Dubious Legacy

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Yes,’ Pilar answered from a distance. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I am cold. I should not have gone out. I shall go to bed. Bring some tea.’

  ‘Can’t you get your own?’ Pilar called back. But she went into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. Waiting on Margaret to save argument and save herself trouble was an ingrained habit. But there was an unusual note in Margaret’s voice.

  Pilar went through to the hall.

  Henry came hurrying in. ‘Telephone,’ he said. ‘I must get the doctor. Please help, Pilar. Perhaps we should get an ambulance? I’d better—Here, can you cope with Susie? She’s been in the lake. Get her dry,’ he said, beginning to dial. ‘She’s sopping.’

  Pilar ran forward and took the child as Matthew and James, each supporting their wives, came into the house.

  Halfway up the stairs Margaret sat down to watch.

  Henry was telephoning the doctor. ‘He can’t be out,’ he said. ‘Where can I catch him? Where? What? At the hospital? All right, I’ll try there. Yes, yes, it’s urgent.’

  Straining to sound calm, Matthew said, ‘Tell him Antonia’s in labour, tell him—’

  Dialling, Henry said, ‘I’m trying the hospital, he’s there. We—’

  Antonia, doubling up, groaned, ‘Aaah!

  Matthew said, ‘Here, sweetie. Sit here. You should get out of those wet clothes. Let me help.’

  In Pilar’s arms, Susie began to shriek, ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ kicking out her legs and arching her back against Pilar, so that it was difficult for Pilar to hold her.

  Looking through the banisters, Margaret said, ‘What an extraordinary spectacle. What about that tea?’

  Trask, appearing from nowhere, took Susie from Pilar and began stripping off the child’s wet clothes, saying, ‘Trask will get ’ee dry. Keep still, my beauty, soon have ’ee warm.’ Deftly he removed the child’s clothes until she was naked, then, removing his sweater, he pulled it over her head.

  (In adulthood, in times of stress, Susie would recollect the comfort and warmth, how the jersey clothed her from chin to feet in scratchy, soothing Fair Isle, how it smelled of Trask, and the struggle her hands had had when he set her down in a chair to find their way out of inordinately long sleeves to pat Lysander’s kindly enquiring nose.)

  Margaret, watching, called down, ‘And what about me? What a fuss you are making. What about my tea?’

  Without looking up, Henry said, ‘Fuck your tea. No, no, not you,’ he said into the telephone. ‘I’m trying to get through to the doctor—’

  James said, ‘Barbara, I must get you to bed, I must—’

  Barbara snapped, ‘Rubbish! Just help me out of this wet clobber and wrap me in something while you fetch some dry things. ‘I’m quite all right,’ she said. ‘Don’t dramatize.’ She had no wish to be separated from Antonia or from the comfort of Henry who, holding the telephone in one hand, had lifted the lid of an oak chest and was pulling out rugs. ‘Give me one of those,’ she said. ‘My top half’s dry. I’m only wet from the waist down.’

  Margaret remarked, ‘Waist! What waist?’

  While James exclaimed, ‘You can’t undress in the hall—all these people—the baby.’

  Barbara said, ‘I can,’ and divested herself of skirt and knickers. ‘They are too busy to admire my bush,’ she said, her teeth chattering. ‘This is no time to be modest.’ She snatched a rug from Henry and wrapped it round herself. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ she said more calmly.

  Henry said, ‘He’s on his way,’ and replaced the receiver. ‘Won’t be long.’

  Barbara said, ‘If you want to be useful, James, you could get me my warm slippers and some wool socks.’

  James said, ‘At once. You all right if I leave you?’ and raced up the stairs past Margaret.

  As James rushed past, Margaret shouted, ‘I did ask for some tea. Won’t someone—’

  Henry turned to Antonia, struggling out of her wet clothes with Matthew’s help. ‘The doctor will be here soon,’ he said. ‘He asked how frequent your pains are.’

  ‘Too bloody frequent,’ Antonia grunted. ‘Did you get the car back from the garage?’ she asked Matthew.

  Miserably Matthew said, ‘No. They have to get a spare part. It never occurred to me that you—that you’d start.’

  Antonia said, ‘That’s all we need.’

  Henry said, ‘Don’t worry, Matthew, there’s James’s car and mine.’

