by Diana Finley
The voices murmur on and on. She watches her children and grandchildren talking to one another. Every now and then one of them catches her eye and smiles or gives her a little wave. Anna is unsettled. She scans the family, knowing it is incomplete, waiting. The young people have gathered in a group at one side of the room and are laughing together uproariously. Anna smiles to see them. Then she sighs. Sam should be here. If only he could have seen his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. How he would have loved them. Sam always loved to grow things, but he never knew what a wonderful family he had grown.
Glancing out of the tall Edwardian window, Anna notices the sweep of a rainbow glowing against the pale wet sky of late afternoon. It makes her think of her mother suddenly, her poor mother, so long gone. ‘Find the rainbow, Anna,’ she used to say, ‘and then run towards it.’ Just a feeling, like a dream, an echo, from all those years ago. As the light fades from the sky outside, so too does the rainbow, leaving Anna with a strange emptiness, a sadness. Many of the residents are nodding in their chairs, if not actually sleeping. The smaller children are growing restless. Anna is ready for the peace of her own room.
Chapter 2
1945
Sam and Anna arrive in England in March 1945. After nearly six years of war, the country is in a dreary and depressed state. The first thing Anna notices is the greyness, the dark and gloom. They spend a few nights in London, where Sam takes pleasure in pointing out the sights to her: St Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. They avoid the worst of the bombed areas. Almost constant rain gives the blackened buildings an oily gloss.
Anna is thrilled to visit some of the famous places she has read about, but never dreamt of experiencing. Yet it’s a relief to move out of London to Sam’s brother and sister-in-law’s home in Surrey. At least there are green fields and trees, and towering skies. After the intense light of the Middle East, the brilliance of the sunshine, everything here looks washed out and monochrome. Even on sunny days the sky appears hazy and milky rather than blue.
‘If only we could go to Berlin together, Sam. Surely you could put in a request, in the circumstances? Why do we have to be apart, now of all times?’ She strokes the solid curve of her belly. Even as she says it, Anna has doubts. Could she really live in Germany? It’s a ridiculous, horrible idea. Yet, how could she possibly not live wherever Sam is?
Ten days later, Sam goes ahead with the first waves of Allied troops to Berlin. Over the coming months he sends Anna long accounts of the devastation and hardship he encounters there:
… the scene greeting us was one of utter desolation and despair. Berlin is totally destroyed. I know you feel little sympathy for the Germans, and why should you? Yet one cannot help but feel compassion for these people, most of them innocent civilians – victims of the war and of their own regime. Some live in the remains of their ruined homes, without doors or windows, often without complete walls. Others simply live on the street. There is no fuel, almost no food, and no security. Our Russian allies behaved abominably – like Mongol invaders in fact. Women of all ages have been abused and humiliated, and often their only means of support now is to sell themselves to their very abusers, in exchange for scraps of food. Young children forage like rats in the ruins and fight over any filthy crusts they may find. Old people are abandoned and left to die. It breaks my heart – but one can’t dwell on the individual tragedies. There is so much to do to get systems up and working again: water and food supplies, shelter, transport, education, and on and on …
Anna, in England, is left to the mercies of Sam’s family, who offer her refuge dutifully, if perhaps reluctantly. Humphrey is all right. Tall and stooped like a much older man, despite being younger than Sam, Humphrey can be affectionate and funny. His blue eyes sparkle and his lips twitch when he makes some pointed comment and waits for a reaction. Anna does not always understand his humour; she supposes it to be of a very English, dry and ironic variety. She likes Humphrey and, though never completely sure of him, she believes he likes her.
