Read She's Leaving Home Online
Authors: Edwina Currie
She's Leaving Home (48 page)
He swallowed hard. Was this what it meant, a modern woman? Did they all talk like this? Wasn’t he supposed to take the lead – with her demure and shrinking? Wasn’t she at the least going to
pretend
it was new and mysterious to her? She’d never been married, after all. He felt shocked to the core, but the excitement rose once more.
He had his back to the crowd and could sense gimlet eyes directed at his shoulder blades. In his shadow, much smaller than he, Vera could not as easily be observed.
‘Come on, Maurice,’ she murmured. With a sly movement she brushed her hand across his thigh, then back again, slowly. He froze and stared down at her in horror. Her voice seemed to come from the top of her curled head.
‘You’ve got what it takes, Maurice, I know you have. How about a trial run? No time like the present. Today. Tonight.’
Oh, God. He wanted to flee but everyone would see. If she carried on like that he’d have an erection in full view. Then even to walk would be a torture. ‘Stoppit,’ he hissed, and reluctantly she slid her hand away.
But he did not want to refuse. The skin where she had touched him glowed and tingled. Every hair on his arms and legs was aroused and he could feel with an astonishing intensity the weave of his suit move over his limbs. Darn it. She was so – what was the word? Sexy. Yes. Not the way his wife had been, so tiny, so pretty. Not the way of starlets in films, who sometimes made him lick his lips in the darkness. Not the way he’d imagined: in fact, come to think of it, he had never really put sex as one of his priorities when he had acquiesced in Sylvia’s schemes. Yet that was now on offer from Vera, and it was clear from the flush on her cheek that she expected a speedy response.
‘All right.’ He sighed heavily.
‘Great! When? Where? Your place or mine? My mother’s away for the holiday with my Auntie Minnie. Your choice,
chéri
.’
‘Not tonight.’ He held up a hand at her pout.
She twirled away from him. ‘I’m very good at it, Maurice. Your worries will vanish. You’ll be ringing Reverend Siegel to book the
chuppah
–’
‘Not tonight,’ Maurice Feinstein repeated firmly. It took some adjustment; he would have to think more carefully about the entire project and its next steps. He took her elbow and steered her back towards the safety of the throng. The
Tashlich
ceremony appeared to be over. ‘Maybe next weekend.’
From her expression Vera was about to object, so Feinstein bent and kissed her quickly on the lipsticked lips. She tried to entwine her arms round his neck but he stepped smartly back.
Then he forced himself. ‘And I shall look forward to it, Vera. Yes. I really shall.’
I heard it as I hurried down the street. I paused in front of a shop selling televisions. Pye and Marconi, the dearest twenty guineas. In the window several sets were switched on to demonstrate. The biggest was twenty-four inches across – it looked as vast as a cinema screen up close. You could see the red and green dots if you pressed your face to the window pane. They flickered at you, and left your retinas dazzled.
One TV had a piece about the Jewish New Year. Through the glass if I listened hard I could hear snatches of somebody prattling on about sin and atonement. An old man with wispy grey hair, his head covered in a funny white shawl with navy edges, raised the horn and blew. The commentator said it did not have to be a sheep’s horn, but it definitely couldn’t be a cow’s because of the Golden Calf which the Israelites worshipped as Moses descended the mountain, the Tablets of stone in his hands. Like it had only happened yesterday.
The old man was frail and everything about him seemed silvery and insubstantial. He had a dreamy air about him, but solemn, as if he believed he’d once glimpsed God. He looked as I imagine God must look. Pity nobody ever suggests that God could be female – that’d be blasphemous. Yet it’d be nicer when you prayed, sometimes. When you had to explain, or ask for guidance: there are lots of subjects you wouldn’t broach with a man. And you’d always worry that a male God would take the man’s point of view. That old bloke with the horn wouldn’t understand: he’d probably be a bit deaf, or condemn me, like Father O’Connor. His eyes’d flash fire and he’d command me to behave and sin no more. Too late for that. Too late.
Miss Plumb said go to the doctor. She wasn’t as on the ball as I’d hoped but she had a point. I couldn’t go to my own doctor. Wouldn’t have trusted him to deal with me straight, or to keep it to himself. The address was in the phone book. ‘Family Planning Association’, it said. I should have come earlier. ‘Pregnancy testing’. Somebody at school told me they were all women doctors, and kind. Wouldn’t yell at you or call you stupid or a whore.
