Cast the First Stone (15 page)

‘Well, who was it then?'

Fiona shook her head. ‘I'm not going to tell you.'

‘Oh yes you are, young lady!' stormed her mother. Anger was taking the place of shock and horror now as the awful truth dawned on Mary. ‘You're going to tell me who has done this. I shall be down at that youth club and I'll tear him limb from limb, whoever he is. And I can't believe that you would do . . . that . . . willingly. Somebody forced you, didn't they? Come along, Fiona, tell me. They're not going to get away with this.'

Fiona shook her head again as she felt tears start to prick at her eyes. ‘No,' she said. ‘I wasn't forced. I told you; I'd had a drink, and I'm not used to it. And it just happened. But I wasn't . . .' She took a breath. ‘I wasn't raped.'

‘Then that makes it worse,' cried Mary. ‘You're a wicked deceitful girl, Fiona. You're nothing more than . . . than a trollop! This is just terrible . . . terrible!' She clenched her trembling hands tightly together. ‘I would never have believed it of you, Fiona. I'm ashamed of you, thoroughly ashamed. I shall never forgive you.'

Dr Mackintosh had been standing there helplessly. He moved across the room now to the distraught woman and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Now, come along, Mrs Dalton. This won't do any good, you know. You've had a shock and I know you're upset. But Fiona is not a wicked girl and I'm sure you don't mean that. I've known her since she was a tiny wee lassie, and I know how much you and your husband love her. Maybe she's been a silly lass, but these things happen sometimes. I've seen the same thing time and time again. And what Fiona needs now is your support.'

Mary didn't answer. Both mother and daughter sat in silence for several moments, Mary still shaking her head as if in disbelief. Then she spoke. ‘I don't know how we're going to get through this. There's never been anything like it in my family, nor in Wilfred's. It's shameful . . . shameful. Whatever are people going to think? I shall be ashamed to face anybody.' She looked angrily at her daughter. ‘How could you, Fiona? How could you disgrace us like this?'

The doctor sighed. ‘Your reaction is, I suppose . . . predictable. You're upset and angry and maybe you've a right to be. But it does happen, all the time, even in the best of families. And these situations often resolve themselves quite happily. There's always a way through, you know.'

Mary looked at him indignantly. ‘If you mean what I think you mean then that is out of the question. I wouldn't dream of letting you . . . put an end to the pregnancy. My husband and I are Christians, and it would be against our principles. No, Fiona has done wrong and she will have to face up to what is ahead . . . somehow.'

‘You don't know me very well, Mrs Dalton, if you think that,' said the doctor sounding sad as well as a trifle vexed. ‘That – what you were inferring – is illegal, apart from in exceptional cases; and I, too, abide by Christian principles and by the oaths I made as a doctor. If, as you say, you are Christians, then maybe you should try to show some Christian love and forgiveness, now, to your daughter. What I meant was that matters can be resolved, especially in a family such as yours. I know how well you have brought Fiona up . . . and how much you love her?' His last words were said in a questioning way, rather than as a statement of fact.

‘Anyway, it's early days,' he continued, ‘but you can be sure that I'll be here to take care of Fiona's progress, and to help you in any way I can.' He stepped towards the door. ‘I'll leave you now. I'm sure you will have things to talk about.' He smiled at Fiona, a sympathetic smile which made her feel slightly better about the mess she was in. Here, at any rate, was someone who understood.

‘Goodbye for now, Fiona, my dear; goodbye, Mrs Dalton. I'll let myself out.'

As soon as she heard the door close behind the doctor Mary started again, but a shade less aggressively. ‘Come along now, Fiona; you're going to tell me. I insist. Who is responsible for . . . this?'

Again Fiona shook her head. ‘I won't tell you. I've already said . . . I was partly responsible. And I wasn't . . . forced. Yes, I'd had a drink, and maybe, well . . . I know I let things go too far. But I can't tell you. I won't tell you.' She was not sure why she did not want to incriminate Dave. She was not sure, in fact, what she wanted to do at all. But the last thing she wanted was her mother seeking out Dave and attacking him verbally, if not physically; she was in such a rage.

