by Sarah Rayne
I don’t mean any of that! thought Catherine, appalled. None of those are serious thoughts! I chose this way of life ten years ago and it was the right choice and I knew exactly what I was doing. (At eighteen? said her mind, sneakily. Are you sure about that?) And, thought Catherine firmly, I’m entirely content and my faith is strong enough to deal with these insidious images.
She made her way determinedly to the sluice room, where there was always something to do on any given day. No one could clean out a sluice room and harbour impure thoughts at the same time, not even about Theo Kendal. But even amid bleach and disinfectant her mind stayed with Fenn House. It was raining quite hard now – she could hear it pattering against the windows – and it would be wonderful to be in the slightly shabby living room at Fenn, with the curtains drawn against the night and that bottle of wine and the hearthrug. Catherine frowned and dug her fingernails into her palms in the hope that the small jab of pain would dispel these thoughts. It was just as likely that Mr Kendal would be impatient and wanting to get on with his work which had been interrupted by this afternoon’s talk. He would shrug off any solicitude and tell her not to make a fuss.
Exactly as his cousin, Charmery Kendal, had told Catherine, nine years earlier.
‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Charmery had said on that early March afternoon when Catherine had called at Fenn House to see if any of the family would support a charity afternoon St Luke’s was holding in its grounds.
‘I have no idea which of the Kendals will be there,’ Reverend Mother had told Catherine. ‘They come and go, particularly during summer – sometimes in autumn as well and the odd Christmas. But I saw lights on last evening, so somebody’s definitely in the house at the moment.’ As Catherine hesitated, Reverend Mother said, bracingly, ‘They’re very nice people, and you don’t have to be shy, Sister,’ and added a little homily about shyness not being permissible when one was doing God’s work. Humility, on the other hand, was a different pair of shoes, said Reverend Mother, and something they should all strive to achieve although not when they were having a charity afternoon with stalls and tombola and the nice old-fashioned pursuit of bowling for a pig.
‘Oh, and on that subject,’ she said, ‘Sister Agnes wants it making clear to everyone that the pigs are in the form of chops and joints and sausages for the freezer. Don’t forget to explain that, will you?’
Catherine had promised not to forget, but as she walked up to Fenn House, she was wondering if she would be able to explain about the pigs if she were confronted with the severe-looking lady who was sometimes seen in the village, usually admonishing shopkeepers for sending the wrong groceries to Fenn. But perhaps it would be the nice bumbly gentleman who was often here, or the plump domestic-looking lady Catherine thought was Helen Kendal. She had a rather vain, rather supercilious-looking daughter who was around Catherine’s age. Catherine had encountered her once or twice in the lanes; she had given Catherine an offhand nod and very coolly looked her up and down as if to say, How can you go about looking such a frump? Catherine had had to remind herself very firmly about the marvellous thing she had in her life which was God and all His people, and how that was immeasurably better and would last far longer than looking like a Burne-Jones painting.
When she reached Fenn House, no one seemed to be around. Catherine rang the bell and then plied the knocker, but there was no response. It was rather an endearing house. It had bits stuck on here and there and unexpected jutting roofs that did not seem to quite line up with the rest, like a child’s exuberant drawing. The back of it was visible from St Luke’s. Catherine had sometimes looked across to it and wondered about the people who owned it and came here at intervals. How would the view of the convent look from here – Alice peering out of the looking glass, so to speak? She thought no one would mind if she walked round the side of the house to look across at the convent. There was a wrought-iron gate on one side; she unlatched it, and went along the path. She would take a brief, polite look, then she would go back. Perhaps Reverend Mother could write a note about the charity afternoon which could be delivered later.
There was St Luke’s, visible through the trees, looking a bit severe and institution-like, except for the gardens which several of the nuns enjoyed tending, and which blazed with different colours throughout most of the year.
