The Millstone. Margaret Drabble

need anything. It’s too late now, anyway.’

      I said this with some authority, though I did not know the facts, as I had not known the facts about gin or doctor’s waiting-rooms; but he did not know the facts either and he believed me.

      ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘if you want to make a fool of yourself. Don’t tell me, you’ve probably been longing to have a baby all your life. You won’t be able to keep it, though. They won’t let you keep it. So you’ll go and get yourself all upset about nothing, the whole thing’ll be a complete waste of time and emotion.’

      I could not work out my response to this immediately, as I was highly offended by both its implications: first, that I was the kind of person who had always had a secret yearning for maternal fulfilment, and second, that some unknown authority would start interfering with my decisions by removing this hypothetical child. I decided to tackle the first one first.

      ‘Of course I haven’t always been longing to have a baby,’ I said, ‘I can’t think of anything that has ever crossed my mind less. The thought of a baby leaves me absolutely stone cold.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ said Joe. ‘All women want babies. To give them a sense of purpose.’

      ‘What utter rubbish,’ I said, with incipient fury, ‘what absolutely stupid reactionary childish rubbish. Don’t tell me that any human being ever endured the physical discomforts of babies for something as vague and pointless as a sense of purpose.’

      ‘What does it feel like?’ said Joe, momentarily distracted.

      ‘Nothing much. One can’t really tell much difference,’ I replied untruthfully. ‘Yet.’

      ‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘so I believe you, so you’ve never thought much about having babies, but just the same, I bet you’d be pretty annoyed if somebody told you you couldn’t have one, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘Not at all,’ I said staunchly, ‘I would be highly relieved. There is nothing that I would rather hear.’ Though, as a matter of fact, he was quite right and I was in some perverse and painful way quite proud of my evident fertility.

      ‘In that case,’ said Joe, ‘I don’t see why you didn’t have something done about it.’

      I was silent because I did not see why not either. We had by this time reached Marble Arch: there had been a suggestion at an earlier point in the evening that Joe should here catch the Tube home, and we paused by its entrance, and I said,

      ‘Well, I think we ought to stop going around together, or whatever it is that we do.’

      ‘Why?’ said Joe.

      A complete silence fell, and I suddenly felt quite overcome with weakness and misery. At that moment I could not envisage any kind of future at all, and the complete lack of any sense of control or direction scared and alarmed me. All I knew was that I must get rid of Joe quick, before he sensed my poverty, because even Joe was capable of pity and of kindness.

      ‘I don’t know why,’ I said brightly. ‘I just don’t kind of fancy the idea of going out much any more. Anyway, think how embarrassing it would be, taking around a pregnant woman. Everyone would think it was yours, wouldn’t they, and get on at you about it. You know how incredulous people are of the finer points of any relationship.’

      ‘You’d better tell Roger,’ said Joe, staring moodily at the ground.

      ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, thinking that however convenient I really could not allow this misapprehension to flourish, ‘it isn’t Roger’s.’

      ‘Not Roger’s?’

      ‘No. Not Roger’s.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘So you see, things aren’t quite what they might be.’ I made this remark with a wealth of bogus implication that must have convinced him completely, because all he said was, ‘Oh well, I do see.’ Which in the nature of things he could not possibly have done. However, on the basis of this totally meaningless understanding he took my hand and gave it a fatherly squeeze and said,

      ‘Look after yourself, anyway, Rosamund.’

      ‘Oh, I will,’ I said.

      ‘I suppose we’ll see each other around, anyway.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

      And so we parted. As I walked home, I wondered what he could possibly have imagined the real situation to be, as the truth itself was far too unlikely, far too veiled by deception to hit upon: perhaps, I finally concluded, he had thought that I had another permanent man about, whom I refused to marry or discuss through some perfectly characteristic quirk of principle. I hoped that he had thought that. It was the kindest conclusion to my vanity and to his.

      Having thus successfully disposed of Joe, I knew I would have to dispose of Roger. I relished this task even less than the former one, for whereas Joe and I shared a certain area of moral background, Roger and I shared nothing at all. As it turned out, however, the evening on which I divulged my state to him was far pleasanter than the one I had spent with Joe, which had been marked by rather too much walking and chilly night air. Roger did not believe in walking: he would drive for miles and miles round his destination looking for parking places rather than park five minutes’ walk away and continue on foot. I did not approve of this, being made of sterner stuff myself, but I enjoyed it.