Abortion and the single girl

PERSONAL COLUMN

JANE KENNY

I knew I was pregnant on holiday in Geneva, once referred to by Time as the Capital of Abortion. I awoke one morning with a power- ful apprehension, reached for my diary and was sure.

I watched the Jet d'Eau spurting over the lake as I called Jo in London. 'Nonsense,' he said. 'How can you be sure? It'll be all right, you'll see. You're making a fuss about nothing again.' He yawned and said sleepily, '1'11 get you fixed up.'

What this meant, I discovered later, was passing me the phone number of a nurse called Dorothy in Maida Vale. According to one of Jo's secretaries, she was inexpensive, quick and clean. She sounded like the ideal hairdresser.

`So you just ring her up, darling,' said Jo. 'She'll sort you out.'

I reacted badly. I'd read too many articles on abortion in the glossy magazines. 'It's dangerous that way. Why should I chat to some sinister woman over a cup of tea while she violates me with soapy water and leaves me to haemorrhage my way to the Paddington General at three in the morning? Can't you think of something a little less sordid?'

'What's the matter?' asked Jo. 'Do you think you're the only girl who's gone through this?'

I had a choice, of course. I was lucky, be- cause Jo had the contacts and the money.

His network eventually supplied us with the telephone number of a chemist off the King's Road. We drove there through the evening rush-hour, silent and almost erotically united by apprehension.

The shop was not garish as I expected. There were no neon signs advertising contra- ceptives, trusses and books on 'Love Without Fear.' Instead, it was a thickly scented and car- peted salon. White-coated girls polished their nails behind counters piled high with Mary Quant cosmetics, Ambre Solaire, spray de- odorants and other aids to romantic love. I approached the nearest girl. She might have walked straight out of the arms of Doctor Kildare. She stared coldly through her false eyelashes and asked me to wait in the Dis- pensary at the back. Here at least I was out of sight, if not out of earshot. The murmur of gossip was soon disturbed by the entrance of a noisy group. Over the top of the partition I glimpsed two grey top hats and realised what I had forgotten, that it was Derby Day.

`Couldn't quite make the distance . . . lovely colt, though. Two hundred quid down the drain . . . bad show. Still, there's always to- morrow.'

What about today, I thought, beginning to sweat. Dorothy in Maida Vale would have bien better than this. Eventually a man stepped round the partition. He was short, scrubbed- looking and brisk.

'Good evening, Miss er . . . You phoned, did you not? Yes, well I'll just take some par- ticulars if I may.'

He spoke in a whisper which annoyed me. I wanted to shout, to disturb the inanities still being lobbed back and forth on the other side of the partition.

'You're not very late, are you?'

`No, but I am sure.'

'Well, you seem a trifle pessimistic.'

He reached behind him to a cupboard marked 'Sterility' and drew out a bottle of pills. They were long and flat and gleamed like snakes' eyes through the brown glass.

'Take these three times a day until they are finished. If you haven't had a period by then, ring this number and ask for the doctor. A first-class surgeon; he'll help you.' He handed me a slip of folded white paper.

'Thank you. How much do I owe you? I don't suppose they're on the National Health?'

He smiled. 'Hardly. They are on the expen- sive side, I'm afraid. Eight guineas. We have difficulty in obtaining them, you see.'

He leant towards me with a confidential smile as he took the money.

`Thank you, Miss er . . . of course, you do realise that I don't help just anyone with this sort of thing. Only the nicer girl who's been unlucky to get herself into trouble.'

I went out feeling sick.

The pills did not work, except to make me dizzy on a glass of sherry and more sexually voracious. Jo was delighted with this bonus, having expected lethargy and morning sick- ness. After six weeks I threw away the bottle and called up the number the chemist had given me. A man with an old, gentle voice answered. He suggested an appointment and gave me the address of a block of flats in the heart of the Keeler country.

A week later I was there. The door was opened by a tanned and smiling young man, elegant in a slim Italian suit and smelling strongly of some flower. I thought I had come to the wrong place. Surely this one was in adver- tising? But when he led me down a short passage into a bedroom, bare except for a double bed, an angle-poise lamp and some clinical-looking cupboards, I knew it was the right place.

'Is Doctor . . ?'

'Yes, yes,' said the young man. We are ex- pecting you. I'm his assistant. Now I'd like you to undress, so that I can give you a thorough examination. We have to be sure there are no complications, don't we?'

He gazed politely out at the roofs of Marylebone as I removed my underclothes.

The questions were routine; the examina- tion was not. It was extremely thorough and thoroughly personal. He asked me to caress myself, saying that there was no point in ex- amining me unless I was relaxed. When I refused he became petulant, finally snapping his instruments back into their case, saying: 'Oh, well, if you won't cooperate.'

After I dressed, he led me into another room and immediately became more professional, fixing a date for the operation. In the mean- time, he advised me, enjoy making love. 'There are compensations, you know.'

I felt dissociated from the whole scene. Glancing at the books on either side of the fireplace, I saw two volumes of Das Kapital sandwiched between a handbook on women's diseases and Gray's Anatomy. But whatever his political bent, there was no sign of the old man. I began to wonder if my session on the bed had been absolutely necessary.

Two weeks later I was back, clutching a sani- tary belt and a hundred and fifty pounds in my handbag.

`Come along in, we're all ready for you,' said the young man as though I had come to make up a four for bridge.

`I'm very nervous,' I announced, deciding to abandon the stiff upper lip.

The young man smiled and put his arm round me as he led me down the passage. I had had no breakfast and began to feel sick.

As I undressed I found myself obsessively counting the roses on the chintz curtains. This time the young man did not bother to look out of the window.

'I'm afraid I must ask you for the money now,' he said. 'Sorry; I don't like this either.'

I gave him the money and laughed. It was absurd to be standing naked on a shimmering summer afternoon, handing over a hundred and fifty pounds in cash to get rid of a baby I really wanted. For the first time the young man looked slightly nervous.

'Now, now, no hysteria. You'll be all right. I'd like you to have a bath.' He propelled me through the door into a black, shining bath- room. As I lowered myself trembling into the hot water, I noticed a tin of Steradent above the washbasin. The old man must exist after all.

The voice was behind me again. 'I'm going to give you an injection to make you relax. ( When you feel sleepy get out and come back `into the bedroom.'

As the needle sunk into my shoulder my heart thumped in my throat. I had never felt less relaxed. I wanted very much to see Jo. If it was so fashionable for fathers to be present at the birth of their babies, why shouldn't they also attend abortions?

Minutes later I was stretched out on the bed, my feet forced into heavy bedsocks. I '44$ was told yet again to relax. The gas was wheeled up and the mask clamped over my face. As I kicked and panted frantically for breath I vaguely heard a door open and a soft voice speaking. 'This is a difficult one, you'll have to hold her down,' it said. The old man? Surely he would understand my fear. But I couldn't speak. I gave up struggling, and sank backwards.

The younz man was saying something. 'It's all right, it's all over.' I felt his hand on my forehead and was immediately sick.

`It's not all right,' I announced shakily. Then I lost consciousness again.

When I woke up I was alone and the room was full of late afternoon sun. I felt limp but peaceful, except for dizziness and a deep ache across the stomach.

The young man slipped through the door and smiled at me.

`Your friend will be here in a minute. You had better get dressed. Not bleeding too much, are you?'

`I've no idea,' I said.

I remember little of the journey home, ex- cept for Jo's concerned face and the way he carried me up the four flights of stairs to my flat. He had filled the bedroom with roses and the fridge with champagne. He put me to bed very gently and said I was to ring the doctor if the bleeding got worse. Then he left me to join his wife in the country for the weekend.