Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

         Somehow Lucy managed to return to a certain sense of normality, a return to daily, motherly duties even if she felt her work beginning to suffer. Hiding a pregnancy was harder than she thought. Her usual morning visit to the coffee shop for a coffee and muffin were cut down and replaced with a bottle of water or camomile tea – the only things she could face until about eleven a.m. Weekly working lunches at the pub to catch up with her manager became an uncomfortable event in her diary; she could see herself running out of excuses as to why the usual half bottle of wine was replaced with orange juice. Still, perhaps it wasn’t to be for much longer. She pondered that thought for a while, twisting and turning the biro in her hand, lost in her own thoughts. Which bit of “not for much longer” exactly was it she was longing for? The one whereby she was no longer pregnant and could return to a normal life? Or the one where she came clean about her pregnancy and could, perhaps, hope for some level of understanding and support from her colleagues? Either way, the lies would stop.
         A grey “You have mail” box popped up on her screen; in an instant she was catapulted back to reality, forcing her thoughts to return to work matters at hand. Deadlines, deals, meetings, delivery dates – they inhabited the foremost of her thoughts. At least, for the moment.
         The morning and early afternoon seemed to fly by and soon she once more found herself in the now-familiar seat in her counsellor’s makeshift office.

~~~*~~~

          ‘You sound quite certain,’ Janice said, passing Lucy the box of tissues.
          ‘I am not. I mean, I go from one extreme that says, get rid of the baby, it’s the only way to remove Adam from my life, the only way to move on. I tell myself it’s the best thing for the twins because there will be no disruption to their lives. And, in a way, perhaps also the best thing for the baby; it doesn’t sound like Adam would want to be involved, he doesn’t want to know. What do I tell that child, when she’s old enough to start asking questions? That her Daddy doesn’t care about her? And if Adam changes his mind and does want to be involved, then he’ll be picking her up every other weekend, which means he would still be a part of my life. I’m not sure how long it would take for me to stop wishing he’d come back to me. I worry so much that he would use me again, knowing what I want and making me believe it’s what he wants, too. I also can’t imagine that his wife would be much impressed by him having fathered this child. If I were in her shoes, I would perceive the baby as a threat, or certainly as a painful reminder of the affair.’ She stopped to pause for breath, looking up at the ceiling while fighting back tears. ‘That poor child would have to sit through Sunday lunch with Adam’s family, feeling ousted, like an outsider, being treated, at best, with complete indifference by Adam’s wife. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
          ‘Do you think Adam could love the baby?’
          ‘Yeah, in time… I don’t know. At the moment it’s too hard to tell because of how he’s treating me, how cold and final his rejection is. He’s made it clear this is my choice, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want to be involved. But who knows, once the baby is there. I just don’t know. He may well decide to just pay a cheque each month but never actually see her, the baby. The thing is, I am not sure I want to put it to the test. Time will come when that child is old enough to understand, and it’s just too much to bear, the heartache. I can cope with my own but I just couldn’t do it to a child of mine.’
          ‘It does sound rather like a gamble, doesn’t it? Does his wife know you are pregnant?’
          ‘I doubt it. I reckon he’s hoping I will have the termination so he will never have to tell her. That it’ll all just go away, like a toothache or a bad spell of flu.’ She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
          ‘But then there are also times when I am not so sure that I can go through all that again. The reasons I gave before, are they selfish? I wonder. Do any of them truly warrant me killing this child?’ Her voice trembling, she somehow managed to cling onto a small amount of strength and resolve that had surfaced, from some unknown origin.
          ‘I start thinking of this baby as a real person, with ten tiny fingers and toes. One day, she’ll be running around the garden, playing football with the twins. The problem is, when I think of keeping the baby, it’s intrinsically linked with maintaining a hope for me and Adam. A hope of him being over in a flash if I were to announce I am keeping the baby. But that’s not how I want it to be. I never wanted him to want me for any other reason than me, for his love of me. Not because he’s guilty or duty-bound. That’s why he’s gone back to his wife. Duty.’
          ‘Perhaps he really loves her.’
          ‘I’ve considered that, too. He’s been telling me he doesn’t love her, that he never really did, there was never any real attraction between them, no spark. Perhaps all of that is just a lie, a ploy to get me into bed because their sexual relationship had completely dried up.’
          ‘He certainly sounds to me like a man who’s used to getting his own way.’
          ‘Yes’, she whispered. ‘Yes, I guess he is.’
