Mona (Short Story)
24th November 2025
In: Short Stories
Mona and I grew up together. We were born a week apart in the cosy cottage hospital maternity ward that served our small southern town. We lived in the same street, next-door-but-two, for more than twenty years. So you could say, without exaggeration, that we’d known each other all our lives.
I remember her as a happy child, sweet natured; her thick dark hair held back from her face by white seersucker ribbons tied in large butterfly bows. We played in each other’s gardens, shared our toys and swapped comics.
Because she was Irish and a Catholic, Mona attended a different school and wasn’t allowed out to play on a Sunday. She was also strict about swearing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Her unshakeable belief in Heaven and Hell as real places triggered unending discussions between us. For, as a protestant I was, she predicted, sure to end up in Hell. A superstitious, improbable concept I debated fiercely with all the verve that a seven-year-old could muster.
But most other things we agreed on. Like who rode the bicycle and who pushed the doll’s pram. Mona adored her dolls. She watched her mother look after her younger brothers and sisters and copied those routines. The bathing, feeding and frequent nappy changing. Whether dolls or real babies, they all got a fair share of her love and attention. So I always imagined that, when the time came, the maternal role would come easily to her.
*
The accident happened when we were nearly ten. A gang of us had been fishing down by the river. We had nets made from our mother’s old nylon stockings stitched to wire loops on the ends of garden canes. Jam jars of muddy water full of weed, fresh water snails and unfortunate minnows lined up on the wooden bridge as we dangled our legs and dipped our nets in the river’s sluggish flow. It was hot; I remember the skin on my shoulders burning as I emptied the sludgy contents of my catch into an old marmalade pot. Then a splash and a shrill scream made me look up. Mona’s youngest sister was struggling in the water. Mona, white-faced, was reaching out to her, lying on her stomach, arms stretching down to where the terrified toddler bobbed and spluttered. Then the child’s head disappeared from view. Mona heaved herself into the water without a word. I watched her pink-socked feet follow the rest of her, saw her petticoats deflate and cling to her legs before she sank, searching the depths for the drowning child. I was distantly aware of the sound of pounding feet: the other kids running to fetch help. While I sat transfixed, mesmerized by the water’s sulky indifference, willing Mona to reappear.
They got them out. Mona’s father, her uncle and a couple of neighbours pulled the girls onto the bank. Lucy was coughing and crying but Mona was very still and pale. Not moving. I thought she was dead.
She wasn’t the same after that. Rumours said that she had held her breath so long under water that a blood vessel had broken inside her head. Affected her brain. Not that she was a complete idiot. Just a bit slow. Not quite what she was.
Such events test friendship. Tug at loyalty. Make you examine your feelings. I felt deep pity mixed with a sense of guilt. Remorse that I hadn’t jumped in after her. Ashamed at my own fear of drowning. I had been a coward while she had risked her life to save her younger sister. Her maternal instinct stronger than any other consideration.
Her photo was in the local paper along with an account of the incident. We kept the cutting and showed her. She smiled, her face lit from within, her expression like a Renaissance madonna’s — otherworldly, infinitely wise — as though she knew something the rest of us didn’t.
Afterwards we were more often together than before. I minded her, monitored situations and defended her from the cruel taunts of kids who didn’t know her story. And she, docile and affectionate, never showed any anger towards those who called her names but gravely shook her head and turned away, as though they were mistaken and couldn’t possibly be referring to her.
Puberty brought a different set of problems. Mona might have been lacking in I.Q. but she had a pretty face and a curvy figure. And the boys considered her fair game. I fluttered around like an outraged chaperone, fending them off. Turning down their unwelcome invitations on Mona’s behalf and trying to explain to her gently that their intentions were less than honourable. But Mona liked boys. Best of all she liked Tony because he bought her ice creams and made her laugh. She didn’t seem to mind when he put his arm around her and kissed her in the pictures. She told me he had smelt of aniseed balls. I sat with his friend Jake in the row behind and tried not to worry about her. After all, I couldn’t spend the rest of my life protecting her virginity. I had my own budding flesh to think of.
We were fifteen that summer. I spent my last vacation with my parents in a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds. It rained the whole fortnight and I felt thoroughly depressed. I returned home to learn that Mona was pregnant. Nobody was quite sure who the father was. Tony had gone back to college and I couldn’t get much sense out of Jake. There was no point at all in asking Mona. I think she knew but she just wasn’t telling. Being simple must be convenient at times.
