Five Unforgivable Things

There was a long table stretching right across the back wall, heaped with so much food I couldn’t help thinking that the local pigs would have a field day with all the leftovers in the morning, but everyone who arrived seemed to squeeze on yet another plate of food they’d brought from home, until it was just about impossible to see the tablecloth any more. Some had even brought their dogs along, so nothing dropped on the floor stayed there for long.

A couple called Dolly and Frank were providing the music, perched on stools with two battered old guitars and a tambourine, switching over to an enormous ghetto-blaster that pumped out disco hits whenever they needed a break or the dancing needed livening up. It was very amateur but strangely hypnotic, and enormous fun too, with nobody too embarrassed to let themselves go a bit, all whooping like kids, kicking their legs up and swinging each other around the floor.

Dan was like a different person that night. He had stopped being the quiet, smart, suited accountant I had grown to know and love and transformed into Dan Campbell, farm boy. He wore an open-necked checked shirt I was sure I had never seen before, and moved around the room, kicking his heels and swaying his shoulders to the music and greeting every newcomer as if he’d known them all his life, which he probably had. Every now and then, when he could tell from my face that I was struggling, he would come and rescue me from a baffling conversation about milk quotas or silage and pull me back into his arms to dance.

‘Well? What do you think? Is country life what you expected?’ he said, sitting me down in front of a plate of bread and cheese and spooning a dollop of his mum’s home-made pickle out onto the side.

‘Not at all. But I’m sure it’s not like this all the time, is it?’ I gazed at his face as his warm fingers brushed against mine and the candlelight sent tiny flecks of colour bouncing and sparkling in his eyes, and just for a moment I wondered what it would be like to give in to what I was feeling, to forget the world outside, Mum and Trevor, my job at the bank, and just stay here in this magical place for ever.

‘Of course not. Dad will be up milking at the crack of dawn as usual, and Mum will be out here with a broom in one hand and probably feeding the hens with the other! It’s who they are. Creatures of habit. Hard workers. At one with the land and all that. But it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and probably not mine, to be honest … Now, come over and meet Helen. She was the first girl I ever kissed! A long time ago, in the playground when we were five, but I’ve never forgotten it, even though she probably has!’

The floorboards creaked later, on the landing between Dan’s room and mine, as he crept across and closed the door behind him, like a naughty schoolboy sneaking about after lights out, but suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of us sleeping separately, and if anybody heard us they were probably too tipsy to care. I couldn’t bear the thought of him kissing anyone but me either, even if it had been years ago when this Helen friend of his was just a little girl with pigtails. I’d met her tonight and she wasn’t so little nowadays, particularly in the breasts department. And Dan was mine now. Whoever he had chatted to, danced with, even flirted with in a mild kind of way, during the party, it was my bed he was curled up in that night, and my breasts that were squashed, snugly and sweatily, against his skin.

I think that was the night I decided I would marry him. Not that he’d asked me yet, despite his mumblings on the train, but it was coming. I knew it was. I could feel it. And big happy dreams of our future life together filled my head as I slept, my head resting on his bare chest as it rose and fell, and the gentle contented sounds of his snoring filled the room.

Chapter 4

Ollie, 2017

Ollie put his glass down and reached for another handful of crisps. He really mustn’t drink too much tonight. He needed to keep his wits about him and create a good impression if he could.

He took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tightness that he often felt in stressful situations, wished he had thought to bring his inhaler, and turned his attention back to the girl sitting in front of him. She was small and pretty, with a rather chubby but cheeky face surrounded by an unruly mane of dark curly hair. In the brief silence that fell while they were both thinking of something to talk about next, she was toying nervously with the stem of her wine glass. Her fingernails were painted in a shiny shade of pale pink with a strange darker pink band sweeping across the tip of each, and he wondered how long it must have taken her to do that, and why she would even want to.

The bell rang and she stood up. ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Ollie.’

He took her hand and half rose from his chair to lean forward and kiss her on the cheek. Were you allowed to do that? Probably not. Still, she didn’t seem to object. ‘You too …’ Oh, no. His mind had gone blank and he had no idea of her name. ‘Yeah, you too!’

