The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I’ll brief them shortly,’ Ellen murmured. ‘She’ll do it for you but not for us.’ We walked on.

  ‘Just make sure she’s doing it for him. Right, let’s see how Sarah Hill is getting on.’

  We found her bed empty. A harried nurse approached. ‘Dr Fenwick?’ I gave her my full attention. ‘We’ve moved Mrs Hill. She’s definitely in labour although Dr Dooley said he didn’t expect anything for at least a few more days.’

  I slanted Ellen a look. ‘Let’s scrub.’

  We entered an attached room where the mother, barely past twenty-one, sweating despite the cold, was panting but seemed to be focused inwards. I took her hand. ‘Sarah?’ Her eyes startled open. ‘You seem in a hurry to have this baby.’

  She gave a wan smile but closed her eyes quickly, returning to panting. ‘She’s not giving me a choice. She’s coming, with or without our permission.’

  ‘You know it’s a girl, do you?’ I said in a light tone to keep all alarm for the mother at a distance. I moved around to lift the sheets.

  ‘Only a girl would want this much attention,’ she half wept, half growled.

  Ellen’s gasp was lost in Sarah’s groans and I cut her a warning look not to frighten the mother, but the truth was my heart rate had just leapt from calm. It had accelerated to a pounding I could feel throbbing at my temple as all other thoughts fled and I could almost hear a click as my mind locked into gear at the sight of the baby’s prolapsed umbilical cord. I’d only witnessed this once previously while still in training. I remembered then the senior obstetrician had warned to get the child out as quickly as possible.

  His words came back to swirl in my mind now: That’s the concern. Don’t wait for this to right itself, don’t expect the baby to turn or that you can turn it easily. Every moment you hesitate is potential brain damage.

  ‘Get Mrs Hill into theatre and prepped for an emergency caesarean,’ I said, my voice quiet and sounding as though it was coming from the other side of the room. All that was my life outside of the clinic had been pushed aside; only this mother and baby mattered right now. ‘Who’s on for anaesthesia?’ My tone was brisk. This was now the ruthlessly professional voice of Dr Isla Fenwick and I had several gazes trained on me.

  ‘It’s Dr Stone,’ someone answered.

  ‘Fetch him immediately. No excuses. None!’ I dropped my tone but Sarah Hill was no longer listening. ‘This baby’s in trouble,’ I murmured to Ellen. ‘We could lose it if we aren’t fast and efficient. Keep her hips elevated, no matter how she protests. Go!’

  Re-scrubbed, gowned and masked within minutes, I stood poised, scalpel in hand, with Dr Stone nodding at me. He had intravenously administered the sodium thiopental, a barbiturate that we loved in obstetrics for its swiftness as an anaesthetic. Sarah Hill lost consciousness within forty-five seconds and I could proceed without a second’s further delay.

  ‘Thank you, Henry,’ I acknowledged. I began to talk – I did this to help Ellen and another midwife observing – but in all truth I spoke because it helped me to state aloud the procedure I had watched my tutor show me all those years ago as a quick response to this rare condition.

  ‘There are so many problems to cord prolapse. We know this baby is arriving prematurely, so that’s part of it, but the membranes could also have ruptured before their time, or this little one hasn’t engaged because it’s been lying in a strange position and that has allowed the cord to occupy the space below it.’

  I steadied my breath and made the incision low and not too wide. This would be a small baby and I intended to have him or her out in moments with as little damage to Sarah Hill as possible.

  ‘What’s our main concern?’ Ellen asked. She sounded appreciably nervous. To most this might have appeared a stupid question with an obvious answer . . . death. However, I silently applauded the midwives who asked questions.

  ‘Our major worry is compression of the cord by the baby above it,’ I answered. ‘The pressure can cut the blood flow to the infant and that means potential brain damage and of course potential death to baby if you start debating the merits of forceps versus the operation.’

  ‘How do we know . . . I mean, before it becomes such an emergency, especially if the mother is at home?’ Another good question from Ellen.

  My gloved hands were now in Sarah Hill’s womb, trying to get a good purchase on her child. I could hear my voice was tight and I probably had a newly distracted tone as my fingers slipped and slid around the amniotic sac. I broke it deliberately. ‘Listening to the infant’s heartbeat is paramount. It’s your clue to what’s happening in here,’ I said. ‘The moment it drops, you should get the mother to a hospital . . . before the prolapse or a number of other problems occur.’ A moment’s pause. ‘And here we are!’ I finished triumphantly, lifting a steaming, tiny child from her mother’s belly. We all gave soft sounds of relief as I handed the precious baby to be wrapped and gently wiped clean of her birth. I let go of my relief and relaxed further at the first cough and then a wail from the baby, in order to refocus on separating Sarah from what I hoped would be her healthy daughter.

