The Bridesmaid Pact (21 page)

Beth

Matt came back eventually. He had to. Someone needed to get me home. We didn’t speak all the way back. I guess we were both too wrung out. When we got in, Matt did at least settle me on the sofa and try to make me comfortable, but his manner was so cold and he appeared so distant from me, I’d rather he hadn’t been there. The only thing he did say was, ‘How did you do it without your parents finding out? I take it they don’t know.’

‘Of course they don’t know,’ I said. ‘They’d never have understood. Caz helped me. I couldn’t have done it without her.’

‘Great, so everyone knew apart from me.’ I couldn’t work out what was angering Matt the most, the fact that I’d had an abortion, or the fact that I hadn’t told him.

‘It was just Caz,’ I said. ‘I’ve never told anyone else. I wanted to tell you…’ My voice trailed off when I saw the cold look on his face, there was no point talking to him in this mood, none at all.

Matt disappeared into the kitchen and banged pots about angrily while I lay looking up at the ceiling, silent tears pouring down my cheeks. Finally my sins had come back to haunt
me. I deserved this. And I deserved Matt’s opprobrium. I had ruined everything.

I must have fallen asleep because I was woken by the doorbell. Groggily, I looked at the clock; it was nearly 9 p.m. Who could be visiting at this time of the evening? I could hear Matt talking to someone, then I heard him say, ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea—’ before someone came rushing through the door. It was Caz. The last person I wanted to see.

‘Oh Beth,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She proffered a rather wilted bunch of flowers. ‘These were all I could find. I came over the minute Dorrie rang me. She sends her love and will come and see you tomorrow.’

I felt an overwhelming sense of rage. How dare she come here offering apologies and flowers? If it hadn’t been for Caz, I wouldn’t have had the abortion. And I’d have had at least one child. A tiny part of me knew I was being unfair, but I felt gripped by the blackest mood I’d ever experienced.

‘
You’re
sorry?’ I said bitterly. ‘Not as sorry as I am. Matt, why did you let her in? I don’t want to see Caz ever again.’

Caz looked as if I’d punched her in the stomach.

‘This clearly isn’t a good time,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Yes, you do that,’ I said. ‘It’s partly your fault I might never have a baby. I really wish you’d never interfered in my life. You’re poison. You destroy everything you touch.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ stammered Caz.

I looked away, but Matt filled in the gaps.

‘We’ve just found out that the abortion you persuaded Beth to have all those years ago may have caused her miscarriage. It also might mean she never carries full-term. I think you’d better go.’

‘I thought I was helping you,’ said Caz. ‘I only meant it for the best.’

She got up and walked out. I turned over and faced the wall. I’d lost my baby, my husband and my friend all in the same day. Things couldn’t get any worse.

‘Sure, and you’ll never get on if you sit around moping all day.’ Mum descended on me like a ton of bricks. She’d been really patient with me for the first week, but I could tell her patience was wearing thin.

‘Will you look at this place? It could do with a good spring clean. You’ve been letting things go. And you in your dressing gown at this time of the afternoon.’

It was true, the place was in a mess. Normally I’d have been horrified by the state it was in, I loved to keep the house pristine, but I had no energy or inclination to do anything other than look at the TV. My whole life was in a shambles, why should I care about the state of the house?

Weakly I tried to protest, but Mum was having none of it.

‘Will you get upstairs and have yourself a bath and a hair wash. Then you can get yourself dressed. You’ll never be enticing Matthew again if you look like that.’

I didn’t mention that Matt had been sleeping on the sofa ever since I came out of the hospital and there was a fair chance that even if we got through this – and it was a big, big if – we might never conceive a child together. Mum was unstoppable in this mood, and it felt soothing to have someone else take control.

By the time I got downstairs, she’d been through the house like a whirlwind, tidying up dirty cups, plumping up cushions, dusting, restoring my little dream house to its normal state of domestic perfection.

‘Right, now let’s have a nice cup of tea,’ she declared. ‘Everything feels better after a cup of tea.’

She plonked a steaming cup of very hot sugared tea in front of me. I didn’t like to tell her I normally drank herbal.

‘Strong enough to stand a spoon in,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Just the way Nana O’Rourke used to like it.’

I smiled at the memory. Nana O’Rourke’s capacity to drink gallons of nearly black tea was part of the family mythology.

‘You know, it seems like the end of the world right now,’ said Mum thoughtfully, ‘and believe you me, the pain never quite leaves you, but there will be another baby, you’ll see.’

