A Summer Frost

by Elizabeth Walker

  ‘You’ve forgotten where we are, darling,’ sighed Barbara and he reluctantly changed the order to brandy and Babycham for Barbara and himself, beer for Patrick and gin and tonic for Mary.

  ‘Bitter lemon,’ said Patrick sternly and Mary gave him a weak smile. Pregnant or not, tonight she needed a drink but she was not up to a fight.

  The conversation was stilted. It seemed that Barbara and Darrell had been married for a year. They both worked in television and led a life centred around London, seemingly an endless whirl of parties and film premieres. Not a single domestic detail was forthcoming.

  ‘Do you have any children?’ asked Mary and at once could have bitten her tongue out. Barbara gave a merry laugh.

  ‘No, thank goodness. I’m not the maternal type.’

  Mary saw Patrick take a desperate gulp of his beer.

  ‘Is this your first?’ asked Barbara sweetly.

  ‘My third,’ said Mary, and left her to make of that what she would.

  At dinner Darrell pushed the food around his plate and complained about the poor choice, the plain cooking and the service from the single, well-upholstered matron with a frilly apron pinned to the twin mountain peaks of her bosom.

  ‘If you think this is bad, darling, you should see Ireland,’ said Barbara, stroking Pat’s hand with a long finger. He did not move away.

  ‘Do you ride at all now, Babs?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve grown out of that. I do yoga now, and meditation, of course. You’re doing quite well though I see. You’re with that funny little man Swallow, aren’t you?’

  Mary noted that she still took quite an interest in Patrick’s affairs. They talked of showjumping for a while and Barbara and Darrell spoke of the problems of fitting it into a television schedule when you never knew how long it would last. They became very technical and Mary’s thoughts wandered. In all the fuss she had forgotten to phone home, she really must do so first thing in the morning.

  She realised everyone was looking at her. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. Did someone say something?’

  ‘I asked how long you had known Paddy,’ said Darrell with a twinkle.

  ‘Long enough,’ said Mary, and caught Patrick’s eye. They both laughed.

  ‘What are you going to call the baby,’ asked Barbara and Mary looked blank.

  ‘Attila the Hun,’ suggested Patrick, ‘it kicks hard enough.’

  Mary felt that she was giving an impression of a meek, baby-orientated housewife and she decided to give the conversation a new turn. ‘Are you interested in cows?’ she said.

  ‘You mean for sailing? Yes, we have a friend with a yacht down there, go quite often in the summer as a matter of fact. When we can get away. Do you sail?’

  ‘No. Actually I meant cows that you milk.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you do any shooting, Darrell?’ asked Patrick valiantly.

  ‘Good heavens, no. Personally, I can find no pleasure in the slaughter of innocent creatures. I’m considering becoming a vegetarian.’

  ‘Oh.’ Patrick cut thoughtfully into his rump steak.

  ‘I do believe in muesli,’ said Barbara, ‘so good for the bowels.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Patrick was looking slightly taken aback.

  ‘She means uncooked porridge with raisins and things, you know; we bought one packet and fed it to the dog and even he wouldn’t eat it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What sort of dog do you have?’ Barbara’s social conscience was working overtime as she struggled to find some kind of common ground.

  ‘An Irish Wolfhound.’

  ‘How lovely! They are such courageous, majestic animals I always think.’

  ‘Murphy’s an abysmal coward, I’m afraid,’ sighed Mary, aware that she was once again pouring cold water on the conversational spark. ‘But he may improve,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Would you like anything else?’ asked the waitress.

  ‘Brandy,’ said all four in unison.

  At midnight Mary yawned ostentatiously and declared that she simply must go to bed, pregnancy was so tiring. Patrick leapt to his feet with ill-concealed relief, saying that he, too, had a busy day tomorrow, but what an enjoyable evening it had been; Barbara and Darrell must come to see them in Yorkshire some time. Neither spoke until they reached the bedroom. ‘Holy Mary Mother of God,’ said Mary, borrowing one of Pat’s phrases and sinking on to the bed. ‘What an awful evening.’

  Patrick chuckled, tugging at his tie. ‘We’re a pair of country yokels and that’s for sure, compared with those birds of paradise.’

