Ellie

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘You’re fully dilated now, Mrs Norton,’ she said, cool hands grasping Ellie’s feet and putting them on her shoulders. ‘I want you to start pushing with the next contraction. Do you understand?’

  It was Bonny who repeated the words they’d read together in the baby book. ‘Push down with your bottom, hard.’ She put her arm round Ellie and supported her against her shoulder, encouraging her with more instructions.

  Bonny was beyond wondering what might happen if it was discovered that Ellie wasn’t Mrs Norton. All she cared about now was Ellie and the baby that would belong to both of them. With each contraction she remembered how Ellie had pulled her through her abortion and each and every other thing Ellie had done for her in the past.

  Ellie’s hair was stuck to her head with sweat, her face purple and bloated with pain. It was now nine in the evening and she was clearly exhausted.

  ‘Push for the baby,’ Bonny ordered. ‘We’ll have him very soon, won’t we nurse?’

  The midwife braced herself as Ellie pushed hard against her and smiled as she saw her first glimpse of dark hair. ‘Ten minutes and it will all be over,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Now push hard, Mrs Norton, you’re nearly there.’

  Ellie gritted her teeth and pushed with her last vestiges of strength. One agonising pain suddenly ceased as it was replaced by a slithering sensation and Bonny lifted her enough to see her baby eject itself into the midwife’s waiting hands.

  ‘It’s a girl!’

  Ellie slumped back, too exhausted even to speak, but she heard Bonny cry out, her voice holding all the delight she herself felt but was unable to voice.

  ‘Oh, she’s so beautiful,’ Bonny cooed. ‘I’ve never seen anything so small and wonderful, she’s got a face like a flower.’

  As a feeble mewing sound grew to a lusty yell of outrage, Ellie lifted her arms instinctively. ‘Let me hold her?’ she begged.

  ‘Just a minute or two then,’ the midwife said, swaddling the naked baby in a towel. She smiled maternally as she laid the baby into Ellie’s arms. ‘Then we’ll get you both cleaned up.’

  Ellie wanted to cry, laugh, sing and shout all at once as she looked down at her baby cradled in her arms, but she remained silent, stunned by the wonder of this tiny scrap which had grown within her.

  She remembered seeing neighbours’ new-born babies back in Alder Street as a child, and secretly thinking they were ugly, scrawny objects, but she thought no such thing about this one. She stroked her baby’s angry red face tentatively. Her eyes were hooded by puffy cheeks, her nose and mouth too tiny for Ellie to tell how they might look in a few months. Ellie bent to kiss the grumpy little forehead and inhaled deeply of that mysterious birth smell trapped in whispy dark hair still congealed by blood and tissue. Tears of joy fell on to her baby’s face.

  ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Bonny whispered reverently beside her, taking one tiny fist in her hand and laughing through tears as the baby’s fingers gripped hers. ‘What are we going to call her? She doesn’t look like any of the names we thought of.’

  ‘Camellia,’ Ellie whispered. She wasn’t sure why she should suddenly recall that beautiful rose-like flower she’d seen once at Kew Gardens on a visit with Ray, but it seemed so very appropriate.

  ‘Camellia,’ Bonny repeated thoughtfully. ‘Camellia Norton! Yes, that’s perfect for her.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘We’ve done it!’ Bonny whispered, leaning back against the inside of the front door holding Camellia in her arms. ‘We’ve actually done it.’

  Ellie tried to smile, but her face seemed to be set in concrete. She was relieved to be back home, released from the burden of being Mrs Norton, but she didn’t see her ordeal as over. She knew the real pain was yet to come.

  Camellia was sound asleep, wrapped snugly in a shawl. After the constant noise in Bankside Nursing Home, The Chestnuts seemed deathly quiet. It was warm though. Enoch had been in earlier and lit the boiler and the sitting-room fire. His wife had left them a pot of stew for lunch.

  ‘We’d better put Camellia to bed and get ourselves back into our own things,’ Ellie said tersely. ‘You might get some visitors.’

