by Rosie Clarke
‘I’m forty-four – why?’
‘I’m not sure what you may feel about this, and of course I can’t be sure without doing a more thorough examination and some tests – but I think you may be pregnant.’
‘Good God!’ Jack exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it – after all this time.’
‘I don’t think I can be,’ I said. ‘I was told years ago that I could never have another child, because I was damaged internally by my son’s premature birth.’
‘That sounds like rubbish to me,’ the doctor said. ‘I don’t know who told you, but I think he was wrong. I would say there is a very good chance that you are with child, Mrs Harvey. If you would like to make an appointment and come in to my surgery tomorrow, I can do the tests. In the meantime, I suggest you take things easily. You are perhaps a little older than we generally like our mothers to be – but if you look after yourself there is no reason why everything should not go well.’
‘I’ll make an appointment for my wife tomorrow,’ Jack said as he went out with the doctor. ‘Thank you. It was good of you to come out so quickly.’
‘No trouble at all, Mr Harvey. It might be a good idea if you came with Mrs Harvey tomorrow. We can have a talk about the care she is likely to need …’
I lay back and closed my eyes. Pregnant … I had never even considered the idea. Jack and I had been together for six years. We had made love during the war … and nothing happened. Now it was likely that I was carrying his child. The more I thought about my symptoms, the more I realized the doctor was probably right.
Jack came back into the bedroom. I sensed the emotions raging in him, and understood perfectly. He wanted our child but he was frightened that it might harm me. I smiled at him, patting the bed beside me.
‘Come and sit here, darling,’ I said, holding my hand out to him. ‘If it is a baby it is the best news ever. All we needed to make our lives perfect.’
‘Yes … but it won’t be easy for you, Emma. At your age …’
I glared at him. ‘Are you saying I’m old?’
‘No, of course not, darling. Just a little bit older than most mothers.’
‘Lots of women have babies when they are over forty.’
‘But they aren’t my wife,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t want you to suffer, Emma. If you feel it would be best, we could …’
‘Oh no, we couldn’t!’ I said. ‘Stop right there, Jack Harvey. If by some wonderful chance I am having your baby, I’m having it. No question. No abortions. No matter what the doctors say.’
‘Emma …’
I smiled and reached up to pull his head down to mine, my lips meeting his in a kiss that silenced his protests.
‘No arguments, Jack. Don’t you realize this is a miracle? For years I’ve believed I couldn’t have another child and now …’
‘I want our baby too,’ he said. ‘I’m just worried …’
I put my hand over his mouth fiercely. ‘I’m having the baby, if there is one. I shall be fine. I promise. Don’t try to stop me, Jack. You always want to give me things. Now I’m asking for something. I’m asking for your support and love. I want you to look forward to this, to be happy for me – for all of us.’
Rachel put her head round the door. ‘Are you well enough for a piece of cake, Mumma? Shall I bring it in here for you?’
‘I’m coming back to join the party,’ I said, and gazed up at my husband. ‘We’ve got something else to celebrate now – haven’t we, darling?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and grinned at me. ‘Rachel, I want to congratulate you – you are going to be a sister.’
She goggled at him, then started giggling and rushed into the next room to announce the news. In the resulting hubbub, I heard Lizzy tell James that she had guessed it, and that he should apologize for not having believed her. I smiled as Jack helped me to rise from the bed, standing with his arms about my waist for a few moments.
‘What shall we call her then?’
‘Him,’ I said. ‘It is definitely going to be a him.’
‘Well, him or her … either is as good to me.’
‘I’ve decided on Harry for a boy,’ I said, ‘and Margaret for a girl – but I know it’s going to be Harry …’
‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘Let’s join the party …’
I sat in the bedroom of the lovely house that Jack had brought me back to a few days after the doctor gave us the news, and looked at myself in the mirror.
