The Fall Girl (30 page)

I put my hand to my cheek, but the others grab me and hold back my arms while Sharon continues to batter my face, blow after blow. When I lower my head to protect my face, my hair is pulled in opposite directions and someone starts kicking my legs. I make a feeble attempt to call out for help, but I can barely breathe, let alone scream. A sharp pang pierces my ankle and my legs go from under me. As I fall, I'm sure I hear my scalp tear.

Someone blows a whistle.

‘Come on, Sharon, let's go,' one of them says, and suddenly I'm released from their grasp.

They all scatter, except Sharon, who gets down on her hunkers, grabs my hair and holds up my head.

‘You can thank Veronica for that. All it cost us was a packet of fags to get her to lure you into the trap,' she sneers. ‘That's all you were worth to her, you piece of farmyard shite.'

‘What's going on, Pepper?' one of the male prison officers asks, coming around the corner.

‘Dunno. I found her like this. Obviously someone decided to give her a good hiding.'

‘And you just happened to be passing by, I suppose?'

‘You got it in one there, sir,' she says. ‘It was bound to
happen though: you know that, sir. People don't take too kindly to baby-snatchers. Especially mothers, and there are plenty of them in here.'

‘Who did this to you, Frances?'

‘I dunno,' I sob. ‘I didn't see their faces.'

Veronica calls to say goodbye the following morning.

‘Here,' she says, holding out the ten-pound note. ‘I can't take dis, not after what I done.'

When I don't take it from her, she tiptoes by me and puts it on the bedside table.

‘Are you still sore?' she asks, standing with her back to me.

I want to shout at her that my feelings are a lot more bruised than my face and that I feel worse today – the day I'm leaving – than I felt on the day I arrived. But what's the point? She doesn't care.

‘I'm a bit busy,' I say, walking into the toilet and closing the door.

I put down the toilet seat and sit on it. At least, in here, she won't see me crying.

‘I didn't do it for de fags, you know,' she shouts. ‘I did it because I'm a bloody coward. No one says no to Sharon Pepper. If I hadn't agreed, de bitch would've made my life a misery … long after you were gone. Are you listening to me, love?'

I wish she'd go away. I want to be on my own.

‘Dat was why I changed my mind about going for de walk. But den you said you needed de fresh air and I hadn't de guts to tell you what was going on. You know, maybe we both would've been better off if I hadn't made friends with you in de first place.'

Maybe we would, I think.

‘But on de other hand, love, I'm glad I met you because you're a lovely girl and I wish you de best of luck today.'

I tear off a wad of toilet roll and blow my nose.

‘Goodbye, Frances, and well … I'm very sorry.'

Before I left prison, I put the tenner into an envelope and handed it to one of the prison officers to pass on to Veronica. I think I saw a piece of myself in this woman; that whatever wrong she'd done, there was no malice intended. She never meant to hurt me, just like I never meant to hurt Nathan or his parents. The only baby I ever wanted to hold was my own.

‘Who's the father?' my mother shrills, slamming the sitting-room door behind her.

We're just in the door after my visit to the doctor.

My father steps in from the kitchen. ‘What's going on?'

‘Your daughter is pregnant,' she says, ‘that's what's going on.'

‘No!' He shakes his head. ‘She couldn't be.'

‘Huh! I don't know why you're so surprised, Joe Fall,' my mother says. ‘You were the one who let her run wild, not me.'

My father turns to me and I know by his pleading eyes that he wants me to say she's lying.

‘Sorry, Daddy,' I whisper, hanging my guilty head.

‘Sorry!' my mother exclaims. ‘A fat lot of good that will do you now.'

I sit on the sofa and start to cry.

‘And it's a bit late in the day for whingeing too,' she says, untying her headscarf and stuffing it into her coat pocket. ‘Now I'll ask you again: who's the father?'

Squeezing my eyes shut, I bite my lip. I don't want to tell them about the gingerbread man, because then they'd want to know when and where, and I can't tell them that.