Fenn House had mossy paths leading away from the house, and a huge lawn where Catherine had seen some of the younger members of the family playing rounders and cricket. The supercilious girl was often there, and a dark young man was generally with her. They looked a bit alike; he might be her older brother. It would be nice to be part of a large family like that and have brothers and sisters and cousins, and spend holidays in a house like this. Catherine’s own childhood had been a rather solitary one.
At the far end of the grounds the land sloped steeply down to the river and there was a boathouse, low and a bit gloomy-looking even on this bright afternoon. Catherine had not known about the boathouse which was not in the convent’s sightline, and she studied it for a moment, imagining the family embarking on river picnics, with wicker hampers of food, the ladies in white linen frocks, feathery willows trailing into the water as they went along. It would not be like that at all, of course: the river smelt disgusting when it was high, the trailing willows would get into your hair, and people had not worn white linen to go boating since the 1930s. She was retracing her steps towards the iron gate when she heard a faint cry from the direction of the boathouse. It sounded like someone calling for help, but it might have been a bird screeching or the shout of someone from the lane. She waited to see if it came again, and it did a second then a third time, and it was unmistakably the word ‘Help’. Had someone fallen and sprained an ankle, or even fallen into the river? She took a deep breath and went quickly down the path towards the boathouse. The cry came again, this time filled with a kind of angry pain, and Catherine called out, ‘It’s all right, I’m coming. Where are you?’
‘Boathouse. Please help.’
A female voice, unrecognizable, but blurred with pain or fear. Please don’t let it be the Burne-Jones girl, thought Catherine.
But it was. She was lying on the planks of the boathouse, hunched over, her face twisted with pain. Her extravagant hair was stringy with sweat and hung over her face as if she could not manage to push it back. Despite the cool March afternoon, she had on a thin cotton skirt which was pushed up almost to her waist and there was blood on her thighs, smearing the rug under her.
For a shameful moment Catherine wanted to run away and find someone who would take charge of this situation, but she managed to go forward and kneel down and take Miss Kendal’s hand.
‘You’re hurt. Tell me how I can help.’
‘I’m not hurt, I’m having a bloody baby!’ she said, and as she doubled over again, gasping with pain, Catherine saw the bulge of the child under the thin cotton. After a moment, the girl said, ‘I thought I’d be able to do this on my own – I’d got everything worked out, but it’s coming sooner than it should and I didn’t know it would be like this, it’s sheer sodding agony.’
‘But you can’t have a baby on your own,’ said Catherine, horrified, scarcely noticing the language. ‘And you’re – you’re bleeding and I don’t know if that’s right— I’ll go up to the house and call an ambulance—’
‘No! If you call anyone I’ll throw myself into the river,’ she said, and her eyes were so wild Catherine was afraid she meant it. She glanced uneasily towards the lapping green waters. ‘I’ve kept it secret all this time,’ she said, clutching at Catherine’s hand, ‘I’m not letting anyone find out now. You’re from St Luke’s, aren’t you – that’s a hospital, right?’
‘I’m only in training, Miss Kendal.’
‘Charmery. I’m lying here bleeding everywhere with my skirt round my waist. It’s not a time to be formal.’
‘All right. I’m Catherine.’ The pain seemed to have receded. Did that mean they were between contractions? People time
d contractions which was all very well if you knew what to do after you had finished timing them. ‘Charmery, isn’t there anyone at the house? Your mother?’
‘I’m at Fenn on my own. No one knows I’m here.’
This was terrible. Despite Charmery’s threat, help would have to be summoned. Charmery hunched over with another spasm of pain and tears ran down her face, but even like this she was beautiful.
‘I was going to get rid of it,’ she said, when the pain eased again. ‘But when it came to it…’
‘When it came to it, you couldn’t.’
‘Not that, no. The clinic wouldn’t do a termination. They said it was too far advanced.’ A half grin lit her face. ‘I thought it happened in October – you can’t rely on condoms one hundred percent after all – sorry, I probably shouldn’t say that to a nun. But anyway, apparently it had happened two months before that – the end of August – which made more sense when I thought about it.’
