‘A girl,’ he said. ‘A lovely little girl.’
‘How nice.’
‘Yes.’
‘And – your wife? Laura, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Laura, that’s right.’
‘Is she recovering well? The baby must be about – let me see – a month old now, sleeping a bit better, I hope. Not giving you too many bad nights?
‘She – she – no, not really.’
‘Good. Well, you’re lucky, then. Lots of babies go on waking up for months …’
There was a very long silence; then he said – and the words came out in such a rush that she thought she must have misheard, in fact she did say, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite follow …’
‘I said,’ he repeated, his voice louder now, as well as slower, ‘there is no baby. She died. And Laura died too.’
For the rest of her life, even when she was a distinguished obstetrician of great experience and had confronted many tragedies, that moment remained with Jillie as a measure of the most unimaginable and dreadful sorrow. She sat, helpless and silent, staring at Tom Knelston across the table while around them people chatted and smiled, quite oblivious to his tragedy. As he looked away from her, and down into his tea, she realised that something had fallen into it, followed by another, and that those things were tears; and then he looked up, and she saw there were more, uncontainable, and that he was mortified by them, dreading that others in the café would notice them and worse, be curious about them. A man shedding tears in public. That, for that one short moment, was the greatest of his concerns, and she acted with an absolutely correct and compassionate instinct and passed him one of the paper napkins so that he might wipe them away and sat rummaging through her handbag looking for nothing, nothing at all, until she heard him clear his throat and say, ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said carefully. ‘You mustn’t worry about it. Let’s just wait a bit, shall we, and then maybe get some more tea, and if you want to, you can tell me more about it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, thank you – that sounds a good idea.’
And they sat, very quietly, until he said, ‘I’m all right now. I’d like to tell you some more, I think, please. And ask you some questions as I said in my letter.’
‘I’ll do my best to answer them, Tom. But I should warn you, I’m not very far advanced in my training – it may be beyond my area of expertise.’
It had been a case of placenta previa. ‘That’s when the placenta lies across the opening of the uterus into the birth canal, effectively blocking the baby’s exit,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Jillie said, ‘yes, I know.’
Laura had had an appointment with the midwife, just three weeks before the baby was due. The midwife had pronounced the heartbeat strong, but said the baby’s head was still not engaged in the birth canal. Laura had asked if this was something she should worry about, and the midwife said no, not at all, she had known cases where the baby’s head didn’t engage until labour had begun. ‘I might have suspected a breech, but I can feel baby’s bottom, quite high, all in the right place. No, I’m sure it’s just that he or she is in no hurry to join us just yet, and very sensible too, in this freezing weather. I hope we’re not going to have another winter like last year. Now I’ll just take some measurements, check on baby’s size – and next time you come, we’ll talk to doctor about removing that stitch.’
So Laura had gone home, quite happy, assured that her baby was just right, and they had had supper and she had said she was very tired and might go to bed early if Tom didn’t mind. And when he had gone into the bedroom, she had been fast asleep, smiling, still with the light on, a copy of the recently published The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank lying open on her huge stomach. Tom had removed it gently, got into his pyjamas, kissed her tenderly and whispered that he loved her. She hadn’t replied, but had smiled and sighed sleepily and sunk deeper into sleep. It was, for the rest of his life, a comfort that those were his last words to her and that she had clearly heard them.
He had woken to her screaming; it was just light and he had struggled awake, sat up, switched the light on and seen why. The room was a bloodbath. Not just the bed, but the floor, and even some of the walls; the blood kept coming and coming, unstaunchable – towels, spare sheets soaking in moments.
He had rushed downstairs and out to the phone box, called an ambulance; and then raced back to the room and the horror.
She seemed to be in no pain, just terrified, but already losing consciousness; the baby was born in the ambulance, their little girl, perfect, beautiful, but dead. Laura died within ten minutes of arriving at the hospital.
