by Benita Brown
Aunt Muriel had been holding her breath. She’d let it out slowly and remarked, ‘Fair hair.’
‘And blue eyes,’ Esther added unnecessarily.
Aunt Muriel straightened up. ‘They’re fine babies, Constance,’ she said grudgingly. She paused and added, ‘But they did come a little early, didn’t they?’
John stepped forward. ‘Dr Mason told me that that’s not unusual for twins,’ he said.
Constance could barely control her anger. She knew that John was anxious to assure them that everything was normal because he never wanted anybody to know what had happened that terrible night in the turret room - what had caused the shock which sent her into labour. But she also knew that Muriel Barton had been implying that the twins had come when they did because she, Constance, had been pregnant before she got married. She realized then that the poisonous woman had even been hinting at that at the wedding breakfast ... and perhaps at something more.
After they had gone and John had made some excuse to leave the house, Constance had left Florence in charge of the nursery and set out to walk off her rage. The walk had become longer and longer until she’d found herself halfway across the Town Moor.
And then, of course, it had seemed inevitable that she should go on and enter the gardens of Lodore House. The day had been bright, and a fresh fall of snow had sparkled in the sunshine. Constance had felt a sense of exhilaration and excitement as she’d peered surreptitiously through the windows of her childhood home.
The sitting room at the side of the house had a large bay window and she pressed herself close to one of the stone stanchions and peered round into the room. A fire blazed in the hearth and, in one corner, a giant Christmas tree shimmered with tinsel and shining glass ornaments. The people in the room were too interested in the baby sitting on Iris’s knee to thank about glancing towards the window. Constance was safe to observe them.
Iris still looks pasty, Constance thought, but she is obviously devoted to the sturdy, rosy-cheeked child on her knee. Constance couldn’t tell whether the dark-haired baby was a boy or a girl but her brother’s child looked to be some months older than her own daughters.
Robert stood behind his wife and child and Constance couldn’t see his expression. He was bending towards the baby and dangling something that twisted to and fro on the end of a ribbon. It was a silver rattle and the baby followed its progress with its eyes. The child was laughing with delight. The scene of domestic bliss was being played out before Robert’s grandparents, Captain and Mrs Meakin, and a middle-aged couple whom Constance took to be Iris’s parents. They all stared at the little family group with self-satisfied absorption.
The pain that gripped her heart was almost physical. For the first time since the birth of her own babies it struck her that there was no one to hold her and her daughters in such a cherished gaze. Their father rarely visited the nursery and her children had no grandparents to dote on them. Her eyes had filled with the tears that never seemed to be far away these days.
The scene before her had blurred and, sobbing convulsively, she had turned and run from the garden.
Today the scene was different. The tree and the Christmas decorations had gone and only a small fire burned in the hearth. At first Constance thought the room was empty until she saw a movement in one of the armchairs near the fire. A man sat there reading by the light of a lamp on a table nearby; the movement that had attracted her attention had been the turning of a page. Was it Robert?
She stared at him. The figure in the chair was so still that she thought he might have fallen asleep. She pressed her face right up to the glass. She saw that it was her brother and that one hand held the book steady on his knee while the other rested along the arm of his chair and supported his head. His attitude suggested weariness or dejection.
Then, without warning, he looked up and saw her. He rose to his feet and the book fell to the floor. She stayed long enough to see him begin to walk towards the door of the room, before she turned and began to retrace her steps through the garden. She had almost reached the gate on to the moor when she heard him call out to her.
‘Constance! Don’t go!’ When she turned to face him he stopped and reached a hand out towards her. ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t run off like you did last time. I’m all alone here. At least come in and take a cup of tea with me!’
She stood watching him for a moment. He looked sad, she decided. Why should her half-brother look so sad? Slowly she began to walk towards him.
It was a different little maid who brought them tea and a plate of rich fruit cake. Constance wondered how many unfortunate girls Iris had seen off since the last - and first - time she had visited them in late spring. This one seemed cheerful enough, but perhaps that was because Iris and the baby - a son, Robert had told her - were away staying with her parents in Berwick.
When the girl had gone, Robert built up the fire and then sat down and smiled at Constance. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said.
Constance sipped her tea before replying. ‘Robert, what did you mean just now when you asked me not to run off like the last time?’
He looked at her solemnly. ‘I saw you that day, looking in at us. But before I realized fully who it was, you had taken off. None of the others had seen you so I didn’t say anything.’
‘I don’t suppose Iris would have made me welcome.’ She realized how crabby she must have sounded and added, ‘I’m sorry.’
But she noticed Robert didn’t contradict her. ‘I thought it was because my grandparents were here. I thought that perhaps you might ... you might...’