I phoned. They told me to bring a sample taken early morning the moment I woke up, before breakfast. I had to wash out a jamjar with a lid. It was in my satchel. The whole day I was in a panic that somebody nosy would find it and make a fuss. Or that I’d drop it and smash it – the smell alone’d find me out. And why else would a girl be carting around a sample like that?
It was a lady doctor. She had gold hoop earrings and faint down on her upper lip, a dab of powder on her nose. She wore a white coat but loosely over a dress as if obliged to prove she’s properly qualified. She had me on the examination couch and felt around a bit, though I winced when she went inside, and she apologised for her cold hands. I told her I’m eighteen. She didn’t pester me about who it was. None of her business anyway. And given the result it doesn’t make much difference.
‘Your baby is well and healthy, as far as I can tell, Colette,’ she said. I’d told her my correct name; no reason why not, now. She has motherly eyes with crows’ feet as if when she’s not at work in the clinic she laughs a lot. She probably has a pleasant life. Maybe she has a daughter my age. ‘You’re about four months gone. That means you should register soon at the maternity hospital – I can give you a note.’
I didn’t say anything. She leaned forward but did not start to write. ‘You ought to attend ante-natal classes, you know. It’s not only the breathing exercises. They’ll check your blood pressure and weight each time you go, and tell you about proper diet so that both you and baby will be strong. And how to feed and care for him afterwards. It doesn’t come easily to any of us; motherhood has to be learned.’
Still I kept quiet. I couldn’t think what to say. She and I might have been on different planets for all the sense she was making. My fault, not hers: I wasn’t listening. I knew getting caught for a baby was a possibility, of course. But I could not wrap my head round what she had so calmly told me.
They’re not daft, though. She waited a moment to see if I was going to open my mouth, then very softly she spoke.
‘Colette, you’re not thinking of trying to get rid of it, are you? Because if you are, let me just make one or two points. Firstly it’s strictly illegal. We do not permit abortion in this country – not yet, anyway. There are people in the back streets of Liverpool wbo would do the operation for money – struck-off doctors mostly, or old crones who claim to be midwives. They use dirty instruments and have no idea how to prevent infection. It is highly dangerous – I cannot over-exaggerate: one wrong poke and they’ll perforate your bladder, or you’ll haemorrhage till you have to be admitted to hospital as an emergency. We still lose women like that every year. Butchers. They never remove everything either. The number of women I’ve seen ripped to shreds internally – well, my dear, that’s why I give two days a week to work here. I’d rather a thousand times you girls didn’t get pregnant to begin with if you’re not ready to have a baby and give it a good home.’
She talks about them as if they were puppies, I thought. I was numb.
‘So: shall I give you a note for the hospital?’ Her voice had become matter-of-fact once more.
I had to get out of there, so I nodded. She uncapped her pen and scribbled, glanced my way, found an envelope and put the note inside. The envelope had no mark on it, nothing to identify it. I took it and mumbled a word of thanks. She had done her best. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her problem.
Outside in the street I walked down a block then stood there like an idiot for ages. The lady doctor, this time without her white coat, came out, got into a small car parked at the kerb and drove off. She didn’t notice me with her envelope in my hand. She didn’t toot her horn or wave. I might have been invisible.
I don’t know what to do. I want to tear the letter up, and scream and shout, and yell to everybody: for God’s sake, help me. Maybe I should go to this ante-natal clinic, but I know I won’t – that’s the last thing I’d do.
Yet I can’t do nothing: the baby is there, and soon I’ll begin to feel him. Once he kicks he’ll be a person, not a condition. He’ll talk to me in the night and keep me awake. Already he’s a presence who insists on taking priority. I can’t concentrate. That’s why I fainted at the Philharmonic and made a fool of myself, but I told them it was ’flu, silly, and they accepted it.
Her and Miss Plumb. You’d think women would be easier to confide in, but not a bit of it. Nobody has any time. Nobody has any inkling. And for me, time is running out.
They met under the trees, in the shade of a gnarled oak which must have been two hundred years old, its craggy bark covered in ivy. She had chosen well: the spot was high up and airy. Figures could be seen in the distance on the far side of the lake, but here it was isolated, with the path a bit steep for casual strollers.
