A Winter Bride (6 page)

Spent, they flopped onto a park bench, and sat side-by-side, gasping. Their throats were raw from squealing. They could hardly speak. They looked at one another, panting and swearing, ‘Jesus, oh God, bloody hell.’

‘He was a dirty old man,’ Carol said when at last she could speak.

‘I know,’ said Nell. She squirmed in disgust.

‘He made me lie on this bench thing while he pummelled my tummy. Then he poked at me.’

‘What do you mean, poked?’

‘With his fingers. Down there. Inside.’ Carol buried her face in her hands and drummed her feet on the ground, exorcising the memory.

‘No,’ said Nell. ‘He didn’t. He’s not meant to do that. It’s not right.’

‘He said I was about fourteen weeks gone and shouldn’t have left it so long before coming to see him.’

‘Well, at least he gave you something.’

Carol fished the bottle out of her bag, opened it and held it to her nose. ‘Doesn’t smell of anything.’ She handed it to Nell who took a sniff and agreed.

Carol took the bottle back and peered at the contents. ‘It’s very oily. It looks serious.’

‘It’ll do the trick,’ said Nell.

‘Definitely,’ Carol agreed.

The night was cold; the air damp and smelled of coal fires. Across the park some children were playing, calling through the gloom; buses lit up against the dark rumbled past. The first stars were out.

‘I’ll be fine, now,’ Carol said quietly. ‘This will work.’

‘For forty quid it better.’

‘Too right,’ said Carol. They stood up to go home and linked arms.

‘Let’s get some chips first,’ said Nell.

Chapter Four

They’ve Had Their Fun

Eleven o’clock the next night, Carol’s mother and father, Margaret and Norman, walked up the garden path to the front door. They’d been to the cinema to see
North by Northwest
. Margaret was wondering where she could get Norman a grey suit like Cary Grant’s. Norman was looking forward to a cup of tea and a slice of sponge cake before bed. The house was dark, not a single light burning. Margaret thought that odd, but didn’t remark on it. Carol must have gone to bed early.

She froze when she stepped inside the front door, sniffed the air. ‘Something’s wrong.’

She was a woman who lived by instincts and intuition. She could taste and smell trouble. She could feel it on her skin. She could interpret a hundred different types of silence, just by listening and breathing it in. ‘Something’s definitely wrong,’ she said. She took off her coat, handed it to Norman and took the stairs two at a time.

Carol was in bed, curled up, clutching her stomach, shivering and groaning.

Margaret went to her, put her hand on her forehead. ‘You’ve picked up something awful.’

Carol threw back the covers, dragged herself to her feet, and shouted, ‘Not again.’ She rushed past Margaret, out of the room and down the hall to the loo.

Margaret followed her, rapped on the bathroom door. ‘Don’t be sick in the sink.’

She went downstairs, put on the kettle. ‘Poor girl’s got some sort of tummy bug.’

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Margaret considered the bottle Carol had left on the draining board. She held it to her nose, sniffed. Touched the rim with her finger and cautiously tasted the tiny drop she’d collected. ‘Castor oil.’ Her bewilderment lasted but seconds.

She stamped back upstairs, shouting, ‘Carol! Carol!’

Her daughter, drained, pale and shivering, was crawling towards her bedroom. Margaret blocked her way, held up the bottle. ‘Have you taken this?’

Carol nodded. She pleaded for her mother to get out of the way. ‘I need to get to bed.’

‘Castor oil,’ said Margaret. ‘You’ve drunk a whole bottle of castor oil.’

‘It’s not castor oil,’ said Carol. ‘It’s … medicine.’

‘Don’t tell me what is or what isn’t castor oil. I know castor oil when I see it.’ She bent down, heaved Carol to her feet and helped her to bed. ‘And I know why young girls take it. How far gone are you?’

‘Three and a bit months.’

‘You stupid, stupid, stupid girl.’

It was two days before Margaret phoned May Rutherford. First she had to calm down, drink umpteen cups of tea, pace the living room, arms folded, quizzing her daughter. ‘Why didn’t you come to me,’ she asked.

‘There are some things you don’t tell your mother,’ said Carol. ‘Being pregnant’s one of them. It’s the main one.’

‘But going to that man on your own? It must have been awful for you.’

