1993: In which she cries over the spilt beans that thicken the plot

The Plan began to take shape over the next few weeks. The biggest worry was my education. The idea was that I’d get through the year, then do Grade Ten by correspondence the following. After the birth, I’d take a short break, then I’d work in the mornings while my mom babysat. That seemed a sensible arrangement.

The only catch was finishing that year. It was still only August. By December, I’d be five months pregnant and definitely showing. My parents were terrified that if the school found out, they’d make me leave immediately. If I left with four months left of Grade Nine, I’d probably never catch up. I didn’t want to fall behind and end up giving up on my education altogether. If I couldn’t finish this year, I’d have to go back to a different school after the baby was born and repeat the year – that is, if I could find a school that would take me. And I did not want to go back to school again. That was just the worst idea imaginable. I couldn’t bear the thought of hanging out with all those giggly girlies, pretending to be interested in their nail polish dilemmas when all I wanted was to be with my child. I wasn’t afraid of gossip or judgement (okay, I was a little), but I was afraid I’d lose it and push someone down the stairs if I heard another word about What My Boyfriend Said To The Chick Who Called Me A Slag On Saturday Night Outside The Vic… And the idea of class netball and demerits and “abstinence first” lectures just made me want to snigger, or hurl. Or both.

And so began the Great Belly-Hiding Conspiracy. I did get a really big jersey. I pretended to have a dreadful and protracted case of salmonella. I told the physical ed teacher I couldn’t do gymnastics because I had a bad chest. My incredible craving for grotty tuck shop Cornish pasties and Liquaroos was dismissed as a passing teenage fad. My bizarre emotional outbursts could have been anything, really. I was a fourteen-year-old girl; emotional outbursts are mandatory.

All would have been fine, really, if only I’d kept my fucking mouth shut. But could I do that? No, of course not. I was a teenager, after all. And what do teenage girls do? Besides giggling and self-consciously smoking Benson and Hedges Special Mild without inhaling? They talk, of course. To other teenage girls.

I told all my friends. Shortly after the pregnancy was confirmed (like, the very next day), I convened a Council of War in the girls’ bathroom.

My announcement was greeted with much screeching and hugging and profanity. One of them told me how wonderful and exciting it all was. I mean, sure, it was – at least, it would be once we got past the bit that was impossibly scary. Even though it was unfair of me to expect them to understand, or be cross with them because they didn’t, I still wanted to smack her cheerful little face.

I asked them not to tell anybody. That really meant nobody – not their boyfriends, parents or random classmates on the bus. I explained that if the Governing Body found out, they would probably expel me and then my chances of ever finishing school would be virtually zero. This wasn’t a little secret like someone bunking or someone kissing someone else’s boyfriend. It was huge. It was real. Serious shit. I was trusting them with my whole life – my future and the future of my child. They were my best friends and I thought I could. And like the good friends they were, they swore blind they’d never tell anybody. I believed them.

But, like me, they did what girls do, and within weeks everybody at school knew. I don’t know how many blabbed, but one person would probably have been enough. People began to whisper and stare at my tummy as I passed, but I tried to ignore them. I counted the days until the end of the year and read my booklet a lot.

As the weeks went by, I took to hiding behind desks and handy trees whenever a teacher got too close. In particular, I avoided Dragon Lady, the Chairlady of the School Governing Body and God, as far as our little town was concerned. She was a prominent elderly citizen with her fingers in more pies than a New Jersey Mafioso. She lurked around the school often, planting flowers in the quad and reading prayers at assemblies. She scared the hell out of me, with her daffy gardening hat and little green trowel. She looked so benign; you’d never guess she ate Bad Girls for breakfast. I imagined she’d toss me out of school in a second if she knew. She’d make an example of me, the ghastly affront to the fine, upstanding morals and good name of the school that I was. She may well have been just a sweet old lady doing her bit for the community. Who knows? I could have had it wrong. That was my year for misjudging people.

In the end, it was neither my loose-lipped friends, nor a suspicious old biddy who caught me out. It was yours truly who, single-handedly, brought to light the Great Conspiracy. And in spectacular fashion, too, on my fifteenth birthday. An event full of high drama, with dustbins and delicate sensibilities flying in all directions.