The Silent Tide

by Rachel Hore

  ‘Did I faint?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, on the escalator,’ he said, kissing her face. ‘If it hadn’t been so crowded I dread to imagine how far . . .’

  ‘It’s not very helpful to think that, sir.’ It was the nurse again, brisk now that it was apparent her patient was perfectly all right. ‘It was only a tiny little faint. Once the doctor’s here and has had a look at your wife, I suggest you take her straight home. Fainting is something that often happens to women in her condition.’

  ‘My condition?’ Isabel stared at the woman, who looked rather disconcerted.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was only a guess, but you have that look about you.’

  Her meaning was clear in Isabel’s mind.

  ‘I can’t be,’ she said, almost fainting again with surprise. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘My congratulations, Mrs Morton,’ said the young doctor in his Kensington surgery, ten days later. ‘The test results have come back and I can confirm the good news. It’ll be the end of December, if we’ve got your dates right. A Christmas baby. What could be more special?’

  Isabel’s face was a mask of misery. She didn’t want a baby. Not now, it would ruin everything.

  ‘Now come, come,’ he said, patting her knee. ‘I know you’re feeling unwell, but I can assure you that everything should proceed normally. Thousands of women every day have babies with very little trouble at all.’ He stopped, aware that he wasn’t carrying his audience.

  ‘I don’t know how it happened,’ she said, bewildered, and seeing his man-of-the-world smile, rushed on: ‘No, no, I understand the process, but you see, my husband was very careful. He uses French letters.’

  The doctor started to look a little uneasy, now that he saw his patient really was unhappy.

  ‘They are not, unfortunately, infallible,’ he said gently. ‘Cheer up. It might have happened a little sooner than you’d have liked, but children would have come along at some point, eh? You’ll get used to it, I promise. Or is it your husband who’s nervous? He can always call in to see me. That’s the ticket.’

  She remembered Hugh’s face when they’d got home from the festival and they’d discussed what the on-site nurse had implied. He’d been as surprised as she was, but then, she supposed the only word to have described his expression was proud – yes, he’d looked proud, and as the days passed and her pregnancy was confirmed, he frequently told her how delighted he was. It was only she who was sunk in gloom, and it wasn’t just due to the onset of nausea and the episodes of light-headedness, which continued to plague her for the next fortnight. It was the idea of a baby itself. It would get in the way of everything, especially her work. She had vaguely imagined that they’d have children sometime, but not for years and years. She’d not chosen this baby. It had insinuated itself into her body without permission, and when it was born it would take over her life as she’d seen Lydia, whose birth had also been unplanned, take over her mother’s.

  The dawn light coming through the curtains would find her sleepless, her mind alert and anxious, as it grappled with this new reality. Her body felt different; it wasn’t hers any more. It had abandoned its usual secret harmonies and was singing a new song, one which she’d given it no permission to sing. Her body was at odds with her mind: her breasts tingled uncomfortably all the time, her nerves thrummed with electricity.

  Pregnancy revolted her in various ways. The tang of metal was constant in her mouth. The next time she arose early and made a cup of tea, hoping to dispel the nausea, she spat out the first mouthful. It tasted of fish. At a launch party Berec took her to, she sipped a glass of wine and screwed up her face. After that she stuck to gin. The tiredness was the worst thing, though. She dragged herself through the days, and any glimpse of her face, oatmeal-grey, in a mirror would send her hunting for her powder puff. Nothing, of course, was said to anyone yet, but she knew that Trudy, at least, had her suspicions. The older woman was too reserved to say anything, but sometimes Isabel caught her curious glances.

  It was a couple of weeks after the doctor’s confirmation that she was indeed two months’ pregnant that she and Hugh paid a visit to her family. They were on the way back from lunch with the Steerforths, who had recently moved house down to Kent. Constance and Victor, whose wedding the Mortons had attended shortly after their own, were also there, and Constance announced at lunch that she and Victor were expecting a happy event. Her obvious happiness, her ethereal glow, the protective way Victor reached for her hand as she delivered the news, so touched and at the same time horrified Isabel because it contrasted with her own feelings, that she could barely get out her congratulations. The men smoked cigars on the terrace while the Steerforths’ four-year-old girl Sally ran about in the garden, drowning flowers with a toy watering can, and the women drank China tea in the drawing room, the French windows standing open. Joan Steerforth gave Constance a liturgy of advice about everything from vitamins to layettes, and Isabel listened, a fixed smile on her face.

