by Maggie Ford
“Bursting into tears like that,” he went on. “Passing out on the floor.”
“I didn’t pass out on the floor. I just didn’t feel well.”
“You were sozzled.”
“I wasn’t sozzled.”
He gave a sceptical laugh and sat down on the bed again to start on the other shoelace. “Well, you’re OK now. Just keep off the booze.”
It was unkind. She never got that drunk. She gazed at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Despite the make-up she looked drawn. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey,” she persisted. “I don’t want to go out.”
He sat up straight, his lips forming a thin line. “We’re expected. We can’t let them down. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mary.” He got up and came towards her, putting his hands on her shoulders to gaze at her in the mirror. “This is crazy. I always thought you enjoyed going out and about. I only do it for you.”
“You don’t. You do it for yourself.”
His face grew bleak, stupidly bleak. “That’s bloody unfair, darling.”
“I just want a rest from it. Just to stay at home for a while.”
From that silly look of bewilderment his expression changed to a darkly discerning one. “You don’t just want to stay at home – you want to have a baby. That’s it, isn’t it?”
When she didn’t reply, his lip curled sardonically. Their rows were only ever about that. Usually he became tetchy, changing the subject before she could get going on it. Never did he react as she was seeing him now, with this dark and horrid mockery.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he repeated. “You want a baby and you will do anything to get one.”
“Geoffrey…” She looked appealingly at him. “If you’d only stop and see how I feel. Darling, every woman wants a baby.”
“Not every woman, darling. Not the women we see.”
She fought to ignore the horrid way he had addressed her. “I don’t want to be like them.”
“You could’ve fooled me, the way you caper when you’ve had a few.”
“You used to love me being the life and soul of a party. I have to do something to hide from everyone how I really feel.”
“And you think having a baby will cure it? Well, it takes two, and I don’t want kids getting in the way of the life we lead. You having a baby will put an end to all that, and you know it. You won’t ever want to go out again.”
“I did last time,” she cried, near to tears now.
“And keep on telling me at every turn that you’ve suffered over it ever since.” He let go her shoulders and swung away from her, turning round to berate her again. “All this blasted guilt you keep feeling – I’m sick of it, Mary. It wasn’t our fault Marianne died. We gave her all we could.”
“Except ourselves,” she countered, standing her ground.
“She had a damned good nanny who did everything for her.”
“But we didn’t, Geoffrey. We just went on enjoying life.”
“For God’s sake! We only have one life. I want to enjoy it.”
“Yes, I know,” she shot at him. “But I told you, I’m sick of it all.”
He glared at her, coming to a decision and lowering his tone in a way that sounded menacing. “Well, if you’re sick of it all, Mary, and want to stay at home, then I’ll go on my own – whenever.”
Anger had already dried the threatening tears. How dare he present ultimatums! “You do that, darling!” she blazed at him. “Go if you want. But don’t try blackmailing me into being with you. You can go on your own!”
“I will!”
Silence came down like a solid curtain between them. In silence she watched him finish getting ready. She sat stolidly at her mirror as he went into the lounge. She heard him pour himself a drink, the heavy decanter being slammed back on to the drinks tray, moments later the tumbler too being banged down. In the mirror she could see through to the open lounge door, see him moving back and forth across the room. Then, without a backward look in her direction, he went to the hall door to yank it open, closing it with as much of a bang as the expensive carpet allowed.
Somehow she knew as she returned her eyes to her own reflection that this was the start of something that was to go on and on. But she felt so drained by it all that at this moment it wasn’t truly registering with her.
Three
For hours the woman’s birth pains had tom apart the everlasting night. Now, with the first grey wash of predawn relieving the stygian darkness, the cries had subsided to a weak moan telling of a dire urgency to get the child into the world – one way or another.
“We shall have to do a Caesarean section,” Doctor Griffith informed the father, whose bleak, fearful eyes took in the other’s professional gaze with something like desperate trust.
“Can you save her?”
“If we get her to hospital as soon as possible, yes. Should have been sent there from the very start. Pelvic girdle’s far too small for such a large baby. Typical of these gently brought up young women, especially with this new fad for starving themselves slim.”
Grace had never needed to starve herself slim, she was naturally so, but Henry had no interest in the man’s views on fads and fashions. He had no wish to know that cutting her was the only solution now, and that it should have been done earlier except that he had not wanted to see his wife cut about. He didn’t want that guilt sitting on his shoulders. But it appeared it would have to, and all he felt was crass fear for her. Grace could always have another child but she had only one life. It was for her that he felt at this moment, rather than fear that he might have to live on without her. That much desperate love he had never known for her. His wish for her to live was purely for her sake. He nodded as yet another moan floated out into the darkened garden from the upstairs room.
They had come to Swift House for Grace’s confinement. Mother had insisted – compensation, he wondered, for her youngest son’s child having been bom estranged from her? Even now, she hadn’t truly forgiven Geoffrey for marrying Mary the way he had. Still refusing to recognise her, she had therefore been unable, without losing face, to acknowledge little Marianne even after the child had been taken. How she felt about that, Henry had no idea; Mother kept her thoughts strictly to herself. Instead she had gone out of her way to have Grace here.
