“Well, she seems to be struggling to conceive.”
“For how long?”
“Two years, sir.”
Mr. Gascoigne looked accusingly at Rebecca over the top of his half glasses. Feeling like a naughty school girl before a schoolmaster, she nearly apologised. The questioning recommenced, not involving her, but all directed at Jack. Rebecca blushed and curled her toes as information was sought and given that should never be discussed outside the marital bedroom. But if these made her feel uncomfortable, worse was to come.
“So how is your wife’s mental state?”
Surprise caused Jack’s jaw to drop. “Mental state? Why, she is of a sound mind!”
“Easily agitated?”
“No.”
“Easily flustered with trifling cares?”
“No.”
“Easily dissolves into tears?”
“No.”
“But, Jack,” interrupted Rebecca, wanting to be open and honest. “I sometimes get agitated or tearful just prior to . . . err . . . once a month.”
The steely schoolmaster eyes fixed on her, silently daring her to speak again.
“Is that so?” he asked Jack.
“Not that I would notice.”
“But your wife confesses to these agitations, and they may be very significant. The female body is of weak frame and subject to all manner of influences. Undue worry, stress, or emotion can greatly affect the female reproductive organs and result in wandering of the womb. The worst scenario in the female is hysteria, when uncontrolled, unbalanced emotion completely displaces her womb, rendering her barren and mentally infirm.”
“Mrs. Hayworth does not suffer that, sir,” said Jack firmly. “She is a most rational and balanced woman.”
Mr. Gascoigne ignored this interruption.
“But even a small degree of disequilibrium can render a woman infertile. She needs to learn to check her emotions and seek to maintain calmness at all times.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now I wish to carry out a physical examination of your wife.” He seemed to be asking Jack for permission, not Rebecca. He rose and led her out of his opulent consulting room to a leather-covered couch in a small, tiled examination chamber en-suite. It reminded Rebecca of the cold room at Barton Manor where fish, pheasants, and geese were disemboweled. Lying on the hard couch in a most compromised position, Rebecca tried to disassociate herself from the present, but one glance at the large, shiny speculum made her eyes widen, and she gulped in horror.
“That would fit a horse!” she said.
Mr. Gascoigne refrained from replying but merely raised one of his black bushy eyebrows and continued with the examination.
Rebecca grasped the sides of the coach and looked up intently. There was a crack in the ceiling that looked like the outline of Wales. She nearly verbalised her thoughts, then immediately thought better of it. Such a random comment would certainly activate the eyebrow and might lead to a firm diagnosis of madness. The pushing and poking made her feel nauseated and faint, not helped by the way his ridiculous waxed moustache bobbed up and down as he carried out his inspection.
When she felt she could bear it no longer, Rebecca prayed for help and comfort. What a wonderful thing the Christian faith is, she thought, when even in this awful position, I can freely pray to my Heavenly Father, not having to fear that it is irreverent but confident of His sympathising ear. Could any other religion offer the same consolation? All others would think it most unseemly and prescribe rituals and ceremonies before approaching a distant deity. If the Lord blessed this undignified investigation and would give the obnoxious man wisdom about a treatment plan, maybe this time next year she could be cradling her very own baby.
At last the examination was over, and Mr. Gascoigne silently exited the room, leaving Rebecca to sort herself out. As she pulled down and straightened her skirts, she wished her emotions could be put right as easily. From the next room, she heard the drone of Mr. Gascoigne’s authoritative voice. Was she expected to join the men or wait to be invited back in? A rush of rebellion seized her. It was her body after all that was at stake, so she opened the door. Mr. Gascoigne had lit a fat cigar and was giving his verdict amid a cloud of smoke.
“Yes, as I say, the findings are fairly inconclusive—as they so often are in this difficult specialty. There are so many factors involved, all very complex. The mind of a woman and her body are so uniquely and intricately connected that any exertion of the mind, whether through intellectual effort or strong emotion, may create obstruction of menstrual effluent. This may in turn result in congestion of the brain and lead to irreparable psychological damage, insanity, or death.”