  ‘I hope we aren’t boring you, Isabel,’ Joan said, noticing. She and Constance were still nervous with Hugh’s independent-minded new wife. They never knew what to say to her, though they felt they were doing their best. ‘I’m sure a baby will happen for you soon.’ Isabel nodded and said nothing rather than say something she’d later regret.

  When the men came in from the garden, Hugh stood behind her chair and massaged Isabel’s neck. Though finding this public show of affection irritating, she forced herself not to pull away.

  She’d seen the pain in his eyes about the way she’d withdrawn into herself over the last few weeks and felt awful that she’d caused it, yet couldn’t help herself. She’d try to go to bed before him, no hardship given how tired she was, and curl up, pretending to fall asleep straight away if he came to join her, but after he fell asleep her tears would silently soak the pillow. Last night, though, she’d allowed him to roll her over and had buried her face in his neck as he made gentle love to her. The tenderness helped, but it did not allay the tide of anger and frustration about the coming child.

  When they reached her parents’ house, she helped her mother in the kitchen to cut sandwiches and arrange buns on a plate. Pamela kept shooting her concerned glances.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re not sickening, are you?’

  Isabel stared down at the fishpaste she was spreading, grey and awful-smelling, and her stomach gave a lurch.

  ‘You can guess what it is,’ she said.

  Her mother put down her knife and came to her, took her by the shoulders and looked into her face. ‘My dear girl,’ she said. She started to smile, but Isabel’s miserable expression stopped her. She pressed her daughter to her as the tears flooded forth.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Isabel sobbed on her mother’s shoulder. ‘It’s spoiling everything. I’ll have to give up my job to look after it. I’m too young. I haven’t lived yet.’

  Her mother lightly rubbed her back. ‘Don’t be silly now, it’ll be all right. I was caught out with Lydia, as you know, but she arrived and it was wonderful. It hasn’t been easy having a young one so long after the rest of you – I thought I’d finished with all that after the twins – but she’s a sweet child and very loving. Yours will be a splendid little person, you’ll see.’

  Isabel had tried that line of thought already. It’s a baby in there, a person, she’d said to herself as she lay sleepless during those early mornings of the Dome of Discovery., e McKinnon, her fingers pressing her abdomen, trying to feel where it might be but sensing nothing very different at all. She couldn’t picture what was growing there as a baby. The doctor had said it was still very small and had shown her a diagram. It didn’t look like a baby in the book, more like a shrimp. There was a shrimp growing inside her, with staring lidless eyes, and her mind refused to connect it to the plump pink-skinned babies with wide blue eyes on the posters in the surgery waiting room.

  For a week or two she sleepwalked through life, exhausted because of her anxious nights
, trying to deny the truth of what was happening to her.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ she said aloud when she put down the phone to a printer she’d been arguing with for the past half-hour. ‘Utterly ridiculous.’

  ‘What is?’ enquired a familiar female voice, and she glanced up to see her aunt, looking very soignée in a soft, dove-coloured jacket and matching felt hat. A brooch of pink gems, in the shape of a flower, sparkled on one lapel.

  ‘What a lovely surprise,’ Isabel said, standing up to greet her. When she kissed her, she caught a whiff of that scent that always made her think longingly of glamorous nights out.

  ‘I’m having lunch with Stephen,’ Penelope said, and Isabel immediately wondered why.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Tyler,’ Cat piped up, ‘but that’s in his diary for tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure it was today,’ Penelope told her, frowning. ‘I have another long-standing appointment for tomorrow.’

  Cat appealed to the rest of the room. ‘I wrote it down for tomorrow. I’m sure that’s what we agreed.’

