by Penny Jordan
The solicitor’s wife was a couple of years younger than Lucy but looked older. She had three young children, around whom her entire life revolved.
‘Has the baby kicked yet?’ she asked Lucy over dinner. ‘I remember the first time John did … I couldn’t wait to tell Alistair. We spent all evening with me with my turn exposed and Alistair’s hand on it just so that he wouldn’t miss it if it happened again. And it was the middle of winter.’
Lucy’s hand shook as she tried to eat her food. Giles couldn’t bear to look at her now, never mind touch her, or at least that was how it seemed.
When Lucy was just over six months pregnant she went into premature labour. Giles was away on business for Carey’s and so there was no one to accompany her when the ambulance screamed to a halt outside the house, summoned by the alert doctor’s receptionist’s response to her frightened telephone call.
The baby, a boy, was born before Giles arrived. She wasn’t allowed to hold him. He was taken away to be placed in an incubator. He was very frail, the hospital told them when Giles arrived two hours later, white and strained, having received a message relayed from the hospital via his secretary.
Lucy was too shocked and drugged to take in much of what was being said. It had all been so unexpected. There had been no warning signs, nothing she had felt or done.
It happened like that sometimes, the nurses soothed her, but Lucy couldn’t let it rest. She felt guilty that somehow she was the one responsible for the baby’s too early birth. She wanted desperately to see him, but had lost a lot of blood and they didn’t want her to move.
In the morning she could see her son, they told her, and Giles, who had been terrified when he walked into the ward and saw how pitifully small and frail she looked, tried awkwardly to describe their child to her.
His halting, terse description seemed to reinforce to Lucy that she had failed, and that he was angry with her because it was her fault that the baby had been born too soon, when in reality what Giles was trying to do was to blot out his mental image of the appalling fragility of the little figure he had seen through the screen that separated him from the premature-baby unit, and the wires and tubes that had been attached to his son’s minute body.
He hadn’t realised until he saw him just how much the sight of his own child would affect him. He had known that Lucy did not want children, and he loved her so much that he had been happy with that. He had seen how angry she was when she found out she was pregnant, and he had known that she blamed him.
All through her pregnancy his guilt had increased. He had seen the discomfort she was in. He had tried his best not to exacerbate things for her. He had even started sleeping in another room in case his need for her overwhelmed him. He ached so much to touch her, to explore and know the rounding contours of her body. He was amazed at how very sensual and arousing he found the visible signs of her pregnancy, at how much he wanted to make love to her, a reaffirmation of all that he felt for her and for the child they had made between them, and then he had been ashamed of his need, reminding himself that Lucy did not share the joy he was beginning to feel in the coming baby.
Now, in the hospital, trying to describe their son to her, he ached with the love the sight of him had stirred up inside him, and with the fear. He was so small … so fragile. He could feel the tears clogging his throat, burning his eyes, and he knew he mustn’t cry in front of Lucy. He turned away from her, unaware of the hand she had stretched out towards him as she tried to find the words to plead with him to tell her more about their child.
She ached inside with the loss of him. A feeling she had never known she could experience overwhelmed her. She wanted her child here with her, in her arms, at her breast, and that need was a physical pain that wrenched apart her whole body.
In the end, hours after Giles had gone home, they let her see him, afraid that if they didn’t she would work herself up into a fever anyway.
The nurse who wheeled her down to the prem unit warned her what to expect.
‘He’s very small,’ she told her quietly. ‘And very frail, I’m afraid.’
Lucy didn’t hear her. ‘My child … my son.’ Her body tensed, aching with love and fear.
The small room seemed so full of equipment that the five incubators were almost lost among the paraphernalia of monitors and tubes.
The nurse on duty stood up, frowning a little as Lucy was wheeled in, but Lucy was oblivious to her presence. All her attention was concentrated on the tiny baby in its incubator; the sole occupant of the small ward, her baby … her son. Without realising what she was doing she stood up, her body trembling as she left the wheelchair, ignoring the protests of the attendant nurse, the weakness of her own body forgotten as she stumbled across to the incubator.
The baby was lying on his back, his head turned towards her, his eyes open. She shuddered as she saw the mass of tubes attached to him and the way his tiny, fragile body fought to take in oxygen. His entire body from head to toe was only a little longer than a grown man’s hand, his limbs so delicate and fragile that his vulnerability made Lucy tremble with anguish and love.
Her impulse to reach into the incubator and pick him up was so strong that she could barely resist it. Her body ached with tenderness and despair. The intensity of the emotion that gripped her was like nothing she had ever experienced or imagined experiencing. Every other aspect of her life faded into oblivion as she looked at her baby and saw him look back at her. The pain of wanting to reach out and touch him, to hold him, and of knowing that for his sake she could not do so, that to even attempt to do so would be to endanger his life, filled her whole body.
As she watched him she prayed for his survival and knew that she would sacrifice anything, even her own life, for him, and the fact that she had once not wanted him or any other child was forgotten in the wave of love that swamped her. She stood motionlessly watching him, pleading silently.