  Antonia said, ‘I’d like to give birth in a vintage Bentley, it smacks of style. Ooh!’ She gripped Matthew’s hands. ‘Ooh, Matthew, I am not enjoying this.’

  James came down the stairs three at a time. He carried Barbara’s fur slippers and an armful of eiderdowns.

  Margaret said, ‘If her waters break, it will make a mess on the carpet.’

  Matthew said, ‘My God! Wonderful! You have been quick. This is my wife, she’s—’ to a man who was coming hesitantly into the hall.

  ‘The door was open,’ the man said. ‘The bell doesn’t seem to function.’

  ‘It never has,’ said Matthew. ‘It’s my wife, doctor, she’s in labour. The child’s not due for at least a month.’

  ‘I’m not a doctor.’ The man stepped backwards in alarm, ‘I came to see—’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Margaret said from the stairs. ‘I imagined you dead,’ she said disagreeably.

  ‘Not yet.’ The man looked up at Margaret. ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘You look fine,’ he said, moving towards her. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘A disgusting exhibition,’ said Margaret. Then she said, ‘Perhaps you could get me some tea. I went out and got awfully cold. I need something hot to revive me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to find it,’ said the man, sitting down on the step below her. ‘I heard you lived in bed,’ he said.

  Margaret said, ‘Where have you sprung from?’

  ‘Some acquaintances are putting me up for the night.’

  ‘The Jonathans?’ She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  Matthew, gaping, said, ‘So you are not the doctor?’

  The man said, ‘Afraid not.’

  Margaret said, ‘This is my brother Basil.’

  Matthew turned back to Antonia. Henry had taken it upon himself, he noticed in sudden fury, to move her from the hall to the drawing-room sofa and was wrapping her in an eiderdown brought by James. ‘Let me do that,’ he said and pushed Henry aside.

  From the stairs Margaret shouted, ‘I asked for tea, for Christ’s sake.’

  Henry murmured, ‘Good idea,’ and left the room.

  James, tenderly enveloping Barbara in an eiderdown, asked, ‘Are you all right, darling? I love you so.’

  She said, ‘And I love you. Sorry I was stroppy. You know I don’t mean it.’

  James said, ‘Of course not,’ and held her hand. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You gave me such a fright. What possessed you to jump into the lake?’ he said, peering into her eyes as though they would divulge the secrets of her heart.

  Barbara said, ‘Don’t worry, don’t fuss, please. It’s Antonia,’ she whispered. ‘Her baby isn’t due for weeks.’

  James said, ‘I had not thought, I was thinking of ours. After all,’ he said, ‘they’ve got one already. We haven’t.’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘soon. It’s going to be all right, darling.’ She could see that he was shaken and was moved. ‘It might be a good thing if you put some logs on the fire,’ she said. (It might be a good thing, she thought, to keep him occupied. This was not the moment to tell him that she had begun to have funny pains in her back. Time enough when the doctor had come and dealt with Antonia.)

  James busied himself with the fire. Barbara watched him.

  Antonia groaned.

  Matthew exclaimed, ‘I wish that doctor would hurry.’ Then he said, ‘I am trying to keep calm. Giving birth is such an everyday occurrence, but when it’s applied to myself I feel it’s unique, not easy at all.’

&
nbsp; Antonia, with jocularity, said, ‘I shall tell your son you endured my time of travail with true British phlegm.’

  Matthew snapped, ‘This is no time to make jokes. If you heap all those logs on the fire, James, you’ll set fire to the chimney.’

  Antonia gasped, ‘If not now, when? When can I make jokes?’ But she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘It will be all right,’ she said, ‘you’ll see.’ Then she said, as Henry came into the room followed by Pilar, ‘Oh good, hot tea, just what we need.’

  Henry, carrying a loaded tray, said, ‘And hot toddys for Dads. I think I hear the doctor at last.’

  Matthew, remembering, said, ‘Your brother-in-law, Basil, is with Margaret.’

  Henry, pouring tea, said, ‘I don’t know that I have a brother-in-law. Trask has brought James’s car round and mine, should we need it. Here, Antonia, drink this if you can,’ passing her a cup. ‘And Barbara,’ he said, ‘you look as if you could do with one. Here he comes,’ in accents of relief as the doctor came into the room.

