by Paula Daly
‘Good,’ Eve said, smiling then at Felicity. ‘Glad that’s all settled.’ And she left the room.
25
IN THOSE FIRST few weeks at university I felt like a different person.
I’d stare at my reflection in the mirror, my brow wrinkled in perplexity, as I asked: Who are you? Who are you, Natty? And I was excited by the options.
All at once, I loved learning. Because this was real learning. Gone was the cosseted classroom environment of school. Gone the feeling of humdrum familiarity, of tedious repetition. Now I was in huge lecture theatres with two hundred students. In the John Rylands library with its basement rooms and ancient desks, the students either working hard to cultivate an air of apathetic indifference, or else, like me, wandering around the place in a state of awe.
It was as far away from provincial village life as you could get, and I wanted to soak it all in.
I loved the course. Within radiography there was so much human biology to study, in the way of anatomy, physiology, pathology. To get a taste of things to come, I spent a day in the radiography department at Hope Hospital, Salford. It was a newish department – very plush, not at all standard NHS issue. There was even fresh coffee. And I had the most fantastic afternoon with a young radiographer who tested me on the contraindications to MRI, CTs, X-Rays – all the stuff we’d been covering in the past week. I came away inspired, absolutely firm in the belief I had chosen the right course. I was also a little indignant at Sean’s mother’s suggestion that I had made a mistake, and my new passion brimmed over into making sure she would eat her words at some point in the future.
Sean.
I’d not seen him. Not even bumped into him by accident, and, coward that I was, I hoped it would stay that way.
He’d called the payphone in the hallway several times. I’d return to my room to find a Post-it note stuck to my door saying: ‘Ring Sean Wainwright’ or ‘Some lad phoned’ – but I never returned the call.
What was I going to say? That I was fine? More than fine, in fact. I was fine and in love with someone else and I’d forgotten all about him.
I think back to that tearful time with lead in my belly, because how long had it taken? No more than a few days for me to jump into another boy’s bed. Perhaps the reason for this was because Sean had turned his back on me. Was I punishing him? Maybe. Was I replacing one love for another because I’d been rejected? Definitely.
Will Goodwin was a bad boy. Total opposite of Sean. He was a third-year engineering student, strikingly good-looking, well-bred but dangerous (his dad was a big-shot editor at The Times), and within hours of meeting him I found myself in that very worst state: infatuated. Easing my broken heart with the love of another.
It was shocking to me, the attraction I felt. Shocking the speed with which my thoughts of him became all-encompassing. And it’s not like I’d not been in love before. Because I had. With Sean.
Out of the blue I understood how girls could make disastrous fools of themselves, give themselves away so readily, prepared to stamp over their self-worth, their friendships, to get to a boy.
We were driven by something outside of ourselves, and no amount of reasoning would register. Sean’s mother had been right in that respect. If it hadn’t been for the volume of work engineering students needed to complete each week, then my studies would have been in real danger of slipping, because I couldn’t tear myself away from Will.
So when I turned up at Will’s halls of residence on a bleak night of wind and rain, my feet soaked, the water dripping down the back of my neck, to tell him I thought I was pregnant – knew I’d fallen accidentally pregnant with his baby – I wasn’t unduly worried. I knew he was as into me as I was him. It was shitty timing, no doubt about that, but my mind had already gone into overdrive about the life we were about to have together.
This was the late nineties, remember, when babies were billed as the ultimate accessory. Nothing could be more perfect than a young, handsome guy carrying his baby in a sling. Perfume ads, the press, even holiday brochures, were filled with images of intrepid couples, their active, exciting lives enhanced by the arrival of their offspring. And I had totally bought into the bullshit, like, I suppose, most other young women had.
A baby won’t stop me doing what I want to do! Hell, I can do anything!
Unsurprisingly, Will Goodwin did not feel the same way.
‘You’re what?’ he said to me.
‘Pregnant.’
‘But you’re on the Pill.’
