Just a One Night Stand

Just a One Night Stand

David Makinson

Smashwords Edition.

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Copyright 2011 David Makinson. All rights reserved.

http://www.davidmakinson.com/

Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements

Just a One Night Stand is a work of fiction. I have used several real institutions as the backdrop for the novel, notably St John’s College, Cambridge, the former Middlesex Hospital in London, the Twisted Wheel Club in Manchester and the Bridgewater Hotel in Worsley. All the characters in the novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

In writing this book it has been necessary to draw on the experiences and memories of many people who lived through the 1960’s, without whom the texture and context of the book would have been infinitely more difficult to create. As I will undoubtedly have forgotten to mention someone, I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has helped and encouraged me throughout this exciting journey.

Jill Steele; for her time and help in trawling the collective memories of former colleagues at the Middlesex Hospital to provide me with descriptions of the nurses’ uniforms in the mid 1960’s. I hope I have done them justice.

Gary McDougall: for providing a valuable insight into the burgeoning music and youth culture during the 1960’s.

St John’s College, Cambridge for providing details about the entertainment from the May Ball Records for 1964 (archives CC5.6).

Deborah Sandford for her kindness and the patience to read and re-read chapters throughout the writing process.

Barnardo’s for their tireless dedication towards those who need their help.

To foster parents everywhere for selflessly picking up the pieces.

My special thanks to my wife, Chris and my son, Giles for allowing me the space and time to complete this work.

For readers who find interest in the changing social attitudes towards unmarried motherhood since the 1960s and indeed beforehand, I found the following books to be of particular merit;

Love Child by Sue Elliott and published by Vermilion.

The Millstone by Margaret Drabble and published by Penguin

Chapter One

Sunday 26th January 1964

An Austin Healey battled through the driving sleet, its windscreen wipers groaning with a laboured ‘chunk-chunk’ to clear the slush. Traffic was relatively light, but then who in their right mind would want to drive from Cornwall to London on a freezing Sunday evening in January?

Marion McKenzie flicked the heating switch for the umpteenth time, glanced at her watch and rubbed her eyes as she strained to make out the road. She needed a break.

‘Oh my God, quarter-past eight already and there’s still another hour and a half to London,’ she cursed through clenched teeth. She shifted uncomfortably in the red leather sports seat, trying to straighten her aching back. The waistband of her tweed skirt was taut, digging into her waist in an increasingly forlorn attempt to hide the secret beneath it.

The plain truth was that Marion had screwed up, literally. At nineteen she found herself in a hopeless dilemma, her mapped-out future rendered in tatters through ten minutes of blind stupidity, induced by her over-indulgence in Somerset's finest Scrumpy.

Sure, like most foolishness it had seemed a great idea at the time, but for what?… a friendship blown, an engagement on a knife-edge and her relationship with benevolent Daddy a falsehood because she was too frightened of his reaction to confess her predicament. Now, nearly four months on, she still hadn't the heart or the moral fortitude to face him with the truth. Instead, she was escaping to London to see out her wretched pregnancy, having begged Gemma, her highly reluctant elder sister, to let her stay until after the birth.

An hour later, Marion pulled into a lay-by, exhausted. Headlights from the passing traffic illuminated the road sign; ‘London 25’. She slowly savoured a mouthful of ham and mustard sandwich and reflected on her decisions. ‘Christ, what on earth can I be thinking of?’ she blurted out loud, startling herself. Her mind was in turmoil... Am I just making another dreadful mistake? Perhaps I should have confided in Daddy after all… and what about Simon?... how can he possibly forgive me? She shuddered as she recalled their last meeting, praying that it had not been the last... God, I miss him.

Scrumpling the greaseproof paper, she tossed it into the passenger footwell and drained the last of the tea from the flask. She stretched in her seat and adjusted the rear-view mirror to look at her reflection.

Whether it was just the drive, the pregnancy, or the stress of the last few weeks, she really did look wrecked. Her normally luminous blue eyes were underscored with wide dark lines. Even her strawberry blonde bob seemed lank and lifeless. Reaching onto the passenger seat, Marion opened her handbag and removed her hairbrush, pale Gala lipstick, dark eyeliner and compact.

A few minutes later and feeling a little rejuvenated, Marion steered the Healey back onto the carriageway. It'll all work out, she thought, without conviction. She accelerated into the outside lane to overtake a lumbering Ford Zephyr laden with a gawking family returning to London from, Marion presumed, a well-fed weekend at Granny’s.

*

Earlier that Sunday, Marion’s father, James McKenzie or ‘the Captain’ as he was known locally, had finally given up trying to persuade Marion to stay in Truro. He failed to understand why she was determined to take up some junior clerical position at a tin-pot firm of accountants in London when she had a place secured for the following September at Exeter University.

