Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  To her surprise, he took the news quite well.

  “Another baby, eh?” he mused. “Well, it could be worse, I suppose. And Billy could do with a little brother. Yes. A little brother might be the making of our Billy.”

  Annie resisted the temptation to remind Ernest that there were no guarantees that the baby would be a boy, and breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps another child might not be so bad after all, and if — as soon appeared to be the case — she were to be spared Ernest’s more intimate attentions during her pregnancy, an extra child seemed a small price to pay. As time went on and the sickness passed, she actually found herself looking forward to the new arrival. This time around, she would try to be a better mother, and — who knows? — Ernest might even agree to let her breastfeed her baby. Annie secretly hoped for a girl. A girl could belong to her in a way that Billy never had. A girl could grow to be a friend. She would call her Amelia, after her mother. “My daughter.” Annie tried the words out, and smiled to herself. She could be a good mother to a girl.

  That November, Ernest received a telegram informing him that his mother had died. While this was unexpected, neither was it a total surprise. Mrs Bentley’s health had never been good, and it would appear that she had succumbed to pneumonia following a bout of influenza.

  “Well,” Ernest said, pacing the small living-room, the telegram still in his hands. “Well!”

  Annie waited, not sure how she should react. Ernest was always unpredictable, and this must surely mark a watershed if not a crisis in his life.

  “I’m sorry,” she ventured, after a few minutes. “It must be a shock for you.”

  “A shock? Yes. Yes, I suppose it’s a bit of a shock,” Ernest said, folding and refolding the sheet of yellow paper. “Well, now. Who would have thought it? Mother never seemed the sort to — well, to die.”

  While this was a strange observation, Annie knew what he meant. Notwithstanding the frailty of her health, there had been something indestructible about Mrs Bentley. Annie couldn’t imagine her allowing something as mundane as death to get the better of her. She would surely have given the grim reaper short shrift if he’d had the audacity to knock on her door.

  “I shall have to go up, of course,” Ernest said now.

  “Of course,” Annie agreed.

  “You needn’t come, though, Annie. No one would expect you to come in your condition. Not our Billy, either. It wouldn’t be right for a child to go to a funeral.”

  Annie was both relieved and grateful. The journey up to Yorkshire was long, involving several changes of trains, and while she would certainly have gone with Ernest had he wanted her to, the reprieve was welcome.

  When Ernest returned, he brought good news. As the sole beneficiary of his mother’s will, he was to inherit her house and whatever money she might have put by. The house was small and in need of attention, and unlikely to fetch much, but together with Mrs Bentley’s savings it should enable them to move into something larger in time for the new baby.

  “A house this time, I think,” Ernest said. “A proper house, with a garden. We won’t be able to afford anything big, mind you, but a house will be a lot better than this flat. Somewhere in the country, perhaps. The fresh air will do Billy good.”

  The bank readily lent Ernest money on the strength of his impending legacy, and when Annie was six months pregnant, the family moved out of town into the terraced house which was to be their home for the rest of Ernest’s lifetime. The countryside was pleasant, and the village sported two shops, a post office and a school. The house itself was small and unpretentious, but the garden was big enough for Billy to play in, and compared with the flat, it was a little palace.

  “Well, you are a lucky girl.” Annie’s mother, who had come to help with the move, gave her approval. “You’ve landed on your feet, our Annie, and no mistake.”

  Annie nodded. Away from the town she felt that she could breathe again. From her bedroom window she could see open fields and trees which were already tinged with the misty green of early spring; she awoke to the sound of birdsong and heard the lowing of cattle as they were herded home for milking. If she half-closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that she was back home on the farm, and if she missed the few friends she had made in town, they were only a short bus ride away. Hope, once a thing of the past, began to stir again. If she could just keep Ernest happy, she wouldn’t ask for anything more. She would be content.