  ‘Everything as it should be?’ I said to the room, not lifting my gaze from where I’d tied off the formerly wayward umbilical cord. The child was cut free and while Ellen and her colleague worked with the baby, I glanced to Dr Stone.

  ‘Mother’s strong,’ he said, winking over his mask at me. I liked Henry. He had ten years on me but I appreciated his calming, supportive manner in theatre. He lacked the arrogance I encountered with most of the other male clinicians, which probably explained why Henry was never without female company.

  ‘Baby’s intact and strong lungs for such a little mite,’ the other midwife called over her shoulder.

  ‘Good.’ I lifted the placenta free and into the dish that Ellen was holding out. ‘Check it,’ I said unnecessarily but out of habit, already turning to the nearby tray for my suturing equipment.

  Two hours later, with Sarah Hill coming back to full consciousness and getting used to the idea of a tiny sucking infant at her breast, I was already midway through another caesarean section, this time for Mrs Dempsey.

  The day passed in a blur of mothers in need, including one delivery where the baby was all but falling out of the extremely young mother at her first push.

  Later, leaning against the side wall of the clinic, I let out a long sigh to Ellen. She was equally exhausted but I suspected she felt as exhilarated as I did. I could almost wish I smoked after so many continuous hours lost in my work. Women drawing back on cigarettes always looked so chic, I thought. ‘What a day,’ I said, sipping on another mug of tea, more to warm my hands, although the sugar felt reviving after toiling to bring four babies into our world. ‘You were brilliant today, Ellen.’

  She thanked me with a beaming smile. ‘You should know that every day in India is going to be as challenging as this one,’ she warned, eyeing me with sympathy.

  ‘Well, I’m ready for it.’ I grinned.

  3

  Jovian Mandeville had sent a telegraph apology that he would have to meet me at our rendezvous destination. A car and driver came to the house to transfer me to where my potential fiancé was waiting, the stopping place being kept secret. While I am not someone who likes surprises being sprung, I was comfortable with this arrangement for it meant none of the awkward small talk in the cramped space of a car. And if I am being honest, I must admit that the journeying to a secret destination was vaguely romantic and rather fun.

  I worked out soon enough that we were headed south; at first I thought it might be to one of the pretty villages dotted among the rolling South Downs, that we’d meet in a country hotel or similar. But, no, we kept driving and it dawned on me that we were headed for the coast.

  ‘Are we making for Eastbourne?’ I asked the driver, trying to imagine the most conservative of towns of the south coast.

  ‘No, madam,’ he said and in such a final voice I didn’t try any further suggestions.

&
nbsp; And as we descended from the steep rise on one side of the chalky V-shaped valley known as Devil’s Dyke, it was obvious that we were making for Brighton. Local folklore held that the devil had apparently been carving out a deep trench to allow the sea to flood the churches of the Weald. I learned this from my driver, who suddenly became animated as we crested the hill and I recognised where we were from previous trips to the coast.

  We wended our way to the Hove seafront and its infamous Palmeira Square, which had once been empty land used for an ambitious project called the Anthaeum. I remember my mother telling me this fascinating tale. A botanist and horticultural writer had conceived a grandiose idea for the world’s largest conservatory. He planned an elaborate indoor garden, which was to be topped by the largest glass dome on earth. It was eagerly awaited but on the day prior to its opening, the entire structure collapsed. And here’s the final tragedy – the poor man turned blind overnight, supposedly from shock. As romantic as I was, the grown-up in me prompted a new belief that loving something, anything, to such distraction was dangerous to one’s physical and mental health.

  We headed east into Brighton, one of my favourite towns of the south with its massive, sweeping crescents of regency homes leaning around public gardens alive with narcissus and some early, hardy jonquils. These squares and crescents connected with their prouder cousins, the soaring seafront terraces painted in a pale custard colour, which were battered by winds carried across the English Channel from France. As a child I had often dreamed of living in one of these fine dwellings opposite my favourite promenade, and even in adulthood I held to the hope that one day I might have a home on a seafront terrace.

  ‘I’m to take you into North Street, Brighton, madam,’ the driver said.

  ‘Oh.’ I was startled by his interruption of my thoughts. ‘Um, thank you. Where exactly am I alighting?’