“She needs a chance to relax in the peace of the country. London is no place for an expectant mother to be.”
They had been here four weeks. The baby should have arrived ten days ago but had remained stubbornly in the womb. Grace, distended and ponderous, worn down by the weight she carried, had only been able to sit, day in, day out, in a deckchair in the garden in the warm May sunshine with Mother and the staff doing everything for her. It was just as well they had come to stay at Swift House, especially now. Grace had been in labour for the best part of two days, her strength finally threatening to give out with the baby as yet unborn.
The father’s permission given, Doctor Griffith returned to the house to make his arrangements. These people, especially the senior Mrs Lett, with their outdated ideas that the family seat must be the hub of their lives, that nothing worthwhile should take place outside it, had all but jeopardised the mother’s life, he thought, exasperated.
* * *
Geoffrey lay beside Mary. She’d tried to cuddle up to him but he had eased her away just as he had done these several weeks. The last thing he wanted was sex with her. She’d been bewildered at first, then angry, finally falling into fits of weeping every night, culminating in furious rows. He was sick of it. Of course, all she was after was a baby, more so this evening after having been told on the telephone of Grace and Henry’s happy news. But a baby, especially now, was the last thing Geoffrey wanted.
The night he had left the flat, furious at Mary, determined to go on to the party without her, he’d steeled himself to face the inevitable enquiries as to where she was. He had said she wasn�
�t well, had promised to take back everyone’s wish for her quick recovery and their disappointment at missing her vivacious company that evening. To avoid more questions, he had kept as far away as possible from everyone, longing to escape the jollifications, the loud music, the constant noise, yet not wanting to return home, perhaps to more rows.
A young woman, who said her name was Pamela, had come up to him uninvited, had been sympathetic when she discovered why he was alone. (Why he had told her the truth when he’d lied through his teeth to everyone else, he had no idea.) She had linked her arm in his and said she knew just how he felt; said a little tearfully that she had just broken up with her boyfriend, who had his eyes on another girl. “It’s over,” she had sighed when, putting his own troubles aside, he’d said perhaps they’d get back together again.
“No,” she had sniffed. “It’s over. I won’t play second fiddle and that’s that.” She’d given another sniff, leaning against him as if for comfort.
Two like souls, they had kept each other company the whole evening, cheering each other up. It had ended with a kiss, and eventually they had made love, both been very much in need of the comfort it brought.
For days afterwards, he’d been unable to get her out of his head. He had been with her on three occasions since, each time heady, wonderful. He had been with her again this evening, coming home late, forcing himself to lie beside Mary, unable even to touch her though she’d pleaded with him to at least kiss her goodnight. He had turned his back, saying testily that it was late, that he was tired, that the restaurant – his alibi – had taken toll of his verve.
He now lay awake while she slumbered, too excited to sleep, his mind filled with the slim dark beauty of Pamela Fielding, his flesh still feeling hers cool against him, his loins tightening with the ecstatic recollection of her legs wrapped about his waist, their power pulling him in further to savour the moist warmth of her all the better. Suddenly life was pleasurable again, full again, filled with promise.
* * *
Her hand held gently in his, Grace smiled up at her husband. Beside her their perfect son, twenty-four hours old, lay asleep in his hospital cot. At peace with herself, she spoke quietly. “What shall we call him?”
Henry thought for a moment, tenderly caressing her hand. She had hoped all along for a girl, happily making a list of names and stubbornly refusing to believe a girl was only a fifty-fifty chance. A little disappointed to find she’d had a boy, she had soon settled for a son, quite happy at the perfection she’d brought into the world, with the timely help of the hospital of course.
For her benefit Henry began reciting what boys’ names came to mind, commencing with existing family ones, to all of which Grace shook her head.
“I want something different. Something special.”
“Hmm!” He thought again, enjoying the peace of this private ward, the tranquillity on his wife’s face, the innocence of the infant, his son, in his cot.
“Dominic? Aubin?” He glanced at the golden down just visible on his son’s head. Aubin meant “fair”. But Grace, propped up on her pillows, shook her head, her nose wrinkling.
He let out a long contemplative sigh. “Edwin?” He liked the name of Edwin, but there was no response to that either. “Hugh,” he offered and saw her smile.
“That’s nice. I like Hugh.”
“Hugh, then.” he grinned at her and pressed her hand a little more firmly. “Hugh, Robert – after your father – Adair, after my third name, Lett. How does that sound, my sweet?”
“Just wonderful,” she sighed, suddenly growing weary after her battle of the day before and the day before that. She closed her eyes.
Seeing it, he let her hand slip from his, leaned forward and kissed her tenderly on one cool cheek. Her eyes remained closed but he felt her flinch very slightly at his touch – or was it merely his imagination? Whichever, the comers of her lips quirked into a tiny smile, and after dropping a kiss on his new son’s head, he left the two of them sleeping and crept from the ward, his heart full with pride.
* * *
William Goodridge glanced up as Henry Lett moved between the tables, hardly pausing to acknowledge those customers he knew well. The man had grown terse with almost everyone these past few months, William himself included to a certain extent even though Henry favoured him most out of all his staff. Though why that should be, William had no idea. But he was not concerned for himself, only that Mr Henry should not be behaving this way with valued customers. It wasn’t good for business.
