IZZY WAS PREGNANT. Mornings, she would wake, experience a small moment of peace, then she’d realise she was in hell. Her boyfriend was in France. She was expecting his child. She’d lose her job. It was the end of everything.
She was four months gone. But the truth of her condition had only dawned three weeks ago. Pregnancy hadn’t been something her mother had willingly discussed. When Izzy had asked what it was like to be expecting a baby, her mother had said, ‘Oh, you’ll find out one day.’ They never talked about anything intimate.
Apart from her mother and Mrs Brent, the only women she knew who’d had babies were Claire and Diane. Neither of them talked about the business of being pregnant – it wasn’t a topic that came up in the mess. And now, Diane was no longer around. Izzy vaguely recalled Claire saying she’d been sick for the whole nine months while she was carrying Nell, but she hadn’t paid much attention. Izzy had found pregnancy rather frightening, and had no intention of ever letting such a thing happen to her.
The dawning had come when she was sitting on the bathroom floor having thrown up her porridge for the third morning running. A damp clammy sweat glistened on her face. She wondered what on earth could be wrong with her, explored dire possibilities – an ulcer? A wave of realisation prickled over her scalp, buzzed down through her, shifting across her stomach. Oh my God, she thought, I’m bloody pregnant. Up the spout, in the pudding club, having a baby. She was sick again.
She flushed the lavatory, splashed cold water on her face, cleaned her teeth, vowed not to tell anyone. She would keep this a secret for as long as possible. She would keep flying.
Her feelings bewildered her. She was filled with dread – what would happen when people found out? She’d be without a job, that was certain. But would there be whisperings behind her back? A scandal? Shame? Definitely, she thought. There was something relentlessly inevitable about pregnancy. The thing inside would have to come out one day. This terrified her. As did the idea of looking after a baby. The only things Izzy knew about babies were that they cried a lot, were sick a lot, didn’t seem to sleep when you wanted them to and needed their nappies changed a lot. And yet, despite the resentment and dread, she rather loved the thing. For a while she called the baby ‘It’. Now it was Buster. A word she’d picked up from Jimmy. ‘OK, Buster,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s see you hit that ball clean up the fairway to the green.’
At night, in the cottage and alone – Julia had resumed her social life, and Claire was always slipping off somewhere or other – Izzy would chat to Buster. ‘Shall we listen to I.T.M.A.?’ ‘Looks like it’s corned beef for supper.’ In the air she’d give a running commentary on events while flying. ‘We’re at one thousand feet and the weather’s fine, visibility perfect.’ She said that even if it wasn’t true. She didn’t want to worry Buster, since these days, she worried herself. Always, when lying in bed, just before she fell asleep, she’d say, ‘Nightie night, Buster. See ya in the morning, when you make me throw up again.’
Of course, it was all her fault. On that night of passion in the Edinburgh hotel with the sounds of night trains rattling in and out of Waverley Station and traffic on Princes Street, she had persuaded Jimmy to make love to her without a condom. He’d given her a teaspoon, such a silly a gift – a private joke between them. ‘That tankard belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie,’ she’d said in the antique shop, ‘and I’m Mary Queen of Scots.’
That night he’d brought it out. ‘Your teaspoon, ma’am,’ he’d said. They’d laughed.
When they made love, she had pleaded that just once, just tonight, ‘I want to feel you inside me. Just you, just me and not that bit of rubber in the way.’ He’d obliged. Perhaps he’d drunk too much whisky in the bar, or perhaps he wanted that freedom, too. Maybe he’d thought it would be his last act of love. He was going to France. He might die there.
This pregnancy was her comeuppance, Izzy thought. It was what her father had always preached about – dire things happened to sinners. She was a sinner, addicted to thrills – flight, sex and – on that night – whisky. She’d had two glasses, and, after she’d got over the shock of how it burned after swallowing, had thought it quite nice. ‘Sweet and malty,’ she’d said. It had gone to her head, unleashed her deepest passion. The lovemaking had been wonderful. She had given herself over to it. Their passion, deep, intense, filled the room.
When Izzy had said she wanted to feel him inside her, it had been the whisky speaking. But when, after he’d fallen asleep, she’d told Jimmy she loved him, it wasn’t.
Three days before Christmas, Izzy had her first letter from Jimmy from the field hospital at Namur. He apologised for not writing sooner, explaining, ‘I’m working twelve or fourteen hours a day. When I’m not working, I’m sleeping.’ He told her he wasn’t going to describe what it was like in the field hospital only that he’d seen things he never wanted to see again. ‘God, it’s cold here. Snow, snow and more snow. It’s about three feet deep. Supplies are brought in by road, the Red Ball Express. They have cut down on winter clothing to make more room for ammo, gas and food. I am treating a lot of trench foot and frostbite. And it’s snowing. I did I mention that? Snowing so hard you can’t see what’s going on outside.’
He told her he dreamed of Montana. ‘I smell it in my sleep, grass, clean air coming off the mountains, everything fresh and pure. I hope, when this is over, that I can persuade you to come visit me there.’
