City Girl (10 page)

‘Caroline!’ Devlin expostulated in amazement at her friend’s candour. Never in all the time she had known Caroline had she ever volunteered any information on her sex life or
her sexual feelings for that matter.

Caroline blushed a delicate pink. ‘Well I have hormones too, you know,’ she retorted, a little embarrassed by her outburst.

‘Oh God, Caroline, I’m sorry! I know you do. It’s just . . .’ Devlin sat up and ran a hand through her soft blond hair, ‘well, we don’t usually have
conversations like this do we?’

Caroline got up off the bed and laughed. ‘Maybe it’s time we started. Come on, I’ll make us a pot of tea and maybe we can talk about your dilemma.’

They had talked for hours and Devlin felt a great warmth rise within her when Caroline offered to accompany her to London. But she wouldn’t let her. Caroline worked as a saleswoman in a
large auctioneer’s firm and she could lose a lot of commission by being away as she was involved in selling an exclusive apartment complex just at that moment.

‘Really, Devlin! I insist,’ Caroline said in an unusually firm tone.

‘You don’t know how much that means to me,’ Devlin had replied quietly. ‘But honestly Caro, I don’t mind going by myself, it won’t be for long.’

‘Well if you’re sure . . .’ Caroline murmured doubtfully, ‘but if you get lonely when you’re over there ring me and I’ll fly over.’

‘Thanks Caro, I will,’ Devlin assured her gratefully.

Caroline insisted on going with her friend in the taxi to the airport and, hugging her hard at the entrance to the departure area, had whispered supportively, ‘Do whatever you think is
right for yourself, Dev, I’ll be here when you get back.’

As Devlin sat in the departure lounge waiting to board she acknowledged to herself that she had never until now given Caroline the chance to prove herself as a friend. In spite of her shyness
and timidity there was a solid core of integrity to Caroline. The words of Rudyard Kipling’s ‘The Thousandth Man’ flashed through her mind:

Caroline was her Thousandth Man alright and her support and friendship had certainly eased the pain and bitterness Devlin felt.

As the Aer Lingus 737 roared down the runway she felt a great knot of apprehension grip her. Now she was one of those yearly statistics she had read about, one of the thousands who had boarded
planes and ships on the abortion trip to England. How had all those other thousands of women felt as they began their journey to one of the most traumatic experiences of their lives? Did the tiny
little being in her have any idea of what was about to befall it? Would it feel anything? Would she feel anything?

She felt nausea rise in her throat and wondered what the suave executive type seated next to her would think if she puked all over him and his Gucci briefcase. He had been giving her the eye
since they entered the departure lounge almost simultaneously.

Determinedly ignoring her discomfort – and him – she stuck her head in her magazine and read all about the ‘new celibacy’ which was becoming the ‘in’ thing
and how to say ‘no’ without hurting your partner or hurting yourself.

Pity I hadn’t read this a month ago she thought. Flicking to her horoscope and finding the Scorpio piece she read ‘Follow your own intuition and you won’t go far wrong.
Finances will cause worry for a while but Scorpios are resourceful and it’s only a passing phase. Romance . . .’ Ha, thought Devlin, there’s no point in reading the rest but her
eye slid surreptitiously along the column: ‘Someone is on the periphery of your life who will cause great changes in you. Be patient.’

To her surprise the jet had begun its descent and she realized that they were making their approach to Heathrow. Idly she watched the glamorous hostesses in their elegant uniforms gliding up and
down the aisle. Did any of them suspect what she was going to do?

Don’t think about it she ordered herself. At least she could afford to fly. What about the poor unfortunates who had to come by boat and train? Although it wasn’t all unmarried women
who came on this particular journey. She had read a report in a magazine that said some married women came because they didn’t want or couldn’t afford more children. What a sorry mess
women get landed in, she reflected glumly. Men just haven’t a clue . . .

An hour later Devlin was getting out of a taxi at the address Colin had given her. While paying the cabbie she cast a longing eye at the spacious backseat. Oh God, if only she could drive around
London all day long in that soft comfortable seat.