Carol shrugged. ‘It wasn’t so bad.’ She never did admit to her mother that Nell went with her. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to get Nell in trouble. More, she didn’t want to confess to anything that might dilute the sympathy she was getting. She rather liked the image of herself, scared, numb with nerves and desperate, going to see a dubious man to buy an even more dubious remedy for her condition.

Eventually, Margaret took Carol to see Dr Bain, the family doctor. She sat in the waiting room staring at peeling wallpaper, leafing with disinterest through a three-year-old magazine while Carol was in the consulting room. When the doctor appeared at the door and beckoned her with his finger to join him and her daughter, she knew she was going to be a grandmother.

When she did phone May Rutherford, she was curt but polite. ‘It appears,’ said Margaret, ‘that our Carol is three months pregnant. Your son is the father.’

May said, ‘Johnny? Is your Carol sure? I mean, she might have been seeing someone else.’

‘Of course she’s sure. And he’s sure too. He gave her forty pounds to go see some quack who took the money in exchange for a bottle of castor oil.’

May was silent for a few moments, and then said, ‘Oh God, the old castor oil trick. Brings back some hellish memories. It’s always the women who suffer.’

‘Indeed.’ Margaret heard May remove the receiver from her ear and yell, ‘Johnny, get your backside down here. Now!’

A week later, the two sets of parents met at the Rutherford’s house to discuss the situation. Carol and Johnny were not included as their opinions were immaterial. They’d had their fun, May Rutherford said, ‘Now, it’s up to us to pick up the pieces.’

They ate roast beef, drank red wine from crystal glasses while Johnny Mathis crooned in the background. A huge fire roared in the fireplace. Margaret Anderson said the house was lovely, that the roast beef was perfect, and that, no, she didn’t want any more Brussels sprouts. She thought May bossy and a show-off, and Harry too jolly by far.

Nobody mentioned the castor oil.

‘Well,’ said May, refilling everyone’s glass. ‘This is a fine mess our two children have got themselves into.’

‘Happens all the time,’ said Harry. ‘They were having a bit of fun. Nothing we didn’t do.’

May glared at him and told Margaret and Norman to help themselves. ‘There’s plenty more and apple pie for afters.’ She put down her fork. ‘I’ve spoken to the hotel down the road and they’ll give us a discount on account of it only being March and things are a bit quiet. The wedding business hots up next month. Now, what I thought was, if you two pay for the wedding, we’ll put down the deposit on a bungalow for Johnny and Carol to live in. There’s one for sale round the corner, so I’ll be nearby to help with the baby.’

Margaret said nothing. The house was too hot. The room was too bright. These people knew nothing about grief and young ruined lives. She did. Had this not been her almost twenty years ago? She knew well the black tide of gloom and worry that came with being unwed and pregnant. She remembered the days of waking every morning gripped by nerves, raddled with shame and guilt and dread.

In 1940 Margaret had conceived a child to a soldier called Angus. Oh, the heated pleasure of those nights with him: the touching; the whispering; the kissing. He was all she thought about. And once she’d discovered sex, she’d wondered how people could go about their day-to-day business when they could be doing that instead. Sex was wonderful; it was magical. It had made her heady. The passion had lasted for two weeks before Angus was posted to North Africa.

A month later, Margaret had missed a period. A worm of worry had gnawed at her. A month on, she’d missed another period. Now, she’d been sure. The worry had flared into full-time fretting. She’d written to Angus telling him there was a baby on the way. He’d written back telling her to hang on; he’d marry her as soon as he got back.
A baby
, he’d written.
I hope it has your looks and your brains, too
.

Norman had brought Margaret the news. Angus had died. He’d taken her for a walk, sat her on a park bench, held her hand and told her the telegram had been delivered to Angus’ mother that morning. He’d watched her weep, given her his handkerchief and waited for the sobbing to stop.

‘Angus wrote to me,’ he’d said. ‘Told me to watch out for you till he came back.’ Then, ‘I’ll marry you, if you want. I’ll say the baby’s mine. Nobody need ever know.’

A quiet, kindly soul, ten years older than Margaret, he’d raised Carol as his own, with never a word of complaint. She hadn’t told anybody, not even her own daughter, about this.

