Connie hung her head. She knew this was true. She had heard so many stories. A girl at school who had left for a year. On the surface, when she returned, it was as if nothing had happened: the way she looked; the way she had slotted back into lessons. There was a story about her having been ill or some such excuse. But no one had believed it and she had never fitted in again properly. Everyone knew she’d had a baby. Everyone knew too that there was no baby at home. Supposition and rumour had followed. She had murdered her baby, smothered it with a cushion. Her family had thrown the baby into the river. It had been adopted by foreigners and taken off to Russia or Canada or Timbuctoo. Nobody knew the truth, but Connie remembered the sadness in her eyes.

‘Then,’ said Dorothy, getting into the rhythm, ‘there were the girls who were forced into marriage with young men who were marched down the aisle. That wasn’t good for either of them.’

‘But I’m seventeen,’ Connie protested. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘Of course,’ said Dorothy, breezing on, ‘there were the lucky ones who got proper abortions by proper doctors, but that’s expensive and not easy to do.’ She paused, and moistened her lips. ‘And if they couldn’t afford that route, or left it too late, they could still get it done, quietly –’ she dropped her voice – ‘but they had to be very careful who they chose.’

‘So what should I do?’

‘That, my dear, is for you to decide.’

‘But Johnny . . .’

Dorothy sighed and crossed her arms. ‘Johnny has a career ahead of him. I don’t mean painting, of course – that’s a silly phase – but once he’s got that out of his system, he’ll come to his senses. And then . . .’ She paused. ‘He’ll come home.’

Was this what Dorothy was hoping for? For her errant son to return and settle down?

‘I need to tell him,’ Connie insisted stubbornly.

Dorothy smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘How? When neither you nor I have an address for him? How long do you think you have before other people spot your situation?’

Connie was silent.

‘Those are the options,’ said Dorothy, spreading her hands. ‘It’s up to you to decide.’

Connie steadied her breath and glanced at the photos of Johnny. Baby, toddler, child, young man. It was true. He had his whole life ahead of him. And even if he did write, time was running out.

Later, Connie made lunch, carving thick slices of ham and cracking eggs into a pan. The ham was sickly pale and the yolks were streaked with red. Blood, she thought, scraping it away with a wooden spoon. The sight of it made her shudder and the smell of the cooking made her stomach heave. She wished she had never gone to see Dorothy.

8

Marina

January 1992