Marina thanks her and takes the book to her seat. Her mood settles as she reads about the calming effect of blues and greens. The wind stirs at the window and the gauzy curtains flutter in the breeze, moving formlessly like a couple of ghosts.

15

Connie

May 1964

As Connie ran from the house, a young woman was approaching, emerald coat buttoned tightly. The woman checked her watch as she drew close and Connie wanted to say, ‘Don’t go inside!’ Not that she knew the woman was intending to, of course, but there was something about her – a slight uncertainty, a kind of nervousness – that made Connie suspect they were in the same predicament.

She didn’t speak, however; didn’t even pause. She had to get away, as far and as fast as she could. So instead, she chased along the roads and through the common before finally stopping to rest, breathing deeply, letting the sunshine warm her face as she took in the grassy scent and the sweetness of the blossom that frothed amongst the trees. Yet nothing could obliterate the smell of that dreadful house – its chemical tang laced with rottenness. It was as if she could taste it.

A passing woman, pushing a pram with silver wheels that flashed in the sunlight, glanced at her with disdain. Connie looked down at herself. She was a sight, with her dress awry and her make-up smudged from crying.

Straightening her dress, she thought back to her predicament. She should choose what to do with her body – and her baby – but did she really have a choice? She would never be granted a proper, clean operation by Doctor Franklin, or any other doctor for that matter. At the same time, she couldn’t, wouldn’t be subjected to a backstreet abortion. The memory of the spikes and the pump brought a fresh wave of nausea and she took deep breaths, forcing back the bile. How did those things work? How much would it hurt? She put her hand to her belly and blinked. Tears rising, she galvanised herself and headed for home.

A man with ears like handles and sandy-coloured hair stood at the end of the path alongside the house. He was smoking, cigarette pinched between thumb and first finger, taking fierce drags. He stared at Connie, rising on the balls of his feet like a boxer. She lifted her chin and tightened her fists, scowled and then regretted it. He seemed like what her mother would have called a ne’er-do-well, in scruffy jeans and a zipped-up dark blue Harrington jacket despite the heat, his wiry body tensed for a fight.