The Centre of the Green (21 page)

“Oh?”

“Betty is very young, Doctor, as you know.”

“Young? She’s in no danger, if that’s what you mean. She’s not too young to bear a child. Plenty of girls younger than Betty have done that with no trouble at all.”

“I wanted to ask whether it would be possible to arrange for her to have an operation?”

“A Cæsarean? Why?”

But this was wilful of the man to force her to speak so plainly. “An abdominal operation,” she said. “An abortion.”

There was a short silence. Then the doctor said, “And what the bloody hell gives you the right to ask me such a question?”

They were both angry now. Penny’s hands trembled, and the doctor’s face was red beneath his tan. Penny said, “I promised her father——”

“Her father or
the
father?”

“Her father.”

The doctor remembered that Betty was still sitting with them in the room. He said, “Betty, my dear, I’m afraid you’d better wait outside for a while.” Betty rose obediently, and went into the waiting-room. “Now then, Mrs. Thing——” the doctor said.

“Baker.”

“Mrs. Baker. First of all, do you realize that you have just asked me to commit a criminal offence?”

“Well, really I hardly think——”

“
Do
you?”

Penny said, “Surely we’re more sophisticated than that nowadays?”

“How sophisticated? Sophisticated enough to commit a murder?”

“Well, really. It isn’t a question of murder, or anything so melodramatic. Everyone knows that these things can be arranged within the law. You’re being most—most unfair and insulting. There was a case the other day. A girl of fifteen had been raped by some American airmen. Of course, that came to court—it was a test case or something—but the doctor wasn’t struck off. I mean, surely
if you can get a psychiatrist to say that the girl is too young for motherhood…. Anyone can see that Betty——”

“Is
she
fifteen? Has
she
been raped by American airmen?”

“No, of course not.”

“Who is the father?”

What should have been a moment of shame became almost a moment of triumph, as Penny scored what was in effect a debating point. “My husband actually,” she said, and succeeded in disconcerting the doctor.

That put an end to the round. Both Penny and the doctor stopped to take thought. Then the doctor said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker. But you must see for yourself that it cannot be done. Even if you could find a
psychiatrist
to back me—and I don’t think you would—I still wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“But surely it’s done.”

“There are a lot of things that are done, Mrs. Baker, but that isn’t to say we should do them. I’m a Catholic, as you should know, and the way I see it is that you’re asking me to do a murder. Who’s to say whether that foetus she’s carrying within her—about six inches long, but with a heart that’s been beating there two months—who’s to say whether it has consciousness or not? Do
you
know? Because I tell you, I don’t. All I know is that when that child was conceived, even if it were conceived in rape, it became something individual; the genes combined and began something that wasn’t there before—a new human being. I’ll tell you frankly, Mrs. Baker, I don’t pretend to know the mind of God; I don’t know the moment when he decides to give each of us a soul. But I’d say it’s at least likely that we get a soul from the moment that we get our individuality, wouldn’t you?”

Penny was silent. She was too confused to speak. It
seemed to her that, for a doctor to oppose her request on religious grounds was in some way particularly unfair. The doctor said, “Have you no children of your own, Mrs. Baker?”

“No.”

“I see. It’s a pity. I’ll just give you this note to the Clinic then, and perhaps you’ll see that Betty goes along. I’m sorry I can’t do as you ask. I suppose she herself is not a Catholic girl?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry for that. At any rate, she’ll know more clearly later on what her feelings are. Perhaps you’ll let me know then if I can help you.”

“Feelings?”

“If she wants to rear the child, Mrs. Baker. I’m not so prejudiced as to believe that a young girl of under eighteen, and unmarried at that, will necessarily do the best for a child. Mother love is a fine thing surely, but there’s some strains we shouldn’t ask it to bear. There’s the Catholic Adoption Society, and I’ve no doubt many others that would give the child a good Christian
upbringing
. Still, there’s plenty of time to talk of that.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Penny returned to the
waiting-room
, where Betty sat, not reading, not looking at
anyone
else, just a silent, obedient dummy, who carried inside her a human life more or less in the shape of a tadpole.