The Captain had always doted on his errant younger daughter, especially since his marriage to Vera had ended in divorce three years earlier. Gemma, his elder daughter, now permanently resided in London.

Throughout a late lunch of lead-shot filled pheasant and seasonal home-grown vegetables, he had implored his daughter not to waste the years of beneficial and, dare he say it, expensive education at St Bede’s Convent School.

‘Marion, you have it all laid out … university, a betrothal to a young lawyer tipped for great things,’ he had urged. ‘Why, in God’s name, do you want to upset everything by going to London? If it’s more money you’re after, stay here and get yourself a little job until university starts in September. I can give you everything else you need. What do you say?’

Unable to answer him truthfully, Marion remained silent, instead concentrating on killing an innocent sprout with her fork. She pushed the plate away. The food, uncharacteristically, had hardly been touched.

Finally, tiring of the paternal lecture and the nauseating grinding of lead-shot on her teeth, Marion made her excuses, flung down her napkin and left the dining table, demanding the assistance of Mrs Nott, a war widow who had been employed as housekeeper since the girls were young. She was a jovial, rotund local woman of indeterminable age and boundless energy. Familiar with the endless demands of the Captain's younger daughter, she bustled through the hallway and arrived, all smiles, at the doorway.

‘Now then, Marion, where's the fire this time?’ she said, beaming, stretching to place a caring arm round her tall and hitherto slender young charge.

‘I need you to help me pack my things and load the car,’ said Marion, deliberately avoiding the exasperated gaze of her father. ‘I simply must set off before four o'clock, the weather is ghastly and I want to get to Gemma’s flat before she goes to bed.’

Sensing the abrupt end to the lunch proceedings, the Captain slid back his dining chair, folded his napkin and tossed it onto his side plate.

‘I do so wish you'd reconsider, or at the very least wait until the weather improves,’ he urged, rising from the table.

‘Look, Daddy, how many more times? I've made up my mind. Besides, my job starts on Wednesday, so the sooner I get off and settle in, the better… okay?’ Marion replied, ending the conversation as she squeezed herself and the attached Mrs Nott through the doorway into the hall.

‘I’ll get your car out of the garage,’ the Captain called after her. He was resigned to his daughter's determination, a characteristic he recognised in himself. He strode out of the dining room and plucked his coat from the stand in the hall. Putting it on, he opened the oak-timbered front door of the cottage to an icy blast.

The garage was forty yards from the house, down a compacted cinder path. The Captain heaved open the green concertina doors and stepped inside. Ducking between a brace of hanging pheasants and his BSA Rocket Goldstar, a retirement indulgence bought after he sold his engineering business, he stopped fleetingly to admire the six cylinder 1962 Austin Healey - in British racing green. Grabbing the chrome handle, he opened the door, lowered himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine on full choke. With a wistful smile he recalled presenting the car to an ecstatic Marion on her eighteenth birthday.

Once the Captain was satisfied that the engine note was even, he eased in the choke and reversed the car out of the garage. How he loved the throaty burbling of that engine.

Up in Marion's bedroom, everything was pandemonium. The two suitcases on the bed were being filled with the contents of the antique chest of drawers. Knickers, stockings, slips and handkerchiefs all found themselves whisked unceremoniously into the gaping suitcases.

Then, while Mrs Nott acted as clothes-horse, Marion moved like a whirling dervish to her wardrobes, selecting, deselecting and finally reselecting those items she wished to take with her, ever mindful of her blossoming figure. She was sure that Notty, as the girls irreverently referred to their housekeeper, must have had an inkling of her condition, but much to her relief nothing had been mentioned.

‘Now, what about shoes and boots?’ enquired the ever practical Mrs Nott from behind a bewildering array of garments ‘... and a warm coat?’

‘Oh God, I don't know, just choose two pairs of shoes and a pair of boots, you know the ones I like. I'll be buying more on the King’s Road anyway,’ said Marion, her words muffled from inside the wardrobe. ‘Pass me back that heather tweed skirt and the mauve cashmere twin-set, I think I'll travel in those... oh, and sling me the short fur-collared coat, there’s a love.’

‘As you wish, dearie... anything else?’ said Notty wearily, passing the required items to an outstretched hand.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs Nott finally fastened the clasps on the second monogrammed suitcase and sat on the end of the bed, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘What a performance, Miss Marion,’ she said, gasping to catch her breath.

‘Thanks, Notty, you're a brick. Oh, I remembered to pack those work blouses, didn't I?’

‘I really hope so, my dear, because I for one don't intend unpacking that lot again to check,’ said Notty, patting Marion on the forearm.

