by Caro Fraser
Meg left the room and went down to the kitchen. She had to fumble around for a few moments till she found the light switch. She filled the kettle, lit the gas, and set it on the range. It seemed to take an age to boil. Then she poured the water into the largest metal mixing bowl she could find and took it carefully upstairs.
Back in Madeleine’s room, things had reached a disturbing pitch. Madeleine was clutching the rails at the head of the bed and crying out in what seemed to Meg like the distress of one dying. Sonia stood at the end of the bed in a half-crouching position, alternately coaxing and soothing. Effie, having deposited what seemed like all the towels in the house by the foot of the bed, stood anxiously by.
‘Wait, wait,’ Sonia was saying to Madeleine. ‘Not yet. Breathe as deep as you can, there’s a good girl.’ She looked up and saw Meg. ‘Excellent. Set the basin down here.’
As Meg placed the basin on the floor next to Sonia, she looked up. The sight was unearthly. She had no idea female private parts could look so grotesque. It was horrible. She realised the blueish bulge must be the baby’s head. Madeleine was groaning and crying even more terribly than before.
‘Now, go and fetch some scissors.’
Meg dithered; she had no idea where to find scissors.
Sonia caught her hesitation. ‘My sewing box. In my bedroom. Quick, now!’
Meg hurried off. Sonia fixed her gaze intently between Madeleine’s legs.
‘Right, my dear – push, push with all your might. Take some deep breaths and give a big push. Excellent!’
It took Meg some moments to locate Sonia’s sewing box, and when she returned with the scissors it was to hear Sonia exhorting Madeleine, ‘Come on, Madeleine! One last time, and we’re nearly there!’
She stood by the end of the bed, transfixed, and watched as a tiny purplish head emerged, its features screwed up. Sonia held the head lightly, and then suddenly the rest of the baby slithered out. It looked to Meg like a slimy human grub on the end of a bloody rope.
‘A girl!’ exclaimed Sonia. ‘Madeleine, you have a baby girl. A towel, if you please, Meg.’ She sounded satisfied and businesslike. Meg knelt down and swiftly unfolded a towel, and Sonia placed the new infant in it, wrapping it loosely. With her little finger she parted the baby’s tiny lips very lightly and circled the inside of its mouth with the tip of her finger. The baby let out a raw, shivering cry. The sound pierced Meg to her very core.
‘Effie, take the basin to the bathroom and empty it – quickly, now!’
Effie hurried off and returned with the empty basin a moment later, and handed it to Sonia. She was just in time. The afterbirth slithered out, followed by a gush of blood, most of which Sonia managed to catch in the basin. As she knelt cradling the baby, it seemed to Meg’s horrified eyes that there was blood everywhere – was Madeleine haemorrhaging, dying? But Sonia seemed calm. She mopped up with towels and then took the scissors and cut the cord, not without some difficulty, murmuring, ‘These really are not the sharpest scissors in the world.’
Down below the front doorbell pealed, and Rufus and Domino began to yap.
‘That will be Dr Egan,’ said Sonia. ‘Better late than never, I suppose. Effie, go and show him up, please. Goodness, what a mess. But I think we have done rather well, all in all.’
Dr Egan arrived, shaking the rain from his coat. He examined Madeleine, neatly and expertly tied up the cord, then took the baby from Meg and unwrapped her.
‘Mother and baby both seem healthy.’ He smiled at Sonia. ‘Well done to you all.’
This professional praise was very gratifying. Dr Egan approached the bed with the baby. Madeleine lay looking exhausted. Deflated was the word that came to Meg’s mind.
‘Madeleine?’ said Sonia gently. ‘Your baby.’
But Madeleine simply shook her head and closed her eyes.
‘You must take her,’ said Sonia. ‘She needs you. She will need to feed soon.’
‘I don’t want it,’ muttered Madeleine, and looked away.
Sonia’s eyes met the doctor’s.
‘Give her a little while,’ murmured Dr Egan, and handed the baby back to Meg. ‘I’ll call again tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Would you like some refreshment, doctor? Tea? Or something stronger, perhaps?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Haddon, but I can hear my bed calling. It’s been a busy night.’