‘Ta luv,’ the man said cheerfully, waiting for her to close the door. Reluctantly she did so. Did he know where he was bringing her? Had he brought many like her to this address? She
turned to the impressive row of Georgian houses that faced her. Squaring her shoulders she took a deep breath and stabbed at the doorbell with her forefinger. A disembodied voice came floating over
her head and hastily she gave her name over the intercom.

The door slowly glided open and as she stepped into a luxuriously carpeted foyer, it slid gently closed behind her with an ominous click. Feeling utterly trapped she had a wild desire to grab
her case and run but she fought down the impulse and forced herself in the direction of the room marked ‘Reception.’ A brisk, efficient lady in her mid-forties greeted her and urged her
to take a seat. ‘Doctor will be ready for you shortly,’ she informed Devlin in a high pitched sing-song voice. She swallowed, her mouth dry, her heart palpitating. She wished the piped
music would go away. She found it irritating, reminiscent of funeral music almost.

Jesus, Devlin, will you stop it! she thought savagely, her nails digging into her palms. Her heart was beating so loud she was sure Sing-song could hear it but the woman gave no sign of being
aware of her distress, just carried on typing briskly, back ramrod straight, wrists at the right angle over her keyboard. Is that what I’m like at work? Devlin thought in dismay, wondering
how many palpitating women had sat in the same room as her of whose distress she had been completely unaware, too caught up in her own little world.

‘Doctor will see you now, dear,’ Sing-song announced quite kindly and, catching her eye, Devlin saw a glimpse of compassion. She was led into a sparsely but tastefully furnished
office where a man in his middle fifties stood behind an exquisite carved desk. He was small, dapper, and expensively dressed.

‘Sit down please, Miss Delaney.’ He motioned her to take a seat.

‘Now . . . my colleague Mr Cantrell-King has referred you to me for a termination, isn’t that so?’ He spoke calmly in his rather aristocratic English accent, his fingers joined
together like a steeple, his eyes observing her through his bifocals.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was low.

‘He tells me there will be severe mental trauma should this operation not go ahead. Hmmm?’

‘Yes.’ This time her voice was an octave lower.

‘You are certain this is what you want?’ he probed, bending his long slender fingers that held her eyes in an almost hypnotic gaze.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly for the third time.

‘I see.’ His eyes never left her face and she felt a prickly heat beginning to suffuse her skin.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ve given the matter a great deal of thought – and you’ve received counselling of course?’ She saw his eyebrows rise in interrogation.

‘Yes,’ she almost hissed impatiently, although she felt an inane desire to laugh. Counselling. What a joke! To counsel somebody about abortion was illegal in Ireland and Colin had no
more discussed any other options with her than the man in the moon. Her mother had urged her to go to London, anxious to have the matter finished with. The only counselling she had had was from
Katie and Caro. Oh why couldn’t this ordeal be soon over, why couldn’t this irritating man do what he had to do and stop annoying her?

The doctor was getting up out of his chair. ‘I just want to do a quick examination before I refer you to my colleague. You need the signatures of two doctors. I’m sure Mr
Cantrell-King told you all this.’ Devlin nodded; she wasn’t going to say ‘yes’ again. Colin had briefly explained the procedure and she knew that had she not said she had
been counselled the abortion wouldn’t be performed.

‘Fine. I’ll give you the address of the clinic. You can check in this evening. They are expecting you.’ He indicated his examining room where a uniformed nurse was waiting to
assist her. Undressing, she lay on the hard white-sheeted couch and the nurse helped position her legs. As Devlin felt the doctor begin his examination her body tensed and she heard him murmur,
‘Gently now, relax.’

Those long slender fingers were probing and examining between her parted legs and she wished mightily that it could have been a woman doctor. She couldn’t help her feelings of distaste and
violation as this small immaculate stranger pried and probed up her vagina. For an awful moment she thought she was going to fart and almost giggled nervously as she remembered Katie’s stock
phrase whenever someone was unfortunate enough to break wind in company. ‘Tis a poor arse that never rejoiced!’ she would declare good naturedly. If only Katie was here with her now.
With superhuman effort she managed to contain herself and, red-cheeked, she allowed the nurse to help her down from the couch. Peeling off his rubber gloves the doctor instructed her to dress and
come out to his office.

