Roxy's Baby (2 page)

But this wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to get pregnant.

She was only fourteen.

Roxy had never wanted her mother as much as she did at that moment. What was she going to do?

‘Get rid of it!' She could almost hear Pat saying that. If she had confided in her, in any of them, she was sure that would have been their advice. And she was sure she couldn't do that. So she hadn't told Pat or Tracey or
Jaqueline. She had told no one. No one knew. It was her secret.

She could see her fear reflected in the face in the mirror. She was so different from Jennifer. Roxy's hair was a mass of curls, fiery and red and wild. ‘Just like you, Roxy,' her mother had told her often. Once she had said it with affection, as if she was proud of Roxy's fire. But lately, it had always been an accusation.

Roxy sat on the bath and tightened her arms around herself, trying desperately to think. She had no other option but to run. Once she could have told her mother. Once, when her dad was alive. Or would she? Maybe when Dad had been fit and well, she might have told her, told her anything. But not when Dad was dying. She wouldn't have told her then. Dad dying would have been enough for her mum to cope with.

Once, she might even have confided in Jennifer. Once, when they had talked and laughed and giggled together.

Now she hated her sister with a passion. Her self-righteous little sister who never did anything wrong.

Her mother and Jennifer hated her now too. So did Paul, though she cared nothing for him. All of them hated her. She didn't belong in this family any more.

‘Are you OK in there?' It was her mother, banging on the door.

Roxy opened her mouth. It would only take her a second to say … ‘No, Mum, I need you. Help me.' For a split second she was almost ready to open the door, throw herself into her mother's arms.

Not enough time.

‘Get you into bed right now! I've had enough of your nonsense tonight. You've got school in the morning, and I've got work.' There was no compassion in her mother's voice. She'd had enough.

Then her angry footsteps pounded into the back bedroom she shared with her new husband. The room she had once shared with Dad. And the door was slammed shut.

When Roxy did go to bed, Jennifer was already sleeping, or was pretending she was. There was no one to confide in. No one to help her. She knew she had to run away, be independent. But where could she go?

She lay in bed, watching the moon hanging in the sky, and tried to figure out what to do. There was no family who would take her in. No handy aunt who had always understood and preferred Roxy. On the contrary, she was sure Aunt Val had always had a soft spot for
Jennifer. There was no darling old uncle in the country who would harbour her and turn her life around. That only happened in books. This was real life, and there was no one she could turn to. So, where could she go?

London. Isn't that where everyone went? There, in such a big city she could lose herself, and in London there had to be places, people who would help girls in her position. All she needed was time to think things through, to work out a plan. But of course, now, time was something she didn't have too much of.

Roxy had once read somewhere that if you were looking for something, by some kind of strange magic it usually appeared in front of you. There was a word for it.
Serendipity
.

Roxy found the answer she was seeking in her hands the very next day. She idly opened a magazine in the girls' cloakroom at school. It had been left there by one of the other girls and she began to flick through it. She caught her breath when she found an article about a place, a house in London, just the kind of place she was looking for. A house which took in runaway girls, looked after them, asked no questions and didn't make them go home if they didn't want to.

There was a photograph of the woman in charge. Thin-faced, with an abundance of iron-grey hair and steel in her eyes. ‘Young girls run for many reasons. It's not for me to judge, just help them.'

London. Mayflower House. Jessica Jones.

The answer to her prayers?

Roxy ripped the page from the magazine and stuffed it into her rucksack. This was like a message, she was sure of it. If she still had doubts about running away they disappeared when she read that article. It was telling her what she had to do, telling her where she had to go.

She began to make her plans. Even so, every morning that week she still prayed she might be wrong. That the pregnancy kit she had used had been faulty. And every morning after Paul and her mum had gone off to work she was retching in the bathroom. She was pregnant all right. Nothing could change that. By Friday, she had no choice. She had to leave.

When she spoke the words to herself it all sounded easy and sensible. ‘You're running away, you know where you're going. Someone is going to help you.' But as she packed her rucksack on that last night she had never wanted to stay so much.