They had been very kind, he said, and it was still something he was clearly grateful for. They took them off immediately, out of sight, Laura still on the stretcher, the baby carried by a nurse, and had refused to let him follow; but when he said, after sitting shocked and still in the emergency area, please, please, could he not hold the baby, a nurse had said it wasn’t usual. Why, in the name of God, was it not usual? Jillie wondered, struggling to maintain calm as the story was told. What could be more usual than that a parent would wish to hold a dead or dying baby and why should they not? Then, apparently, another nurse appeared and told him to follow her, and led him into a little room and said, ‘They’re just giving her a little wash, then we’ll bring her in,’ which they did. He had sat looking at her, at his daughter, so perfect and white and still, and tried to believe that it had really happened, that she would not suddenly draw a breath and cry, and he held her very close, trying to warm her for she was already growing cold, and telling her she was beautiful and he loved her.
And then they came for her and took her away and he didn’t argue, he didn’t have the strength, and they asked him if he would like to see Laura and he said yes. They led him to her, on a high bed, under a white sheet and again, she looked so perfect, so normal somehow, and he had taken her hand and kept turning it in his and kissing it over and over again, and then he had stood up and bent over her and kissed her face, the face he loved so much, the rosy dimpled face that was neither rosy nor dimpled any more but white and sweetly serene, and he sat and told her he loved her, that he would always love her, her and the baby, the baby they had agreed they would call Hope. That was what she carried with her – hope for their family and its future – and of course he would see they were never parted, but be together for the rest of time, lying in the little churchyard at West Hilton where Laura would be surrounded by people who loved her and would have loved Hope. Then a doctor came and said he must ask Tom to leave now, and he did so without arguing or without even questioning why, and when he went back to find his little daughter, his little Hope, she had been moved from the cubicle where they had sat together, and she was nowhere to be found for quite a long time, and he had hunted, increasingly desperate for her until the first nurse, the kind one, who had arranged for Tom to see her and hold her, had said she had been taken to the morgue but she wasn’t sure what would happen to her next.
‘What do you mean?’ Tom had said. ‘She’s my daughter. I want her to be with her mother and I want them to be buried together.’
And Tom suddenly became angry and walked out into the casualty area, shouting for a doctor. They kept telling him to be calm and to wait and he said he had been very calm and he couldn’t wait, in case they were taken away, Laura and Hope, and began rushing through all the doors into all the rooms and cubicles, and finally a doctor did appear and said would he please be quiet, and Tom said how could he be quiet, would the doctor be quiet if his wife and baby had both just died and he had no idea where they were? The doctor suddenly stopped and stood very still and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Knelston. So sorry, come with me.’ He had led Tom into what was obviously his own room and explained that post-mortems would have to be done, it was essential, so that they could try to discover what had caused the tragedy in the first place. ‘Post-mortems?’ Tom had said, staring at him. ‘You mean you’re
going to … to …’ but he couldn’t even finish the sentence it was so horrible. The doctor said he could withhold his permission if he so wished, but it could be helpful to other women and other babies; and it was too much finally for Tom to confront or bear and he said no, no post-mortems. He wanted Laura and Hope kept as they were, quite perfect, and that as soon as he possibly could, he would arrange for them to be taken away to where he wanted them to be.
And that is where they now lay, Jillie discerned, after listening carefully and quietly for as long as seemed necessary; in the little churchyard at West Hilton, the village where Tom had been born and grew up and where he and Laura had been married.
‘And I hope,’ she said gently, ‘that is in some way a comfort?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course it is. A very little way.’
She looked at his life, the bleak, solitary life of a young widower, loveless, childless, and she felt in that moment that she knew where her heart must lie, for she could feel it aching for him.
‘But,’ she said gently, after a long silence, ‘you said you wanted to ask me something?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, if you don’t mind?’
