Jilly Cooper - Harriet

Dr Wallace smiled as he looked at Simon’s royal blue writing paper.

‘Oh dear! Mr Villiers again; quite a lad, isn’t he? One of our best customers.’

Harriet went white. ‘Fond of him, were you? Shame, shame, boy’s got a lot of charm, but not ideal husband material, I wouldn’t say. You’re very young, plenty more fish in the sea. Not much fun bringing up a baby on your own, pity to ruin a promising academic career.’

‘I know,’ said Harriet listlessly.

‘Just got to get another doctor to sign the form. Will first thing Friday morning be all right for you? You’ll be out in the evening. There, there; don’t cry, it’ll be soon over.’

Her last hope was her parents. She caught a train down to the country. As she arrived one of her mother’s bridge parties was just breaking up. Middle-aged women, buoyed up by a couple of gin and tonics were yelling goodbye to each other, banging car doors and driving off.

Harriet noticed as she slunk up the path that the noisiest of all was Lady Neave, Susie’s mother-in-law.

‘Goodbye, Alison,’ she was saying, clashing her cheek against Harriet’s mother’s cheek with infinite condescension. ‘Great fun! We’re all meeting at Audrey’s next week, aren’t we, Audrey? Hullo,’ she added, suddenly seeing Harriet. ‘Are you down for the weekend? You must go over and see Peter and Susie. The new wallpaper in the drawing room is such a success.’

What a gauche child thought Lady Neave, as she drove the Humber off in a series of jerks, narrowly missing the blue gates at the bottom of the drive. One could hardly believe she came from the same family as Susie, who although not quite what the Neaves would have liked for their only son, knew her place and was shaping up as a nice little wife.

Mrs Poole, having made her farewells, found Harriet slumped in a chair in the kitchen, the cat purring on her knee. Why must the child look such a fright, she thought, that awful duffle coat with all the buttons missing, no make-up, hair unkempt. She was just like her father, always grubbing round in his silly old museum.

‘I wish you’d warned me,’ she said. ‘I’ve only got sausages for supper. Are you staying the night?’

‘Yes please,’ said Harriet.

‘That’ll be nice — just the two of us.’

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘Away; gone to one of his dreary ceramics conferences.’

Harriet’s heart sank. Her father was the only person she could talk to.

Her mother put some sausages on to fry, and started washing up.

‘These bridge fours have become a regular thing,’ she said, plunging glasses into soapy water. ‘Elizabeth Neave’s really a wonderful girl.’

How could anyone over forty be described as a girl? thought Harriet.

‘She’s really bullying me to get a washing-up machine; she says they’re such a boon when one’s entertaining.’

Harriet looked at the rubber gloves whisking round the hot suds — like surgeon’s hands, she thought in horror, sucking a baby out like a Hoover. The smell of frying sausages was making her sick. Out in the garden the wind was whirling pink almond blossom off the trees.

Look at her just mooning out of the window, thought Mrs Poole. Susie would have picked up a tea-towel and been drying up by now.

‘How’s the ’varsity?’ she said. ‘You look very peaky. Have you been working too hard?’

Harriet turned round:

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Pregnant.’

The rubber hands stopped, then suddenly started washing very fast.

‘How do you know?’

‘I had a test.’

‘It’s Geoffrey,’ said her mother in a shrill voice, ‘I never liked that boy.’

‘No it isn’t. It’s someone else.’

‘You little tart,’ hissed her mother.

Then it all came flooding out, the hysterics, the tears, the after all we’ve done for yous, the way we’ve scrimped and saved to send you to university.

‘I knew this would happen with all those Bohemians with their long hair and petitions, and free love,’ shouted her mother. ‘It’s all your father’s fault. He wanted you to go so badly. Where did we go wrong with you? What will the Neaves say?’

On and on, round and round, repeating the same arguments with relentless monotony.

Harriet sat down. The cat, no respecter of crisis, rubbed against her legs, and then jumped onto her knee purring like a kettle drum.

‘Could you please turn those sausages off?’ said Harriet, suddenly overwhelmed with nausea.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ said her mother. ‘I suppose the young man’s ditched you.’

‘He doesn’t want to marry me, if that’s what you mean.’

‘He may have to,’ said her mother ominously.

‘Oh, Mummy, it’s the twentieth century,’ said Harriet. ‘Look, it meant something to me, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He doesn’t love me, but at least he’s given me the money for an abortion.’

