Free Ignorance by Michèle Roberts Page B

every day, buttoning my collar over them when I went down to serve in the shop. In the countryside the peasants got the grain harvest in, the main benefit of which went, of course, to Germany. Our bread continued to be mixed with whatever was available. The maize crop, likewise, went to feed German cattle. That was just the way things were. We kept our heads down and continued to cope as best we could. September brought the hope of a good apple crop, the fruit reddening on the trees in the orchards lining the road to Ste-Madeleine. My mother didn’t want to notice that my belly was swelling up round as any apple. She didn’t want to notice that already I moved differently, my centre of gravity altered. She didn’t want to let on she heard me throw up in the mornings. She regarded in silence my new patience with Marc. His kicking me under the table at meals or pulling my hair no longer had the power to irritate me. I just ignored him.
    Eventually, one morning in October my mother cornered me. I was pulling empty dry goods bins into place. Maman stood between the shop counter and the door to the stairs. Hands on hips, she scrutinised me, eyes sliding around my waist. I straightened up and stared at the brown varnish on the doorframe.
    You haven’t had your visitor, have you, she said: not for months now. You’ve sent no rags to the wash. How could you do this to me, you wicked girl? How could you bring such shame on us?
    I said: oh for heaven’s sake, spare me the sermon.
    She clouted me, burst into tears, took me to the doctor, who confirmed what both of us knew. The doctor wore a long white coat and gold pince-nez. His face was sunken and very tired. He looked me straight in the eye as I sat up on the cold leather couch, then turned his back to wash his hands. His cramped office smelled of rubber and disinfectant. His voice sounded disinfected too: I can’t help you. Abortion is now illegal, a capital offence. I burst into tears that he could mention such terrible things.
    The following morning, sitting in the parked car outside the shop, Maurice whispered to me: if you want to get rid of it I could find someone. I burst into tears again: abortion is a mortal sin! I’d go to hell! Maurice looked at his watch, shot his cuffs. He said: I’ve got to go now, I’ll see you soon. Away he drove.
    My coat pulled round me to hide my condition, I stood on the pavement, crying. I was afraid to go indoors. But I couldn’t stay outside. The houses and shops on both sides of the street were shuttered and closed, but anyone might be watching. I couldn’t bear to be looked at. I couldn’t bear the thought of neighbours pretending to feel sorry for me. Being mean about my downfall. I forced myself to stop crying. I scrubbed my eyes on my coat sleeve and went in.
    My mother told my father the news at lunchtime, once we’d eaten. He got up, pulled me away from the table. He slapped me twice round the face: count yourself lucky! Maman shouted at him: that’s enough! He sat down, shaking. Maman pursed her lips. This isn’t the way things should be. I wanted a proper wedding for you, with everything nice.
    On the following day, the shop was closed. Papa, by the unlit stove, had his back turned to us. As soon as Maman went into the kitchen I put on my coat and beret and went out.
    I met Maurice at the back of the church, as we’d arranged. I didn’t want to go to the park, anywhere public. Maurice could no longer take me out in the car. No petrol. Was petrol scarcer than ever or did he not want to be seen with me? I didn’t ask. I followed him into a pew. He dusted the dark wood with his handkerchief, then knelt beside me.
    The heating was off. The church seemed solid with cold. Smelled of cold. Both of us shivered, despite our coats and scarves. I crossed myself, bent my head and stared at my gloved hands.
    I waited until Maurice said: OK. Let’s sit down. I heaved