  Mary eased her shoes from her feet and wriggled her toes luxuriously.

  ‘She makes me feel dowdy and boring.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I can’t believe I was ever married to her; the whole, miserable episode feels like a dream, or something I read. God, what a mistake that was.’ He flung himself on to the bed and lay, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. ‘If they ever come and visit us we’ll have to have smallpox or something. This civilised restraint is a very bad idea.’

  ‘Unzip me please,’ said Mary, turning her back. He did so, running a slow finger down the warm flesh and neatly unhooking her bra.

  ‘I can’t wait for you to have that baby,’ he said softly and she turned to look at him.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered, ‘let’s go to bed.’

  He needed her that night, he was hard with desire long before he held her in his arms. Was it really Barbara he wanted? Or Sylvia? Or any other woman who was slim and pretty and didn’t cry out in pain as he tried to make love to her? In the end he held her close, his face in her breasts, and satisfied himself, murmuring that it didn’t matter, he didn’t mind. But Mary minded.

  She lay awake in the night, thinking about Patrick and Barbara and the many, many times they must have loved. He was a good lover, tender and patient, with no sense of shame. Had Barbara taught him that? What had they done together? Stephen would never have done as Patrick had tonight, he would have burned and endured until at last she was properly available again. Stephen had been so very gentle. She wondered what Patrick thought of her performances, substandard surely when compared with the gorgeous, glamorous Barbara.

  With a sigh she struggled to find a position that eased her back, her thoughts again straying to home. Would they remember to shut up the geese? The foxes were very daring after the hard winter. She had once had some ducks slaughtered by a fox and she had walked amongst the blood like a stretcher bearer in the trenches. Only one had survived and he was so badly shocked that he refused to leave the hut. They wrung his neck in the end, it seemed kindest. Odd that she should still remember his fluffed up feathers and miserable quack after so long. She turned over once again and slept.

  Chapter 15

  ‘This kitchen is a disgrace,’ declared Mary. It was mid March and an early spring sun shone dimly through windows blotched with winter grime.

  ‘Looks all right to me,’ said Brogan, reading the post and eating breakfast at the same time. He had not yet noticed Ben’s careful pile of alternate toast and letters, so Mary quietly removed the mess and wiped off most of the marmalade with the dish cloth. Tim grinned. He was in a rare good humour, for lately he had been moody and irritable, bending under the weight of Brogan’s criticisms.

  ‘Nesting instinct,’ he said sweetly.

  ‘And you’re the cuckoo,’ replied Mary.

  Brogan got up. ‘Don’t you do it, get the cleaning woman in.’ He gathered up his papers. ‘My God, this lot only arrived ten minutes ago and it’s already covered in jam. The place is bewitched.’

  Left alone, Mary sprang into action, dragging the table into the hall and piling the chairs on top. The cleaning lady, Mrs Dobson, a dour efficient woman, was due tomorrow but it was her day for the bedrooms and she was apt to turn nasty if asked to deviate from her chosen path. She had once been asked to do the stairs on her sitting room day, simply because they were covered in bits of hay a
nd straw, and it was three weeks before she could be prevailed upon to so much as open the sitting room door, let alone polish anything. No, if the kitchen was to be done Mary must do it herself.

  She spent a busy morning scrubbing, polishing and tidying cupboards and at lunchtime was able to serve soup and sandwiches in surroundings that sparkled. No one noticed.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’ she asked. They were leaving for a show early the next morning.

  ‘Just about,’ nodded Brogan. A heavy sigh turned all eyes to Edna.

  ‘What will Sam do without you?’ teased Tim but Edna was too miserable to respond. She stared glumly at her plate.

  ‘Can you spare Susan this afternoon?’ asked Mary. ‘I need some shopping.’

  ‘She’d better get enough for a week, I don’t want you left alone here,’ said Brogan. He was becoming neurotic on this point and perversely Mary found it annoying.

  When the dishes were done she sat down to read to the children. Her back ached and the gripping adventures of Desmond the Donkey did nothing to alleviate it.

  ‘Come on everyone,’ she announced. ‘Let’s go and watch the horses.’