Within seconds another girl arrived to take her place across the table. ‘Hi, I’m Caroline.’

‘Ollie.’

He could already tell that this one was not his type at all. Too tall, too loud, too heavily made up. Still, he only had to be polite to her for three minutes. How hard could that be? He reached for his drink, took a swig and started counting the seconds off, one by one, in his head.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming here tonight. He wasn’t really sure why he had come, except that there had to be more to life than sitting alone most evenings and feeling sorry for himself. He missed female company, someone to have a laugh with, to chat to, someone to share a bottle of wine with, to stop him drinking it all himself. And, yes, he missed the sex. Of course he did. He was a young man, a man on his own, and it had been a while.

He should have been at the chess club tonight, silently gazing at a wooden board, the clock counting down beside him as he pondered his next move. He hadn’t played much chess since he was a child but he’d come back to it recently, finding it somehow therapeutic, something to focus the mind.

He smiled to himself. The chess club wasn’t actually all that dissimilar to where he’d ended up, was it? In the back room of the Crown and Treaty, a very plain and ordinary West London pub, facing a series of strangers over a small table, with only minutes to decide when and if to make his move. Winners and losers, and not hard to guess which he was likely to be.

There were a lot more girls here than guys, which struck him as odd but, in theory, should work in his favour. Not bad looking most of them, which made him wonder why they were here at all, why they were finding it hard – perhaps as hard as he was – to meet someone in a more conventional way, or pluck up the courage to do something about their lives. It was probably all just a bit of fun for most of them, though, groups of girls giggling together at the bar afterwards as they compared notes and decided whether to put ticks or crosses against the names on their little slips of paper.

Nobody would choose him, of course. He’d not taken the trouble even to try to impress, either in what he was wearing (old jeans, frayed at the hem, and his favourite comfy grey jumper that hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks) or in what he’d said. In fact, he’d sat back and let each of them do most of the talking and just added the occasional nod or grunt when it seemed expected. Was that because he couldn’t be bothered, or had he lost the art of conversation? Forgotten how to chat up women? It all seemed like such a lot of effort for so little reward. He was hardly going to find the love of his life tonight, was he? Not when he already knew exactly who she was, and where. Not here, that was where. Hundreds of miles away, probably, and not coming back.

The last girl stood up and moved away. He didn’t kiss this one. Didn’t feel the urge to. Looking down at the slip in front of him, he realised he’d stopped making any sort of mark on it three girls ago, when he’d rather rashly put a tick against the busty one. Julie. Not that he could remember much about her face, but he did like a good pair of tits, and you never knew, she just might let him have a feel later, if he bought her a few drinks and offered to share a taxi home. The drivers didn’t usually care what went on in the back, so long as you tipped well and kept bare flesh and bodily fluids off the seats.

Oh, God! He was starting to think like some kind of perv. Perhaps it was time to slip away before having to face the embarrassment of finding himself without a single match. He glanced at his watch. The chess would still be on down at the Scout hut. A bit late to get a game, maybe, but he could sit and watch, and have a quiet drink or two while he did. He pulled his coat off the back of his chair and put it on, crumpled up his voting slip (and with it any chance of becoming better acquainted with Julie’s cleavage) and dropped it onto the table, then went out into the street before anyone could call him back. The sounds of laughter dimmed as the heavy wooden door swung shut behind him. The offie should still be open on the high street, and it was a lot cheaper option than buying drinks here in the pub, that was for sure. He pulled his collar up against the rain and quickly walked away.

Chapter 5

Kate, 1978

I’ll never know for sure why Dan proposed when he did. Perhaps he’d been thinking about it for a while, just as I had. Perhaps he had already chosen the ring, and the place, and the date. Love and marriage, going together like the inevitable horse and carriage. The traditional route through life. Our life. Perhaps it would always have been our next step. Or perhaps it was simply because of the baby.