  Isabel bit her lip and said nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time that Cat had made such a mistake.

  ‘Never mind,’ she told Penelope. ‘Stephen’s out all day today, but I’m free. Shall we? We could try the café opposite.’

  ‘So gorgeous to have some sun at last,’ Penelope said as they stepped outside. ‘You haven’t told me who it was you were calling ridiculous?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Isabel replied with a laugh. ‘Dear old Harold Chisholm wanted to use, shall we say, an impolite word in his novel and the printer was refusing to set it. Chisholm’s stubborn and wouldn’t offer a suitable substitute so I took matters into my own hands and told them to put in a blank. At least it’ll get the book printed.’

  She held open the door of the café and Penelope followed her inside. The waitress was glad to seat two beautifully dressed women at a table in a patch of sunlight right by the window.

  ‘Dear me. What happens if your Mr Chisholm complains?’

  ‘Then Stephen will tell him we can’t publish and I expect he’ll throw one of his spectacular rages about being censored.’ Isabel sighed. ‘Frankly, I think Stephen would be relieved if Chisholm jumped ship, but since no one else is likely to take him on, as he’s such a nuisance, I imagine that we’re stuck with him.’

  Penelope laughed. ‘My goodness,’ she said, laying her gloves in her handbag, ‘the things you have to deal with. I can hardly believe you were once that innocent little thing I found on my doorstep.’

  They ordered toasted sandwiches, but Isabel could do no more than nibble at the crusts. When she fussed that her tea should be poured without milk, Penelope studied her thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, is the answer. Don’t say anything,’ Isabel murmured, seeing this scrutiny.

  ‘My dear girl,’ Penelope said, putting her hand over Isabel’s.

  Isabel was touched by the sympathy in her aunt’s face. She noticed that beneath the perfect mask of Penelope’s make-up, the signs of ageing were clearly visible. Her aunt was fighting a battle she’d eventually lose.

  ‘How is Reginald?’ Isabel asked, to change the subject. Penelope withdrew her hand.

  ‘He is very well, thank you,’ she said, sipping her tea.

  ‘Stephen is very grateful for his investment in the business. It must be thanks to you, for persuading him.’

  Her aunt gave a little smile. ‘Reginald likes to please me, but I assure you he would only place his resources where he saw a good return.’

  Something about this made Isabel feel uncomfortable. Did Penelope also cast herself in this category? What return did her aunt give her lover?

  ‘Well then, I hope McKinnon and Holt do well enough,’ Isabel said smoothly. ‘May I ask why you were having lunch with Stephen?’

  Penelope shrugged. ‘We are old friends. Why shouldn’t we have lunch?’

  ‘No reason.’ She was thinking about what Stephen had said once, hinting that Penelope had been involved in her recruitment. What did that matter now? It was so long ago.

  ‘Does your mother know about – you know?’ Penelope said, her tone unusually urgent.

  Isabel nodded and looked down at the ravaged sandwich on her plate. Tears welled unbidden, as they often did these days. More evidence of her treacherous body.

  ‘My dear.’ Penelope tipped Isabel’s chin up with her finger. ‘Look at me. How far along?’

  ‘It’ll be Christmas,’ Isabel managed to say. The tears spilled out like dew from a flower.

  Penelope read her mind in her face. ‘Mmm,’ she said, releasing her. She looked round quickly to check that no one was listening, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘You don’t have to have it, you know.’

  Isabel stared at her, at first in incomprehension, then astonishment.

  ‘There are ways. I know a doctor who’s very discreet.’

  Still, Isabel could not speak.

  ‘I suppose Hugh knows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That needn’t be a problem, of course. Things sometimes do go wrong with babies.’

  ‘Aunt . . .’ The shock was fading, to be replaced by a horrifying sense of possibility.

  ‘If you need me to help, you only have to ask,’ Penelope said, sitting back. ‘Think about it, but don’t leave it too long.’

