The Millstone (6 page)

I walked out into the cold evening air and wandered aimlessly up towards Marylebone Road, worrying not because it seemed that I was really going to have this baby, but because I had been so surprised and annoyed that I had to wait so long. Everyone else there had looked re-signed; they had expected to wait, they had known they would have to wait. I was the only one who had not known. I wondered on how many other serious scores I would find myself ignorant. There were things that I had not needed to know, and now I did need to know them. I emerged upon Marylebone Road and walked towards the lovely coloured gleaming spire of Castrol House. I felt
threatened. I felt my independence threatened: I did not see how I was going to get by on my own.

Once I had thus decided to have the baby—or rather failed to decide not to have it—I had to face the problem of publicity. It was not the kind of event one can conceal forever, and I was already over three months gone. The absence of my parents was certainly handy from that point of view: there was nobody else in the family that I saw at all regularly. My brother in Dorking I saw dutifully about once every four months, but he would be easy enough to evade. My sister, on the other hand, I thought I might tell at some point as she had three children of her own and I thought she might be sympathetic. We got on quite well together, as sisters go. Nevertheless, I delayed writing; I could not bear the idea of the fuss. I hate to cause trouble.

My own friends were another matter. I simply could not make my mind up about Joe and Roger; I did not much fancy going around with them while expecting somebody else's child, nor did I think they would much fancy it themselves, though one can never tell. On the other hand, I did not relish the thought of all the spare evenings I would be left with if I disposed of them both. It was difficult enough to keep myself from getting depressed as it was, without having even more solitary time on my hands. Also, I did not know quite how to set about imparting the news: should I leave it till it became evident to the naked eye? Surely not. Therefore I would have to tell them before it became evident, which did not leave me much time. Already I could not fasten my skirts or get into my brassières. I rehearsed each scene a hundred times in my head, but could never even in my imagination manipulate the data with anything like grace, skill, tact or credit to myself. I thought Joe would be the easier proposition, being more familiar, and I plunged into the subject one night almost
unintentionally, prompted by a chance remark of his made as we were walking along Park Lane.

"Did you ever see," he said, "that Bergman film about a maternity ward? The one where all the wrong people kept having miscarriages?"

"Don't talk to me about maternity wards," I said, almost without thinking.

"Why not?" he said. "Does it upset you? You don't like all that kind of thing, do you? A very unwomanly woman, that's what you are."

"Nonsense," I said. "Just don't talk about maternity wards that's all. All too soon I'm going to find myself in one."

"What?" said Joe.

"I'm pregnant," I said crossly.

"Oh," said Joe, and kept on walking. After a few yards he said, "You're not going to have it, are you?"

"Yes, I am," I said.

"Whatever for?"

"Why not? I don't see why I shouldn't, do you?"

"I can think of a hundred reasons why you shouldn't. I think it's an utterly ridiculous romantic stupid nonsensical idea. I think you're out of your mind."

"I don't see why," I stubbornly repeated.

"What does he say, anyway?" continued Joe. "It's his fault, it's his job to get you out of it. He's rich enough, isn't he? Why don't you make him pay and go off and have it done in comfort?"

"Roger, you mean," I said faintly.

"Well, yes, Roger. Why don't you get married? No, for God's sake, don't bother to tell me. I can't imagine anyone wanting to marry a selfish well-dressed lump of mediocrity like him. Still if you don't marry him, you might as well do something about it."

"I don't want to do anything about it."

"Don't tell me you
want
to have a baby."

"I don't mind," I said.

"What does he think about it, anyway? If he does think."

"I haven't told him yet," I said truthfully.

"You haven't told him? You really must be out of your mind. Whyever not?"

"I just haven't got round to it."

"Oh Christ. I give up. What have you done about it?"

"I went to the doctor," I said with some pride, "and he's booking me a hospital bed."

"God," he said to himself, staring up at the black sky through the neon-lit trees, "she means it, she's going to have it." He was rattled, poor Joe; I could feel him being rattled. He didn't like the idea at all.