‘Answer your mother, Frances,' my father says, ‘or God help me, I'll … I'll –'

‘Is he from the village?' my mother asks, sitting straight-backed on the other end of the sofa.

‘No.'

‘Castleowen?' my father says.

‘No.'

‘Where then?' my mother asks. ‘Where's this boy from?'

I look up at my father, who is now standing with his back to the fire.

‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know!' He bangs his fist on the mantelpiece. ‘Are you telling me that you had sexual intercourse with a man you don't even know?'

‘No.'

‘So you do know him,' my mother says.

‘Yes, but –'

‘What's his name?' she asks.

‘I can't tell you,' I sob. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? You don't know him and I won't be seeing him ever again.'

‘Damn right you won't!' my father shouts.

‘Does he know you're pregnant?' my mother asks.

‘No! How would he? I didn't know myself until today.'

‘So you say.'

‘I didn't, I swear.'

‘You had intercourse. You missed your monthlies. For heaven's sake, how could you not know, you stupid girl?'

‘I don't know; I just didn't.'

‘So you're a hundred per cent certain he knows nothing about your condition?' my father asks.

‘Yes.'

‘When did you last see him?'

‘A couple of months ago.'

‘Hah!' my mother sneers, throwing back her head. ‘He hasn't bothered with you since he had his wicked way with you, has he?'

‘No.'

‘Fool,' she shouts, leaning her face towards mine.

‘Stop.' Putting my hands over my ears, I crouch down and start rocking. ‘Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop.'

‘Pull yourself together,' she says, shaking me, ‘and stop your silly nonsense.'

‘I'm not a fool. I'm not a fool.'

Over the next few days, my father won't even look at me. The atmosphere in the house is as laden with blame and shame as it was in the days and weeks after Aunty Lily died nine years earlier. This time I know whose fault it is.

‘It's imperative that you don't breathe a word about this to anyone,' my mother says.

‘OK.'

‘If you do, I'll throw you out on the street.'

‘I won't.'

‘On Monday morning, you'll go back to school, get stuck into your books and act like normal while I figure out what to do. There'll be no more pocket money and there'll be no more gallivanting.'

On school mornings, my mother stands over me while I struggle to swallow several teaspoons of milky porridge.

‘The baby deserves to be properly nourished,' she says, ‘no matter what sin its mother has committed.'

Before I leave to get the bus, she pats powder puff on my face and pinches my cheeks to take the gaunt look off me. In my precarious frame of mind, I feel powerless to do anything about her re-established dominance over my life. My father, having done a Pontius Pilate on me, ignores my pitiful efforts to regain his respect.

Night after night my parents stay up talking into the small hours of the morning, while I lie in my bed daydreaming about an impossible future. I see Lesley and myself up in Dublin sharing a flat together with our new babies. On summer days, we put white floppy hats on their downy heads and take them to the beach, where we sit on a rug and watch the waves. Afterwards, we stroll along the promenade, pushing our buggies, smoking cigarettes and licking ninety-nines. We ride home on a double-decker bus, each of us nursing our sleeping infants. Lesley is tired too and is leaning her head on my shoulder. I can feel her breath on my neck, her hair on my skin, the warmth of her sun-kissed limbs next to mine. I don't want to open my eyes to the materiality of my bedroom, my safe box, my hiding place.

I drive myself scatty trying to predict how Lesley would react if she knew that I too was pregnant by the gingerbread man. On a couple of occasions when I find myself alone in the house, I pick up the telephone and dial her number. The first time her mother answers, having to clear her throat before she says hello.

‘Is that you, Frances?' she says, when I ask to speak to Lesley.

Despite the croakiness of her voice, there's a softness about the way she speaks to me. As my lips part to say yes, I hear Lesley shout out, ‘If it is, tell her to stop stalking me or I'll ring the Guards.'

‘I'm sorry, love,' her mother says.

‘It's OK.'

I hang up. Why is Lesley doing this to me? Why won't she at least listen to what I have to say? It doesn't have to be this way between us. I know we could work it out. With that in mind, I try again a couple of weeks later. This time, Lesley herself answers the phone.