She lost the baby at three months. I was with her when the pains started and called Dr. Gordon. By the time he got there it was nearly finished. He gave Mona a shot of something and cleared away the remains. I put the sheet in the bath to soak. I couldn’t stop shaking. Mona appeared calm enough. Propped up against the pillows, stroking the empty mound of her belly and whispering “Poor baby … poor, poor baby!” Large tears rolled down her face and I felt my throat tighten. We sat together all night, holding hands and sharing a mansize box of Kleenex.
*
Having taken medical advice on the matter and after much soul-searching and spiritual conflict, Mona’s parents put aside their religious objections and consented to her being put on the pill. It was a hefty weight off all our minds.
I continued to ‘walk out’ with Jake and sometimes we’d make up a foursome with Mona and a friend. These ‘friends’ didn’t stick around long. Mona got herself a reputation for being easy. Her wide, innocent eyes and demure dress contradicted the popular image but gossip said otherwise. I watched, helpless, as she responded to being chatted up, encouraging with her guileless smile their suggestive remarks and physical mauling. Not understanding the difference between affection and blatant sexual foreplay. Jake, seeing it from the male angle, couldn’t appreciate my concern.
“Hell, Suzy, she enjoys it. You can see for yourself. Don’t be such a spoil sport!” That’s how he saw it. I was an interfering prude. “You jealous?” he queried. Jake was, and still is, a natural born chauvinist. I slapped him hard. He grinned. “I thought so.”
*
Jake and I were married in ’71. Mona was chief bridesmaid and looked regal in deep sapphire blue. I wore a cream lace and brocade dress that hung stiff as a lampshade and felt sick all through the service. Our first child, a daughter, was born seven months later.
When I first realized I was pregnant I wasn’t sure how to break the news to Mona. Telling Jake was easy. I just came right out with it. He, puffed up at the idea of being a father, went off to tell the boys and I knew he’d be gone until after closing time. I went round to Mona’s house and her mother left us alone in the front room. Mrs. McCarty was a small grey mouse of a woman who had the nervous manner of someone constantly on the lookout for danger. She searched my face for news before disappearing into her kitchen to make tea. Mona waited, eyes bright, and I plunged in. “Mona, I’m going to have a baby.”
A second’s delay and then she beamed. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She said the words clearly and slowly, endowing the statement with a depth of genuine emotion that moved me, communicated her joy and an underlying wistfulness.
“Yes,” I agreed, taking her hand in both of mine, “It is wonderful.”
She was watching me, expecting me to elaborate. “Jake is pleased,” I offered. “He’s gone down the club to tell everyone.” Mona nodded and sighed, the smile slipping from her mouth. “I wonder,” I continued, “if you’d like to be godmother?” I hadn’t planned this, it was spontaneous, a sort of consolation prize. Another pause as the question sunk in.
“Oh yes ... yes thank you!” She leant forward and kissed my cheek then jumped up and ran out of the room. I could hear her in the kitchen, her voice shrill with excitement, telling her mother. She came back with the teatray, the china cups and saucers tinkling like wind chimes as her hands shook. Then we solemnly toasted the baby. She with tea, I just had some cold milk. I went right off tea and cofffee when I was carrying Louise.
*
I shared the experience with Mona as much as I could. She came with me to the clinic and waited patiently in the room full of budding mothers-to-be. She read my baby magazines and helped me choose a layette and the wallpaper for the nursery. She took much more interest than Jake, who seemed to think he’d done enough. He considered there was men’s work and women’s work and the line between them shouldn’t be overstepped. Babies were strictly a female preoccupation. Any pressure from me sent him into temporary exile and, whilst I knew where he was most of the time, I was never too sure exactly who he was with. Jake can be a real charmer when he puts his mind to it and we hadn’t been intimate for several weeks. It made me uneasy. I watched him overtly and checked his collars.
*
Babies have a way of arriving early in our family so I had my suitcase all packed ready a good six weeks before my due date. I got fretful and impatient and, one afternoon, took myself off shopping on my own. An hour on my feet was enough so I caught the bus home. I needed to lie down.
Jake and Mona were both in the living room watching T.V. I said hello and went up to our bedroom. The curtains were half drawn, the quilt slightly askew and a distinctive smell hung on the air — one that suggested a certain physical activity.
Mona looked slightly flushed. Jake had barely acknowledged me. I thought through the implications calmly. And concluded I wasn’t too upset by them.
*
There’s almost eight months between Matthew and Louise. Mona’s little boy is the image of Jake but we don’t mention it. It hardly seems important somehow. Mona’s parents were understandably upset and, to ease the problems in their already overcrowded household, she moved in with us. And, with two babies to fuss over, she’s in her element.
