by Rachel Hore
‘Oh, I say, that’s marvellous,’ Jacqueline said, counting out coins despite Isabel’s protest.
‘It’s clever of you to find Jacqueline,’ Hugh told Isabel. He stood behind his wife and placed his hands on her shoulders in a possessive gesture. Jacqueline concentrated on licking the stamp and pressing it down on the envelope.
‘I’m sure you’d like something to drink,’ Isabel said, then they all turned as they were interrupted.
‘Jacqueline, how splendid. I’ll tell Mrs Catchpole to put back lunch.’ Hugh’s mother, a little out of breath, had entered the hall from the garden. ‘How are you, dear?’ she asked with a warmth Isabel hadn’t seen before.
‘Mrs Morton, you do look well.’ Jacqueline stepped forward, and the two women clasped hands. ‘I was so concerned when I heard about your illness.’
‘How kind of you to write that sweet little note,’ Hugh’s mother replied. ‘And Hugh said you telephoned. I felt so fussed over.’
‘The least I could do,’ Jacqueline said. ‘And Hugh has been so reassuring.’
‘Mother must have the constitution of an ox,’ Hugh said. ‘The doctor was very worried at first. I could tell he thought we’d have a funeral on our hands.’
‘Oh, Hugh,’ his mother said, ‘don’t joke about such things.’
Still, everyone laughed.
Isabel didn’t recall Jacqueline ringing up, but she did remember Hugh’s mother exclaiming over a card with flowers on it.
‘Isabel, do take Jacqueline into the garden. It’s so beautiful out there. I’ll just have a word with Mrs Catchpole. Have you had luncheon yet, dear?’
‘Not yet, Mrs Morton,’ said Jacqueline, ‘but there’s some waiting for me at home. If a glass of water wouldn’t put you out . . .’
‘Oh, I think we can manage something a little stronger than that,’ Hugh broke in and went off to mix cocktails.
A table and chairs lay in the shadow of the cherry tree, and here they sat. Isabel always became ravenously hungry by this time, and the unaccustomed Martini went straight to her head. Bees buzzed around the wild flowers in the grass and the sun slanted through the dark-green leaves. Ice clinked against glass and she let the conversation drift around her, wondering when she’d ever get lunch.
‘He’s still in Korea,’ Jacqueline replied to Lavinia Morton’s question about her husband. ‘The fighting’s terribly fierce, they say, but I don’t listen to the news and try my best not to worry. Do you think he’ll be all right, Hugh?’
‘Military Intelligence operates behind the lines, doesn’t it? I’m sure he knows how to look after himself.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said. ‘He’s not allowed to say anything in his letters, of course.’
‘You’re being very brave,’ Hugh said, placing his hand over hers.
Isabel closed her eyes against this picture and saw two tiny suns swirl on the inside of her eyelids. She opened them again. Hugh had removed his hand.
‘I met your father at the Brigadier’s the other evening,’ Mrs Morton told Jacqueline. ‘I’m glad he still plays bridge.’
‘Yes,’ Jacqueline said, a little sadly. ‘Poor Daddy. It’s been two years now, but he still misses Mummy like mad.’
‘I’m sure you do too,’ Mrs Morton said gently. ‘Dear Dorothy, she was always such a good friend. Especially when I lost Hugh’s father.’
‘I do remember,’ Jacqueline said, her voice quivery. ‘It was while Hugh was away, wasn’t it, Hugh? We were so sad for you, Mrs Morton, coping with it on your own.’
‘You all rallied round marvellously for Mother,’ Hugh said, taking out a pipe and a wallet of tobacco.
Isabel frowned. The pipe was a recent affectation and when he lit it indoors she hated how the smoke burned the back of her throat. It didn’t matter so much out here, though it spoiled all the other smells, the flowers and the earth itself, that she experienced so intensely.
‘. . . in her condition.’ Hugh was talking about her now.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You’re wool-gathering, darling. I was saying how glad I am that Jacqueline is down here for a while. She’ll be able to keep you company.’
‘Are you?’ She turned to Jacqueline. ‘How nice.’
