Chapter 3 Unwelcome Details
George didn’t feel magically shielded against catastrophe.
Not by a long shot. As a younger girl, it was true, she’d operated with a sort of reckless entitlement, an assumption that everything would work out all right in the end.
And usually it did. She’d got into plenty of scrapes, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.
This wasn’t even her first time with a bun in the oven.
When she was eighteen, she’d taken a nasty tumble from a horse and was knocked out cold.
She came around in a little country hospital to be told, sadly, that there was no longer a detectable heartbeat.
“No heartbeat?” she said. “But wouldn’t that mean I’m dead?
I’m not dead, am I?” The ruddy-faced old Irish doctor exchanged a look with the matron.
There had been a babby, he gently explained.
George understood: The babby was no more.
“Good heavens,” she said, sitting up. “Do you know how far along I was?” Don’t worry about that now, she was told.
They were going to put her back to sleep and do a little operation.
Politely rebuffing the matron’s offer to ring up her husband, George sank back on the pillows and marveled at her extraordinary good fortune.
But lightning wasn’t going to strike twice, however tempted she was to go horseback riding, or take up circus acrobatics, or throw herself under the wheels of a vehicle.
In diagnosing her condition, the National Health Service quack had supplied two small yellow pills; after she took them on consecutive days, he promised, menstruation would recommence, unless she was enceinte.
Alas, as she told the good doctor, her menses remained stubbornly AWOL.
Case closed, apparently, because he immediately inquired if she was getting married.
No, she confessed, marriage wasn’t in the cards.
This brought forth a philosophical sigh and a speech, clearly well rehearsed, about how a great many couples, through no fault of their own, were unable to have children and would love nothing more than to adopt a little newborn.
It was straightforward to arrange. George thanked him very much. She saw he meant well.
The next person she told was Chris, who had a fifty percent chance of being the father.
As far as she knew; she was no mathematician.
A different sort of girl, she supposed, would work out the true culprit by cross-referencing diaries and cycles and so forth.
George was nowhere near that organized. Even if she were, she didn’t particularly care to know.
She had decided this was Chris’s cross to bear.
She rang him up at his office (Chris worked in some government department or other; George was hazy on the details) and told him they needed to talk.
Would he meet her at their pub? Affable as ever, he said certainly.
George had deliberately used the standard verbal formula for implying bad news.
Better to prepare him, she thought. But when she joined him in the Six Bells, he happily kissed her hello and went back to drinking his pint, not a care in the world.
“I got you a gin and French,” he said. “How’ve you been, anyway?
I haven’t seen you for a while. I thought you’d gone off me. ”
Ah, thought George. He thinks that’s the bad news.
Maybe he’ll be relieved! She tucked her musquash coat over the back of her chair and girded herself to make the announcement.
At least Chris wouldn’t make any kind of scene.
He wasn’t the type. “You did not think I’d gone off you,” she cajoled.
“What rubbish. Since when’ve you ever had a moment of self-doubt?
Handsome brute like you. I bet you’ve never been chucked in your life. ”
He grinned at her. She wasn’t kidding. Chris’s appearance was his main attribute, the secret of his many successes.
He possessed an overall glimmering blondeness: hair, brows, lashes, silkily furred forearms. In winter, his skin was white, with rosy tinges on his cheekbones; after a few days of summer, he turned a freckle-less matte brown.
His eyes were amber-ringed pale-gray and might have been too femininely pretty if not for their shape: narrow and deep-set, shadowed by a prominent brow bone.
Chris was easygoing, affectionate. A Labrador in human form.
George drank half the contents of her glass and said, “The thing is, Chris darling, is that, unfortunately…” She glanced at her lap and back to his face.
“Unfortunately, I’m going to have a baby.
Or rather, I shall if I don’t do something about it.
Sharpish. Which I fully intend to. As soon as I can, that is.
” She heard herself babbling like a lunatic and stopped talking.
Chris stared at her with incomprehension. George looked back at him, and the background hubbub seemed to recede. He drained his pint, replaced it carefully on a beer coaster, and said, “Bloody hell, Georgie. Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, I’m afraid. I went to the doctor this morning.”
He nodded, digesting this. “You’re not saying… you’re not saying it’s mine?”
