A Winter Bride Page 4

  ‘But sandals?’ It’s freezing out. And that jumper’s hanging off you.’

  ‘That’s the style.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s the style. What’s the point of a jumper if it doesn’t keep the cold out?’

  Nell sighed, shoved her hands in her pockets and looked down at the floor. Her mother reached forward, took hold of the jumper and hauled it up over Nell’s shoulder.

  Nell pulled it back down again. ‘It’s meant to be off the shoulder.’

  ‘You can see your bra strap. It’s almost indecent. And sandals at this time of year? Your feet will get filthy and you’ve painted your toenails. Only sluts and hussies do that.’

  Nell sighed again. She jiggled her knee impatiently, desperate to get away. There were important goings on in her life to be discussed. Things she couldn’t possibly tell her mother. The two stared at one another. There was no understanding between them. They didn’t speak much.

  The kitchen smelled of cooking fat and the sausages the family had just eaten. And bleach. It always smelled of bleach. Mrs McClusky went through two bottles a week. She waged a daily war on filth and germs. The room was as it had been all Nell’s life. Never in this house (except for the television a couple of years ago) was anything new added or anything old thrown out. Every evening, within minutes of the meal being finished, the dishes were cleared, washed, dried and put away, the draining board vigorously wiped, dishtowels neatly folded and hung up on the rail beside the sink. ‘There,’ Mrs McClusky would say, ‘I can relax now.’ She was a violent vacuumer, fierce duster and energetic wiper. Her life revolved round things she understood: the cake shop, gossip and cleaning. Her daughter was a mystery.

  Everything about Nell – the girl’s clothes, musical taste and strange notions – took Nancy by surprise. Last night at supper, over fried egg and chips, Nell had said, ‘We never talk when we eat.’

  Her father had pointed at his mouth, busy with a couple of yolk-dunked chips, and said, ‘Eating’s too important to bother with talking. Besides, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’

  Nancy had helped herself to a slice of bread, and said, ‘What would you like to talk about, dear?’

  ‘We could discuss philosophy,’ said Nell. ‘Like Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Nancy. ‘Do they live around here? They sound French.’

  ‘They are French,’ said Nell. ‘They are philosophers and writers.’ She imagined them drinking wine, eating fabulous food and intently discussing art and life. She didn’t suppose they ate fried egg and chips very often. She didn’t imagine they ever said anything ordinary like we need more toothpaste, or is there anything good on telly tonight?

  Nancy and Stewart looked at one another and raised their eyebrows and Nancy said, ‘Pass the tomato sauce.’

  In fact, Nell’s very existence baffled Nancy. How did she get here? How did she happen? It was a surprise. It certainly wasn’t planned. Mrs Lowrie, two doors down, was to blame.

  In 1941, Stewart McClusky was working as a coalman. War was raging in Europe, but he was too old to fight. Instead, he joined the Home Guard. Nancy did her bit: she grew vegetables in the back garden and worked with the Women’s Voluntary Service, gathering books, cakes and other goodies to send to troops overseas. In the evenings, she knitted socks, also to be sent to overseas, while listening to the wireless. The pair had been married for fifteen years by then and hadn’t produced a child, They’d finally given up trying, which was a bitter disappointment to Stewart and a bit of a relief to his wife.

  One night Stewart rolled into bed at four in the morning. He’d had a hard night. There had been a raid on the Forth Bridge, bombers droning overhead, but, tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. He’d turned to Nancy to tell her about all he’d seen and done.

  Earlier that day, Nancy had invited Mrs Lowrie, whose husband was at home on leave, into the house for a cup of tea. Mrs Lowrie had complained of being exhausted. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night. But you know, there’s a war on, men are fighting for their country and us women have to do their bit to keep them happy.’

  In bed, as the first glimmer of dawn seeped round the edges of the curtains and Stewart reached for her breast, Nancy McClusky remembered her neighbour’s words and allowed her husband his first bit of intimacy in years. It lasted only minutes, but he rolled over and slipped into a deep, satisfied sleep. She lay awake watching the day arrive, wondering what all the fuss over sex was about.

  Three months later Nancy went to the doctor. ‘I haven’t had my monthlies for a while,’ she said.

