Monday Girl Page 17

  The girl nodded briefly. ‘I . . . he . . .’ She swallowed, then burst out, ‘I’m going to have his baby.’

  The two gasps were practically synchronised, and it was a few seconds before Anne said quietly, ‘Are you sure that Fergus is the father?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was never with anybody else, and he said he’d marry me, but then he just disappeared. I went to where he worked, and they told me he was in the army and gave me your address, because he would likely write to you. I waited for a few weeks, to give him the chance to get in touch with me, but he didn’t, and my mother doesn’t know yet, but I’m well over five months already and it’s starting to show.’ She began to weep softly and sat down on the chair by the door.

  ‘Is your name Lily?’ Renee had remembered Fergus telling her that Lily was growing too serious.

  The girl lifted her head. ‘No, it’s Jeanette. Jeanette Morrison. Why? Did he speak about having another girl?’ Renee saw how upset she was by that possibility, and said, hastily, ‘No, no. That was a long time ago, probably before he ever met you.’ Another girl? she thought, ruefully. Dozens, if she was any judge, including herself . . . and her mother.

  ‘Did he know about . . . this, before he went away?’ Anne was asking.

  ‘Yes, he did, and he promised he’d do the right thing by me, so the baby wouldn’t be illegitimate.’ A remark which Fergus had made before he went away in September flashed into Renee’s mind. When she had told him she hoped he’d given her a baby, his answer had been, ‘I’ve enough on my plate without worrying about that,’ which she’d assumed to be covering up his dread of being killed. No wonder he’d given that peculiar laugh. It must have been Jeanette and her pregnancy that had been filling his plate.

  ‘I was wondering . . .’ Jeanette gulped. ‘Could you give me his address? I have to get in touch with him.’

  ‘I’ll give you the one I’ve got,’ Anne said, ‘but he’ll likely have been shifted by this time. And even if he hasn’t, don’t be surprised if he doesn’t answer any letters you send. I don’t like having to tell you this, Jeanette, but he’s an out-and-out rotter. He was involved with . . . a lot of other girls, and you’re better off without him. Honestly.’

  ‘I have to try, anyway. You see . . . I love him, though I see now that he doesn’t love me.’ Jeanette fished in her clutch handbag for a handkerchief, and scrubbed at her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know how to tell my mum, and when she finds out, she’ll likely throw me out on my ear.’

  ‘No she won’t,’ Anne said quickly. ‘Go home right now and tell her. Mothers can forgive more than you think.’ She glanced at her daughter, her eyes conveying a message she’d been unable to put into words. Renee realised that she was being told she’d been forgiven for her previous secretive behaviour, and felt more affection for her mother at that moment than she had done ever since the terrible confrontation of the 3rd of September.

  Anne stood up and went over to the sideboard. ‘If he doesn’t answer your letter, Jeanette, get in touch with his commanding officer. Fergus Cooper should be made to face up to his responsibility.’ She took out a letter and tore off the corner with the address, handed it to the girl then crossed to the fireside and threw the sheet of paper into the flames.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Gordon.’ Jeanette dropped the address into her handbag and got to her feet.

  On an impulse, Renee asked, ‘How often did you go out with Fergus?’

  ‘Every Friday for about seven months. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason, really, I just wondered.’ Fridays? So Jeanette wasn’t the girl she had seen him making love to that Thursday night at the Bay of Nigg. He really had had a girl for every night of the week, and must have sworn to each of them that she was the only one for him. She felt nothing but sorrow that she’d been so easily taken in by him, but she brightened up when she saw his letter reducing to ashes in the fire. Her mother had proved that her attachment to him was completely broken, too.

  Anne showed the other girl out. ‘If your mum does put you out, Jeanette, you’re welcome to stay here, I’ve got plenty of room.’ She patted her shoulder. ‘But I don’t think it’ll come to that, just wait and see.’