‘I’m sure Jacqueline will help you with a layette for the baby,’ Hugh’s mother said. ‘Of course, I have a few things left over from when Hughie was small. You remember that dear little sailor suit, Hugh?’
‘Oh really, Mother, you haven’t kept that, have you?’ Hugh puffed out smoke as he laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s only any good if it’s a boy.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be a boy,’ Lavinia said, clasping her hands together. ‘Mortons always have boys. Your father, your grandfather, your great-grandfather. Not a single daughter amongst them. A son and heir, that’s what it’ll be.’
‘There’s that trick you can do with a wedding ring,’ Jacqueline said, opening her eyes very wide. ‘It might be a lot of rubbish, but it worked for a friend of mine. Anyway, it’s fun to try.’
‘No point,’ Isabel said. ‘My mother-in-law is always right. It’ll be a boy. It certainly kicks like one.’ She shifted slightly to get comfortable.
‘I am not always right, Isabel,’ came the response. ‘Jacqueline, Isabel is still working herself much too hard. It would be marvellous if you came to see us often. It would take her out of herself, and you know how I always love our little chats.’ She smiled.
Isabel tried not to snap. ‘I am perfectly happy, I assure you both. Not that it wouldn’t be delightful to see you, Jacqueline.’ Whether it was hunger or hormones, or a sense of injustice, a terrible rage was surging up in her that she struggled to contain. Because she was having a baby, the world was treating her differently. Not as a competent editor, but as an infirm imbecile.
'Once Baby comes, you'll wish you'd rested more, dear,' Hugh's mother said to her, swatting at a wasp.
The figure of Mrs Catchpole could be seen at the door to the garden.
'What I need most,' Isabel said, pushing herself up, 'is lunch. I'm simply sying of starvation.'
Towards the end of September, a letter finally arrived from Vivienne. It contained the news that Isabel half-expected-- that her courtship with Theo had ended, not just because of opposition by Vivienne's family, but by Theo's, too.
Vivienne's story was heartbreaking, but she was obviously trying to be very brave.
I knew I'd have difficulties with Mummy and Daddy, but I was sure that once they'd met Theo and got to know him as I did, they'd see how wonderful he really was, but the meeting did not go well and Theo wasn't at all at ease. They're always telling me how they want me to be happy, but when I chose someone I know I can be happy with, they wouldn't accept him. I suppose I do understand. So many of our kind of people are quite narrow-minded and, of course, there's been so much awfulness with Mummy's family in the concentration camps that I don't want to upset them even more, but I still hoped that with time they'd come round. But we weren't given that time.
Theo wrote to his family about me, you see. We had such plans-- that now I've finished studying I would accompany him to India to meet them, but I know now that this was naive. Two weeks ago, Theo came to see me, very sweet and shamefaced, and confessed that he was forced to break things off. He loved me, he said, he'd always love me, and I believed him, but his father had issues all kinds of threats about cutting him off and not sending him the money for his studies. I could see that there was no alternative, so I let him go. But now, my dear Isabel, I feel dreadfully hurt and sorry for myself.
Mummy's sent me away to stay with Aunt Rosa in Bath which is so beautiful and restoring that I'm sure I shall be back to my old self soon. And then I must decide what to do with my life. Well now, That's all far too much about me, and I should be after you and hoping that you're getting plenty of rest and fresh air. Suffolk must be marvellous at this time of year . . .
She folded the letter and put it with some others she must an
swer. Poor, poor Vivienne. It seemed so unfair that she, Isabel, should be settled here, when Vivienne's life was so fraught with difficulty. It made her own troubles momentarily fade in comparison.
Chapter 23
Isabel
‘Are you sure this won’t hurt the baby?’ Hugh said.
‘Never mind the baby,’ Isabel gasped. ‘It feels marvellous. Go on doing that. Oh . . .’
Afterwards, they lay spooned together in the darkness of the bedroom, his hand cupped around her belly.
‘I must say, I can hardly keep my hands off you at the moment,’ he growled, nuzzling her neck. ‘There’s something so gorgeous about all this, this fecundity.’