          ‘It also sounds to me like he will say or do whatever is required to fit a certain set of circumstances to ensure their outcome is in his favour?’
          ‘You’re saying he is manipulative?’
          ‘Those are not my words, no. But he’s very clever, he knows what he wants, regardless of the emotional cost to others.’
          ‘Well, yes, I guess that would be a fair assessment.’
          ‘In which case you have to find the strength within yourself to make this decision for you and the baby. Pretend Adam doesn’t exist, extinguish the hopes for a continuation in your relationship. Imagine your life, picture it as realistically as you can. The sleepless nights, the endless costs of raising a child. In your case, three children, on your own. But also imagine the joy that child could bring to you and your boys, your family. Think to yourself of all the good things that you can provide for that child: a stable, loving, safe home environment, brothers who dote on her. But in all of these thoughts, exclude Adam. The choice has to be yours.’
          ‘Well, that’s the bit that I struggle with. Adam said the same thing, that the choice is mine. It’s such a copout. It means if I go ahead and have a termination, then I have no one to blame but myself, I will have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life, on my own.’
          ‘This isn’t about guilt or blame, Lucy. There is no right or wrong answer. Both options are wrought with heartache. You have to consider what is right your you and your boys, for the baby to a lesser extent.’
          ‘Because it doesn’t really exist yet?’
          ‘Well, yes and no. Of course it exists because you are carrying it, probably suffering the morning sickness and nausea as a constant reminder.’
         Lucy nodded in agreement but remained silent.
          ‘The baby isn’t here yet. It is not yet part of your life. You will have to consider whether you want it to be a part of your life. Now, I am aware that you can’t draw up a list of pros and cons because the decision is so emotive, it’s impossible to say whether one plus point weighs more heavily than three minus points. Or whatever. But it might be an idea for you to just write down on a piece of paper everything you told me today. The points that speak for keeping the baby, those that speak against it. Keep the list with you at all times, and every time you think of something else, some other point, however big or small, add it to your list. Then, keep reading it, keep weighing it all up in your own mind. Hopefully this will help you to make this very difficult decision for the right reasons.’
         They sat in silence for a while as Lucy took this suggestion on board. In her mind, she was making up the list already. Wondering if time would have run out by the time she’d completed the list.
          ‘When is your appointment?’
          ‘Saturday morning.’
          ‘Is anybody going with you?’
          ‘Yes, my friend Mandy.’
          ‘Good, I am pleased you will have someone with you… I don’t know what else to say except that I know you will make the right decision for whatever you consider to be the right reasons.’
         Lucy nodded, her eyes brimful with desperate tears.
          ‘I don’t normally do this’, she said, pulling one of her business cards from her red leather-bound personal organiser and scribbled on the back of it. ‘Here are my phone numbers, home and mobile. Call me if you need to talk between now and the next session. Any time.’
         Lucy felt overwhelmed and grateful for the counsellor’s generosity and genuine concern. ‘Thank you’, she managed in a pathetic whisper and placed the card in her handbag.
          ‘Good luck’, Janice said as Lucy put on her coat and left the room with a small, sad smile.
         Janice stared at the closed door for long moments. There was no way she could ever have considered going through with the pregnancy when she was expecting Sam. She found herself wishing she could bring back those days, feel his tiny feet kicking inside her stomach. See his sweet face for the first time, remembering how she had held him as though he was some precious gift from God. Which, of course, he had been.
         She rose rapidly, threw her organiser into her bag, gathered up her papers and left by the entrance. She longed to be in Jimmy’s arms, to bury her face in his chest and just weep.

~~~*~~~

         Grace turned the car off the main road from Tewkesbury and drove down the long, sweeping gravel drive to The Mews. Tammy was in the passenger seat, taking in the scenery as the property slowly came into full view.
          ‘Blime’, she said. ‘It’s massive!’
          ‘I would have to be, it’s going to be my home as well as a salon on site. The customer parking could be over there’, she said, pointing to some outbuildings to the right of the house. ‘We could either tear them down completely, or leave the shells, you know, so it’s somewhere dry to park. Or in the shade during the summer.’
         She pulled the handbrake and turned the key in the ignition.
          ‘I’m glad it’s a nice day. This place looks lovely with all the autumn colours, doesn’t it?’
          ‘It looks lovely, full stop! Even covered in five feet of snow I’m sure it looks just perfect.’
         Grace was grateful for Tammy’s obvious enthusiasm, and pleased she had brought her along for the viewing. It filled with a perhaps disproportionate sense of pride, seeing her reaction. ‘Let’s get out. Mr Pennington should be here any minute now.’