Margaret wondered if getting pregnant outside of marriage was a family trait. Perhaps reckless passion was in the blood. If Carol had a daughter, would it happen to her, too? Some women thought getting married and having a child was the beginning of everything. It was what life was about. Margaret thought it had been the narrowing of her world. She’d dreamed of travelling, had hoped she might become a teacher. But her life had become a series of routines: washing, ironing, dusting, cooking and shopping. She thought she’d become dull. For almost twenty years she’d been grateful to Norman. Sometimes she’d catch him looking at her; it was the gaze of someone too much in love, weakened by adoration. She knew he thought he was not worthy of her, that he was second best. Lying awake at night, listening to him breathe, she thought they were fools. They’d spent their married lives being polite. They should have talked more. They should have explored each other, taken time to fall in love. They should both have looked for, and demanded, passion.

Now her beautiful daughter was to marry that conceited boy with his flashy car and his silly clothes and his revolting way of pulling his comb out of his back pocket and slicking it through his stupid hair. He was a bit of a lad for getting a girl into trouble. Carol, who’d allowed herself to get into trouble, was now a woman of low repute: a hussy who’d let a man have his way with her. How unfair it all was.

She glanced at Norman, and saw from the slight smile he gave her that he knew what she was thinking. He always did.

Now, May reached for the wine bottle, refilled her own glass and waved it at her guests, snapping Margaret from her thoughts. ‘Top up?’

Margaret shook her head. She feared getting drunk and speaking her mind; she didn’t trust herself to be diplomatic.

‘I’ve made up my guest list,’ said May. ‘Twenty people.’

Margaret thought that excessive, but still kept her mouth shut.

In the end there were thirty guests at the wedding; it wasn’t as small as Margaret would have liked. She’d hoped for ten. The reception was in a hotel near the zoo, champagne flowed. The gathering was fed on shrimp cocktail, roast duck with orange sauce and chocolate mousse.

Nell, dressed in a dark-blue velvet suit, was the bridesmaid and Alistair best man. Carol, in a white silk suit and a large white hat bedecked with flowers, looked radiant. But Johnny stole the show. He was jaw-droppingly handsome. The groom was prettier than the bride. He’d recently had his rock’n’roll quiff cut off. Now his hair was short: a flat top he called it. It suited him. It showed off his cheekbones and full lips. Margaret noticed Carol noticing women in the room noticing her new husband. There will be trouble, Margaret thought.

Johnny drank too much. His speech was short and to the point. ‘Thanks a bunch for coming,’ he said before turning to Carol and spreading his arms to her, smiling and embracing her. ‘Thanks a bunch for marrying me.’ He raised his glass to her, drained it and sat down. Carol beamed.

Before that, Alistair had said how lucky his big brother was to have such a beautiful bride and he hoped they had many years of happiness before them. He’d sounded doleful. Harry, Alistair and Johnny’s father, had saved the day even though as father of the groom he was not meant to give a speech. ‘The Rutherfords,’ he said, ‘are a close and happy clan. We eat, laugh, work and play together. Now my randy son has added not one, but two new Rutherfords to the family.’ He’d lifted his glass. ‘Nothing keeps a Rutherford down.’

Everyone laughed except Carol’s mother who whispered to her husband that she thought the speech inappropriate. She added it was normal to toast the bride and groom, not the groom’s family. She was starting to dislike the Rutherfords.

Chapter Five

Family Nights

Thursday nights were family nights at the Rutherford’s. Everyone gathered round the table in the dining room and discussed the business: how much money had been made since the previous Thursday; how to make more money; and how to cut corners and spend less money making the money they were making. Neither Nell nor Carol was ever invited.

It was a Thursday in September when Carol went into labour. She’d been having twinges all day and had phoned the hospital, but had been told not to come in till the pains were twenty minutes apart. Her mother had come over for a while in the afternoon, but had gone home before five to cook the supper. ‘It could be a false labour,’ she’d said. ‘Happens all the time. Babies are awkward little things. They never arrive when you expect them to; they pick the most inconvenient moment.’

Half an hour after her mother left, Carol’s twinges developed into pains. She paced and put her hand on her lower back. Worried, she phoned the garage to tell Johnny to come home immediately. He wasn’t there; it was his family night habit to go straight to his mother’s house where she’d serve vast amounts of food as business was discussed.

Carol phoned the Rutherford home. Nobody answered. No phone calls were allowed to disrupt the important matters of eating and talking money. So Carol walked to the house – slowly, painfully, stopping every now and then to clutch her stomach, keeping the baby in. She feared she might give birth in the street.