‘Come on then, let's get these into the car,’ said Marion, grasping the handle of the larger case. ‘You can always send on anything I've forgotten.’

The Captain appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘Here, let me,’ he said, taking the strain of the bulging cases. ‘Left the silver, have you?’ directing his comment at Marion whilst throwing a wink at Mrs Nott.

The Captain and Marion headed out to the car with Ginny, the Captain’s dog, in hot pursuit. Mrs Nott nipped into the kitchen to retrieve a greaseproof-paper parcel of sandwiches and a Thermos flask for Marion’s journey.

Snow was falling, swirling around their heads in a chilly gusting north-easterly wind. At least it wasn’t as bad as the previous year. The winter of 1963 had been one of the worst on record.

‘I hope you'll be all right driving in this snow, my dear,’ whispered Mrs Nott, arriving breathless by the car.

‘Of course I will, Notty,’ said Marion, with an attempt at her usual confidence. She gave Mrs Nott a reassuring squeeze. ‘Thanks for everything,’ she added, taking the victuals from the housekeeper.

‘You must make plenty of stops…’ the Captain ordered, hauling one case into the open boot of the car and the other onto the rear seats ‘ …and if you get into trouble, get off the main roads and find a hotel for the night. Here, I'll give you some extra money.’

‘Oh do stop fussing, Daddy, I'll be fine, but some extra money might be a good idea… just in case,’ Marion teased. The Captain handed her five one-pound notes from his wallet.

‘This should be more than enough, but take your sister out and treat her to supper if you don't use it. Please give her my love, it seems ages since I last saw her?’

‘Of course I will… and thanks, Daddy,’ she replied, kissing her father on the cheek while stashing the money into her handbag.

‘Oh, and listen,’ continued the Captain, ‘I've arranged for my man at Coutts to open a new account for you. I’ll pay your allowance into that. I want you to be sensible, Marion and make sure that your salary goes into the bank too. London isn’t a safe place to be carrying money around, particularly these days… have you got that, Marion, its important?’

‘Yes, Daddy. You two get in now, it's far too cold to be hanging around outside,’ said Marion, anxious to leave. She placed the food parcel and flask next to her on the passenger seat and arranged herself behind the wheel.

‘Right then, if that’s everything, I'm off,’ she declared, blowing the housekeeper a kiss. She adjusted the mirror, straightened her skirt, revved the engine and switched on the wireless.

‘Do take care, darling, and don't forget to ring me tonight. I’m sure Sir Richard won’t mind you making a quick call from his phone, just this once,’ bellowed the Captain over the combined roar of the engine and another warbled airing of The Searchers latest chart topper, ‘Needles and Pins’.

The Captain couldn't reconcile himself to modern popular culture with ridiculous looking youths in cheap suits naming their pop-groups after dyslexic insects. Like his eldest daughter, the Captain’s musical soul lay with the timeless skill and beauty of the music of Beethoven, Elgar and Bach, with not a kinetically charged pebble in earshot.

What really irked him was that Marion was actually more musically gifted than Gemma. She could play the piano by ear but had, so far as he was concerned, squandered her talent. Perhaps if I applied a little more discipline and a spot less spoiling he thought, admonishing his weakness.

Marion crunched the car into gear, much to her father’s chagrin, and sped off through the wrought-iron gates onto the lane.

‘Don't you worry, Sir, she's a born survivor that one,’ Mrs Nott observed as they watched the tail-lights disappear around the bend.

‘I know, Mrs Nott … I know,’ sighed the Captain as they turned their backs to the wind and headed for the warmth of the house. ‘It’s London I’m worried about. The Blitz was one thing…’ his words disappearing in the gusting wind.

*

In the warmly lit basement flat of a three storey townhouse in Chelsea, Gemma McKenzie placed her bookmark at page ninety-six of Jane Austin's ‘Pride & Prejudice’. She had spent several hours reading, accompanied by Bach's Brandenburg Concertos. She rose from her wonderfully comfortable, battered old sofa, stretched and stepped over to the wireless. She switched it off with a sigh.

She had grown fondly accustomed to her winter Sunday evening rituals and was acutely aware that they were about to undergo some rude and highly unwelcome changes. Although she dearly loved her sister, Gemma was still smarting from Marion’s revelation and frustrated at having been dragged into the mire quite so easily. She felt a flash of anger as she recalled Marion confiding in her during her pre-Christmas visit to their father's home.