When the doctor had gone, they set about changing the sheets on Madeleine’s bed, then Sonia sent Effie back to bed, and tried to do the same with Meg. But Meg, still cradling the baby, refused.
‘You see how Madeleine is, Aunt Sonia,’ said Meg, speaking in a low voice. ‘I’ll stay with her. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.’
‘Well, I certainly could. I feel quite exhausted.’
‘As well you might – you coped wonderfully. Go to bed, and I shall see you in a few hours.’
‘The baby will need to feed, you know. It isn’t easy, the first time.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll be fine. Get some rest.’
Meg drew a chair near to the window and pulled up the blind so that she could watch the dawn come up. While Madeleine slept, she sat gently rocking the baby, musing on the tiny, sleeping face, glancing up occasionally as morning light began to pearl the sky behind the dark trees. Towards dawn the baby began to mew fretfully, and Madeleine stirred. She rolled over and gazed dispassionately at Meg and the baby.
‘I think she needs to be fed,’ said Meg.
‘No.’
‘Don’t be so heartless. She’s your baby. How else is she meant to survive?’
Madeleine sat up slowly, and Meg brought the baby over.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Madeleine, unbuttoning her nightdress.
‘Neither do I. But the baby probably does. We’ll just have to muddle through.’
There followed a frustrating ten minutes in which Madeleine and baby battled with the task. Madeleine grew tearful and was on the verge of giving up, but the baby’s hungry determination prevailed, and through a combination of luck and good timing she managed to latch on and began to feed.
Meg sat contemplating them, thinking what an artlessly perfect tableau they made, mother and child, bathed in the first early rays of the sun. Madeleine looked up, and the expression in her eyes startled Meg.
‘I won’t do this again. I’m only doing it now because… because I suppose there aren’t any bottles anywhere. But there’s no point. I don’t want it, and the sooner everyone else understands that, the better.’
Meg looked at the baby’s face, absorbed in suckling, the tiny fingers instinctively kneading Madeleine’s breast, and could not imagine how Madeleine could feel anything but utter devotion to this helpless little thing. Surely if one had been discarded oneself, the instinct to protect and nurture would be stronger? But maybe the reverse was true. She had no idea what it was like to be Madeleine, what she had been going through these past nine months, but if she had been inuring herself to giving her child up for adoption, perhaps that meant she could not allow herself to feel anything for it from the very first.
The baby began to squirm in Madeleine’s arms, pulling away, and Madeleine looked up at Meg. ‘I think we need nappies.’
‘Nappies?’ said Meg in alarm. ‘Where would they be?’
‘I don’t know. In the linen cupboard, possibly.’ The truth was, whatever preparations Sonia had been making for the baby’s arrival, Madeleine had refused to be either interested or involved.
Meg went to look, and met Sonia emerging sleepily from her room. Sonia dug out a bale of nappies and a packet of pins, and Meg watched as she cleaned the little bottom and managed, after a few false starts, to encase it in an ill-fitting nappy.
‘I’m not terribly expert at this,’ sighed Sonia. ‘The nursemaid attended to all this kind of thing with Avril. But it will have to do. Madeleine, you must attend to this from now on.’
‘No. I told Meg. You all know I don’t want it. I just want it taken a
way.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, child!’ said Sonia sharply. ‘It will take time for arrangements to be made, and until then you must look after your baby as best you can. You must learn to feed her and change her. You’re her mother.’
‘I don’t want to be anyone’s mother. I hate what’s happened.’
‘Then you should have thought of that nine months ago!’
Sonia left the room abruptly. Madeleine burst into tears. The baby lay in its enormous nappy, gazing benignly at the world. With a sigh Meg wrapped her in the towel. Presumably there were baby clothes somewhere, too, but the towel would do for the moment. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding the infant. Eventually Madeleine stopped crying.
‘She’s so pretty,’ said Meg, smiling down at the baby. ‘You’ll have to think of a lovely name for her.’
‘I don’t want anything to do with it,’ said Madeleine. ‘You can have it, if you like it so much.’
