Gil snorted. “Nan’s told you about that Catholic rubbish, has she? I very much doubt Ingrid will be in the same place as the one I’m going to.” Flora felt Gil’s position in the bed change. “Flora, are you awake?”
She stretched and opened her eyes as if she had only just woken up. And Flora knew it was because Gil thought she’d been listening that he said abruptly, “Don’t start with that religious shit, Richard.” And the younger man, shocked, withdrew into his chair.
Chapter 20
THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 11TH JUNE 1992, 4:25 PM
Dear Gil,
Yesterday afternoon as soon as the girls got home they started arguing. When I went into their room, Nan’s face was filled with horror and Flora was huddled on the bed, clutching your old cuff link box tight to her chest.
“Oh my God!” Nan cried. “She’s killed someone! She’s actually killed someone and kept their teeth.”
“They were on my side of the drawer,” Flora said, tears running. “You shouldn’t be looking. They’re mine.”
“You’re sick, Flora,” Nan said. “Something’s wrong in here.” She tapped the side of her head.
“They’re Annie’s. You know they’re Annie’s!”
Nan made a surprise attack, snatched the box and shook it in the air like a rattle. Flora jumped up at her sister’s arm, pulling on the sleeve of her school shirt and screaming for her to hand them over.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Both of you, stop it!”
The shirt ripped. Nan wailed, flung the box onto her bed, and ran out of the house, slamming the front door behind her. Flora grabbed the box of teeth and locked herself in the bathroom. I sat on Nan’s bed feeling useless and gazing out at the sea where ragged clouds tore themselves to shreds against a knife-sharp horizon.
Later, when Nan had gone to a friend’s house to do homework, Flora and I sat together on her bed. She rested her head against my chest and I stroked her hair, breathing in the sweet smell of my child. Without lifting her face she said, “Why are blackbirds called blackbirds and not brownbirds, when the ladies are brown? And dogs . . .” She pulled away to look up at me. “Why aren’t they all called bitches? And foxes should be vixens. That would make it fairer.”
I was starting to answer but she carried on.
“And why is it mothers have to stay at home to look after the children? Why can’t that be the father’s job? Because they are better at it, aren’t they?”
Louise stopped calling you by your first name when I told her I was pregnant and used “that man” instead. You and I were back in London; me living at the flat with Louise and you staying in your old lodgings.
“He’d better be there when you get rid of it,” had been the first thing she’d said.
“I’m not going to get rid of it.” I was sitting on the sofa, my handbag on my lap. “Gil and I are engaged; we’re going to be married. On Tuesday. I was hoping you’d be a witness.”
“What?” Louise banged a saucepan of beans on the stove. “Are you mad? Married? For God’s sake, why? What about everything we’re going to do?”
“I love him.”
She made a phh noise. “I thought we were going to see the world. I thought we weren’t going to end up like our mothers.” Her tone was as dismissive as I’d imagined it would be.
“I can go later.”
“And what about me?” Louise said.
“You can still go. They say you meet more people if you travel alone. You can send me postcards—let me know what I’m missing.” I tried to laugh, but it came out strangled.
“You’ve changed. It’s those baby hormones making you stupid. Bloody hell, Ingrid, just get rid of it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. That man’s the one who should be ashamed.”
“I’m not ashamed. I’m excited.” I didn’t sound it, even to myself.
“You have no idea what it’ll be like, do you?” She sat beside me and took my hand, trying another tack. “You’re too young, Ingrid. Think what your aunt would say. Have you told her?”
“Not yet.” I withdrew my hand from hers.
She looked me up and down. “You’re not showing—well, the boobs maybe a bit. How far gone are you?” Her hand was on my knee. “We could go to the clinic together.”
“I’m keeping it. This is what I’ve chosen, with Gil.”
“What that man has chosen.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Think about what you’re giving up,” she said.
“What do you mean? I won’t be giving anything up. I’m going to finish university.” It hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t. I’d avoided thoughts about the birth or what life would be like afterwards. I’d been to the GP in Hadleigh, and then to an appointment at a London hospital where I was weighed and measured and examined by a doctor who didn’t bother to tell me his name. He’d given me a date when the baby was due, but it seemed so far in the future—like thinking about Christmas in April—that I couldn’t imagine it ever coming round. I’d been given leaflets on antenatal classes and weaning, but the sketchy drawings of grown-ups holding babies and smiling seemed to have nothing to do with me and I’d thrown them away.
“When’s it due? April, May next year? Term won’t have finished and you’ll be enormous. Think what people will say.”
“When did you ever care what people said?”