  Bonny hitched Camellia up against her shoulder and with her free hand pulled off the black wig. Beneath it her own hair was tightly coiled and secured with hairgrips.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to this,’ she sniggered, tossing it across the hall to Ellie. ‘It makes your head itch like crazy. I can’t believe I’ve had it on for a fortnight.’

  Ellie glanced at the wig. It looked like a curled-up kitten lying on the polished floor. She wanted to retort that having an itchy head for a fortnight was nothing compared to what she’d been through, but she suppressed the remark, knowing she mustn’t give way to spite.

  ‘Let me take her up.’ Ellie pushed the wig into her coat pocket and held out her arms for Camellia. ‘Then I’ll get into my own things.’

  She saw Bonny hesitate before relinquishing the sleeping baby. In one sense it pleased Ellie, as it showed Bonny’s attachment to her, but it irritated her too.

  ‘I’ll come up,’ Bonny said. ‘All the bedclothes are in the airing cupboard and it will be a two-handed job getting them out.’

  Two hours later, Ellie sank down gratefully in an armchair in front of the fire and opened a letter from Edward. The house had seemed warm earlier, but now Ellie felt chilled.

  The midwife had warned her that it took some time to adjust both physically and mentally to returning home with a new baby, but Ellie hadn’t expected to feel quite so low. She was still a little sore, her own clothes felt too tight, she was disoriented and only a step away from bursting into tears. The letter in her hand, as yet unread, would be another reminder of the web of lies she’d spun.

  Camellia hadn’t woken since they tucked her into her crib, even though her two o’clock feed was almost due. All Ellie could hear was the wind in the trees, the crackle of the burning logs and Bonny’s shoes making tip-tapping sounds on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

  The stew Bonny was heating up smelt appetising, especially after the bland, stodgy food she’d eaten for the past two weeks, but she wasn’t hungry.

  All around her was evidence of the carefree days before she went to Bankside, now tinged with melancholy. Holly was withering around pictures, paper chains drooping dejectedly, the Christmas tree she’d helped decorate now shedding its needles. There were sharp reminders she didn’t belong here: wrapping paper from John’s presents to Bonny spilled out of the waste-paper basket; not one of the Christmas cards on the mantelpiece was for her. In two days’ time, on twelfth night, she would doubtless help Bonny pack away the decorations on the tree. Next Christmas, when they were brought out again, Camellia would be one: she might be walking and chattering in baby language.

  ‘I wonder where I’ll be?’ Ellie murmured to herself, knowing only too well that wherever she was in body, her mind would be in this house.

  It had been the worst and yet the best Christmas she could remember. Moments of exquisite happiness as she lay in bed cuddling Camellia, gazing down at that small, flower-like face, examining every inch of her tiny body. She felt Camellia favoured Ray more than her, with fairer skin, and lighter brown hair, but she saw a hint of her own protruding lower lip in Camellia’s sweet rosebud mouth. She wondered if those dark blue eyes would remain that colour or turn to brown.

  There were seconds of absolute panic when she heard visitors coming down the corridor; any one of them could have been a friend of John’s who would raise the alarm that she was an impostor. She’d cried tears of joy on Christmas Eve when three nurses walked in with lanterns singing carols, and bitter tears when she woke one morning to find her breasts overflowing with milk she couldn’t give to her baby. There had been a sense of optimism as church bells rang out the New Year: perhaps 1950 would bring prosperity to the nation and banish the austerity of the forties for ever.

  Yet there had been merriment too. Bankside was a tiny, privately ru
n maternity home with only sixteen beds, and because of its high fees the atmosphere had more in common with a hotel than the clinical and strict regime of a hospital. As Ellie had a room of her own, they were happy to allow Bonny to come and go as she pleased. One of the nurses jokingly gave her a cap and apron, saying if she wanted to be there so much she might as well make herself useful by emptying a few bedpans and dishing out food. Ellie had been helpless with laughter when she saw Bonny actually doing these menial tasks; she remembered a time when her friend would have considered it well beneath her.

  Then there was the terrible emptiness when presents, flowers and cards arrived. She had to look jubilant as she read all those loving messages from people she’d met at Bonny’s wedding, and express no surprise that John had friends wealthy enough to post hot-house blooms, baby clothes and toys bought in Harrods.

