Born of Woman

by Wendy Perriam

  He trudged a few steps higher, looked towards the South—Northumberland stretching down to Durham, butting into Yorkshire—softer country then, rolling gently into Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire, Northamptonshire (boots and shoes and churches, Robin Hood;) further down to Bedfordshire (wheat and milk and water-meadows); down again to Hertfordshire (motorways, new towns), and on, at last, to London (Jennifer). He longed for ten-league boots to cover nine counties in as many minutes, grab his wife just by stretching out his hand. Even without the snow, he couldn’t reach her. She had no phone at Southwark. There was no collection of letters for three whole days and the post offices were closed so he couldn’t send a telemessage. He tried to send his own. ‘Hernhope is ours. Come back.’

  ‘Come back!’ he shouted suddenly, willing her to hear. Would Hester carry his words for him, waft them down to London? There was a faint shout in reply, coming from behind him. He whipped round. Only Edward floundering in the snow beside the car, flapping his arms and fussing, trying to lure him down.

  He squatted on the ground, trailed his hands in the snow, let the cold cauterise his pain. Of course she couldn’t hear, wouldn’t come. His earlier hopes had been empty dreams, pretty-coloured fantasies. Yet he must still return to Hernhope, manage there without her. It was Hester’s wish. His mother had decreed that both her sons should share the house, save it from ruin, bind the three of them together though her heritage.

  Slowly, he stood up, clambered to the highest point of the rise, stood between earth and sky. The snow was not just cold and dangerous—choking roads, crippling cars—it was also dangerously beautiful, from every smallest cyrstal and white-gloved twig to this infinite hurl and blaze of black on white, white on black. The world seemed motionless, yet a million million planets were hurtling round their panting suns, new stars scorching into light and life, even the midget earth spinning and astounded in endless space. Somehow, he had to wrench it on to paper, echo it in paint, infuse dead and doltish brush-strokes with this same eternal energy. He might never achieve it—spend a whole lifetime perfecting one small creeping shrub on one small patch of ground, as he had struggled as a boy trying to draw the exact configuration of a pine-cone or the pattern on a leaf on his scrappy bits of paper but he must still wear out his life in trying, live at Hernhope where the sky was closer to his grasp.

  Edward was calling again, louder and more fretfully. Lyn swung round to face him, then started running down the hill towards the car, slipping on icy patches, stumbling over stones.

  ‘Be careful!’ Edward shouted.

  Lyn grinned to himself, ran faster, slid the last few yards on his bottom down the slope.

  Edward fussed towards him. ‘You went out without your coat,’ he said, passing him his soggy duffel.

  Lyn slung it over his shoulders. He was panting, out-of-breath. ‘I haven’t answered your question, Edward. You asked me if I’d stay at Hernhope.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Edward looked embarrassed. ‘I obviously upset you. I didn’t realise …’ He opened the car door. He had his own coat back on and buttoned up. They were still hours away from daylight, but it was as if he were preparing to part from Lyn already, go his separate way.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Lyn took one last look at the dark and blinding world, then clambered back in the car, settled down to wait for light and morning.

  ‘The answer’s yes,’ he said. ‘I will.’

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  ‘Flight number IB 341 to Malaga is now boarding at gate seven. Passengers to Malaga are requested to …’

  Jennifer blocked her ears against the crackle of the announcement, already repeated twice. Susie and Sparrow were at the very end of the queue, a long impatient queue which had snarled up at the front and was creeping at snail’s pace towards boarding-card control, and from there into the departure lounge. She was astonished they had made it in time. One of Sparrow’s mates had taken them in his van, driven like a madman, risking amber lights, ignoring pedestrian crossings, and yelling abuse at anyone who dared to hoot him. She still felt sick from nerves and petrol fumes. Susie looked expressionless and haggard. She was still losing blood, hobbling from her stitches. Crazy to leave for Spain on an almost-honeymoon, just six days after a difficult confinement. Sitting down was agony, sex impossible. Other women would be in bed, resting and recuperating. Susie had been in bed, still in the postnatal ward, until six o’clock that morning. She had assured the social worker that she was going home to rest.