We hadn’t planned on me getting pregnant. In fact, like most couples our age, still building our careers, still enjoying a life that revolved around pubs and music and each other, we were pretty active in trying to prevent it at all costs. And the pill was almost fool proof, wasn’t it? All you had to do was remember to swallow it and the rest just took care of itself. So, when my period failed to arrive on time, I didn’t worry. In fact, I didn’t even notice at first, and when I did, about a week later, I was quick to put its absence down to just about everything but the obvious. I must have marked the wrong date on the calendar. It must be some kind of hormone thing. I must be stressed or overdoing things at work or coming down with a cold.

I put off buying a test for as long as I could, wearing a sanitary towel in bed every night, expecting every morning to find it soaked, or at least trickled, in blood. Waiting for the inevitable crippling cramps, that would probably be worse than usual, what with being so late in coming, so I might even need a day off work, curled up with a hot water bottle on the sofa. I couldn’t see my boss being too pleased, could already imagine the muttered tut-tuts that signalled his utter inability to comprehend the inner workings of the female reproductive system but, if the bloody (ha, ha!) thing would just hurry up and come, then putting up with all that would be worth it in reassurance levels alone.

It didn’t come. I re-checked the calendar and decided to wait. Just one more day. And then another. I was in denial, pushing the thought of what it might mean out of my head, telling no one. Burying my head in the sand doesn’t even come close to covering it. Of course I was pregnant, as the little blue line told me in no uncertain terms within a minute or two of dipping the stick into my traitorous wee. Still, it could be a mistake, couldn’t it? A false reading, or something contaminating the stick, or me not understanding the instructions properly. So I bought another pack, a different make this time, read the leaflet from beginning to end, waited another twenty-four hours to make sure my wee was extra early-morning strong, washed my hands and the sink and every little nook and cranny in the space between my legs … and the second test told me exactly the same thing. I was definitely, absolutely, one hundred per cent pregnant.

It all felt so unlikely, so unexpected, so unreal. I was twenty-six, with no husband, no savings, no home of my own. I wasn’t ready. And I was pretty sure Dan wasn’t ready either.

***

We were in his room when I told him. We’d not long been home from work and Dan was still wearing his suit, and a blue and grey striped tie that made him look like some sort of public schoolboy. Somehow the formality made it easier. Like it wasn’t the real Dan. Like I was telling it to someone else.

‘No! Oh, Kate, you can’t be.’

I watched his face turn white right in front of my eyes.

‘Yes, I can. And I am.’

‘Well, how the hell did that happen?’

‘The usual way, I imagine. As far as I remember it, you took my clothes off, we kissed for a while, and then you put your penis inside my …’

‘Yes, okay. I know that part, so you can cut the sarcasm. I mean, how did it not work? The pill? I thought you said …’

‘That it was safe? I know I did, and I believed it, honestly, but it looks like I was wrong.’

We both sat there, side by side, on the edge of his bed, and stared at everything but each other. The alarm clock ticked rhythmically beside us. We didn’t speak for what felt like ages. Well, what was there to say? The enormity of the situation was only just starting to sink in for me, and I’d had a few days to get used to it, so what must it be like for Dan?

I could hear his flatmate Rich moving about in the kitchen down the hall, banging a spoon against a pan as he cooked something that was bound to be red and spicy – it always was – for our dinner, singing along tunelessly to the music on the radio. The Bee Gees, ‘Night Fever’, turned up way too loud. Even without being able to see him, I knew the moves he would be making as he danced like Travolta’s poor ginger-headed relation, jabbing his long spiky arms into the air, whatever was on the spoon flicking off and landing in little splatters across the tiles. Thank God he didn’t have a white suit!

‘So, what do you want to do?’

‘Do?’

‘About the pregnancy. About the baby?’

‘I don’t know, Dan. At the moment I’m trying not to think about it as a baby at all. I’m only a couple of weeks overdue, so it’s very early days. I don’t suppose it even has arms or legs or anything yet.’

‘Like some sort of amoeba thing, you mean? Just a shapeless blob?’

‘Maybe.’

‘We still have to do something though, don’t we? Make decisions, I mean. It may just be cells or jelly or whatever, and nothing like a proper baby yet, but it isn’t going to stay that way for long.’

‘No.’

‘So?’