  The tears came again to Jeanette’s eyes, but she held her head up as she left. ‘Thanks again, Mrs Gordon.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Anne remarked, when she sat down again.

  ‘You see what a lucky escape you had, Renee?’

  Her daughter nodded gravely. It was lucky for her that she’d got him out of her system before this revelation, otherwise she’d have been tortured out of her mind now. The full impact of Fergus Cooper’s faithlessness struck home to her, and she blessed the impulse which had led to her unplanned showdown with him – the denouement which had freed her from him for ever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the first week of April, Jack Thomson received his calling-up papers, and Renee wondered if he would declare his love for her before he left. He’d been taking her out every Thursday night for weeks, and she’d grown more and more fond of him, but, although he kissed her quite lovingly before they went into the house each time, he’d never again mentioned how he felt about her. She was almost sure that he loved her, and nearly as sure that he believed she still loved Fergus, but she couldn’t explain anything to him without revealing the whole sordid saga of her obsession with Fergus and his treatment of her and her mother.

  Because he had to leave on a Thursday morning, Jack asked Renee if she would mind making their last date on a Wednesday instead.

  ‘No problem,’ she answered, flippantly, to hide how much she was affected by his imminent departure.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, carefully. ‘There’s no problem now.’ She was tempted to assure him that there was no problem at any time, now or in the future, because Fergus was out of her life for ever, but the moment passed.

  On Wednesday, she was filled with hope that Jack would say something definite, this being his last night. He would go home to Peterhead when he had leave, so she might never see him again. At the Palais, after their third dance, she made up her mind to prod him a little, to give him the opening to say that he loved her, in case he was too shy to broach the subject himself. When the band struck up a slow foxtrot, she seized her opportunity.

  ‘I’m going to miss you, Jack,’ she said, softly, while they moved slowly round the hall.

  His arm tightened round her. ‘I’m going to miss you, too.’ She tried to sound light-hearted. ‘You won’t have much time to miss anything for a start, I suppose?’

  ‘I’ll always be thinking about you, no matter what I’m doing,’ he whispered.

  Her heart started to beat faster. This was more like it. If only she could keep him on this track, he would end up by telling her what she wanted to hear. ‘You’ll write to me, won’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘Of course I want you to. I want to know where you are, and what you’re doing, and everything about you.’

  ‘Do you?’ He paused for a moment and looked at her seriously. ‘You’ll write to me as well, and tell me everything that you do?’

  ‘Yes, I will. I promise.’

  He was silent for so long that she said, ‘Jack?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Renee. I’m not very good company tonight. I’m excited about going into the army, and yet I’m worried about my mother. She’ll be absolutely on her own if anything happens to me.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you, Jack.’ She was very disappointed that he was thinking about his mother at a time like this, but a chill had run over her at the possibility of him being killed.

  His laugh was harsh. ‘I’m just being morbid, Renee, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . Oh, there’s Tim and Moira.’ He removed his hand from her waist and waved vigorously to attract their attention.

  Renee felt oddly relieved. She
was slowly coming to the conclusion that she had read too much into Jack’s kisses and the veiled hints of love which he had given her. Perhaps he had lost interest in her now that he had no rival for her affection? It would probably be best, then, not to let him see how much she really cared for him. When they joined Tim and Moira, after the foxtrot, she behaved as naturally as she could, and reflected that this had turned out to be another ordinary night at the Palais, after all her hopes of it being something special.

  Walking home, she let Jack take the lead in the conversation, and they spent most of the time reminiscing over the various incidents which had happened since he had come to lodge at Cattofield. They spoke about Bill Scroggie going off to Canada – wondering why he had never written – about Uncle George’s disappearance, about Mike’s courtship and marriage, about Tim and Moira, speculating on whether Tim would ask his girlfriend to marry him before he was called up. When they neared the house, Jack stopped at the usual wall, and Renee leaned against it, hardly daring to hope that the longed-for moment had come at last.