Everyone had gone out for the evening. Her mum and Paul had been invited to an evening reception at a wedding. Her mother looked so pretty in a scarlet dress and Roxy couldn't take her eyes off her as she stood in the living room, laughing and sharing a glass of wine with Paul. She even kissed Roxy. Her mother could never stay mad at anyone for long, even her errant daughter. She gave Roxy a hug as they were leaving and for the first time in ages Roxy didn't pull away from her. All she wanted to do was to hug her back, to hold tight on to her.

‘Don't be late tonight, Roxy. Please. I'm trusting you.'

‘I won't,' Roxy said, as if it was true, and she watched from the doorway as they climbed into a taxi and waved goodbye to her.

I'm never going to see her again, Roxy kept thinking. I'll be out of her life tonight for ever.

Still the tears wouldn't come. I must be as hard as nails, Roxy thought, or as strong as steel. She much preferred being strong as steel. She wouldn't think about it. Too much thinking was bad for her, and anyway, there were too many emotions inside her fighting for her attention.

She took money from her mother's stash in the kitchen. She wanted to write a note saying she would pay it back, but she probably wouldn't. Jennifer was at a sleepover and wouldn't be home until the next day. How would she feel when she knew Roxy had gone? Guilty? I don't think so, Roxy thought, she'll probably just be glad to get the bedroom to herself.

She pictured her mother, waiting up for her coming home, striding backwards and forwards across the living room, as she had done on so many nights recently. Watching at the window for Roxy running up the street or getting out of a taxi. She would grow angrier and angrier but it would be morning before she would raise any alarm. She would phone the friends she so disapproved of, and it would take perhaps all day before she realised that Roxy was with none of them and might not return this time. And by then, Roxy planned to be in London, melted into the crowd.

Alone.

She would have to get used to being alone.

She stood in the dark hallway of her house for a long time remembering. Remembering the happy times here. Her dad sneaking presents into the front room on Christmas Eve. Her tenth birthday party, before Dad
became ill, when they'd presented her with a bike. She remembered the sad times too. How often Dad was rushed to hospital from here, how often she and Jennifer had sat on the stairs waiting for the phone to ring to tell them how he was. And she remembered the angry times. The night Mum had brought Paul home and Roxy had known, she had simply known that this was the one who was going to take her dad's place. No matter what she said, or what she did, he was going to become part of the family.

Yet, at that moment as she listened to the sounds of the house she had grown up in, she would have done anything to change things. To be able to stay here, safe and secure. Especially now.

She was afraid. Afraid to go. But even more afraid to stay. Let's face it, Roxy, she thought, they'd put you out anyway when they found out your dark secret. Roxy, the black sheep, spoiling the image of the happy family.

Roxy – all alone.

She looked at the big clock above the fireplace. It was almost time to go for the train that would take her to Glasgow, where she would catch the overnight bus to London. The red eye, they called it. The article from the magazine was wedged tight into her rucksack. At
least she knew where she was going.

‘Goodbye, house.' She said it softly and waited for a moment, almost as if she expected an answer. Then she quietly closed the door behind her and was gone.

Roxy slept all the way to London. She hadn't thought she would. She'd been sure the fear, the uncertainty about her future, would keep her awake and alert on the long dark journey. Yet, she slept.

She woke just as the bus was coming into the outskirts of London. People waking up, pavement cafes opening and tables and chairs being prepared for the springtime customers.

She'd been to London only once before. Just after Dad had died her mum had taken her and Jennifer for a weekend treat. Staying at a big hotel, going to a show.

Now, here Roxy was, back again, and this time there was no money for hotels or shows or fancy restaurants.

For the first time in days she didn't feel sick, and she took that as an omen. She'd done the right thing. She even ate breakfast in a typical London ‘caff', the only place that was open so early in the morning. It was filled
with lorry drivers and taxi drivers munching on hot bacon rolls and hugging mugs of steaming hot tea and all talking like the cast of
EastEnders
.

