Authors: Mia Dolan
Her family didn’t have Johnnie’s address so wouldn’t come looking for her and there was no point asking any of his friends – Johnnie had been careful not to disclose the fact that he lived in a vicarage and that his father was a vicar. He’d even changed his name to something less ordinary: Johnnie Hawke, not Haskins.
She’d made further attempts to write, but on each occasion she was overcome with a sudden bout of shivering. She was numb, too shocked by what had happened, and in despair at her circumstances.
Weeks passed before she finally began to get a grip on things. Even Jane Haskins returned to being her normal self before Marcie did and she got the impression she was not wanted there.
They urged her to write to her family. She
explained that her mother was dead, that her father had remarried and that there was nobody else to go back to, except her grandmother.
‘I think they’ve disowned me,’ she lied.
It hadn’t been her intention to lie, but something about their attitude angered her. Her grief for Johnnie was still so raw – like an open wound. She couldn’t understand how his parents could be moving on so quickly, and yet ignoring the one link to Johnnie that remained. For God’s sake, they had only just lost their only son. Didn’t they want any part of their grandchild? Despite all their imperfections, her own family wouldn’t have acted like this. Their constant nagging only made her more determined to stay – simply to annoy them.
Seemingly resigned to the fact that she wasn’t yet ready to move out, Jane Haskins made sure by having coffee with her every morning and tea every afternoon. On each occasion she began doling out advice, sympathising with Marcie for her predicament, and making suggestions about what she should do next.
‘There’s no point in ruining your life. Think of the future. Think of what is best for you and the child. Where will you live if you keep it? A cheap room somewhere with a childminder to look after it when you go out to work? National Assistance? You won’t get much from them, I can tell you.’
The same advice was given over and over again.
Marcie was not immune to her advice. What she was saying made sense. As an unmarried mother she could offer little to this child. One question kept raising its head, and it was all to do with Jane and Maurice Haskins. One day she asked it.
‘This child is your grandchild. Why don’t you give it a home yourselves?’
Jane had very thin lips and wore a muted tone of pale pink. When her jaw tightened it was as if her lips had been sucked into her mouth.
Thoughtfully, she placed her cup and saucer back onto the silver tea tray.
Marcie sensed an announcement was about to be made. It turned out she was right.
‘Besides the fact that we are too old to cope with an infant, I think you should know that Johnnie was not our own flesh and blood. He was adopted.’ Jane waved a hand at their comfortable surroundings. ‘He was brought up in comfort. He had everything a boy would want. This is what your child could have if you opt for adoption with a childless couple who are young enough and fit enough to cope with a baby. It would be a very Christian thing to do. The child would be happy and so would the new parents. It makes sense. You know it makes sense.’
A time followed when she felt more alone than she ever had in her life. The big rooms of the vicarage
echoed with secretive whispers. She knew without being told that Johnnie’s parents were discussing her future.
She spent most of her time thinking about what Jane had said. This lump was her baby, but in all honesty what did she have to offer it? Not nearly so much as Johnnie had had, that was for sure.
The welcome when first arriving here with Johnnie had been restrained; it had been obvious from their tight smiles and muted kindness that they were disappointed with their son’s choice. A lifetime of preaching against sin – especially of the carnal kind – was difficult to discard even when faced with the prospect of an illegitimate grandchild.
She caught the Reverend and his wife exchanging looks just after interrupting their conversation when she’d come on them by chance in the kitchen, the drawing room or the library.
They’d clam up once she entered, but the day came when they finally laid it on the line.
The coffee and teatime advice had continued. She wasn’t actually being browbeaten, but they were presenting her with a very strong case for adoption. The world was her oyster if she were free of encumbrances.
‘Don’t let your heart rule your head.’
‘Think of the child.’
And all the time she lost herself in the splendid
rooms of the vicarage. Her child too could have something like this.
Another coffee time, and her decision was made.
‘I think I’ve decided to have it adopted,’ said Marcie.
Jane Haskins breathed a sigh of relief, leaned across and covered her hand with her own.
