by Imogen Clark
They placed their orders and Marlon and Noah set off. Clio watched them go, Marlon crouching down as he walked so that he could hear what Noah was saying over the din of the music. They returned with the drinks on a tray and the most enormous bowl of nachos, which Noah carried in front of him like a crown on a cushion.
Marlon set the drinks down and Leah reached for hers, but she caught one of the others with her sleeve and it started to wobble. With lightning reactions Marlon righted it, and as he did so he placed his hand on Leah’s.
And there it was! Clio had known she was right. As Leah acknowledged Marlon’s touch she looked him in the eye and Marlon, instead of moving his hand, let it linger on hers. Quickly Clio dropped her eyes so that they didn’t catch her looking, but then she caught a glimpse of Poppy’s expression. She had seen it, too. Poppy looked straight at Clio, a smirk on her lips, and raised her eyebrows. The pair of them shared a conspiratorial wink.
Leah won the game with Marlon a convincing second and the rest of them trailing in as much of a muchness.
‘Again, again!’ shouted Noah with boundless enthusiasm, even though the first game hadn’t really held his attention.
‘No, I think that’s enough,’ said Leah, and Clio was impressed at how Noah just accepted her word and didn’t moan.
‘How about some lunch?’ Clio asked.
Leah’s face fell. She bit her lip and shook her head at Poppy with such a minute movement that it was hard to say for sure that it had happened. Not being able to afford to go out for lunch wasn’t something that Clio had ever experienced, but she kicked herself for not being astute enough to realise that it might be a problem for Leah.
‘My treat,’ added Clio before Leah could say anything.
‘But you paid for the bowling,’ said Leah.
‘And?’ replied Clio. ‘Have you seen where I live?’
She knew as soon as she said it that it was a mistake. She had been trying to make light of an awkward situation. It wasn’t that money was absolutely no object to her – it wasn’t a bottomless pit – but she could certainly stand a round of bowling and a pizza, but to Leah her offer was evidently more complicated.
‘Thanks, Clio,’ she said. ‘That’s really kind of you, but we need to be getting back. Poppy has homework and if I don’t clean my house this weekend I swear mushrooms will start growing in Noah’s room.’
It was a joke, Clio knew – Leah’s house was always clean – but the message was clear. Thank you, but I can look after my own.
Anxious not to make things awkward, Clio accepted the position and they went to reclaim their shoes.
‘It’s been great, Clio,’ said Leah when they were standing at the entrance. ‘We’ve had a fab time. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Clio replied. And it really was.
As they turned to go their separate ways, Clio caught the expression on Marlon’s face. Marlon, realising that she was on to him, blushed.
‘You like her, don’t you!’ she teased, once they were out of earshot. ‘Don’t try to deny it. I’ve known you far too long to be fobbed off.’
‘She’s very nice,’ replied Marlon non-committally.
‘And very pretty,’ said Clio.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ he said. ‘Last one to the car is a sissy.’
And with that he set off at speed towards the multi-storey car park, leaving Clio to walk alone and contemplate her next move.
21
GRACE – THEN
Grace was in the rose garden dead-heading the last few straggling blooms when she felt the first twinge. To begin with, she attributed the dull ache in her lower back to too much stooping over the flowerbeds, but pretty quickly she recognised it for what it was. Her baby was most definitely on its way.
But that couldn’t be right, could it? Even though she was well aware of the date, Grace counted out the remaining days on her gloved fingers just to make sure. It was only 25 September and Master or Miss Montgomery Smith wasn’t due for well over three weeks yet, but there was no denying that ache.
Grace, generally as cool as a mountain stream when under pressure, started to feel a little anxious. What had the midwife said about premature babies? How early was dangerously early? She couldn’t remember, but surely just over three weeks wasn’t anything to worry about. Babies were always popping out before their time. Still . . .
