wanted to punch Benson into the middle of next week. Knock his handsome white teeth – he didn’t know what the man looked like, but he was in films so handsome white teeth seemed a fair bet – right down his lying throat. He felt so helpless. It was all right when they were little, if they hurt their knees or fell out of a tree or something, because you could always kiss it better. But this. . . If Jenny was here, he thought, this wouldn’t have happened. Or perhaps if he’d got married again after she’d died and Monica had had more of a woman’s influence … Grief had made him selfish, and he’d assumed that because he didn’t want another wife, they wouldn’t want, or need, a stepmother. Maybe Doris and Lilian had been right, trying to push widows at him. In the last year, he had tried to take an interest in a couple of them. He’d even taken one out to supper, at a Lyons Corner House. It was a perfectly pleasant evening; she was sweet, and mercifully unaffected, but when he got home he found himself wondering why he’d done it. With no desire to repeat the experience, he’d written her an awkward letter, using pressure of work to cancel the tentative arrangement they’d made for the following week.
Throwing back his head and closing his eyes, he wondered if it were possible to pinpoint the exact moment when things had started to go wrong. At present, it felt as though his entire life had been a sequence of catastrophes leading up to this one, but surely that couldn’t actually be the case? There must have been a specific time. Why hadn’t he known? Why wasn’t there a siren or a warning bell or something? Why was everything in his life – Monica, Davies, Backhouse – spinning out of control?
Even if he murdered this Benson bloke, it wouldn’t do any good. Monica would still be pregnant. The thought of an abortion made him remember Davies’s sto
ry about Backhouse volunteering to get rid of Muriel’s baby, and a vision of the man’s bald, sweating pate as he bent over Monica’s prone body and fumbled between her legs with grimy nailed fingers made him wide-eyed and sick with horror. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he ran into the scullery and leant over the basin. Arms braced and head lowered like a bull about to charge, he remained there until the danger was over.
Seeing the empty beer bottles from the previous evening standing on the draining board, Stratton decided something stronger was needed. Remembering that there was some Scotch in the sideboard in the sitting room, he retraced his steps and poured himself a bloody big slug of the stuff. Then, shrugging off his jacket, and jerking his tie loose in a single, swift movement, he sat down once more.
He could go and see Benson, and try to persuade him to look after his child, but beyond extorting the necessary consciencemoney, there was fuck all he could do. Benson had obviously never had any intention of leaving his wife. For all he or Monica knew, they might be starting a family as well. If only he’d never agreed to Monica working at that bloody studio … He took a gulp of his drink. If only he’d been a better father, husband, copper – a better person…
He thought about Reg, in … 1940, it must have been … discovering the extent of his son’s criminal activities and going berserk. He’d sat silently for hours at their kitchen table and then burst into fury at Stratton, calling him an interfering shit and accusing him of having cooked the whole thing up to, as he put it, ‘make him look bad’. Stratton understood, now, how his brother-in-law had been feeling, although, as far as he himself was concerned, it was less to do with other people’s opinions than with one’s estimation of oneself. What Reg, with his unearned worldliness, would have to say about Monica’s current situation, he couldn’t bear to think.
Later, in the bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Christ, he looked one step away from the madhouse. Perhaps he was going off his rocker, too. The pillow, usually comfortable, felt like a sack of potatoes under his head as he lay wet-eyed, staring hopelessly into the thick darkness of the curtained room.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Monica sat hunched over on her bed, clutching her favourite cushion, found in a bric-a-brac shop and carefully washed and mended, to her stomach. It was definitely ‘friendly’ – she’d thought so the minute she’d spotted it – but it wasn’t doing her any good now.
What on earth was she going to do? She didn’t want a baby. Now Dad had found out – and she’d known, somehow, just as soon as he’d looked at her, that Pete had broken his promise – there was no chance of her being able to go to the place that Raymond had suggested and have it taken away … Lying to Dad had been horrible, pretending that she had normal feelings for Raymond, and all the time knowing that the truth was a hundred, thousand times worse. Saying the words out loud, and seeing the expression on Dad’s face – his disappointment and fury – had made her feel sick. Oh, God … Why, why, had she allowed Pete to goad her into telling him? She should have known he couldn’t be trusted.
Dad had called Raymond a bastard. The word had been reverberating in her head ever since he’d said it. This child really would be a bastard. It wouldn’t be long before her belly started to swell and then everyone would know and she’d have to leave her job. It would be like all the cautionary tales she’d heard – the knowing looks, the pointed remarks, the questions about who the father was, the shame for her family, and then having to give birth in one of those places where they humiliated you and made you scrub floors because no decent, proper hospital would take you …
The baby, she supposed, would have to be adopted. That would mean handing it over to strangers who might or might not love it, and that it would grow up knowing – supposing it were told – that its mother had rejected it, and it would hate her. But she couldn’t keep it, could she? Here, a memory surfaced of a girl from school who’d vanished for several months and whose mother’s ‘late baby’ had been greeted with nods and winks and tuts. She had no mother, so it would have to be Aunt Doris who pretended, supposing that she’d even consent to such a thing – and why should she? Everyone said babies were sweet and lovely and all the rest of it – she’d never thought so, particularly, although perhaps it was different if it was your baby – but they certainly seemed to involve a lot of looking after, and Aunt Doris had enough on her plate already.