‘What would you know about that?’ I said savagely, gearing myself up for some lecture full of platitudes about Jesus sending us only the troubles we could deal with.

‘Have you never wondered why there was such a big gap between you and your brother?’ Mum said.

I must confess I’d never given much thought to why there were five years between James and me.

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘The Good Lord saw fit to take three little ones away before he blessed me with you,’ said Mum, a shadow passing over her face. ‘They were five painful years, Elizabeth but your dad and I got through them, and then we were given you, and though I’ve never forgotten the loss and pray for those babies every night, your arrival healed some of that pain.’

I was stunned. ‘I had no idea.’

‘You had no need to,’ said Mum. She took my hand. ‘And pet, you must stop your fretting and look to the future. Because once you hold that baby in your arms, this will become a thing of the past. You’ll see.’

I couldn’t tell her I might have blown my one chance of
getting pregnant. So I squeezed her hand and said, ‘Thanks Mum.’ Only time would tell if she was right.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what Mum had said. Maybe there was hope for the future after all. Doris and Sarah came to see me a couple of times and I thought about the problems they had in their lives, particularly Doris, and it made me realize I wasn’t alone with my troubles. At least I still had my health, unlike poor Dorrie. And if Matt could only find a way of forgiving me, maybe we could still have a happy life together. Perhaps we could even adopt.

I was feeling better enough to venture out of the house, so I took a bus over to Mum’s. One good thing about the miscarriage was that I recently felt closer to her. It was nice to know someone understood what I was going through.

On the way to Mum’s I couldn’t help thinking about my childhood and one thing in particular kept coming back. The thought that I could seek forgiveness for what I’d done.

Which is how I found myself getting off the bus two stops early and walking down the High Street to St Philomena’s. As I stepped into the back of the church I felt myself relax. It was so familiar, safe, comforting. Unlike the other girls, I’d never quite been able to let go of my Catholicism. It was in my blood and I badly wanted to believe in it. But I’d also spent too many years thinking I didn’t deserve to. It was time I put that right.

‘Can I help you?’ Father Miserecordie, who I remembered from the funeral, came striding up the aisle.

‘Would you…could you hear my confession, Father?’ I said.

‘Well normally we hold the sacrament of reconciliation
on Saturday evening, but I am getting the feeling you can’t wait that long.’

‘You could say that,’ I said.

‘We could sit right here if you like,’ he said. ‘Or if you prefer, I can go and hide my face from you.’

‘Well you’ve seen what I look like now,’ I said. I felt remarkably at ease, considering I barely knew him, but Father Miserecordie was so kind and easy to talk to.

Father Miserecordie blessed his stole and put it round his neck, and then said, ‘Would you like to begin?’

‘Oh gosh, this is awkward,’ I began. ‘It’s so long ago, I’ve forgotten the words.’

‘Never mind the right words,’ he said. ‘Use the words that come naturally to you.’

I sat silently for a few minutes before stumbling, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s fifteen years since my last confession.’

I’d tried to talk to the university chaplain about my abortion but he’d been so unsympathetic, I’d never been back since. I swallowed hard. What would this lovely man think of me?

‘Father, I’ve done something terribly wrong,’ I said. ‘When I was twenty-one I got pregnant. The boy concerned said it wasn’t his and refused to support me. I was lost and confused and didn’t know where to turn.’

‘You must have felt very alone,’ prompted Father Miserecordie. ‘Couldn’t you have talked to your mother?’

‘You’ve met my mother,’ I said. ‘No, I couldn’t have talked to her.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Oh god, I’m so ashamed,’ I whispered. ‘I had an abortion.’

There was a pause.

‘You must think me very wicked,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ said Father Miserecordie. ‘I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you find your way back to God. You did something that the Church teaches us is wrong, all life is sacred. But you were very young and vulnerable, and I sense that you have been punished for this ever since.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I was sobbing now. ‘I’ve never stopped regretting it but I couldn’t have had a baby, not then. And now I’ve lost a baby and it’s my fault. I think God is punishing me for what I’ve done.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘God is a loving, forgiving God. He hates the sin, not the sinner. So long as you truly repent, He will forgive you. Do you truly repent?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Can you remember your act of contrition?’ said Father Miserecordie.

I stumbled through a half-remembered formula from my school days and Father Miserecordie lifted his hand above my head and said, ‘Then by the power invested in me by the Almighty, I absolve you of your sins, go in peace and sin no more.’

I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders.

‘What should my penance be, Father?’ I said.