Gemma had been utterly bewildered as Marion had disclosed the full horror of her predicament. She was livid at her forced role as confidante, but had nonetheless acquiesced to her younger sister's plea not to tell their father, believing that he would be unable to cope with the stigma. Complicit, she had then allowed Marion to persuade her not to tell their mother, with whom Gemma was to spend Christmas. Despite being divorced it was patently obvious that Vera would tell her ex-husband about Marion’s shocking circumstances - so Gemma had agreed to say nothing.

Now, looking into the gilt framed mirror over her mantelpiece, wondering how she had been manipulated so easily, Gemma tried to calm herself. She studied the reflection of the cosy sitting room of her small, two-bedroom flat, which she rented, partly courtesy of Daddy, from Sir Richard and Lady Holmes who occupied the top three floors of the elegant Georgian terrace.

Though not lavishly furnished, the low ceilinged sitting room exuded a comfortable sophistication. A small oak drop-leaf dining table occupied the space under the window, decorated with a crystal vase of fresh early daffodils bought at Covent Garden the day before. They at least brought a smile to Gemma’s face.

The deep-red painted walls emanated warmth, enhanced by the soft reflective glow from the standard lamp set behind the sofa and the two wall lights. An upright piano and two crammed bookcases lined the walls, the tops of which were adorned with silver-framed photographs, a metronome and Gemma's collection of classical gramophone records. One door, permanently propped open by a green wooden alligator doorstop, led up two steps and through a narrow passage to a bathroom and two bedrooms. Another opened to a small but adequately equipped kitchen.

Although visually similar, being tall and blonde, Gemma was unlike her sister in almost every other way. At twenty-three she had graduated from the Royal Academy of Music the previous summer, and had taken up the position of Music Mistress at a small preparatory school for boys in neighbouring Fulham.

It was a post to which she was highly dedicated, expert and one that brought her enormous satisfaction. After just one term she had firmly cemented her position at the school following a highly successful Advent Carol Service. Parents were virtually queuing to sign up their offspring for private piano lessons.

Marion was over three years younger than Gemma. Her recent form was, by contrast, at the opposite end of the pendulum swing. For the past few months she had wholeheartedly embraced the rising surge of teenage liberalism, but at a price that she would continue to pay for the rest of her life.

Following her ‘A’ levels and a month in late summer picking apples in the Somerset cider orchards, Marion had spent the next few months partying, much to the disappointment of her father, who wrongly suspected that she was also dabbling in cannabis, or worse. For certain though, the partying involved imbibing copious quantities of cider, the product of her summer job, along with the ubiquitous G&T’s.

The partying had continued unabated throughout the early months of her pregnancy, during which time Marion falsely attributed her morning sickness to successive nights of drinking. It wasn't until her predicament became obvious through the prolonged absence of a period that she eventually realised and was forced to face up to the naked truth of her situation.

*

Marion had confessed her appalling indiscretion to Simon, her fiancé, just three days after persuading Gemma to help her. Telling Simon was far harder for Marion than securing her sister’s help, hardly surprising as Simon was not the baby’s father and had no inkling of her infidelity. Having made his proposal of marriage less than nine months previously, he had arrived in buoyant mood for the traditional Boxing Day shoot with his future father-in-law at a nearby farm, but was brought resoundingly back down to earth by his quivering fiancée.

Simon's initial reaction was one of stunned silence, quickly pursued by gut-wrenching disbelief and anger. He had left immediately after the shoot, making his apologies to the Captain, whom he had not told, for reasons more akin to acute embarrassment than his desire to protect Marion. Hastily, he had packed the car and had returned home to Worsley near Manchester, vowing never speak to Marion again.

Marion had written, telephoned and sent telegrams throughout early January, imploring Simon to contact her, but to no avail.

In the days following Marion’s shocking revelations, Simon had confided in his parents, often tearfully.

Ray and Sheila Thompson had never disguised their concern that, at twenty-four and very early in his legal career, Simon was too young to be married, but they had eventually given him their blessing. Although surprised by the rapid intensity of their son’s romance with Marion, which had started during his last year at Exeter University, Ray and Sheila believed Simon’s relationship to be ‘rock solid’. Indeed, it was the apparent stability which had convinced both them and James McKenzie that a marriage might work when presented with the engagement over the Easter holiday the previous year, 1963.

Simon had even made a special trip to Truro to request the Captain’s permission to marry his daughter. Over more than one fine Speyside Malt, the prospective father and son-in-law had agreed that the engagement should be of sufficient length to allow Simon to complete his two year articled period in Manchester - to test the relationship by means of distance. It was also agreed that Marion should be encouraged to take her own degree place at Exeter, the Captain mindful of his own failed marriage and his desire for his daughter to be able to stand alone if required in the future.