  And indeed Ernest did seem more cheerful, and while he continued to have bouts of ill temper, he didn’t touch Annie. Once or twice in the course of an outburst, he made as though to strike her, and then seemed to think better of it. Annie prayed that this wasn’t simply due to her pregnancy, and that perhaps Ernest was at last learning to control his temper. Gradually, the fear which had been her constant companion for so many months began to lift. People could change; why not Ernest?

  But fate had another blow in store for Annie. Six weeks after they moved house, her tiny daughter was born. She lived for just two hours.

  Annie wept. Rocking back and forth in her chair, she wept as she hadn’t wept for more than fifty years.

  “I never saw her,” she sobbed, her words muffled by her sodden handkerchief. “I never saw my baby. I never knew how much I wanted her until I lost her. Until it was too late.”

  Andrew, bewildered in the face of this violent outburst of grief, put his arm round her.

  “I never cried at the time,” Annie said, wiping her streaming eyes. “And I haven’t cried since. I never cried at all. Can you believe that?”

  “I — don’t know.” Andrew shook his head. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”

  “They took her away. My little girl. They took her away,” Annie continued. “They did in those days. Just took her away, like a bit of rubbish. Ernest said not to worry. He said we’d got Billy, and must be happy with him. Ernest never wanted a girl.” She blew her nose. “I didn’t dare cry. Ernest didn’t like me crying. And the nurses said to go home and try again, just like that. Can you imagine?”

  “I’ve heard that people do say that sometimes, when someone loses a child. It always seemed to me to be a dreadful thing to say.” Andrew found a clean handkerchief in his own pocket and handed it to Annie.

  “So I had nowhere to go,” Annie said, taking the handkerchief. “Nowhere to go to remember her. No grave. Nowhere to put flowers. Nowhere. It was as though she had never existed. Except here —” she put her hand over her chest — “Here. In my heart. If I’d seen her, if I’d just seen her, I could at least have imagined her, but in a way it was as though I was grieving for someone I didn’t know. Someone I’d never met. Nowadays they let you see the baby, don’t they? They let you hold it, and take photographs.”

  “Yes. I believe they do.” Andrew took Annie’s hands in his. “How did you cope?”

  “I just got on with it. I had to. I’d got Billy to look after, hadn’t I, and Ernest. I just got on with it.” She sighed. “And it was then that I started to have my dreams.”

  “Dreams? Do you mean nightmares?”

  “Oh, no. Just dreams. Happy dreams. Daydreams I suppose you’d call them. To keep myself from going mad.” She looked up and gave Andrew a half-smile. “They worked, too. I’m not mad, am I?”

  “Not at all,” Andrew assured her.

  “But I would have been if I hadn’t had my dreams,” Annie continued. “Without my dreams I’d never have survived at all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Annie’s Story

  She dreamed of life on a farm — a farm like the one at home — and of the shadowy figure of a man who loved her. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but he was tall and smiling and she dreamed of standing on the doorstep waiting for him to come in for the meal she had prepared for him, and of the roughness of his coat as he hugged her to him, and of the big safe double bed where she would learn to enjoy his love. She dreamed of a warm kitchen and a dresser with blue and white willow-patterned china and a
cool dairy where she skimmed the fresh milk for its cream. But most of all, she dreamed of a little girl in a pink gingham frock, whose name was Amelia.

  Amelia never grew older; she was always about five years old, with her mother’s strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, and she danced in and out of Annie’s dreams, carefree and laughing, always happy. She was not unlike the imaginary sister Annie had invented for herself when she was a child. As the only girl, she had longed for a sister, and when it was apparent that none was to be forthcoming, she had made up her own. But while Annie had never allowed this sister to be either as pretty or as clever as she herself was, Amelia was allowed to be beautiful, obedient and gifted; far too good to be true, of course, but then that is the advantage of dreams.