  Only Bonny’s devotion to Camellia kept Ellie on an even keel. She watched Bonny constantly, checking and rechecking to make sure she wasn’t pretending to enjoy feeding and changing the baby. But even Bonny, for all her wiles, couldn’t possibly radiate such tenderness and enthusiasm, not without feeling it. She was content to sit for hours nursing Camellia in her arms, marvelling at her nose, her eyes, each tiny fingernail. She saw it as a major triumph when she got up stubborn wind, even when it brought forth a trickle of vomit down her jumper. She was there each morning anxiously watching as Camellia’s weight was checked, crowing with delight when she’d put on an ounce, and she questioned the nurse closely about every kind of problem, from nappy rash to infant diseases.

  But above all, Bonny was Ellie’s friend and confidante. She listened patiently to all her worries, slipped out to find little delicacies to feed her, turned tears to laughter with her cynical humour.

  Many times in the last two weeks, Ellie had had the urge to pick an argument with Bonny, wanting to wound her so badly their scheme would just fall apart. They’d had words many times, often resulting with Bonny stalking out, yet she always came back, invariably just when Ellie was regretting the cruel things she’d said.

  But now they were home again, Camellia’s birth certificate proclaiming her parents were Bonny and John Norton, Ellie felt sick with the enormity of what she’d done. She wished she could look forward to the screen test in February, get excited about seeing people again. But she couldn’t. Even if she was to become a big star, be showered with luxury and adulation, she knew she would never be able to forget the price she’d paid for it.

  Ellie read Edward’s letter quickly. It shamed her further that he hadn’t reproached her for not writing from Canada and happily accepted all her lies and instead poured out affection and made jokes about Bonny becoming a mother. He was playing the piano in a smart night-club in Mayfair and he warmly invited her to stay at his new flat in Bayswater when she came back to London.

  ‘The stew’s ready,’ Bonny said from the doorway, startling Ellie out of her contemplation. ‘I’ll just nip up and see if Camellia’s awake yet. I’ve made her bottle.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ Ellie got out of her chair. She felt stiff and awkward and she didn’t really know what her role should be now.

  ‘No,’ Bonny said, her voice and face resolute. ‘I have to learn to juggle cooking, cleaning and looking after her. Besides, you must rest and get your strength back.’

  ‘But –’ Ellie started to protest.

  ‘No buts.’ Bonny came over to Ellie and put her hand on her arm. ‘We haven’t really talked about this part, but we both know what’s right, don’t we? I’m Mummy now and we mustn’t confuse Camellia. She’s the one who’s really important.’

  Ellie bit back tears. She knew Bonny was right. But it didn’t make it any easier. ‘I feel so strange,’ she whispered.

  ‘Of course you do.’ Bonny drew her into her arms and patted her back maternally. ‘But it will get easier, Ellie, I promise you.’

  Four days later, John telephoned to say he was coming home on the next flight. The call came on a bitterly cold afternoon when the girls were sitting by the fire with Camellia sleeping in her crib in the corner.

  They had devised a routine between them. Ellie prepared the meals, did the lighter jobs and gave Camellia the night feed. Bonny fed and changed her by day and did the washing and cleaning. Camellia was a model baby, sleeping from feed to feed, and although Bonny had insisted on doing the night feed too at first, she had soon discovered how exhausting it was and happily agreed to let Ellie do it as she always woke anyway.

  Ellie was feeling better, physically at least. She took herself off twice daily for a brisk walk, the soreness was gone and her appetite had returned. She felt too that she was slowly adjusting mentally. Bonny had proved herself to be a natural mother: she could soothe Camellia as if born to it, she was unflappable and resourceful. Though it hurt Ellie to see her baby responding faster to Bonny’s voice than her own, in her heart she knew this was a good thing.

  Ellie answered the telephone, just as she had ever since they got back, partially to vet calls, especially the daily ones from Mrs Phillips, but in the main to create the impression that Bonny was still finding it hard to move about quickly. John had sent many loving telegrams to the hospital and telephoned the first day they got back home. But the moment Bonny took the receiver from Ellie’s hand, her bright smile vanished and she turned pale.