‘I think you’ve been doing your penance for the last fifteen years,’ he said. ‘Go in peace and accept God’s blessing.’

I thanked him and got up and left. I felt so much better. Now I’d finally forgiven myself, maybe I could get Matt to forgive me too.

Sarah

‘How are you doing?’ I asked Beth as she, Dorrie and I walked into Caffè Nero on Northfield High Street. It being the school holidays, Maggie had kindly offered to take the boys off my hands, and I was relishing the unfamiliar freedom. When we’d been younger, a downmarket Wimpy had stood on this site. How things changed. Where once there’d been a drab seventies precinct, now stood a new range of shops offering exotic goods our teenage selves could only have dreamed of. I was glad I lived near enough to come mooching about when the kids were at school. It gave me something to do on days when I felt I couldn’t cope.

Dorrie and I frequented Caffè Nero most weeks. We’d been getting worried that Beth was becoming apathetic while on leave from work, so had persuaded her to join us. Both of us were still reeling from the shock of hearing about her abortion. I wish she’d told us earlier, I felt like we’d let her down.

‘I’m getting there,’ said Beth. ‘Don’t laugh, both of you, but I went to confession.’

‘Well, frankly I’ve always thought that was cheaper than seeing a therapist,’ said Dorrie, who’d thoughtfully left Woody with her mum for the morning. ‘Did it help?’

‘Yes,’ said Beth. ‘At least I don’t feel guilty any more about the abortion. And I think I’m beginning to accept that it’s not my fault we can’t have babies.’

‘How are things with Matt?’ I said.

‘He’s still sleeping on the sofa,’ said Beth. ‘He won’t talk to me at all. It’s like he’s shut me out. I can’t blame him really, but I wish he’d at least be angry with me. This not showing any emotion at all is so hard to deal with.’

‘He’ll come round in time,’ I said. ‘You’ll see.’

‘I hope so,’ said Beth giving me a sad smile. Then in an effort to cheer herself up, she said, ‘Sorry I’m wittering on about my crap. How are you both?’

‘Getting there,’ I said. ‘Steve’s pretty much moved out now and I’ve got a job interview at the local GP’s surgery. Steve’s mum’s offered to help with childcare. I think she feels a bit guilty that her son’s behaved so badly.’

‘Don’t knock it,’ said Dorrie. ‘When I went back to work for those three months after Woody was born, it would have been a nightmare if Mum and Darren’s mum hadn’t helped out.’

‘I’m really glad things are picking up for you,’ said Beth.

‘Now all we need is to get you hitched up with Joe,’ said Dorrie briskly.

‘I think that’s a really bad idea,’ I said blushing. ‘It would be seriously weird.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Dorrie. ‘It says in the Bible that a man may marry his brother’s wife.’

‘I think you’ll find that the brother has to be dead first,’ I said.

‘I still bet you want to,’ said Dorrie.

I blushed again, thinking about Joe’s kiss.

‘You little hussy,’ said Dorrie. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Go on, give us all the goss.’

‘It was nothing,’ I said.

‘Right, so something
has
happened. But it was nothing,’ said Dorrie, raising a knowing eyebrow.

‘All right, it might have been something,’ I said. ‘Last time I saw him, Joe kissed me.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Dorrie. ‘So now what?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It was a mistake. He’s my brother-inlaw. It stops there.’

‘Shame,’ said Beth. ‘I always thought Joe was really cute.’

‘And I always knew you’d married the wrong brother,’ said Dorrie.

‘One Day My Prince Will Come’ suddenly trilled out from a mobile.

‘Yours, I take it?’ I said to Dorrie.

‘Yup,’ she said grinning.

‘Oh, hi Caz, what’s up?’ I felt Beth stiffen beside me. She hadn’t said much about what had happened, but I’d heard from Caz she’d been pretty upset and didn’t want to see Caz again. I was racking my brains to work out how to effect a reconciliation before the wedding, because Dorrie had been distraught when she found out. But being Dorrie, she hadn’t wanted to upset Beth by bringing it up.

‘You’re joking,’ Dorrie said. ‘And there’s really no way we can use the place? Did they say anything about our deposit? Right. Thanks for letting me know. It’s OK, it’s not your fault.’

She snapped her phone shut.

‘Damn, damn and double damn,’ she said. ‘That was Caz. The hotel has only gone and double booked. We’re getting married in a month, and we’ve got nowhere to hold our wedding.’

She put her head in her hands, and started to cry.

‘Oh sod it,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going wrong. Why does everything have to go so awfully wrong?’

