Then the crying stopped suddenly and a sticky little choking noise came from the pillow. Ruby lifted her head, her damp hair plastered to swollen cheeks. ‘There’s a nursery here,’ she said. ‘You had a baby?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it? Where is it now? Is it grown up?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose that she is.’
She looked at me strangely, her eyes starred by clumped lashes.
I smiled. ‘Almost grown-up, that is.’
*
Ruby went to bed early, exhausted from her journey. I sat with her until she fell asleep, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket and listening to the gentle gusts of her breath. When I heard George’s car on the gravel I closed the door behind me gently and slipped downstairs.
George sat calmly while I explained, his brow furrowed, the way it did when he was studying a particularly challenging crossword.
‘Which friend?’ was his first question.
‘Her name is Mrs Brown,’ I said, trying to sound confident.
But then his mouth dropped open. ‘Oh God, the tinker woman with TB! The family you gave the rocking horse to. That little brat who I saw carrying it home. It’s her, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t shout, George,’ I said. ‘You’ll wake her.’
‘Oh God, Emma! I knew you were obsessed with that girl, you must be to give away a valuable rocking horse. But why her? Why that one?’
‘Oh George, does it even matter?’
He was silent, his eyes misted out by the little round glasses, a stare of blankness; as if his argument was so obvious that I could not possibly challenge him.
But I was prepared for his objections: ‘You said that you were pleased that I was doing more for charity,’ I said, resting my hand on his knee. ‘And the poor mother can barely cope. There is no money in the family and Ruby’s aunt only has space for the boys. I thought that you would be happy about this, and really, how will it make a difference to you, to your life?’
‘Well, there is the matter of…’ He paused, his expression frozen. ‘W-W-Well, there are the wireless broadcasts, I can’t have them interrupted. And then there is the matter of noise, I must have my bed rest.’
I laughed. ‘George, I’m sure we can manage that. She isn’t a monkey.’
His mouth clicked open, but his words were not quick enough.
‘She is just a little girl,’ I said firmly.
‘Oh God,’ he said, his hand waving away my arguments as if they were flies. ‘Oh God, all right then. But remember, it is only for a short time, until the family get themselves sorted out.’
I nodded.
He took off his glasses and I saw that his eyes were red and weary from his day. ‘I will let you have your way this time but please remember that, well – despite everything that happened – we never really wanted children, did we?’ He looked at me sternly. ‘You know I don’t like them.’
George fell asleep after dinner, his head dropping forward as his body slumped in the armchair. I reached over him and turned off the wireless, then I crept upstairs to the back bedroom. Ruby had been too tired to draw the curtains and the moon washed the room with a milky light. I perched on the end of the bed and watched her. The rise and fall of her chest was more pronounced now, her breath sucking noisily, as if she was putting all of her energy into the simple act of sleeping. Her nose was buried in the pillow but her head turned so that her marked cheek was exposed to the moonbeam.
I crept into the nursery and took the photograph from the drawer, returning to Ruby silently and holding the print next to her face in the moonlight. The baby on the card seemed to glow, its pale skin lustrous as if it were about to wriggle and open its eyes. I held the photograph close to my face, squinting at the grey outlines; the bulge of the cheeks, the frilled bonnet and the wisps of hair. Then I touched it gently, running my finger over the marks on the cheek. The marks were the same in number but their size and shape were slightly different. The tears on the photograph were larger on the face and less mottled, and the smudge under the eye reached almost to the ear.
But this was a baby – a baby in a grainy photograph and not the real little girl who lay before me in the bed. People grew, their faces changed, skin stretched. The girl’s face was no longer that of a baby, the domed forehead was gone and the button nose. But it was the same girl that I saw in the photo and the same girl that I saw lying on the bed, and then I knew for sure that the girl in the bed was Violet.