  ‘I’ll rest on the plane,’ she promised Jennifer, later, as they slung clothes into suitcases and hurtled from Southwark to Putney and on again to Heathrow in sixty-seven minutes.

  Sparrow had cut the farewells short, used his few spare seconds to snatch a double gin. Jennifer felt cheated. There were so many things she hadn’t said, hadn’t found the words for. Yet she refused to wait in the queue with them. She knew Sparrow didn’t want her there, and anyway, it would only prolong the pain of parting—straining to make light bright futile conversation while they shuffled towards a barrier where she must turn back and they go on. She passed a row of kiosks, staring sightlessly at books and magazines, stopped a moment, slumped against the wall. She had hardly slept the last six nights, felt strangely disorientated. The airport seemed oppressive, claustrophobic, with its garish colours, glaring lights and everyone in transit. Her head was reeling from the crush of people round her, the endless tramp of feet, the air of tension, flurry, rush, which seemed to permeate the place.

  She could leave now, if she wanted, return to the bracing cold outside, the welcome grey and quiet. In just a few minutes, Susie and Sparrow would have worked their way to the head of the queue, be past that barrier and through to the departure lounge. That was another country, the no-man’s-land between them as impassable as a mountain range or ocean. She felt a sudden stab of panic. She might never see Susie again. She swung round, tried to peer back at the queue, but her view was blocked by a gaggle of shrill excited schoolgirls, jostling round their teacher, swapping jokes and sweets. She fought her way through them, broke into a run. She needed one last look at Susie, to imprint it on her mind. The queue was moving faster now, but she could still see Susie’s back, Sparrow’s brawny arm flung across it as if staking his claim to her. She was wearing a candy-floss fun-fur in shocking pink, a belated Christmas present which he claimed to have picked up for a song. Both of them were smoking, the smoke from their two Marlboroughs mingling in a single spiral.

  ‘Susie!’ she shouted, suddenly. She had said goodbye already, bon voyage, good luck—all the empty clichés she could cram into sixty seconds and which couldn’t express an nth part of the hurt and hope and confusion screaming through her head. How could you find words for love which was forbidden, friendship which was over, pity mixed with jealously, simple aching loss?

  Susie turned, took a step towards her. Huge tinted sunglasses hid the purple smudges beneath her eyes. She looked smaller, frailer, overshadowed by Sparrow’s hefty physique and weighed down with all her packages. Sparrow had grabbed her by the wrist and she was pulling against his hand like a fractious child, dropping things and swearing, her long untidy hair caught half inside her collar, half streaming down her back. It had lost its bounce and shine, hung limp and thinner now, her face pale against the electric pink of her coat. She was caught between the two of them, handcuffed by Sparrow, yet turning back to gaze at Jennifer, mouthing dumb and frantic goodbyes.

  Jennifer stood silent and unmoving. There was nothing more to say, no magic words or reprieves. The few yards of floor between them seemed to be extending like elastic, stretching out and out—further, further, further—until they were two dwindling pin-head figures on either side of an infinite divide.

  Suddenly Susie tugged her wrist free, piled Sparrow with her bags, dumped teddy-bear and chocolates on the floor and darted out of the queue. The elastic floor snapped back with a rush and flurry of feet, a fling of embracing arms, and there wasn ‘t any divide, only fur so
ft beneath her fingers, hair tickling against her neck, Lily-of-the-Valley drowning out her fainter quieter cologne.

  Jennifer couldn’t speak, just pressed her face against the coat, stroking it as if it were a precious animal. The noise of the airport was only a faint murmur now, somewhere beyond her and outside her. Her world was bounded by Susie’s body, arms clamped so tight around her back, she could hardly breathe.

  Susie pulled away at last, wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘Oh, J … Jennifer …’ The full name sounded solemn now, not peeved or impatient as it often had. Tears were sliding beneath the plastic sunglasses, running into her mouth. Susie had been in tears several times a day since her confinement, weeping silently into cold porridge or damp fish-cakes, or locking herself in the bathroom and sobbing there until some nurse hammered on the door and forced her out.

  She removed the glasses, rubbed fiercely at her eyes. Her make-up had streaked off and she looked a child again, eyes red and puffy with crying, face bare of any art.