         The gravel crunched beneath their feet, which, apart from the distant sound of occasional cars driving past on the main road and the sound of birds singing in the back garden, was the only sound to be heard. Tammy walked up to the front door, tried the handle and found it locked. She looked through the window, cupping her hands around her eyes to keep out the sun.
          ‘It’s a bit run down, isn’t it?’
          ‘Yes, it’s been vacant for over two years. The owners moved abroad, intending to return at some point but have now decided to stay put. Canada, I think. They have no relatives here and didn’t hire anyone to look after it, but the neighbour has apparently been popping around now and again, to check the house is still standing and not being vandalised.’ They had reached the garden by way of a narrow flagstone path.
          ‘Will you look at this!’
          ‘Needs some TLC, doesn’t it? I’d need to employ a gardener. I mean, I can do the basics but this needs a thorough cleaning up, landscaping and so on. I’ll start that in the Spring.’
         They both admired the large garden for a while, the pond in the middle, the flowerbeds running the length of the garden, and the walled vegetable patch at the far end. In fact, all that was truly visible was a scattering of trees and knee-high grass beyond which one could just about make out the stone features. Most of it had to be imagined rather than viewed.
          ‘I could help. I love gardening, decorating. Anything where I can use my hands.’
          ‘That’s a very kind offer’, Grace said, removing her hand from Tammy’s grasp; a car had coming up the drive.
          ‘Mr Pennington, nice to see you again’, said Grace, stretching her hand out in greeting, smiling at the estate agent.
          ‘Pleasure is all mine.’ He smirked, showing a row of discoloured teeth, his mouth giving off a pungent whiff of the previous weeks’ dinners.
          ‘This is my friend Tammy.’
          ‘How do you do?’
         Tammy eyed the middle-aged gentleman in his tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. His grey hair was swept back, and the steel rimmed glasses atop a rather unflattering, large nose, hid a set of eyes that reminded Tammy of those of a toad; a peculiar blend of green, grey and brown. Like a cesspool, she thought.
         She followed Grace and Mr Pennington as they discussed various aspects of the house, work that would need to be done, anecdotes and various items that would or wouldn’t be included in the sale. To outsiders she might have appeared a somewhat moody, sulking child, kicking the gravel with her canvass shoes, hands clasped behind her back, deep in thought.
         Arriving at the walled vegetable garden – or rather, the remnants of a vegetable garden – she stopped and sat down on the wall, her feet brushing the dusty ground beneath her. She threw her head back and let her face soak up the autumn rays; how tranquil this place was, she thought, just as a shadow crossed her face. Grace was standing in front of her, smiling.
          ‘Topping up your tan?’ she asked, then sat down beside her friend.
          ‘It’s so peaceful here, don’t you think?’
          ‘Yes…’ she hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Hasn’t always been like this, though. This area’ her hand made an elegant movement towards an area beyond the walled garden, ‘is supposedly the site of the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471.’
          ‘Really? It’s hard to believe that men died, you know, just beyond… You know, when you look at it now.’
          ‘Well, as often is the case with such early historical events, there is some debate over the actual location of the battle. To be honest, I’d prefer not for it to have happened in my back garden. Imagine the ghosts!’ she said, with a slight mocking shudder, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt from the back of her trousers. ‘Anyway, we’re off to inspect the inside – want to join us?’
         Mr Pennington was pulling a bunch of keys from a leather pouch when they joined him at the front door, which he opened. A smell of misty dust and damp hit them straight away, accompanied by an eerie silence; the sort of smell, the sort of silence you only get in houses that have not been inhabited for a long while.
          ‘I’ll open the windows, let some air in, then we’ll have a look around.’
         The tour of the house took over twenty minutes. Grace took detailed notes of damp, cracked ceilings, creaking floorboards and other minor defects. They discussed at length the limitations and possibilities for improvement.
          ‘Plenty of scope but as it’s a Grade II you’d need to get planning permission for pretty much anything. Whatever you do, it must be sympathetic with the character of the building’, the estate agent turned and smiled at Grace, ‘but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’
          ‘No, I’ve been reading up on it a bit and have had some explorative discussions with a local builder and property developer. You might know him, Duncan Caldwin from Prestbury.’
          ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. Only positive things, he’s done some excellent work in Painswick and Broadway as far as I know. Now, I will leave you two ladies to it for fifteen minutes or so, to have a snoop around by yourselves. I will be in the garden, making a few calls for another client.’