But now, all the faith put in Simon and Marion’s relationship seemed misplaced. A mere ten months after the announcement of their son’s engagement, the Thompsons found themselves having to assimilate an entirely different array of feelings, from revulsion and scepticism about Marion’s morality and trustworthiness on one hand, to embarrassment and fear of potential social stigma on the other, all compounded by the pain of seeing their son in distress.

However, over the passing of a several weeks, Ray and Sheila slowly came to recognise that Simon’s love for Marion remained intact, though severely bruised.

Though against their better judgement, Ray and Sheila agreed not to reveal the situation to the Captain for the time being at least, to allow Simon to be absolutely certain of his own feelings.

After several more days of soul-searching, Ray and Sheila, together with Simon, concluded that he should not entertain the notion of becoming a surrogate father and should insist that if he and Marion were to attempt a reconciliation, she would have to accept four conditions;

First, Marion must rid herself of the child, through adoption. None of them dared to contemplate the horrors of an illegal abortion. It was agreed that Simon should distance himself for the rest of the pregnancy and should not get involved in the adoption process.

Second, her pregnancy had to be concealed from everyone with whom Simon was associated, to protect his fledgling legal career and his personal reputation.

Third, the identity of the child's father was never to be disclosed, since this would inevitably lead to problems in the future. Besides, Simon didn’t wish to confront the man with whom Marion had betrayed him, fearing that he might not be able to control his temper – a potential disaster for an aspiring lawyer.

Fourth, once the matter was resolved, it was never to be discussed again.

Once Simon was certain that his feelings towards Marion justified an attempt to redeem their relationship, he contacted her by telephone. He was mightily relieved that the Captain hadn’t answered the phone, as he didn’t wish to re-visit his sudden departure from the Boxing Day festivities. Instead, he had been treated to a short cheery monologue from the effervescent Mrs Nott, who had finally been persuaded to hand the phone to Marion.

*

The meeting between Simon and Marion was held on the neutral terrain of a cold, draughty coffee bar outside Exeter railway station on Saturday 11th January 1964.

Simon arrived at Exeter station on time, at 11.40 a.m. Alighting from the train, he took a deep breath and peered through the mixture of steam from the train and the freezing exhalations of the other passengers.

Unable to see Marion on the crowded platform, Simon gathered his coat around his collar and shuffled his way towards the exit barrier. After handing his ticket to the outstretched hand of a disgruntled railways employee for clipping, he pocketed it and made his way through the crowds and out towards the main exit.

He could feel his chest tightening, partly in response to the freezing air, but mostly due to the tension. As he walked across the concourse he felt his heart race and his breathing shorten. His palms were sweating and he felt sick.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ he cursed as he scrutinised the crowd outside the front entrance to the station.

‘I’m here…’ came the meek reply from just behind him. ‘I was on the platform. You just walked straight past me.’

Simon’s heart skipped a beat as he turned to face Marion. Catching his breath, he looked at his fiancée. She looked even paler than he felt, though as beautiful as ever, instantly reminding him as to why he was prepared to put himself through this torture. He struggled to deal with the mixed emotions in seeing her again, torn between anger and pain, then love and loathing for what she had done to him.

‘You okay?’ he said, trying to recover his composure.

‘I think so... did you have a good trip?’ Marion replied, desperately searching his face to glean something, anything which might reveal his feelings.

‘What do you think?’ he responded frostily, looking her straight in the eye. He suddenly had to fight to keep a lid on his anger.

Taken aback, Marion blushed, cursing herself for the crass stupidity of her opening question.

‘Sorry... silly question,’ she mumbled. ‘Where do you want to go to talk?’

Looking around, Simon noted a drab looking cafe on the far side of the road, next to the taxi rank. ‘I suppose that will have to do under the circumstances,’ he said, nodding towards the café. He reluctantly offered his arm and briskly escorted Marion over the road and into the café, the swollen wood-framed glass door requiring a hefty shove to open it.

The interior décor of ‘Tony’s Cafe’ fared no better than the exterior. The worn red checked Formica topped tables were festooned with used mugs, chipped dirty crockery and greasy sugar dispensers. The walls were still draped with the remnants of a meagre selection of broken paper chains and red tinsel left over from Christmas.

They headed for the only cleared table by the misted window, away from the group of Rockers in the corner near the jukebox. A dishevelled rank of taxi drivers propped up the counter, talking through clouds of cigarette smoke to someone whom, Simon presumed, was Tony himself, clearly no stranger to a ‘Full English’ breakfast.

Reaching the table, Simon pulled out a chair and offered it to his fiancée. She thanked him as cheerfully as she could, though she was unable to disguise the tremor in her voice.