We bought a double buggy and most afternoons we take the little ones for a breath of air in the park. And the old arrangement still stands. It’s always Mona who pushes the pram.
I remember her as a happy child, sweet natured; her thick dark hair held back from her face by white seersucker ribbons tied in large butterfly bows. We played in each other’s gardens, shared our toys and swapped comics.
Because she was Irish and a Catholic, Mona attended a different school and wasn’t allowed out to play on a Sunday. She was also strict about swearing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Her unshakeable belief in Heaven and Hell as real places triggered unending discussions between us. For, as a protestant I was, she predicted, sure to end up in Hell. A superstitious, improbable concept I debated fiercely with all the verve that a seven-year-old could muster.
But most other things we agreed on. Like who rode the bicycle and who pushed the doll’s pram. Mona adored her dolls. She watched her mother look after her younger brothers and sisters and copied those routines. The bathing, feeding and frequent nappy changing. Whether dolls or real babies, they all got a fair share of her love and attention. So I always imagined that, when the time came, the maternal role would come easily to her.
*
The accident happened when we were nearly ten. A gang of us had been fishing down by the river. We had nets made from our mother’s old nylon stockings stitched to wire loops on the ends of garden canes. Jam jars of muddy water full of weed, fresh water snails and unfortunate minnows lined up on the wooden bridge as we dangled our legs and dipped our nets in the river’s sluggish flow. It was hot; I remember the skin on my shoulders burning as I emptied the sludgy contents of my catch into an old marmalade pot. Then a splash and a shrill scream made me look up. Mona’s youngest sister was struggling in the water. Mona, white-faced, was reaching out to her, lying on her stomach, arms stretching down to where the terrified toddler bobbed and spluttered. Then the child’s head disappeared from view. Mona heaved herself into the water without a word. I watched her pink-socked feet follow the rest of her, saw her petticoats deflate and cling to her legs before she sank, searching the depths for the drowning child. I was distantly aware of the sound of pounding feet: the other kids running to fetch help. While I sat transfixed, mesmerized by the water’s sulky indifference, willing Mona to reappear.
They got them out. Mona’s father, her uncle and a couple of neighbours pulled the girls onto the bank. Lucy was coughing and crying but Mona was very still and pale. Not moving. I thought she was dead.
She wasn’t the same after that. Rumours said that she had held her breath so long under water that a blood vessel had broken inside her head. Affected her brain. Not that she was a complete idiot. Just a bit slow. Not quite what she was.
Such events test friendship. Tug at loyalty. Make you examine your feelings. I felt deep pity mixed with a sense of guilt. Remorse that I hadn’t jumped in after her. Ashamed at my own fear of drowning. I had been a coward while she had risked her life to save her younger sister. Her maternal instinct stronger than any other consideration.
Her photo was in the local paper along with an account of the incident. We kept the cutting and showed her. She smiled, her face lit from within, her expression like a Renaissance madonna’s — otherworldly, infinitely wise — as though she knew something the rest of us didn’t.
Afterwards we were more often together than before. I minded her, monitored situations and defended her from the cruel taunts of kids who didn’t know her story. And she, docile and affectionate, never showed any anger towards those who called her names but gravely shook her head and turned away, as though they were mistaken and couldn’t possibly be referring to her.
Puberty brought a different set of problems. Mona might have been lacking in I.Q. but she had a pretty face and a curvy figure. And the boys considered her fair game. I fluttered around like an outraged chaperone, fending them off. Turning down their unwelcome invitations on Mona’s behalf and trying to explain to her gently that their intentions were less than honourable. But Mona liked boys. Best of all she liked Tony because he bought her ice creams and made her laugh. She didn’t seem to mind when he put his arm around her and kissed her in the pictures. She told me he had smelt of aniseed balls. I sat with his friend Jake in the row behind and tried not to worry about her. After all, I couldn’t spend the rest of my life protecting her virginity. I had my own budding flesh to think of.
We were fifteen that summer. I spent my last vacation with my parents in a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds. It rained the whole fortnight and I felt thoroughly depressed. I returned home to learn that Mona was pregnant. Nobody was quite sure who the father was. Tony had gone back to college and I couldn’t get much sense out of Jake. There was no point at all in asking Mona. I think she knew but she just wasn’t telling. Being simple must be convenient at times.
She lost the baby at three months. I was with her when the pains started and called Dr. Gordon. By the time he got there it was nearly finished. He gave Mona a shot of something and cleared away the remains. I put the sheet in the bath to soak. I couldn’t stop shaking. Mona appeared calm enough. Propped up against the pillows, stroking the empty mound of her belly and whispering “Poor baby … poor, poor baby!” Large tears rolled down her face and I felt my throat tighten. We sat together all night, holding hands and sharing a mansize box of Kleenex.