Meg’s heart jumped at the thought. But that would never do. Besides, it was one thing to like a baby, and quite another to take responsibility for it. She wasn’t ready to be a mother quite yet. She stroked the baby’s satin cheek with the tip of her finger.
‘Let’s think of a name.’ Meg mused. ‘Laura – what about Laura? I’ve always thought it such a pretty name.’
‘I don’t care.’ Madeleine rolled over on to her side, gazing fixedly at the window.
Meg decided she was heartily tired of Madeleine’s petulance and indifference. She took the baby back to her bedroom and laid her carefully on the bed, bunching the eiderdown around her so there was no danger of her rolling off – although the baby admittedly didn’t look as if she was capable of that – and then washed and dressed. She kept glancing at the baby, feeling every time she did so a little surge of wonder at the fact of this tiny new life lying there on the bed, absorbing the world with grave grey eyes. Did all babies look so wise?
She took the baby down to the kitchen, where Mrs Goodall was busy preparing breakfast. Mrs Goodall’s surprise and mild disapproval at the baby’s overnight arrival rapidly mellowed, and she was soon declaring her a dear little mite.
‘She is sweet, isn’t she?’ said Meg. ‘It’s just sad that Madeleine doesn’t want anything to do with her.’
‘That’s probably for the best,’ said Mrs Goodall briskly. ‘No point in getting overfond of it.’
‘She says she won’t even feed her.’
‘Well, there’s always bottles. I’m sure we have a few around from Miss Avril’s time. Madam was never one for nature’s way. Now, I’d best get breakfast on the table.’
Sonia appeared in the breakfast room with a straw bassinette which had once been Avril’s, some sheets and a small, handmade quilt, and a tiny gown. Meg dressed the baby while Sonia prepared the bassinette, and then laid her in it. She and Sonia sat down to breakfast. Meg recounted Mrs Goodall’s remarks.
‘I suppose it’s true,’ said Sonia. ‘There’s no use her forming an attachment. It’s just that she’s rather the obvious person to be feeding and changing the baby. Still, I was wrong to lose my temper.’ She rubbed her temples with distracted fingers. ‘I really haven’t thought this through.’
‘How does one go about having a baby adopted?’
‘My dear, I have no idea. I know I should have made enquiries. It’s very remiss of me.’ Sonia sipped her tea. ‘Still, time enough for that.’
A tiny cry rose from the bassinette, and Sonia got up. She lifted the baby into her arms and brought her back to the breakfast table.
‘Now, now,’ she said, smiling tenderly at the baby, ‘that’s a great deal of noise for such a little scrap to be making, isn’t it?’ She continued to murmur affectionate, reproving nonsense, and the baby grew calmer.
‘Madeleine isn’t interested in giving her a name,’ observed Meg. ‘I thought Laura might be rather nice.’
‘Laura – how perfectly sweet!’ She contemplated the baby. ‘Yes, we shall call you Laura. Just for the time being, of course.’
Meg, watching her aunt cradle the baby happily, felt a faint misgiving. Perhaps it wasn’t just Madeleine who had to be wary of forming affection for this new person.
‘One more slice of toast,’ said Meg, ‘and then I really must be getting back to London. This visit has been quite an adventure.’
‘It certainly has. I wish you could stay longer, but I know you have a busy time ahead of you. As do we.’ She smiled down at the baby. ‘Don’t we, Laura?’
*
When Paul came back from France, Meg was bursting with news, both about the baby and Hazelhurst.
‘Well, I’m delighted that you like the house so much. I’ll ring the agent chappie and we can go down together first thing next week. As to the baby, it might have been better for all if it had died at birth.’
‘Paul! What a perfectly dreadful thing to say! She’s adorable. And I named her. She’s to be called Laura.’
‘Let’s hope she grows up to have more sense and morals than her mother.’
‘You can be quite insufferable at times,’ said Meg. ‘It’s a terribly sad situation for both of them. I suppose if things were otherwise, Madeleine would dote on her baby. But because she’s decided to give it away, she won’t let herself feel anything. She even offered to let me have her.’
‘No, thank you very much!’ exclaimed Paul. ‘I certainly don’t want charge of someone else’s bastard offspring.’
