by Susan Sallis
But that night Ellie said, ‘Will the weather mean that Gus can’t get back for the new term, Ma?’
Lucy took a deep breath and told them that Marvin had been offered a wonderful new job and the Trips had decided to stay in America. ‘It’s their home . . . their real home. And this sort of opportunity . . . well, they had no choice really.’ The girls stared, stunned. The Trips were part of their lives. Lucy said, ‘There was a note in the Christmas card. I didn’t know how to tell you.’
Ellie said, ‘I knew there was something. Oh Ma, you will miss Margaret so much. And Gus . . . Gus is my best friend.’
‘Yes. But you will be all right, Ellie, won’t you?’
‘Oh, at school. Yes. But Gus was here. All the time.’
Barbara said, ‘What about Tad? And the house?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lucy felt helpless again as the pain of Margaret’s love washed over her. ‘We’ll go on feeding Tad and wait to see what happens.’
Barbara said, ‘They were funny. And happy.’ And Denny, looking from one to the other, started to cry.
Strangely, the weather helped them through most of that spring term. It was a constant challenge every time they left the house. They would crowd to the kitchen window as it got light and watch Matthew and Mark leap like tiny gazelles through the fresh powder and run up on to the wall, scattering snow, slipping and clawing frantically at the ivy and then pausing for a quick wash before making their perilous way to the ridge and the warmth of the chimney pot and their own special view of the sea.
After the first week Lucy brought Tad back with her and he needed no persuasion to settle by the fire in Harry’s palm-leaf basket. He loved them all but he was always Lucy’s cat. Because he purred so loudly when he was on her lap, she sat down more often. The afternoons were short and she took to eating lunch by the fire and dozing for an hour before collecting the girls. She could have dreamed of Margaret or simply thought about her but in the no-man’s-land between sleeping and waking, with one hand on Tad’s soft fur, it was as if they walked together. The shock of Margaret’s disclosure then the suspicion that their friendship had not been true friendship at all walked between them. She hardly knew when the suspicion melted and became Margaret’s pain; one afternoon her eyes opened quite suddenly and she understood that pain. She understood why Margaret had been unable to talk to her, had been forced to plan her own escape so secretly. And she was able to separate her own feelings; betrayal and anger, grief and loss . . . They were nothing compared with Margaret’s pain.
Lucy looked down at Tad, who lifted his head and smiled sleepily. She whispered, ‘I can cope with this. And so can the girls.’ She put him down very gently and went for the flimsy air letter she had bought. She sat at the kitchen table and began to write.
It is already getting dark though the snow will stay light because there’s a full moon hanging over the quay. I have been dreaming that we are walking up towards the allotment, no snow, the smell of growing things pushing up through the earth. There is no stopping life, Margaret. We might as well just let it happen. Perhaps enjoy it. I do hope so. I am going to meet the girls now. It takes ages to wrap up against the weather, this is how it must be for you every winter. It is a shock to us. Tad is fine. Ellie has probably already written to Gus so I will get news of you now and then and you of me. God bless and keep you always. Luce.
She folded the thin paper along all the dotted lines, stuck it down and printed Margaret’s name and address on one side and her own on the other. Then she donned an extra cardigan, her coat, scarf, woollen hat, gloves and boots and left the house, clutching the letter. She dropped it into the postbox with a murmured ‘love to you’.
It was almost Easter before she got out her ‘key to freedom’ and drove along the old A30 to Portreath and the coast road. It had been a waiting time, a time of hibernation, a time of survival too.
Now she must go and see Harry Membury.
Seventeen
CONNIE SO WANTED a son for William; another son for William. And the fact that William was cautious seemed to make it more urgent. They had both agreed to wait until May ‘settled down’. After May’s birth it seemed there was no time to discuss anything, but, as Greta kept saying, ‘Give her a year to get used to things and she’ll be fine.’
It seemed that Greta was right.
