9

Connie

May 1964

Dorothy appeared beside Connie as she stood in the hall, staring into the post box.

‘How have you been, dear?’ she asked in a low voice, stretching up to reach her letters.

‘I’m fine,’ said Connie, avoiding her gaze.

Dorothy pursed her lips as she shuffled through her post and then she sighed. No letter from Johnny. She wanted one as much as Connie did.

Dorothy looked up, resigned. ‘So, have you decided what’s best?’

‘No,’ said Connie truthfully. She had spent the last three days trying to work things out, lying awake at night, tangling the sheets as she tossed and turned, getting up and staring from the window, trying to find an answer in the darkness. To keep the baby or not to keep the baby. To wait and hope that Johnny would contact her, or to go ahead and make the decision alone.

Every morning, she had risen early, pasty-faced, hoping to get the sickness out of the way before her father got up. She had learned that nibbling a biscuit or a piece of dry toast staved off the nausea, so she had taken to keeping a packet of digestives next to her bed.

‘Well,’ said Dorothy, ‘it’s your choice, but should you want to know, I have found a lady. She’s very discreet and lives not too far from here.’

‘Oh.’ Connie swallowed, seized by the urge to cry.

‘I could make you an appointment, but only if you’d like me to. It would be a short visit, just to see what’s what.’

She gave a faint smile. Connie noticed a smear of lipstick on her front tooth. It amazed her how much make-up Dorothy wore. Her mother had hardly touched it. A little rouge, a touch of power. But then she’d been beautiful, her smooth face marked only by laughter lines, which had enhanced her appearance rather than the opposite. It was only at the end that pain had etched grooves into her skin.

Thinking about her mother made Connie think of her father. His lines had deepened too over this past year. His stature had changed as well. He had lost weight, seemed almost wizened at times, as if grief were eating him inside.

‘How about tomorrow?’ said Dorothy.

‘Tomorrow?’ repeated Connie. ‘But I . . .’ She stopped. What was the point of waiting? If it had to be done, then it should be done quickly. She nodded her consent.

‘I’ll knock.’

Connie nodded again and looked down at the floor.

‘I wish I could ask Johnny.’

‘It wouldn’t do any good, dear. Men don’t take this kind of thing as seriously as women. They don’t need to. It isn’t them who bear the consequences, who feel the pain.’