In Her Mothers' Shoes Page 4

  ‘The doctor’s letter arrived in the mail this morning and I opened it,’ she said then continued on before Lizzie had time to protest at her mail being opened. ‘It’s positive. You’re eleven weeks pregnant.’ She sounded businesslike, matter-of-fact.

  Lizzie held Jemima tightly, holding her breath, determined not to show a reaction.

  Not that it mattered; her mother was fired up and nothing would stop her. It seemed she had been thinking it all through since the doctor’s visit.

  ‘You’ll have to leave town of course and have the baby somewhere nobody knows you. You can’t possibly have it here. The neighbours would soon work it out and then everybody will know. You’ll have to go away. I’ll make some phone calls and find a place for you somewhere a long way off, like New Plymouth or Christchurch, where you’ll be looked after with other girls in the same situation until the baby’s born. Then you can come back here.’

  ‘Come back with the baby and live here?’

  ‘No, of course not. You can’t keep the baby. That’s simply not possible. What happens when girls like you get themselves in the family way, they go away for a few months, give the baby up for adoption to a nice family, and then come back as if nothing’s happened. Nobody except your father and I will know.’

  ‘A few months?’

  ‘Yes, what did you think would happen? We can’t have you growing fat and waddling around here. The Foster-Browns next door, everybody would know. You’ll be able to stay at school for maybe another two months if you can stop being sick, and then you’ll have to leave town before it starts to show.’

  ‘Before what starts to show?’

  ‘That you’re pregnant, you silly girl. Your pregnancy will start to show, probably in October, so that’s when you’ll have to go.’

  ‘October? But that’s only a few weeks away. What about my school work? I’ve got my final exams, and my art portfolio is due a month later.’

  ‘You should have thought of that when you got yourself pregnant.’

  ‘Then maybe I can take my schoolwork away with me? Maybe the school will let me take my exams in another town?’

  Her mother sat back and looked at her incredulously. ‘You really don’t understand the consequences, do you?’ Suddenly, her expression softened. She sat next to Lizzie on the bed, put her arm round her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. ‘The school can’t know what’s happened, where you’re going or why because then everybody will know. We can’t tell anyone what’s happened, especially not the headmistress. Those things never remain a secret for long.’

  Lizzie thought back to the girl who’d had to leave in her last year of school after she’d been sick in the corridor. Within just a few days, all the girls in her class knew why she’d gone. It remained a subject of gossip for months – sometimes of admiration, sometimes of horror. Why hadn’t she taken more notice, why hadn’t she realised she was putting herself at risk of the very same fate?

  Her mother was right: she was a very silly girl incapable of recognising consequences.

  She hung her head, defeated.

  Her dream of becoming an architect was shredded in that brief and unhappy moment on the hard concrete floor. Her art portfolio would never be judged. Her Scholarship Maths exam would never be sat.

  ‘What will I tell them? What will I tell Julia?’

  ‘Nothing,’ her mother said emphatically. ‘You tell them absolutely nothing. Especially not Julia, nor any of your friends.’

  ‘But what will they think when I’m no longer at school. I’ll have to say something.’

  ‘You let me handle it. I’ll write the school a letter the day after you leave and say you’re sick, or you’ve had to visit your grandmother in Auckland who’s dying perhaps. I’ll make something up. That’s the least of your worries, what to say. You just say nothing.’

  Lizzie ran her finger along Jemima’s stiff black curls. Leaving school, not seeing Julia or any of her friends again, just disappearing one day without saying goodbye – it couldn’t happen.

  There was only one way of stopping this terrible chain of events and that was for Peter to marry her. She was sure he would, if only he knew. He could be such a gentleman, calling her love, making her laugh. True, he had been a bit offhand in the tram on the way back to Karori that night, but he was probably just nervous after what they’d done together. She started to work out how she would make contact with him, how she’d let him know.

  She decided to try it on her mother.

  ‘What if my boyfriend agrees to marry me? He’s got a good job . . .’

  ‘Has he? So he’s not at Scots? He’s a working man?’

  Too late, Lizzie realised she’d given away more than she meant to. She put Jemima down and stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘Yes, he’s old enough to support me. He’s not a schoolboy.’

  ‘And just how old is he?’

  She hesitated. His age was surely not the point? ‘I don’t know.’

  Her mother drew back, withdrew her arm, and looked at her incredulously. ‘You don’t know? Surely you must have some idea?’

  She wasn’t going to tell. ‘We never discussed it.’

  ‘You’re far too young to get married, Elizabeth. You’re only seventeen.’

  ‘But Nellie Stevens got married. You know, that girl at school last year. She married her boyfriend when she was in the upper sixth.’

  ‘You’re not Nellie Stevens. Your father would never agree to it. And neither would I.’