Delighted by the arrival of his un-booked and overdressed clientele and with no inkling of the sombre mood between his new customers, ‘Cockney’ Tony appeared from behind the safety of the counter. Squashing his tab-end into the nearest ashtray with a corpulent finger he grinned, winked at the assembled drivers and launched his charm offensive.

‘ ‘Ere mate, yer just copped fer the best table in the ‘ouse, so what can I getchya? I’m right aht of Earl Grey mind, but I can do a couple of mean bacon ‘n egg sarnies and a mug o’ coffee if yer like.’

‘So I see,’ said Simon, gesturing towards several egg encrusted plates festering on surrounding tables. ‘That sounds fine to me. Cheers mate, we’ll both have one of those please.’ He didn’t bother to ask Marion.

‘I’ll bring ‘em over in a bit. You two luv birds get on wiv whatever it is that you do while I crack on wiv it then,’ countered Tony.

The exchange had been sufficient to break the tension for just a moment, one for which both Simon and Marion were grateful. Both sensed the unintended irony in Tony’s comments and managed a weak smile. The respite was fleeting, however, as thoughts turned to what needed to be said.

Simon took a deep breath. His hands were tightly clenched together as he spoke, his voice in a deep whisper, the type that is intended to be quiet but actually draws attention, like the ‘Shhh’ in a theatre when someone opens a toffee during a soliloquy.

‘Listen, Marion,’ he hissed, ‘I don’t even know where to start, I’m that confused and so angry, but if we’re to stand any chance, then you are going to have to sort this out … shit! Marion, how could you do this to me, I thought we were rock solid. Why are you trying to humiliate me like this?’

Marion had never seen him look so threatening and it really scared her. The few years in age between them suddenly felt like a gulf. She sat, dumbstruck, unable to respond, her lips quivering like a child caught with a hand in its father’s wallet.

‘Well, answer me, Marion… how the hell did this happen?’ Simon spat, his anger rising. He had to check himself to control his temper, gripping the sides of his chair to prevent himself from thumping the table.

‘Oh, Simon, I don’t know, I never meant to... oh God, what do you want me to say to you? I’d do anything to turn the clock back, anything… but I can’t, can I?... Simon, please tell me it’ll be all right... I can’t face losing you as well as having to sort out all this dreadful mess. I’ll do anything, just tell me…’ she pleaded, her eyes fixed on his face, imploring him to forgive her.

Simon took a few deep breaths to calm down. He was annoyed with his lack of self-composure. He looked deeply into Marion’s eyes before responding, his tones quieter than before, though to her, just as menacing.

‘Perhaps you should have thought about that before… well… before you know what... and please spare me the ‘I didn’t mean to’ line, you bloody must have done... and I don’t want the sordid details either, I can’t handle it... just tell me it was a one off, please tell me you don’t make a habit of this.’ He could feel the anger rising up again. He put his head in his hands, scoring his scalp with his fingertips.

‘What the heck am I doing here, Marion... am I completely fucking stupid?’

‘Havin’ one of me famous bacon ‘n egg sarnies me ol’ cocker,’ wheezed Tony, arriving at the table with a couple of chipped mugs of steaming coffee. ‘Soz mate, just trying to lighten yer load,’ he continued, sensing the embarrassment of his young customers. ‘It’s just like, well... we could all ‘ear yer like, thought yer should know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ sneered Simon sarcastically, feeling real warmth in his cheeks for the first time that day. ‘I hadn’t realised you’d be eavesdropping.’

‘Oi, don’t you take offence wiv me, mate. This is a piggin’ café not a confessional… regular bleedin’ marriage guidance office this is, an’ all part of ol’ Tony’s service, at no extra charge I might add. Tell yer what,.. I’ll bring yer sarnies over in a minute. You take yer time, long as yer like… but don’t shoot the bleedin’ messenger next time, okay?’

‘Fair enough, I’m sorry,’ muttered Simon. Tony headed back towards the counter, shaking his head and cursing silently. ‘‘Effin’ kids…’

Simon and Marion moved a little closer over the table and resumed their conversation. The interaction with Tony had been sufficient to calm things down.

Two hours later, after a seriously good bacon n’ egg sarnie each and several ‘Tony top-ups’, the meeting had ended in emotional exhaustion for both Simon and Marion, but they had managed to force an agreement.

Thanking Tony for his extended hospitality in the customary manner, they left the café; for Simon to return by train to Manchester and for Marion to drive back to Truro. No words were said on parting. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say that hadn’t been said already.

Marion watched in tears as Simon disappeared over the road and into the station, never once turning round to look at her. ‘I love you Simon...’ she called after him, hand outstretched, her words drowned in the thunderous roar of a passing Triton cafe-racer ridden by a leather-clad Rocker with the legend ‘Gene Vincent’ embossed in chromium studs onto the back of his jacket.