  He asked how old she was.

  ‘Forty-seven.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think you know what that’s all about. You’re going through the change. Just have a rest if you get all hot and flustered. When it’s over you’ll be right as rain and full of energy.’

  Five months later, Nancy once again went to the doctor. ‘I’ve got terrible heartburn,’ she said. ‘Can’t sleep for it. And I’m putting on weight even though I’m hardly eating.’

  He told her to pop up on the bench while he took a look at her. He checked her blood pressure, pummelled her stomach. And, to her horror, gave her an internal examination before congratulating her. ‘Well done, you’re pregnant.’

  ‘I’m what?’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to have a baby. Bit late, I know. But it happens.’

  Mr McClusky had reacted in the same way as his wife, ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Pregnant,’ she told him again. ‘I haven’t thought about having a baby in years. I’d forgotten I ever wanted one.’

  A month later, Nell was born, red and screaming and bursting with life. And there she was standing now in the kitchen, which was exactly as it had been when Mrs Lowrie had stood in it drinking tea and complaining about how exhausted she was.

  Nell, with her sandals and her painted toenails and her man’s jeans bought from the Army and Navy stores and her jumper that slipped off her left shoulder and showed her perfect young skin and her bra strap and her long hair that hid her lovely face. Who was she? How did she happen? And why was she nothing like the little girl who had worn pink frocks and stood on a chair by the sink helping with the dishes? God, she’d loved that little girl – the feel of her body against hers when she carried her. And how she’d carried her, never wanted to put her down, the soft breathing in her ear, the child’s endless questions, and the little hand in hers. The way that little girl had trusted her completely. Now she was rarely home; a stranger who seemed to disapprove of her.

  ‘Oh, away you go,’ said Nancy now. ‘But don’t come crying to me when you catch double pneumonia after traipsing about the streets in the freezing cold dressed in nothing at all.’

  Nell fled.

  *

  Carol’s house smelled of carpets. They’d just been fitted, wall-to-wall, in every room. They even stretched all the way up the stairs, soft under Nell’s feet as she climbed to Carol’s bedroom. She burst in. ‘Well?’

  ‘Didn’t work,’ said Carol. ‘I’m still up the bloody spout.’ She considered Nell. ‘Look at you. Jeans and a long black jumper. Your hair’s all straight and hanging down. You’re hardly you at all these days.’

  ‘I know. I’m more like Juliette Greco.’ Seeing Carol’s baffled face, she explained. ‘A French singer. Sort of bohemian. Anyway, some men find this look very sexy. They ask if I’m French and they think I’m mysterious.’ She sat on Carol’s bed. ‘Your mum says she’ll bring up coffee and biscuits.’

  Carol’s mum was Nell’s idea of a perfect mum. She was pretty and always cheery. ‘Carol’s in her room, love. Just pop up. I’ll bring you coffee in a while,’ she’d said. It always touched Nell somewhere in the depths of her to be treated so affectionately. There was no tenderness in her own home. In the evenings, they watched television in silence. Then, at half-past ten her mother would make a pot of tea and bring it through to the living room. After that, and after the cups
had been washed and put away, it was bedtime. Fire tamped down, lights out and upstairs they all went. Nell would lie in bed, blankets over her head and listen to Radio Luxemburg. It was her favourite time of day – her dreaming time – listening to songs on the radio.

  ‘And what do you say,’ asked Carol, ‘when men think you’re French?’

  Nell was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of her. ‘I don’t say anything. If I did they’d find out I’m not French and I’m not mysterious at all. They’d find out that I’m just me.’

  ‘So what do you do if you don’t speak?’

  ‘I have this little smile. Took ages to get it right. But I look sort of pleased and knowing.’ She demonstrated the smile.

  ‘Great smile,’ said Carol. ‘I don’t know why you do it, though. What’s wrong with being you?’

  ‘I need to be more than just me,’ said Nell. ‘Being me isn’t enough.’ She turned to gaze at herself in the dresser mirror, and did the smile again. When she turned back, Carol had hitched up her skirt and was running gentle fingers down a row of savage blisters on her legs.

  ‘Jesus, your legs are all burned,’ Nell looked at them in horror.