*
Having taken medical advice on the matter and after much soul-searching and spiritual conflict, Mona’s parents put aside their religious objections and consented to her being put on the pill. It was a hefty weight off all our minds.
I continued to ‘walk out’ with Jake and sometimes we’d make up a foursome with Mona and a friend. These ‘friends’ didn’t stick around long. Mona got herself a reputation for being easy. Her wide, innocent eyes and demure dress contradicted the popular image but gossip said otherwise. I watched, helpless, as she responded to being chatted up, encouraging with her guileless smile their suggestive remarks and physical mauling. Not understanding the difference between affection and blatant sexual foreplay. Jake, seeing it from the male angle, couldn’t appreciate my concern.
“Hell, Suzy, she enjoys it. You can see for yourself. Don’t be such a spoil sport!” That’s how he saw it. I was an interfering prude. “You jealous?” he queried. Jake was, and still is, a natural born chauvinist. I slapped him hard. He grinned. “I thought so.”
*
Jake and I were married in ’71. Mona was chief bridesmaid and looked regal in deep sapphire blue. I wore a cream lace and brocade dress that hung stiff as a lampshade and felt sick all through the service. Our first child, a daughter, was born seven months later.
When I first realized I was pregnant I wasn’t sure how to break the news to Mona. Telling Jake was easy. I just came right out with it. He, puffed up at the idea of being a father, went off to tell the boys and I knew he’d be gone until after closing time. I went round to Mona’s house and her mother left us alone in the front room. Mrs. McCarty was a small grey mouse of a woman who had the nervous manner of someone constantly on the lookout for danger. She searched my face for news before disappearing into her kitchen to make tea. Mona waited, eyes bright, and I plunged in. “Mona, I’m going to have a baby.”
A second’s delay and then she beamed. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She said the words clearly and slowly, endowing the statement with a depth of genuine emotion that moved me, communicated her joy and an underlying wistfulness.
“Yes,” I agreed, taking her hand in both of mine, “It is wonderful.”
She was watching me, expecting me to elaborate. “Jake is pleased,” I offered. “He’s gone down the club to tell everyone.” Mona nodded and sighed, the smile slipping from her mouth. “I wonder,” I continued, “if you’d like to be godmother?” I hadn’t planned this, it was spontaneous, a sort of consolation prize. Another pause as the question sunk in.
“Oh yes ... yes thank you!” She leant forward and kissed my cheek then jumped up and ran out of the room. I could hear her in the kitchen, her voice shrill with excitement, telling her mother. She came back with the teatray, the china cups and saucers tinkling like wind chimes as her hands shook. Then we solemnly toasted the baby. She with tea, I just had some cold milk. I went right off tea and cofffee when I was carrying Louise.
*
I shared the experience with Mona as much as I could. She came with me to the clinic and waited patiently in the room full of budding mothers-to-be. She read my baby magazines and helped me choose a layette and the wallpaper for the nursery. She took much more interest than Jake, who seemed to think he’d done enough. He considered there was men’s work and women’s work and the line between them shouldn’t be overstepped. Babies were strictly a female preoccupation. Any pressure from me sent him into temporary exile and, whilst I knew where he was most of the time, I was never too sure exactly who he was with. Jake can be a real charmer when he puts his mind to it and we hadn’t been intimate for several weeks. It made me uneasy. I watched him overtly and checked his collars.
*
Babies have a way of arriving early in our family so I had my suitcase all packed ready a good six weeks before my due date. I got fretful and impatient and, one afternoon, took myself off shopping on my own. An hour on my feet was enough so I caught the bus home. I needed to lie down.
Jake and Mona were both in the living room watching T.V. I said hello and went up to our bedroom. The curtains were half drawn, the quilt slightly askew and a distinctive smell hung on the air — one that suggested a certain physical activity.
Mona looked slightly flushed. Jake had barely acknowledged me. I thought through the implications calmly. And concluded I wasn’t too upset by them.
*
There’s almost eight months between Matthew and Louise. Mona’s little boy is the image of Jake but we don’t mention it. It hardly seems important somehow. Mona’s parents were understandably upset and, to ease the problems in their already overcrowded household, she moved in with us. And, with two babies to fuss over, she’s in her element.
We bought a double buggy and most afternoons we take the little ones for a breath of air in the park. And the old arrangement still stands. It’s always Mona who pushes the pram.