September Starlings (36 page)

We walked down towards Deane Road, then ambled into town until we reached the bus station. ‘I’ll go on my own,’ I said.

He stared at me. ‘Oh no. I’ll be with you from now on. Wherever you go, I’ll be there.’

When he said that, I shivered as if cold steel had touched my spine. But I dismissed the sensation, took my lover’s hand and caught the bus to Barr Bridge. It was August, and no-one shivers in the summer time.

As far as I have been able to remember, John McNally only raised his voice once or twice during the length of my time in his house. But when I told him of my pregnancy, his behaviour disturbed me beyond measure. He did not scream and shout, did not scold me for my sins. No, his reaction was far worse than anything I might have imagined. My father simply sat down on a stool in his laboratory, laid his head in his hands and wept.

I didn’t know what to do, what to say. Tommo had chickened out at the last minute, had asked me to do the job by myself. ‘He’ll not want me there, Laura. This has got to be done by you alone.’ So much for his speech about us being together for all time, I thought. Still, I was glad that Tommo wasn’t standing here watching my father’s tears.

I hadn’t even considered talking to my mother. She would have made a feast of it, would have enjoyed telling me what a disgrace I was. Of course, I could have brought
Mary Dunbar into it, could have ranted on about policemen and sports pavilions, but I wasn’t up to much. If this was pregnancy, then I wouldn’t be wanting more than one child.

‘Laurie. Oh my Laurie-child.’ He got down from the stool, mopped his cheeks and made for the door. ‘Back in a moment,’ he said. I guessed that he was going to the washroom where he might clear his head sufficiently to cope with this latest shock.

I walked to a door at the opposite end of the laboratory, looked through a pane of toughened glass, saw a part of my father’s kingdom. There were long benches where the workers sat during the day, some stretches made lower than others to accommodate the disabled. Overhead, small vats hung from an upper floor where the Cooling Teas were mixed, then pipes led down to the benches. Each pipe fed a measure into a circle of muslin, then the operators tied and boxed the bags for the warehouse. The place was empty now, gloomy in the parsimonious glimmer of a few dim lamps. I was seventeen, pregnant and alone, and my father was in the washroom, probably being sick.

I cast an eye over his bench, saw sheaves of notes piled high next to pipettes, beakers, boxes of herbs, bottles of essences. A gas burner sucked its nourishment from a tube of reddish-brown rubber, gave forth a long pale flame with a yellow core. He worked hard, my poor father, and I was killing him.

When he came back, I looked at him as if for the first time. He was a man of moderate height, but the feet and inches were variable in accordance with his mood. On this evening, he was shorter, as if his shoulders had been weighted by all the worries in the world. Of late, he had taken to wearing spectacles, because his startlingly blue eyes were feeling the strain of many hours spent hunched over notes and theories. He was old, older than his years.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I whimpered. Really, I was sorry for myself too, felt like a tragic princess whose fairy tale had
not yet managed to come right. But I pushed away the pity I felt for my father, because the fear of my condition was greater than any other single thing. I had to get married quickly, and my father would be required to help me achieve my goal.

He walked up to me, lifted my chin with a finger. ‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘For some time, I have believed you to be anaemic, so your symptoms will be caused by a lack of iron. You are not pregnant, Laurie.’

Hope stirred in my breast, fluttered like a small caged bird that has heard a promise of freedom. I did not want to be married. I did not want to be married to Tommo, not yet. ‘How can you be so sure?’ I asked. ‘Don’t we need a doctor?’

Dad pursed his lips, shook his head slowly. ‘I think not, dear. I know that doctors are supposed to keep quiet, but Barr Bridge is such a small place and Dr Horrocks is an ageing man, too old, really. He’d be running about gossiping, telling everybody how John McNally let his daughter suffer from anaemia. Oh yes, he’d get some mileage out of that, Laurie. All you need is a few doses of ferrous sulphate. There’s no point in visiting a semi-retired doctor when your dad’s a chemist. I can treat you myself. It’s just a matter of a tonic, two or three doses, then some bed rest.’

‘But I feel pregnant.’

He swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his thinning throat. ‘And how does “pregnant” feel, Laurie?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Just different. A bit heavy, very tired. Everything seems to be dragging downward towards my feet, as if I’m made of lead.’