‘I’m sure it is all right,’ Isabel wondered. ‘It’s not exactly something one likes to ask Doctor Bridges. He might be rather shocked.’
The local doctor was youngish and unmarried. He had pale freckled skin, which coloured up easily, and any appointment with him about her pregnancy rendered him permanently red-faced. Fortunately, she mostly saw the midwives.
She disliked the fact that she and her mother-in-law had the same family doctor. She didn’t really believe that he’d discuss her health with Hugh’s mother, but just the idea that he had seen intimate parts of both their bodies, and knew their weaknesses, was a distasteful one.
She was falling into sleep when Hugh said in her ear, ‘I wonder if you’d do something for me while I’m away in London.’
‘Mmm,’ she said drowsily. ‘What?’
‘I’ve got to a tricky part in my novel. Could I show it to you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, waking up a bit.
He hadn’t told her anything about his writing for a while, had brushed questions about it away, and she’d been hurt. After all, it was the thing that had brought them together in the first place. She’d worried that he thought less of her professional opinion now that she was his wife. Did he view her differently? It wasn’t a topic she felt she could explore with him so she’d stayed silent. In one sense it was perfectly natural that their relationship had evolved into something else. She’d told herself he wanted emotional support from her now, not criticism.
‘Are you sure you want me to, though?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘I need to know I’ve got certain things right.’
She found the stack of typed pages left for her on the breakfast table the next day, after he’d gone. Since there was nothing else urgent she had to do for McKinnon & Holt, she said firmly to Hugh’s mother that she had promised to do something Very Important for Hugh, and shut herself away in their bedroom all morning, where she sat in bed, ate apples and read.
As before, the writing engaged her at once. He’d given the novel a title, The Silent Tide, and redrafted the early chapters according to her suggestions all those months ago before their marriage. Nanna emerged now, through the male narrator’s eyes, as a vividly drawn character, strong, passionate and individual, but unselfconscious, too, not concerned by others’ expectations of her. Isabel read, enthralled, how she forged a career as a newspaper journalist, keen to report hard news, while encountering resistance from her male colleagues. And then – Isabel turned a page – she fell in love with one of them, the narrator.
Soon after this, Isabel read something that tugged at her memory, a phrase: ‘I feel as if I’m two people,’ Nanna was saying. ‘One is the real me, and the other is the person men expect me to be. Why can’t I just be myself ?’
She remembered saying something like that to Hugh once, soon after discovering she was pregnant. Never mind, it was hardly of great originality. She read on.
Every now and then she’d stop, arrested by something Nanna said or did, some detail of her life that seemed faintly familiar, though the actual words were changed, had become part of the seamless voice of the fiction. Yet they were about her, about Isabel herself, she began to realise. Hugh was writing something utterly magnificent and important but he had used her as his model.
She reached a description of Nanna getting up in the morning to go to work, and Isabel remembered with clarity that time in early pregnancy when she’d been doing that exact same thing, examining her stockings for holes, complaining about her mother-in-law, and she’d noticed Hugh scribbling some notes.
A variety of emotions passed through her at this realisation, but above all, shock. She hadn’t asked to become part of his book – indeed, he hadn’t asked her permission to do this – but now it was clear that all the time he must be observing her, secretly recording his impressions. She couldn’t quite take it all in.
Unable for the moment to go on, she laid the pages in two piles on the counterpane, the bigger pile that she’d read and the smaller one she hadn’t, and eased herself off the bed. She roamed about the room, picking items up and placing them down again, then sat on the stool in front of the dressing table and stared at her reflection.
She hadn’t troubled to look at herself closely for a while, not generally liking what pregnancy was doing to her body, but now she did, imagining how Hugh saw her, how he’d describe her now. Fat and pasty, she thought. Her hair badly needed cutting and the auburn waves were difficult to tame. She picked up a brush and began to tidy it as best she could. Probably Jacqueline would be able to recommend a hairdresser, she thought, as she gazed at the result with dismay. She threw down the brush, unable to stop thinking about Hugh’s novel.