‘So, Emma Harvey,’ I whispered to my reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s true … it’s really true …’
I had been warned that I might have to go into hospital some weeks before my child was born. Jack had consulted every last specialist he could discover, and was drawing up a plan of action to make sure that I had all the best treatment for the birth. I knew he was worried, even though he tried not to let me see it.
‘I’m not worried, Gran,’ I said, as I let my mind travel back down the years to the day when I had asked my beloved Gran if I would ever have a child. ‘You weren’t sure whether I would have more than one child – but I’ve got three already. James, Lizzy and Rachel … now I’m going to have another.’
‘It’s a long hard road you’ve had to travel, lass … but you’ll do what you have to. You’ll manage no matter what life throws at you.’
‘Yes, Gran,’ I said, and smiled as I remembered. ‘You tried to tell me that life was a long journey, and it certainly has been hard at times – but it has also been good.’
I was unafraid as I contemplated the birth of my child. Something deep inside me told me that it would be all right, but whatever happened, I had been lucky – because I had been loved.
I stood up as my husband opened the door and came in.
‘Why aren’t you resting?’
‘I have been,’ I said. ‘Don’t scold me, Jack. I was just thinking about Harry … You will be able to do all the things with him that you missed with James.’
‘It might be a girl,’ he said, a teasing look in his eyes. ‘Or have you quite made up your mind about that?’
‘I know it’s a boy,’ I said, ‘and I know he will be beautiful …’ I smiled and kissed him as he pulled a face. ‘You might as well accept it, Jack. Don’t I always get my own way …?’
Chapter 1
‘Under there and hide quick!’ Emily’s mother pushed her towards the kitchen table. A heavy chenille cloth hung down over the sides, almost touching the brownish red of the polished quarry-tiled floor and, once hidden beneath its folds, Emily could not be seen through the window. She hurried to obey, knowing that such a warning could only mean that the tallyman was on his way to collect money Ma didn’t have. ‘Don’t come out until I tell you – and keep quiet.’
Emily scuttled into safety beneath the faded cloth she knew had once been her mother’s pride and joy. Bounded by the four legs of scarred pine, she felt safe, securely hidden from the enemy, her senses alert to danger. She heard Ma walk quickly into the pantry and held her breath. The tallyman wasn’t easily fooled. He would guess that they were hiding and he might bang at the door for ages, shouting threats through the letterbox of the ancient thatched cottage that was their home. Emily trembled at the thought, waiting for the ordeal to commence.
‘Mrs Carter, I know you’re there,’ the tallyman’s voice was pleasant at the start, coaxing and friendly. ‘It’s silly to hide, because you know the debt isn’t going to go away. All I’m asking is that you pay a shilling every week.’
There was no answer. Emily’s mother never answered him, even though she could hear him perfectly well in the large, cool pantry. Whether she was as frightened of him as Emily was, Emily could not tell, because when Ma had a few pennies to offer she opened the door and invited him in for a cup of tea and a bun, but too often the jar on the mantel was empty and they had to hide and wait until Mr Thompson gave up and went away.
Emily hated having to hide under the table, because it was stuffy and airless beneath the cloth. Sometimes she fe
lt as if she couldn’t breathe, especially if the tallyman kept on banging at the door and she had to hide for ages. It was during these times that she would try to block out what was going on around her and think of nice things – like the day she’d been taken to see Pa’s rich uncle, Albert Crouch.
Albert Crouch was as old as Methuselah, so Ma said, and when he died he was going to leave them a fortune. At least that’s what Pa had promised her years ago when Ma married Pa, but Uncle Albert didn’t seem to want to die. Ma said he’d taken against them because Ma hadn’t provided him with a male heir to follow Emily’s father. Pa said he could keep his rotten money and didn’t care whether his uncle left him a penny – but then, he didn’t have to hide from the tallyman.
Emily had liked it at Uncle Albert’s house, because it was filled with pretty things, like the clock on the mantelpiece, which Pa said was French and bronze, and the cranberry epergne on the sideboard (Pa had one similar in his barn, but that was cracked, while Uncle Albert’s was perfect). For tea they’d had cakes and jelly with ice cream, as well as ham sandwiches.