‘Bear them a grudge?’
‘Perhaps.’
This time it was Constance who made no contradiction. ‘But, Robert, how could you have seen me?’ she asked. ‘You had your back to me. You were engrossed with your son.’
‘It was Douglas who saw you.’ He smiled when he saw Constance’s frown of puzzlement. ‘He was following the movement of the rattle with his eyes. He’s so alert, you know! Well, anyway, he suddenly looked beyond the rattle towards the window, as if he had seen something. I looked round and saw you, you had a hand to your eyes. I barely had time to register the fact that it was you before you turned and hurried away.’
‘I see.’ Constance smiled. ‘Clever baby.’
Robert’s response was immediate. ‘Oh, Constance, he is! He’s so bright. I think I spend more time in the nursery than Iris does ... and I hate having to leave him and go to the office!’
‘And what does Iris think of that?’
‘She encourages me.’ He sounded embarrassed but, at the same time, pleased. ‘She resents the time I am away at business, anyway. She would rather we spent the whole day together.’
‘And you? Do you want to spend the whole day with Iris?’
Robert looked at her keenly. ‘Constance, I know that she didn’t make you welcome. I was very sorry about that, and it’s going to be a problem-’
‘Why a problem?’
‘Well, now that I’ve found you again, I want to keep in touch. And this time I’m not going to allow you to leave without your telling me where you live. But Iris . . . Iris . . .’
‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘No, it’s not that. I mean, well, it’s not just you. She is jealous of anybody that I spend my time with. She seems to need to keep me all to herself. In fact that’s why I am abandoned here alone now. My grandfather thinks that I am neglecting the business. He persuaded Iris’s parents to ask her to visit them - on the pretext of allowing them to spend time with their grandson. But it’s really so that she will not distract me.’
‘And did Iris agree to this plan?’
‘She’s a dutiful daughter and a fond mother. She found it hard to resist her parents’ desire to make a fuss of Douglas.’ He smiled self-mockingly. ‘But she was very reluctant to leave me behind!’
‘And do you mind such possessiveness?’
‘I wish she could be different ... but I love her. I
don’t know exactly why. Who can define or explain love?’ He laughed self-consciously.
Constance remembered how patient Robert had been with his wife when she was being difficult with the housemaid. She said without thinking, ‘So you’re prepared to put up with her high-handed ways?’
He looked taken aback and Constance thought that she might have gone too far. ‘Robert, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t criticize your wife. I promise that I won’t do it again. There, that’s the second time I’ve had to apologize.’
Her brother looked away for a moment and then he said, ‘My little family is so important to me. When we were all together - my father, your mother ... you and me - life was perfect then, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I’ve been trying to make such a home again . . . will go on doing so ... if we have other children. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Of course I do.’
He looked concerned. ‘But I want you to know that my grandparents were very kind to me.’
‘I’m sure they were. But—’
‘So I could never tell them how much I missed Mama.’
‘You mean—’
‘Your mother. I hardly remember my own. I think about her - my own mother - more now that I have a child of my own. I’m so sad that she and Father are not here to see their grandson.’
‘Oh, Robert, I know how you feel.’
‘Do you?’ At that moment she would have told him about her own children and her own feelings of loss but he hurried on, ‘And Mama Agnes, too. She always behaved towards me as if I were her own child.’
‘I know that she loved you.’
‘And I loved her.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘How fortunate that my father chose to go to Le Touquet!’
Constance smiled. She remembered how, when they were children, their father would begin their favourite story with those words. He would regale them with the tale of how he and Robert had been walking up a steep path from the beach when an old lady in a bath chair had come hurtling towards them. Robert had tugged at his father’s sleeve and pointed in wonderment as the chair drew nearer and the old lady’s terror became evident. A young woman was running down the path behind the chair but it was obvious that she wasn’t going to catch up with it.
Richard Bannerman pushed his son aside on to the grassy bank and grabbed at the chair, hanging on to it for dear life as the young woman caught up with it and collided with him. She only had time to breathe her thanks into his waistcoat before the old woman turned round and, instead of being grateful, began to hurl abuse.
At this point Constance and Robert would always ask, ‘What did the old woman say?’ and their father would reply, ‘Words that I’m glad my little boy couldn’t understand!’
The old woman, Mrs Stanton, was a wealthy widow who had come to Le Touquet hoping to relieve her arthritis by partaking of the mineral salts of its waters. The young woman had been Agnes Lowe, her companion, who had been instantly dismissed over the runaway bath chair.