And where was Charles today? Not here, she thought, her rising anxiety masking the underlying irritation. With any luck he would be rehearsing in Newcastle. She struggled to get her brain to focus on anything other than the muscles tightening and relaxing across her abdomen. She hadn’t paid that much attention to his movements just yet because it was too soon. It was too soon!
By the time Grace reached the house, panic was starting to get the better of her. After a rather haphazard check on her watch she reckoned that the contractions were coming about every six minutes. That was all right. She just had to keep moving. She made her way to the office where the phone numbers for Charles at work were pinned to the notice board. It was hard to catch her breath now, and she needed to move more slowly than her sense of urgency required. The baby’s head was dropping; she could almost feel it between her legs, making her waddle even worse than before.
Her heart was beating far too fast. Was it bad for the baby, all this fear? Grace made a conscious effort to slow her breathing although it was hard when the contractions kept pinching at her muscles. With shaking hands she located the number for the rehearsal rooms, picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Come on, come on,’ she said into the receiver, but no one answered. Where were they all? Why was no one picking up? They might be in the middle of the rehearsal but there was always someone around in the office. After letting it ring more than thirty times, Grace gave up. She would go upstairs, throw some things into a bag and find Mrs Finn.
Mrs Finn, the nanny, was just backing out of Hector’s room as Grace came puffing up the stairs clutching the banister. As she approached, another contraction pulled at the muscles across her womb and she had to stop and take deep breaths through her open mouth until the pain subsided.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ said Mrs Finn as she saw her and immediately worked out what was going on. ‘Hospital?’
Grace could feel tears stinging her eyes. Suddenly it all felt too much. She didn’t even want another baby, her irrational brain told her. Not today, anyway. Not until Charles was here and their plans could all run smoothly.
‘But I can’t get hold of Charles,’ Grace said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice but sounding like a petulant child. ‘And there’s no one to take me and I haven’t even packed my bag yet,’ she added, her words tumbling out as the contraction lost its strength and the pain diminished. ‘It’s too soon, Mrs Finn. It’s far too soon.’
Mrs Finn considered the situation solemnly for a moment, smoothing down her uniform with the flat of her hand. Then she held her palms up to show that she was now taking control. Grace was happy to yield to her. She felt like a little girl again, being instructed by Mrs Finn on what she should do after tea.
‘You go and pack your bag, ma’am,’ Mrs Finn said calmly. ‘I’ll go and find someone to take you to the hospital and then I’ll try to get hold of Mr Montgomery Smith again. Is the number in the office?’
‘On the noticeboard,’ replied Grace weakly.
Mrs Finn nodded and then set off briskly towards the stairs as Grace made her way less nimbly to her rooms. As she reached the door, she felt the space between her legs become suddenly hot and then wet. Her waters! The fluid that wasn’t absorbed by her underwear started to trickle down her leg and as it did a new contraction, the strongest yet, bit into her so that she had to just stand on the spot holding her breath and let it pass.
They were going to have to get a move on or this baby was going to be born here at the Hall. Would that be so bad? It certainly wasn’t ideal, but if they could get a midwife out here it might be all right. But Charles was in Ne
wcastle somewhere. She had to get there, too. This thought spurred her on again.
Once in her room, Grace thought about what she needed. The things for the baby were easy enough to locate as the tiny white vests, babygros and mittens were all laid out in a drawer just waiting for someone to wear them. She gathered them together and then began on her toiletries and clean underwear. She had wanted to wear the same nightdress that she had given birth to Hector in, as if it were some kind of lucky talisman, but it was in the laundry basket so she would have to take a different one. Given the state that she knew it would be in by the time she had finished she might as well just take the dirty one, but her sense of propriety stopped her. Enough dignity was lost during childbirth – there was no point making things worse by wearing soiled clothes.
Grace was just closing the zip on her bag when Mrs Finn reappeared, flushed but with her eyes shining brightly. This was possibly the most exciting thing that had happened to her for months.
