weeks ago.
So practical had these purchases seemed at the time, as well as exciting and delightful; because although it was early days yet, she would be needing them before winter set in. She had been quite unprepared for the little gasp of horror her mother had been unable to suppress at the sight of them.
Now, she understood it only too well. Already, Mummy had known that the garments would never be worn, that no maternity clothes would ever be required. Even on that first evening, when the two of them had clung together in such apparent closeness and love, the decision must already have been quietly taken…
It was easier, somehow, to write it down than it had been to say it out loud.
“I hate you,” Miranda wrote, neatly and carefully, bending over her desk in the little circle of rosy light from the reading-lamp which had been so marvellous a Christmas present three—or was it four—years ago. “I hate you so very much that I can’t go on living here. I have gone to stay with Sharon.” After which she straightened the bed, drawing the pretty candlewick coverlet over it, and pinned the note with a safety pin in the very middle of it, where it could not fail to be instantly seen.
Then, cautiously and quietly, rattling the metal hangers as little as possible, she reached into the back of the wardrobe for the never-worn, crisply-new smocks that were hanging there.
*
Even with the chair-cushion stuffed into the front of her knickers, the effect was still a bit skimpy, unworthy of these billowing folds of material that gleamed darkly in the lamplight. Not until she had wrapped a bath towel round and around her waist as well,securing it with safety pins in four places, was she satisfied with the effect achieved.
And so marvellous was it, so exactly tailored to the dreams of these past weeks, that despite herself the tears dried upon her cheeks, and she stared at herself in the dim reaches of the mirror with a sort of incredulous joy. All a pretence, of course—was she not at this very moment re-deploying the bath towel to better advantage with a new adjustment of the safety pins?—but—ye gods and goddesses— what a pretence! What balm it brought, albeit temporarily, to her bruised and battered soul!
And it was not until she was actually on the top deck of the bus, rumbling through the half-darkness of the summer night, that it dawned on her that she couldn’t possibly, in this get-up, go and stay at Sharon’s.
CHAPTER VIII
I T WAS NOT so much that Sharon’s parents would be shocked and incredulous—though of course they would be: it was Sharon herself whom Miranda knew she could not face. Though less well up in the subject than Miranda had succeeded in making herself during the past weeks, Sharon would certainly know enough about the normal course of pregnancy to realise that this sudden and dramatic increase in girth within such a few days could not possibly be genuine. Confronted with the inevitable barrage of searching questions, Miranda would have no alternative but to confess to her friend the silly subterfuge to which she had resorted; and this would lead inevitably to the whole sorry tale of weakness and cowardice in the face of parental pressure, right up to the final ghastly and despicable surrender. Even to a close friend—perhaps particularly to a close friend—the revelation of such shame was unthinkable. Bitterly, Miranda recollected those proud, defiant declarations of hers, in the presence of most of Four A: “They’d have to kill me first!” she’d boasted when Doreen had come out with her tactless suggestion about abortion. She remembered the open-mouthed admiration of her audience, their flattering, half-incredulous awe… After all that, to have to go crawling to Sharon, her staunchest supporter, with a miserable confession of humiliation and defeat, knowing, too, that by next term it would be all over the school. Miranda Field isn’t pregnant after all. Miranda Field has had
So practical had these purchases seemed at the time, as well as exciting and delightful; because although it was early days yet, she would be needing them before winter set in. She had been quite unprepared for the little gasp of horror her mother had been unable to suppress at the sight of them.
Now, she understood it only too well. Already, Mummy had known that the garments would never be worn, that no maternity clothes would ever be required. Even on that first evening, when the two of them had clung together in such apparent closeness and love, the decision must already have been quietly taken…
It was easier, somehow, to write it down than it had been to say it out loud.
“I hate you,” Miranda wrote, neatly and carefully, bending over her desk in the little circle of rosy light from the reading-lamp which had been so marvellous a Christmas present three—or was it four—years ago. “I hate you so very much that I can’t go on living here. I have gone to stay with Sharon.” After which she straightened the bed, drawing the pretty candlewick coverlet over it, and pinned the note with a safety pin in the very middle of it, where it could not fail to be instantly seen.
Then, cautiously and quietly, rattling the metal hangers as little as possible, she reached into the back of the wardrobe for the never-worn, crisply-new smocks that were hanging there.
*
Even with the chair-cushion stuffed into the front of her knickers, the effect was still a bit skimpy, unworthy of these billowing folds of material that gleamed darkly in the lamplight. Not until she had wrapped a bath towel round and around her waist as well,securing it with safety pins in four places, was she satisfied with the effect achieved.
And so marvellous was it, so exactly tailored to the dreams of these past weeks, that despite herself the tears dried upon her cheeks, and she stared at herself in the dim reaches of the mirror with a sort of incredulous joy. All a pretence, of course—was she not at this very moment re-deploying the bath towel to better advantage with a new adjustment of the safety pins?—but—ye gods and goddesses— what a pretence! What balm it brought, albeit temporarily, to her bruised and battered soul!
And it was not until she was actually on the top deck of the bus, rumbling through the half-darkness of the summer night, that it dawned on her that she couldn’t possibly, in this get-up, go and stay at Sharon’s.
CHAPTER VIII
I T WAS NOT so much that Sharon’s parents would be shocked and incredulous—though of course they would be: it was Sharon herself whom Miranda knew she could not face. Though less well up in the subject than Miranda had succeeded in making herself during the past weeks, Sharon would certainly know enough about the normal course of pregnancy to realise that this sudden and dramatic increase in girth within such a few days could not possibly be genuine. Confronted with the inevitable barrage of searching questions, Miranda would have no alternative but to confess to her friend the silly subterfuge to which she had resorted; and this would lead inevitably to the whole sorry tale of weakness and cowardice in the face of parental pressure, right up to the final ghastly and despicable surrender. Even to a close friend—perhaps particularly to a close friend—the revelation of such shame was unthinkable. Bitterly, Miranda recollected those proud, defiant declarations of hers, in the presence of most of Four A: “They’d have to kill me first!” she’d boasted when Doreen had come out with her tactless suggestion about abortion. She remembered the open-mouthed admiration of her audience, their flattering, half-incredulous awe… After all that, to have to go crawling to Sharon, her staunchest supporter, with a miserable confession of humiliation and defeat, knowing, too, that by next term it would be all over the school. Miranda Field isn’t pregnant after all. Miranda Field has had
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