Her mother took the cheque. Her expression had the same truculent relief of people who have waited half an hour in the cold, and who at last see a bus rounding the corner.

‘Banks at Coutts, does he? Fancies himself I suppose. Isn’t it against the law?’

‘Not any more,’ said Harriet. ‘I went to a doctor this morning in London. It’s all above board; they’ll do it on Friday.’

‘It seems the best course,’ said her mother somewhat mollified. ‘The young man does seem to have his wits about him.’

Harriet took a deep breath.

‘Do you really want me to go ahead with it? Wouldn’t it be better to keep the baby?’

Her mother looked appalled, as though the bus had turned out to be ‘Private’ after all.

‘What ever for? Where could you keep it?’

It was as though she was talking about a pet elephant, thought Harriet.

‘You can’t have it here,’ her mother went on. ‘Think what people would say — the Neaves for example. It’s not fair on Susie and Peter. Where would you live? You haven’t got any money.’

‘You thought it was all right when Amanda Sutcliffe had a baby,’ said Harriet.

‘Everyone knows Amanda Sutcliffe’s a bit potty. Those sort of girls are expected to get themselves into trouble. It seems callous, I know, but with your ’varsity career and all that the only answer seems to be to get rid of it.’

‘It isn’t an “it”, it’s a her or a him; it’s your grandchild,’ said Harriet in desperation. ‘You always wanted grandchildren.’

‘But in the proper way,’ said her mother, starting to cry. ‘What would everyone say?’

‘What does it matter?’ said Harriet, and, rushing out of the room, ran upstairs to her own room and threw herself down on the bed.

Later her mother came up and sat on the bed and stroked her hair.

‘I’m sorry I shouted at you, darling. It’s just the shock. You must realize you can’t just have a baby. It’s a serious responsibility; having it’s only the beginning. A child needs a stable family, parents, financial support. Once Friday’s over, you’ll be able to carry on with your life. You know how heartbroken Daddy will be if you don’t get a degree. You need a holiday. We might all go to the Lakes this vac. I know you’ve always wanted to see Wordsworth’s cottage.’ She was smoothing her shoulder lightly but firmly now as though she were making pastry. Harriet found it dimly touching that her mother was trying to be nice, but only dimly. Since Simon had gone she found it very difficult to react to anything normally. She came down and watched television with her mother, who later said she was tired and went to bed. Harriet sat dry-eyed and stared at the horror movie which was about a huge tarantula spider. She hardly realized that the spider had been replaced by a vicar talking about resignation: ‘For everything there is a season,’ he began in his thin reedy voice.

And it reminded her so much of Simon that tears suddenly spurted out of her eyes. Growing inside her was the only thing of Simon’s she had left. It was at that moment she decided to keep the baby.

Mrs Hastings closed the box file with a snap.

‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you, Miss Poole,’ she said.

Harriet felt desperation sweeping over her.

‘But there must be something!’ she said. ‘I’ll do any kind of work, as long as it’s living in.’

‘You said that last time, Miss Poole, before you took that post with Mr Widnell.’

‘I know I did. I’m sorry.’

Mrs Hastings examined her long red nails, as though she’d just enjoyed tearing some animal apart.

‘I should have thought a girl with your background, Miss Poole, would know how to keep a man like Mr Widnell at a distance. But I suppose keeping men at a distance isn’t quite your forte, is it?’

Harriet clenched her hands together. She could feel the sweat rising on her forehead. Keep calm, she told herself. Don’t shout at her — it won’t do any good.

‘You must have something,’ she repeated. ‘I mean we won’t survive unless I get a job.’

Mrs Hastings’s neon smile flashed on again. ‘You should have thought about that before you left Mr Widnell in such a hurry. Come back on Monday.’

Harriet was about to plead with her when the telephone rang. Mrs Hastings picked it up.

‘Mr Erskine? Oh, not again! All right, put him through.’ Her voice turned to honey. ‘Hullo, Mr Erskine. How’s it all going?’

There was a pause. ‘None of them will do? But I must have sent nearly a dozen girls along to see you. Well, yes. . I fully appreciate your going to France tomorrow, Mr Erskine, but what can I do? I’ve sent all my best girls along. . What about my worst girls? We don’t have any of that sort on our books!’