Harriet (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

    IT was only after a month that Harriet started to worry - but it was a worry that was nothing compared with losing Simon. Another week slipped by, then one evening she washed her hair and put on a black dress of Susie’s that she’d never been able to get into before, but which now hung off her, and went to see Simon. She waited in the cold till Borzoi had gone out, almost biting her lip through as she watched Simon kiss her in the doorway. Then Borzoi drove off with a roar, and Simon went back into the house. He took a long time to answer the doorbell. For a minute she gazed at him close up; he was after all only a face. How could he have caused her so much unhappiness? Then suddenly all the old longing came flooding back.

    ‘Hullo,’ he said, hardly seeming to recognize her. ‘Oh it’s you,’ he added politely. ‘What can I do for you?’

    ‘Can I come in?’

    He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going out in a second.’

    ‘I don’t want to hassle you, but it’s important.’

    ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed. ‘Well, you’d better come in.’

    The room was in chaos. There were ashtrays full of stubs everywhere and finger-smeared tumblers, and cups full of old wet coffee grounds. Clothes, everything from fur coats to party dresses, lay piled high on every chair.

    ‘Tidiness has never been Borzoi’s strong point,’ said Simon, picking some dead flowers out of their vase and throwing them dripping into the ashes of the fireplace. ‘Thank God the char’s coming in the morning,’

    He put a cigarette in his mouth - not offering her one. ‘Well,’ he said, noticing her red-rimmed eyes. ‘How are things? You’ve lost a lot of weight. Been dieting?’

    Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Simon, I’m pregnant.’

    The match flared. Simon breathed in deeply. The end of the cigarette glowed. He threw the match into the fire.

    ‘Are you sure?’

    ‘Yes, I had the results of the test yesterday.’

    ‘But you were on the pill.’

    ‘I know; but I’d only just started taking it, and the night we first w-went to bed together, I was in such a state beforehand I think I may have forgotten to take it.’

    ‘Bloody little fool,’ said Simon, but not unkindly. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’

    She looked up horrified, her eyes full of tears.

    ‘Oh yes, there’s never been anyone else.’

    ‘What about Jeremy or Gordon, or whatever he was called.’

    ‘Geoffrey? Oh no, I couldn’t. I didn’t…’

    She started to cry.

    ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Simon. She was aware only of the terrible boredom in his voice. She might have been some mild inconvenience, a button off his shirt, a pair of dark glasses left in a taxi.

    He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

    ‘Well, you’d better go to London as soon as possible, and see Dr. Wallace.’

    ‘What for?’

    ‘To get rid of it of course.’

    ‘B-but I couldn’t.’

    ‘It’s not dangerous any more, darling. You don’t want to listen to any of those old wives’ tales. Dr. Wallace is a pro. They just suck it out with a Hoover these days.’

    Harriet winced.

    ‘Borzoi’s been to him twice,’ said Simon. ‘So have Chloe and Deirdre and Anne-Marie and Henrietta. Honestly, he ought to give me a discount the number of birds I’ve sent to him.’

    ‘But I don’t want…’ Harriet began.

    ‘You might feel a bit depressed afterwards, but it’s the end of term next week, so you can go home and recuperate.’

    ‘But it’ll be so expensive. I don’t want to rip you off.’

    ‘Oh don’t worry about that, darling; I’ll treat you. I’m not that much of a sod. Do you mind Nescafé? Borzoi insists on making real coffee, but it’s so disgusting, and I can never get the coffee grounds out of my teeth.’

    He poured boiling water into two cups and handed one to her.

    ‘If you like,’ he went on, putting two saccharine into his cup, ‘I’ll ring old Wallace now, and fix you up an appointment. The old bags on the switchboard give people they don’t know rather a hard time.’

    The scalding coffee burnt her throat but seemed to give her strength.

    ‘Would you mind terribly if I kept it?’

    ‘Oh be realistic, angel. You of all people are simply not out to be a one-parent family. I know people keep their babies, but they have a bloody awful time, unless they’re rich enough to afford a lover and a nanny.’