"You can't," he said, after another few yards of silence. "You just can't. I forbid you. It'll ruin your life. If you want some money, I'll lend you some. How much do you want? A hundred? Two hundred? How much do you need?"

"Thank you very much, Joe." I said, touched, "but I don't need anything. It's too late now, anyway."

I said this with some authority, though I did not know the facts, as I had not known the facts about gin or doctor's waiting rooms; but he did not know the facts either and he believed me.

"Oh well," he said, "if you want to make a fool of yourself. Don't tell me, you've probably been longing to have a baby all your life. You won't be able to keep it, though. They won't let you keep it. So you'll go and get yourself all upset about nothing, the whole thing'll be a complete waste of time and emotion."

I could not work out my response to this immediately, as I was highly offended by both its implications: first, that I was the kind of person who had always had a secret yearning for maternal fulfilment, and second, that some unknown authority would start interfering with my decisions
by removing this hypothetical child. I decided to tackle the first one first.

"Of course I haven't always been longing to have a baby," I said, "I can't think of anything that has ever crossed my mind less. The thought of a baby leaves me absolutely stone cold."

"Nonsense," said Joe. "All women want babies. To give them a sense of purpose."

"What utter rubbish," I said, with incipient fury, "what absolutely stupid reactionary childish rubbish. Don't tell me that any human being ever endured the physical discomforts of babies for something as vague and pointless as a sense of purpose."

"What does it feel like?" said Joe, momentarily distracted.

"Nothing much. One can't really tell much difference," I replied untruthfully. "Yet."

"Anyway," said Joe, "so I believe you, so you've never thought much about having babies, but just the same, I bet you'd be pretty annoyed if somebody told you you couldn't have one, wouldn't you?"

"Not at all," I said staunchly, "I would be highly relieved. There is nothing that I would rather hear." Though, as a matter of fact, he was quite right and I was in some perverse and painful way quite proud of my evident fertility.

"In that case," said Joe, "I don't see why you didn't have something done about it."

I was silent because I did not see why not either. We had by this time reached Marble Arch: there had been a suggestion at an earlier point in the evening that Joe should here catch the tube home, and we paused by its entrance, and I said:

"Well, I think we ought to stop going around together, or whatever it is that we do."

"Why?" said Joe.

A complete silence fell, and I suddenly felt quite overcome with weakness and misery. At that moment I could not envisage any kind of future at all, and the complete lack of any sense of control or direction scared and alarmed me. All I knew was that I must get rid of Joe quick, before he sensed my poverty, because even Joe was capable of pity and of kindness.

"I don't know why," I said brightly. "I just don't kind of fancy the idea of going out much any more. Anyway, think how embarrassing it would be, taking around a pregnant woman. Everyone would think it was yours, wouldn't they, and get on at you about it. You know how incredulous people are of the finer points of any relationship."

"You'd better tell Roger," said Joe, staring moodily at the ground.

"As a matter of fact," I said, thinking that however convenient I really could not allow this misapprehension to flourish, "it isn't Roger's."

"Not Roger's?"

"No. Not Roger's."

"Oh."

"So you see, things aren't quite what they might be." I made this remark with a wealth of bogus implication that must have convinced him completely, because all he said was, "Oh well, I do see." Which in the nature of things he could not possibly have done. However, on the basis of this totally meaningless understanding he took my hand and gave it a fatherly squeeze and said:

"Look after yourself, anyway, Rosamund."

"Oh, I will," I said.

"I suppose we'll see each other around, anyway."

"Yes, I suppose so."

And so we parted. As I walked home, I wondered what he could possibly have imagined the real situation to be, as the truth itself was far too unlikely, far too veiled by deception to hit upon: perhaps, I finally concluded, he had
thought that I had another permanent man about, whom I refused to marry or discuss through some perfectly characteristic quirk of principle. I hoped that he had thought that. It was the kindest conclusion to my vanity and to his.