“What on earth do you mean?” Her voice was dull, unconvincing.
“Come on, old girl. I can’t be the only…” He twitched his finely sculpted nostrils in consideration of the right word. “I can’t be the only candidate.”
The nerve, thought George. The bloody nerve. “And supposing you are? What then?”
“Then I’d say you’re not being fair. I mean, how many times was it? Twice? And on both occasions we were in our cups!”
“Believe it or not, Christopher, none of that is relevant to the outcome.”
He frowned mutinously. She wanted to walk out in a huff. Equally, she wanted to force him to help her. She had a grim operation in store. (How grim? Better not to think about it.) All he had to do was open his wallet. She wasn’t willing to let him off the hook even more easily.
“Look, I’m told I’ll need about fifty quid. That’s the minimum it will cost, apparently. I rather think it’s the least you can do.”
“Fifty pounds?” He looked aghast. “Aren’t there pills you can take or something? I’ve heard about women taking pills.”
She said nothing. Of all the ways she’d imagined the conversation going, this was worse.
Chris turned toward the bar, as though someone might come and rescue him. Then he sighed and looked at George. “I didn’t want to tell you this,” he said. “But Eleanor is pregnant. Any other time, I’d have the money to give you. As things are…”
“You do realize an actual additional baby will cost more than fifty pounds?” She almost shouted the words, and the group of girls at the next table, secretaries or shop assistants, started giggling and whispering.
His cheeks had turned scarlet. “I don’t wish to be ungallant.” He said each word with slow precision. “I really don’t. But the financial responsibility shan’t be mine.”
George stood up and grabbed her coat, blinking back furious tears.
Outside, the murky chilled air filled her nostrils and stung her eyes.
Chin down and hands in pockets, she strode off in the direction of home, wondering if Chris would come after her.
What a fool she’d been. Of course, his marriage was no secret, she’d known their affair didn’t have a future—and yet she’d believed he cared about her, in some small, essential way.
Seeing that ruthless withdrawal had felt like a physical blow.
But she only had herself to blame. You’re never safe as an unmarried woman.
That was what you were always taught. And if you went your own merry way regardless—well, what on earth did you expect?
On the corner of Edith Grove, she heard a man come up behind her and say, “Miss Mountford!” She swung around, confused and relieved. But it wasn’t Chris. It was Jimmy Sullivan.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello there. It’s Mountford-Owen.
But please, call me George.” Since Jimmy had moved into Tregunter Road a week ago, she’d hardly seen or heard him.
Perhaps he’d meant it about not getting under their feet.
Or perhaps Honor had warned him to stay out of the way.
In any case, she hadn’t given it much thought.
She hoped Robbie wasn’t too put out by him, habitating as they did across the landing from each other. But she had her own troubles.
“I saw you walking past,” he said. “I was just having a drink.” He pointed to the King’s Arms. “Why don’t you join me?”
The question of how he’d seen her through the pub’s opaque windows skittered into her mind, then out again. “Thank you,” she said, “but I’ve just had a drink with a friend.”
“Let me buy you another.”
Oh, what the hell, thought George. Why not.
In the pub, she sat down and Jimmy went to the bar.
The girl serving laughed at something he said, leaning toward him and fluttering her thickly painted lashes.
When he came back with their drinks, George gave him a knowing smile.
“I think you’ve got a fan there, Jimmy.”
“Who, the barmaid? Nah. It’s her job, isn’t it. Make all the blokes feel like she might take ’em home at the end of the night.”
“Is that what you’d like, then?” George was in a dangerous mood.
“Don’t be daft. Course not.” He was blushing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Ignore me. I’d have been better off not getting out of bed this morning.”
“That’s a shame.” He didn’t ask her to elaborate. “Still, tomorrow’s another day, eh?”
She smiled with jaded effort. “What about you—how are you settling in at Honor’s?”
“All right, I think. I try to be out most of the time. You know, so I’m not a nuisance. I’ve been looking for a job, so that takes up a lot of the day.” He had a quiet, deep voice and spoke slowly, tentatively.
“What sort of work were you doing before?”
“Me? I’ve done all sorts.” He took a sip of beer. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a policeman. But I failed the medical examination.”