by Annie Murray
‘BB, would it be all right if I had a quick bath?’ she said when they got back to Kings Heath. ‘I just feel a bit hot and uncomfortable.’
In the hall he put his arm around her and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Of course it would. The idea of you being all warm and soft from the bath is absolutely delicious to a Bear like me. I’ll be waiting for you. Want a cup of tea?’
She was about to say no, because now tea tasted odd to her too, but she gave a faint smile and said, ‘Yes, that’d be nice. Thanks.’
Lying in the bath, sunlight from the window flashing in the water and lighting up her pale body in brilliant patches, she moved her hands over her belly. And she felt it – something. Just a little bit, but there was a lump, a fullness.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ She was filled with panic. Tears rose in her eyes. She had felt alone in her life many times, but never so much as now. What in the name of heaven was she going to do?
‘Katie?’ He was knocking at the door. The two Welsh lodgers must have been out for the afternoon and they had the house to themselves. ‘Tea – can I bring it in?’
‘Yes,’ she called, immediately pulling herself together. She couldn’t let him see yet, or anyone else.
Simon came in, looking oddly overdressed in the bathroom, since she was naked. He perched the cup and saucer on the corner of the bath.
‘You look lovely,’ he said. ‘I almost feel like getting in with you.’
‘I’ll be out soon,’ she said, not encouraging him. She certainly wasn’t in the mood for any playing about of that sort.
‘OK, I’ll just go and run my eye over the paper while you finish off.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. ‘Don’t be long though, will you?’
In his bedroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair hanging loose down her back, she sat on the bed looking at the sunlit poplar tree gently shifting in the breeze at the bottom of the garden. He would soon come up and would want to make love, because he always did. Ever since they had begun on it together, his appetite had never diminished. She was flattered by his wanting her: didn’t it show how much he cared for her? But this was something different altogether. Could she tell him? He kept saying over and over that he loved her, but could she rely on him? Why was she so full now of all the doubts she had pushed aside, the ones that didn’t fit the romantic picture she had clung to?
She didn’t feel in the least like lovemaking, but she knew it was inevitable so that he didn’t become suspicious. What she longed for was to be looked after, for him to come up, and for her to spill out the truth to him and have him say that everything would be all right, that he loved her more than anything and would always be with her. It was such an immense thing to say and it would change everything. Why did it feel so impossible to come out with it? Didn’t she trust him in this test? He might be kind and sweet and true. But what if he wasn’t? What then? She could hardly bear to ask herself the question.
His tread was approaching up the stairs; the door opened. She kept her back to him.
‘Oh, look at you,’ he said, the desire already evident in his voice.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he came and knelt in front of her and gently tugged the towel away from her. With a sound of pleasure he kissed and sucked at her nipples. They felt tender, more sensitive than usual. His tongue filled her with an ache, a strange, almost unbearable feeling.
‘Don’t!’ She pushed him away, though not roughly.
He looked up startled. ‘What’s up?’
‘They hurt – I don’t know why.’
‘Oh, sweetheart . . .’ This seemed to arouse him, and soon he was naked and drawing her down to lie beside him. He lay looking down at her. ‘You know, I think they’ve got bigger.’ Gently he caressed her breasts and the feeling went through her like electricity, a mixture of pain and desire.
She knew he was right. ‘Must be something to do with the time of the month,’ she said quickly.
‘I thought you didn’t seem quite yourself today.’ He kissed her cheek, then beamed down at her. He was already fully aroused. ‘My poor Katie. But God, you are so beautiful.’
He kissed her lips then and soon went to move his hand between her legs, in a hurry, wanting her to be ready for him.
‘You’re not . . . ?’
‘Bleeding? No.’ If only she was!
When he came in naked, jerking with urgency, with no horrible-smelling rubber thing covering him, she didn’t protest. It was too late now, after all. It had happened before, a number of times. The first time she hadn’t noticed until it was far too late. She left all that up to him.