‘Right. Richard was in his office so he will take you to Newcastle in the Land Rover. He’s promised to drive slowly and carefully. No luck with Mr Montgomery Smith yet, I’m afraid, but I’ll keep trying and if I can’t get hold of him then Richard has said that he’ll drive over there once he’s dropped you off and pick him up himself. Now then. Have you got everything you need?’
Grace nodded, grateful for Mrs Finn’s efficient cool-headedness. She pointed at the bag, which Mrs Finn swooped in to pick up, and then headed slowly for the stairs. This was not how things were meant to happen, she thought as she picked her way back downstairs, stopping each time a pain came to sway her hips and pant until it passed. And where the hell was Charles?
22
GRACE – THEN
By the time the Land Rover pulled up outside the hospital, Grace’s contractions were coming every couple of minutes and it was all she could do to not scream out with the pain. Holding herself together was using every ounce of her strength. If it had been Charles sitting beside her as they raced through the busy streets she would have let rip, painting the air blue, but this was not Charles. This was Richard, the estate manager – staff. Grace could not allow herself to be seen acting other than with the greatest dignity in front of someone on the payroll, who, no matter how strong his loyalty to the family, would probably be unable to resist telling the story of his heroic dash to the maternity ward with Lady Hartsford in his car. To avoid becoming the talk of the village, Grace had to dig her fingernails into her palms until she drew blood and send her screams deep inside her towards the baby that was clamouring to be let out.
Richard flew out of the Land Rover almost before it had stopped moving and raced to her side to open the door.
‘Help me, please!’ he shouted across the forecourt to anyone who might be there. ‘Can I have some help here, please?’
Grace closed her eyes as another tsunami of pain crushed her. She couldn’t take much more of this. Had it been this bad last time? She seemed to have conveniently erased all memories of it.
As the pain receded, she came back to her surroundings. Someone was at her feet trying to manoeuvre them out of the footwell, and when she opened her eyes she saw that there was a wheelchair waiting just beyond the door. All she had to do was get from here to there. She set her jaw and slid forward to lower herself down.
‘That’s brilliant,’ said the voice encouragingly, and then, ‘What’s her name?’
‘Lady Harts . . .’ she heard Richard begin, and then, ‘Er, Grace.’
Even in this moment, the embarrassment in his voice amused her. How many times had she told her staff to call her Grace? But the older ones, the ones who remembered her parents’ time at the Hall, just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it.
‘Now then, Grace,’ the voice continued, and Grace looked up to see a young man with little round John Lennon glasses and a face to match. ‘If you can sit in the chair for me then I can whizz you along to the maternity unit. We don’t want you having this baby out here, do we?’
He gave her a compassionate smile and Grace nodded her agreement, letting him guide her down from the Land Rover to the waiting wheelchair. He made her feel safe and secure and his soft voice reassured her continually. Just as her bottom hit the seat pad, the next contraction started up. There was almost no build-up now. The pain just appeared like a firebrand in her very soul.
‘Where’s Charles?’ she managed to moan before the contraction took hold.
‘I’m going to get him now, Lady . . . Grace,’ said Richard. ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’
Grace had no memory of getting through the maze of corridors to the labour room, but now she was there, her nightdress was on somehow and her hand was grasping the gas and air mask so tightly that its edge was making imprints in her palm. A midwife – she had given Grace her name but it had not registered – was examining her, a gloved hand emerging from between her legs.
‘It’s a good job you didn’t leave it any longer,’ she said brightly. ‘You’re all ready to go. With the next contraction I’d like you to push.’
‘But I can’t,’ breathed Grace, no energy available to sound her words out. ‘I have to wait for Charles.’
The midwife shook her head. ‘There’ll be no waiting now, pet. This baby’s on its way.’
Well, Grace wasn’t going to be told what to do. She was in control of this process and if she decided that she would wait for Charles to arrive then . . .