Constance, on the other hand, is prickly and easily offended. Anna does not know exactly why Constance seems to find her so threatening; perhaps it is the child she is expecting? Yet Constance has three beautiful daughters of her own. At ten and eight, the older two are away in a boarding school, only seeing their parents for occasional weekends and in the holidays. It seems a horrible practice to Anna. Why have children, only to send them away? The youngest daughter, a little girl of three, is largely in the care of a nanny, known in the family as Nanny Lawrence. The child is brought into the drawing room after tea, prettily dressed, to be admired and caressed briefly and then returned to the nursery. Looking at the little girl, Anna is reminded of Rachel and their times together in Haifa, her lap a void longing to be filled. After a while, little Camilla learns to come to her for hugs and silly games, until Anna is scolded by Nanny Lawrence for spoiling the child.
She tries hard to understand Constance, to learn her expectations and fulfil them. Certainly, Constance does not consider it her role to bridge the cultural gulf between them. As Sam’s wife, it is for Anna to adjust to her new situation, to learn the rules. Constance sees herself as keeper of Humphrey’s reputation as a respected GP. She is ever alert to any threat to his position in the community. Anna knows that despite nearly two months of guidance and schooling in social etiquette, Constance finds her a frustratingly slow pupil. How strange it is, this English world of respectability and suppressed outrage.
In Humphrey and Constance’s library Anna finds a copy of Alice in Wonderland. She thinks as a children’s story it will be simple and may help her with colloquial English. The language turns out to be far from simple, yet it fascinates Anna, parodying as it does this very world of saying one thing and meaning something quite different. As she soon learns, Constance is an expert in this field. When by chance they meet a neighbour or acquaintance in the street or in a shop, Constance seems so delighted to see her, so warm and friendly. She admires her outfit, enquires after the health of the husband, enthuses over the achievements of the children. Yet, a few moments later, when they go their separate ways, Constance begins a terrifying assassination. She ‘wouldn’t be seen dead in that suit’; the husband is definitely not ‘top-drawer’ (Anna has to ask Constance to explain these expressions); the children are ill-mannered and dull.
Anna is well aware that she makes Constance anxious, afraid that Humphrey may be shown up by his brother’s strange foreign wife and her unpredictable ways. Anna does not believe Constance dislikes her. In her way, she seems quite fond of Anna, but it is the uneasy affection one might have for a half-trained dog, which though appealing, could at any moment slip its collar and run riot.
Constance and Humphrey continue to entertain whenever they can – ‘after a fashion’ as Constance puts it. Small dinner parties are a regular occurrence at the Lawrence household.
‘It’s important to try to uphold our pre-war standards,’ Constance maintains to Anna as they prepare for one such evening.
Charles and Susan Jennings settle themselves at the table. Anna has met Susan before; Constance had taken her to a ‘coffee morning’ at the Jennings’ house the previous week, where cups of weak coffee had been served, bitter with chicory. Susan is a blonde, middle-aged woman with a pale, washed-out complexion. She has a habit of shaking with little spasms of giggling whenever she makes a contribution to the conversation.
Her husband Charles is Humphrey’s senior partner – a large, noisy, red-faced man. He sits on Anna’s right. As usual, Constance insists on placing Anna at her right-hand side. Anna is aware that this is not to favour her; it is not intended as an honour. On the contrary, Constance feels the need to keep a sharp eye on her, perhaps give her a meaningful prod or surreptitious kick under the table, or whisper advice under her breath. When Anna absently strokes the growing sphere of her belly, Constance indicates her disapproval with an audible exhalation through clenched teeth, accompanied by
a hard stare.
Everyone’s attention is on Humphrey, carving a scrawny chicken bestowed on him by a grateful patient. Little gifts like this are not infrequent and are an important supplement to the rations. Charles Jennings leans close to Anna, speaking softly in her ear in a manner both confidential and flirtatious.
‘You look most charming, my dear. Splendid dress. Brightens up this drab weather no end. Just what we all need.’
Anna smiles at his looming face, suddenly uncertain how to respond. She glances round at Constance, who purses her lips and gazes about the table. Is this another of the sarcastic and indirect remarks she finds so confusing? Suddenly she feels that her red dress – so painstakingly sewn on Yael’s machine from a pair of cotton curtains in preparation for her pregnancy – stands out vividly and inappropriately. It is also more suited to the Palestinian climate. She rubs her bare arms. Since arriving in England Anna has suffered constantly from the cold, not so much outside – Sam’s mother has given her a thick woollen coat of her own, and one can put on several layers – but in the damp, unheated houses.