  Tim and Brogan were trying two of the Irish horses and the afternoon, though cold, was bright and springlike. Snowdrops were out in the orchard and the few daffodils that Murphy had omitted to dig up were coming into flower. She felt lighthearted and hopeful as she strolled to the paddock fence. Only four weeks to go and she would be thin again, perhaps able to climb the stairs without panting. Sometimes she felt she would stay like this for ever.

  Brogan was lunging a big, unbalanced four-year-old and was having trouble steadying him. The horse was belting round the circle, apparently tireless, but at last he began to slow. Within minutes Pat had him trotting and walking on command and Mary wrinkled her nose. His horsemanship always impressed her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said suddenly and put a hand on her stomach. Was that, or was it not a contraction? She put it down to imagination and turned again to watch the horses, unable to suppress a slight tingle of excitement. If only it could be today! Refusing to think of it she turned her thoughts to Tim, who was for once showing patience with the reckless little mare he was schooling. It was the type of horse he loved, all fire and no brakes and it brought out the best in him. Mary leaned on the fence, enjoying the entertainment, but she tensed again suddenly. Another contraction, only minutes from the last.

  ‘Patrick,’ she called, ‘could I have a word with you?’

  ‘Wait a minute, love,’ he said abstractedly, not turning his head. Mary shifted uncomfortably. ‘Please Pat, it’s important.’

  ‘Five minutes…steady lad, steady.’

  Another contraction was on its way. She took a deep breath. ‘Patrick, the baby’s coming. Now!’ The reaction was all she could have wished. ‘What!’ yelled Pat and his horse took off down the field at a flat gallop, alarming Tim’s mount which promptly bucked him off.

  ‘Well, not right this minute,’ she said apologetically as Brogan thundered up to the fence.

  ‘Are you in pain, look lie down, I’ll fetch the car - or something. No, I’ll ring the hospital, I’m sure that’s what you’re supposed to do. Er - you can hang on, can’t you?’

  ‘Relax Pat, things are only just starting. I’d better…oh!’ She clung to the fence and puffed her way through the contraction. ‘The house,’ she gasped, ‘I haven’t packed my case.’

  They made stately progress across the yard, stopping twice while Mary leaned on Pat and breathed hard. He was starting to look panicky and she began to giggle. She always felt unnaturally calm when she went into labour, a feeling which seldom survived the first real pain.

  ‘Mummy’s going into hospital to have your baby brother or sister,’ she told Anna.

  ‘But who will look after us?’ asked the child, her eyes huge.

  ‘Susan,’ grunted Mary and sank into a chair, striving to look normal.

  When she could move again she raced upstairs and burrowed for towels and nighties. Patrick trailed in her wake.

  ‘Where’s my sponge bag?’ she demanded.

  ‘I can bring it later, look we must go, it’s a half-hour drive!’

  ‘I must have everything or they’ll be cross. My God, I haven’t anything to take the baby home in.’

  Patrick barred her way to the attic. ‘It doesn’t matter, I will bring it. Now come on!’ He propelled her to the head of the stairs.

  ‘Wait a minute, I think…oh!’ She was standing in a puddle. Foolishly she blushed. ‘I think the waters have broken,’ she apologised.

  ‘So get a move on! The baby could arrive at any minute.’ His voice rose hysterically.

  ‘Oh, it’s not coming yet,’ said Mary casually. ‘And I must clear this mess up, Mrs Dobson will be furious.’

  ‘Bugger Mrs Dobson,’ roared Patrick and dragged her downstairs.

  Tim was standing in the kitchen, his face streaked with mud.

  ‘You have ruined my kitchen floor,’ said Mary accusingly, ‘so clean it up.’

  ‘I only wanted to wish you luck,’ he said in a hurt voice and today Mary was powerless to see beneath the little boy charm.

  ‘Oh. Thank you. And leave the floor it doesn’t…Oh God!’It was a vicious contraction that went on for ever. When at last it subsided she clung to Patrick, gasping.

  ‘Was it bad?’ he asked unnecessarily.

  ‘The worst one is the one you think you’re going to have,’ she said with wry philosophy. ‘We’d better go.’

  The drive to Beverley was misery for Mary, the seat was too upright and she felt acutely uncomfortable. Absurdly, when they turned into the hospital gates she felt an urge to turn and run.