But her body had other ideas. The instinct to push was suddenly so strong that nothing could stop it. She thrust the gas and air mask towards her mouth and sucked hard as every muscle in her body bore down. Where was Charles? she thought through the agonising pain. When this was all over, she was going to kill him. It was all his fault that she was here dealing with this all by herself. And if he didn’t get here right now he was going to miss the birth of their second child.
At exactly that moment there was a knock on the door. With huge effort Grace turned her head, expecting to see Charles stride in, flustered and bewildered but here to help her in her moment of need. The contraction was dying away and she took short breaths as she recovered her composure. But it wasn’t Charles.
Richard stood at the door, reluctant to enter this intimate female environment. He spoke to the midwife in hushed tones that Grace couldn’t catch, but there was no mistaking the shake of his head. Grace watched him walk away down the corridor as the door to the labour room closed behind him.
Then the contraction was back and Charles was pushed from her mind as the baby forced its way into it. The pain was hot now, she saw it red behind her eyelids as she struggled to remember what she was supposed to be doing.
‘Push now, Grace,’ urged the midwife. ‘And then pant when I tell you to wait.’
‘I can’t,’ Grace whined. She didn’t even recognise the voice as her own. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t . . .’
‘Now then,’ the midwife replied kindly. ‘Of course you can.’
But Grace couldn’t see how she could possibly be expected to go on. ‘Can’t you give me something? For the pain,’ she begged, but she already knew the answer.
‘It’s a bit late for that now, pet, but you’re doing just fine on your own.’
Before Grace could tell her that of course she wasn’t, the next wave was upon her. She pushed and she panted and it felt as if her insides were being torn from her body, but still there was no sign of the child.
As the pain waned briefly, the midwife said something that Grace didn’t catch and stepped smartly out into the corridor. Had they left her on her own? They couldn’t have, surely. She needed help – now! But there was another midwife in the room with her, Grace noticed now, hanging around quietly at the edge of the room busying herself with things that Grace couldn’t see. She approached the bed and Grace saw that she was very young. A virgin midwife, she thought. Now there’s a thing.
‘Fiona has just gone to get the doctor,’ the girl said. She looked anxious, as if talki
ng to the patients wasn’t something that she usually had to do. ‘Baby doesn’t want to come out. I think we might have to use the forceps.’ She pressed the word slightly as she said it and her eyes widened as if this was a new twist in an unlikely adventure.
A wave of sorrow rushed over Grace. This was all going wrong. First the ungainly race to the hospital with a man she barely knew. Then no sign of Charles – where was he? And now the ignominy of a baby that wouldn’t be born. She knew little of the birth process other than her own very narrow experience with Hector, but she understood what forceps were and what that would mean for her straining and punished body. If she had thought it would do any good at all, she would have burst into tears, strangers around her or no. But then another contraction snatched her away from the moment and cut into her, sharp as a blade.
‘Pant,’ said the young midwife, who looked almost as panicked as Grace felt. ‘Don’t push! Just pant until the doctor gets here.’
The door opened wide and colder air rushed into the room.
‘Now then,’ said a new voice, male and authoritative with public school vowels not dissimilar to Grace’s own. ‘Baby is being troublesome, I understand. Well, we need to show him or her who is in charge here.’
Grace wanted to say that actually, the baby did appear to be in charge, but the pain prevented her from doing anything but groan. She lay as still as she could whilst the doctor examined her. She knew that he was a doctor and had seen it all before, but that didn’t make it any less horrible.
‘You’re going to need an episiotomy so that we can get Baby out,’ he said. ‘You understand what that is? Nurse – can you explain?’
It was as if it was beneath the doctor to discuss the more savage parts of what he was about to do. The first midwife, now looking more pink in the cheeks than before, leant down to talk to Grace eye to eye.
‘It looks like Baby has got itself a little bit jammed, so we need to help it to come out. Doctor here will use the forceps to grasp hold of its head. Gently,’ she added. ‘Don’t worry. But to do that we’re going to have to make a little snip to let your perineum open a bit wider.’