‘Anaemia,’ he said authoritatively. ‘You aren’t expecting a child. Please believe me. You must stay at home for a few days, allow me to treat this weakness. In a week or so, you will be back to your normal self.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘What about Mother?’

‘Leave her to me also. I’ll tell her that you need a rest.’

I pondered again for a moment. ‘Well, why don’t I tell Dr Horrocks that we think I need iron? There’s no need for me to say I might be pregnant, I can just go in and—’

‘No.’ His voice, though soft, was forceful. ‘The man couldn’t treat a horse with bellyache. And as I said just now, he’d make me into a laughing stock. You don’t need a doctor, love. I’ll sort you out. Just leave the details to your old dad.’

He sorted me out, all right. When he had finished with me, I felt as if I had been through the Victorian wringer, that aged monument which had been relegated by Mother to the back garden since the advent of her washing machine. I bled copiously, suffered severe back pain, had cramps in my belly that precluded me from standing, even from sitting up in bed.

When the pain subsided, I sat in our new bath, stared ahead at the frosted window, paddled my hands idly in steaming water. The baby was gone. My father had killed the child. The anaemia had been a figment of my father’s educated imagination, had been dreamed up during his lonely sojourn in the washroom on the night of my confession.

I hadn’t wanted the baby any more than I had wanted any of the dolls in my bedroom. For years, those silly faces had sat behind their cellophane wrappings, the tiny clothes fading into rags, the rosebud lips still perfect, untouched, unkissed by a loving child-mother. Perhaps I was not normal. Anne had always loved her dolls, had wheeled them in a pram, had dressed them, given them tea-parties, had talked to them and cuddled them. ‘I’m not normal,’ I said aloud. ‘And my mother and my father are both murderers.’ Living on the fringe of Catholicism had given me a strong sense of guilt where birth control was concerned. Abortion was wrong. I wouldn’t go to hell, because I’d been taking a tonic for my blood, but Dad was condemned now to an eternity of heat and pain.

When I was dressed, I made my way downstairs,
depending heavily for support on the iron handrail. Mother was smoking in the kitchen, and the smoke made me sicker than ever. I walked past her, went looking for air in the garden. But she stopped me before I got outside, stood by my side, raked my face with her eyes. ‘It’s all right for you, then, is it? All right for you to run around like a tramp with that horrible boy? Oh, I heard you moaning and rolling about. It hurts, doesn’t it?’

I didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see her face. She had heard me crying out in my agony and she had not come to me. ‘Go away,’ I said softly.

‘His precious daughter. Oh, he’d risk prison for you, but not for me.’

I held on to the door jamb, cursed the weakness in my knees. ‘Your baby wasn’t his.’

‘And yours wasn’t exactly a welcome guest, was it? Your baby wasn’t legitimate, Laura. At least I was old enough to know what I was doing.’ She sounded smug.

‘And still stupid enough to get into a mess,’ I said. ‘I betrayed no-one, Mother. I love Tommo and I’m going to marry him one day. There’ll be no running about with other men, because I’m not cheap.’

She stepped back a pace, took in a sharp breath of air. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve no idea what it is to live with a man who isn’t right, a man who’s hardly a man at all. I needed warmth, needed some love. All he wants is a science book and a silly box of medical tricks. Your father isn’t made of flesh and blood.’

I turned and gave her a quick glance, then fixed my eyes on the open door. ‘He’s a good man. The reason why he doesn’t bother with you is easy to work out. You’re an unpleasant person, Mother.’ The bitterness was rising in my gullet, and I was unable to hold it back this time. Something had happened to me, something that had left me unbalanced, out of control. ‘You don’t deserve him, and he deserves better than you. Why didn’t you go when he asked you to? Are you waiting for his fortune?’

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

At last, I gave her my full attention. ‘I just open my mouth and let the words come out. It’s quite easy, really.’

I stumbled down the dirt track, stood still and looked at the sign over the big yard, RAVENSCROFT FARM, HOME OF McNALLY’S FEVER TEAS. An outer door stood open, and I could see him at his desk. He was alone. As if drawn by invisible factors, he lifted his head and looked at me. His face was lined with misery, and I wanted to run to him and offer comfort. But in my weakened state, I had to walk slowly. Dad didn’t rise to meet me, and I knew suddenly that he feared me, dreaded what I might say to him. I gathered around me the shattered remnants of self-control, kept my pace steady, walked into his workshop. ‘Dad?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love.’