“I see,” whispered the couple in unison.
The smoke billowing from the accoucheur’s nose did not help to relieve Rebecca’s feeling of nausea.
“To keep the physiological, mental, and emotional economies of womanhood in equilibrium, Mrs. Hayworth will need to cultivate a calm and even emotional state. No unnecessary taxing of the brain through study. Nothing to encourage a wandering womb. No hard physical labour or exercise that disturbs the abdomen, but daily gentle walking— vigorous enough to warm the body but not to produce perspiration. In the morning when the air is fresh and invigorating, but not in the evening, for evening dew is a source of ill. Gentle walking is a tonic to general health and does not put undue strain on the structures supporting the reproductive organs. Of course, no tight lacing of the corset. A good corset will provide warmth, support, and protection to the delicate female organs and ligaments. It will help maintain a good digestion and healthy bladder as well as averting back injury. But a tightly laced corset could do untold internal damage and dislodge your vital organs. Finally, I suggest a daily sitz bath, by which I mean sitting in a few inches of cold water.”
Mr. Gascoigne put down his smoldering cigar and fingered his fountain pen.
“Now Rev. Hayworth, may I give you some advice. I detect that you, like many other men of less privileged class, are at risk of viewing your wife as an equal. This is a grave and dangerous error. Indeed, you, of all men, should remember how even Scripture refers to women as the weaker vessel. Do not require her to share the burden of care that ought to fall on your shoulders.”
Was it Rebecca’s imagination, or did her husband stiffen his shoulders at this statement? Was it in disagreement, or was he flexing himself to shoulder the parish burdens alone?
“Keep her from the strains and alarms that come your way and demand the attention of men like you and me, who are called upon to assist the suffering and unfortunate. Do not encourage mental exertion—for example, the reading of your theological tomes. Women are weak and need to be treated as such. Light reading, moralising tales, and ladies’ periodicals are suitable, but no study books or emotionally disturbing novels.”
The flow of advice then ceased, but the Hayworths sat silently, unable to formulate a sensible reply.
“So that will be all. Come back in several months if there is no change, and we can consider surgery. That will be ten guineas. Thank you and good day.” The fountain pen pointed toward the door, and they obligingly exited.
They walked in silence all the way to The Regent’s Park. Carriages rattled past them, and street sellers advertised their wares loudly, but Rebecca was oblivious to everything except her battle to fight back tears. What an incapable specimen of womanhood she was! She appeared to have no control of her emotions or her wandering womb. She must change beyond all recognition before she could ever hope to be worthy of motherhood. As they sat down on the first available bench, she was blind to the trees, flowers, and beauty that would have normally enchanted her. All she could see were legions of nannies and young mothers proudly pushing perambulators.
She could bear it no longer; the tears she had held back since the humiliation of the examination chamber flooded out, and her whole body shook with their force. Jack pulled her to himself and held her close to his chest. He bent down to k
iss her hair, but it landed on her bonnet.
“My darling, don’t take it so badly. The man is a buffoon.” The sobs continued. “What he said about women was outrageous! Especially applied to you. You are the most rational, energetic, and sane woman I know. If we can’t have children, it is nothing to do with your . . . whatever did he call it? . . . equilibrium or whatever. It is just what the Lord sees best for us.”
“The specialist despised me!” Rebecca shakily replied from the depths of his waistcoat.
“He despises all women,” her husband said in a low voice.
“Why did he choose that profession then?”
“To charge ten guineas, purchase gold fountain pens, and smoke cigars.”
The sobbing recommenced. “I’ve cost us so much money.”
“I’d have paid more, just to escape.” Dear Jack and his humor.
“Do you think he has a wife?”
“Probably—in a specimen jar somewhere,” he whispered in Rebecca’s ear.
“Pickled?”
“Exactly!”
Unaware of any passersby, they clung to each other, mingling tears and laughter.
