The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(59)

“Surely there’s someone out there who would do it properly, with the right equipment?”

“No, Venetia. There are other people who would do it, but not properly, with the right equipment sterilized, the right procedure, the right clinical experience. It’s a tremendous risk, Venetia, and I will do everything in my power to stop you from taking it.”

“What about you? Couldn’t you get rid of this baby for me?”

I was stunned into silence for a moment.

“No, Venetia. I’m not qualified to give you an abortion, nor would it be within my powers. It is illegal. We would both be criminals.”

“But no one would find out—no one else knows I’m pregnant.”

“I don’t care, Venetia. I don’t know how to do it, and I’m not putting myself in a situation where I might be responsible for your death.”

She went quiet. Then came the tears.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You can do what most girls do in this situation. Tell Slater and get him to marry you.”

At that point she burst into a whole new wave of tears. “I’m not sure I want to marry him anymore.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I was getting a bit cross. “You’ve been carrying on with him these past months, getting yourself pregnant. Why wouldn’t you want to marry him? I thought you rather liked him?”

“I do. I mean, I love him like my heart will explode, but he isn’t who he says he is, and I’m scared, Mrs. Tilling.” I put an arm around her and she turned into my shoulder. “I’m so terribly scared.”

“What are you so scared of, child?”

“I can’t tell you.” She looked up, her eyes full of tears, great pools that seemed to be drowning her.

“Do you want to keep the baby?”

“Of course I do, but I can’t imagine how my life would be. I can’t marry him, and Daddy will turn me out, and everything will be horrific.” She looked up at me. “Please help me get rid of it, Mrs. Tilling.”

I sat uncomfortably with her head against my shoulder, weighing the moral and practical implications of illegal abortion. Since the whole Carrington situation made me reconsider the moral standpoint of homosexuality, I’ve spent more time contemplating my own values, asking myself questions that I thought I’d always known the answer to. That juxtaposition between society and humanity, of what it is to be human, in all its guises.

“No, Venetia,” I said finally. “I can’t help. And I refuse to let you see Mrs. Nees or anyone else who might kill you.”

She sat up and blew her nose, as if she knew it was pointless pushing me.

“What should I do?”

“You should talk to Mr. Slater.”

She got up, thrust her handkerchief in her bag, and replied sharply, “I can’t go to him.” And then with a furious look at me, she added, “I’ll have to go and see Miss Paltry then. I’m sure she’ll be able to help me.”

“Please, Venetia,” I begged. “Whatever you do, stay away from the likes of Mrs. Nees.”

“But Miss Paltry knows—”

“Miss Paltry doesn’t always have her patients’ best interests at heart, and I’m sure there’s money in it for her if she refers you to a butcher like Mrs. Nees.” I came up next to her, taking her wrist in my hand as if she were a small child. “If you can’t tell Mr. Slater, then come to me and I’ll help you through the pregnancy and to have the baby. We can hide it.”

Her eyes shone with doubt and hope and a richness of fear that seemed to loop around her mind, switching back and forth between horror and pain, and then she briskly flinched her wrist out of my hand and strode out of the door, without even saying good-bye.

As she got on her bicycle and left, I took a deep breath, a breath that acknowledged that I was involved in this now, and that I was the one she would come to when everything gets too much. With that I went inside and cleared out the back storage room. There’s a small sofa in there, under some boxes and chests, and you never know, Venetia might need somewhere to sleep when the Brigadier finds out.

Colonel Mallard arrived home as I was scurrying around upstairs with sheets and blankets, and he watched me pensively. “Can I help?”

“No, thank you,” I snapped, going into the tiny room and shifting boxes to make some space.

“Are we to expect a guest?” he said, coming up behind me and trying to help with a chest.

“Over there,” I muttered, reluctantly accepting the help. He’s a large, strong man, after all, and he may as well be of some use.

He shunted around some of the other big items, putting boxes on top of the chest, clearing the bed and making a good space.

“Thank you,” I said begrudgingly. “And no, we’re not expecting a guest.” I looked out of the small window to the treetops in the back garden, where a lone magpie stood watching me from the branches. “At least, not yet.”





3 CHURCH ROW,

CHILBURY,

KENT.


Thursday, 1st August, 1940



Dear Clara,

Today I happened upon some extremely useful information, a trump card to trump all trumps. The morsel of which I speak is news that the Brigadier’s unwed daughter is pregnant. And you’ll never guess where I found this nugget of dirt—it was from the foolish girl herself.