‘I took a risk,’ he’d said afterwards, sort of in apology. He grinned winningly at her. ‘It’s just – it feels so nice, just delicious. It’s like dying and going to heaven.’
Katie blushed. She found talking about all these sorts of things very awkward, and when at other times he had neglected to protect himself and had plunged into her, she had been too embarrassed to say anything. He seemed to need her so badly as well, and it felt wrong to stop him.
Now she lay back and felt a hot sweep of desire growing in her belly as he moved inside her. It was not quite like anything she had ever felt before, and after he’d climaxed she felt angry and unsatisfied.
‘Don’t go,’ she ordered, pulling him close in a way that took him by surprise, and moving under him she brought herself to a shuddering, gasping climax, not quite like any she had ever had before, as if her insides were in a melting, volcanic state.
‘My God!’ Simon said, excited by her reaction, and thrust into her again. At last they both lay back, panting.
Katie felt like spilling words all over him. Do you realize – do you know what you’ve done, what we’ve done? Oh, hold me, hold me and tell me you’ll stay with me and it’s all going to be all right!
But she didn’t dare. The words, once spoken, could not be taken back. She was going to have to keep her secret – for as long as she could.
Eighteen
She felt it, lying in bed one morning: a tiny pulse of movement inside her, like a bubble bursting. The little lump of her stomach had grown just a fraction. It terrified her, the way it could just grow and grow, with no way of her stopping it. At the same time it was hard to take in that it was real.
For minutes at a time she would forget. When things were very busy in the office and she sat pounding her typewriter, concentrating on the latest schedule, there were blessed moments when it slipped from her mind. And then he would speak to Mrs Crosby, or a breeze carried through the open office windows a whiff of smoke from a cigarette or factory chimney. Everything seemed to smell more strongly. Or she would feel queasily hungry. And it all came flooding back, the numbing panic that made her catch her breath and sometimes sit staring, stunned, out of the window at the neighbouring rooftops until something nudged her back to work. For the first time she was glad that Simon did not pay any attention to her in the office, his mind turned to his male world.
The worry wore her out as much as anything, and by the evening she was exhausted. A couple of times she told Simon she couldn’t come out with him. She was tired and she found pretending everything was normal a terrible strain. At home she would fall asleep in the chair over the book she was pretending to read, though her mind was usually miles away, worrying, panicking.
‘You seem tired,’ Vera had remarked several times. She was more careful about what she said to Katie these days. ‘Perhaps you’re sickening for something? I’m usually the one who’s dropping off!’
Katie would try to smile and stifle her yawns. ‘Yes, I s’pose I am tired. Maybe it’s everything just catching up with me.’ Most people were tired. The strain of the war was taking its toll.
It was only when she was in bed alone that the fear took over. Sometimes she lay rigid, her head full of jeering voices: ‘. . . O-ho! She’s got a bun in the oven! . . . Bastard child . . . No better than she should be . . . You’d never have thought it to look at her,
would you?’ And above all the voice demanding: What are you going to do? What in heaven’s name are you going to do?
Over these months while she and Simon had been going about together, she’d lived in a rosy bubble of love and hope, not seeing things she didn’t want to see. He loved her and she loved him, and that was all that mattered. This was how it was supposed to be, and she had been able to see nothing but him. But now everything she had put her hopes in seemed to rest on dreadfully frail foundations. She had dreams of marrying Simon and becoming Mrs Collinge, of spending her life with him and, yes, having his children. But now all she could see were the excuses he’d made to keep their affair – she had to admit that was what it was – a secret. He barely acknowledged her at work, and he had never taken her to meet his family. The way he’d put it to her, wanting things to be secret, like an adventure, had all seemed fun and exciting. But now she felt a fool. It was as if she was his dirty secret. She was a complete dupe to think he’d want anything to do with her now that she was expecting a baby – his baby. But still she clung to hope. He loved her, of course he did! He’d make sure everything was all right. Then she would feel ashamed of doubting him.