    Harriet sat in Dr. Wallace’s waiting-room feeling sick, thumbing feverishly through the same magazine, watching girls go in and out. Some looked pale and terrified like herself, others obviously old timers, chatted together and might have been waiting for an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Two models embraced in the doorway.

    ‘Fanny darling!’

    ‘Maggie!’

    ‘Friday morning - see if you can get booked in at the same time, and we can go in together.’

    Dr. Wallace was smooth, very suntanned from ski-ing and showed a lot of white cuff.

    ‘You’re certain you don’t want to get married and have the Ghild, Miss Poole? This is a big step you’re taking.’

    ‘He doesn’t want to marry me,’ whispered Harriet, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes. ‘But he’s perfectly happy to pay. I’ve got a letter from him here.’

    Dr. Wallace smiled as he looked at Simon’s royal blue writing paper.

    ‘Oh dear! Mr. Villiers again; quite a lad, isn’t he? One of our best customers.’

    Harriet went white. ‘Fond of him, were you? Shame, shame, boy’s got a lot of charm, but not ideal husband material, I wouldn’t say. You’re very young, plenty more fish in the sea. Not much fun bringing up a baby on your own, pity to ruin a promising academic career.’

    ‘I know,’ said Harriet listlessly.

    ‘Just got to get another doctor to sign the form. Will first thing Friday morning be all right for you? You’ll be out in the evening. There, there; don’t cry, it’ll be soon over.’

    Her last hope was her parents. She caught a train down to the country. As she arrived one of her mother’s bridge parties was just breaking up. Middle-aged women, buoyed up by a couple of gin and tonics were yelling goodbye to each other, banging car doors and driving off.

    Harriet noticed as she slunk up the path that the noisiest of all was Lady Neave, Susie’s mother-in-law.

    ‘Goodbye, Alison,’ she was saying, clashing her cheek against Harriet’s mother’s cheek with infinite condescension. ‘Great fun! We’re all meeting at Audrey’s next week, aren’t we, Audrey? Hullo,’ she added, suddenly seeing Harriet. ‘Are you down for the weekend? You must go over and see Peter and Susie. The new wallpaper in the drawing-room is such a success.’

    What a gauche child thought Lady Neave, as she drove the Humber off in a series of jerks, narrowly missing the blue gates at the bottom of the drive. One could hardly believe she came from the same family as Susie, who although not quite what the Neaves would have liked for their only son, knew her place and was shaping up as a nice little wife.

    Mrs. Poole, having made her farewells, found Harriet slumped in a chair in the kitchen, the cat purring on her knee. Why must the child look such a fright, she thought, that awful duffle coat with all the buttons missing, no makeup, hair unkempt. She was just like her father, always grubbing round in his silly old museum.

    ‘I wish you’d warned me,’ she said. ‘I’ve only got sausages for supper. Are you staying the night?’

    ‘Yes please,’ said Harriet.

    ‘That’ll be nice - just the two of us.’

    ‘Where’s Daddy?’

    ‘Away; gone to one of his dreary ceramics conferences.’ Harriet’s heart sank. Her father was the only person she could talk to.

    Her mother put some sausages on to fry, and started washing up.

    ‘These bridge fours have become a regular thing,’ she said, plunging glasses into soapy water. ‘Elizabeth Neave’s really a wonderful girl.’

    How could anyone over forty be described as a girl? thought Harriet.

    ‘She’s really bullying me to get a washing-up machine; she says they’re such a boon when one’s entertaining.’

    Harriet looked at the rubber gloves whisking round the hot suds - like surgeon’s hands, she thought in horror, sucking a baby out like a Hoover. The smell of frying sausages was making her sick. Out in the garden the wind was whirling pink almond blossom off the trees.

    Look at her just mooning out of the window, thought Mrs. Poole. Susie would have picked up a tea-towel and been drying up by now.