‘That’s exactly how Madeleine’s grandmother described her,’ observed Meg sadly. ‘Poor Laura.’
Paul, conscious that he had said something to displease Meg, though not quite sure what, said, ‘You have a very generous heart, my child, feeling so much for other people. But you can’t lead their lives for them. You have your own to think about. And I intend it to be a very happy one. Now, tell me more about the house.’
3
IN THE SAME hour, Dan was sitting in his third-floor bedroom in his hotel in Madrid, finishing his latest report for the Graphic. He worked to the sound, beyond his window, of constant gunfire and shelling – a sound to which he had become so accustomed that he scarcely paid attention, unless the threatening whine of the approach indicated the shell might land closer than most. Even then, he would only pause to listen and wait for the explosion, further or closer as it might be, and carry on tapping at the typewriter keys. Like most of the hotel’s residents, he operated on a level where fatalism, nonchalance and recklessness rubbed weary shoulders. Since the last shell had not struck, why should this? It was in the same stoical spirit that the citizens of Madrid went about their daily business, knowing that at any moment a rifle bullet might send them, newspaper or shopping basket in hand, sprawling into sudden death on the street. Who knew? No one. So who could possibly care? But if they had no say over the larger issues of life or death, everyone still tried to exercise such mundane control as they could over the detail of their daily lives, hence the hotel manager’s insistence that Dan keep his windows open so that the glass wouldn’t blow out if a shell landed close by.
Dan spooled his finished report out of his typewriter and glanced through it, then went downstairs, left the hotel and took it over to the censura. When he came back, the clerk at the reception desk plucked a letter from one of the pigeonholes. ‘For you, Señor Ranscombe.’
Dan took the letter up to his room and opened it. It was from Sonia, dated two weeks ago, telling him that Charles Asher had been wounded while fighting with the International Brigade’s 15th Battalion, and had been sent to hospital in Madrid for treatment and recuperation. She asked if Dan would spare some time to visit him. Dan weighed this up. He hadn’t much cared for Charles, but the chap would probably welcome seeing a friendly face, so it seemed the decent thing to do.
The next morning, Dan went to the hospital, but was told that Charles had been discharged the previous day and was in temporary accommodation in a local barracks. He made his way to the barracks and found Charles sitting on his own at a table i
n the shabby mess, reading a dog-eared copy of Right Ho, Jeeves. A pair of crutches rested against the table. He glanced up as Dan came in, and after a second’s hesitation, recognition dawned.
‘Dan, isn’t it?’ He hesitated, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember your surname.’ He stuffed the book in the pocket of his jacket and held out a hand. Dan shook it.
‘Ranscombe. Sonia wrote and told me you were in the hospital here. How are you?’
‘So-so, thanks. I caught a bullet in my upper thigh and one in my ankle. My leg was a bit of a mess at the time, but it’s not too bad now.’
Dan nodded and glanced at the crutches. ‘Reckon you can make it as far as the bar round the corner?’
Charles smiled thinly. ‘I can try. I’m actually pretty nifty on these things.’ The two of them left the barracks and made their way down the street, Charles swinging along on his crutches.
‘It’s nice to see someone from home,’ he said, glancing at Dan. ‘Decent of you to look me up.’
They had reached a scruffy bar with a few tables scattered outside. ‘This do?’ asked Dan.
Charles nodded. They sat in the spring sunshine at a table under an awning, and ordered a couple of beers. As the waiter set down the bottles and glasses, Dan looked Charles over, trying to assess how much the events of the last few months had changed him. He was dressed in corduroy breeches, dusty leather boots, and a battered leather jacket over a thin shirt, a red kerchief knotted round his throat. With his hair cropped short beneath his cap, he seemed a leaner, older version of the young man Dan had met at Woodbourne House just a few months before, but the look in his dark expressive eyes was still boyishly earnest. He knocked two cigarettes from a packet and lit them while Dan poured the beers. He handed one to Dan and leaned back in his chair, pulling off his cap as he took the first drag.
‘What are you doing out here?’ asked Charles.
‘I’m here as a reporter for the London Graphic.’ They smoked in silence for a few seconds. ‘So,’ said Dan, ‘you’ve seen action. Where was it?’