  ‘Look, Jen, I just … wanted to say …’ She paused, sniffed, cleared her throat, twisted a strand of hair round and round between her fingers. ‘Well, you know … thanks—and everything.’

  Sparrow had come striding back. ‘Buck up, girl. What’s the matter with you? We’ve lost our place in the queue and we’ll miss the bloody plane next.’ He pushed Susie in front of him, kept her pinioned as they inched towards the desk. She didn’t turn round again. Jennifer was waving to her deaf and sightless back, mouthing goodbyes to empty air. Only a few more yards and they would be swallowed up beyond the barrier. She craned forward. The last thing she saw was the gold of Susie’s hair trapped beneath Sparrow’s arm.

  She turned on her heel, stood paralysed a moment. The airport boomed and bustled past her, announcements of other people’s departures and arrivals, other people’s lives. A troupe of teenagers armed with party streamers and cans of Carlsberg were jostling and ragging each other, already high, although New Year’s Eve was only a few hours old. It was still morning—just—five minutes to noon on December 31st, end of a year which had lasted a century, end of a night which had snailed and dragged to dawn. She dodged an Italian bambino escaping from his parents, watched a mob of pilgrims mob their priest. Everyone else seemed to be in groups or families, only she alone. She would have to get used to that.

  She walked on—past gift-shops, kiosks, information desks—signs and colours clashing in her head, the remorseless loudspeakers cutting conversations into shreds. People were streaming towards the departure lounge, leaving for New Year holidays across the whole of Europe—exotic names flashing on and off the screens. She herself was going to Putney East. She grinned. Better move on. Jo would be wondering where she was.

  The journey took well over an hour, by the time she had changed lines and hung about in the fuggy, smelly underground thick with crowds and cigarette smoke, waiting for her train. New Year’s Eve was again in evidence, some passengers already drunk and rowdy, young girls in party gear, officer workers flushed. She emerged at East Putney tube station to a cold, dull, sleety afternoon, sharp contrast to the glaring lights and stuffy air below. A smashed champagne bottle lay weeping in the gutter, three men lurched arm-in-arm, singing Auld Lang Syne to the lampposts. Jennifer crossed to the other side and walked briskly up the shabby street which led into Jo’s cul-de-sac. She had been there only once before, for a consciousness-raising session of the Women’s Group. The house was cramped and gardenless—the opposite end of Putney from Anne and Matthew’s leafy Victorian grandeur. Jo’s work for the Weaker Sex was blazoned across the windows—posters for women’s aid, women’s rights, women’s refuges, even women priests.

  Jo came to the door in an Indian peasant dress with a British Home Stores chunky-knit buttoned over it and stained and dingy gym shoes underneath.

  ‘Come in, love. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour, at least. Those planes are always late.’

  ‘Theirs wasn’t.’ Jennifer stepped into the hall which had a battered photocopier as its only furniture, but was littered with brochures and leaflets, strewn in untidy heaps and flurries across the floor. ‘In fact, I’m amazed we ever made it. That friend of Sparrow’s drives like a maniac. I was terrified we’d all land up back in hospital rather than Heathrow.’

  Jo took Jennifer’s coat, ushered her into the kitchen. ‘How was Sparrow?’

  Jennifer shrugged. ‘OK.’ She could see him on the plane, chatting up the air-hostesses, dulling Susie with gins, pawing her …

  ‘I doubt if it’ll last.’ Jo reached across for the biscuit tin. ‘Poor Susie. I tried to show her sense, but she wouldn’t listen. Ah well—I suppose that’s what she wanted, and if she sees a bit of Europe in the process, at least it’ll help her education. You must be ready for some lunch, love—if you can call digestive biscuits and peanut butter lunch. I never cook midday.’

  ‘I’m … er … not very hungry, thanks. Anyway, I ought to see if … I mean, is everything all right, Jo?’

  ‘You mean, is he all right. Yes, fine. Don’t look so worried. I may be anti-men, but babes-in-arms don’t count. Actually, I’ve hardly heard a squeak from the little blighter. Did you sedate him or something before you brought him here?’

  ‘No. Just told him to mind his manners or you’d report him to the Sex Discrimination Board.’