May had not liked the long night watches and wailed for her mother – for anyone – every two hours. They had been advised by health visitors, their doctor, the other young mothers Connie met at Frankie’s playgroup – everyone except Rosemary and Greta – that May should sleep in her own room. May told them in the only way she knew that this was not the case. Every two hours she told them. Connie padded back and forth across the landing, gave her boiled water and a cuddle and stayed until she was asleep again.
Rosemary said, ‘Darling, you look a bit on the gaunt side. Why don’t you have the cot right next to your bed and just reach over to her now and then?’
Greta was worse. ‘Listen, Connie. Have her in with you. Let her feel you and smell you.’
Connie was amazed at both of them. ‘Mummy, William wouldn’t get any sleep at all then! And I can catch up in the day – she’s an angel all day long. Well, almost.’
She shook her head at Greta. ‘It’s absolutely out these days to take your baby into bed with you. You could roll over and smother it.’
At eight months May learned to crawl. Two weeks later she could climb. The day after her first birthday, probably accidentally, she found she could let down the side of her cot and drop down on to the floor without too much trouble. Connie found her at the top of the stairs.
They put her in with Frankie next door to their room. He was as sunny as ever and welcomed her with his usual clapping and cries of ‘Maybe Maybe’, which Rosemary reckoned was an amalgamation of May and baby. Arnie said it simply meant perhaps, and perhaps Perhaps was a good name for May. Rosemary took a long time to work that one out and then did not even smile.
Connie was doubtful for Frankie’s sake but he had slept through it all so far and she crossed her fingers and agreed to try it. They could hardly tie her into her cot; they decided that before they brought her in with them they would try the night nursery.
At last May had got it across that she needed company. When she woke up that first night, the dimmed light showed her brother contentedly asleep in the little bed next to her cot, arms upflung. When she woke again, it was morning.
Connie was overjoyed in every way.
‘A lovely month to conceive a new baby,’ she said. ‘August, high summer. And the baby would be born in May, like the others . . . Oh darling, I’m so happy. Shall we try? What do you say?’
‘I say we’ve got a boy and we’ve got a girl. Just a year between them. Don’t you feel we’re rather well set up as things are?’
‘Of course. But I also feel that we haven’t finished yet. You did actually mention a cricket side to Arnold a few years ago.’
‘In an attempt to be jocular.’
‘Yes. Eleven children would take too long. I did think two pairs. For tennis.’
He was almost asleep. Arnold had come into the office today and disrupted everything. He murmured, ‘Who’s for tennis?’
‘Me,’ she breathed into his ear.
And because he found her irresistible he made languorous love to her and then could not sleep for ages because he was certain that she imagined having babies would assuage her guilt for being alive when Egg Pardoe was not. She slept like a top, woke at six o’clock and started kissing him all over again. He protested but, as she pointed out, she wanted to start the day really well before May came crashing in. At thirteen months May Mather could climb over the side of her cot with ease, open the door of the nursery and scramble into her parents’ bed without any trouble. She had tried to get in with Frank but the bed was too narrow and she kept slipping out. She was sure of a welcome next door; she had tested her parents for a year and they had passed the test w
ith flying colours. When her grandmother told her she was spoiled she clapped her hands delightedly. Rosemary shook her head in mock despair; she too had passed that particular test many months ago.
After the instant conceptions of Frankie and May, pregnancy had eluded Connie and she had begun to panic. The meaning of her existence seemed to hang on giving birth. And then one very hot day, she was horribly sick. She checked the calendar and realized it was almost the anniversary of Frankie’s conception. She refused to remember the tidal wave, refused to remember Philip Pardoe. It had been the time she had let her dear William stay in her room all night long. It simply had to be a good omen.
She waited the prescribed three months before consulting their doctor; it was a formality and the pregnancy was confirmed in November 1963. The next day, as the news cameras flashed the terrifying pictures of John Kennedy’s death across the world, she knew that the pregnancy was over. She did everything she could, took to her bed, feet higher than body, kept calm as the doctor said she should. It made no difference. She wept. ‘I know now how Lucy Pardoe felt,’ she said to William that night as he administered the medicine that would hopefully help her to sleep.
