CRAZY AND DEMENTED, Romy was determined to have an abortion. It didn’t matter what her mother said. She didn’t want the baby! She’d go to London and get rid of it. It was a nothing at the moment, a blob of jelly growing inside her. Bye-bye, blob! She’d scrounge and scrape the money together before it got any bigger. No-one would know about it. She should never have told her parents, got them involved. Somehow she’d get the money to get to London.
Kate had money. Pretending she was so behind in her work from skipping lectures, she’d arranged to meet her for soup and a sandwich at O’Sullivan’s on Dawson Street.
‘I just need to get a grind for the rest of term, that’s all. I know it’s expensive but this guy is meant to be great. One of the girls who went to him last year ended up getting a first in her exams.’
Kate reacted generously, offering to pay the full cost of the extra tutoring needed.
‘I can’t take it!’ Romy made a pretence at protesting. ‘You work so hard.’
‘Maybe I think you are a good investment,’ smiled Kate as she took her chequebook out of her black leather bag. ‘Who will I make it payable to?’ she quizzed.
‘Oh just cash,’ beamed Romy, hugging her. ‘I can’t remember exactly how to spell his name, it’s French. Thank you, thank you!’
‘I suppose that’s what big sisters are for,’ Kate reassured her, wondering how it was that Romy always seemed to get herself in a mess.
‘Promise you won’t say anything to Mum and Dad about this, you know what Dad’s like, Kate, he’ll say I’m squandering my time here at UCD.’
Kate had already decided this was another of Romy’s problems her parents didn’t need to know about.
Moya was different. Wearing her mankiest old sweatshirt and baggy trousers and a ribbed knitted grey cardigan, Romy had taken the bus out to her new house. She admired the carpets and the modern furniture and the pale yellow walls of the kitchen, before confiding that she had nothing nice or good to wear for an important date with one of the young medical students she knew.
‘If only we were the same size, Moya, I could borrow something from you,’ she murmured wistfully, knowing full well she was a good four inches taller than her sister and a dress size or two up.
‘I’ll help you to pick out something nice,’ her sister said, offering to come shopping with her on Saturday.
‘But I can’t make it on Saturday. I’m helping out with something in college.’
Moya insisted on giving her the money to treat herself to something nice.
‘Of course you can, that’s what family are for.’
She would raid the savings she had in her post office account and hold back on her gas and electricity money from her flatmates. Another few weeks and she would have enough. Then the post had come and with it what she supposed was her monthly rent cheque. Romy had stared incredulous, looking at her father’s large looped writing and distinctive signature. The amount filled in was for one thousand pounds. A simple handwritten note asked her to make no mention of it ever to her mother.
She had stared unbelieving, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Her father was ensuring she had enough money to pay her air fare and her expenses for the abortion at the clinic she’d chosen.
Brian had finally phoned her. Awkward, he told her that his girlfriend had travelled over unexpectedly from England to spend six weeks in Germany with him.
‘I have to go to London for a few days,’ Romy pleaded. ‘Couldn’t we meet up? I need to see you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get the time off work, and besides, I told you Gina’s here with me in Frankfurt.’
‘Don’t bloody bother,’ she said, banging the phone down on him. She was stupid to be so upset and hurt about his involvement with someone else. She didn’t own him! She didn’t need to consult him about something that had been an accident, totally unplanned. She convinced herself that it would be better if Brian didn’t ever know about her pregnancy.
The college doctor refused to help her with regard to the arrangements for a termination but none the less provided a medical letter outlining the state she was in. She was sorely tempted to beg Moya or Kate to come to England with her, but knew her sisters would do everything in their power to make her change her mind.
She’d opted to fly over on the early-morning flight to Heathrow and get the tube from there to Fulham where the Thames Clinic was situated. She stood on the steps outside the tall red-brick building with its discreet signage and opaque windows, nervous about going in.
Trying to get her courage up she watched other women, escorted by their boyfriends or woman friends, enter the clinic, then finally forced herself to join them. The receptionist, a pretty woman with a soft Northern Ireland accent, produced a pile of forms for her to fill in. At the other end of the room a television was on with no-one paying it any attention.
She hadn’t a clue what to write. She was definitely not putting down her home address or her own GP’s name, determined to maintain some sort of privacy even during this awful procedure.
A lady doctor, Dr Bennett, had called her in, questioning her about the reasons for the termination and deciding if she was fit to have the procedure. Romy was almost out of her mind with the thought of what lay ahead, and her stomach was grumbling with hunger from fasting since the night before.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ the doctor asked one last time before signing off on the pale green form and telling her that she would not be going to theatre until almost four o’clock in the afternoon.
‘We’re a bit backlogged so you can rest in the room upstairs and watch the TV. The nurse will administer a sedative about an hour before we call you down. When the procedure is over you will be returned to your room to sleep it off and be under observation. You will be discharged by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
She was grateful for the simple professionalism of the woman in front of her, who showed no curiosity or made no comments on her condition.