  Jo laughed. ‘Cup of tea—if you can’t face peanut butter?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’m parched. The last one I had was at five o’clock this morning. D’you mind if I take it up there?’

  ‘Course not. You go on and I’ll bring it up when it’s brewed. I can see you’re avid for another peek at your little bundle of joy, or do you just want to make certain he’s still breathing? It’s OK, I haven’t castrated him or anything. Actually, I‘m surprised you ever trusted me with him at all.’

  Jennifer said nothing. She couldn’t admit to Jo that she’d had no alternative. There was no one else to leave a week-old baby with. She had to see Susie off. That was vital. Their last contact—perhaps for ever. And she had to see her off without the child. Susie couldn’t relate to her baby, preferred to ignore him altogether, pretend he didn’t exist.

  She walked slowly up the steep and narrow staircase, paused on the landing, leaned against the bannisters. She still found it hard to believe the baby did exist, was real, breathing, perfect, there at all. She opened the spare-room door, felt the now familiar stab of excitement, wonder, awe, as she walked towards the cot.

  She would never forget her first miraculous glimpse of him. She had stumbled towards the nursery behind a sturdy Irish nurse who had been ratting on about the weather. There wasn’t any weather, just the stifling heat of the nursery and the thunder of her heart which was thumping so wildly she feared it would wake every baby there.

  She bent forward, held her breath. All she could see was a fuzz of sparse black hair with a small cross sallow face beneath it. A Winterton baby—dark, male, bad-tempered, anxious-looking, screwing his eyes up against the light. She swallowed, bit her lip. Love hurt.

  She had stood there, frozen, for a terrifying second. Once she touched this child, held him in her arms, she would be bonded to him indissolubly, tied to him for twenty years or more, through troubles, sickness, joy.

  The nurse was squatting down, fixing a broken shoe-lace. ‘Go on—pick him up. He won’t fall apart. He’s tougher than he looks, that one. In fact, we were all surprised he turned out such a whopper.’

  Jennifer opened her eyes. The sterile white-walled nursery was now papered with orange poppies, peeling off in places, the tidy row of cots replaced by Jo’s overflow of furniture—a third-hand carry-cot perched on a battered card-table and guarded by a tallboy. Only the baby was the same—dark, solemn, frowning—Matthew’s child, with nothing of Susie’s pink and golden prettiness nor happy-go-lucky nature. Jennifer scooped him up, held him awkwardly. Susie was right. It wasn’t easy to be an instant mother. Her arms felt clumsy, her breasts inadequate. He was nu
zzling blindly against them, making little sucking motions with his mouth. She turned him over, frightened for his head. It seemed so vulnerable, not quite fixed or steady on its hinge. She crooked it against her arm, tried to make him more secure. He fixed his eyes directly on her own—strange eyes, huge and slatey-blue—Lyn’s and Hester’s eyes. Impossible. There was nothing of Hester in this child. All dark-haired babies’ eyes were probably that peculiar shade of blue before they changed to brown.

  The baby crumpled up his face, put tiny flailing fists up to his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to face the world. His mouth trembled on the brink of tears or screams.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she whispered. ‘You’re all right now. We made it.’

  They very nearly hadn’t. From the moment she had slunk between Susie’s blue-sprigged curtains and found her pale and weeping, without a cot, she had assumed the worst had happened. The child was dead, had perhaps been born a monster. Susie had seen some slimy stunted thing emerge between her legs and plop into a slop-bowl. There weren’t words for horrors like that, so she sat in silence, smoothing Susie’s hair, holding both her hands, keeping back her own tears. Gradually Susie quietened.

  ‘D’you want to try and … tell me about it’, she had stuttered out at last.

  Susie shook her head. Ten minutes passed without a word. The noises beyond the curtains seemed to come from another world—other people’s babies crying, other women’s husbands braying with laughter or talking about strange forgotten things like Christmas food and presents, relatives, the Queen’s speech.

  Susie sat up slowly, rubbed her eyes. ‘It was a b … boy,’ she whispered. Her voice was so low, Jennifer could barely make the words out. She nodded, didn’t trust herself to speak. Susie had said ‘was’, not ‘is’.