    ‘How’s the ‘varsity?’ she said. ‘You look very peaky. Have you been working too hard?’

    Harriet turned round:

    ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

    ‘What?’

    ‘Pregnant.’

    The rubber hands stopped, then suddenly started washing very fast.

    ‘How do you know?’

    ‘I had a test.’

    ‘It’s Geoffrey,’ said her mother in a shrill voice, ‘I never liked that boy.’

    ‘No it isn’t. It’s someone else.’

    ‘You little tart,’ hissed her mother.

    Then it all came flooding out, the hysterics, the tears, the after all we’ve done for yous, the way we’ve scrimped and saved to send you to university.

    ‘I knew this would happen with all those Bohemians with their long hair and petitions, and free love,’ shouted her mother. ‘It’s all your father’s fault. He wanted you to go so badly. Where did we go wrong with you? What will the Neaves say?’

    On and on, round and round, repeating the same arguments with relentless monotony.

    Harriet sat down. The cat, no respecter of crisis, rubbed against her legs, and then jumped on to her knee purring like a kettle drum.

    ‘Could you please turn those sausages off?’ said Harriet, suddenly overwhelmed with nausea.

    ‘What are you going to do about it?’ said her mother. ‘I suppose the young man’s ditched you.’

    ‘He doesn’t want to marry me, if that’s what you mean.’

    ‘He may have to,’ said her mother ominously.

    ‘Oh, Mummy, it’s the twentieth century,’ said Harriet.’Look, it meant something to me, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He doesn’t love me, but at least he’s given me the money for an abortion.’

    Her mother took the cheque. Her expression had the same truculent relief of people who have waited half an hour in the cold, and who at last see a bus rounding the corner.

    ‘Banks at Coutts, does he? Fancies himself I suppose. Isn’t it against the law?’

    ‘Not any more,’ said Harriet, ‘I went to a doctor this morning in London. It’s all above board; they’ll do it on Friday.’

    ‘It seems the best course,’ said her mother somewhat mollified. ‘The young man does seem to have his wits about him.’

    Harriet took a deep breath.

    ‘Do you really want me to go ahead with it? Wouldn’t it be better to keep the baby?’

    Her mother looked appalled, as though the bus had turned out to be ‘Private’ after all.

    ‘What ever for? Where could you keep it?’

    It was as though she was talking about a pet elephant, thought Harriet.

    ‘You can’t have it here,’ her mother went on. ‘Think what people would say - the Neaves for example. It’s not fair on Susie and Peter. Where would you live? You haven’t got any money.’

    ‘You thought it was all right when Amanda Sutcliffe had a baby,’ said Harriet.

    ‘Everyone knows Amanda Sutcliffe’s a bit potty. Those sort of girls are expected to get themselves into trouble. It seems callous, I know, but with your ‘varsity career and all that the only answer seems to be to get rid of it.’

    ‘It isn’t an "it", its a her or a him; it’s your grandchild,’ said Harriet in desperation. ‘You always wanted grandchildren.’

    ‘But in the proper way,’ said her mother, starting to cry. ‘What would everyone say?’

    ‘What does it matter?’ said Harriet, and, rushing out of the room, ran upstairs to her own room and threw herself down on the bed.

    Later her mother came up and sat on the bed and stroked her hair.

    ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you, darling. It’s just the shock. You must realize you can’t just have a baby. It’s a serious responsibility; having it’s only the beginning. A child needs a stable family, parents, financial support. Once Friday’s over, you’ll be able to carry on with your life. You know how heartbroken Daddy will be if you don’t get a degree. You need a holiday. We might all go to the Lakes this vac. I know you’ve always wanted to see Wordsworth’s cottage.’ She was smoothing her shoulder lightly but firmly now as though she were making pastry. Harriet found it dimly touching that her mother was trying to be nice, but only dimly. Since Simon had gone she found it very difficult tc react to anything normally. She came down and watched television with her mother, who later said she was tired and went to bed. Harriet sat dry-eyed and stared at the horror movie which was about a huge tarantula spider. She hardly realized that the spider had been replaced by a vicar talking about resignation:

    ‘For everything there is a season,’ he began in his thin reedy voice.