It seemed to Penny that Betty had never spoken to her, except in answer to a question, or to say, Thank you. What did Betty think? Did she cry at night? Was she frightened? Penny had been worrying in an aimless way for so long about what to do that she had never given a thought to Betty herself. And all the time she had been dickering with that fool of a doctor, Betty had been sitting alone outside, wondering how they would dispose of
her. Penny searched her mind for the comforting, the womanly thing to say, and found nothing there but a stilted embarrassment.
What a bore!
one part of her was saying, while another, more admirable part said,
Shut up, you cow. Think of the girl
. “He won’t help us, Betty,” she said. “He’s given you a note to the Clinic.”

“Am I to—to have the baby then, Mrs. Baker?”

“Unless I can—I don’t know. It might be dangerous if you didn’t. We don’t want to risk your own life, Betty.”

But this was obviously the wrong note to strike, and could only frighten the girl, as if she were not confused enough already. Penny hurried to reassure her. “Of course,
having
the baby is quite safe. After all——” a comforting smile—“Most women do it, you know”—and remembered that
she
had not.

Betty was silent again for a while, but it was obvious that she too was searching for words to express her thought. Oddly it occurred to Penny that Betty might be trying to reassure
her
. Then Betty said seriously, “I don’t mind having the baby. Really I don’t. I’m not worried about that. I mean, it’s only an operation, isn’t it, like having your tonsils out?” They walked the last few yards to the Monneys’ front door. Penny took out her key, but Betty made a little move as if to say,
Not yet
. “No, I’m not so worried about that,” she said. “What I keep
thinking
about is after. I can’t sleep sometimes for thinking about it. How am I going to look after a little baby and my dad too? I don’t think I could do that. It almost pulls me in half thinking of that, Mrs. Baker. I don’t think I could do it. I haven’t got the experience.”

Penny opened the door, and lurched into the hall. She kept one arm round Betty’s shoulder. If she were not careful, she might begin to cry. Stupid of her to feel so weepy, and yet how joyful to know that she could still be
touched. “I’ll help you, Betty,” she said. “I’ll help you look after the baby. If you want me to, I’ll adopt him. I’d like to do that, if you’ll let me. After all, it is half——” And then she broke down altogether, sitting helplessly on the stairs with Betty beside her, joy and tears,
amazement
and the sudden rush of affection between them, all mixed up as they clung to each other, not knowing who was comforted and who the comforter, the words “half mine”, foolish, illogical, unuttered, hanging between them as the justification for something that at this moment, Penny discovered, she most passionately wanted.

*

The Colonel rose early, as he always did. He put on his old leather slippers and his dressing-gown, and started on his way downstairs to make the tea. On the landing, about equidistant from his own door and the door of the bathroom, he saw a black note-book. He recognized it at once; It was Julian’s journal; surely Julian had not been writing it up in the bathroom? The Colonel remembered that during his own schooldays he had sometimes taken a particularly difficult problem in Algebra with him to the latrines, there to be considered in enforced calm and concentration. But a diary was hardly the same thing.

The Colonel picked the journal up. He had often
wondered
during their holiday what Julian was writing in it. Whether it came to anything in the way of a travel article or not, he was sure that simply to have kept it up was a valuable piece of self-discipline for the boy, and another sign of how he had changed. He placed the book on the flat corner of the banister, and went to the kitchen to make the tea.

The book was still there on the banister at the top of the stairs when he came back with the tea-tray. Absurd
to find himself so conscious of it. Absurd to find himself actually having to resist a temptation to pick the journal up, and read a little. It couldn’t matter if he did. What was intended for print could hardly be private. Still, reading other people’s letters, diaries, private
documents
, that sort of thing—it was a temptation everyone experienced, but it was not something that chaps allowed themselves to do. The Colonel went on into his wife’s bedroom with the tea.

He put down the tray by her bedside, and said, “Good morning, my dear”. Mrs. Baker was, as usual, already awake. She smiled at him, and said, “Quite like old times, Justin”.

“Yes.” He found that he was still thinking about the journal. Annoying. He said, “Julian left his diary on the landing. He must have dropped it.”

“Diary?”

“He kept one during our holiday. Said he might use it later for a travel article or something. I don’t think it’s very personal or anything. Just impressions.”