  Annie no longer permitted herself to think about the tiny baby she had lost. She put aside all thoughts of the little garments she had been making, the half-decorated nursery, her own empty arms and aching breasts. It was as though this older Amelia, this dream-child, was a kind of replacement. If she concentrated on her imaginary daughter, she could bear the pain of losing the real one, for somewhere at the back of her mind was the knowledge that if she ever allowed herself to think too much about her loss, she would quite simply drown in her grief. And she couldn’t afford to do that, not least because, as far as Ernest was concerned, the death of their baby was not a matter for discussion. It had happened, it was sad, but they had to put it behind them. Had the child been a boy, he might have felt differently, but a girl was of little consequence to Ernest.

  “What are you thinking about?” he used to ask, irritated by Annie’s air of preoccupation.

  “Nothing much,” she would tell him. “Nothing that would interest you.”

  For Ernest would certainly think she was crazy if she were to tell him about this new world she inhabited, and would more than likely punish her for it. Besides, Annie’s dreams were private. The peace they granted her would be destroyed if she were to share them with anyone else; the bubble would burst, and pain might leak back in to disturb her thoughts. It was best all round that she should keep her secret life to herself.

  Fortunately, Annie was kept busy. Billy continued to be demanding, and there was plenty to do in the house. She had her routine: Monday was wash day, on Tuesdays and Thursdays she cleaned the house, on Wednesday she did the ironing (provided the washing was dry enough), Friday was for catching up and doing the weekend shopping. And so it went on. Busy, busy. She knew she must keep herself busy. She gradually redecorated the house, made curtains and tidied up the small garden. There wasn’t room to grow much, and in any case, Annie was never much of a gardener, but Ernest managed to find himself a small allotment, where he began to grow fruit and vegetables with some success. He purchased his first half-dozen pullets and constructed a run for them at the bottom of the garden, and the first small brown eggs were a welcome addition to the larder. On the surface, the household functioned well, and neighbours admired the industrious housewife and her hardworking husband.

  Some of these neighbours became friends, and Annie enjoyed having a cup of tea and a chat while the children played together. But while she longed for a close friend — someone she could really talk to — she knew that that could never be. For Ernest was jealous and distrusted confidences, and her fear of Ernest was greater than her need for a confidante.

  “It wouldn’t do for you to let people know our business, Annie,” he used to say. “You can’t trust people not to gossip. I don’t mind you making the odd visit,” he added. “No harm in that. But don’t you go giving things away, Annie. Remember, your first loyalty must be to me. We keep ourselves to ourselves. We don’t need anyone else.”

  Annie guessed what Ernest meant, for shortly after the birth of her baby, Ernest had returned to his old habits, and she suspected that he was afraid that she might divulge what went on in their bedroom. In fact, he needn’t have worried on that score, for Annie herself was far too ashamed and humiliated to tell anyone about her ordeals.

  And then there was the violence.

  The fact that Ernest had managed to control himself during her pregnancy only made it worse, for it meant that he could prevent himself from striking her when he chose. His was not an ungovernable temper, after all, but one which he indulged when the occasion arose, and as time went on the occasion seemed to arise with increasing frequency. Usually, the blows were slight: a slap on the arm, a push, or a shake; enough to frighten Annie if not to injure her. Occasionally, he struck her more heavily, leaving purple bruises on her arms or thighs, although he was careful not to leave signs that might be open to interpretation by others, so he rarely hit her on the face or about the head.

  Once, Annie threatened to go to the police, but Ernest merely laughed at her.

  “Do you think they would take any notice of you?” he asked. “Why should they believe you? It’s your word against mine, Annie. Your word against mine. You just behave yourself, and you’ll be all right.”

  But try as she might, Annie continued to displease Ernest, and she came to realise that her very existence was an irritation to him. She annoyed and infuriated him simply by being herself, and there wasn’t much she could do about that. The way she ate her food, the clothes she wore, the way she cared for Billy, even the manner in which she spoke — everything she did seemed to get on Ernest’s nerves. Annie had enough insight to know that it was the situation rather than she herself which infuriated Ernest; that he resented their marriage as much as she did, and was taking his frustration out on her. But to be allocated the sole blame for that marriage, and to have to endure almost daily reminders of what Ernest seemed to consider his personal sacrifice in marrying her, were very hard to bear.