26
The photograph was on my bedside table when I woke, the baby framed inside the white border. Its eyes were closed, a little white bonnet haloing the grey forehead. It was just an object, I told myself, an object that had captured light and shadow, but somehow the memories of my brief meeting with the infant Violet had become infused in the ink, and the photo became clear and intense.
But it was not just the baby I was remembering when I looked at the photograph, this time it was the meeting itself; the white, sterile room and the shiny incubator. And the midwife, of course – no longer a vague recollection but her image now pulled into sharp focus; her broad frame draped in a long cape, bag in hand as if ready to leave and her face in front of mine.
I recalled how her lips moved, forming silent words, but it was the expression on her face that I remembered that morning, that expression that I couldn’t quite read. A mouth pulled tight and eyebrows raised but her eyes glazed as if staring far beyond me.
I shut my eyes and concentrated on the memory. In my mind the baby in the photograph screwed up its face, the stain on its cheek shrinking into folds of skin. Then I remembered huge fingers encircling the baby’s chest, surgical gloves cut at the wrist by the white border of the photograph. The baby opened its tiny mouth in a silent cry. Then it was lifted through the air and cradled against white cotton, a dark sash crossing an ample breast. The midwife looked up and I saw her face. Hers was a face that I had almost forgotten, but it was somehow new in my memory, as if refreshed by the cold light of day and now I knew where I had seen that face again.
I got up and slowly crossed the hall to Ruby’s room. ‘Time to get up.’
She rubbed her eyes. ‘Why? It’s early.’
‘We are going to visit your Aunt Sadie.’
I had told Ruby that we were going to Aunt Sadie’s so that she could visit her brothers. She had seemed happy with the idea and told me that Aunt Sadie lived at a place called Missensham House. I was somewhat surprised by the grand name, but she sounded so certain that I did not question her further. She didn’t know the address of the property but said she could take me there and, not knowing any better, I had to comply.
We left a disgruntled George to tidy the breakfast things and, with Ruby pulling at my hand, we left Little Willow and passed the war memorial, taking the road into the old town centre. We passed the church, then the pub and the village green. All the time I wondered where the grand old house could be – it could not be far if a child could walk there, yet I had lived in Missensham all my life and never heard talk of it.
We continued toward the station, along the long narrow road and past fields that were once hedged with greenery but now were boarded with colourful pictures of bay windows and indoor WCs; advertisements for the houses soon to be built there.
I stood on tiptoes and tried to look over the hoardings. ‘I don’t think this can be right, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘I don’t know about any country houses in this area and…’
But Ruby was insistent and kept walking.
We continued over the humpback bridge and past the station and out to St Benedict’s, the little black church squeezed between the road and railway line. The number 34 bus rattled past and I thought about hailing it or at least stopping it to ask the driver for directions, feeling a growing sense of despair once it shrank into the distance and silence returned. Further along the road, made of the same black stone as the church, was a terrace of five little cottages with arched windows and orna
te pitched roofs. ‘Missensham House 1658’ was inscribed in the lintel of the middle cottage.
I did know Missensham House of course; I had just never known it by that name. I had always known it as the old almshouses, a local landmark in my childhood, though now largely forgotten but for the glimpse from the odd commuter sat on the top deck of a bus or staring through the window of a train carriage.
A low picket fence separated a narrow strip of garden from the road, a wooden sign fastened to the gate:
ESTABLISHED AND MAINTAINED BY THE GENEROSITY OF THE OXWORTH GENERAL HOSPITAL TRUST
I couldn’t help thinking that this generosity was rather lacking now as the cottages stood forlorn, tiles missing from their roofs and cracks in their windows, the lawn unkempt and yellowed.
An old black bicycle was propped up against the wall of the end house and, in the front window, a face appeared. I waved but my hand dropped to my side when the face disappeared just as quickly. I smiled awkwardly at Ruby, but she did not notice and ran up to the door, rattling the knocker violently. I chased after her and pulled her away, chastising her, maybe too severely, for being so impolite.
‘Sadie,’ I called. ‘My name is Emma Marks. I have bought Ruby for a visit. I hope it is not inconvenient.’