Four women were to share the bright pink-painted room. Romy wondered how anyone could sit and concentrate enough to do the Times crossword. She didn’t want to talk to them. She had no interest in discovering how these women had arrived in the same circumstances as herself, she just didn’t want to know. She walked up and down the corridor trying to block out the sounds of sorrow coming from the small private room at the end. Back in the pink room the Times reader had already been taken down to the theatre. Romy, scared, closed her eyes not wanting to think. No matter how pristine and professional the clinic seemed it was like a funfair house of horrors. She tried not to think of the blob, think of its fingers and toes and head.
The nurse came in and gave her a sip of water and a tablet, telling her she’d be going down for her procedure soon. Drowsily, Romy pulled the sheet over her, trying to blank out her mind, and was half asleep when they brought her down to the theatre, the doctor patting her hand as he gave her an injection and asked her to start counting backwards, eight, seven, six, five, four bye bye bye.
Romy woke up a few hours later, the nurse putting a blanket over her because she was cold. The television was on in the room, with someone watching it! Later there was chicken in a sauce and a boiled potato and a cup of tea. Nauseous, she barely touched it. She felt sick, sore, walking like an old woman when she went to go to the toilet. Red blood in the bowl. She flushed it. Back in the bed she rolled over, wanting to sleep, wanting to forget. They woke the women early the next morning with tea and toast. Romy queued for the shower, the hot water streaming down her face and body as she washed and washed, knowing the stain would never go away.
‘Are you all right?’ asked a woman with dyed-black hair in the bed near hers.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, putting on her jeans and jumper.
‘Isn’t it a great relief to get it all over!’
Dr Bennett appeared briefly, coming over and telling each of them in turn that the procedure had gone well and to take it easy for the next few days. Afterwards the nurse reminded them to make sure they had all their belongings before they checked out.
Romy couldn’t wait to get out of the clinic. Not even bothering with the lift, she ran down the stairs. She settled the bill with her father’s money and, taking a deep breath, stepped out in the street, traffic and noise, the world still turning as she walked down the road. Shaking with relief, she turned the corner and leaned against the wall, heart and mind racing, trying to calm down. It was over.
Ravenous with hunger she found a small coffee bar on the Fulham road and ordered ‘The Works’, a toasted BLT. A hostel or a B&B for the night was her next priority, she decided.
Booking into the Prince of Wales Hotel, she noticed the difference between the nightly and weekly rate and immediately decided to stay for a week. She couldn’t face going home tomorrow and back to college. She needed a few days on her own to get over everything.
As she lay in bed that night in the small stuffy room, she was overcome with tears at the enormity of what she had done. Pretending she was still pregnant, she placed her hands on her stomach. The comforting bulge was gone.
She slept and slept, and walked Marble Arch, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly and the posh streets round Knightsbridge and Kensington. Nobody bothered her for she was a stranger, and by the end of the week she had decided to stay in London. She couldn’t go home, pretend that nothing had happened, go back to studying and failing exams and hanging out. She was pregnant and had chosen to get rid of her baby. She could never hide that!
Days passed in a blur. Romy stayed in bed, sleeping or watching stupid game shows and soaps on the TV. Conscious her money was beginning to run out she had moved to the Harp Hostel in Kilburn, her room a draughty box with a double bed and high ceiling and heating that barely worked. She had no energy and had to force herself downstairs to eat or to go to the shop on the corner for bread and milk and coffee. She cut her hair as she couldn’t be bothered to wash and blow-dry it. Sometimes she cried for no reason when she saw families on the ads on television or strangers in the street pushing prams. It felt like she was losing her mind and she longed to see Brian again, and have him tell her he still loved her, despite what she had done. Other times, she cursed him for letting her down and her father for making it too easy for her. He’d always believed money could buy you anything, solve every problem! She should have listened to her mother instead. She had failed her! Failed every word of prayer that she had ever learned from Uncle Eamonn and Sister Goretti and all the nuns in St Dominic’s. Yes, the consequences of her bought freedom were far worse than she had ever imagined.
By December she realized that she had only a few pounds left and was forced to lift herself from the spiralling depression that constantly overwhelmed her as she tried to find a job. Staring at the freaky stranger in the bathroom mirror, she washed and tidied herself and borrowed a clean white blouse from one of the other girls as she set out in search of some kind of work. All of the big stores were hiring seasonal staff and with her sales experience she managed to land herself a job in Fenton’s, a busy gift store just off Regent Street, which sold among other things the familiar Waterford glass. The owner was delighted to meet someone so well versed in selling the range.
At the end of the week she bought four postcards and sent them home, one to her parents, one to each of her sisters and one to her housemates, reassuring them that she was well and living in London but not giving them a contact address or number.
At Christmas there was no question of returning to Rossmore, and she pushed all thoughts of her family from her mind as she worked late and did overtime, wrapping china and silver and glass right up till closing time on Christmas Eve, and then joined the sing-song that was held in the hostel that night. She’d cried during Christmas morning mass in St Patrick’s in Kilburn; the sherry reception and turkey and ham dinner provided by the staff of the Harp was the only thing that got her through the day.
The grey London January and February skies depressed her, the rain and cold weather chilled her soul, and in March she quit her job and joined up with a girl called Elise she’d met briefly in the hostel who was going back to France to work.