‘Very wise, my dear. I’m sure you won’t regret it.’ She got to her feet. ‘We’ll make arrangements. Everything will be taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a thing.
It was some weeks later when they asked her to come into the drawing room. A pale winter sun was doing its best to brighten the day. The window faced south. Dust motes danced on the shaft of light piercing the plain net curtains.
The room was comfortable but plain. A pea-green rug sat in front of the black slate fireplace. If it had been earlier on in her pregnancy Marcie might have thrown up, but as it was she was well past that stage. The end was in sight.
‘We’ve made the arrangements,’ said Jane Haskins who was sitting in her usual place, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘Maurice will fill you in on the details.’
Stiffly, as though she were wearing a crown, she turned her head to her husband for support.
Johnnie’s father paced the room until he was
standing in front of the window, the light behind him and his hands folded behind his back. Marcie had gone to church on a few occasions and had seen him standing like this in the pulpit.
‘You’re going away,’ he said. ‘Pilemarsh Abbey is in the country, so there’ll be nobody you know there. Everything will be paid for and everything will be taken care of. The establishment is well organised for girls who …’ He paused. It occurred to her that he was swallowing some remnant of a sermon full of fire, brimstone and damnation.
Girls who are no good and end up in hell.
He didn’t go so far as to say something like that, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them.
‘You’re telling me that I’m being sent to a home for unmarried mothers.’
‘They’ll look after you and do what has to be done. The child will be well looked after,’ said Maurice Haskins. ‘I’m sure they’ll find a very good home for it.’
The fat little bus snorted its way along the country road, the sound of its grating gears reverberating between high walls and hawthorn hedges.
Not everything was countryside because there was a town nearby. There was a factory making windows, obtrusive in the middle of fields. Storms of fallen leaves raced before the wind, a tumbling mix of red, yellow and brown.
Marcie sat silently staring out of the window, her gaze fixed on the passing scene. She was thinking how different things would have been if Johnnie hadn’t been killed. She missed him dreadfully but with every passing day their brief time together seemed more and more like a dream. She sometimes wondered whether the news of his death had reached the little house in Endeavour Terrace. Presumably not, seeing as no one had been in touch. She’d considered writing to tell them of her decision, but the longer she put it off the harder it became.
Johnnie’s parents had wished her a stiff goodbye. They were generous enough, giving her an envelope containing ten crisp five-pound notes.
‘To set yourself up once the baby has been adopted.’
Refusing the money was considered and rapidly discarded. Only a fool would refuse it.
She moved her gaze from the window to her belly. Bigger and bigger it had grown. The doctor at the clinic in London advised her she would have a big baby.
‘Might even be twins,’ he said, ‘but I doubt it. I can only feel one head in there and I don’t like taking an X-ray at this late stage.’
She patted her bump. Strange how you get used to things, she thought. Even Sheppey seemed like a lifetime away. At times it felt as though she were floating in a great sea of trouble.
Pangs of regret accompanied her on the journey.
I should have written.
As for Alan – I shouldn’t have liked him so much.
It’s my fault in a way.
I shouldn’t have gone to his house that night.
I shouldn’t have accepted a lift in his car.
The family will be ashamed of me.
The prospect of being alone with strangers until the baby was born alarmed her.
There were three other people on the bus, one with a suitcase sitting on the seat beside her.
The other passengers were a man and a woman. As they got off Marcie watched them walk by. The woman was wearing a red and black checked mohair
coat and ankle boots – the old-fashioned kind trimmed with fur and a zip up the front.
The bus trundled on. A small motorcycle overtook it. She heard the driver swear and exchange a few more well-chosen words with the conductor.
‘Bloody maniacs. Ought to be banned, the bloody lot of them!’
No! She wanted to shout. No! They are not.
She thought of Johnnie and the pride he’d had in his bike. Her heart ached for the sound of his voice, the casual off-handedness hiding his natural sincerity.
Her attention was brought back to the present. Blinking back the tears, she clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. She had to think of the future. The child would be better off being adopted just like Jane Haskins said.