    And it reminded her so much of Simon that tears suddenly spurted out of her eyes. Growing inside her was the only thing of Simon’s she had left. It was at that moment she decided to keep the baby.

Part Two

CHAPTER EIGHT

    MRS. HASTINGS closed the box file with a snap.

    ‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you, Miss Poole,’ she said. Harriet felt desperation sweeping over her.

    ‘But there must be something!’ she said. ‘I’ll do any kind of work, as long as it’s living in.’

    ‘You said that last time, Miss Poole, before you took that post with Mr. Widnell.’

    ‘I know I did. I’m sorry.’

    Mrs. Hastings examined her long red nails, as though she’d just enjoyed tearing some animal apart.

    ‘I should have thought a girl with your background, Miss Poole, would know how to keep a man like Mr. Widnell at a distance. But I suppose keeping men at a distance isn’t quite your forte, is it?’

    Harriet clenched her hands together. She could feel the sweat rising on her forehead. Keep calm, she told herself. Don’t shout at her - it won’t do any good.

    ‘You must have something,’ she repeated. ‘I mean we won’t survive unless I get a job.’

    Mrs. Hastings’s neon smile flashed on again. ‘You should have thought about that before you left Mr. Widnell in such a hurry. Come back on Monday.’

    Harriet was about to plead with her when the telephone rang. Mrs. Hastings picked it up.

    ‘Mr. Erskine? Oh, not again! All right, put him through.’ Her voice turned to honey. ‘Hullo, Mr. Erskine. How’s it all going?’

    There was a pause. ‘None of them will do? But I must have sent nearly a dozen girls along to see you. Well, yes… I fully appreciate your going to France tomorrow, Mr. Erskine, but what can I do? I’ve sent all my best girls along…

    ‘What about my worst girls? We don’t have any of that sort on our books!’

    Suddenly, her eyes lit on Harriet. ‘Just a minute, Mr. Erskine.’ Her tone became conciliating. ‘How would you feel about a girl who’s - I might say - rather tragically placed?’

    Harriet squirmed with mortification.

    ‘What sort of circumstances?’

    The red-nailed hand rearranged the cacti on the desk. ‘Well, I have a Miss Poole on my books who has a young baby… no, quite by chance she’s not married. You’ll see her?’ The neon smile was really flashing now. ‘Marvellous! You’ll find her a charming person. Very quiet and refined, not at all the type you’d expect. She drives a car, cooks, she’s got a degree in English, lots of experience with children.’

    She waved away Harriet’s exclamation of protest.

    ‘All right, Mr. Erskine, I’ll pop her in a taxi right away.’

    She put down the receiver.

    ‘Well, Miss Poole, you’re in luck. That was Cory Erskine.’

    ‘The writer?’

    Mrs. Hastings nodded.

    ‘I love his books,’ said Harriet.

    ‘He’s obviously better at writing than getting it together with people,’ said Mrs. Hastings. ‘His marriage has just come unstuck.’

    ‘Unstuck?’ said Harriet in amazement. ‘But he’s married to Noel Balfour, isn’t he? They’re always being held up as a model couple. She keeps being interviewed in magazines on how to keep one’s husband happy.’

    ‘No one,’ said Mrs. Hastings sourly, ‘could keep Mr. Erskine happy. He’s one of the most difficult men I’ve ever had to deal with. You won’t get the job but, if by some miracle he does offer it to you, mind you take it. People in your position can’t afford to be choosy. And do smarten yourself up before you go round there, and try to be a little bit more positive. His address is Number Nine, Chiltern Street.’

    How can you smarten yourself up, thought Harriet dolefully, as she frantically combed her hair, when you’ve run out of cleansing cream, deodorant and eye make-up. When you can’t afford to get your shoes mended, and you’ve taken the sheen out of your hair washing it in soap powder.