‘But weren’t there any signs?’ said Catherine, not trying to unravel this slightly bewildering information.
‘Nothing to speak of. I never had regular periods anyway,’ she said, and Catherine realized they had gone beyond being polite or reticent. ‘And— Oh, God!’
This time the pain sent ripples across her stomach as if the child was fighting its way out, and she screamed and twisted her body round on the hard wooden floor. Catherine stood up, and said, ‘I’m calling for help.’
‘No, I told you—’
‘If you keep screaming like that half the village will hear. And if it – uh – was conceived at the end of August, that means it’s only six months old. Charmery, you must let me get help. What if the child dies?’
‘I don’t care if it does,’ said Charmery, but the words came out on an angry sob and Catherine saw how frightened she really was.
With the idea of seeing if there was any other way of persuading her, she said, ‘What about the father?’
‘He doesn’t know about it,’ said Charmery. ‘And since you didn’t ask, I’ll tell you who it was. My… cousin, Theo.’
Theo. The dark-haired young man who was almost always at her side. Of course, thought Catherine. She said, ‘I’ll go back to the house to call Dr Innes.’
‘Who?’
‘He came to Melbray a couple of months ago. I think you could trust him to keep it all secret.’ She waited for a reaction, but Charmery was deep in the pain again. Catherine took a deep breath and half ran back up the path to the house, praying a door would be open, praying she would find the phone.
There were French windows overlooking a terrace; one was partly open and she went in. The room was quite dark and beyond the windows the sky was like a violet bruise. A storm brewing, thought Catherine in dismay, but she found the phone in the hall, a local directory lying beside it. She dialled Dr Innes’ number, her heart pounding in case a polite receptionist answered.
But the doctor answered on the third ring, and Catherine managed to explain who she was and how there was someone at Fenn House who desperately needed help.
‘Did you phone an ambulance yet?’ he said.
‘She doesn’t want anyone to know. She threatened to throw herself in the river if I got an ambulance. Dr Innes, she’s having a child, but I think it’s quite premature – only about six months – and I think something’s gone wrong.’
‘Stay with her. I’ll come at once.’
Catherine replaced the receiver, then picked it up again and this time dialled St Luke’s. She asked for a message to be given to Reverend Mother or the Bursar, saying she had encountered Dr Innes in the village and her help was needed with an emergency patient.
The hour that followed was like a nightmare. The storm rolled in from the North Sea in earnest; huge heavy rainspots fell and thunder growled menacingly as Dr Innes knelt down and made a brief, impersonal examination.
‘We’ll need to carry you back to the house,’ he said at last, standing up. ‘Sister, will you help me?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Wait – I’m going to be sick,’ said Charmery suddenly, and hunching over vomited onto the wooden floor, sobbing and shuddering with pain and disgust.
‘Not unusual,’ said Dr Innes in a calm voice. ‘But now—’
‘No! Oh God, it’s coming out! I can feel it…’
‘Get towels from the house and, if you can manage it, warm water, as well,’ said Dr Innes to Catherine. ‘We can’t move her now. The head’s crowning.’
As Catherine sped back up to the house lightning crackled over to the east. She ignored it, and going inside found a linen cupboard with neat stacks of clean towels, which she snatched up and threw into a plastic carrier, along with a half-full bottle of Dettol that was near the sink. After this she filled a big plastic bucket with hot water from the tap. It was heavy but she managed to get back down to the boathouse without spilling much.
The rain was beating against the wooden sides of the boathouse and splashing into the river. Earlier, the water had been splintered with the sun’s reflection and dappled sunlight had filtered through the willows, now the trees dripped water and the river’s surface was lightless, like black glass.