Or would they expect her to look after it herself? After all, it was her responsibility. If that were the case, she’d never be able to go back to work, never do any of the things she’d dreamt of doing. And it wouldn’t always be a baby. It would grow up, resenting her for its illegitimacy, for the taint and shame that she’d inflicted upon it. And as for her own life – that would be over before it had begun.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Wrapped in the counterpane, Diana sat on the floor beside the dressing table, her face buried in the thick fisherman’s sweater James had worn for filming outside in the winter. The curtains were still drawn, and she had no idea how long she’d been there, listlessly picking through the contents of her handbag, looking for … what? She didn’t know. Just something, anything, to hold on to, to reassure, to comfort – but there was no comfort to be had from the stubs and scrapings of cosmetics, the balled-up handkerchiefs, the tickets from pawn shops for items she’d never be able to redeem, or the pitifully thin purse. Behind her, Claude’s five pound note lay on the bedside table, an accusation in black and white, evidence of her weakness, her lack of judgement, her pathetic betrayal both of James and of herself. She hadn’t wanted to touch it, but she knew that eventually self-disgust would be swallowed up by necessity, and the knowledge made her hate herself all the more.
Scrabbling once more in her handbag, she fished out a tattered piece of thick writing paper, folded into four: F-J’s last letter. You are the natural prey of an unscrupulous man (as I was) … Never more so than now. Diana shook her head in weary self-recrimination and scanned the rest. You might contact Edward Stratton … he is a good man. ‘How can I?’ she muttered, letting the paper fall to the floor. Every time she’d thought of him since that awkward meeting by the river at the Festival of Britain, she’d squirmed inwardly at her gushy, girlish behaviour. He’d been so diffident – obviously horribly embarrassed by the whole thing. The past should remain in the past, she thought, remembering the look on his face in the café all those years ago as he’d tried to warn her about Claude. ‘He’ll destroy you, Diana.’ Well, she’d proved fairly well capable of doing that all by herself, hadn’t she?
Even if she did contact him, what was there to say? ‘Oh, dear, I’ve made the same mistake all over again, please rescue me?’ How pathetic! Besides, he had his own life, and, doubtless, his own troubles, and neither was anything to do with hers … And just the thought of doing anything was exhausting. In any case, it wasn’t a matter of working out what to do next, because there didn’t seem to be any ‘next’. At least, she couldn’t summon up either the energy, or the inclination, to work out what it might be.
She was woken, several hours later, by a loud, insistent pounding at the front door of the flat. Disorientated for a moment, she stared wildly around the room, and then remembered. Perhaps it was James! He’d come back. She scrambled off the bed. Everything was going to be all right – she’d make it all right, she’d do anything to make up for Claude, for— Catching sight of the empty champagne bottle, she kicked it under the bed. Dragging on her dressing gown, she glanced into the mirror, hastily patting her hair. She looked a fright, but it would have to do. Dabbing the last of her perfume behind her ears, she rushed across the sitting room to open the front door.
‘Darling, I—’
‘Expecting someone, were you?’ Her landlady, diminutive and belligerent, was on the landing. With her pinched, beaky face and pecking head movements, Mrs Pritchard had always reminded Diana of a hen left behind in the rush for scraps, but she didn’t look like that now. ‘I can see it wasn’t me.’
Bristling, she pushed Diana back inside the flat and closed the front door firmly behind them both. ‘Where’s your husband?’
‘He …’ Wordless in her disappointment, Diana stared numbly at the small form that seemed almost to pulsate with righteous anger.
Mrs Pritchard eyed her shrewdly. ‘Gone off and left you, has he? If he was ever your husband in the first place.’
‘Of course he was!’
‘No “of course” about it, if you ask me. One man coming round to pay your rent, and from what I’ve heard there was a different one here last night, sneaking out at six o’clock this morning. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re not doing it under my roof. I want you out of here now.’
‘But—’
‘I’ve had complaints – noise and I don’t know what else – and this isn’t the first time. I told that man who paid your rent I wasn’t happy about it. I was willing to give you a second chance, but now …’
Jock didn’t mention any of that to me, thought Diana, wondering if the ‘second chance’ had been given in exchange for extra money. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I haven’t got anywhere to go.’
‘You should have thought of that before. There’s plenty of people want rooms, you know. Decent people, who’d pay double what you do for a place like this, and they wouldn’t keep me waiting, neither. People who don’t want the likes of you under the same roof.’
‘But you can’t just—’
‘Oh, can’t I just? You watch me!’
‘But,’ said Diana, desperately, ‘what about my things?’
‘You can come back for those. I want you out, and that’s that.’
‘But—’
‘Listen, Mrs Carleton. My husband’s waiting downstairs. You can pack a suitcase and leave quietly now, or I’ll call him up here and he can throw you out. It’s up to you.’