Nothing; the window remained black.
‘I saw you through the window,’ I called, cupping my hand towards the dark glass. ‘Please do not worry if you are not presentable. I understand that it is early. We have come such a long way and I have your niece, Ruby, with me. I’m sure that she—’
The door opened a crack, shuddering to a halt against Sadie’s foot.
‘I’m sorry, Madam,’ she said. ‘It’s not—’
But this was enough of an invitation for Ruby. ‘Henry!’ she yelled, ‘Andy, Jim-John!’
There was a stampede of footsteps and the door was wrenched open.
*
‘I didn’t know that Maud had a sister,’ I said, ‘not until I saw you in the lane when you visited her the other day. It is fortunate that I passed you and mentioned that I had seen a lady pushing a bicycle or she would not have told me about you.’
Sadie stared at me blankly. She was an old woman but her face was still plump and round. It was the face I had seen when I had passed her pushing her bicycle outside Rose Cottage – the face that I had recognised but could not place. It was also the face that had come to me that morning when the photograph had refreshed my memories of the baby Violet and now, when I looked at her face, I knew where I had seen Sadie before.
I looked away embarrassed and pretended to glance round the room. I was shocked at how small Sadie’s lodgings were. The single room that seemed to occupy the downstairs was no bigger than my kitchen, a stove, a chair and a fold-down bed all jostling for space, and I found it hard to imagine how the explosion of boys that had pushed through the doorway would fit back inside.
Sadie had not offered me a seat, just slumped down in the chair herself, leaving me to perch awkwardly on the bed with its crumpled sheets. The small windows did nothing to relieve the stuffiness from the room and I longed to be outside playing with the children, their muffled shouts making me crave the fresh air.
‘You have a lovely place here,’ I said. ‘Lovely and cosy.’
Silence again.
I looked round self-consciously. The room was sparsely decorated; no pictures or ornaments just a black cape hanging limply from its hook like a dead crow. There were clothes strewn across the floor and a cracked pane in the window. The curtains had been wrenched from their hooks as if the once neat and sombre little house was reeling from a hurricane. I thought about the mess at Maud’s house, how I had scolded her for the state of the rocking horse, but it wasn’t TB that had hit Sadie and I started to realize that Maud was probably right – this is what it meant to have children.
Sadie jabbed her finger towards a teapot warming on the stove.
‘Oh no. I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my behalf!’
But she ignored me and poured two cups joylessly.
I took a cup and raised it to her, like a strange little toast, to what I did not know. ‘I’m—’ I opened my mouth but closed it again when the house rang with the clatter of railway carriages passing in the cutting. ‘Such a cosy house,’ I repeated once the train had passed, ‘and you are so well connected here, what with being so close to…’
But Sadie was staring at the floor intently, her mouth puckered into a grim little kiss, so I gave up on any small talk.
The stuffiness was making me hot and I started to regret the tea. ‘I should explain,’ I said. ‘I’m helping out too actually. Ruby is staying with me, although it seems less of a sacrifice now I see what you’ve been left with. Do they allow guests here? I thought almshouses were quite strict and had simply loads of rules.’
‘They have to be quiet when the warden comes, but they can be quiet enough when they are hidden upstairs,’ Sadie said defensively.
‘Quiet? I can’t imagine!’ I laughed, glad for the break in her silence, but she did not smile, her mouth returning to the puckered little kiss.
‘Oh, I’ve probably not made myself very clear,’ I said. ‘Maud has entrusted Ruby to me because I’m a family friend, a good friend of Maud, perhaps she has mentioned me? Mrs Marks… from the Sunningdale Estate?’
She looked me up and down doubtingly and I wished I had not worn my best dress and hat. ‘I’m just helping out while Maud is ill,’ I explained again.
‘Damn it!’ She had spilt tea into her lap, the cup jingling against the saucer and I saw that her hands were shaking.