Uncle Albert had a housekeeper with a sharp tongue and she’d warned Emily to keep her feet off the antique furniture, because she didn’t want it kicked or scratched. The dining chairs were made of a dark polished wood. Pa had told Emily later that day that the wood was mahogany. The legs were curved inwards in a strange way and the back was square with bits of brass inlaid into the wood. Pa said they were called sabre-legged chairs, Regency, and worth a lot of money, which was why Miss Concenii thought them too good for children to sit on. Ma had taken exception to her speaking to Emily like that and they’d had words, which was perhaps why the invitation for tea hadn’t been repeated.
Emily had thought how smart Miss Concenii was with her long dark hair swept high on her head and fastened with shiny combs. Her ankle-length dress was a pale silvery-grey and made of much better stuff than Ma’s Sunday-going-to-church dress. Her shoes were black and shiny with shaped heels and she wore a huge sparkly ring on the third finger of her right hand. Emily thought it looked pretty and on the train taking them home later that night, she’d asked her mother what kind of ring it was. Ma had sniffed and said it was a diamond and then she’d muttered something strange.
‘She’s no better than she ought to be and he might think he’s fooling us by calling her his housekeeper but we all know the truth.’
When Emily asked Ma what she meant, she shook her head and looked angry. She’d refused to answer even when Emily repeated her question so she’d given up asking. It was just one of those things people thought a nine-year-old child shouldn’t ask. Emily was ten now and she still didn’t know why Miss Concenii was no better than she ought to be.
The tallyman had started banging on the door and shouting at them. Emily put her hands over her ears to shut out the words, which she knew were abusive. Mr Thompson always started out by being polite but then he ended by yelling and swearing. Emily didn’t know what all the words meant, but she knew they were rude. She was trembling and feeling sick but she hunched her knees to her chest and kept as still as she could. If he saw the cloth move he would guess she was under the table and then he would just keep on and on banging. She forced herself to think of other things.
Emily liked being ten. She was ten years old and the year was 1907 so she’d been born in the sixth month of the year 1897; the figures had a sort of ring to them and she was good at sums. She could add up in her head faster than Pa could with a bit of paper and a pencil. It was early October now and she ought to be at school, but her mother often kept her at home to help her, because she said she was having another baby. Emily had noticed she was getting fatter, but she wasn’t quite sure what having a baby meant.
The vicar, who ran the Church school, charged the families of people who could afford to pay, but took poor children for free. There was a school in Ely that was entirely free, and all children under the age of thirteen were supposed to attend, but it was nearly four miles to walk and the bus fare to get Emily there every day would have been too expensive. Because Pa had a smallholding, he was supposed to pay three pennies a week for her to attend the vicar’s school, but sometimes he didn’t have enough money. If Emily didn’t attend, her father didn’t have to pay the three pennies, so when money was tight, Emily stayed home to help her mother. She wasn’t the only child to be kept off school to help out at home or in the fields, but most of her friends didn’t care; they would rather be at work earning a few pennies than at school.
Emily hated it when she had to miss school. She liked the vicar’s house, which was almost as big as Uncle Albert’s. He had a lovely parlour with green brocade curtains at the windows. His furniture was shabby and old, but it was comfortable and Emily was sometimes invited for tea after school. The vicar’s wife was a plump, friendly lady who had three sons but no daughters and she always made a fuss of Emily. Emily often wished she could live in a house like Mrs Potter’s, but of course she always had to go home to her father’s cottage. She wouldn’t have minded that so much if her parents hadn’t quarrelled most of the time.
Emily didn’t remember it happening so often when she was small but of late they always seemed to be at each other’s throats – and it was always over money. Joe Carter wasn’t much of a farmer, so Ma said, and she let him know he was a failure in her eyes. Stella Black had come from better things. She was the daughter of a Fen farmer. His land was in Chatteris and, according to Ma, much more fertile than the few acres Pa had inherited from his father.