  The doctor’s arrival had a magical effect. Antonia and Barbara grew compliant.

  ‘There is intensive care, if you need it,’ he said to Antonia. ‘The child will be fine.’

  ‘I am afraid of incubators—’ Antonia looked askance.

  ‘Your baby won’t be, he will not know he is in one.’

  ‘How d’you know it’s a he?’ Antonia shouted, gripped by a strong pain. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I did not mean to shout.’

  ‘Get your wife into my car,’ the doctor told Matthew. ‘We shouldn’t waste time.’

  ‘Even a new-born child would know the difference between my turn and a machine.’ Antonia let Matthew lead her out. ‘Matthew,’ she said, ‘you’ve stopped being jittery.’

  Matthew said, ‘Get into the car. I never was.’

  Antonia said, ‘Ho!’

  ‘And you,’ the doctor said to Barbara, ‘are to follow with your husband. He tells me you are due very soon.’

  Barbara said, ‘I think we are neck and neck, but I don’t want to frighten my husband.’

  The doctor laughed.

  Henry stood on the steps and watched them go.

  Basil, thinking it time to introduce himself, joined Henry by the front door. He would explain his presence, arrange to come again at a more convenient time.

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘AND MARGARET’S BROTHER, DID you say his name is Basil? What’s happened to him?’ asked Antonia, propped up by pillows in the hospital bed, in the room she shared with Barbara. ‘He was staying with you, that much we know. What sort of account did he bring back to you? He must have been quite surprised by the birth drama.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said John. ‘I must say, Antonia, maternity suits you. You are looking beautiful as well as pale and interesting. Where’s the baby?’

  ‘Looking ugly in an incubator,’ said Antonia. ‘But she will be all right, I’m told, given time. Tell us about Basil.’

  ‘James and Matthew can’t tell us anything,’ Barbara interjected. ‘He was gone when they got back to Cotteshaw. What do you think of my achievement?’ She pointed to the cot at the foot of her bed. ‘Isn’t she divine?’

  The Jonathans stared at the scrap in the cot. ‘Not as pretty as you,’ they said, peering. ‘A strange form of divinity,’ they teased. ‘Not our line of country.’

  ‘So tell us about this Basil,’ said Barbara. ‘Is he your line of country?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ said John. ‘As Henry will have told you.’ He helped himself to a grape from the bunch he had brought the girls.

  ‘Henry has not been to see us,’ said Antonia.

  The older man said, ‘Oh?’ and he, too, took a grape. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Have a grape,’ said Antonia. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the older man. ‘Is Matthew thrilled with his new daughter?’

  ‘If he is, he’s hiding his feelings pretty successfully,’ said Antonia. ‘Lots of sangfroid anglais in my Matthew, deep wells of it,’ she said. (If they say I can always try again, I shall scream, she thought.) ‘Have another grape and tell us about Margaret’s brother,’ she said. ‘Is he beautiful, like her?’

  ‘He is, actually,’ said the younger man, ‘but in character I’d say chalk to her cheese.’ He picked at the grapes and thought of Matthew’s ridiculous desire for a son. What did its sex matter if the baby had survived and Antonia come to no harm? ‘Margaret’s brother,’ he said, spacing his words with grapes, ‘has the same hair and skin but darker eyes and a much nicer expression. I’d say, from what we’ve seen of him, that he is a kind man.’

  ‘Very kind,’ said his lover, putting out a hand for the grapes.

  ‘Have some of mine,’ said Barbara. ‘James brought these.’ She reached for a plate of fruit. ‘We can’t possibly eat them all. James is taking me home tomorrow.’

  ‘Taking the baby, too?’ asked the younger man.

  Barbara said, ‘Of course.’

  Barbara looked radiant, they told one another later, so happy and proud. There had been no snide remarks about James.

  ‘And you?’ the older man asked Antonia. ‘Are they letting you go?’

  ‘In a few days,’ she said. ‘It’s got to be worked out. The poor baby may have to wait to be on the safe side, and if she stays, I do, too. Come on,’ she said. ‘Tell us about the mysterious Basil. Is he really her brother? Why have we never heard of him? Is he an old friend of yours? What’s all the mystery?’

  ‘There is no mystery,’ the Jonathans protested.

  Antonia said, ‘Then tell.’

