MARCH 1940

The cold of winter has insisted on hanging on a few weeks past its time. Sandra has been looking increasingly lost and unhappy. These days I go around to visit her two or three times a week. She can’t breast-feed Tommy any more because she says her milk’s all dried up due to worry. He won’t take the bottle, so she has to spoon-feed him, which can take hours. Tommy has become an increasingly noisy problem, but I’ve grown to like him, and to even want to hold him. I never thought that I would want to hold a baby. Sandra seems to like this. The fact that I literally take him off her hands. Today she sat me down and gave me a cup of tea. And then she told me that she was pregnant. I looked at her but said nothing. She was expecting me to say something. That much was clear. She was expecting a reaction of some kind. Horror. Laughter. Something. But I said nothing. Did you hear me? I said I think I’m pregnant. No, in fact I know I’m pregnant. I’m nearly three months gone. She didn’t have to tell me how far gone she was, for I knew that it wasn’t him. I had no idea who it was, but it was clear that she was hoping that I might ask. But I said nothing. I just sipped at my tea. A small mouthful at a time. Don’t you want to know who? I was looking out of the window now. As usual, nothing and nobody in the streets. A perverse part of me longed for her to tell me that it was Len. But it wasn’t. It’s Len’s mate, Joyce. Terry. The farmer. She didn’t have to say who Terry was. I wasn’t so stupid that I couldn’t figure that out for myself. Sandra’s voice began to break.

He gives me extra things for Tommy. Like a baby sister or brother, I said. I couldn’t help myself. Do you think it’s funny? whispered an incredulous Sandra. She sounded hurt. I was sorry I’d spoken. I apologized. Sandra paused. I don’t know what I’m going to do, she said. I’m not going backstreet. I don’t want to get rid of it. I’m too frightened to. And I don’t want to marry him. Does he want to marry you? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I hope not, I said. Doesn’t seem to me a good enough reason to commit marriage. A bun in the oven. God, she looked pathetic. Helpless. Child in her belly. Tommy in my arms. Cup of tea in her hands. Why didn’t she just keep her legs shut? It’s easy enough to do. Not exactly difficult, is it? I suppose I was lonely. She answers the question without me having to ask it. I suppose I was lonely and stupid. I should have used something. Yes, I said. Like self-control. Now she was hurt. I could see it on her face. I was sorry I said that. There was a pause and then I continued. I think you’d better write to him. Let him know before he gets back. What do you think? I think so, she says. But what if he doesn’t want to come back? What’s Tommy going to do for a father? I pointed out the obvious. That this is a war. That if Tommy ends up without a father, he won’t be the first and he won’t be the last. That’s the truth, Sandra. And then she started to cry. I made some enquiries, she said. Her voice quivered. But you can’t put it up for adoption without your husband’s permission. I’m done for. Dusk approached. The sky got darker. I could see it was freezing out. I would soon have to go and help Len close up the shop. Always a last-minute rush with those coming in from the town. And we’ve just started to ration meat. I didn’t want to leave her on her own in such a state, but what could I do? I touched her arm. Sandra, I said. Write to him. Tell him. It will make you feel better to know that he knows. And they can get leave. Compassionate leave. Then he can come home and the two of you can sort out whatever it is that you’ve got to sort out. It’ll be better that way. I’ve not told anybody else, she says. So I’m the only one who knows? And the doctor. At the clinic in town. It was getting darker. The shadows were lengthening. I think you should tell him, I said.