The Sacrificial Man (8 page)

The body is not the same as the mouth. It has a language of its own, and even though Matty’s had conspired with her for seven months, it wanted its say. The school broke the silence. Mr Ferris had been keeping a watchful eye on Matty’s growing breasts and he spoke to the Head of Department, who passed it on to the Head of Year who decided not to speak to Matty herself but to write to her mother, a formal invitation to come up to the school for a meeting the next day. The letter was amongst the invites and minutes of rotary meetings and her mother read it, threw it aside and demanded, “Why do they want to see me, Matilde? As if I haven’t got enough to do.” Matty prayed her mother wouldn’t have time, that she would be too busy to go. She knew the meeting could only be about one thing. She’d seen Miss Russell, the PE teacher, watching her in the showers. Even when she was dressed, Matty’s skirt was too tight. Mr Ferris had been watching her too, and last week she saw Miss Russell talking with him in the playground, glancing her way. Her sin was showing.

The following evening Matty arrived home from school and waited in her bedroom, knowing her mother would even then be learning her secret. Matty tried to read but going over the same sentence again and again, tense for the onslaught that would surely come when her mother walked through the door. She dreaded the key in the door, her mother’s shrill voice calling up the stairs.

It never happened.

Matty discovered that her mother was adept at silence and hidden secrets, and dinner was served at usual. Her father had already called to say he would be late, so mother and daughter sat together, although Matty had no appetite.

Her mother’s expression was the same as always, a formal mask of biscuit and petal, just as she held her body in a stiff control. She wondered how her mother learned to keep so still, to hold a secret so firmly inside. Her mother was chairing their dinner, managing the agenda, like so much charity business. “Well,” she said, after the soup, calmly cutting into her chicken, “you’ve certainly got us in a predicament. We need to think of how we set about rectifying this, Matilde. I don’t suppose you’ve been to a doctor?”

Her mother clipped the words with her cultivated accent, hiding her immigrant heritage, punctuating her received English with the click of steel handles in the vegetable dish. Matty could not say that her father had taken her to an abortion clinic but it had been too late, “No.”

“Then that must be our first step. Do you know when it’s due?” Her voice was flat but severe like a conversation in the wind. She did not look at her daughter but her mouth chewed quickly, a swallow, some wine, and so on. On her plate was the dead chicken, its flesh stripped away revealing white bone.

Matty knew when she had stopped bleeding. It was seven months ago. Her voice was so low that her mother had to look up to catch the words. “I think I have three months left.”

“You stupid girl. How could you leave it so long?” She took more wine, pushed her plate away. Her mouth was wet, and she dabbed at moisture, folded the napkin. “You’ll have to go away for a while. I have heard of a place for teenage girls. When you return everything will be as good as new.”

“What will?” Her life? The baby?

Mrs Mariani raised a carefully pencilled eyebrow, a warning. She had finished her meal, and wanted the conversation ended too. “The child will go to people who can care for it. You will finish your studies.”

The food she hasn’t eaten caught in Matty’s throat, or the water did. Or something else. Her heart maybe. She hadn’t thought of giving the baby away. But of course, there was no choice. She bowed her head and tried to swallow.

“Oh for God’s sake!” her mother shouted, “Don’t pull that face. Don’t think this is easy for me, you know.” She breathed out, composed herself. “Now you’ve made me shout. I hate shouting.”

She rose from the table, leaving Matty alone with her tears.

The doctor’s hands were cold. He pressed low on Matty’s abdomen and high, under her breastbone. She felt the paper wrinkle up under her legs, under her back. The light above her head was a fluorescent bulb, it hurt her eyes, but she was afraid to close them. The pressure he applied was firm and she prayed she wouldn’t wet herself as his hands moved down to where her stomach was hard and round. He looked at her, just once, as if checking something in her eyes, and then pulled back the curtain, speaking to her mother, who was seated on the other side of the room, clutching a patent leather handbag. Mrs Mariani held a handkerchief to her lips as if she were about to retch.

“She’s about thirty-three weeks pregnant. We’ll take some blood, and it would be helpful to have a sample of urine.”

“What for?” Mrs Mariani’s lips pursed together in distaste.

“We need to check your daughter’s protein and iron levels and her blood pressure. Several routine tests are outstanding. Since she’s so far along I’d like her to see our midwife straight away.”

“How do we arrange to get rid of it?” asked her mother firmly, the hanky hovering by her chin.

The doctor frowned. “It’s far too late for that, Mrs Mariani. The baby is viable.”

“I mean adoption! Whom do we speak to about having it adopted?”

The doctor glanced at Matty with a look of pity and resignation. He cleared his throat and said, “Social Services can organise everything. I’ll ask the midwife to make the initial contact.” Finally, turning fully to Matty this time, he said, “Does the father know about the pregnancy?”

“He,” said her mother, with venom, “knew before I did.”

It was the kindness that undid her.

It was being alone in that darkened room with the midwife who apologised for the sharp needle as she took Matty’s blood, “That’s the horrible bit out of the way. Now, let’s have you up on the couch. That’s it.”

She pressed so gently on the firm bump, feeling for the back, the kicking feet, the smooth head of the baby in her stomach. “It’s a lovely size,” she said, smiling. It was the first time anyone had smiled at her in her pregnant state. Her father, her mother, two doctors, Mr Ferris, had all frowned. But the midwife was smiling. She thought it was something to be happy about.

“I’m not keeping it,” Matty said, “I’m not allowed.” The midwife, still pressing on her stomach, still connecting with Matty, stopped smiling.

“Who won’t allow you?”

“My parents.” And as Matty said it she felt a pain in her chest, an ache.