  He looked deeply into her eyes for a few seconds, before he sighed and put his arms round her. ‘Renee . . .’ His kiss was long and tender. ‘This is what I want to remember,’ he whispered, stroking her hair then running his fingers over her face. ‘You and me, standing together at this place . . . Oh, Renee, I wish I didn’t have to go away.’

  ‘Me, too,’ she murmured. ‘But you’ll be back, and there’ll be other times.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, things’ll be different.’

  ‘They won’t, they won’t. Oh, Jack, I lo . . .’

  He covered her mouth with his hand before she could finish. ‘Don’t say it, Renee. It’s only because I’m going away.’

  She pushed his hand off her face. ‘No, Jack, it’s not just because you’re going away. I really do . . .’

  ‘I don’t want you to say it,’ he broke in, roughly, then his voice softened. ‘Can’t you understand? You’re making it more difficult for me.’ He turned and walked away from her, and she had to bite her lip to keep her from shouting out that she did love him, and that she didn’t understand why he wouldn’t let her say it.

  He was waiting for her to catch up with him, and they walked to the house in an awkward silence. Jack looked uncomfortable when they went in and found that Anne was not in the living room. ‘I’ll just say goodnight then, Renee,’ he muttered, ‘and we’d better make it goodbye as well, for we won’t have a chance in the morning.’ He held out his hand, but her face told him how hurt she was by this formal parting, and with a jerk, his arms were round her and he was kissing her hungrily.

  ‘Renee, my dear, sweet Renee,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll never stop thinking about you.’

  ‘I’ll always be thinking about you,’ she whispered, before his mouth came down on hers again.

  As abruptly as he had started, he dropped his arms, and said, hoarsely, ‘No, Renee. I can’t . . . it’s too much . . . Goodnight.’

  He spun on his heel and left her, and she half collapsed on to the settee. She felt frustrated, her nerves were jangling, but she poured herself a cup of tea from the flask on the card table. She sipped it slowly, trying to figure out what had happened. She must really love Jack when she felt like this, or was it just a physical attraction? Was love only sex, anyway? Damn Fergus Cooper for taking away her innocence! Damn Jack Thomson for not following through and doing what he had so obviously wanted to do. No, she wasn’t being fair to him. Jack was a gentleman, and wouldn’t take advantage of the emotions which had been aroused at a moment of parting. And maybe, at sixteen, she was too young to cope with situations like this.

  Wearily, she rose and went into the scullery to rinse out her cup. Anne was still reading when the girl went upstairs.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Tim and Moira were there, too.’ Anne looked at her daughter sadly, and Renee knew that her mother had also hoped that Jack would declare his love tonight, but nothing more was said.

  She didn’t see Jack in the morning, because he hadn’t come into the dining room by the time she had to go to work, and, in some inexplicable way, she was glad.

  ‘Jack Thomson leaves today,’ she informed Sheila Daun when she went into the office.

  The other girl looked sympathetic. ‘He’s the one you’ve been going out with lately, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s all finished now.’ Renee shrugged.

  ‘If you’re at a loose end, what about coming out with me some time?’

  ‘Why not?’ Renee had made her mind up that it would be best not to let herself get serious about any boy ever again.

  When the girl went home at lunchtime, Anne said, ‘Jack’s away, then. You know, Renee, he’s a very nice boy.’

  ‘I know that perfectly well. Too nice, maybe.’

  Anne’s eyebrows shot up, but she passed no comment.

  ‘He promised to write,’ the girl said, then added, sadly,

  ‘but he’ll likely stop when he falls for some ATS girl.’ Over the next few days, Renee began to wonder if she had truly been in love with Jack, or if it had been a reaction after her tempestuous break-up with Fergus and the shock of what Jeanette Morrison had told them later – a rebound? And her emotions had definitely been heightened by the idea of Jack leaving, as he himself had said. Anyway, he had made it quite clear that he didn’t want anything more than friendship from her, so there was nothing to stop her from going out to enjoy herself with Sheila Daun.