  Billy remained a problem for her. Annie still took a pride in her son, and had come to love him in her way. He was a bright child and could be both affectionate and entertaining, but as he grew from a wayward toddler into a temperamental and obstinate little boy, she often despaired. Over-indulged by Ernest, he could at times be a little tyrant, safe in the knowledge that even if he thoroughly displeased his mother, his father could be relied upon to take his part. Thus he learnt early on that he could usually get what he wanted by playing one parent off against the other.

  “Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Annie asked on one occasion, when she had put Billy to bed three times. “He doesn’t want a drink, or his potty. He’s not having nightmares. He just wants to stay up with us.”

  “And why not?” Ernest said, setting the child on his knee and giving him a forkful of his own dinner. “It’s all right for you, Annie. You see him all day. I’ve hardly set eyes on the lad today.”

  “But that’s the whole point! I’ve had him all day, and now I want a bit of peace. I can get much more done when Billy’s in bed.”

  Ernest, too, often wanted peace, and on those occasions he conveniently overlooked the fact that he was missing the opportunity to spend time with his son.

  “Can’t you keep that child quiet, Annie?” he would say, turning up the wireless or taking refuge behind his newspaper. “I’ve had a busy week. I need time to relax.”

  And so it was established that Billy was a welcome part of Ernest’s life provided it was on Ernest’s terms. The rest of the time his care was Annie’s responsibility. Occasionally, Ernest would take Billy for a walk, but he soon found that there was little entertainment to be had from walking at a snail’s pace, examining every stone or beetle or puddle they happened to pass. Billy’s interest and chatter gave him little pleasure. Once or twice, he took Billy with him to play in the allotment while he worked, but this, too, soon palled, and he would return complaining that he had got nothing done, while Billy, who had spent a happy time making mud pies, was covered from head to foot with the fruits of his labours. On balance, Annie was relieved when these little expeditions were abandoned.

  And so life continued with all its pain and its difficulties, and Annie increasingly retreated into her dream world of a phanto
m farm and an imagined embrace, and the ghost of a little girl in a pink frock.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Ophelia

  “Are you okay, Gran?” Ophelia dumped a collection of carrier bags on the kitchen table and sat down beside Annie. “You look as though you’ve been crying.”

  “I have.”

  “Oh, Gran! What happened? Have you hurt yourself?”

  “No. I lost a baby.”

  “You lost a baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “But — but that must have been a long time ago,” Ophelia said carefully.

  “It was. But I was telling Andrew about it. She died soon after she was born, and I never saw her.”

  “Oh, Gran. I’m so sorry. A girl, too. I bet you really wanted a daughter.” Ophelia squeezed Annie’s arm. “She would have been my aunt,” she mused. “I always fancied having an aunt.”

  “Your Aunt Amelia.”

  “A pretty name.”

  “Yes. I thought so.”

  “So why now? You never cry, Gran. You aren’t the crying sort.”

  “Perhaps I am now. Talking to Andrew brought it all back, and suddenly it was as though it had only just happened,” Annie said, getting up to put the kettle on. “I couldn’t cry before. I wasn’t allowed.”

  “Grandad?”

  “Yes. Grandad.”

  “Was he so awful?”

  “Not really awful,” Annie said. “I think I thought he was pretty awful at the time, but I’m beginning to understand a bit more about him. He wasn’t nice, though. I’d never describe him as nice.”

  Ophelia thought of the fierce, intolerant man she had known, and had to agree. She had been in awe of Ernest, and in a funny way she had respected him, but she hadn’t really liked him and she certainly hadn’t loved him.

  “Where is he now?” she asked suddenly.

  “Where is he?” Annie turned, teapot in hand. “In Heaven, I hope. Not that he believed in that sort of thing, of course, but he’d have been awfully annoyed if they hadn’t let him in. Your grandad hated being left out of things.”