No matter that it had been her employer’s own fault; when Agnes had advised against taking the steep path, Mrs Stanton had grabbed at the wheels wilfully, and set off anyway. Agnes was to take her back to the hotel and pack her own bags and be gone. It would be easy enough to find another improverished, orphaned English girl amongst the English expatriate community who would be grateful for the pittance paid by Mrs Stanton.
Richard Bannerman used to laugh when he told them he had been tempted to carry Agnes off immediately and leave the difficult old person stranded on the beach to be carried away by the incoming tide. But Agnes’s sweet nature had prevailed and they had taken Mrs Stanton back to her hotel together. She had even stayed with the old ogre until the next unfortunate companion was established in her duties.
After that their father had always ended the story by telling them that he had offered Agnes a new position on the spot. That of looking after Robert - and himself. Agnes had accepted the job of nursemaid and, before very long, his heart as well, he said. By the time they returned from Le Touquet, Agnes had become the second Mrs Bannerman.
Constance and Robert remained silent for a while, each lost in memories of their shared, happy childhood. The fire crackled in the hearth and, outside, the sky darkened. It was only when the windowpane began to rattle in a rising wind that Constance’s reverie was broken.
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece with alarm. It was half-past four and it would take her more than an hour to get home, longer if the weather worsened. She would not be in time to feed Beatrice and Amy ... Florence would have to manage with the feeding bottles again . . .
‘Constance, what is it?’ Her brother had risen from his chair and he looked concerned.
‘Mm?’
‘You look worried.’ Again she could have told him about her own children but she simply said, ‘I’ve stayed too long. I should go now.’
‘I’ll take you home.’
‘Take me?’
‘I have an automobile - such fun! Have you ever ridden in one?’
‘Yes.’ She saw his questioning look and added, ‘A ... a friend of my husband owns one. He took me to the church on my wedding day.’
John knocked peremptorily on the door of the nursery and opened it without waiting for an answer. He didn’t want to give Constance the chance to send him away. She was sitting on the padded seat that formed the corner of the fender, holding some baby clothes towards the fire. Florence and Polly held a twin each; the babies were wrapped in large white towels. They had just come out of the bath. The room was filled with the scent of soap and baby powder.
He caught his breath. The scene looked so peaceful, so normal, such as was enacted in hundreds of other households every evening. How could he fail to be happy? How could he fail to love the beautiful children that Constance had given him? He felt a deep regret that he didn’t spend more time here ... he knew that it was his conscience that was keeping him away. For at the heart of this picture there was a lie.
Constance didn’t speak; she just looked towards him politely. She was always so icily polite.
‘Will you be long?’ he asked.
‘Long?’
‘Will our daughters be in bed soon?’
‘Yes, soon.’
‘I should like to speak to you.’
‘Well, speak.’
‘Alone.’ He controlled a spasm of anger. ‘I mean alone.’
‘Flo and I can finish in here,’ Polly said. ‘You run along if you want to, Mrs Edington.’
‘No, that’s all right, Polly. I should like to see Amy and Beatrice into bed.’
John saw the two young women exchange looks. Constance’s visits to the nursery were erratic. She came when it suited her and could not be counted on to stay. Tonight it suited her to stay here and thwart him.
‘We’ll just be another ten minutes or so, Mr Edington.’ It was the nurserymaid, Florence, who spoke, no doubt worried that he would blame her for any delay. She flushed when she saw Constance’s look of displeasure.
Amy, who was on Florence’s knee, began to grizzle as if she had sensed the new tensions in the erstwhile cosy room. Beatrice turned her head to look at her sister and gave out a bellow of rage. John watched helplessly as both his daughters began to sob, egging each other on, unwilling to be the first to be comforted.
He saw a smile pass across Constance’s face before she said, ‘It may take a little longer to settle them now, John.’
Florence and Polly looked down at the floor and Constance watched him expectantly. He bowed his head in acknowledgement of her victory and left the room.
Once her daughters were settled in their cribs Constance told Florence that she could go down to the kitchen and have her tea with Polly; she herself would be happy to sit here until dinner was ready.
As soon as their regular breathing signalled that Amy and Beatrice were sleeping soundly, Constance left her chair and went to look at them. As usual the tears came to her eyes. They were
so beautiful, and she wished she could love them wholeheartedly as they deserved. Mrs Green had assured her that many new mothers took time to adjust and it was quite normal to feel weepy now and then. Especially after such an unexpectedly protracted labour.
But Constance could honestly say that the physical pain she had suffered was easily forgotten. She was young and healthy and she had certainly been pampered throughout her pregnancy.
It was the other events of that dreadful night that she was still trying to come to terms with. The nightmare of finding her husband dressed like a woman and in the arms of another man. Even now she only half understood what kind of man John might be. And there was no one she could ask, no one she could confide in.