  ‘He is a friend of a friend who went to the States in the war. We barely know him. He is in England on business and thought he would check up on his sister. Out of duty, perhaps? That’s about all,’ they said.

  ‘Bet it isn’t,’ said Barbara. ‘Why so many years before he visits?’

  ‘He and Margaret don’t get on.’

  ‘Then he must be all right,’ said Antonia. ‘You heard, I suppose, that she tried to drown Susie?’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Tell us about it,’ said the Jonathans.

  ‘No. You tell us about Basil,’ said Antonia. ‘If you don’t I shall regale you with how the nurses come and pinch my nipples and milk me so that they can feed my baby with a pipette.’

  The Jonathans rose to go.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Barbara, laughing. ‘Tell us what happened when we were rushed to hospital with our distraught husbands in the advanced stages of parturition. What took place between Henry and his long-lost, new-found brother-in-law?’

  Suddenly angry, the older man said, ‘Very well, I shall. Basil had been watching you all with Margaret from the stairs; when you left Margaret went, as she always does, to her bed. He was alone in a strange house. He was embarrassed. He thought he’d creep away and come back on a more suitable, less fraught occasion and introduce himself properly.’ Jonathan looked from Antonia to Barbara.

  Barbara said, ‘Go on.’ Then she said, ‘Please.’

  Jonathan cleared his throat. He said, ‘He found Henry standing on the doorstep blinded by tears.’

  Barbara said, ‘Oh, my God,’ and began to weep.

  Antonia, leaning forward, asked quietly, ‘What else did this Basil tell you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There must have been—’

  ‘Henry and he went for a walk.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Basil said he and Henry talked and talked. Basil said it was like strangers meeting on a train. He talked about his sister—’

  ‘And Henry?’

  ‘Basil did not tell us what Henry talked about.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Basil said what Henry told him was private.’

  ‘And you are aggrieved,’ said Barbara gently.

  ‘Yes,’ they said, sighing, shamefaced. ‘Yes. We are.’

  THIRTY

  MARGARET’S BROTHER BASIL HAD had to h
urry to keep up with Henry, who was at least a head taller, had long legs and walked fast. If I drop behind, he thought, I shall look ridiculous and may fall foul of one of those awful dogs. He lengthened his stride and managed to keep abreast by putting in a stride in the nature of a leap every so often. Doing this, he was aware that the dogs, trotting with ears and tails depressed, hastened too. He was reminded of the pains of childhood when, outpaced by impatient adults, he had wailed, ‘Wait for me, Daddy, wait!’ and forced his legs into a tired trot.

  Henry had seemed unaware of him. I should catch his attention, talk. Talk about what? Talk about what I came to talk about, he chid himself, as they progressed across a couple of fields until their progress was halted by an intractable gate. While Henry wrestled with the gate, which sagged on its hinges and had to be lifted clear, Basil said, ‘Your dogs are rather lugubrious.’

  Henry said, ‘What?’

  Rather breathless, Basil said, ‘I said your dogs are lugubrious. They look unhappy.’ He was embarrassed to see that Henry still had tears running unchecked down his thin cheeks, splashing on to his chest as he lifted the gate to close it.

  Henry said, ‘It’s sympathy. Poor old boys, cheer up, no need to put on your Humble and Cringe act. It’s not your fault,’ he said and leaned down to pat flanks and stroke heads. The animals’ ears rose and tails lifted, they sneezed in appreciation, and the younger dog pranced away for a few paces before resuming station.

  Leaning on the gate, Henry exclaimed, ‘It is so awful. They were comical young creatures when they first came here, and now they are women in labour, for God’s sake! Oh dear!’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘And I am lachrymose.’ He stopped crying. ‘Did you say you were Margaret’s brother?’ he asked, remembering his manners.

  Basil said, ‘Yes. But don’t let it bother you.’

  Henry said, ‘I won’t,’ and resumed walking, but not as fast as before.

  Basil said, ‘What on earth possessed you to marry her?’

  Henry had walked on without answering and Basil thought, I’ve lost him again, but he went on talking. ‘I live in the States,’ he said. ‘I have not seen my sister since before the war. News of her marriage to you took time to reach me. I am an American citizen. I move around a lot.’ His voice grew nasal as he reminded himself of his adoptive country.