When the scenery became boring and the nervous churning of her stomach too much to bear, Marcie eyed the only other remaining passenger. She was sitting at the front of the bus, smoke from a cigarette circling her head. The chignon at the nape of her neck shone a healthy pale gold. Pearl earrings glinted from her lobes each time she turned her head to look at the view or light another cigarette; she’d smoked a whole packet on the journey, Marcie noticed.
They had to be going to the same place. Please God that it’s so, prayed Marcie. She hated the thought of being the only new arrival there.
Hidden by overhanging branches, the bus stop was not apparent until the bus slithered on wet leaves and eventually came to a halt.
Colder now as apprehension kicked in, she purposely fixed her gaze on the other side of the road to Pilemarsh Abbey, the place she was destined for.
Gaps in the trees disclosed acres of ploughed field on the other side of the road. The wind blew the grass on the verge. The trees were tinged with the first leaves of spring, a lovely apple-green colour.
It took quite an effort, but she eventually turned her head for the first sight of her destination.
A wall of grey stone ran along her side where the bus had stopped.
There was no point in hesitation. This had to be done.
The gap was narrow. Her small suitcase and her expansive belly contrived to prevent her from easing out.
Just as she’d hoped, the other passenger was getting off too. ‘Need a hand?’
Marcie’s eyes travelled upward to a coat loosely belted over a stomach that was as big as her own.
She quickly judged the girl to be around her own age, but totally different in looks and colouring. Whereas Marcie had naturally blonde hair, blue eyes and a heart-shaped face, the one she looked up at had wide-set blue eyes, high cheekbones and a straight
nose above full, sensuous lips. Her hair was unmistakeably platinum blonde and straight from a bottle.
Marcie could be regarded as pretty, the blonde with the pearl earrings had a handsome face, the sort seen on Greek statues at the British Museum. She also wore very nice clothes, not so much expensive as wisely chosen to appear that way.
Awestruck in a way she hadn’t been since her schooldays when the gymslip-clad Head Girl had allocated her the job of milk monitor, she managed to blurt a swift, ‘Thank you.’
The tall blonde beamed as she grasped the worn hide handles and took the lead, moving sideways down the aisle. Marcie struggled to her feet. The feeling of being cast adrift, like a broken boat from a world-class liner, was less intense than expected.
The conductor eyed them in a surly manner and offered no assistance. Once their heels were digging into the soft grass verge, he sniffed and pointed to a sign and a gateway a few yards along the road. Like the bus stop it was half hidden by branches.
‘That’s the place for fallen women,’ he said, his tone as contemptuous as the look he gave them. ‘It’s like a bloody great rowing boat in that place – oars on both sides!’
Appalled at his meaning, Marcie blushed to the tips of her hair. Luckily she wasn’t easily roused to temper; things had to be pretty dire before she lashed out.
The platinum blonde was less restrained. Setting down her case, she stuck her fists on her hips and jerked her head high, her eyes blazing.
‘Whores! Is that what you mean, you dirty old sod? Now that’s where you’re wrong. Didn’t you know? This place is being turned into a convent!’ She jerked her thumb at Marcie. ‘She’s got the job of Mother Superior, and I’m the bloody Virgin Mary ’cause I like seeing men go down on their knees before me! Now sod off! Go on. Shove off and punch a few tickets, you bald-headed old coot!’
The bus conductor snorted and threw one last insult. ‘Tart!’
The blonde picked up a fallen stick and took a run at him. Despite her girth, she ran fast and looked strong enough to land a blow. ‘And who makes us tarts, eh? Men! That’s who! Prince Bloody Charming until there’s a bun in the oven!’
Firing puffs of black smoke from its noisy exhaust, the bus pulled away, the gears grating against the worn cogs, as the dying pistons rapidly coated the engine with choking layers of carbon.
The world around it responded to its passing, last year’s dead leaves swirling like dancing dervishes, finally settling in crisp brown heaps at the roadside.