He had the business very much in mind since Henry Lett had spoken of a second restaurant in which he, William, could very well be in charge. It would be a marvellous step up, if ever it came about. William knew his talents. He got on naturally well with customers, they often addressing him in the familiar, an honour few waiting staff below the maitre d’ himself could boast. “So what d’you recommend, William?” they would ask, and he would advise, aware of the restaurant manager’s eyes on him as he bent obligingly over the customer to suggest something, his expert recommendations nearly always readily accepted.
That Mr Henry was wont to confide in him more than he ever did his restaurant manager, he accepted as a mysterious bond that had grown between them. He had never courted it. But lately Mr Henry had become as short with him as with everyone. He was growing a little rotund these days. It was supposed to reveal a sign of contentment, yet Henry’s brow seemed lined with what William could only assume was worry, perhaps from most of the time having to bear the weight of the business and all its problems on his own shoulders, especially those concerning expansion. Mr Geoffrey was hardly ever around and Henry intimated that his mother was more a sleeping partner, yet these three were the sole directors. One would never have believed it, seeing the hours Henry put in.
The problem had to be something to do with this dilemma whether to enlarge the existing premises or consider the opening of a second one.
“If I do, William,” Henry had mentioned on that one occasion, “I might toy with the idea of you as restaurant manager, but of course that’s all up in the air at the moment.”
William had been excited but it hadn’t been mentioned again. Most likely it had all come to nothing, the way Mr Henry had looked of late.
Mr Henry’s direction was taking him towards William. Pausing, he smiled a little wearily and asked if all was going smoothly and well in his area.
Assuring him that all was fine, William ventured a sociable enquiry: “Are your wife and baby well?”
He was aware that Mr Henry granted him the privilege of his friendship and would not have dreamed of abusing it. But the baby was now four months old, a fine sturdy youngster, his father fond of parading him proudly before everyone. Thus enquiring after the welfare of the child and his mother was far from abusing that special relationship built up between employee and employer. Yet Henry’s voice came sharply, though admittedly the tone seemed directed more towards himself than William. “The baby’s fine.”
No mention of Mrs Lett. “Is Mrs Lett unwell?” William asked, alarmed. Maybe worry over an ailing wife was the cause of the terse reply.
“It’s Mrs Lett…” Henry paused, then, needing to find a common ground on which to lay his heart, added, “Grace.” There was a trace of trembling in his voice. “She… well, we… we haven’t been as man and wife since the birth of our son, if you see what I mean.”
William was beginning to feel a hot awkwardness at being witness to such a confidence. He wished the man wouldn’t be so frank about his private problems – this was too much – yet he knew he must decently hear him out, whether embarrassed or not.
Henry Lett was speaking more easily, glad at last to lighten himself of what had burdened him for so long.
“Grace appears terrified of my going anywhere near her. No sooner do I touch her arm than she shies away. As for… well, William, you know what I’m getting at. As for that, there is nothing. I’m frustrated. It seems having had such a bad time having t
he child, she’s terrified of… well, the deed. I understand women can feel sensitive in certain parts, and reluctant after giving birth, but I thought by this time she would have got over that, been normal again.”
The voice trailed off leaving William uncomfortably hot, perspiring with the discomfort of being privy to this man’s private life. It just wasn’t right. Not knowing what to say, he said nothing, and eventually Henry Lett straightened up and, taking his upper arm again, put pressure into the grip.
“William, I’m so very sorry to have burdened you with such a delicate matter but truly I am desperate. I know I should have confided in a doctor, for aren’t they the people we all need to confide in? But even with him I cannot speak as I have with you, my dear friend. I feel a little better now.”
William nodded slowly, and again the words that remained unsaid spoke of loyalty to this honoured confidence more than anything that might have been uttered. He could have wept for him as he stood bleakly watching Henry Lett walk away.
* * *
Geoffrey was at his wits’ end. Several months ago Pamela had told him she was pregnant with his child. By her reckoning, it had occurred the second time they had been together. “I always suspected I was quite outrageously fertile,” she’d laughed in a way that was intended to belie her fear. “It makes it due next February, or could be late January – I’ve not consulted anyone.”
It was time to tell Mary, to speak of an ending to their marriage. For his part there was no longer any love for her. He was sick of her carping and he was frantically in love with Pamela. She was all he now knew he had ever wanted in a woman: good family, money of her own, vivacious, optimistic for all her condition had begun to show, having got over her first fears that he would desert her. He adored her attitude of what-the-hell-I-can’t-hide-it-so-let-them-all-see and he wanted to marry her, his view of the world the same as hers. This time, it wouldn’t matter that he was having an affair. She already part of the society set, all that would happen would be people saying what a hell of a chap he was and when was he thinking of getting divorced. With 1928 fast approaching, a decade almost over, young people had grown wildly abandoned. Nothing was too outrageous for them, and divorce was becoming quite fashionable. Yes, they would look at Pamela and her new lover almost with envy. Mary of the shrouded, debatable past would be forgotten.