  ‘But I know he can support me. He’s got a good job.’

  ‘And what does he do?’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what he does. What matters is that he cares about me and if I told him about this he might . . .’

  ‘You haven’t told him?’ Her mother’s eyes were wide.

  ‘No. How could I? I’ve only just found out.’ It was too much. Lizzie felt intense prickling behind her eyes. A few moments later, she felt her mother put her arms around her again. This time, it made her cry, an overflow of self-pity and real fear.

  Her mother took her white Irish linen handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it over; Lizzie accepted it and dabbed ineffectually at her eyes then studied the sweeping HH initials in the corner, now wrinkled and damp.

  ‘You poor child,’ her mother soothed, sitting down beside her and taking her free hand. ‘It’s a terrible time for you, I know, but let’s just take some time to think it through. Whoever this Peter is, he has to be pretty special to deserve you, Lizzie. And I’m not sure marriage for you right now is the best thing.’

  Lizzie sniffed and blew her nose.

  ‘Would you like to bring him home to meet us?’

  Would she? She couldn’t imagine it would go very well, even if Peter agreed. And somehow she doubted it. ‘I’ll ask him.’ Would she really? How would she get hold of him now he wasn’t on the Karori route any longer?

  ‘I’ll talk to your father and see what he thinks.’

  ‘What do you think he’ll say? Will he be angry?’

  ‘He won’t be happy, that’s for sure. But . . .’

  The slam of the back door announced the arrival of Penny home from school.

  Her mother held her fingers to her lips. ‘It’s our secret for now. Not a word.’

  There was the stomp of feet up the stairs then Penny burst into the bedroom. ‘Lizzie, you’re home,’ she cried, flinging herself on the bed in the space their mother had just vacated. ‘Will you and Jemima play houses with me?’

  At six, Penny was besotted with the game of mothers and fathers, tending to her many dolls as if they were babies. The youngest by many years, she was spoiled by everyone except her mother, and Lizzie was often chivvied into playing father. Big brother Jerry indulged Penny in other ways, but drew the line at playing with dolls.

  ‘Not just now, Penelope, your sister is not feeling well.’ Her mother crossed to the bedroom door and stood holding the handle. ‘Come down to the kitchen and I’ll get you milk and something to e
at.’

  ‘I’ll play later,’ Lizzie promised.

  ‘Thanks Lizzie. What’s that matter with you?’

  ‘Just a tummy bug.’

  ‘Did the doctor come?’

  ‘Yes, he came. He says I might have to stay off school a bit longer.’

  ‘Now that’s enough, Penelope. Your sister needs to take it easy, not be hounded with questions.’

  ‘When I was walking home with Sally today, she told me they’re getting a puppy,’ Penny said, neatly changing the subject. ‘Can we have a puppy too?’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘But Sally is.’

  ‘Sally’s house has got fences all around it. We haven’t got any fences. We’re on the top of a hill. It would be impossible to put fences up. No, a puppy is out of the question.’

  Penny looked like she might cry.

  ‘Go and have your milk, Penny, then come back upstairs and play.’

  ‘Will I catch your tummy bug, Lizzie?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The doctor didn’t say it was catching.’

  He’d also said her morning sickness could last another month. How on earth was she going to pretend she had an upset stomach all that time? And did that mean she would be off school for a whole month? Her mother had asked the doctor and he’d said it depended on the girl – some girls were sick all along and some just had occasional off days. She hoped hers just involved occasional off days. She wanted to be at school.

  Their father was not at the dinner table.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Jerry asked almost as soon as he’d sat down.

  ‘He’s at his club.’ Her mother’s lips were pursed. Arthur Hamilton spent Thursday and Friday nights at the Wellington Club and came home, only occasionally in time for dinner, reeking of tobacco and whisky. ‘His dinner’s in the oven. He’ll be here soon.’ She spooned onto their plates the mashed potato, peas and baked chops that she’d prepared – it was Mrs Mullen’s day off.

  ‘I thought Lizzie was ill this morning?’ Jerry said. ‘But she’s having dinner.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s a good sign then, isn’t it? She must be getting better.’

  Jerry clearly thought better of arguing with their mother and started to cut up his lamb.

  Lizzie was so hungry she almost shovelled the food into her mouth. The nausea she’d felt this morning had disappeared. She let the dinnertime conversation about school flow over her as she ate, thinking of the future her mother had painted.

  She couldn’t bear not saying goodbye to Julia. Just leaving one day and not coming back, with no explanation, no farewells, it was just unthinkable. Perhaps Julia would guess. She hadn’t told her about Peter, at least not his name or even that he was older than her. As far as she and the other girls knew, she was seeing a boy from Wellington College who lived on the other side of town. For as long as she could, she’d resisted their pleas and teasing to reveal much more but at Julia’s intensive questioning, she had finally confessed they’d done IT.