He looked at her in the glow of the bedside lamps. It was a year since he had gone to see Lucy to sort out her father’s estate, a year since she had kissed him and he had had a glimpse of her life and her losses. He whispered, ‘Oh my darling, I hope you never will.’
And she, who knew as much as William knew about Lucy Pardoe except for that kiss, and was linked to her by ties that had no name, whispered, ‘So do I, William. Oh, so do I.’
He watched her until her eyelids began to droop and then undressed and put on his pyjamas and dressing gown, and went into the nursery to check on the children. He thought of his brothers and parents, then of Arnhem, then of Lucy Pardoe. He held the edge of the cot and could not stop the flow – the torrent – of thoughts. The young president shot in front of his people at a moment of triumph. Maurice Heatherington soldiering on without Greta, a hero instead of a rotter. Rosemary Vickers bringing up her daughter on her own. And the baby, Connie’s and his new baby, dead before life even began.
May sighed prodigiously and flung up a pudgy hand. He smiled, tucked it under the honeycomb blanket and remembered how she had cried every night when the snows had come last winter and they had been terrified something was really wrong.
And then he let himself think of Arnold and Rosemary, and then, blessedly, of Connie and himself. In spite of their loss, they had so much.
He went to Frank’s small bed and looked down at the golden boy. He seemed, quite suddenly, to hold the promise of . . . everything.
William went to his own bed and held his wife gently to his shoulder. He was in exactly the same position when he woke the next morning to feel May climbing in beside him. He smiled at her and helped her up and thought he had probably been smiling all night too.
Rosemary woke to a grey November dawn and the memory of Connie’s desperate phone call yesterday. ‘Mummy, I’ve lost him! He’s dying . . . he’s leaving me . . . Oh Mummy, I can’t spare him!’
For an appalled moment Rosemary had thought she was talking about William and sat down with a bump on the hall chair. Arnold emerged from the kitchen, eating a piece of toast. ‘What’s up?’
She said, ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
‘No. William is with me. The doctor is on the way. All I can do is to lie down and . . . hope.’ There came a little sob that tore at Rosemary’s heart. Then Connie said, ‘I don’t know how I will bear this.’
Rosemary held out a hand to Arnie and he took it and held it.
‘Listen, Connie. You will bear whatever comes. Perhaps this baby is not meant to be . . .’ She sounded heartless and trite and bit her lip fiercely. ‘If you have to lose him then it is better now than – than . . .’ She stopped speaking, hearing her own words. She sobbed, ‘Darling, let me come and be with you.’
‘No, Mummy. You are right. And it is something William and I have to do by ourselves. Honestly. Let me speak to Arnie.’
Arnie put the last of his toast into his mouth and took the receiver with his spare hand. Connie’s voice was urgent in his ear.
‘Don’t let Mummy leave the house today, Arnie. I need her to be there.’
He was about to reassure her but she replaced her receiver.
‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘She wants you to stay here.’ He leaned over Rosemary and replaced their receiver. ‘Darling, I have picked up that she’s having a miscarriage. But nothing terrible can happen, can it? Surely she’s only been pregnant five minutes?’
Rosemary looked at him. Then she drew his face down and kissed him. ‘Dear Arnie. When we got married you didn’t realize that you were taking on so much, did you? You weren’t too keen about May at first, if you remember. Especially when poor William arrived at the office unshaven. Twice. This is worse. Much worse, my love.’
She went to kiss him again and he drew back. ‘Sweetheart, your lip is bleeding and the taste of blood does not go well with buttered toast.’
She had known he was trying to cheer her up but somehow it hadn’t helped and she had spent the rest of the day doing housework as if her life depended on it. No one had phoned until late that night, then it had been William.