Charmery was half sitting against the wooden wall of the boat-house, her knees drawn up and her thighs spread wide. The child had just been born: it lay between her legs in a bloodied mass, not moving, tiny and impossibly fragile. It was a boy. The son of that dark-haired cousin Theo. But it’s not moving, thought Catherine. There’s something wrong. Thunder crashed overhead again and she shivered.
Dr Innes was oblivious to the storm. He wrapped the child in one of the bath towels, wiping the eyes and the mouth with damp tissues. Please God, let it be all right, thought Catherine. Let it cry and open its eyes.
She watched Dr Innes put his lips to the tiny mouth to breathe life into the lungs, but no flutter of movement disturbed the small chest and the eyes stayed closed.
‘It’s dead, isn’t it?’ said Charmery, after what seemed to be an extremely long time. Her voice was weak and languid. She doesn’t care, thought Catherine. Or does she care too much? She hasn’t looked at the baby once.
‘Yes. It’s a boy. I’ve done everything I can, but – I’m so very sorry.’
‘Was it because I didn’t have proper check-ups and things? Or because he was born too early? Is it my fault?’
Dr Innes did not immediately answer, then he said, very gently, ‘Not necessarily. The autopsy will tell us more.’
‘Autopsy?’
‘There must be one, of course. This is a stillbirth, not a miscarriage. A six- or possibly seven-month child.’
‘Six months. The end of August last year,’ said Charmery. ‘I won’t let you do an autopsy.’
‘Charmery, it needs to be established whether he died in the uterus, or if he died during labour.’ Dr Innes frowned. ‘Is it because your parents will find out you were pregnant?’ he said. ‘They might be shocked at first, but they’d support you, wouldn’t they? It’s hardly the nineteenth century.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Charmery. ‘They mustn’t know – not ever.’
Dr Innes handed the child to Catherine, and for a moment she held the tiny, still shape against her. Its little body was still warm – it might suddenly move or start crying for food or comfort or love. This is the son of that dark-haired young man, she thought, looking down at the sprinkling of soft dark hair. One night, or maybe one afternoon, or maybe several nights and afternoons, he was in a bed with Charmery and because of it this little thing has come into the world. After a moment Catherine put the baby down carefully on the wooden floor near Charmery, hoping she would pick him up, just once, just to say goodbye.
Dr Innes was half kneeling on the wooden floor. His eyes were shadowed, but he said, quite calmly, ‘Charmery, as soon as you feel up to it we’ll take you back up to the house. We’ll talk about the autopsy there. For the moment, there’s still the afterbirth to come – we need to deal with that.’
‘It’s all so squalid,’ said Charmery angrily. ‘I didn’t think it would be like this.’ She still did not look at the tiny shape in the bath towel. ‘I know you’re both thinking I’m a cold-hearted bitch,’ she said. ‘But I’m not. It’s just that I didn’t want this child and also it might have been—’ She broke off. ‘It wouldn’t have been a good idea,’ she said, and Catherine saw tears in her eyes.
Dr Innes turned away to close his medical bag, and Catherine got to her feet to help him. In that moment Charmery reached forward and scooped up the small sad bundle. Before Catherine realized what she intended, she leaned over and dropped it, quite gently, into the lapping green waters of the river.
Catherine and Dr Innes both turned, startled, as the towel-wrapped shape was carried away. Innes lunged forward to the edge of the landing stage and knelt down, his arms reaching out.
‘It’s too far out,’ he said. ‘I can’t reach it, and—’
‘And in any case, it’s dead,’ said Charmery in a flat voice.
Catherine stared at the dark river through a curtain of rain. In another couple of minutes the baby would be out in the river’s main flow. The towel was already sodden and falling away from the little body. It did not matter, except that it exposed what was inside, making it seem doubly vulnerable. She looked at Charmery who was sitting upright, her face pale in the stormlight, her eyes unreadable. Tears poured down her face, and through the drumming rain, Catherine heard her say, very softly, ‘I’m sorry, Theo… I loved you so much.’