If he’d taken notes then they must be somewhere. He was never without a small black notebook, and would have the latest with him today, but he must keep the old ones in his study. She got up and hastened downstairs, almost tripping in her hurry.
In the study she felt she was intruding, then it struck home that he had been intruding on her by writing about her. She went straight to the desk. There were three drawers on each side and one long one across the middle where he kept blotting paper and other stationery. In one of the deep bottom drawers was a bottle of brandy, half-empty. A smaller drawer was stuffed with various letters and receipts. These weren’t what she was after, though, so she scooped them out to check underneath, then shoved them all back, hoping he wouldn’t spot that they’d been moved. In another drawer she smiled when she found a box of liquorice sweets, one of his weaknesses, but nothing of real interest. She turned and looked about the room. There was a big filing cabinet behind the door. It was locked, but she remembered seeing the key and recovered it from the desk.
In the top drawer of the cabinet was a stack of bank statements and, at last, a pile of his old notebooks. She picked up the first one and flicked through the pages. The shorthand wasn’t always easy to decipher, but in between jottings about conversations overheard, and descriptions of strangers, were sections about ‘N’. ‘N’ was described variously as having ‘bright coral lips, slightly parted, plumply beguiling’, as ‘throwing herself into a tantrum when she burned some fried chicken’. That was unfair, it hadn’t been a tantrum, she’d merely cursed a bit. She read on with increasing horror. There were comments on episode after episode of their life together, and not all of them were flattering.
Finishing that notebook, she dropped it back in the drawer and picked up another. The first page fell open at a stinging little comment about Alex Berec being ‘old womanish’. Hugh had drawn a little cartoon of Berec, too, which exaggerated his beaky nose. It was perceptive but cruel, she thought, remembering how she’d last seen poor Berec.
Two notebooks in, she suddenly couldn’t bear it any longer. She replaced everything in the drawer as it had been, locked it and returned the key to its hiding place. She sank down into the baggy leather armchair, where she hugged a cushion for comfort and wondered what she should do next. The discovery had shifted her view of their marriage. Hugh had been observing her, like a creature in a bell jar. She remembered how she used to joke with him sometimes when they went to some stuffy party, or if something unplanned happened like being stuck on a bus in traffic, that even if they didn’t enjoy it there might be some ‘good mat
erial’ in it. All human relationships might be for a writer as shiny loot to a magpie. She knew this, but the irony was that now she herself was loot, she didn’t like it at all. How could she be natural, her husband’s other half, if he offered her up in this way to the public view, in a book to be discussed, as universal modern woman? It made her feel grubby.
She had just determined that she’d return upstairs and finish the manuscript when there came a knock, then the door opened a crack and her mother-in-law’s head appeared. Lavinia didn’t see Isabel at first, but when she did she came in, a look of suspicion on her face. ‘Oh, what are you doing in here?’ she said.
Isabel couldn’t help feeling guilty. ‘I was checking something for Hugh and felt tired,’ she explained. This was more or less true. Her mother-in-law’s face softened.
‘And no wonder. I was going to ask if you’d like to come and look at some things for the baby, but perhaps you should go back to bed. Mrs Catchpole could take you a cup of tea.’
‘I’m better now. What did you want me to see?’
‘Come,’ Hugh’s mother said, and Isabel edged herself out of the chair and followed.
Mrs Morton walked stiffly ahead of her up the stairs and along the landing, and opened a door at the end to a room Isabel hadn’t been in before, but which she knew was full of junk. She gazed about. There was an old standard lamp with a heavy tasselled shade, several odd chairs with broken arms or unravelling seats, a couple of ancient trunks. She shivered. It was noticeably colder in this room. Hugh’s mother picked her way through the jumble to get to a huge built-in cupboard on the back wall.
There are one or two things in here that might be suitable,’ she said, pulling open the double doors. ‘Ah, Hugh’s old cot. He can take that out for us.’ The pieces of it had been neatly stacked against the back of the cupboard. A set of shelves ran down one side and Hugh’s mother began exploring the contents of a cardboard box.