‘Honestly, I don’t know how you two manage it,’ Susan says, with a giggle. ‘Even in these hard times you always put on a splendid table, with everything so smart and spick and span!’
‘Spick and span, eh? I nearly had to come to the dinner table unshaven tonight!’ Humphrey is passing plates to his guests, each with a tiny portion of carved chicken. ‘Not a drop of hot water left.’ Humphrey smiles at Anna in a knowing manner, like a kindly schoolteacher who has caught out a favourite pupil in an unexpected misdemeanour.
‘Oh dear …?’ Anna says sympathetically, even as she senses uneasily that she has not fully understood the significance of the remark. Constance frowns at Humphrey, shaking her head faintly. It is truly a marvel, Anna thinks, how Constance can maintain a rigid smile on her lips, while frowning with the rest of her face.
‘I know you’re still not used to just how scarce the hot water is here,’ Humphrey blunders on. All eyes around the table are now alternating between Humphrey and Anna, as though following a tennis match. ‘I mean, in ordinary times it’s fine to fill the bathtub to the brim, but … er … right now, with fuel shortages … well, there’s not much to go round, is there? But then, how should you know that, eh? No matter though, no matter.’
Humphrey’s remarks hang in the air like a chill fog. Anna is unsure if she is expected to reply, but a hard knot of anger rises in her chest and hammers against her ribs.
‘Humphrey, are you telling me that I used up all the hot water in my bath? Because I think that is very rude of you to say, when I am a guest in your house!’
The high timbre of Anna’s voice remains, like an echo, repeating her last words to the gathering over and over. Humphrey looks aghast at her, his mouth frozen half-open.
‘I dare say you’re right … yes, quite right. I do apologise, Anna. No offence intended,’ he says after a pause.
Constance takes Anna’s hand in hers, as if she means to comfort her. Her plump fingers close around Anna’s wrist in a steely grip.
Anna’s heart is pounding, the sound of it surely filling the room. She longs for Sam. Where is he? Why has he left her with these people? An uncomfortable hiatus is smoothed by the entry of Jenny, the Lawrences’ cook, carrying vegetable dishes that she serves to everyone in turn, oblivious to the atmosphere. Conversation proceeds jerkily for a time. Humphrey winks at Anna across the table. Of course she smiles back. She resolves to speak to him later about the water issue. People here seem to talk in such a roundabout way about important matters, circling the crucial point but never quite articulating it. She is sorry to have upset Humphrey. He seems to be so kindly disposed towards her. But is he? She desperately needs allies. Certainly, she does not want to disturb the newly restored calm. A murmur of conversation rises falteringly from the table.
‘Funny lot, we British, aren’t we, my dear?’ Charles is leaning over to Anna amiably again. ‘So how do you think you are going to like living in England, eh? What do you make of it?’
‘Bloody awful weather,’ she replies without hesitation.
Cutlery stilled, there follows a stunned silence. Anna understands instantly that she has committed another social sin. Charles and Humphrey exchange glances and explode into great snorts of laughter. Susan titters behind her napkin. Constance glares thunderously.
‘Where exactly have you learned such an … idiomatic phrase, Anna?’ Humphrey asks.
‘From the milkman, Humphrey. That is what he said to me this morning, when I opened the door.’ She glances round the table, hoping for some means to redeem the situation. ‘I am trying hard to speak English as it is spoken.’
‘Well done, Anna! Jolly good. You’re certainly learning to speak English as it is spoken!’
‘However,’ Constance adds, ‘it is important to learn from the right class of person, darling.’