‘Hi – thanks for coming.’ As ever, Helen was slightly shy at their first contact. Michael bent and kissed her gently on the cheek, then guided her to a small hillock. He took off his leather jacket and they sat down on it, she with her legs curled under her.
‘My,’ he said, ‘you do look smart.’
Helen was wearing a green woollen suit, its boxy jacket with a round Chanel neck and velvet
trim, and a pretty blouse with a frill for the collar. New shoes, stockings, a pair of leather gloves completed the ensemble. No handbag: to carry anything was forbidden.
She smiled sheepishly. ‘Best bib and tucker. I’m supposed to be a miniature version of my mother. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we kids could wear our own styles, and still be regarded as properly dressed? But no. My Dad offered to make me an outfit, but his always end up like a schoolmarm’s. I persuaded them to let me buy this one in Blackler’s.’
‘I like you best in that gingham dress. Makes you look so cute – mouth-watering.’ He ran his finger over her calf, up and down the fine stocking. She did not stop him.
‘Not posh enough for today. It is the holiest day in the entire calendar, bar only the Day of Atonement next week.’
‘Yeah, I heard the ram’s horn. What a weird sound! Doesn’t it make you tingle?’
She looked down. ‘Oh, yes. It’s a summons, and a reminder. To me it sounds like tears – all the murdered souls.’ He raised her head in a now typical gesture, his finger under her chin, to make her gaze directly at him. He saw her eyes were moist.
‘What is it, sweetheart?’ His voice was gentle.
‘Oh, Michael, what is to become of us? Here we are, skulking in a public place, nowhere to go. When I fell in love with you I thought you were – all right. Well, I thought you were Jewish. It was only afterwards I discovered you weren’t, but it doesn’t stop me loving you, not a bit. In fact, it probably makes me want you all the more.’ She stopped, confused, then continued in a lower voice so Michael had to strain to hear. ‘I feel wicked at times, for defying my parents, and for lying to them. Mr Mannheim – my father’s tailor – said I’d feel guilty and he is so right. Yet what else is there? I love you so much, and I’m certain you are worthy of that love. The more I know about you, the more sure I am of that.’
Michael took her hand and stroked it gently, then put her palm to his lips and kissed it. ‘It is a struggle for me to understand too, Helen, and to come to terms with,’ he responded. ‘You are still so young, and your parents have their duty. I’m close to my own parents – especially my Pa. I can grasp very easily the value of responsible parenthood, and appreciate it. If your parents didn’t care about you, they would lay down no rules, take no interest in your welfare. But they do.’
She was silent and he could see that her eyes were misty. ‘Look at the dangers I pose, dear Miss Majinsky,’ he spoke wryly. ‘I’m a foreigner, scion of a foreign power, virtually – despite the friendly rhetoric – in occupation in your country. No doting father would welcome such a stranger. And I’m not from the faith, so I pose a double threat, though I can’t say I admire such attitudes.’
‘You’re a man, that’s the biggest problem,’ Helen whispered. ‘When I’m with you, I don’t feel as if there’s a five-year gap between us, but it’s obvious from your – your size and appearance, that you’re no kid, no pushover, and that my relationship with you must be an adult one.’ A rueful laugh broke from her. ‘I’ve often wondered what kind of man my Dad might prefer for me, but I’ve never been able to form a clear picture. If my chosen spouse were an accountant only interested in profit and loss, or a shy teacher, Dad would despise him at heart – he’d want me to marry a bigger, stronger personality. More like himself, I suppose – or as he was years ago. But if I picked a forceful character he’d fight, almost instinctively. He’d fight me being taken over by somebody else – by another man, by an equal.’
Michael frowned slightly. ‘He’d not be the first father to love his daughter so much that nobody would be good enough for her. Those rivalries are well documented. And knowing you, sweet Helen, I can see perfectly why he should want the best for you. Here, come nearer.’
She curled herself at his side, with his arm about her. In the distance a small crowd had gathered at the lakeside and appeared to be throwing something in, together. She had forgotten about
Tashlich
when she sent the note, but she and Michael were too far away to be recognised. The dumpy figure in the black robe must be Reverend Siegel. To distract herself, she explained the ancient
ceremony, which made Michael laugh out loud.