I laughed a little, made out like these things do happen, and shrugged.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ mirroring my shrugging action in an exaggerated way. He pulled a face like a French footballer claiming innocence after a particularly nasty tackle. ‘You have been taking them, haven’t you? The pills?’
‘Of course,’ I said, astonished he would doubt me. ‘It’s just that—’
‘It’s just what?’
‘The Pill’s not always a hundred per cent guaranteed to work, that’s all. Not if you’ve been sick, or had diarrhoea, or been drinking heavily . . .’
‘Bollocks,’ he snapped. ‘That’s what girls say when they’ve been skipping pills to make sure they get pregnant. Oldest trick in the book.’
‘I . . . I wouldn’t do that.’
He fixed me with a chilling stare. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ he said flatly.
The breath knocked out of me, I slumped down on his single bed. How had this happened? He loved me. He’d told me he loved me. Why was he behaving like this?
All at once, I was nauseated. Like I was going to throw up in my lap. I bent forwards, put my head between my knees. The room was hot. Hot, with a sickly, cloying odour that felt thick in my throat.
I raised my head. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Dunno. I could probably do with a shower.’
‘It’s sweat,’ I said.
He busied himself with a stack of papers on his desk. ‘Me and Dave have been at the driving range.’
‘Have you had someone in here?’ I demanded, my hands starting to shake. ‘Has someone been here . . . with you?’
‘Only Dave. He can get a little ripe after exercising.’
‘Will,’ I said carefully, ‘it’s sex I can smell, isn’t it?’
At first, he didn’t answer. Just paused what he was doing and stood stock still. Then he turned, and his whole being radiated arrogance. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it is.’
He gave a cruel bark of laughter. ‘I can’t believe you’re fucking pregnant,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe what shit luck—’
Laughing at me? Laughing while he was sleeping with someone else?
There was a baby inside me and I was eighteen years of age. What was I supposed to do?
I wanted to hurt him. I really wanted to hurt him.
Without thinking, I picked up what was to hand, what I later learned was a seven iron but which I knew only as a golf club at the time, and I held it high above my right shoulder.
He didn’t think I’d do it. And I probably wouldn’t have if he’d not grinned at me like I was ridiculous.
I swung it once, aiming for his shoulder.
But he ducked. The stupid prick ducked, and, regrettably for me, the seven iron connected with the side of his skull instead.
26
I ARRIVE AT MY dad’s house just after ten. I was offered a lift by a uniformed officer at Kendal police station, to which I said thanks, but no thanks. The thought of sitting in a squad car making polite conversation was the last thing I needed, so I requested a taxi.
What I really need right now is to go home. I have no change of clothes, no toothbrush, nothing. I feel dirty from the inside out, after eating crappy processed food for the past couple of days. But what I want more than anything is to talk to the girls. Tell them I’ve been charged with the lesser crime of aggravated assault and I’m allowed home. Of course, I really want to tell them Eve is a total bitch fraudster who’s
hoodwinking their father . . . but I must bide my time with that one. If I’m going to rebuild any kind of trust between us, I should tread carefully. Not plough straight ahead, like I did before.
But I yearn to see them. They’re mine. They belong with me. Marital breakdown is one thing, but the crushing weight of sadness at the thought of another woman with my children, in my home – well, it’s agonizing.
I pull my keys from my coat pocket and sort through the multitude until I find the one for Dad’s front door. Inserting it in the lock, I find the door’s been left open. Not unusual – my dad would only lock the door on his way to bed – but the lights are off, meaning the carers have already been and gone.
I’m irritated and begin rehearsing the complaints I’ll tell the agency first thing in the morning. Let it go, Natty, or your head will explode. I flick on the hall light; the house feels warm and welcoming. My eyes prickle with tears as it hits me just how close I came to being incarcerated this afternoon.
That could have been it. The end of everything. Stuck inside the system, unable to get out.
The cat sits on the bottom stair. He stares at me, round-eyed. ‘Hello, Morris,’ I whisper, and he’s unresponsive. He regards me in a manner as though to convey: Your presence here is meaningless to me.