* * *
To Anna’s relief, Sam has arranged for her to go into a small private nursing home for the birth of the child. At first she wonders whether Humphrey, as a doctor, expects to attend to her himself – how dreadful that would be. But it turns out he has simply recommended the nursing home as the best in the area. Labour pains start one Sunday afternoon. Constance times the intervals efficiently. Anna’s bag has been packed for some time. Humphrey drives her to the hospital. A receptionist greets them, explains that a room has been booked for Anna and asks if she can manage to walk there. Anna says she can.
‘Better leave you in their capable hands, my dear. Just follow instructions and you’ll be fine. Remember, it’s all been done before. Natural process, and all that. All the best to you. Constance will be in to see you tomorrow, no doubt.’ Humphrey kisses Anna uncertainly on the cheek and turns to go. For a moment Anna almost calls him back, begs him to stay with her.
She has a small private room, very plain, very white. She feels totally alone. A brisk midwife comes in to examine her. She washes her hands and returns to the bed.
‘I was led to believe this was your first child, Mrs Lawrence.’ She studies Anna’s face with a quizzical frown.
‘I’m not sure what you were told. I had … I lost a child. Some years ago.’
‘Ah, yes. I understand.’
Anna looks at her. No, you understand nothing of me. The midwife comes back to examine her again every half hour or so. She offers little further conversation and even less comfort. The pains grow in strength and frequency and Anna is moved to a delivery room next door.
After an agonising, momentous struggle, a boy is born, a beautiful, perfect boy. As Anna holds him, breathes him in, and kisses him, over and over, the tears released become a flood, and will not stop. She is convulsed with weeping. She weeps for all the years gone by, for all that has happened and all that cannot be undone. The midwife clucks disapprovingly and urges her to stop – she should control herself for baby’s sake. It might upset him. She has a fine child and should be grateful. She needs to be calm for baby.
Constance visits them the next day. She admires the baby and hugs Anna and tells her how proud and happy Sam would be. She mentions that she and Humphrey have taken some blankets and cooking utensils to the rented rooms to which Anna and the baby will be moving on leaving hospital. After she goes, Anna spends hours gazing at her sleeping son. The nurses come to show her how to change and bath him. They handle his small body with detached efficiency. The baby abandons himself to their firm hands. He stares at the ceiling light. When being bathed, his fragile limbs stiffen and then relax. Anna is told to ‘put him down’ immediately after his bath or feeding him, to establish a routine. As soon as the nurses leave the room, she picks the baby up and presses him to the hollow of her neck. She inhales his blissful smell. He nuzzles against her and roots around for her breast, his soft mouth open and urgent.
The following day Constance brings Mother to see her new grandson. Mother holds him and kisses his tiny fingers. She looks up at Anna and shakes her head
, her expression anxious, as always.
‘He’s so like Samuel as a baby, dear, that same little worried face.’
She unwraps a parcel of exquisite tiny garments she has sewn and knitted. Anna leans forward and embraces her mother-in-law. Mother stiffens in her arms, looking at once alarmed and delighted. Constance says they have wondered what the baby will be called.
‘Sam and I agreed Benjamin for a boy – Ben for short,’ Anna says.
‘Benjamin,’ says Mother. ‘That’s unusual. Is it Jewish?’
Chapter 3
Sam
The behaviour and manner of Dr John Quentin Lawrence reflected the beliefs and attitudes of the Victorian era during which he was raised. Dr Lawrence was respected and trusted, but not greatly liked. He was regarded as a stern and severe man, who believed in hard work and frugality. He married Winifred Wainwright, a parson’s daughter, not for her good looks – she was on the thin side with a long face – but for her humble and compliant demeanour. He knew he would be able to rely on her to make a good doctor’s wife, and to uphold his values.
Despite her complete ignorance of the physical side of marriage until her wedding night, Winifred was pregnant with their first child. She woke early one morning with violent pains, which she knew to be contractions. She breathed quietly, so as not to wake her husband. She bit her lip and dug her fingernails into her palm. When the clock reached quarter to seven, she allowed herself to speak aloud.