‘Of course I’m terribly sorry about Maud,’ I said quickly. ‘But you must know the risks of TB.’
The silence returned.
‘…Sadie?’
Still nothing.
‘Oh well, I’m going to assume that you do,’ I said, willing bravery for my next move. ‘You see, my husband is a doctor. I’ve heard him talk about these almshouses. They were founded for retired nurses and widowed hospital staff who lacked the means to rent their own property, so I’m assuming that you have some medical knowledge and a person such as yourself would know the prognosis for a woman suffering from an illness such as TB. Of course I’m assuming that you are a nurse, or at least that you used to be.’
I pointed to the wall where the black cape hung limply and she couldn’t help following my gaze. ‘Of course, I don’t think that’s quite right these days, is it?’ I stood up and crossed over to the cape, opening it up to show the red lining. ‘This looks more like a midwife’s uniform. You were wearing it when I saw you in the lane the other day. Maud said you still work at the hospital sometimes.’
‘Yes. A midwife,’ she croaked and stared into her cup.
‘I know,’ I said slowly. ‘You were there nine years ago when my daughter was born, I’m sure of it. You even tended her in the incubator.’
Sadie said nothing.
I was starting to get frustrated. ‘I remember you, Sadie, even though you have changed of course. Your hair was different back then, it is greyer now. You’ve put on weight. Do you remember me, Sadie?’
She shook her head, quickly but still did not look at me.
‘I think you do,’ I said, ‘and if you don’t, you’ve at least worked out who I am.’
Sadie’s jaw flicked open as if she was about to speak but no sound came and she shut it again, her face settling into a blank stare. ‘I don’t know nothing!’ she snapped.
‘Well then let me help you remember,’ I said. ‘It was nine years ago. I had given birth to a baby; a girl with a red birthmark, a port wine stain, on one side of her face. You may remember because I am Doctor Marks’s wife – he worked in the pulmonary unit at the hospital back then, but he was seconded to obstetrics sometimes. You would have remembered me. And the baby. You may have remembered her because she was special, although some said disfigured.’ I took the photograph from my bag. ‘This is her, this is the photo that you gave
me back then. It was kind of you. You took the trouble to do this, so I think you must remember, and look – it says one of two – you even made another print. Maybe you kept the other one for your records.’ I held the photograph in front of her but she did not look.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said at last.
‘Ruby is the same age as Violet would be now,’ I said. ‘She has the same mark.’
‘You can’t say that to Ruby; she don’t like to talk about her face—’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but you and I can talk, can’t we, Sadie, as adults.’
She put down her teacup, stirring it slowly, and I wondered if she had heard me at all. Then she looked up sharply. ‘Maud is Ruby’s mother,’ she said. ‘You can’t try and take Ruby away from her if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I’m not,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened. What happened on that day in the hospital, the day I last saw Violet.’
‘You already told me that,’ she said. ‘Your baby died and I am sorry for—‘
‘I did not say that she died, only that you gave me a photograph, and besides I never saw her body. They just told me she had died,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t mean that she is dead.’
Sadie shook her head, her brow furrowing as if deep in thought. ‘Maud loves her daughter. They are very close.’
‘I’m sure they are, but—’
‘Ruby nearly died too,’ she said suddenly. ‘It was a difficult birth. Maud had already been in hospital for several weeks. She was very weak with the infection. They thought that Ruby wouldn’t survive because Maud was too weak for the birth. It was a traumatic time for all of us. My sister nearly died herself. And when she finally got better, she was suffering from delirium, did not know that the baby had even been born, and that was the miracle – to wake up from delirium and find out that her baby was born and alive – that was surely a gift from God. You see, neither of them should have made it. And Maud knows that. That’s why Ruby is special to her. She spoke with such conviction, like the troubling circumstances themselves were proof of the bond between Ruby and Maud. Her face was hard, unshakable in everything she believed. Her story had shocked me, but I was still not convinced.
The Liar Page 16