Carol’s Column

It shouldn't happen to anyone

SHE was pregnant. I was absolutely shattered. We all were. This was, without doubt, the most traumatic thing to happen to our family for years.

She was far too young to have a family — and anyway, the father was unsuitable in every way.

We'd called a family conference which was now taking place over breakfast.

She sat quietly in the corner — her chocolate-brown eyes sad, her long dark lashes lowered.

"This is terrible," I said.

"So, do something about it," remarked my husband, peering over the tip of his new-rimless, initialled spectacles. He took a bite of marmalade toast, "anyway, don't you think you're over-reacting. I mean, perhaps she should just go ahead with the whole thing."

"You can't be serious?" I gasped. "Good heavens — for starters, the father's not suitable."

"Why, what's wrong with him?" asked my husband, in between sips of black coffee, sugar and milk being bad for the cholesterol.

"Well, to start with, he's black."

There was a stunned silence.

My children were appalled.

"But Ma, so what? Since when has colour mattered?"

"Look, you can't mix black and white — the resulting progeny would be khaki." I shuddered.

"Ma, that's the cruelest thing I've ever heard in my life." She flung her spanspek across the table, threw her spoon down and departed in a flurry of tears.

I could feel the tension in the air.

"Look, one has to be realistic," I reasoned. "Some things are meant to be — other's aren't, and to go ahead in this situation would be madness. It could ruin her life, she's far too young."

The decision was made.

I explained the situation to Tony, a good friend, but more important — a man of superb reputation with the scalpel.

He was direct enough. "How far gone is she? It all depends on that, after all, we don't want to harm her in any way."

Fortunately, the time limit was right. I agreed to bring her in the following morning.

"See she has nothing after 10pm this evening," he said before ringing off.

That night was the longest I've ever known. I tossed and turned on the innerspring causing much friction with my spouse who was also tossing and turning.

Life was decidedly gloomy.

The following morning we set out for the hospital at the crack of dawn. We'd all gone along for moral support.

We admitted her and then went home to wait.

At noon, Tony phoned.

"Everything's fine, she's holding her own and there's no doubt it was the correct decision to make."

"Candy's OK, she's going to be OK," I shouted to the family who'd gathered round the phone.

"Yes," he continued, "there's no way you could have let her have six labrador puppies. Being a Maltese, she's far too tiny. It would have created tremendous problems."

From the corner of my eye, I could see Liquorice-the-labrador frolicking with the washing. He looked happy enough.

Just as well, I thought to myself, a black labrador and a white Maltese poodle would have been a genetic disaster.

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