‘It's me,' I say as soon as she says hello.

‘Stop ringing my house, you fucking space cadet.'

‘Don't call me that,' I say, raising my voice.

She sighs down the line.

‘I need to talk to you,' I say. ‘I've something to tell you. It's important.'

‘Important! You and important don't exactly fit in the same sentence. You're a mouse, remember.'

‘It's about the gingerbread man.' I won't let her insults put me off.

‘You can tell me over the phone.'

‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I need to see you.'

‘N. O.'

‘Please.'

‘Are you deaf ?'

‘Please, Lesley!'

‘Say pretty please.'

‘Lesley!'

‘You want to meet me, don't you?'

‘You know I do.'

‘Then say pretty please.'

‘Pretty please.'

‘Say pretty pretty please.'

‘Stop.'

‘If you don't say it, I won't meet you.'

‘Why are you doing this?'

‘Fine, don't bother. See ya.'

‘Pretty pretty please. Jesus!'

‘Again. Nicely this time.'

‘Pretty pretty please.' My voice is shaking with anger.

‘I said nicely. Say it nicely.'

‘I did.'

‘You can do better than that.'

Gulping down my pride, I say it again. ‘Pretty pretty please.'

‘Is that what you said to Johnny in the bread van?'

‘What?'

‘Oh, please ride me, Johnny,' she squeaks, ‘pretty pretty please. I want to be just like Lesley.'

‘No!'

‘Yeah, right! So, let's have it one more time – Will you meet me, Lesley, pretty pretty please?'

Outside I hear my father's car pull up.

‘What's wrong, Mousy? Cat got your tongue?'

I'm ready to burst into tears. I know she's being a hurtful cow and that she doesn't give a damn about me, but I still don't want to accept it.

‘Bye, Lesley,' I say, hanging up and hurrying into the living-room before my parents catch me on the phone.

Underneath my clothes, my body is changing. I'm too embarrassed to ask my mother to buy me a bigger bra, even though
the one I'm wearing is digging into me and leaving a red ring around my back. My tummy, though not yet protruding, feels solid and sensitive to touch. No matter how often I brush my teeth, I cannot dispel the acidy taste. A cigarette I scrounge from one of the boys on the school bus leaves my head swimming and my stomach full of gas.

Early in May, I wake up in the middle of the night to the first stirring of the secret life that is growing inside me. Just below my navel, it seems as if a baby bird has tried to flutter its wings for the first time. The feebleness of it fills my lungs with a gasp of maternal love.

The following morning, I feel a great urgency to speak to my mother about my baby's future. I find her in the garden hanging sheets on the clothesline.

‘Can I keep my baby?' I ask, standing facing her.

She takes a dangling peg from her mouth. ‘What are you doing outside in your nightdress?'

‘Can I keep my baby?'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘I'm not being stupid. I want to keep it.'

‘You can't,' she says, picking up another sheet from the linen basket. ‘You're not a married woman.'

‘I'd be a good mother,' I tell her, as she drapes the sheet over the line.

‘No child deserves to be raised a bastard,' she says, pegging it down. ‘Luckily for you, Father Vincent is already in the process of making arrangements.'

‘What sort of arrangements?'

‘I'll tell you when they're finalized,' she says, plucking a pillowcase from the linen basket.

‘No,' I say, grabbing it from her and flinging it on the grass. ‘Tell me now.'

She sits me down at the kitchen table and places a glass of milk in front of me.

‘I don't want that.'

‘Drink it. The baby needs it.'

‘It tastes sour,' I tell her, after taking a sip.

‘It couldn't be; it's this morning's milk.'

‘Just tell me what's going on, will you?'

She tells me that Father Vincent has handpicked adoptive parents for my baby. They're a childless couple in their early thirties, devout Catholics and not short of a bob or two.

‘That's all you need to know,' she says.

‘I'm not giving my baby away,' I say, shaking my head. ‘I don't care what anyone says; I'm keeping it.'

‘Don't talk soft.'