For Marion, the outcome of the meeting was better than she might have dared to hope for, whilst for Simon, it was a start, but no more. Although he knew he still loved her, the pain and anger was far too close to the surface and might yet be something he couldn’t deal with.

In respect of the conditions Simon had agreed with his parents, Simon had learned that Marion had already pleaded with her sister for help when they met before Christmas. Although highly reticent and very angry, Gemma had accepted that in order to keep their father out of the picture, Marion would need to move away from his house, and soon. Gemma hated lying but had acquiesced nonetheless, justifying their actions on the basis that if the child was adopted, their father just might never find out and therefore be spared any pain.

The deception could only work, though, if Marion had a viable reason to move to London from Truro. A job seemed the only possible motive that their father might accept. He certainly wouldn’t fund a long-term jaunt in London if he suspected his youngest daughter was simply on the party circuit.

Gemma had made some preliminary enquiries. An acquaintance of a friend had indicated that there was a vacancy for a position as junior clerk at his firm of accountants in Marylebone. Given her successful formal education, the interview was likely to be no more than a formality, but as the post needed to be filled at short notice, Marion would need to act quickly.

To Simon, it appeared that the first part of the condition could be met if everything went according to plan. He had made it clear that while Marion was in London, he would stay with his parents in Manchester and concentrate on finishing his articles at the law firm, Leverson and Bergmann. He would have no part in the birth or the adoption. Once the child was safely en route to adoption, Marion could contact him. Harsh, yes, but as none of these problems were of his making, Simon had made it clear that he was not prepared to compromise.

Marion had readily agreed to offer the child up for adoption immediately after the birth, a decision she’d made long before the meeting with Simon. She too had dismissed the option of an illegal abortion due to the health risks.

The only other option, keeping the child, or enlisting the help of her parents, was never even in contention. In any case, Marion’s real concern was herself, and what she wanted was Simon.

Although they understood the severity of the situation, neither Marion, nor Gemma, nor Simon had any idea of the long-term consequences of their decisions – or who might ultimately be affected. They didn’t even know if the plan would work, but for now, it was a case of making the best of a bad job.

*

At a quarter-past ten, Gemma McKenzie appeared from the smaller of the two bedrooms in her flat, where she had just finished making up the spare bed.

As she entered the sitting room she heard the crunch of wheels on the small gravel drive, the room flooding with the bright light from the Healey’s headlights as Marion parked in front of the window. Gemma fleetingly checked her hair in the mirror and skipped through the kitchenette to open the door.

Taking a deep breath, she scampered up the six steps to the drive to greet her younger sister. Best foot forward, she thought.

‘Hi, darling, how are you? Golly you look absolutely whacked. Was it a horrid drive?’ Gemma enquired, rushing up to hug her new house guest.

‘Hello, Gem. Yes, I am rather bushed,’ said Marion sheepishly, releasing herself from her sister’s clasp. ‘The journey took much longer than I’d hoped, and the weather was ghastly. I hope I've not kept you up?’

‘No, it’s fine. I was expecting you quite late anyway. Here, let me take your cases,’ said Gemma, opening the boot of the car. ‘We can't have you lifting things in your condition, can we now? Oh my goodness, what on earth have you got in here, it weighs an absolute ton?’ She hauled the case onto the shingle before reaching inside the car to retrieve the other.

‘A girl can't go unprepared you know… and I wasn’t sure what I’m going to need over the next few months,’ Marion replied. ‘You should have seen Notty trying to close the cases, it was a scream,’ she continued, trying rather too hard to diffuse the awkwardness between them.

Gemma easily sensed the clumsy effort her sister was making, so she played along. ‘I can well believe it. How is the old sweetheart, I do miss her?’ she grunted, grasping the handle of the second case.

‘Oh, same as ever, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she suspects something... she knows me so well.’

‘I suppose only time will tell us that,’ Gemma responded dryly, lugging the cases towards the steps of the flat.

The girls finally managed to haul the cases down the stone steps and into the kitchen.

‘Let's get these to your room first and then I'll put the kettle on while you unpack,’ Gemma instructed, escorting her sister through to the spare room.

‘It should be cosy in here, I've had the paraffin heater on,’ she continued, pushing open the door to the little bedroom.

‘That bed looks really inviting,’ Marion sighed. ‘Is that the patchwork quilt Mummy made last year?’

‘Yes it is, I've got one in my room too,’ Gemma replied, as they hoisted the cases onto the bed.

‘Listen, you make yourself at home. I've emptied the chest of drawers for you… and you'll find towels in the chest outside in the hall. You unpack and freshen up while I go and make us some tea. Would you like something to eat, you must be famished?’