I closed my eyes and screwed my fists into balls, feeling my jagged nails dig in to my palms. I’d been nibbling them a lot these last few days, and not very expertly either. ‘I don’t know. All right? I just don’t know. I need more time to think about it.’

‘Okay. I guess I do too.’

We both jumped as Rich thumped hard on the door. ‘Dinner’s up, you two! Come and get it!’

‘Shall we?’ Dan reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet.

‘Well, I don’t suppose putting it off for a few hours is going to make much difference, is it? And I’m starving.’

‘Eating for two already?’ He forced a smile and ran his hands in little cautious circles over my tummy.

‘It’s not funny, Dan.’

‘I know.’ He sat down again and untied his laces, slipping his feet out of his shoes, then pulled off his tie and flicked the top button of his shirt open. I caught a glimpse of a few lone hairs curling high on his chest, and there was a big hole in the toe of his sock. Dan. This was Dan. Ordinary, down to earth, and suddenly vulnerable, Dan. Not some stranger in a suit, but my Dan. This was the man I loved, the man I had accidentally made a baby with, and nothing could change that. It was done, and whatever happened now, we were in it together.

‘Not a word to Rich, all right?’ I slipped my hand into Dan’s and squeezed it. ‘Not so much as a hint.’

‘Of course not. And if we decide to … you know … then there’ll be nothing to tell anyway, will there?’

‘Decide to what, Dan?’

‘Come on, Kate.’ He shook his head but he wouldn’t look at me. ‘That’s enough for now. No more talk. We need time, like we said, okay? Time to think, before we do or say anything else. Before we decide. Together. Now, let’s go out there, just act as normally as we can, and eat, shall we?’

But I knew what he meant. It was as near as either of us had come to saying the dreaded word out loud. Abortion. The word that had been banging around in my head, almost from the moment I’d known. But it wasn’t the only option, was it? And Dan obviously didn’t think so either, because three days later, kneeling amongst the damp autumn leaves rotting to mush on the path as I sat shivering on a bench in the park, he pulled out a ring in a red velvet box and asked me to marry him.

***

There didn’t seem much point in waiting. Hanging on until we’d saved enough for a big glitzy wedding or the deposit on a house was pretty pointless in our situation, because it would have taken years, and we didn’t have years. We were getting married for two reasons only: because we loved each other and because I was pregnant. And it made sense to do it as soon as possible, before the baby was born.

I hadn’t been inside a church, except for the usual hatches, matches and despatches, for years, so the local register office would have suited me just fine, but Dan had other ideas. ‘We Campbells are a very traditional family,’ he said, clasping my newly ringed hand in his and wearing his serious face. ‘So, if you don’t have any particular leanings towards a church around here, then I’d quite like us to do it back at home, in the church in the village. It’s a lovely old building, ivy on the walls and all that, and it’s where my parents got married, and Jane, and where we were both christened. Mum will take care of the flowers, and the food. It’s what she’s good at. And we can use the barn again, for the party afterwards. It’ll be easy to arrange – and quick – and it will hardly cost us anything. What do you think?’

‘I suppose we could. But how about my family? My friends? My mum?’

‘They can all come down. It’s not far on the train. Your mum will be very welcome to come and stay at the farm, of course, for a few days. Or for as long as she likes. And Trevor.’

‘Trevor?’

‘Well, she’ll want him there, won’t she? And you’ll need him there to give you away …’

‘Oh, no, I won’t.’

‘Sorry. I just thought that, without a dad, he would be the next best thing, and you might …’

‘No way!’

‘Well, who then?’

‘I don’t know. Can’t your dad do it?’

‘I don’t think it works like that. It’s meant to be someone from your family, someone handing you over to me. You know, body and soul, to be my chattel for ever, in exchange for a few camels, that kind of thing. And so I can have my wicked way with you whenever I want to!’

‘Well, it will be pretty obvious to everyone that you already have if we don’t get a move on. I would like to be able to squeeze into an at least half-decent dress on the day. Not some great baggy tent thing that the guests are likely to mistake for a marquee! Maybe I can have Mum do the giving-away bit?’

