‘You mean, Freda is … you mean. Auntie Jessie’s mum and dad didn’t mind?’
‘They minded, all right,’ said Anne. ‘I remember all that well enough. They wanted the baby adopted, but Jessie stuck it out and had it, and in the end they came around. I still think they were right and Jessie was wrong. She was only seventeen. She never would say who the father was. She was stuck at home with the baby when she should have been out enjoying herself and learning things. She got married when she was a baby herself.’
By now Julie was more or less herself again, though she felt as if she’d been on a roller coaster. Above all, what she was thinking was, I’ve got to get it all out of them now, because I know them, they’ll clam up and never talk of it again.
‘Didn’t Uncle Bob mind?’ she asked.
‘Not so that he wouldn’t marry her, he married her, didn’t he, and she had a love child he had to take on,’ said her father, full of anger and accusations.
‘A love child,’ said Julie derisively, unable to stop herself. But her parents didn’t notice.
‘That’s what they call it, I believe,’ said her father, all heavy and sarcastic. ‘Well, that’s what can happen, Julie, and you’ve always been such a sensible girl and that made it worse.’ And now, unbelievably, this father of hers, whom she had so feared she ran away from home, sat sobbing, covering his face with his hands.
Her mother was weeping, her eyes bright, her cheeks red.
In a moment Julie would be bawling too.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, getting up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry Mum, I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry …’
‘It’s all right, Julie,’ said her mother.
Julie went out of the room and up the stairs and into her room, walking carefully now, because she was so sore. And she felt numbed and confused, because of Aunt Jessica and her cousin Freda. Why, she, Julie, could have … she could be sitting here now, with her baby Rosie, they wouldn’t have thrown her out.
She didn’t know what to think, or to feel … She felt … she wanted … ‘Oh, Debbie,’ she cried, but silently, tucked into her little bed, her arms around the panda. ‘Oh, Debbie, what am I to do?’
She thought, In July, when I’ve finished school, I am going back, I’m going to run away, I’ll go to London and get a job, and I can have my baby. For a few minutes she persuaded herself it was not the silly little girl who had run away who said this, but the Debbie-taught girl who knew what things cost. Then she said to herself, Stop it, stop it, you know better.
She thought of Aunt Jessie’s house. She had always enjoyed that house. It occurred to her now that Debbie’s place and Aunt Jessie’s had a lot in common – noisy, disturbing, exciting. Which was why her parents did not much like going there. But here, a baby here, Rosie with her long wrinkled cunt here … Julie was laughing her raucous, derisive laugh, but it was unhappy because she had understood that Rosie her daughter could not come here, because she, Julie, could not stand it.
I’ll take Rosie to Debbie’s in London, said Julie, in a final futile attempt.
But Debbie had taken in pregnant Julie. That was what had been paid.
If Julie brought baby Rosie here, then she would have to stay here. Until she got married. Like Auntie Jessie. Julie thought of Uncle Bob. Now she realized she had always seen him as Auntie Jessie’s shadow, not up to much. She had wondered why Auntie Jessie married him. Now she knew.
I’ve got to get out of here, she thought, I’ve got to. In July I’ll leave. I’ll have my O levels. I can get them easily. I’ll work hard and get my five O levels. I’ll go to London. I know how things are, now. Look, I’ve lived in Debbie’s flat, and I didn’t let myself get hurt by them. I was clever, no one knew I was pregnant, only Debbie. I had Rosie by myself in that shed with only a dog to help me, and then I put Rosie in a safe place and now she’s all right, and I’ve come home, and I’ve managed it all so well they never even guessed. I’m all right.
With her arms around the panda Julie thought, I can do anything I want to do, I’ve proved that.
And she drifted off to sleep.
Twenty minutes after the rain stopped, the first visitors came into the café garden. They were two elderly women and a smiling Labrador, very much at home, for they went straight to a certain table at the back, and the dog took his place on the grassy strip there without a command. The women tipped upright the chairs that had been slanted forward on to the table because of the rain. One hooked an umbrella on a chair-back and sat, bringing out packages of food from a holdall. The other went into the café building and emerged with one little coffeepot and two cups. Assuring each other that one pot was plenty for two, they ate sandwiches with a contemplative detached air that disdained guilt.
All over the northern reaches of London people were saying, ‘The rain’s stopped: let’s go up to the Heath.’ Already they wandered along the path where you can look down at the Kenwood lake, settled themselves on benches in case the sun did come out, and descended the stairs on the way to the café indoors. But where was the sun? It was sulking behind banks of black cloud, sliding for minutes at a time to their edges from where it stained trees and grass a promising sultry yellow, but then withdrew.
Some teenagers emerged from the building balancing trays loaded with fizzy drinks, coffee, cake. They pushed two tables together and sat sprawling. Elegant, dramatic clothes, profuse and many coloured hair, created a festive occasion. Their discontented indolence – their style – caused the two frugal observers to raise eyebrows and murmur, ‘Some people don’t know when they’re lucky, do they, dear?’
A tall, pale, straw-haired youth like a ballet dancer appeared at the kitchen door. He was all yawns and sleep, but he was adjusting a blue and white striped apron, and this transformed him into the picture of a willing waiter. He surveyed his scene of operations, pondering whether to straighten the chairs around tables that had pools of rainwater on them, or even to wipe the tables. But he cocked an eye at the ominous sky and decided not to bother.
The two ladies were throwing bits of sandwich to sparrows that gathered around their feet, crowded the backs of chairs and even ventured on their table. At the end of the garden, not too emphatically displayed, a board said, PUBLIC HEALTH NOTICE. IN THE INTERESTS OF HYGIENE PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS. The waiter shrugged and disappeared.
Three people appeared from inside, almost obscured by the heaped trays they bore, but when these were set down, three Japanese were revealed, a young couple in smart black silk jumpsuits, and the mother of one of them. She too was overdressed for this place in black ‘designer’ clothes, jewellery, the lot. They pulled a table near the one they had chosen to sit at in the middle of the scene, to hold all that they carried and what was on the tray brought to them by another waiter. This buffet not being enough, a second table was brought close and covered with food. They were about to eat full English breakfasts, wedges of cream cake, scones and butter and jam, several other kinds of cake, plates of salad and chicken, and, as well, coffee, Coca-Cola, fruit juice.
The waiter who was from somewhere around the Mediterranean, a dark, lithe, handsome youth, surveyed this repast with admiring incredulity. ‘Japanese? Good appetite!’ He lingered, raised his brows in private exclamation, and went off. The sparrows, having exhausted the amenities of the two pensioners, arrived in a flock to examine new possibilities. The Japanese mother let out cries of angry indignation, stuffing her highly made-up face ugly with bad temper and greed, with one hand, while she swatted ineffectively with the other at the sparrows as if they were flies.
The teenagers clearly felt they were being forced to examine all this from much too close so they gracefully rose and removed themselves to several tables away.