  Isabel was left stupefied by this conversation, which she could hardly believe she’d had. She was partly shocked that she’d listened to it at all. As she went mechanically through her tasks that afternoon, part of her mind dwelled on that sense of possibility. Freedom. She could return everything to how it had been. But as she lay awake that night it came to her that she couldn’t do it. Things could never return to how they’d been. She had already been changed, changed for ever. She knew she could not deliberately destroy what was growing inside her. She was a happily married woman with the resources to bring up a child. Everywhere, as the doctor said, women were having babies and devoting their lives to them. That’s what one did and it was selfish and unnatural to think otherwise.

  She was hazy about what she expected out of life, but she had imagined children would come along for her sooner or later. It was unfortunate that she was still so young, only twenty-two, and there was so much else she wanted to do. But get rid of it? No, she couldn’t. And as for doing it and telling Hugh that she’d ‘lost’ the baby, that was out of the question. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the face. It would destroy all integrity between them, ruin their marriage.

  Her thoughts drifted on to Penelope. The fact that her aunt knew all about what to do made her consider her in a new light. Perhaps Penelope had done it herself, visited this doctor, while she was married or . . . perhaps since. Maybe it had been the reason for the failure of her marriage . Isabel’s mind ran on uselessly. There was so much she didn’t know.

  Eventually, resolving to keep the baby, she was able to fall into a deep slumber.

  In the morning , when she visited the bathroom, she was shocked to find she was bleeding. Hugh sent her back to bed and telephoned the doctor, who arrived shortly after lunch and examined her.

  ‘It might be nothing at all,’ he said as he packed his stethoscope away , ‘but only time will tell. You must stay in bed and rest, Mrs Morton. Your husband tells me you go out to work.’ His tone was disapproving. ‘I think they’ll have to do without you for the present.’

  ‘I have tried arguing that before,’ Hugh said from the doorway. Seeing his wife’s annoyed expression, he shrugged.

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ she told them both. ‘I will rest.’ She was surprised to find that now she might be losing the baby, she desperately wanted it . She’d had no power in determining its beginning, but she’d do everything she could to help it survive.

  As it turned out , there was no more bleeding and, after a week in bed, the doctor reluctantly agreed that she could get up. A few days after that, she was back doing half-days in the office . Her colleagues gave no indication
that they knew what was going on, and for this she was grateful. She realised, though, that it was impossible now that they hadn’t guessed.

  Chapter 21

  Isabel

  A few weeks later, halfway through June, Hugh asked if they should start telling people their news.

  ‘No,’ Isabel said, panicking. ‘Surely it’s too early.’ She’d been a little brighter recently. The nausea had begun to recede and her skin had lost its blotchy porridge look.

  ‘You’re blooming,’ he told her as he watched her dress, ‘all round and soft, my precious. Can’t we at least tell Mother?’

  Least of all your mother, Isabel thought but did not say. ‘Perhaps our having a baby would make her like me better,’ she said cautiously, and seeing his exasperated expression, ‘No, honestly, Hugh, I’m sure she feels I’ve stolen you.’ She’d lately decided that Lavinia Morton didn’t only disapprove of her, but that she’d disapprove of any woman Hugh might have decided to marry.

  ‘That’s nonsense. The two of you need to get to know one another better. This will be the opportunity.’ He said this with an air of finality, and reached for the notebook he always kept by his bed and scribbled something in it.

  ‘What are you putting down now?’ Isabel said, examining a tiny hole in one of the stockings she’d just put on. ‘Oh, blow,’ she muttered.

  ‘Nothing to worry you,’ he said absently.

  She got soap from the washstand and rubbed it on the hole to stop it running. ‘If you’re writing down something I’ve said, then don’t, it’s disconcerting.’

  ‘It’s not about you, my sweet. It’s about life. Everything in the world around is a writer’s raw material.’

  ‘I don’t like being your research.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I can’t help it if something you say gives me an idea. That’s how the creative process works.’

  She glared at him as she tugged at the zip of her skirt, which was getting tight, but decided to say no more. Hugh seemed in a very happy mood these days. He was delighted about the baby and his writing was going well. It would be a mistake to spoil that. Besides, she was in danger of being late for work.