Free The Tower Mill by James Moloney

promised to ring that night with the phone number. I would take the call in the lounge room, with Mum and Dad watching television only a few feet away. There was nothing suspicious about copying down a phone number, and when I made my own call I would go to the phone box on Logan Road.
    ‘Shit,’ I said under my breath while I waited for the bus in Queen Street. I had no idea where I was going to get that kind of money.
    And money was the biggest hurdle. Friends came good, without asking why I needed whatever they could spare, or when I could pay it back. Others said they couldn’t help, sorry. In the week after meeting Karen, I must have asked a dozen people. Then I came home one afternoon and found Mum sitting on the sofa.
    My wariness flared. A silent television was the clue I’d picked up without realising. She never sat in the lounge room by herself, unless the television was on.
    ‘Come and sit down,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you. Or maybe there’s something you want to tell me.’
    My mouth was instantly dry. ‘What makes you think that?’
    ‘Because I do your washing.’
    ‘My washing! Mum, what are you on about?’ I managed a laugh. This might not be the moment I’d dreaded after all.
    But it was.
    ‘There hasn’t been any blood. You’ve never been careful with pads and things, have you Susan? I have to soak your underwear, only there’s been nothing to soak for months.’
    ‘My period’s playing up because of what’s happened to Terry, that’s all. It’s stress.’
    ‘When you’ve been sleeping with your boyfriend there’s a more common reason.’
    ‘That’s none of your business.’
    ‘You think it’s not my business if my daughter’s pregnant?’
    ‘I’m not.’
    ‘Aren’t you? I should have guessed weeks ago. Your face has been white as a sheet every morning.’
    ‘Mum, my boyfriend’s half-dead in hospital! Why wouldn’t I look pale?’
    ‘You’re anaemic, like I was every time, and Diane’s the same. I’ve made an appointment for you with Doctor Tunbridge. If I’m wrong about this, you’ll have my sincerest apology.’
    That was it. She got up off the sofa and went into the kitchen without another word.
    I struggled through a sleepless night, but in the morning there was no point holding out any longer. After Mum was done with the rush of getting men out of the house, I sat down heavily at the kitchen table and ended the pretence, expecting Krakatoa to flatten half of Holland Park.
    It didn’t happen, and once I saw there weren’t going to be any pyrotechnics, I almost convinced myself the baby was gone, too.
    Phone calls were made. Diane came round with her little Rosanna, gave me a hug and told me it would be all right, really . The boys were left in ignorance, but Dad certainly knew by the time he came home. The anger was there in his face, but he said nothing, his eyes flicking towards Mum.
    My stomach tightened. There was something going on here. By now the house should have been echoing with shouts of ‘slut, promiscuous little fool, family disgrace, brought shame on us all’. The only conclusion I could draw was that Mum was still wearing the kid gloves she’d donned after Terry’s accident. I wasn’t convinced by this, though, and spent a second night dreading the day to follow.
    ‘Susan,’ Mum called through my bedroom door about ten the next morning. ‘Come into the lounge room. Your father and I want to discuss your situation.’ ‘Situation’ was the word my parents had assigned to the news.
    They were sitting side by side on the sofa when I arrived, leaving me the overstuffed chair that faced them. I slumped into it, my body to one side, resting my weight on an elbow. I dared to look across at them, still certain it would turn hostile at any moment.
    ‘The baby is due in March,’ said Mum.
    ‘The nineteenth,’ I confirmed. We’d been over this yesterday.
    ‘The situation has to be faced. You are going to have a baby.’ This from