CHAPTER 15
THE TEN-PIN BOWLING IDEA had really taken off in Capford. One of The King’s Head regulars, Tim, was the undergardener for Lord Wilson and had access to a lawn roller. After meticulously cutting a strip of grass on the village green, he rolled it to the standard of the Wilsons’ croquet lawn. Now no one could blame uneven ground for a poor shot, and the arguments were reduced. Every school boy was eager to get his hands on the vicarage skittle set, but Violet guarded them with an eagle eye. “As a paid member of the vicarage household, I am entrusted with safeguarding their property,” she explained haughtily to a bunch of boys who dared to ask.
“But ’e made ’em for the Sunday school tea, and so they’re for us Sunday school children.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then, before leaving, he would have instructed me to give them to you, and I can assure you, he did not.”
“Maybe ’e forgot to say.”
“Maybe he did, but to play with them without his permission would be terribly wrong of you, wouldn’t it, and I don’t want to see you getting into trouble. Now run along and carry on playing skittles with upturned logs.”
“But they don’t fall down as easy.”
“Then you’ll have to throw a bit harder, won’t ya?”
Thus Violet remained centre stage in the ten-pin bowling craze, and every evening The King’s Head regulars looked out for her and the big canvas skittle bag. But Violet was running out of time on two fronts: the Hayworths were to return from London in two days, and Reuben was leaving Capford at the end of the week to go hop-picking in Flimwell, a village ten miles away. She was certain she had won his heart, but she needed also to win his hand in marriage, or at least a promise of his hand. The whole village knew of their attachment, and she would be a laughingstock if he slipped away without an acknowledgement of their position. Not that she doubted his intentions, but he did need to verbalise them. That is common a weakness in men, she had noticed. They couldn’t express their intentions and often needed women to help them.
Tonight the lads were in a celebratory mood. The back-breaking job of harvesting the turnips was completed, so now at Biggenden only the apples were left to be picked.
The moment Reuben approached her, Violet could see he had drunk too much. She had never heard him talk and laugh so much. He was too demonstrative in public, and she felt uncomfortable. Whatever her plans had been for helping him articulate his intentions, they would have to be shelved until he was sober. A drunken proposal was no proposal at all. How was she supposed to treat him? She had had no experience of dealing with an intoxicated man. Should she ignore his loud, befuddled declarations of love or try to humour him? She felt embarrassed in front of her fellow villagers. She glanced at Joe and saw his look of disgust. She wanted to go home but was responsible for the wretched skittles.
She tried to mingle with the crowd and lose Reuben, but he followed her relentlessly. Now she was scared. If and when he went to refill his tankard, she would slip off into the shadows, and the skittles would have to look after themselves.
It was twilight before she could carry out her plan. She crept past the public house and disappeared down the path by the woodshed. She walked fast, her heart beating louder than the exercise required. Then she heard her name being called. It was Reuben, and his voice sounded harsh. When she heard footsteps behind her, she gathered up her skirts and started to run. She could not tell if Reuben was catching up with her, for the leaves under her feet and her own heartbeat drowned any other noise. She realised she was running away from help as well as toward harm. Down this lonely path, no one would find her. She was about to lose her life or her virtue or both. She ran and prayed as she had never run and prayed before.
Now she could hear his footsteps, fast and close. She screamed and was about to scream again when his hand suddenly muzzled her mouth. Now he had her.
“You’ve been dallying with me for long enough,” he hissed, “and now you can give me my dues!”
His other arm crossed her chest, and his hand grasped her shoulder, forcing her backward. She kicked as hard as she could, but with one movement of his leg he had her down on the ground. He crashed to the ground on top of her. Her whole body was jarred with pain, but she fought on. Her kicks, bites, and scratches only provoked from him expletives and punches. His weight pinned her to the ground, and a firm slap around the head made her so faint she wondered if she would ever rise again. She could taste blood in her mouth. She was too weak, faint, and bruised to put up any more resistance. She was no match for him. The inevitable must happen, and she must submit and die.