The midwife removed her hands. She gently pulled Matty’s top down, handed her a fresh tissue to wipe her eyes, which Matty hadn’t even realised she needed.

“It’s your baby,” she said, “and lots of girls have babies at your age. It wouldn’t be easy, but it can be done.” But Matty knew this was not true. There was only one way for a girl like her and that was her parents’ way. To give up her baby.

“It’s your choice, Matilde. You’re not a child anymore.”

“Tell me how,” she said to the kind midwife. “Tell me how to keep it.”

Matty’s newborn baby lay silent beyond the painted bars, the fleece blanket moving up and down to the rolling rhythm of sleep. Matty retrieved her watch from the changing table: it was nine o’clock. How had that happened? Only a minute ago it had been the middle of the night. She looked at the empty feeding bottle on the cabinet and tried to work out when the baby would be hungry again and if it was worth trying to get some more sleep. Her fear of another interrupted dream stopped her from lying back down. She mentally raced through the options for this precious peace: bath, shower, read, food. Remembering that she hadn’t had a proper wash for two days, she opted for a bath, grabbed her towel from the top of the radiator and padded quickly to the communal bathroom down the hall, her bare feet pitter-pattering on the cheap hard carpet.

Relieved to find the room was empty, Matty locked the door behind her and turned the hot tap on full. The old enamel bath was big but the water filled it quickly. Before it was full she had stripped off, her grubby clothes piled on the toilet seat. She had forgotten her soap, but there was a communal bar on the sink, flat and white with a long black hair stuck to it. She threw the soap in the bath and then joined it. Her pale loose skin mottled, lobster-like, in the too-hot water. She welcomed the discomfort.

Later, dressed only in a dressing gown and still damp, Matty reentered the bedroom and saw that the baby had not moved. A few more moments of peace to enjoy. She carefully slid into the bed and prayed for the silence to last.

So lost was she in her thoughts, so dizzy with the heat from her bath, that it took a few seconds before she registered that the knocking on the door was for her. Afraid of the baby waking, she sat up and reached for the door in one movement to stop the intruder from knocking again.

Filling the narrow doorway, bent over as if she had been listening at the keyhole, was the rotund social worker, her ruddy face poised in an expectant question with a smile as phony as a waitress. She mock whispered, “is Baby asleep?” although her eyes had already fixed on the cot, so Matty did not reply. She’d forgotten that this meeting was today.

Seeing the young mother’s confusion, the social worker looked apologetic although her tone did not match. “I’m a bit early, but I have some news. Shall we go downstairs and leave Baby to sleep? Come on, get dressed!”

Matty removed her dressing gown, pulled on a loose skirt and a knitted jumper that would at least be warm. She didn’t think to brush her hair and there was no mirror in the room to remind her.

Downstairs, the social worker was squashed into an institutional winged armchair. Matty balanced on the edge of the opposite chair, dismayed when her visitor pulled her chair nearer, at right angles, so that she was trapped in a corner. Matty registered the pseudo smile, pitying but professional. Then the inevitable textbook question: “And how are you feeling?” Matty noticed the way she said ‘feeling’, full of sympathy, but ignored the invitation to confide. She shrugged.

“And how is the little one?” The question demanded an answer and she searched for the right response.

“We had a bad night.” In return, the empathetic angled head and infuriating smile. Fortunately the small talk soon ended, and the older woman leaned forward, choosing a soft, even tone, likely from the selection she was taught whilst in training.

“I came straight here as I thought you’d like to know that we have had a referral from the adoption team. They’ve approved a couple who sound ideal. Would you like me to tell you about them?”

Stunned from sleep exhaustion and hunger, Matty tried to grasp what was being said, her brain a hollow vacuum in which the inert words reverberated but made no impact.

“They’re in their thirties. They live in the north, no children. Medical problems, I’m afraid: she’s had five miscarriages. He’s a manager at a power plant. Very well paid! She works as a nursing assistant, but would be at home full-time after the adoption. A very nice couple, they’ve been married for six years, and they have a lovely home with a garden. Shall I say more or is that enough?”

Matty tried to interpret what she’d been told. Was she supposed to make a decision on these few bald facts? Surely there was only one question: Will they love my daughter? She raised her fingers to her tired eyes and rubbed.

“I know you’re feeling vulnerable, but that’s to be expected. I just wanted you to know that we are ready to proceed.”

Silence reigned, heavy and tangible, and Matty was too tired to think. The thick atmosphere was disturbed by one swift bang on the door and then a hostel worker bustled in, invading the space with her loud singsong voice. “Your baby’s crying. I’ll go.”

The worker was almost out of the door before Matty stopped her, hot emotion rising from nowhere at the woman’s presumption. “No. I’ll go.” Matty launched herself from the chair, pushed past the social worker, past the hostel worker, and up the stairs.

As she climbed she heard the cries of her newborn. Opening the door the cries were louder than ever, until she reached into the cot and picked the baby up. The crying stopped as if a switch had been flicked and the child snuffled its dry tears into Matty’s jumper, nuzzling for the milk it could smell.

The prospect of returning downstairs and sterilising a bottle in a saucepan, facing the social worker, was impossible. Matty was desperately tired and her breasts hurt. Two damp patches on her top announced that her milk had not yet dried up. Sitting down, she experimentally raised her top and lowered her bra. Though unpractised, the baby knew instinctively what to do, like any animal trying to feed from its mother. Matty watched its mouth circle and miss. Eventually, uncertainly, she guided it. After some seconds she felt a jolt as the baby latched on, and within seconds her baby was lapping up the warm, sweet fluid for which she had been crying.