And she thought how minding what he asked her would be the least, the very least of it. The very least she could do for him was answer, however difficult. And it was difficult, sitting in that cosy steamy café surrounded by smiling, happy people looking forward to Christmas.
‘Please ask. And I will try to answer.’
‘All right. Well, the first question is, could having the stitch – you know, the cervical stitch –’
‘Yes.’
‘Could that have caused it? Or made it more likely even?’
And filled with a relief that was palpable, that she moreover could pass on to him, she was able to say no, there was absolutely no way that the cervical stitch could have caused the condition that had so dreadfully ended the lives of Laura and her little daughter. She could see it was what he most wanted, indeed needed to hear, for he took a deep, almost life-giving breath and half smiled at her.
‘They did say it couldn’t have but I didn’t quite believe them, I had to know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Because I did read that it could be caused by, well, by previous surgery.’
‘Well, real surgery, a Caesarean section perhaps, could cause scarring and that in turn might affect the endometrium – that is the lining of the womb. But not a cervical stitch, no. Most emphatically not.’
He nodded and was silent for a bit, draining his already cold cup of tea.
‘And the other question?’
‘Oh. Well, that’s harder for you to answer, I’m sure. But – well, I have to know as much as can. I feel I owe it to Laura.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, the thing is, what I can’t help wondering. If she had had really good care, such as she might have had at St Thomas’, where you so kindly tried to get her a place, might they have detected it? And prevented it?’
His expression was now so agonised, so full of fear at her possible answer, that Jillie found herself quite unable to speak; she sat staring at him, was trying to shape a careful, truthful, yet kindly response, when the door of the café opened and someone was suddenly at their table and the someone said, ‘Jillie, hello, am I early? So sorry, shall I—’
And Jillie looked up and saw it was Alice standing there – and she was at once filled with relief and anxiety. Relief that she had a respite before answering this question, and anxiety that poor Tom Knelston, who had already confronted one strange woman under the most extraordinary, painful circumstances, must now confront another. She jumped up, hugged Alice and said to Tom, ‘Would you excuse me one moment?’ and pushed Alice towards the door.
‘Jillie! What is this? What’s going on?’ said Alice, half laughing, half indignant.
‘Alice, I’m so sorry to do this to you, and you’re not really early, but could you possibly go away for maybe quarter of an hour and then come back? I’ll explain when we’re having lunch, but I can’t ask this poor chap to endure meeting you.’
‘Am I really so hideous?’ said Alice, smiling, her blue eyes dancing. ‘Jillie, is this a new boyfriend? You could have told me. Yes, all right, all right, I’m going, but I will be back in fifteen minutes flat. I’m cold and wet and hungry, so you’d better be finished by then – and I don’t want to play gooseberry this afternoon, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘OK. But – oh, goodness, quick question, don’t ask why. Do you think placenta previa could be diagnosed while the baby was still in utero?’
‘Gosh, you don’t ask for much, do you? I’ve only been doing my midders for two months, but – um – well, maybe, head not engaged at term?’
‘Oh, God,’ said Jillie. ‘I was afraid you might say that. I thought so too. Oh, Alice, what am I going to do?’
‘I can’t answer that question, I’m afraid, because I have no idea what this is all about. I’m going to go and walk round the block, and then I’ll be back and—’
‘Yes, all right, all right. Fine. Now go away.’
Tom was already standing up and winding his scarf round his neck when Alice returned. Jillie introduced them; but he was so exhausted by the trauma of the morning, of reliving the events of the past month, that he could scarcely see Alice Miller, but he did absorb the fact that she was blonde and not very tall and smiled very politely at him, which was nice of her considering she’d been sent back out into the foul weather for his convenience. Her voice as she said, ‘How do you do, Mr Knelston,’ was very light and clear and rather posh, like her friend Jillie’s, and clearly the school they’d been at together was not one Laura would have taught at.