          ‘Grace, it is wonderful’, Tammy said with an excited grin as they walked down the creaky stairs. Her eyes were smiling, and Grace admired her for her youthfulness, her enthusiasm. ‘It’s got absolutely bags of potential!’
          ‘I know, that’s the whole point!’ she said, looking around the dilapidated front room. ‘Just look at these floorboards, Tam, do you think I could still use them? You know, an original feature?’
          ‘Don’t see why not. Get one of those big polish machines, goggles and all’ she curled her index fingers and thumbs into round circles, imitating a pair of goggles, pulling a face as she did so. Grace giggled and gave her a gentle push.
          ‘Some of these tiles are cracked’ she continued seriously, kneeling down by the large original fireplace. ‘They’ll need replacing’.
          ‘Well, there are people who specialise in that sort of thing, you could probably get some coving for that corner where the damp has discoloured and damaged it, too.’
          ‘Yeah, I know.’ She looked around the room, turned and walked to the patio door. ‘This is so exciting, don’t you think?’
          ‘It’s wonderful’, Tammy said quietly, as if not wanting to disturb her friend’s quiet reverie.
          ‘Well, it will be, once I’ve finished with it!’
          ‘Does that mean you’re going to keep it? I mean, buy it?’
          ‘You make it sound as though it’s a stray puppy I’ve found!’ Grace gave a throaty laugh.
          ‘It’s much better than a puppy!’ Tammy said, and hugged Grace. ‘I am so pleased for you!’ They held each other for a long while; their first proper hug since Tammy had turned up, somewhat unexpectedly, two weeks earlier. Grace savoured the moment, held her tightly, yet kept an eye on the door for the return of Mr Pennington.
          ‘This feels good’, Tammy whispered into the collar of Grace’s Barbour jacket. She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then pulled away. ‘Show me what your plans are for the Salon’, she said, pulling Grace by the hand.

~~~*~~~

         Mandy checked the map once more, looked up at the house in front of her. Double-checked her note scribbled from a local phone book. 25 Willow Gardens. There were no cars parked on the driveway, nor in front of the shabby looking house.
         The curtains of what she assumed to be the front room were drawn. They looked grey, cheerless and completely in keeping with the exterior of the Golding house.
         She was parked a short distance up the road, outside number thirty-six which was situated on the brow of the sloping road, her car pointing down towards number twenty-five. She touched her tender cheek gently, nervously; her hands didn’t seem able to make up their minds. One minute clutching the steering wheel, the next fiddling with the dials of the in-car stereo system, turning up the music, turning it down. Switching from the News to Classing FM, then turning it off completely. She played with her earlobe, flicked her bracelet around her wrist, tapped her feet. Snooping was definitely not a career change she would consider on any kind of a permanent basis.
         She recalled that evening in Lucy’s kitchen, when she had silently sworn revenge on Adam. He deserved whatever she could catapult into his path. It wasn’t as though she cared; by hurting Lucy, he had hurt her. Rejecting a baby for a loveless marriage was something quite different. Nobody had the right to kill babies, for social reasons, for vanity, for inconvenience. She was shaking with anger, clutched her steering wheel once more, just to steady her hands.
         In her mind, what was about to occur was crystal clear: approach the woman, tell her that her two-timing toe rag of a husband was expecting the child of another woman, her hest friend. She smiled with glee, imagining the ensuing arguments that Adam would have with her wife, wished she would give him hell and tell him where to stick it. From what Lucy had told her, she didn’t hold out much hope, though. Margie Golding, by all accounts, was every bit of the wimp. Feminists would certainly not condone her “roll over and give me more” attitude. But at least she could provide Adam’s wife with the added ammunition in her armour to give him hell for the rest of their miserable lives.
         A car pulled up on the driveway of number twenty-five and the engine was turned off. A frumpy, podgy woman in her early forties shuffled, gracelessly out of the car and slung her weather beaten handbag over her shoulder. With the back of her hand, she nudged her heavy framed glasses further up her nose, pushed a greasy looking lock of pate coloured hair behind her ear and waddled up the driveway.
         Mandy was somewhat astounded by this revelation. She rather expected Mrs Golding to have at least a small degree of glamour, beauty or charm. In fact, she appeared to be quite the antithesis of all of those things. With a satisfied smile, Mandy turned the key in the ignition, pulled out from her vantage point and drove, slowly, past the house, watching the blob pushing her way through the front door. Seeing the woman Adam had chosen to spend his life with, she was satisfied that already, he had been punished enough and needed no intervention from her.