“What a good idea!”

“I put it on the banister to be out of the way. Perhaps I’d better take it in to him. After all, we don’t know what’s in it. He mightn’t want it lying all over the house.”

Mrs. Baker had intended to be particularly nice to her husband. It was even more irritating for her, therefore, to have to struggle with the irritation he had already
begun
to cause her. “Really, Justin!” she said. “Who on earth is going to read it? Leave it where it is, and I’ll give it to him when I take in his tea. You know he hates being woken too early.”

The Colonel idled uncertainly by the window, unhappy at having provoked his wife by seeming to trespass on one of her special privileges; he should have remembered that she liked to take in the tea to Julian herself. He
looked out at the lawn, and said, “Going to be fine again, eh? What a summer we’re having!”

Mrs. Baker said, “Do you have to talk about the weather? Haven’t you ever got anything else to say?” The day, which she had intended to be the first spent repairing the fabric of their lives, was already going badly. There was her husband, fluttering at the window like a daddy-long-legs, uncertain and irritating and anxious to please. She must remember that it was not his fault. These few lonely weeks had unsettled her; they had frightened her. She must make an effort. Yesterday had been so pleasant for them all. If the effort were great enough—if, for instance, she were to begin by apologizing for her bad temper—today and tomorrow might pursue the same pleasant pattern. “I’m sorry, Justin,” she said. “I’m being irritable, and I don’t mean to be.”

“That’s all right, my dear. I’ll just get dressed, and be out of your way, eh?”

The journal was still on the banister where he had placed it. Well, it wasn’t important; it wouldn’t fall off, and nobody was going to steal it. Odd that Julian should have been able to drop a book of that size, and not notice that he had done so. Must be (he weighed it in his hand) quite heavy. What had Julian found to write about. Of course he had often been off on his own somewhere, but there were some things the two of them had done
together
, like going to the bullfight at Palma, which would seem quite different perhaps in Julian’s
description
. A chap like the Colonel might miss so much which a trained writer would naturally see. What harm could it do to browse?—to look for such descriptive sections of the journal, skipping immediately over anything that seemed at all private? What harm? But things were right or they were wrong, the Colonel believed; the question
What harm?
was irrelevant except in as much as
harm was done to oneself by doing something one knew to be wrong. No harm could come of his reading Julian’s diary; nevertheless, one simply did not read other people’s diaries, and that was that.

Of course, Julian had actually said, “We’ll read it when it’s finished,” or, “You can read it when it’s finished.” Something like that. That could be taken as permission. The journal must be finished now that the holiday was over.

Nor would there be any question of concealing what he had done. Granted that there was something furtive and cheap about peeking at private papers, yet what if the Colonel were to admit quite frankly, “Oh, by the way, Julian, you left your diary on the landing. I had a quick look through; I hope you don’t mind. I thought it was very interesting.” Surely that would make a difference.

A schoolboy echo again—
Owning up like a man
. And it was the silliest schoolboy logic to suggest that the
intention
of confession made the crime permissive. The Colonel discovered that, although he could by no means justify what he intended to do, yet he was going to do it. One had rules for living, but one couldn’t expect to be able to live by them always.
I wanted to give it back
, he thought resentfully. But his wife had prevented him from doing that. He took up the journal. Bloody things! If only they still had locks on them! He put the book down again on the banister, and turned back to his own room. But really it couldn’t possibly do any harm. He wouldn’t take it into his own room, but simply browse through it out here where anyone could see him. Julian had placed some sort of marker between the pages, so that they fell open quite naturally at the photograph of a girl.

It was not a snapshot. It was a photograph of the sort
which is sold furtively to tourists. The girl was naked, and she squatted on a couch or ottoman with her legs drawn up and held wide apart. In matters of character, the photographer perhaps had little skill; he had induced his subject to bare her teeth and smile, but the effect was not enticing nor did it suggest lust. Behind the girl was a shabby backcloth, showing a romantic landscape with palms and a waterfall. Beside the couch was a plant in a pot. Julian had written neatly beneath the picture in block capitals the words, “
LIKE JUANITA IN THE CAVE
”.