‘Alright then, madam. Have it your own way. But I'll find out. You can be sure of that. I shall be there at that youth club the first chance I get, and Colin Wilkes will have to tell me what's been going on. Such disgraceful behaviour, and on a church outing!'

All that Fiona could think of saying was, ‘I'm sorry, Mum, really I am.'

She fancied that there was just a trace of sympathy there in her mother's half smile. ‘Well, what's done is done, I suppose. We'll say no more about it at the moment. I can't imagine what you father is going to say though. And you'd better get up and dressed. There'll be no more lounging in bed pretending you're ill. I know you've been poorly, Fiona, but there's nothing wrong with you now except what you've brought upon yourself. You'd best come down and have a spot of dinner when you're ready, not that I feel much like eating, I can tell you.'

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed by quietly as neither Fiona or her mother felt like talking. Fiona went up to her bedroom again after she had eaten her meal – a hastily made shepherd's pie – and helped her mother, in near silence, to wash the pots. She tried to settle to reading a magazine but her thoughts were all over the place. She felt a little easier now that the worst hurdle – telling her mother – was over. There was still her father, though; she couldn't imagine what his reaction would be. Both her parents were quiet, reserved sort of people, although Mary could get angry when roused, as Fiona had just seen. It was really the one and only time that Fiona had seen her so outraged. She felt that her father would be more able to keep a check on his anger . . . but time would tell.

Mary always had her husband's cooked meal ready for him as soon as he came in from work at around six o'clock, she and Fiona having had their main meal at midday and a lighter meal at teatime.

‘Leave me to tell your dad,' she said to Fiona. ‘I'd best wait till he's had his dinner, or else he may not feel like eating at all.' She sighed deeply. ‘You've got a lot to answer for, young lady. I never thought I'd have to tell him that our daughter has got into trouble.'

‘Leave it, Mum,' said Fiona wearily. ‘I've said I'm sorry, haven't I? Don't keep reminding me.'

‘You'll be reminded of it for the next nine months,' retorted Mary. ‘Just think on that, and ask God to forgive you.'

I thought God would come into it sooner or later, Fiona thought as her mother left her alone.

She didn't hear what went on between her parents. She stayed in her room for what seemed hours and hours. It was half past seven when her mother came to tell her to come down and see her father. ‘He's had the shock of his life,' she said. ‘It's a wonder he didn't have a heart attack. He's very disappointed with you, Fiona. Anyway, you'd best come and explain yourself to him if you can. Come along now; shape yourself.' Fiona had actually fallen asleep on the bed, mentally exhausted with all the trauma of the day.

Her father appeared more sad than angry. Fiona was distressed to see the look of anguish in his eyes, but she felt there was more compassion there than her mother had so far shown.

‘I'm sorry, Dad,' she said, before he spoke to her. He did something that her mother had not yet done. He put his arms round her, holding her gently.

‘I can't pretend I'm not shocked at your behaviour, Fiona,' he said. ‘Your mother and I are both very disappointed. But it's done now, and it has to be faced. Sit down, and we'll tell you what we've decided to do.'

Fiona's parents had decided that no one was to know about her condition, no one at all. Wilfred had vetoed Mary's intention to go to the youth club to find out who had done this dreadful thing to their daughter.

‘No . . . we shall tell no one,' he said. ‘Everyone knows that Fiona has been ill, and maybe that's a blessing in disguise. We must go on pretending now that she's still poorly and can't see anyone. We could say, maybe, that she's had a nervous breakdown.'

‘And has to go away somewhere,' said Mary. She was starting to think that her husband's idea of secrecy was the best – the only way – to get over this problem. ‘Yes, I think you're right, Wilfred. I'm so ashamed . . . I would never be able to hold my head up in that church again if they knew the truth. Just imagine what the Reverend Cruikshank would think! He would be appalled.'

‘Quite so,' agreed Wilfred. ‘We will need to confide in someone though . . . Perhaps she could go and stay with our Beattie for a while. That's far enough away.' Wilfred had a sister, Beatrice, who was married to a man called Donald Slater who owned a farm in Northumberland. They were in their late fifties and their children were married and living elsewhere. ‘It's a long while since I heard from Beattie but we always got on well enough. We could make it worth their while, although they're not short of a bob or two. The last I heard the farm was doing quite well.'