After her second cup of tea she noticed that the eyes of the fat waitress were on her too often and for too long. It was time to move on. Roxy unfolded the article from the magazine and laid it flat on the table. She read it over again, and it sounded too good to be true, this haven waiting for her. Mayflower House. This woman, Jessica Jones. Too good to be true. ‘You're so cynical, Roxy,' her mother was always telling her, because she was always suspicious of other people's motives. ‘They must be after something,' Roxy would say, and her mother would always reply, ‘There are a lot of nice people in the world.'

Well, there were a lot of nasty people too. Was Jessica Jones one of them?

She asked one of the drivers sitting at the next table which line she should take on the Underground. Not the waitress, because she already looked too suspicious, staring at Roxy from under a dyed blonde fringe.

He answered, spluttering breadcrumbs all over her table. ‘You get the Piccadilly line, darlin', that's the one you want. Know where you're going, love?'

‘My aunt's, I'm down here for a holiday,' Roxy said at once, with assurance and a broad smile, as if it was the truth. She was a good liar, always had been.

She felt the waitress's eyes follow her as she left the caff and she deliberately beamed a smile at her, catching her off her guard. The waitress smiled back, her fat face like the dough of an unbaked bread roll. ‘Have a nice day,' she called out, as Roxy stepped out into the sunshine.

‘You too,' Roxy called back.

She hated the Underground. Hated the crowds and sounds and the smells. Hated the swoosh of wind that came out of a tunnel with every train as if it was going to carry her off. It was rush hour and every seat was full. There was hardly any room to stand up. She was constantly afraid she wouldn't be able to fight her way out of the crowd and she would miss her stop. When she reached ground level and saw the sky again she took a moment to rest and breathe in fresh springtime air. Then she was ready to move on. She bought a street map from a pavement stall, and followed her route street by street. Her legs were aching and she was exhausted by the time she reached her destination.

At last there it was. Mayflower House. It stood right
in the middle of a sweep of houses in a half moon crescent. They looked like the old Georgian buildings in Edinburgh. The kind they used in fog-shrouded melodramas, where husbands tried to drive their wives mad, or bodysnatchers sneaked out into an eerie street looking for their next victim. The houses here all looked run-down, and that disappointed Roxy. These houses could have been beautiful, but paint flaked from the graffiti-stained walls and windows were boarded up or had grilles in front of them. Some of the houses looked as if they had been turned into grotty flats, with filthy once-white net curtains draped across the windows.

The front door of Mayflower House was flanked by two chipped columns. The wood on the high windows was breaking up and the stonework was crumbling. She thought of her own neat little terraced home, the front garden with the pot plants and the climbing wisteria and honeysuckle, once her dad's pride and joy. For a moment, hurt by the memory, Roxy felt on the verge of tears, but she sniffed them back. That was then, she told herself. This was now. No going back.

The brightly shining brass plate on the column restored her confidence. Someone at least took care of
this
house. The front door was lying open, letting the
morning sunshine flood into the hallway. A girl was arranging some flowers in a vase and Roxy stood watching her for an age. She was very thin, with pale fair hair. Her mouth was hanging open as she concentrated on her task. She doesn't realise anyone's watching her, Roxy thought, or that mouth of hers would be shut. Almost as if she had heard her, the girl turned, saw Roxy and her mouth snapped closed.

‘Are you coming in?' she asked. She saw Roxy hesitate, and she came forward. ‘Come on in.' She smiled, but Roxy didn't smile back. She didn't move.

‘My name's Doreen,' the girl said. ‘I work here. Mrs Jones is out but she'll be back soon. Fancy a cup of tea?'

Roxy stepped into the shabby hallway. It was brightened up by the flowers and multicoloured throws draped over a couple of sofas against the walls. Doreen followed her gaze. ‘I know, it doesn't look much, but there's never enough money to do it up. That's where Mrs Jones is now, trying to get some more sponsors. Run away from home, have you?'