‘Jackie?’ comes the throaty call from upstairs.
‘No, Dad, it’s me.’
‘Natty? Where’ve you been, love?’
‘Kendal.’
‘At this hour?’
I give a small laugh. ‘Hang on,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll be up in a few minutes,’ and head through to the kitchen.
In the fridge beside Jackie’s Yakults and the Muller Light yoghurts I find a block of mature Cheddar and some seedless grapes. I fix myself a small picnic with a glass of milk and a few crackers, pouring some milk into a saucer for Morris, who is snaking between my shins. Now that there are dairy products on offer, suddenly he’s a lot more interested.
‘Fickle, you are,’ I say, resting the saucer down carefully, though tipping it at the last second. It’s the spilt milk that Morris begins lapping, so I don’t bother to clean it. I’m bone tired – bone tired and running on empty. I feel the essence of what makes me me leaching away with each hour that passes.
At the top of the stairs the door to my dad’s room is ajar. He’s turned his bedside lamp on and he’s propped on three pillows.
‘Did I wake you?’ I ask.
‘No, Polly’s not long left. Just lying here with my eyes open.’
‘She left the door unlocked. Are you expecting Jackie?’
I can tell by his face that he’s not but he doesn’t want Polly to get into trouble. ‘She said she’d probably pop over,’ he tells me, ‘but it might be getting on for after twelve ’cause she’s on a late.’ He’s lying. He’s a terrible liar. ‘I’ve just been watching an old Clint movie to kill the time,’ he adds, to divert my attention.
‘Any good?’ I ask.
And he makes a face. ‘It had Sondra Locke in it. I turned it off after half an hour.’
‘Clint’s Yoko,’ I remark absently, and my dad nods in agreement.
‘Sean must have arranged to have your car taken in for repair, because it’s gone from the front.’
‘Oh,’ I say, because I hadn’t noticed.
‘What were you doing in Kendal?’ he asks.
‘I was arrested.’
His face registers alarm. ‘By that copper who came here?’ he asks. ‘The woman?’
‘She found me in the library.’
He swallows. ‘Bloody hell, love, why didn’t you ring me?’
‘What could you have done?’
His face is grey with concern and I sense he may have said something to tip off DC Aspinall about where I was. Said I was out to find evidence to prove Eve was lying. And DC Aspinall’s no fool. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what I was up to.
‘I feel awful not knowing you were there,’ he says. He’s shaken, so I don’t press him about what was said in my absence. ‘You’ve been there on your own all this time?’ he asks. ‘Were you in a cell?’
‘It’s fine, Dad. I’m fine. Sean sorted me out a good solicitor. Get to sleep . . . I’ll fill you in on the full story in the morning.’ As I leave the room, I turn. ‘Okay if I borrow the van again tomorrow?’
‘’Course, love,’ he replies. ‘Any time. What d’you need it for?’
‘I’ve got a few errands to run.’
7.30 a.m. and I’m in the middle lane of the M6 heading south near Preston. Last night was the first time I’d slept in days. I’m rested and ready. I’ve put aside the emotion of everything that’s happened because it’s too exhausting and I need to be fully focused on my task.
Really, I should have set off a little later, because I’m sure to get caught in the 8 a.m. gridlocked traffic when I hit the M60. But it was either this or wait around for another hour, risk dodging questions from Dad and, most probably, Jackie too. I left a note saying I had lots to do and made an early start.
The Transit is only happy at seventy miles an hour. The van’s sweet spot. Slightly faster or slower and the steering wheel vibrates thunderously – which I’m sure is no problem for my dad’s muscular joiner’s hands to control, but very difficult for me. And of course I can’t see out the back. There are no rear windows, only wing mirrors to view what’s behind, and twice already I’ve switched lanes and almost wiped out a car in my blind spot. So I’m taking it steady.
