Roxy's Baby (7 page)

‘We must be close to an airport,' she said to Anne Marie one morning as they watched one fly low above them.

‘We're on a flight path anyway,' Anne Marie agreed.

‘But which airport?' Roxy looked at Anne Marie. ‘Don't you ever wonder exactly where we are?'

But Anne Marie didn't. ‘You question everything, Roxy. Were you this much trouble at home?'

And she had to admit that she was.

Their chores were never too heavy, just as Anne Marie had told her, and amazingly, even Roxy almost enjoyed them. She had caused mayhem at home,
refusing to tidy her and Jennifer's room, leaving heaps of dirty washing lying on chairs or in corners. Here it was different. She didn't have her mother's constant nagging, or her sister shouting her disapproval at her. In fact, here, because she was the youngest, she was treated in a special kind of way. Looked after as if she was the baby of the family.

In these first days she hardly thought of her mother, and when she did it was defiantly. One day she would be able to tell her how well she, Roxy, had done without them. Did she think of her mother crying, worrying over her? Let her cry, she thought. Though half of her was sure her mother wouldn't shed a tear. Glad to be rid of her and have only Little Miss Perfect left in the house. At times, it almost felt as if she was at boarding school, in one of those novels where the girls packed into each other's dorms at midnight, telling stories, eating midnight feasts, laughing.

All that was missing at these midnight parties, according to Babs, was alcohol. ‘They could allow us alcopops at least.'

Anne Marie threw a pillow at her. ‘Bad for the baby, stupid!'

And they were never allowed anything that was bad
for the baby.

A doctor came every Wednesday. An Austrian, Anne Marie informed her. Roxy would never have been able to tell just from his accent. He could have been anything, from German to Dutch to Russian. To Roxy, he was just a middle-aged man with a fuzz around his chin, as if he was trying to grow a beard and failing miserably.

Anne Marie laughed when she told her that. ‘You're so funny, Roxy.'

Funny? No one had ever accused her of that before. Anne Marie laughed even louder when she mimicked his thick accent. ‘“Yourrrrr bebe will be a perrrrfect specimen. You will produce many fine bebes.”'

‘Did he actually say that?' Anne Marie asked through her giggles.

‘He did. I nearly died. So did Mrs Dyce.' She jumped forward. ‘“Oh, Doctor, for goodness sake. She's not a battery hen.”' Roxy's Mrs Dyce impression only made Anne Marie giggle all the more. ‘I told him I didn't want to produce this one. I'm not planning producing another for a very long time.'

They both fell back on the bed laughing. ‘Anyway, why can't they get a proper British doctor?' Roxy realised that had been bothering her all day.

Anne Marie, of course, had an answer. ‘It can't be easy for them to get doctors they can trust, Roxy. What they're doing here for us has to be a secret. Otherwise the police, social workers would be swarming all over the place. You'd have to go home, so you would. They can hardly phone up the village doctor and ask him to make a house call.'

Everything about this place was secret, undercover, and Roxy didn't like those words. Yet, she did understand the necessity for all this secrecy. Otherwise, where would Anne Marie be, or Agnes or Babs? Or, especially, Roxy herself.

And Sula, who wanted home.

As the day of Sula's departure drew near she grew more and more excited.

‘We're going to have a farewell party for her,' Anne Marie whispered to Roxy one day in the kitchen. It was their turn to make the evening meal – spaghetti Bolognese, crusty bread, salad.

‘When?' Roxy asked.

‘She leaves on Friday morning, so we'll have it after dinner on the Thursday.'

Mr Dyce strolled into the kitchen just then. Roxy had seen little of him since her arrival. He was always
working in his office. That room marked PRIVATE. A couple of times she had seen him driving away in his Morris Minor. He always had a vague and distant look about him, Roxy thought. He had that look now, smiling, but at no one in particular.

Anne Marie was as fond of him as she was of his wife. She ran to him and slipped her arm in his. ‘I'm telling Roxy that we're having a party for Sula before she goes home.'

‘Yes. Wonderful idea. Is it a secret?'

Anne Marie squeezed his hand. ‘Yes. So no telling.'

He drew his fingers across his mouth as if he was closing a zip and then he winked. ‘Tight shut.'