‘Why? Why did you do it, Dad?’

He gulped, but managed not to weep this time. ‘It was your baby, Laurie. I should have asked, should have cared about what you wanted. But I couldn’t sit by and watch your life ruined before it’s even started.’

‘It’s all right,’ I muttered at last.

‘No. No, it isn’t all right. What I did went against everything I believe in. I’ve lost my soul, Laurie. Whether what I did was right or wrong in earthly terms, I’ve broken my bond with God.’

He hated himself and it was all my fault. ‘I’ll take you to church,’ I said. ‘And you can tell a priest.’

He smiled, but there was no joy in his face. ‘Lady Macbeth knew all about God’s wrath, Laurie. Nothing could ever cleanse her heart, nothing in this world. It’s the same for me.’

I remembered something that Confetti had written in a letter. ‘The biggest sin is despair,’ I reminded him. ‘There is no sin that can’t be forgiven.’

He dropped his pen, closed the book of notes with a sharp snap. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘I am. So’s Confetti.’

He rose from his seat and walked towards me. ‘You must forgive me first. Without your absolution, there’s no point in seeking a priest’s blessing.’

So I opened my arms and my heart, drew my father close and forgave him. Forgiving him was an act of will, as I was very young, very confused about what had taken place. There had been a baby and I had not wanted it, and I had not wanted it killed. The decision had been made outside of me, but the ultimate responsibility had been mine. I should have gone to a doctor, should have guessed my father’s plan.

John McNally was received back into the church at the end of the same week. I sat in a pew and watched him going up for communion, saw the wetness in his eyes when he returned to my side. He had been lapsed for years, and that tiny unborn child had dragged John McNally back into Rome’s maternal arms. The priest had mediated between layman and God, had forgiven my father’s enormous sin. It was a great comfort to him and, from that day on, he kept Sundays and holy days right up to his death. So my poor little baby had had a purpose, even though it had not survived to enjoy the light in its newly devout grandfather’s eyes.

He was furious, kept pulling at the railings as if he wanted to bend them over. ‘How the hell did you come to lose it? Have you been messing about climbing trees?’

‘No. It just happened. One minute I was pregnant, and the next minute I wasn’t. It often happens like that the first time. I read about it in a magazine of my mother’s.’ I was emotional, still unwell, was hanging on to my temper with the skin of my teeth. Tommo could be annoying at times.

He kicked at a clump of grass, shook his head from side to side. ‘Well, we can still get married, can’t we?’

‘No.’

The grey eyes were suddenly hot with anger. ‘Why not? You’ve already decided not to go back to school. Aren’t
you going to work with your dad, do his notes and his letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why can’t we get married and have it over with?’ He sounded as if he were discussing some painful surgical procedure. ‘Why do we have to wait?’

‘Because I’m only seventeen and you’re only nineteen. We need to save up some money, buy things.’

‘What things?’ Now he was acting the part of a hurt child who is begging for a toy on display in some shop window. I was his favourite plaything, and he was being deprived of his pleasure. ‘What bloody things?’ he shouted.

I sighed. ‘Chairs, tables, knives and forks. Towels, plates, cups and saucers. Rugs and—’

‘Sod it.’ He thrust his hands deep into trouser pockets. ‘Well, we’ve done it once, so we can do it again. If it takes a baby, then we’ll just have to make another one.’

‘No.’ I took a step away from him. ‘I’m not going through that again. I don’t want a baby, Tommo, don’t want to have to get married. We’ll wait a few years, till I’m twenty-one, then we can do everything properly, have a party and somewhere decent to live.’

He grabbed my arm, squeezed the flesh between his fingers. ‘John Street not good enough for you? Am I not good enough? What the blazes do you want to go waiting for? Arma-bloody-geddon?’

‘Let me go.’

He strengthened his hold, and I knew that there would be bruises tomorrow. ‘I’ll not let you go,’ he said. ‘I’ll never let you go, because you’re mine, Laura. We should be getting married. We should leave home and start up by ourselves, get away from our moaning parents. She’s just got used to the idea. Mater’s not an easy woman, you know. Now I’ve got to go and tell her it’s all off, and she’s already found some curtains for the house across the street.’