‘No thanks, Gem, but a cup of tea would be wonderful,’ Marion answered with a weary smile, opening the first of the cases. She was relieved to have broken the ice, face to face with her sister. She was under no illusion that ‘words’ would be said, but hopefully not tonight, she was far too tired.

It took Marion over twenty minutes to arrive at a semblance of order. She put the last of the garments away, before finally hanging up her blouse and skirt for her interview the following day. I’d better get this job, having told Daddy that I start on Wednesday, she thought. Reaching for her wash bag, she headed for the bathroom at the end of the narrow corridor.

Five minutes later she re-emerged into the sitting room. ‘You look much better. Everything sorted?’ Gemma enquired, disappearing into the kitchen to re-boil the kettle.

‘Think so,’ Marion called after her, collapsing onto the sofa. ‘It’s lovely and homely in here. You've done a marvellous job.’

‘Thanks, darling. I've finally got it just the way I want it. Sir Richard has been wonderful. He supplied all the paint and materials and Lady Eleanor even helped me to run up the curtains on her machine.’

‘Isn't that sweet of them? You are so lucky to have found such a lovely place to live… and near the King’s Road, too.’

‘God, you don't change, do you?’ Gemma teased, carrying the tea-tray into the sitting room. Placing it on the table she poured the tea.

‘Actually, I have been very lucky, but I couldn’t possibly afford this without Daddy’s help. This damn business of yours is making me feel very guilty. Here, this should revive you.’

She passed Marion a cup of Jasmine tea.

Marion’s took the tea from the outstretched hand, her eyes shooting floorwards to avoid Gemma’s gaze.

‘Thanks, Gem... I know, but could we talk about everything tomorrow, after the interview. I’m just so tired.’

‘Yes, of course... I’m sorry, but it’s very stressful for me too, you know... but let’s get you settled, sort that job out and try to make the best of it, eh?’ Gemma offered, annoyed with herself for raising the subject so soon. She would need to save her choicer words for a more appropriate juncture.

‘Thanks, Gem. Mmm, this tea’s good,’ Marion mused, seizing her chance to close the subject for the night.

The two girls drank in silence. As she finished her own cup, Gemma looked up at Marion. She was fast asleep. Rescuing the cup and saucer, Gemma gently woke her sister.

‘Come on, Marion, time for bed. You’ve had a long day and a sound sleep will do you good.’ She helped Marion to her feet and guided her into her bedroom, kissed her on the cheek and bade her a good night.

Marion undressed, barely opening her eyes, slipped on her full length white cotton nightie and slid between the crisp Egyptian cotton sheets. She expected the bed to be freezing cold, but the ever-thoughtful Gemma had placed a hot water bottle there earlier, making the bed deliciously warm.

Nestling her head amongst the duck-down filled pillows, it was, however, not her sister that occupied Marion’s last conscious thought as she drifted off, nor her father, whom she had predictably forgotten to phone as promised, but the vision of Simon disappearing into the crowd at Exeter station, his back turned as she called out to him.

Chapter Two

November 1963 - Cambridge

The sixteenth-century Second Court of St John’s College, Cambridge, is conceivably the finest Tudor court in England. In his rooms overlooking the court, Martin Corrigan stepped from his gyp-room or kitchenette and took a well earned sip from his mug of tea.

The facilities in the gyp-room were limited to a gas ring and a sink, adequate for Martin to prepare one-pan meals or boil a kettle, but little more, not that it mattered. Apart from formal dining in Hall, he took most of his meals in ‘the Buttery’ (the college cafeteria).

The in-rooms tea break was a luxury Martin afforded himself once every two hours, a temporary respite from his studies. On a good day a squashed- fly biscuit might be added as a bonus. Today was not such a day, for two reasons. First, Martin felt he had not merited the treat and second, more significantly, he had spent all his spare cash for the week, much of it on liquid refreshment after the victorious inter-college rugger match against Selwyn the previous weekend.

Martin ran his fingers through his short, wiry sandy-coloured hair as he peered into the dusty mirror over the mantelpiece. Normally his room would have been cleaned and the bed made, but his bed-maker had cried off sick. He wasn’t bothered.

The mirror was clear enough to confirm that his nineteen-year-old grey-blue eyes were showing the strain of a full day’s studying and his neck was aching from having been tensed over the desk for such a prolonged period. Martin stretched his arms over his head and arched his back to alleviate the muscle tension.

The intensive pressure method of studying was his way, though - always had been. Leaving everything until a deadline forced him into action. Intelligence and ability were not an issue for Martin, however, being gifted with