Izzy replied, saying that she’d love to go to Montana one day and that life with her was pretty much business as usual and she hoped that, despite everything, he had a good Christmas. She didn’t mention Buster. She thought he had enough to worry about. It never crossed her mind that hearing he was about to become a father might delight him.
On Christmas Day Izzy and Julia were working. Claire had said she was going to visit her parents. On Christmas Eve she’d made a big show of going out the front door carrying her overnight bag. She’d shouted goodbye, and ‘Happy Christmas when it comes!’ Then she’d walked down the lane and slipped across the bridge to Simon’s cottage. The pair planned to spend the day holed up together, doors locked, curtains drawn, fire blazing in the hearth. They’d toast each other with whisky, eat the chicken Simon had bought and spend as much time as possible in bed.
Izzy had a pleasant day. A familiar flight into Yorkshire, passing over rooftops, gardens, copses and country roads she’d come to know well. She chased clouds, passing through one, moving on to another. Always a pleasing thing to do. She was home by five o’clock, met Jacob coming out of the cottage.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked. She wasn’t in a good mood. The only thing she’d eaten since she’d thrown up her porridge that morning was a bar of chocolate for lunch. It had given her heartburn. Now, she – and Buster, she presumed – were hungry.
Jacob said Mrs Brent had sent him to deliver some turkey for supper. ‘Left it on the kitchen table. It’s good.’
‘You haven’t taken anything, have you?’ said Izzy. ‘I know you take things, don’t deny it.’
He said he hadn’t.
‘You haven’t taken my teaspoon,’ said Izzy. ‘It’s important to me.’
He shook his head. Tried to look hurt at her suspicion. In fact, he’d seen the spoon, turned it over and over, examining it, decided it was worthless and abandoned it. After that he’d slipped upstairs to Izzy’s room to check that her stash of money was still tucked beneath her underwear. ‘I haven’t touched your spoon,’ he said. He walked away, arms stiff by his side. He had Izzy’s bicycle pump up the sleeve of his jacket.
By the time Julia arrived home, Izzy had heated the roast potatoes, gravy, bread sauce and Brussels sprouts. She asked Julia if she was eating out tonight. ‘It being Christmas.’
Julia shook her head. ‘Nope. Staying in. Got invites to a couple of parties, but I’m not in the mood.’
They listened to the wireless as they ate. The news was of the battle in the Ardennes. Izzy switched it off. ‘Can’t bear to listen.’
After they’d eaten, they sat by the fire. Julia poured them both a whisky, held up her glass. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘You, too,’ said Izzy. She held her glass to her lips, made a show of sipping, but nothing passed her lips. She’d gone off whisky.
Julia asked how the weather was tasting these days.
‘Snow coming,’ said Izzy. ‘The air has a grey, gritty and damp feel on the tongue when that’s happening.’
Julia sighed, ‘I do like snow at Christmas. So did Walter. This would have been out first time together at this time of year. We were looking forward to it. We planned to have a tree and everything.’
‘You really miss him,’ said Izzy.
‘I surely do. He was my best friend. He slipped into my heart while I wasn’t looking.’ She took another drink. ‘At first I didn’t believe he was dead. I kept thinking I’d come home, swish round the corner on my bike and he’d be there, waiting for me. Actually, I still do think that.’
‘I suppose it’s hard to accept that someone you loved is gone. That you won’t see him again,’ said Izzy.
Julia nodded. ‘It’s really hard. I got to thinking that he’d been mean to me going off and not saying goodbye properly, just leaving a note. So I hated him a bit. Then I decided I’d imagined it all. I wasn’t really in love with him. He wasn’t wonderful. The times we’d had together weren’t wonderful. You know, when he made me laugh in bed, when we danced – those things. But that strategy didn’t work. Now I think I was lucky to have known him. He helped me. He honoured me by letting me into his life, and I sort of had my own honour restored by that. I’ve changed my ways. I no longer think you should always have two lovers, and I don’t think love is something to be avoided.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Izzy.
‘We wanted to have babies,’ said Julia. She gave Izzy a sharp look.
‘Did you?’ Izzy fought to sound innocent on the subject of babies.
‘Yes,’ said Julia. She refilled her glass. ‘Ever flown a Warwick?’
Izzy shook her head. ‘Ugly things, aren’t they?’
‘Ugly and horrible to fly. I had one today. And I thought about you.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Izzy, offended.
‘No, listen,’ said Julia. ‘It has all these petrol cocks that you have to check pre-flight. I had to laugh, because written in the handling notes in huge letters, it’s got – All cocks should be checked before flight.’ She snorted. ‘Everybody has a little laugh when the see that.’
Izzy smirked.
‘I don’t mean to be filthy but, you didn’t do that, did you, Izzy?’ said Julia. ‘Check the cock before you took off.’
Izzy blushed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t take precautions. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ said Julia.
Izzy couldn’t look at her. Stared into her glass. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘You’re not very silent when you’re throwing up in the morning.’
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ said Izzy.
Julia said, ‘No, I won’t tell. I promise on my newly found honour.’ She reached over, took Izzy’s hand, squeezed it. ‘You goose, Izzy.’