Please God, let him live. Let him live. The sin, the guilt is mine. Please don’t punish him because I thought I didn’t want him.
* * *
But her prayers went unanswered. He was a strong baby, they told her compassionately later, but just not strong enough. He had been born too soon and his body was just not developed enough to sustain him outside the womb.
Lucy knew before they came to tell her that he had gone. She had spent every moment they allowed her in the unit, watching over him, afraid even to look away from him, silently, fiercely supporting him with her strength and her love, willing him to go on living, but finally the staff overruled her protests that she must stay with him, and she was wheeled back to her bed. She had lost a good deal of blood, they reminded her, and she was still far from fully recovered herself.
When Giles arrived she wept and begged him to make them let her stay with Nicholas, and when Giles told her that he agreed with the staff that she must recoup some of her own strength she turned away from him and refused to speak to him.
The rift that had developed between them while she was pregnant seemed to have deepened with Nicholas’s premature birth.
Although she did not know it, Giles blamed himself for not being there with her when she went into labour. At the back of his mind lay the feeling that somehow, if he had been, things might have been different.
It had shocked him when he arrived at the hospital to see how ill Lucy looked. He had been so desperately afraid then that he might lose her that for a moment he had actually forgotten their child.
Their child. His heart ached with the weight of his love for Nicholas. A love he couldn’t find the words to express, especially not to Lucy.
Nicholas’s birth had changed her completely. The girl who had so fiercely resented her pregnancy had become a sad-eyed, haunted woman who seemed barely aware that anyone other than her child existed. She seemed to have distanced herself from him completely. When he touched her she winced away from him. He could see in her eyes now her anger and bitterness.
‘Giles, please. I
must be with him … I must.’
Her voice had started to rise, panic flooding her as the need inside her fought against her physical weakness, her inability to get up and go to her child.
Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t want to cry, she wanted to scream, to rage, to vent her anger and her fear, to somehow make them understand that she must be with her child, but already a nurse was hurrying towards her bed, holding her wrist, telling her firmly that she must not upset herself.
She tried to fight off the drug they gave her, forcing her weighted eyelids not to drop, focusing bitterly on Giles’s blurring face as she lost her battle.
She woke up abruptly hours later, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. It was just gone two o’clock, and she knew immediately why she was awake.
She heard the door to the ward open quietly and saw the nurse coming in, heading for the small curtained area at the end of the ward. She wanted to cry but she couldn’t; the pain was too great for that.
Giles. Where was Giles? Why wasn’t he here with her? Didn’t he care?
Outside the premature-baby unit, Giles leaned back in his chair, blinking his eyes rapidly. He couldn’t believe it was over. They had told him to go home after they had given Lucy the sleeping drug but he hadn’t been able to do so. He could still see the way she had pleaded with them to let her be with Nicholas.
Had she known? He shuddered, weighed down by his sense of guilt and failure, and the ache of loss. Their child, their son … his son. Born and now dead.
He stayed until a doctor gently insisted that he must leave; that he must go home and rest because Lucy would need him when she woke up and was told the news.
Giles wanted to tell her how much he wanted to hold his child … how much he wanted to lift him from his cradle of plastic and metal—after all, they could not save him now—and hold him against his body, flesh to flesh, father to child. That he wanted to pour out to him all the love he felt for him, but he just could not find the words, and so instead he nodded and stumbled out of the hospital into the cold of the pre-dawn summer morning.
They would not wake Lucy until nine, they told him kindly. That would give him time to have a brief rest and get back to be with her.
It was not his fault, nor the hospital’s, that Lucy did not need to be wakened.
She waited until the nurses changed shift. There was a new nurse, a trainee, the ward was busy, and it was easy for Lucy to convince the girl that she could manage to get to the bathroom unaided.
It took her a long time to make her way to the prem unit. She was still very weak. They hadn’t told her just how much blood she had lost or just how much danger she had actually been in, and Lucy assumed that it was the drug they had given her that made her feel so unsteady.
The nurse in charge of the unit didn’t see her until it was too late. The tubes had been removed from the incubator and Nicholas had been dressed in a set of minute doll’s clothes, a white knitted romper suit embroidered with teddy bears in pale blue and yellow.
The mother of another premature baby had given the clothes to the hospital, and the nurse, who knew that she should have the strength to detach herself from her emotions, had cried a little as she dressed him in them.
She saw Lucy and knew immediately that there was no need to tell her anything, and she marvelled, not for the first time, at the power of maternal love. Silently she settled Lucy with Nicholas in her arms and then went to her office to ring Lucy’s ward.
His body felt soft and warm so that it was almost possible for Lucy to believe that he was simply asleep. She touched his face. His skin felt so soft. He looked like Giles. She was sure of it. It was only when she kissed him that her control broke, her body racked by the shudders of pain that ached through her.