  ‘The next flight?’ she said. ‘Oh John you mustn’t, your company won’t like it.’

  Ellie guessed from the expression on Bonny’s face that John was claiming his wife and baby were more important than a mere job and although Bonny did her best to sound pleased, she was quivering with fright.

  Just the thought of John arriving back so soon made Ellie’s heart race alarmingly. She wasn’t ready to face anyone yet, especially him. But she and Bonny were in too deep now to change anything, and Ellie knew it was her turn to support her friend.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ Ellie reassured her, once Bonny had put the receiver down. She put her arm round her and led her back into the sitting-room. ‘I know we didn’t plan on him coming for some time, but look on the bright side, at least it will deter your mother from coming for a bit. She’d be a great deal nosier than John.’

  ‘But look at you,’ Bonny said, touching Ellie’s stomach. ‘You’re tubby, you’re still waddling a bit. He’ll notice.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Ellie said firmly. ‘I’ll wear my corset again, and I’ll stop myself from waddling. Besides, he’ll only be looking at you and his baby.’

  Ellie found it odd that she could talk about John as if he were Camellia’s real father, yet found it almost impossible to refer to Bonny as ‘Mum’.

  ‘I’m scared,’ Bonny sobbed. ‘What if I slip up? What about my flat stomach? John’s bound to know women’s tummies are all wobbly after a baby.’

  ‘You won’t slip up,’ Ellie reassured her. ‘If you can get through two weeks at Bankside without once saying anything suspicious, you can manage it with John. As for your tummy, you just don’t let him see it. Wear a big warm nighty. He won’t be expecting to make love to you for weeks yet.’

  ‘But your hair, Ellie!’ Bonny took hold of a strand, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You can’t possibly wear that wig, John would know what it was immediately.’

  John’s concerned, loving voice had reactivated the part of Bonny’s brain which she’d chosen to switch off some time ago. For weeks she’d been cocooned in a happy, dream-like state, seeing her own and Ellie’s problems as solved to everyone’s satisfaction. But now she was reminded of the vow she’d made to herself on her wedding day, and she felt as if that threatening, fiery sword was about to come down from the heavens and strike her for reneging on her promises.

  She loved little Camellia as if she were her own, but she loved John too. He knew her so well and he was very perceptive. Did she really think she could fool him with this wicked deception?

  ‘I’ll go into Bristol first thing tomorrow and get it put back dark,’ Ellie said, sensing a little of wha
t Bonny was feeling. ‘Now stop worrying, everything will be fine.’

  ‘I knew you’d regret it madam.’ The hairdresser shook her head sorrowfully. ‘I couldn’t think what possessed you to want to be a blonde when your hair was so beautiful. It’s easy enough to bleach hair, but putting it back!’ She sighed deeply as if she didn’t want to attempt it.

  ‘I had a boyfriend who liked blondes,’ Ellie said airily. ‘But I’ve finished with him now. Can you do it?’

  Ellie had disliked this woman at their first encounter. She was a hard-faced Marcel-permed, pencil-thin shrew who ordered her assistants around the salon as if they were lower than the off-cuts of hair on the floor.

  ‘I can’t just dye it black,’ the woman said. ‘I have to take it through several gradual changes, blonde to gold, gold to red, red to brown, otherwise it will turn green.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ Ellie asked, refusing to think about ending up with green hair.

  The woman shrugged her bony shoulders, her small mouth pursed like a cat’s behind. ‘All day,’ she said. ‘And I can’t guarantee it will be in good condition at the end of it.’

  Ellie felt sick. She was already missing her baby, she hated the smell of perm lotion wafting around the salon and she had a feeling the woman wouldn’t try particularly hard to make it perfect. ‘Look,’ she said, fixing the woman with her eyes in the mirror. ‘I’m an actress. I’m about to start filming. If you make a good job of my hair I’ll tell everyone you are the best hairdresser in England and give you a good tip. If not …’ She tailed off, leaving the threat in the air.

  ‘An actress! A film star?’ The woman’s superior expression changed immediately to subservience. ‘Oh, how wonderful!’

  ‘It won’t be wonderful unless you give me black shiny hair again,’ Ellie said wryly. ‘Now, can we start?’