Just at that moment they were surrounded by lamp lights, and someone kicked Reuben so hard he weakened his grip of her. The kicking continued until he was right off.
“Get out of ’ere, you brute!”
“Leave our Vi alone!”
Now Violet recognised her saviours—they were Tim and Joe. They were pulling Reuben to his feet and with a few more swipes, sent him on his way.
“And don’t ya dare show ya evil face in these parts again!”
Violet felt dazed, relieved, and embarrassed. When she tried to sit up, her head reeled.
Out from the shadows a shaken Molly came to assist. “We’ll get ya safely home, Vi.”
The three hauled her to her feet. She staggered along between them. Her dress was torn and covered in mud, and her hair roll was half undone. She felt so disheveled and foolish, and they were all so kind and decent. She really needed their assistance, but all she wanted was for them to be gone.
I must look awful, ’cos even Ma is sympathetic, thought Violet as she collapsed into a chair by the stove. Her rescuers explained the situation, received hearty thanks, and then bade them all goodnight. Even when they had gone, her mother fussed around her lovingly. Pa looked ready to grab a shot gun and go after Reuben, but instead he laced Violet’s warm milk with brandy and drew her chair closer to the stove. Such tender love after such hateful violence broke Violet’s brave composure, and she wept like a baby. She desperately wanted her parents to understand, but her sobs and swollen top lip made stringing a sentence together nearly impossible.
“Ith all right,” she lisped. “He didn’t acthually do anything.”
Her parents looked at her battered face, swollen lip, and bruised body, but they knew exactly what she meant.
“That’s all right then,” they said with relief.
“Yeth, ith all right.”
CHAPTER 16
AS SHE WALKED UP THE vicarage garden path, Rebecca paused to take in some deep breaths of fresh country air. How wonderful it was to be back in quiet, unhurried Capford. Early that morning as they had left Uncle Hector’s house, they saw that an autumn mist had descended on London. In the country, a light morning mist could beautify the scener
y with mystery, often heralding the dawn of a warm day, but in London the damp droplets caught the acrid smoke of a thousand chimneys and refused to let the sun penetrate its density. On seeing the smog, Uncle Hector refused to take a step outside.
“You’ll choke to death,” he warned the couple as they prepared to walk to Victoria Station.
They ignored his predictions of an early demise, not wanting the expense of a cab, and coughed their way through the miasma and murkiness of the shrouded streets.
Yes, it was wonderful to be back in rural Kent, where the sun still conquered the mist and where farm animals still outnumbered human beings. In this calm and pleasant environment, where nature and man lived in greater harmony and where life was not unnecessarily rushed or mechanised, she would school herself in the art of serenity, indulge in sitz baths, and pray for results. Thus resolved, she made her way indoors to greet Violet.
Violet! What a state! Rebecca could scarcely believe her eyes. With two black eyes and a thick lip, the poor girl looked utterly miserable and incapable of work. Over a cup of tea at the kitchen table, Jack and Rebecca heard Violet’s abbreviated version of the incident.
“Violet, you should not be here. You need to be in bed.”
“Needs must,” replied Violet.
“Well, I am grateful for your loyalty and courage in struggling here to light the stove and get things ready for us, but please, go home and rest.”
“It would be nice.”
“Then go.”
“But what about your supper?”
“I can manage that and everything until you are fully recovered. For I guess you have a lot more bruising than we can see.”
Violet nodded with downcast eyes. “You wouldn’t want to know, ma’am.”
“But what I do want to know is that you will not return until you are fully recovered. Shocks like you have experienced can take their toll, especially on young women.” Now I am sounding like Mr. Gascoigne.
Violet must have been in pain, for she put up no resistance but, with tearful apologies, left Rebecca to don her apron, stoke the stove, and prepare the supper. The trunks needed unpacking, and the parlour fire needed lighting. The log baskets were empty.
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