By the time Giles arrived they had sedated her, and, what with his concern over her and the arrangements for the funeral she insisted on holding, it never occurred to Giles to tell her how he had watched over Nicholas for her, or that he had been with him when he died.
In order to save her pain, Giles stripped the nursery and had it repainted while she was still in hospital. When he visited her he never mentioned the baby, and Lucy took this as a sign that he blamed her for Nicholas’s death. But, no matter how much he blamed her, he couldn’t blame her as much as she blamed herself. She hadn’t wanted her baby and so fate had decreed that she shouldn’t have him.
At the hospital they offered her counselling, but she refused it. The other mothers who had lost their children wanted them. She deserved the pain she was suffering now. She wasn’t like them.
At home with Giles she didn’t discuss Nicholas. She had a Polaroid photograph of him, which she studied obsessively when she was on her own.
Giles was spending more and more time at work. When he came home he looked drained and exhausted, but Lucy was barely aware of him. She had shut herself away from him, from everyone, retreating to a place where no one could reach her, possessed by a pain and a guilt so deep that they left no room for anything else.
It was over six months after Nicholas’s birth before Giles attempted to make love to her. She turned away from him immediately, unable to bear the thought of allowing herself the comfort of his lovemaking. Why should she have any comfort? She didn’t deserve any. What comfort had Nicholas had? Denied his right to life by his own mother.
Giles, not understanding what she was feeling, thought she was rejecting him and that she still blamed him because she had not been with Nicholas when he died.
Neither of them talked about what was happening. Giles felt too heart-sick and alone, and Lucy could only think of Nicholas. If she had carried him to full term he would have been three months old by now. Sitting up, smiling, laughing, his eyes wide and dark, their pupils dilated and out of focus as he suckled at her breast.
Her body still ached for him and she knew that it always would.
The months passed and slowly Lucy became aware of how much Giles had withdrawn from her. They still shared the same bed, occasionally they made love, but all the old joy and sharing had gone from it. Giles no longer told her how much he wanted her, how much she aroused him, how much he loved and desired her.
She began to suffer feelings of intense panic and rage, a growing fear that Giles would be taken from her like Nicholas, a growing conviction that she deserved to lose him just as she had deserved to lose their child, and, being Lucy, she kicked out against that fear, fighting it with furious outbursts against Giles for spending so little time with her, with passionate demands for his lovemaking, alternated with weeks when she was cold and distant with him.
This was what she had always feared … what her mother had told her was the fate of any woman who did not give her husband sons. When Giles grew impatient and irritable with her she told herself it was because of Nicholas. When she saw the way he smiled at Davina, when she heard the affection in his voice when he talked about her, she told herself that he was turning against her because she had lost his child … his son. That he was rejecting her in the same way that her father had rejected her mother and ultimately her.
Lucy’s violent mood swings, her outbursts of temper, confused and dismayed Giles. The more Lucy panicked and tried to reach out to him by raging verbally at him, the more he retreated into the silence of his own confusion.
He loved her still, of course he did, but he was exhausted by the uncertainty of her moods, and he dreaded the anger that would boil up inside her and explode into a rage of screaming invective against him.
Looking at the past was like looking back down a long, dark tunnel, Lucy reflected wearily. She knew that once Giles had loved her, that his whole world had been built around her, but now that love was lost to her, and soon Giles too could be lost to her.
She didn’t want to lose him. She still loved him, she ached to be able to tell him so, but every time she tried she remembered Nicholas and her guilt and misery would paralyse her.
She didn’t deserve Giles’s love. She had kill
ed their baby and she must be punished for it.
Davina would never scream that she did not want a child. Davina would never deny the child her body was carrying. Davina would sail through her pregnancies as calmly and placidly as she did everything else. Davina would give Giles healthy children; sons.
She knew that Davina had not consciously done anything to come between her and Giles but she was there, and Giles admired and desired her.
What was she supposed to do? What could she do?
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAUL had not planned to make any breaks in his journey, but a hold-up on the motorway had delayed him and he had rung Christie from his car to warn her that he would be arriving later than they had arranged.
She had laughed, telling him not to worry, adding drily that she hoped he wasn’t expecting to arrive to find a cordon-bleu-standard cooked meal waiting for him.
‘I’m working on my notes for this damned conference,’ she told him, adding ruthlessly, ‘besides, eating heavy meals after four in the afternoon isn’t good for the digestive system.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s no need to apologise,’ Saul assured her, grinning to himself as he caught her sharp intake of breath and heard her fierce and immediate,
‘I wasn’t apologising.’
She had always risen quickly to the bait, as impulsive and sometimes as ungoverned as he was controlled and careful. They had quarrelled fiercely sometimes during their growing years, Christie accusing him of benefiting from their father’s favouritism to her disadvantage.
He had denied it then, too full of youthful male arrogance to see the pain behind her anger. Now he understood her far better. She had far more ambition than him and it was channelled into her own beliefs and goals, unlike his.