  Julia had an unexpected, sharp way of hitting home to the truth. It would be typical of her to guess that Lizzie was off school with morning sickness. How many days would it take her to work it out? Somehow, Lizzie had to get herself to school in the morning and prevent the rumour starting.

  Or could she tell them and swear them to secrecy? Julia would keep it to herself, but would her other friends? Probably not. And then the whole school would know. Oh, the shame of it. Once the secret was out, even if she did as her mother said and went away for a few months, she could never come back and face seeing anyone from school again.

  But if she could track Peter down at the tram depot, maybe he would understand, maybe he would marry her and everything would be all right.

  Her mother would never approve but maybe if they had a quiet wedding, with just family present it would work. Would there be a space for Peter in the Hamilton family?

  ‘Lizzie?’ Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was saying would you like any more to eat? You seem to have finished your dinner remarkably quickly.’

  ‘No thanks, Mummy.’

  While they were doing the dishes, their father arrived home, pouring his bonhomie through the door, all smiles and whisky breath. Their mother retrieved his dinner from the oven and joined him in the dining room while he ate, closing the door behind them and giving them a fierce-eyed warning, forbidding them to follow.

  Lizzie kept on washing, trying to ignore what she suspected was about to happen next door, joining in the chatter as if nothing at all was wrong. It remained eerily quiet in the dining room. Her mother had decided not to say anything to her father about the suspected pregnancy until it was confirmed, not wanting to upset him unnecessarily. Now it was necessary.

  ‘What’s up with you, then?’ Jerry asked as he piled up the dinner plates ready for Penny to put away.

  ‘Nothing, why?’

  ‘You’re so quiet,’ Jerry said. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Me? Of course not.’ She buried her face in the cupboard under the sink, putting away the dish cloths and soap.

  Suddenly their father cried out something; he sounded furious.

  ‘Well, somebody is. Glad it’s not me.’

  ‘What’s up with Daddy?’ Penny asked as she put away the knives and forks painstakingly slowly.

  ‘Could be anything.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Probably something to do with his work.’

  ‘I’m off upstairs,’ Jerry said hanging up his tea towel and departing hastily.

  ‘Come on, Penny. Let’s go and play mothers and fathers. You go and set up the dolls’ house and I’ll be along in a minute. I need to go to my room first.’

  Once there, Lizzie closed the door firmly behind her and threw herself on her bed, grabbing hold of battered old Mr Ted and Jemima, the only doll she’d held on to when Penny had begged to have them all. She held Jemima tight.

  The way things had turned out, she wouldn’t be playing with dolls anymore; she was going to have a real live baby.

  Except her mother had said she wasn’t allowed to keep it.

  Why couldn’t she decide for herself what she was going to do? No matter which way she turned, the decisions would be made by her mother, her father, Peter. She felt like a stick floating in the tide, pushed around without any say where she went. Her life was no longer her own.

  Most of all, she wanted to be with Peter. But what if he didn’t want to be with her?

  There was a timid knock on her door.

  ‘Lizzie.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Lizzie, can we play mothers and fathers now?’

  Chapter 3.

  Christchurch, October 1950

  The night she caught the overnight ferry to Lyttelton, Lizzie’s mother took her out to a big hotel near the steamer wharf and treated her to a slap-up meal. They were early and had the dining room to themselves.

  ‘Anything you want, Lizzie,’ she said when the waiter brought the menu. ‘I’m paying. I won’t tell your father how much we spent.’

  That afternoon, her father had left the house just after lunch with the excuse of an appointment at his club. Lizzie knew he’d made it up – he never went to his club on a Saturday. It had fallen to her mother to supervise the packing and transport to Customhouse Quay.

  Packing had been stressful, her mother wanting her to take warm, practical clothes and sensible shoes; Lizzie arguing for the skirts and dresses she liked best. The arguments, however, hid the real friction: the reason she was going. Lizzie suspected her mother might have been close to tears; she’d never seen her like that before, which had made her feel even worse.

  ‘I’m sorry Daddy’s not here with us,’ she continued. ‘He wanted to come, but he was just too upset. He’d have ruined the dinner for you, he said.’

  Lizzie felt wretched – her father was so ashamed of her, he hadn’t been able to face this final meal together.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry too.’ She
studied her place setting, the gleaming silver, the cut crystal, the starched white table cloth. It was something special to be taken out to dinner, but the occasion had lost its shine. At first she’d been relieved her father wasn’t able to come – he would have made it too formal, fussing over which knife and fork went with what, asking the waiter endless questions. But now she was missing him. Knowing it was her fault only made the sight of the empty place setting worse. The waiter had whisked it away quickly enough, but the white space where it had been mocked her.