Having thus successfully disposed of Joe, I knew I would have to dispose of Roger. I relished this task even less than the former one, for whereas Joe and I shared a certain area of moral background, Roger and I shared nothing at all. As it turned out, however, the evening on which I divulged my state to him was far pleasanter than the one I had spent with Joe, which had been marked by rather too much walking and chilly night air. Roger did not believe in walking: he would drive for miles and miles round his destination looking for parking places rather than park five minutes' walk away and continue on foot. I did not approve of this, being made of sterner stuff myself, but I enjoyed it.

On the evening in question, we had been to a cocktail party at Earls Court, given by some businesslike friend of Roger's: the drink was far too strong and after a couple of glasses I actually began to feel rather faint. Roger, being a gentleman born, soon noticed my pallor and the glassy look with which I was countering a young man who was telling me in great detail about the joys of accountancy, and he arrived to my rescue instantly and removed me to his car, which was waiting just outside the front door of the house. I sat there for a few minutes and then felt better: I felt cheerful enough in the first place because of the drink, and as soon as my ears stopped buzzing I felt quite splendid.

"Feeling better?" said Roger, as he noticed me perking up.

"Much better," I said.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," I said. "I was probably just hungry, I didn't have much for lunch."

"Let's go and have dinner," said Roger.

"All right," I said, though as a matter of fact the prospect made me once more feel slightly queasy as Roger had a passion for highly elaborate food of the most indigestible kind: usually I survived it quite well physically though I doubted if I would tonight, but it always gave me moral qualms. My misgivings became stronger when he said:

"There's a new place in Frith Street that someone was telling me about the other day. I thought we might try it."

I nodded and tried to look pleased, and as we drove past the lighted windows of Harrods I summoned up my courage and said,

"What nationality?"

"What nationality what?" said Roger, trying to beat a car of his own make to the lights, and making it, thank goodness.

"What nationality
food?
" I said.

"I'm not sure," he said, "but they said it was quite clean. For foreigners."

He made this remark with an impassive countenance: I was quite unable to tell whether such remarks were straight or intended as jokes, or even intended as attacks upon my ridiculous notions of liberal equality. He was always making such ambiguous statements about subjects like black men, money, modern art and so forth: on the whole I think they were meant to provoke, but I never rose as I was always too amazed to react at all. Nobody else that I had ever known had made remarks like those: it was a continual surprise to me that he could make them and yet at the same time like me enough to pay for my dinners.

The restaurant turned out to be French, and rather flashy. The tables were too close together. Roger had mussels and some infinitely messed-about steak. I had
vegetable soup and grilled sole and mashed potatoes and even so I did not feel too good by the end of it. Then Roger started thinking about having crêpes suzette, and tried to persuade me to have some too, as they made it for two, but I simply could not face it. It was quite a novelty for me to feel so doubtful, as until then I had always had a cast-iron constitution, and on the rare occasions when I had suffered, I had suffered with good will. Roger would not let the topic of crêpes suzette drop but went on about them quite mercilessly, and I felt sudden retrospective insight into the plight of all those whom in the past I had sneered at for delicacy of health and appetite. In the end I said:

"It's no good, Roger, I just don't feel well," and he set about ordering crêpes for one. When he had dealt with the waiter he turned back to me and said, "What's the matter with you, then?"

"I'm pregnant," I said, hoping that the American lady at the next table was not at that moment listening to us, as she had been for most of our meal.

"I thought perhaps you might be," said Roger, and poured himself a little more claret.

"You what?" I said, in genuine astonishment.

"Well, I mean to say, and don't think I'm being rude, my dear, but you are beginning to look a little bit that way ... that dress, for instance."

"I did wonder," I said, "when I put it on. But it's the only one I've got that does for your horrid friends."

"Don't insult my friends," said Roger equably; "look at what your horrid friends have done, and to a nice girl like you too. That's what comes of mixing with all those nasty artists."