‘Greta came and took the children out in the twin pram thing. They’re in bed now and the doctor has given me some medicine for Connie. It’s all right, Rosie. She’s inconsolable at the moment. But I’ll phone tomorrow. Try not to worry.’
And here was tomorrow, already eight thirty and he hadn’t phoned. She looked at Arnie, on his side, fast asleep. She eased herself out of bed and went downstairs, put breakfast on a tray and took it up. He did not open his eyes but smiled widely and said, ‘I love you. And yes, of course we will drive over to Edgbaston and take the kids out for a few hours.’
She put down the tray and poured tea. ‘No. They will ask for help if they need it. And I rather think that Connie needs Frank and May as much as they need her. I will do a Lancashire hotpot and we can take it in on our way to see Maurice and Greta.’
He opened his eyes and hauled himself up against the pillows, watching her as she put a splash of milk in the mug of tea and placed it on the bedside table. She sipped her own tea and answered one of his unspoken questions.
‘We arranged to see Maurice and Greta today. About the Brighton sale. You remember.’
‘Yes. I thought you would not want to go. In the circumstances.’
‘I particularly want to go. It was good of Greta to take the babies out yesterday. I used to think she’d got a thing for William like she had for you, but she is very close to Connie.’
‘Couldn’t get much closer than sharing her labour pains.’ He reached for some toast. ‘That was strange.’
‘It was. And before that, if you remember, Connie dreamed of seeing Maurice in Brighton. She visited there just once and remembered the Pavilion. And that was where she saw him.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Women!’ he said.
‘I’m a woman.’
‘Yes, but you stick to your own labour pains and you don’t dream.’
‘As a matter of fact I had the strangest dream the night after Maria’s wedding. I dreamed we were making mad passionate love – I didn’t know where and it was pitch black. And then suddenly a spotlight came on and we were on the set of Sink and Swim and the auditorium was absolutely packed with people and they all started to applaud.’
He was stunned. Then he said, ‘You’re making it up.’
She nodded smugly. ‘It wasn’t even at night actually. I dreamed it up when we were in the cathedral and Maria was coming down the aisle. It would have nobbled all her thunder and served her right after she and Vallender spied on us all through that summer and autumn.’
‘Challenger, darling. And don’t you think we might have been slightly embarrassed?’
‘Not a bit. I forgot to tell you we were fully clothed and you
had your Sherlock Holmes overcoat on.’
He managed to swallow his toast without choking and then he grabbed her and pulled her on top of him and told her she was a wicked wanton woman but that she tasted better today; lemon marmalade was nicer than human blood. And she replied with a scream of horror.
Greta was delighted to see them. ‘I did wonder whether you would come. Connie is so sad, I thought she might need you.’
‘She’s got William. She’s up today. We left them all by the fire playing with Frank’s engine. We have to play it down, Greta. She was only three months.’
‘Yes.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I thought I might have shared this one too. Perhaps I should be feeling her grief for her.’
Rosemary shrugged out of her coat and looked at Arnold. He said bracingly, ‘Come on now. They will have another baby. Not too quickly, I hope.’
Maurice took their coats and produced two pairs of slippers, gloriously warm from the fireside. ‘I listened to what you said about this slipper thing.’ He grinned at Arnie. ‘You were quite right. Any more tips?’
‘I reckon you’re doing well on your own.’ Arnold eased his feet into knitted slippers topped with pompoms. ‘I take it Greta made these?’
‘Pinched them from the theatre,’ Maurice said. ‘I’d quite forgotten that she’s low on morals.’
‘I’ve got my own morals, thank you, Moll.’ Greta kissed him forgivingly then turned to Rosemary. ‘They’re pulling down the old theatre – the Cochrane. Did you know? Most of the costumes went with the cast on tour so I took what I could. Waste not, want not.’
‘How goes the tour?’
‘Pretty good. The author has done something else for them. Roger asked me if I would like to go back when they have a read-through.’ She smiled. ‘It was nice to be asked but I said thanks but no thanks.’