‘Okay. It’s a bit unconventional, but we can ask. The vicar’s a family friend – well, a sort of second cousin, actually – so I don’t think he’ll say no. So that’s it? We can do it? Get married in Somerset? Set a date?’

Oh, he could be persuasive when he wanted to be, but I didn’t have an alternative plan, or the energy to argue. In fact, sitting down with my feet up and letting Molly Campbell sort it all out for me was actually quite an attractive prospect. ‘Yes, we can. But soon, all right? Before I’m the biggest balloon in the barn, and definitely before I’m anywhere near ready to pop!’

‘We’ll tell them at Christmas, when everyone’s in a good mood and feeling festive. We can go down there together, or do it on the phone. Whichever you prefer. And talk to the vicar, to book a date. There’s nothing like news of a new baby to make Christmas complete!’

‘I’m not the bloody Virgin Mary, Dan. And this,’ I lay my hand on my tummy and patted it, ‘is not the baby Jesus.’

He laughed. ‘I know. And there will be no mangers, I promise, even if we do have the wedding in the barn.’

Chapter 6

Beth, 2017

‘It’s a very long way to come just for a spa! Surely there was somewhere nearer to home?’ Beth dragged her case up the hotel steps and banged her way through the revolving doors. ‘All the time we were stuck on that stupid train we could have been lying back luxuriating in a whirlpool bath or whacking down a cocktail or three in the bar.’

‘Oh, stop your moaning. We’re here now, aren’t we?’ Jenny followed in her wake, stopping in the foyer to admire the giant floral displays and gaze up at the glittering chandeliers. ‘And, you have to admit, it looks great!’

‘Wait until we’ve seen our room, dumped this lot and found our way to the pool, and then I’ll tell you if it’s great.’

‘Oh, you are such a spoilsport sometimes. We got it half price, remember? And there’s a complimentary head massage thrown in later on, so let’s just get on and enjoy it all, shall we? And the first drink is on me, by the way.’

‘Well, now you’re talking. And, while you’re doing that, you can tell me why we’re really here.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh, yes, you do! We didn’t come all the way up here just to eat three calorie-controlled meals a day and get our heads rubbed, and you know it.’

‘Campbell. Room for two. We have booked.’ Jenny had turned away and was sorting out the room keys with the woman behind the reception desk, but not before Beth had seen the red flush that was flooding her face and making its way up the back of her neck. She knew damn well there was more to this trip than her sneaky so-called sister was letting on.

The lift came quickly and transported them just as quickly up to Room 316.

‘Ooh, look, there’s a mini-bar!’ Beth was working her way around the room, opening cupboards and exploring light switches before Jenny had so much as found somewhere to put her case down. ‘Little dinky bottles of wine. Coke. Lager. They’ve even got peanuts!’

‘And they’ll all cost a fortune. We don’t need them, Beth. Just wait until we get to the bar. Or, better still, find a shop and stock up with our own supplies. No point throwing money away.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Reluctantly, Beth closed the fridge door and started pulling clothes out of her case and chucking them all over the bed by the window. ‘You always were the voice of reason, weren’t you? Dad’s daughter, that’s for sure! He’ll make an accountant out of you yet!’

‘I don’t think so. All those boring spreadsheets and columns of numbers you have to balance. There’s nothing I’d like less.’

‘Except dipping your hands into vats of smelly perming lotion and confronting other people’s nits, like me, I bet!’

‘Believe me, wiping old men’s bums comes pretty close!’

‘Ugh! Rather you than me.’ Beth sat down among the piles of clothes on the bed. ‘I didn’t always want to be a hairdresser, you know. If Mum and Dad had been a bit better off, I’d have liked to have ballet lessons or learned the piano or gone off to some posh stage school and learned to act and sing, and then I might even be famous by now. Musicals, maybe. I can just see myself as Dorothy, tripping down the yellow brick road in a pair of ruby slippers, or swishing my skirts about being Nancy in Oliver, or having a bash at Evita … Making a living with a microphone in my hand, not scissors and a soggy towel.’

‘I remember! You dancing about all the time when we were kids, like some demented prima donna. But I have to admit, you can sing pretty well. A lot better than me, anyway. And it’s never too late, you know.’