  ‘I did it in the bath. The blisters on my bum are the worst. Johnny held me in while he kept the hot tap on. I didn’t feel it at the time on account of being drunk on gin. Didn’t work.’

  ‘Didn’t you use anything, you know, when the pair of you … you know?’

  ‘Johnny won’t. He says it spoils it. It’s like washing your feet with your socks on.’

  Nell said that was plain stupid. ‘You can’t take chances.’

  ‘I’ve tried everything,’ said Carol. ‘I’ve been lifting heavy boxes at work. I’ve jumped off park benches. Then last night, in Johnny’s house, I sat in a boiling hot bath drinking gin. I drank almost a whole bottle. And I was so drunk and hot I couldn’t get out of the bath. My head was pounding. I was in that bath for two hours. Burned my legs it was so hot.’

  ‘Carol, that’s awful.’ Nell was glad this wasn’t happening to her.

  ‘So,’ said Carol, ‘I was crying and crying and screaming out. But Johnny kept telling me to stay put while he added more hot water. Then, when I did get out, all blistered and drunk and crying, I had to clean up the bathroom. It was all steamy. My hair went lank and my mascara ran. After that we had to drive about with the roof down in his car, so I’d sober up. It was freezing… And I’m still up the spout!’

  ‘So now what are you going to do?’

  They heard the soft fall of Carol’s mum’s footsteps coming up the stairs with a tray of coffee and biscuits. Carol pulled her skirt down, jerked her head in the direction of the door. Time to shut up.

  Mrs Anderson shoved the door open with her hip, stepped into the room and looked at the two. ‘Guilty faces. What have you two been doing?’

  In unison they answered, ‘Nothing.’

  Nell took the tray, as it would have been painful for Carol to stand up, and set it on the floor. She desperately wanted Mrs Anderson to go away; she was, after all, in the middle of the most fascinating conversation of her life. Mrs Anderson obliged, but the two remained silent, staring at one another, bursting to talk, until they heard the living room door downstairs shut.

  Carol leaned forward, whispered, ‘I’m going to see this man Johnny found out about. Dr Low. He can fix it.’

  ‘You’re not going to have an abortion?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Carol. ‘He wouldn’t do it anyway. He says he’ll see me and give me something. Forty pounds. Johnny gave me the money.’ She took a tight roll of notes out of her skirt pocket. ‘You’ve got to come with me.’ She started to eat a chocolate biscuit. ‘I can’t stop eating. It’s the worry.’ She looked at Nell. ‘That’s all I do – eat and cry. I’m scared.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Johnny take you? He got you into this.’

  Carol shrugged. ‘He hates doctors. He hates all this. He hated last night – all the crying and the mess. You come, please.’

  Nell couldn’t resist. It was an adventure. Besides, her friend needed her. She said of course she’d go.

  Carol took another biscuit. ‘This has got to work. What am I going to do if it doesn’t? I’ll have to tell my mother.’ There were tears when she said this. ‘She’ll go off her head.’ Carol chewed her biscuit, her face crumpled. Shoulders heaving, melted biscuit seeping down her chin, she gave into serious weeping.

  Two days later, they met after work and took the bus to Leith. They sat on the upper deck, Carol jiggling with nerves, complaining about butterflies in her stomach. ‘What do you suppose he’ll give me?’

  ‘A pill, I expect,’ said Nell.

  ‘Then the baby will just go away?’

  ‘I expect,’ said Nell. She had no idea what she was talking about.

  The doctor’s house overlooked the Links, and was, to Nell’s surprise, large and elegant. She’d been expecting a small sleazy flat up a dank stairway, ill lit and reeking of damp. But this place was behind a wall and had a wide gravel path leading to the front door. Nell rang the bell. They heard steps coming nearer and nearer from what seemed like a long way off and giggled nervously.

  Dr Low was small, round, white-haired and, Nell thought, like a kindly uncle or Santa Claus. He patted Carol’s hand and told her not to worry. ‘I’ve helped hundreds of young ladies in your condition.’ He indicated to Nell to wait in a small front room while he and Carol went for a little chat. As she was led away, Carol looked back in alarm at her friend. Nell waved, and then felt foolish.