‘How are you getting her home?' Roxy's question took Mr Dyce aback. She could tell by the way his eyes darted towards her. ‘I mean, she hasn't got a passport or anything.'

He looked at Roxy, still smiling. ‘With great difficulty,' he said. ‘My, you are the inquisitive one. Always asking questions.'

Roxy would have asked more but Anne Marie interrupted. ‘Sula's so near her time, Mr Dyce. I wish you could persuade her to stay till after the baby's born.'

Mr Dyce finally drew his eyes away from Roxy, and even though he was still smiling, why did she feel it was only with his mouth? ‘We tried, Anne Marie, but she just wants to go home.' He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘What can we do?'

‘The Dyces must know a lot of people,' Roxy said after he'd gone shuffling out into the garden. ‘People who can get Sula back to Albania without a passport.'

Anne Marie shook her head. ‘Look at you, still the suspicious one. The Dyces would move heaven and hell to help any one of us. Haven't you realised that yet? Heaven and hell.'

I'm being silly, Roxy told herself later, as she sat eating her spaghetti and listening to the chatter round the table. She'd been here for days and had been shown nothing but kindness. So what if they couldn't listen to the television, or leave the grounds. Those rules had been put there to protect them. Everyone else accepted that. Why couldn't she?

She was like a little boat that had been caught in a terrible storm, and had found, by accident, a safe haven. She still couldn't believe her luck. She would wake up tomorrow and find herself lying in some homeless shelter, hungry and alone.

Why couldn't she just enjoy what was happening? Why did these suspicions keep pounding in her mind, like waves on a harbour wall?

Sula knew nothing about the party. Her command of English was so poor that the other girls could talk all round her about it and she didn't pick it up. The foreign girls, in spite of the language barrier, were brought on board to help, blowing up balloons, pinning up banners. They each had a job to do. Babs was in charge of making the punch; non-alcoholic. She complained about that bitterly, adding, ‘I asked that weirdo Stevens to get us some booze and do you know what he said?'

‘He said, “No”?' giggled Anne Marie.

‘Not just your ordinary “no”. He said, “It is more than my life's worth.”' She looked around them all in disbelief. ‘Can you believe this guy? It's more than his life's worth? What are they going to do? Kill him? Dismember him, bury him under the rhubarb? Just because he gets us a bottle of sparkling wine?'

They all laughed, and yet the words chilled Roxy.
More than his life's worth? It was a strange thing to say, surely? She would love to have the nerve to talk to this Stevens, even though his appearance – she pictured his maggoty fingers – gave her the creeps.

‘Couldn't you sneak into the village yourself?' Roxy asked Babs.

Babs stuck out her belly. ‘With this lump? I couldn't “sneak” anywhere. Anyway, what village? We're in the middle of nowhere here.'

‘Doesn't that bother anybody but me?' Roxy looked around them. ‘Why can't we know exactly where this place is?'

Babs only shrugged, but she answered for the rest of them. ‘Couldn't care less. As long as they feed me, water me and give me a bed, this place can be on the moon for all I care.' She laughed raucously and punched one of the Asian girls who was trying to blow up a balloon. ‘What about you, Sanja? Bet you don't care either.'

Sanja only looked at her, the balloon hanging from her lips. She smiled. Some of the other girls turned to look too. It occurred to Roxy that they must feel so alone here. They all spoke different languages, and none of them spoke English. It was as if they each lived in their own little world, not really understanding what
was going on.

Anne Marie said, ‘You know why we can't go into the village, Roxy, so don't start getting suspicious again. Think about it. If one of us goes into the village and we're recognised, this whole place, this whole operation would be put in jeopardy.'

‘You know some wonderful big words, Anne Marie,' said Roxy. ‘“Jeopardy”, I like that.'

‘Well, I for one have no plans to go into any village.' Babs looked around them all. ‘Come on, I can't be the only one the police are looking for?'

Roxy saw Agnes's eyes shoot to the floor. She was on the run too, but not from family, from the law. ‘It was only shoplifting. It was the assistant's own fault, she shouldn't have got in the way. I only pushed her.' She defended herself in her squeaky little voice, as if they had all accused her. She almost shouted. ‘It wasn't my fault.'