Pa’s smallholding was situated between the village of Witchford and Ely, a small market town, with the status of a city, and famous for its wonderful cathedral and rich history. At the vicar’s school they learned about Oliver Cromwell, who had cut off King Charles’s head in the name of democracy and then become a sort of king himself.
‘He allowed his men to destroy beautiful stonework in the cathedral,’ the Reverend Potter told them in accents of utter disgust. ‘The cathedral was begun in the time of Saint Etheldreda, and is one of the finest of its period. Cromwell was a bigoted man and though he may have been just in many ways, I cannot forgive him for his wanton destruction of such beauty.’
The vicar knew a lot of stuff about history and books, and Emily enjoyed listening to him. Sitting under the kitchen table, waiting for the tallyman to stop banging at the door, she wished she was in class learning about history and sums and all the other things Reverend Potter taught them.
The banging had stopped now. Emily was tempted to peep out from under the cloth, but she knew it wasn’t safe yet. The tallyman was crafty. He would make out he’d gone and then sneak back as soon as they came out of hiding. Emily counted to ten and then twenty. She could scarcely breathe under the table. Surely, it was safe to come out now? He must have given up and gone away, because she’d been here ages.
Unable to bear the tension a moment longer, she crawled out from under the table and stretched, easing her shoulders. She went over to the deep stone sink with its one tap. Pa said they were lucky to have running water in the house rather than having to fetch it from the well. In Uncle Albert’s house there was a bath and a proper toilet with a chain that you pulled to flush it with water, instead of the wooden seat out in the privy that had to be cleared from underneath and stunk something awful in the summer.
Emily thought that if you had to be no better than you ought to be to live in a house like Uncle Albert’s she wouldn’t mind being like Miss Concenii and having fancy chairs to sit on and a diamond ring to wear on her finger.
As Emily turned on the tap to get herself a drink of water, an angry face appeared at the window and the tallyman banged on the glass.
‘I can see you, Emily,’ he shouted. ‘You tell your mother I’ll be back next week and if she doesn’t pay up, then I’ll take something from the house to cover what she owes me.’
Emily shrank back, frightened by the red, angry face that glared at her once more before turning and stalking off.
She filled a cup of water and was drinking it when her mother came from the pantry. Her face looked like blue thunder and she grabbed Emily by the shoulders, shaking her until her teeth rattled.
‘Why won’t you ever do as you’re told?’ she demanded. She suddenly let go of Emily and then slapped her across the face, making her stagger back and crash into one of the assorted chairs at the table. They had six wooden chairs, none of which matched the other. Pa was always buying things cheap from the cattle market in Ely and sometimes from other people. He said the things he bought would be worth good money one day, and now and then he sold something for a few bob or even a pound or two; those were the good times, because he would have money in his pocket and Ma could fill up her jar on the mantelpiece. She could pay the tallyman what she owed then and Emily didn’t have to stay off school or hide under the table.
‘It was hot under there and I couldn’t breathe,’ Emily said, her eyes smarting with the tears she was too proud to shed. Ma didn’t often hit her, but when she did it hurt. ‘I wanted a drink of water.’
‘You should have waited a bit longer. Now he’ll know I was here and next week he’ll ask for double.’
Emily stared at her. Her cheek stung from the hard slap and she felt like crying but if she did Ma would shout at her again and call her a silly little girl. Emily wasn’t a silly little girl and she didn’t want her mother to be angry with her. So she just stood looking at the floor saying nothing, until the door opened and her father came in. Pa was a tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders. She thought he was handsome, even though her mother didn’t seem to like him much. He had a lean, craggy face and Emily adored him. She wanted to run to him and bury her face in his body, inhaling the scents of the horses, hay, cowsheds and milk, but if she did that her mother would accuse her of being her father’s spoiled baby.
‘What’s all this then?’ Pa asked and looked at Emily. She hung her head and didn’t answer.