  She found that her colleague was very good company outside office hours, and they eventually came to an agreement that, if either of them wanted to let a boy see her home from whatever place of entertainment they happened to be at, the other one wouldn’t object. Sheila was an outrageous flirt, and found an escort home nearly every time the two girls went out, to the cinema, the ice rink or the Palais de Danse, and Renee reflected mournfully, on her lonely walk home one night, that she must put the male sex off somehow or other, because no one ever asked to see her home.

  As it happened, the next time they went dancing, a tall sailor stuck to her all evening, and, during the last dance, he said, ‘I’d like to walk home with you, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s a long way,’ she warned him, ‘and the buses have all stopped running.’ Why couldn’t she just accept gracefully?

  ‘That’s OK,’ he beamed. ‘I never get much chance of walking when I’m at sea, so it’ll be good exercise for me.’ When they went out into the street, he said, ‘What’s your name? I’m Bill Foster.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Bill,’ she laughed. ‘I’m Renee Gordon.’

  ‘How do, Renee?’ He took her hand and they set off. In a few minutes, he let her hand drop and put his arm round her waist. ‘Brr! The weather’s freezing here. I’m just back from the Med and I feel it worse. You’ll have to cuddle up to keep me warm.’

  She was slightly dubious about his intentions, but he kept walking briskly, and she relaxed. He’d only put his arm round her, after all. They were laughing and joking as they went along the different streets, then he started to hum ‘The Palais Glide’. She joined in, and matched his steps when he began to dance, recognising that he had no designs on her. He was out for innocent amusement and that was all. She was rather taken aback, therefore, when they reached the familiar wall near her home, where Tim and Jack had both stopped to kiss her. Bill Foster had also thought it was an ideal place to stop, Renee having told him that her house was just round the corner, but she surprised him by extricating herself from his embrace and hurrying on.

  ‘I only wanted to kiss you,’ he said plaintively.

  ‘I know . . . but . . . goodnight, Bill.’

  Leaving him standing open-mouthed, she ran round to the house, regretting her behaviour as soon as she went inside. He had done nothing out of place – she hadn’t given him the cha
nce – and she should have allowed him to kiss her. It was only good manners, after him taking her home, and what were a few kisses, anyway? She would apologise to him the next time she saw him. But Bill Foster never returned to the Palais.

  Jack Thomson’s first letter had been mainly about his training, but the last paragraph had confused Renee. ‘I’ve been going to dances here, and I hope you’re going out to enjoy yourself, too. I think about you quite a lot, and all our happy times together. Love, Jack.’

  He was telling her that he enjoyed dancing with other girls, yet he ended up by writing ‘Love’. He didn’t know his own mind. That was when she’d decided that she may as well have as good a time as Jack seemed to be having.

  Each of his letters since then had told her about dances, concerts and of being asked into local people’s homes, and he always ended by writing, ‘I hope you’re having a whale of a time with all the fellows you meet. Love, Jack.’

  Renee gave herself up to having a whale of a time, and even had some hectic kissing sessions with the ‘fellows’ she met, stopping them only when she thought they were going too far.

  Anne, of course, disapproved of her daughter going out so often. ‘Renee’s hardly a night in the house,’ she complained to her mother one Friday night, when her parents were visiting.

  Maggie McIntosh sniffed. ‘Ye should be pleased she’s nae sittin’ at hame, Annie. She’s young, an’ she needs to be meetin’ lads at her age. She’ll settle doon when she feels like it, be sure o’ that.’

  Anne was not appeased. ‘But it’s a different one she’s with nearly every night. God knows what they get up to, because she looks really flushed sometimes when she comes in.’

  Maggie chuckled loudly. ‘It’ll be the same as what laddies an’ lassies got up to when ye were young yersel’, I’ve nae doot, an’ when we were young an’ a’, eh, Peter?’