‘And what about . . . the baby?' said Mary. ‘She mustn't be allowed to keep it?'

‘No, of course not,' said Wilfred. ‘You weren't thinking that she could, were you?'

‘No, there's no question of that,' replied Mary. ‘And I couldn't pass it off as mine, like some do.' They both knew of instances where a child had been brought up by the grandmother, not knowing that the supposed elder sister was really the mother. Such happenings were not uncommon. ‘There are places, aren't there, where unmarried girls can go, and then when the baby is born it's adopted?'

‘It would be the best solution,' agreed Wilfred. ‘But I can't believe this is really happening to our precious little girl. I would never have believed it of her.'

‘She can be wilful at times,' said Mary, shaking her head. ‘She's never learned to ask for God's guidance in her life, has she? Not like you and I.'

Wilfred nodded. ‘That's true, my dear. Maybe this will make her realize that this is what can happen when you stray away from the straight and narrow pathway.'

When Fiona came to listen to what they had to say it seemed to her that it was all cut and dried. They had made a peremptory decision without even asking her how she felt about anything. She was so stunned by her father's words – it was Wilfred who was doing most of the talking – that she did not hesitate to tell them what she thought, forgetting for a moment that she was in deep disgrace.

‘So you have decided, have you?' she said. ‘What about how I might feel, or what I might want to do? And have neither of you realized how deceitful all this is? You're prepared to tell lies so that your precious vicar and all his cronies don't find out that I've . . . well, I suppose I've sinned, haven't I, in your eyes?'

‘How dare you speak to us like that?' said her mother. ‘Yes, you have . . . done wrong, and it's up to your father and me now to sort it out. You will never go near that youth club or that church again. You will stay in this house until we've made arrangements about what can be done for you.'

‘What do you mean?' countered Fiona. ‘That I can't go out at all? You can't keep me a prisoner here. Are you really so ashamed of me that you have to hide me away as though I'm a leper or something?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid we are . . . deeply ashamed,' answered her mother. ‘Ashamed that a daughter of ours should disgrace us like this.'

‘Yes, that's all you're bothered about, isn't it? The disgrace – as though you'll be blamed for not bringing me up properly?' She looked at her mother imploringly. ‘But it's not your fault, Mum. You and Dad have brought me up well, to be obedient and truthful. I'm sorry about what has happened. I can't say any more except that I'm sorry. But you heard what Dr Mackintosh said. It happens all the time. I'm not the first and I certainly won't be the last girl to find out she's having a baby.'

‘You've got a great deal to say all of a sudden, young lady,' said her mother. ‘All I know is that it's never happened in our family. And
you're
not being truthful now, are you? You won't tell us who's responsible for this, apart from you, of course!'

‘No, I won't,' said Fiona as defiantly as ever. ‘Perhaps you might be more understanding if I told you it was a gift from God, that it had been conceived by the Holy Ghost?'

‘Fiona! You wicked girl!' screamed her mother. ‘That's blasphemous, taking God's name in vain! How could you?'

‘Aye, that's going a bit far, love,' said her father, more gently. ‘There's no need to be irreverent.'

‘I know, I'm sorry,' said Fiona meekly. ‘But I don't suppose they believed Mary at first, did they?' she added, almost to herself. Suddenly she burst into tears. ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . But I did expect a bit more sympathy, once you got over the shock. You're supposed to be Christians, aren't you? Shouldn't Christians be able to understand . . . and forgive?'

Again it was her father who put his arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there, don't take on so,' he muttered, glancing uneasily at his wife. ‘We're trying to help you, you know.'

‘That's quite enough of that,' said Mary, ‘throwing our faith back in our faces. We're trying to do what's best for you.'

‘So it doesn't matter to God if you're telling lies?' Fiona sniffed, trying to fight back her tears; she was not easily driven to them. ‘Pretending that I'm ill and making me hide away.'