This afternoon as I returned from the hospital, I saw that I had a most unexpected visitor. The blue bicycle leaning against the whitewashed wall by the door belonged to Venetia, although there was no sign of her anywhere.
What now? I thought as I went in search of her. In the end, I went around the back of the house, and there she was on one of my wicker chairs on the terrace, the magnolia tree over her like an ivory-pink sun shade. She was leaning back, her eyes closed, her hair gleaming in the sunshine. She made quite a picture; she is such a beautiful girl, especially in the lovely floral green dress, with her golden hair and soft pale skin. It’s a shame she’s so reckless, although the influence of Angela Quail doesn’t help. I’m sure she’s not such a bad girl underneath all that makeup and pretense.
“Venetia,” I said, putting my hand gently on her arm.
She blinked her eyes open, and I could see she was tired. Her job at Litchfield Park has long hours, and I’ve reason to believe she’s been spending long hours somewhere else, too.
“I must have dozed off,” she said, sitting up straight and brushing herself down in a haze, a different world.
“Have you come to see me about something?” I asked. I had dinner to prepare, and a busy afternoon planned, and I hoped she wasn’t going to waste my time.
“Yes, I have.” She looked at me nervously for a moment, her pearly hands pushing against the arms of the chair, easing herself forward and up. “Could we go inside?”
I opened the back door, and she came in behind me, through the kitchen and the hall to the living room. I’d left the window open this morning, and the wonderful scent of the lavender bush from my front garden supplied the room with a brisk freshness, like washed sheets. The white net curtain was fluttering in and out of the window, as if the summer warmth were oblivious to the war.
I sat in the beige armchair, and she perched opposite on the sofa. I decided not to offer her tea, being busy and everything.
“Well,” I said, wishing she’d just come out with it.
And then she did.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
There was a long pause. She looked at her hands, which were moving in and out of each other on her lap. I didn’t want to think about the things that sprang into my head all too readily, so I pressed on.
“Do you know how long?”
“I don’t really know—”
“Do you remember when you had your last monthly?”
“Oh, about five or six weeks.”
She looked up and caught my expression, which obviously bespoke my disapproval.
“It was a mistake,” she said quietly. “It’s all a big mistake. I—” She broke off and started to cry, such a strange sight for the tough and headstrong girl she’s become, and reminding me of the small girl I once knew, the girl running scared from her father or brother. I went over and put my arm around her, her turmoil dissolving the distance between us like fingers of dawn threading light into a new day.
“It’s Mr. Slater’s, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she muttered through her sobs. “What should I do?”
“Have you told him?”
“No.” She pulled away, as if with determination in spite of the circumstance. “I want to be sure. I want to work out how I feel about it before I tell him.” She abruptly looked at me, scared and restless. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“No, of course I won’t.” I took her hand. “But people are going to have to know sooner or later.”
She began crying again, this time harder, with more concentrated sobs of desperation. “I want to find someone to get rid of it. I’ve heard there are women who—”
“You don’t need to know about that, Venetia,” I butted in. I’m not having her go to the likes of Mrs. Nees in a back street in Litchfield. “It’s illegal and dangerous.”
“But I can’t have a baby!” She flew into a rage and began pacing the room. “I can’t believe this has happened to me! There has to be someone who can help?”
“Venetia,” I said gently, trying to calm her down. “Firstly, we know how it happened, don’t we? Let’s not be coy here.”
She looked at the ground, reddening, her beautiful face crushed.
“And secondly, women like Mrs. Nees don’t know what they’re doing. She may get rid of your baby, yes—but at what cost? Do you want an infection that might strip you of your ability to have children? Or may lead to your own death?”
“But that’s rare, surely?”
“She uses old scissors, blunt and rusty.” I found a few tears coming from my eyes. “There was a girl in the hospital last year, only fifteen, taken advantage of by an uncle popping in and finding her alone. She spoke of the pain, the hour-long wrestling with various instruments, none of them cleaned, on the woman’s filthy living room floor. Then she collapsed on the street and a policeman took her to hospital.”
Venetia had sat back down and was focusing on the pattern on the rug.