I’d never seen her so despairing. We tried to comfort her. Suddenly our troubles seemed like nothing compared to Dorrie’s.

‘Something will turn up, Dorrie,’ I said. ‘Come on, it’s not like you to give up.’

‘I’ve not got a venue and thanks to Beth and Caz’s row—’ Beth looked a little guilty at this, ‘—I won’t have bridesmaids. Darren’s putting his head in the sand about my condition. I just feel like giving up.’

‘Don’t say that,’ I said. ‘You never give up. It’s not in your nature.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Dorrie raised bleak eyes to mine. ‘I’m really beginning to wonder.’

Later, Beth left us to go and visit her mum.

‘I may as well, now I’m out,’ she said. ‘And it beats sitting at home looking at four walls.’

Not having to get back for the boys just yet, I offered to fetch Woody with Doris and go back to her house to help her ring round to find a new venue. It was an impossible task so close to the wedding day. And it wasn’t being helped by Dorrie’s loss of interest in the whole thing.

‘What’s the point?’ she kept saying. ‘I don’t even know why Darren still wants to marry me. I’ll be a cripple before long and he’ll soon tire of me.’

‘Dorrie, you have to stop this,’ I said. ‘I know you’re going through a difficult time, but you have to think of Darren and Woody.’

‘Believe me,’ said Dorrie, ‘I think of nothing else. They’d both be better off without me.’

‘That’s a ridiculous thing to say,’ I said.

‘Is it?’ I said. ‘How can I be a proper wife to Darren if I end up in a wheelchair? And how will Woody feel in five years’ time, when his mum is the one at the school gates on sticks? I just look at them both and it rips my heart out. I can’t do this to them.’

‘Don’t say that,’ I said. ‘This just isn’t you talking.’

‘Maybe it’s the new me,’ said Dorrie. ‘I hate what I’m becoming. Not just physically, but mentally. I saw what MS did to Mum and Dad. I can’t bear the thought of that happening to me and Daz, and I resent it. Why me? It’s not fair.’

‘No,’ I said, pausing for a moment. ‘It’s bloody well not fair. In fact, it’s so bloody unfair, I feel like screaming along with you.’

That elicited a small smile, so I continued, ‘Do you fancy a doughnut to take your mind off things for five minutes? I bought them specially. Seems a shame to waste them.’

‘Oh Sarah,’ Doris burst out laughing, ‘I do sound like a right old misery bag, don’t I? I’ll be amazed if Darren doesn’t divorce me after a week at this rate.’

‘Now you
know
that will never happen,’ I said. ‘But that’s better. Come on, Dorrie. You’re the bravest and the best of us. I wish to God this wasn’t happening to you, but it is. So you have to find a way through.’

‘You’re right,’ said Dorrie. ‘I know you’re right. I just keep thinking that maybe there’s an alternative.’

‘Like what?’ I said.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Dorrie.

She got up to see to Woody, and as she did so knocked
some papers on the floor. I went to pick them up.
Die the dignified way
.
Your right to die
. Leaflet after leaflet proposing euthanasia. Surely Doris couldn’t be thinking of this as a viable option? I didn’t know what to say.

‘Doris, you can’t be serious?’ I was trying to remain calm, but inside I was screaming. I’d had no idea that Dorrie felt so bad about what was happening to her. Surely she couldn’t be contemplating this?

‘Oh those. I just picked them up somewhere.’ Doris seemed vague. She shoved the leaflets under some other paper. ‘I’m just looking at all options. Nothing’s certain.’

She seemed distracted and I wanted to press her further, but I sensed her closing up on me. Maybe now wasn’t the right time. But then I looked at the leaflets again. Dorrie seemed uncharacteristically low.

‘You aren’t really thinking about this, are you?’ I said.

‘Well, put it like this, I haven’t ruled it out,’ said Dorrie. ‘I just don’t want to be a burden to Darren.’

‘Oh Dorrie, you mustn’t be like that,’ I said.

‘I’ll be how I please,’ snapped Dorrie. ‘I’m the one with the incurable disease. I knew you wouldn’t understand. So I don’t want to discuss it any more.’

There didn’t seem to be any proper response to that, so I did as she said and changed the subject.

‘Right, let’s see about getting some more phone numbers,’ I said brightly. ‘I’ll go online and see if I can find something suitable.’

I tried to be cheerful, but inside I was deeply disturbed. What if she really was planning to end it all?

I was so worried I rang Caz and invited her over the following evening. I had never invited her to mine before,
but I thought the situation warranted it. She came over after I’d put the kids to bed.