Jillie walked with him to the door and shook his hand and said he mustn’t hesitate to contact her again if he wanted to. She gave him a telephone number which she said was her home; and he told her, truthfully, she had been more helpful than she could possibly know and went out into the sleet which was now lashing London, feeling calmed and even, briefly, comforted. For Jillie Curtis had told him that while it was just possible that Laura’s condition might have been diagnosed had she been in the maternity ward at St Thomas’, it would have been extremely unlikely, and the only certain symptom was the onset of bleeding which of course had come too late for anyone to have saved her, however great their skill.
‘Which is true,’ said Jillie staunchly, as Alice looked at her. ‘That is the only certain symptom …’
‘And the head not engaged?’
‘That’s not certain. She was three weeks from term. She hadn’t even had the stitch removed. Don’t look at me like that.’
‘You lied,’ said Alice. ‘And I’m not looking at you like anything and I would have said the same thing, but it wasn’t completely true, was it? Did he mention anything the midwife might have said about that?’
‘Well …’
‘Jillie!’
‘Well, he said she’d said the head wasn’t fully engaged, but sometimes it wasn’t, right until the woman went into labour.’
‘Which is true. But—’
‘But nothing. It is true. Then she just said that the next time Laura came to the clinic, they’d probably take the stitch out.’
‘Well, that’s all right then. Obviously not even an issue. But—’
‘Don’t,’ said Jillie, putting her hand over Alice’s mouth. ‘Don’t say it again, please. I didn’t lie. If it was anything, it was a sin of omission. So can we please not talk about it any more? Oh, God, Alice, what a morning.’
‘Yes. Poor, poor man. What a terrible, dreadful, awful thing.’
‘Oh, Alice, I tell you something. I’m never going to forget this day as long as I live.’
‘Actually, I don’t think I will either,’ said Alice. ‘Such a sad, sad story. He was awfully handsome,’ she added, sipping thoughtfully at her tea. ‘Did you notice?’
Chapter 15
1949
Finally. After all those years, starting at Oxford before the war, his training interrupted by it, Ned was an honorary at St Peter’s, with his own rooms in Welbeck Street; not without some nepotism, of course, and Ned was first to admit it, both regretful and thankful for it. The night he had actually signed the lease on the rooms, and celebrated it with some rather good champagne in the company of Michael Southcott, he had thought that this was his reward for putting up with his father for every moment of his thirty-two and a half years. It was no more than he deserved.
He had also signed a second lease, on a small house in Chelsea; he was tired of living at home under Sir James’s hyper-critical nose, and as his father said, it would come in handy when he got married.
‘Time you got on with that now,’ Sir James had said more than once. He was learning to crush the panic, to smile and say yes of course, but surely he had enough challenges for a year or two now, building up his practice, gaining experience. ‘That’s all well and good,’ Sir James had said, ‘but all the best girls will be taken the rate you’re going. You mark my words, you could be sorry.’
Ned said he would do his best.
His house was a pretty little Victorian cottage, just off the King’s Road, with two bedrooms and a tiny back garden. He moved in with no furniture, apart from a rather fine bed from Heal’s which had been his mother’s. His father was delighted to see the back of it. It was rather large for the room, but he had always loved the bed, used to lie on it with his mother when he was a small boy, while she read him stories and sang nursery rhymes to him. After she ran away with the artist, his father had threatened to burn it for firewood, but it had remained in the big house in Knightsbridge, a source of happy memories for Ned throughout his childhood. When he came home from prep school for the holidays, wretched, hardly able to believe now the unimaginably happy time when his mother had lived in the house, he would creep in and lie on the bed, summoning her back by sheer force of memory – her perfume, her smile, her lilting voice.
He was forbidden to go in there by his father; but one night, creeping from his room along the corridor to hers, gently pushing open the door, he saw his father standing with his back to him, looking down at the bed. It was the first time he realised that his mother’s departure from their lives had hurt his father as much as it had hurt him.
A Question of Trust Page 16