  ‘Let’s not bother,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I won’t have the baby today, I don’t feel brave enough.’

  He grinned, then saw from her white face that in some weird way she meant it. He took her hand. ‘Be a brave girl,’ he said softly. ‘I’m here.’

  She smiled wanly.

  A contraction seized her as they approached the reception desk. The nurse took no notice.

  ‘You are Mrs…?’ she enquired brightly.

  ‘Brogan,’ said Pat and the woman looked puzzled.

  ‘No it’s Squires, gasped Mary,‘that’s what it’s booked under.’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose it is,’ said Pat vaguely. ‘Mrs Squires.’

  ‘If you’re quite sure,’ said the nurse acidly, ‘there’s nothing else you’d like to choose?’

  ‘That will do for now,’ said Pat coldly. ‘And if you’d hurry please, my wife is in pain.’

  ‘I’m not your wife,’ said Mary crossly as she was led across the hall. Several heads turned in surprise.

  ‘This is hardly the time to argue about it,’ he insisted.

  ‘Well, we don’t do weddings, I’m afraid,’ said the nurse cheerfully. ‘People usually try and fit those in before they get here. I take it you are the father?’ He nodded. ‘Just you go and sit down over there and we’ll call you.’ She ushered him through a door. Feeling excluded, Pat went to sit down, trying to ignore the interested stares of the other anxious relatives.

  ‘Get undressed and someone will be with you in a moment,’ the nurse was saying to Mary.

  ‘Please…’ she cried, but the door had closed and she was desperate to go to the lavatory. She looked wildly round the room for a bell and noticed another door, it was indeed a loo. With a sigh of relief she sat down and then felt very odd indeed, almost as if the top of her head was about to blow off. She took a gasping breath and started to push, leaping up the moment she realised what she was doing.

  ‘NO!’ she shrieked and staggered back into the examination room. Hurriedly she scrambled into a nightgown.

  The door opened. ‘Now dear, let’s have all the details shall we?’ said a large lady in a blue sister’s uniform. ‘Full name?’

  ‘Please, I think…’

&n
bsp; ‘Come along, dear, we’ve no time to waste.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Full name?’

  ‘I want to push, the baby’s going to be here any moment!’ she shrieked.

  The sister sighed and put down her clip board. ‘Is it your first?’

  ‘No, my third.’

  ‘Oh. Well, perhaps we’ll have a look then. Lie down please.’

  One swift feel and all was changed. ‘Nurse,’ called the sister, ‘Mrs Squires to delivery at once, please. She’s left it very late, I’m afraid she has missed her enema.’

  ‘Shucks,’ murmured Mary but was silenced by a basilisk stare.

  ‘And I don’t want to hear any foul language,’ said the sister.

  ‘But I only said…’ she tailed off miserably as they forced her into a wheelchair. The speed of their passage down the corridor blew the hair back from her face.

  ‘I want - I want Patrick,’ she wailed as they flew through the doors of the steel and tile delivery room.

  ‘I’ll go and get him, dear,’ said a small nurse with a kind smile. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

  The kindness unnerved her as the sister’s brusqueness had not and she felt tears rising in her throat. The delivery table was high, narrow and horribly precarious and she huddled miserably on it in her short white nightgown, longing for it to be over.

  Every head lifted as the nurse came into the reception hall.

  ‘Mr Squires?’ she called and at first Patrick did not respond. Then he jumped up.

  ‘Oh, you mean me I think. My name’s Brogan but I’m the father.’

  ‘Never mind, dear, we have lots of those,’ said the nurse helpfully. ‘Your - er - wife wants you. She’s about to deliver, come along.’

  She gave him no chance to refuse, whisking down the corridor in a swish of starched apron. Mary’s strained expression dissolved into a beam of relief as he entered the room. She clutched his hand tightly.

  ‘What do I do?’ He felt feeble and inadequate.

  ‘Just be here,’ she said.

  A contraction seized her.

  ‘Deep breath, chin on chest, bear down,’ intoned the sister and Mary struggled to obey, feeling the veins on her forehead bulging with the effort. She fell back with a gasp as the contraction passed. The room was filling up, presumably little else of interest was going on. Another contraction, and another, oh God how many more, she was so tired.