  She sat on a cracked and creaking leather sofa, thumbing through a copy of the Reader’s Digest. A clock ticked, buses passed by on the road outside, from some distant part of the house came kitchen sounds – the clink of crockery, pots banging. The faint waft of onions cooking drifted up the hall. A small, slightly shrivelled old woman appeared at the door. ‘All right, dear?’

  Nell said she was.

  The woman told her the doctor would be with her soon.

  Nell was shocked. ‘Oh, this isn’t me. I’m not here. I mean it’s my friend who is seeing the doctor. I’m just keeping her company.’

  The woman nodded and disappeared as silently as she’d arrived. Nell started to worry. This place was unnerving. The clock seemed to be ticking louder than it had been before. She started to sweat. Carol was in trouble. She should find her and help her escape. What if that man murdered her? The police would come and she’d be arrested for being an accomplice in seeking an illicit abortion. She could be sent to prison. She stood up and was considering running away when she heard the two coming back down the long lino-covered hall.

  When the doctor entered the room he signalled for Nell to sit down again. ‘A wee word,’ he said.

  Behind his back, Carol stuck out her tongue and jabbed her finger into her mouth, feigning being sick. Nell revised her opinion of the man. He looked nothing like Santa Claus. His face was red and glistened with sweat. He wheezed. His black suit was stained and old. He was creepy. This house was creepy. Nell wanted to get out.

  The doctor opened a large dresser behind the sofa, took out a small brown bottle and gave it to Carol. ‘Three months,’ he said. ‘You’ve left it a bit late. I’d have been happier with two, but this will do the trick. This will shift it. It’s stronger than my usual mix and I don’t give it out often but I hate to see you young ladies in such distress. That’ll be forty pounds.’

  Carol pulled the money from her pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘Now you must understand the effect this will have on you. Don’t touch a drop till you get home. And take the lot all at once or it won’t work. Don’t go out after you’ve taken it, and make sure you have access to a lavatory. Don’t be alarmed at what happens. It’s just the way of things. Life is messy. And don’t tell anybody where you got this mixture.’

  Carol said she understood and headed for the door.

  ‘Not yet, young lady. I think we must have a little chat about how you
got into your current condition. I don’t want you coming here again. May I suggest that in future you and your young man—’ he turned to Nell ‘—and indeed you and your young man, if you have one, refrain from sexual intercourse?’

  Nell blushed. Carol’s jaw dropped.

  ‘There are many ways of pleasuring yourselves without going all the way. I suggest you restrict yourselves to mutual masturbation for the moment.’

  The two girls gasped, looked at one another, wide-eyed in horror. They never spoke about things like this to anyone, and certainly not to anybody as old as this man. Old people shouldn’t know about this. It was disgusting. Nell’s blush deepened. They barged towards the door. Didn’t pause to say thanks.

  Arm-in-arm, they fled down the drive, walking faster and faster, till they hit the pavement. Then they ran. Nell was in front, heels clicking, puffing silently at first.

  Then, a squeal from Carol, a shriek from Nell, and they were both sprinting and screaming. They hurtled through the chill evening away from the doctor’s house. Every so often, they stopped to pant and heave and clutch one another and squeal, ‘Oh God!’ Then they were off, running again, working off their shock and putting some distance between them and the disgusting old man.

  Spent, they flopped onto a park bench, and sat side-by-side, gasping. Their throats were raw from squealing. They could hardly speak. They looked at one another, panting and swearing, ‘Jesus, oh God, bloody hell.’

  ‘He was a dirty old man,’ Carol said when at last she could speak.

  ‘I know,’ said Nell. She squirmed in disgust.

  ‘He made me lie on this bench thing while he pummelled my tummy. Then he poked at me.’

  ‘What do you mean, poked?’

  ‘With his fingers. Down there. Inside.’ Carol buried her face in her hands and drummed her feet on the ground, exorcising the memory.

  ‘No,’ said Nell. ‘He didn’t. He’s not meant to do that. It’s not right.’

  ‘He said I was about fourteen weeks gone and shouldn’t have left it so long before coming to see him.’

  ‘Well, at least he gave you something.’