One Saturday morning she slipped into Sparkhill Library again. Since she didn’t dare talk to a real medical man, she found The Universal Home Doctor and took it discreetly to a corner of the hushed room, where she sat with her back turned to everyone. She felt as if everyone must be watching her, as if the book was red-hot. Here she was, this respectable-looking young woman, neatly turned out in a sage-green summer frock, jumpy as a mouse in case anyone came and looked over her shoulder and saw her looking up . . . But looking up what?
She flicked through the pages with clammy hands. Surely there wasn’t a heading ‘Getting rid of a baby’? Soon, under A, she found ‘Abortion’. Of course! Her heart was pounding. That was the term for it, and a terrible one. Even seeing it on the page made her tremble. You could go to prison for that, couldn’t you?
She read frantically, full of dread, her breathing shallow and jerky. At first she thought that the entry was only about natural miscarriage. Too much activity, it said, or heavy lifting, might bring on the baby. It was the next part that chilled her blood. ‘It is well known that abortion may be due to the taking of certain drugs or the criminal use of instruments.’ Either of these, it warned, often resulted in the death of the woman.
Her legs turned to water and her hands were shaking so much that she almost dropped the book on the floor. She managed somehow to get it back onto the shelf and stagger out into the pale sunshine of the Stratford Road, the word criminal, criminal, pounding in her mind. Life burst in on her, the Saturday-morning scramble to the shops with ration books. As people came towards her they made her jump. They felt like a threat, and she found herself laying a hand protectively over her stomach.
Why on earth am I doing that? she wondered, shivering. She felt very cold and sick. I want it not to be there, I want it to die . . . Oh God, she wailed inwardly as tears rose in her eyes, I don’t know what I want. She felt as if her life had been taken over and was not hers any more. It was terrifying.
To try and calm herself she went into the park and, taking deep breaths, walked slowly round the green space, speckled with playing children. She found a bench where no one else was sitting and sat staring ahead of her. The criminal use of instruments . . . She’d heard whispers about wire or knitting needles being used to end a baby, about buckets full of blood. She felt faint just thinking about it. And it all seemed so far from who she thought she was. It was girls in sordid back streets who did such things, girls who had asked for it, who were fast . . . Not people like her. How snooty she had been in her thinking! Yet now she was one of them, caught in this trap where to continue with the child or to end it was equally dreadful. For a few moments it all welled up and overcame her and she put her hands over her face, fighting back her tears.
Soon, though, she heard voices coming closer and quickly wiped her eyes. Three boys, all about nine years old, were running round quite close to her, charging at each other like little bulls, then wrestling each other on the grass. Her shock at them disturbing her was overcome by the sight of their cheeky, laughing faces, and a bolt of longing went through her.
Why am I being so ridiculous? she thought, her spirits soaring, after hitting the bottom a moment before. I’m going to see Simon later. All I have to do is tell him. I love him and he loves me, I know he does. Everything in that moment felt very secure and clear. He would make everything all right, she knew he would.
She caught the bus and then walked to his house, churning with nerves, and knocked on the door. She was ready with her words, her thin thread of hope, but the door was opened by Dai, one of Simon’s lodgers, a stocky man with wild brown hair.
‘Oh – hello!’ He seemed as startled as Katie.
‘Is Simon in?’ She managed to make her voice sound almost normal.
‘No, he’s not here, I’m afraid. I don’t know where he’s gone. The works, p’raps.’
Her courage was already seeping away. What on earth was she doing, just turning up on his doorstep when anyone could be about!
‘All right,’ she said casually. ‘Not to worry. Thank you.’
Just round the corner she was grateful for a scrubby hedge edging a garden, because her insides bucked and she was sick until there was nothing left inside her.
Nineteen
October 1943
It was Vera who noticed.
Katie spent the rest of the summer in a paralysis of fear, denying to herself for as long as she could that this was really happening to her. But as the days waned and the leaves turned yellow, then brown, the child moved unmistakably inside her.