For a moment no one said a word. It was Anne Marie who broke the uneasy silence. ‘Where's Sula?'

‘Mrs Dyce took her for a walk round the grounds,' Agnes said. ‘Just to keep her out of the way, really.'

‘Roxy, watch out for her coming back. Agnes, you get the cake ready.'

Roxy stood at the open French windows. The night was still and warm with the scent of roses drifting through the air. It was almost idyllic looking out over the gardens, watching the tall grass sway in the light breeze, breathing in the scents of early summer. She listened to the girls laughing and giggling and felt a warmth for them too. So what if they were petty criminals. They all had secrets. Hadn't she some of her own? Here, they were all in the same boat, and she felt a togetherness with them she hadn't felt with anyone for a long time. Roxy was almost happy – almost. There was still a niggling doubt that this was all going to come to an abrupt end. That in the end there would be a price to pay. That she would have to pay the piper.

‘Does Sula's family know she's coming back?' Roxy was asking no one in particular.

It was Babs who answered her. ‘She's written to her family. Mrs Dyce posted it.'

‘You know, it's hard to believe that someone like Sula with hardly any English and so quiet would want to come here by herself and look for work.'

Anne Marie was already pinning up another banner. CONGRATULATIONS, it proclaimed. ‘But she wasn't
alone, Roxy,' she said. ‘She came here with her boyfriend.'

Babs patted her belly. ‘The sprog's dad.'

‘He dumped her as soon as he knew she was pregnant.'

‘Ratbag,' Babs spat out.

‘So, her parents didn't know about the baby, but they're still happy to take her back now?' Roxy was thinking aloud, not really asking anyone.

‘Parents usually do. Forgive you anything to get you back.' Anne Marie laughed, but there was a sadness in her voice. ‘Unless you've got parents like mine who couldn't care less.'

Would Roxy's mother forgive her, as Sula's had? she wondered. But she dismissed the thought almost immediately. Why would she want to go back there anyway? Hadn't she landed on her feet? Enjoy the moment, Anne Marie kept telling her. So she would. This was luxury. These girls and Anne Marie were her family now.

And Mr and Mrs Dyce her loving parents?

Suddenly, Mrs Dyce appeared through some shrubbery with Sula hanging on to her arm, whispering softly to her.

‘They're coming.' Roxy called out. ‘Is everything ready?'

They closed the windows and drew the heavy curtains shut, making the room almost dark, and then they pressed themselves against the walls and tried not to giggle. Agnes waited in the kitchen with the cake at the ready.

Roxy stood in a gloomy corner, waiting. She could hear Mrs Dyce's voice outside, moving closer. Murmuring softly, though the words were indistinct. Could Sula understand? Or was she just so excited to be going home she would listen to anything?

The door opened at last and the curtains opened with it. The setting sun streamed in with a fanfare of burnt orange. Sula walked in first, her face puzzled. She looked around, just as the kitchen door opened and Agnes stepped into the room carrying the cake, with the candles already lit.

Roxy stayed back, watching all their faces. Sula immediately began to cry, covering her face with her hands. Anne Marie reached out and pulled her into a hug, then she began to cry too. Even Babs managed a tear, wiping it away dramatically. ‘This is ruining my make-up,' she was saying.

Agnes was trying desperately to squeeze one out. Crocodile tears, Roxy's mother would call them. Phoney as a three-pound note. Roxy couldn't cry. It just wouldn't come. She looked around the other girls and her eyes finally fell on Mrs Dyce, and there she was, watching Roxy closely. She wasn't crying either. She wasn't smiling. It was as if she knew what Roxy was thinking, and didn't like it. Then her gaze moved back to the girls and it seemed to Roxy that her eyes were as cold as ice.

It was a great party. They ate the cake and drank Babs's punch and they all got so giggly that Roxy began to wonder if Babs had indeed found some alcohol to put in it. She said so to Anne Marie.

‘It's our mood. A good mood, a good laugh, it's better than alcohol any day. And a happy ending, Roxy.' Her eyes went back to Sula, sitting on the carpet, her face glowing as Babs tried to explain in sign language that she must write to them.

‘Sula's got her happy ending.' Anne Marie said it wistfully, wishing for her own. ‘Don't you just love happy endings, Roxy?'