I’m running through the questions I’m planning to ask. Hoping I’ll be given some solid answers but knowing, realistically, that this could be a waste of time. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. But it’s a start. And I have to try.
Over an hour later I’m in Manchester city centre. I find a space at the car park on Booth Street West, just off Oxford Road, and from here I make my way the short distance to the School of Psychological Sciences.
The pavement is busy with students and I’m swept along amongst them. It hits me that this will be Alice in only two years’ time. She will be in this crowd, at a university somewhere, as I was eighteen years before her. Will she feel the same way I did, lost and bewildered? Unlikely. Alice is Alice. Words which spring to mind are ‘forthright’, ‘determined’, ‘energetic’, ‘confident’. She’s sure to cope better than me.
I’m almost at the entrance when my mobile vibrates in my pocket. It’s Felicity, and I hesitate in answering because, as much as I need to talk to her, right now is not the time.
But we always answer the girls when they’re not with us. Whatever the circumstances.
‘Mum,’ she says, ‘where are you?’ Her voice is quiet and strained.
‘What’s happened, Felicity? You sound upset.’
‘No,’ she says, a little too quickly, ‘I’m just . . .’ She takes a breath, and I’m not sure if she’s about to cry. You know how it is with girls. They get the first sentence out all right and then you can get a full two minutes of choking breaths before another word is possible. ‘I tried calling last night,’ she says, still quiet, but not crying. ‘. . . You didn’t pick up.’
‘The phone died,’ I lie, ‘and I didn’t have the charger at Grandad’s.’ Before she has the chance to catch me out, to ask how I managed to charge it this morning, I say, ‘I’m sorry you didn’t hear from me, love, I’ve been in a bit of a mess, what with Eve and everything. I just needed some time to lick my wounds.’ A young male student passes beside me, holds the door to the building open and raises his eyebrows. You coming in? he asks, wordlessly, and I shake my head.
‘Are you coping okay without me? Is Dad feeding you?’ I say to her, in a tone that belies just how much it hurts to ask these questions.
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘Is your tummy okay? How’s your scar? It’s not oozing, is it?’
‘No, it’s pretty neat.’
‘Doesn’t smell or anything?’
She heaves a sigh. ‘It’s fine, Mum.’
> ‘That’s good. Really good news. Listen, love, I need to be somewhere, so I have to dash. We’ll speak later, okay? I’ll call you when I’m done.’
‘Mum?’
‘What is it, honey?’
She hesitates, and my mouth goes dry. I sense she needs to get something out, and there’s a tightening in my chest as I think about the unthinkable. Have Sean and Eve told the girls about my past? Have they told them everything?
‘Never mind,’ she says, cutting the connection without saying goodbye.
Will Goodwin’s father was, as I said, deputy editor at The Times, and he moved heaven and earth to keep my attack on his son out of the papers. Journalists can do that, you know – call in favours from friends, arrange a blanket ban on something being printed. Terence Goodwin had hopes his son would enter politics one day and didn’t want the facts of our violent liaison scuppering his chances. Will was despatched back down to Surrey to recover. Meanwhile, Sean and I went home, tails between our legs, ready to face his mother. Sean took the full force of her wrath, and we knew that the only way to get through it was never to tell anyone of Alice’s true parentage. Pretend that we’d gone against Penny’s wishes, never split up, and the pregnancy was the result.
A few months later, I was handed a suspended sentence, but the only people to know the full extent of what happened in Manchester, besides Will and his family, were Sean, my dad and, of course, Eve Dalladay.
Why did Sean do it for me? The ultimate altruistic act. To this day, he’s never fully explained it. What I remember was Sean being fiercely defensive of me at the time. He adopted the role of protector, wouldn’t let anything upsetting near me. And I became quite docile in response. I wanted him to fix things, to take over. I’d turned up at his dorm asking him to help me arrange an abortion, because I was too ashamed to talk to anyone else. But he flat out refused. Told me he loved me enough to live with the situation, take on the child as his own, and then, astonishingly, he took me home.