That evening it was wet and they had both come in tired and hungry from work, leaving their umbrellas open to dry in the hall. They took off their wet boots, then went round pulling the blackout curtains and turning on the lights.
‘There’s some of that stew left over from yesterday,’ Vera said. ‘Where are my slippers? Ah, here they are. It’s more potato than meat, but there’s a fair bit left, I think.’
‘I’ll put it on to heat up,’ Katie said. She almost said, ‘I could eat a horse, I’m so hungry,’ but stopped herself. Her mother had been giving her odd looks lately, as if she was trying to work something out.
‘There’s some carrot and swede,’ Vera said. She got to her feet, with a tired grunt. ‘I’ll get the fire going, then I’ll come and give you a hand.’
Vera clicked the wireless on. Music streamed out and then, as she riddled the fire and Katie was scraping carrots, the news. Italy had declared war on Germany.
‘They want to make up their minds, those Eyties,’ Vera remarked. ‘This is nearly all slack—’ The fire kindled and spat.
Katie heard her mother’s intake of breath. She was kneeling by the fender, head turned to look at Katie as she stood by the table. Their eyes met and, in those seconds, Katie knew it was too late to deny anything. Her stomach had taken on an unmistakable roundness and Vera was staring straight at it. Katie felt her cheeks burn.
There was a moment of silence as Vera got slowly to her feet. Then she advanced like a prowling tiger. Katie took a step back, horrified at her demented expression.
‘What’ – she pointed an accusing finger – ‘is that?’
Katie looked down helplessly at her expanding belly, unable to meet her mother’s burning gaze.
‘Look at me!’ Vera shrieked. ‘Don’t you dare look away from me! What is that . . . That swollen . . . thing doing in this house? It’s true, isn’t it? I knew something was going on – it’s that Collinge chap, isn’t it? You stupid, stupid—’
The stinging slap her mother delivered across her face forced Katie to look up in shock, tears of pain filling her eyes.
‘Ow – don’t! Don’t hit me!’ Holding her cheek, she burst into tears. ‘What’re you hitting me for?’
Vera was beside herself. ‘What d’you
damn well think I’m hitting you for, you stupid, dirty girl!’ She began by screaming, but managed to lower her voice in case any of the neighbours might hear. She came up close, taking hold of the neck of Katie’s cardigan, her whole face bitterly contorted. The rest of her words came out as a venomous hiss. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? You’ve gone and let him have his way with you, and now look at you!’
Katie couldn’t deny it. She nodded, but she could feel defiance growing in her.
‘Well, what d’you want me to say? I’ve been biting my lip long enough, but my God, I should’ve said something before. You’d better get him to marry you right away, there’s nothing else for it. I just hope he does the decent thing or you’re ruined, my girl – no two ways about it!’
‘Of course he will,’ Katie defended him. ‘We love one another – only he doesn’t know yet. I haven’t told him.’
Vera gave a nasty laugh, folding her arms across her chest. She was working herself up into more of a mocking rage by the minute.
‘No, I bet you damn well haven’t! All these years I’ve brought you up, scrimping and saving, and trying to give us a respectable life amid all the dregs . . . And how d’you thank me for it, you little slut? Spreading your legs for the first man who comes along. My God . . .’ She was so worked up that for a moment Katie thought she was going to have a fit. Her voice turned to a growl. ‘Look at you – just like your father. You’re like him down to the bone – oh!’ She backed away and slapped her hand down hard on the table. Katie saw that the pan of water for the carrots was boiling away, steam pouring into the cold air. My father? Katie thought. What on earth is she talking about?
‘Mother . . .’
‘Don’t you “Mother” me!’ Vera was wringing her hands. ‘Don’t think you can get around me. I’m not your mother any more. D’you think I’ve hauled myself out of the gutter for you to drag us straight back down there again? Do you? Over my dead body! You can get out – take your things and your bastard brat, and get out of my sight. You’re all the same: you’re an O’Neill to the core, and I’m finished with you – the whole damn rotten lot of you! That’s what you are: rotten to the core.’