Again he sat steeple-fingered at his desk. ‘Good! Well now, I foresee no complications arising. We’ll keep you in for twenty-four hours after the operation in case anything untoward
should occur. I would also suggest that you receive some post-termination counselling if you feel you need it. I’m sure Mr Cantrell-King will arrange it.’ Standing up, he held out his
hand. ‘The anaesthetist will most likely examine you tonight. Until tomorrow then.’ Devlin took the proffered hand, cool, slender, almost feminine, and felt a shudder of revulsion go
through her. She couldn’t take to him at all and found the idea of him fiddling with her insides quite nauseating.

‘Er . . . what about your fee?’ she asked almost rudely. He looked surprised.

‘Ah . . . Colin . . . Mr Cantrell-King,’ he corrected himself, ‘told me to forward the bill to him. He’s taking care of it from his end, I gather.’ The tone was
even more aristocratic.

Humiliated, face scarlet, Devlin turned away and left the room.

She spent the next three hours walking disconsolately around the streets of London. She had taken the tube into Oxford Street but even the myriad displays of fashion could not distract her.
Aimlessly she ambled around, her feet aching, her head throbbing. A big healthy-looking pregnant woman coming in the opposite direction and holding hands with her husband compounded her misery. The
woman looked so glowing and vital and happy that Devlin couldn’t bear to watch. Turning her head she stared unseeingly into a boutique until the couple had gone past. Wearily she headed for a
small dimly lit café where she sank into a chair to relax her tired body. After tea and a salad roll Devlin felt somewhat refreshed and glancing at her watch she saw with some surprise that
it was almost three thirty. She couldn’t face the tube again; the trains slamming in and out, and the crowds rushing up and down the escalators exhausted her. The sheer pace of London did not
suit her mood of lethargy and ennui at this moment so giving in to herself, she hailed a passing taxi and gave the address of the clinic.

It was in the outer suburbs, a big rambling house set in its own grounds. Devlin could see several patients strolling around or sitting in the hot August sun. Lifting a damp lock of hair from
her forehead she sighed deeply, feeling sticky and very tired. She paid the cabbie and entered the foyer with leaden steps. This was it! There was no going back.

Within minutes, details had been taken and entered into her chart. The second doctor had spoken briefly with her and it was almost a replica of her conversation with the consultant that morning.
Then her bag was taken from her and she was led upstairs to a small but comfortably furnished room overlooking the grounds.

‘I’m sure you’d like a shower, luv,’ the motherly Cockney nurse said, handing her a hospital gown. ‘Put that on. Mrs Harrison will want to examine you later.’
She directed her to the bathroom down the hall and hastily Devlin stripped out of her sweat-stained travel-crumpled clothes and stood under the warm refreshing cascade of water.

Later, sitting by the window in her room she eyed the crisply made up bed. The idea of getting into it didn’t appeal to her one whit. She wasn’t sick, after all . . . just unwantedly
pregnant. But a sharp knock at the door sent her hopping into its hard embrace and she called out to the person to come in. A sullen-faced girl came into the room with a tea tray and said
brusquely, ‘After this you’ll be fasting, Nurse told me to remind you.’ She dumped the tray on Devlin’s meal trolley and left the room as abruptly as she had entered it.

Devlin eyed the tray, deeply unmoved at the sight that greeted her. A poached egg wobbled watery and unappetizing on a piece of toast. A slice of paper-thin brown bread and a currant bun
completed the meal. Her appetite vanished instantly. Pouring herself a cup of tea she sat forlorn in the strange hard bed wishing that the bright sun streaming in through her window would give way
to the coolness of evening, yet dreading the night that lay before her. Her dark night of the soul, she reflected, wallowing in her melancholy humour. Somebody laughed outside her door and she
found herself tensing. How dared people laugh! Didn’t they realize the trauma she was going through? And whose fault is that? Trust her little voice to intervene. Nobody forced you to have
sex. Nobody is forcing you to have an abortion.

‘Oh shut up!’ she snapped aloud and felt quite foolish. Honestly, there were days when she thought she was schizo. The sullen one arrived to collect the tray and gave an annoyed
sniff as she saw the untouched food.