‘Can you have a drink?’ I said. ‘Or are you driving?’

‘No, I’m still staying at Mum’s,’ said Caz.

‘Aren’t you going to put the house on the market?’ I said curiously. I knew how Caz had hated her home growing up, and yet she seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time there.

‘I’m still sifting through piles of stuff,’ said Caz. ‘In a weird kind of way, I don’t want to let go. Once it’s gone, then she’s gone too. I can’t really explain. It’s complicated the way I feel about Mum. It just seems as if I’m finally getting to know her at last. I’m still really angry with her, especially for holding back all those letters from Dad from me. But I don’t know, I’ve been chatting to Father Miserecordie about it, and I’m beginning to feel sorry for her. He says she was a lost soul, and I think maybe he’s right. Apparently she did an awful lot of good in the parish. And she talked about me all the time. I wish we’d had the opportunity to make up.’

Caz looked very wistful as she said this. She had never said so much about her mum before. I knew things had been bad for her growing up, but when you’re a kid you can’t imagine anyone else’s life. It must have been so hard for her seeing us all with our happy families. No wonder she was so bitter and resentful.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever really understood how difficult it was for you back then.’

‘It’s not your fault is it?’ said Caz. ‘It’s just bad luck that I got the pisshead mum, while you lot got the normal variety.’

‘But I could have been more understanding,’ I said.

‘And I could have been less of a bitch,’ said Caz. ‘I’m really
sorry for what I did to you with Steve. I was so jealous of what you had. It was unforgivable of me.’

‘It does take two,’ I said. ‘And it was pretty naïve of me to believe that it was all your fault.’

‘Well, I wanted you to believe that,’ said Caz. ‘That’s why I never denied it. I felt so guilty about what happened, I thought if I took all the blame, your marriage at least had a chance of working.’

‘But when I asked you, you told me that you’d instigated things,’ I said.

‘I know,’ said Caz, with a sigh. ‘I still thought if there was a chance that you and Steve could make it, I shouldn’t put a spanner in the works.’

‘And what about at Dorrie’s games night?’ I said. ‘You looked like you were enjoying his company that evening.’

‘Oh Sarah,’ said Caz. ‘For a brief moment he flirted with me and I thought,
I remember this
and was flattered. But then I realized I was doing it again.’

‘What?’

‘My usual thing of being flattered by male attention, and responding to it without thinking about it. I looked up and saw your face and wanted to kick myself,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry, it was really stupid of me, particularly when I looked at him and do you know what I saw?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘A balding, middle-aged sleazeball, who hasn’t grown up and still thinks he’s God’s gift to women,’ she said. ‘Honestly Sairs, I can’t think what either of us ever saw in him.’

I burst out laughing. God, I’d forgotten just how much Caz could make me laugh.

‘Oh Caz, it’s as much my fault as yours. I shouldn’t have believed him so readily,’ I said. ‘I knew deep down you weren’t
such a cow that you’d have betrayed me without at least
some
encouragement. And I punished you because I couldn’t face the truth.’

‘Well truth is sometimes overrated I find,’ said Caz. ‘But on this occasion, I think you deserve to hear it. I was the lousiest of friends to you, and when I was very drunk (which is no excuse, mind) I allowed myself to be seduced by your fiancé. It was very, very wrong of me, and I’m not proud of myself, but it was a two-way street. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that before.’

I should have felt bereft at hearing Caz confirm what I’d always known, but suddenly I realized Steve had lost the power to hurt me any more.

‘God, what idiots we are,’ I said, ‘letting a man come between us for so long.’

‘So does that mean we’re OK again?’ Caz looked at me tentatively.

‘I should coco,’ I said. ‘Now, enough of our troubles. What are we going to do to help Dorrie?’

‘Do you think she’s serious about this euthanasia thing?’ said Caz. I’d filled her in about what I’d seen at Dorrie’s when I’d rung her the previous day.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I know how badly affected she was by her dad’s illness. She once said to me she’d rather some one shoot her than end up like that. I think the problem is she’s seen first hand what it could be like and it’s frightening her.’

‘Will it really be that bad?’ said Caz.

‘I don’t know a great deal about MS,’ I said, ‘but when I was working on the wards I saw one or two patients with it, and it can be horrific. It doesn’t have to be like that for Dorrie of course, but I can understand why she’s frightened, and why she might think ending it all when the time comes
is a viable option. There’ve been lots of cases of people going out to Switzerland. I just can’t see Doris wanting to put Darren through that.’