  ‘It’s a tearoom, madam.’ He sounded embarrassed.

  I reassured him. ‘I understand my journey is to be a mystery.’

  Curiously, this playfulness made me like Jove Mandeville even more. It was returning to me now how much fun he could be.

  We turned into North Street, which had the town’s Queen Victoria Jubilee Clock Tower at its top edge. The wide street was lined with banks and insurance buildings but also the vast Hanningtons department store. I recall my mother buying a feathered hat from there when I was still young enough to hold her hand constantly.

  We pulled to the kerb not far from this familiar building, which had expanded into East Street and looked even busier than I remembered. The driver moved swiftly from his seat to come around and open the door for me. The cold air rushed in and I shivered as I alighted. We were alongside a Lyons’ tea house, a favourite with workers and crowded, if the view through its window was an indication.

  ‘This teashop, I presume,’ I said, knowing it was a redundant statement. I frowned, pulling on my gloves and shrugging my coat closer around my chin to scan the front more closely. I threw a smile of thanks to the driver before squinting over the distance from the car through the windows of the tearoom. Cakes, biscuits and pastries of every kind – dozens of them – filled the double-fronted window from a couple of feet above the pavement to almost the top of the shopfront. It was staggeringly colourful to see a multitude of cake stands. On them, pyramids of tarts oozing glossy raspberry jam and lemon curd the colour of sunshine vied for attention with sponges sitting on pillows of whipped cream, while small pink-and-green iced fondant squares and marzipan-covered fancies sat like a row of multicoloured gems. A shiny chocolate gateau with tiny pyramids of cream and strawberries captured my attention, but I peered beyond these treats into the background, which was busy with jolly patrons. I felt immediately conspicuous as a doorman in a uniform with polished brass buttons against his navy jacket nodded a welcome. Slightly panicked, I caught the gaze of the man from my childhood whom I believed I was in love with all those immature years ago.

  Initially I’d looked up to the upper storey, where Odinot’s Hairdressing & Shaving Salon promoted everything from manicures and chiropody to face and scalp massages, before I glanced to the right of the store. I noticed a neatly bearded gentleman regarding me intently. He was a study in grey; his mid-charcoal overcoat dropped halfway to his shins and was only marginally darker than the suit I could glimpse beneath. He removed his dove-coloured trilby with hands kept warm in gloves the hue of ash. He gave a small bow, like a street pigeon about to start a mating dance.

  It was instantly disconcerting that he was more handsome than I recalled from my tender years. ‘Jove?’ I already knew it had to be him as I stepped lightly across the pavement, extending a hand but wanting to hug him, yet embarrassed by the thrill of warmth to my cheeks at a childish rush of pleasure.

  He reached for it. Eyes, echoing argent, glimmered as though Jack Frost himself was sprinkling them with ice crystals to catch the low winter light. I recalled their pale beauty in a less lined face and one shaved so closely that his youthful complexion all but shone.

  ‘Isla, good grief, look at you!’ he said, his tone as buoyant as I remembered, but grittier; softer too. He paused for a heartbeat while our gazes fully connected. I readily admit to feeling a surge of pleasure that he addressed me so respectfully, and also a rekindling of that old candle that had once burned so brightly for this man. He briefly kissed my hand, heedless of people watching. ‘I really should say hello, Dr Fenwick.’

  Why I had anticipated a wrinkly fellow with a crusty voice and liver-spotted hands was beyond me. My father had certainly conveyed him as thoroughly likeable, yes, but somehow I had taken on the feeling that the target of my childish crush would now be wizened in his bearing. He defied that impression dramatically; he was as dashing now as he had been as a glowing younger adult – more so, perhaps, because I sensed an innate confidence that the years had blessed him with. He was tailored in a fashionable cut that sat with sartorial elegance upon what was clearly a lean figure, which spoke of restraint or plenty of exercise, or both. That’s right – I remembered now that he had been quite the athlete, rowed for Oxford, among his sports, and looked good enough to lick in his tennis whites. Did I really just think that? I was slipping back to the silliness of my teens.

  Nevertheless he appeared hale and his nut-coloured hair lustrous enough to defy his forty-two years.

  He looked me up and down with affection that felt genuine and not at all inappropriate. ‘Have you got that wretched skipping rope of yours tucked away in that handbag?’

  I laughed. ‘I was quite the champion skipper at thirteen,’ I replied archly. So he remembered me that well; I was surprised.

  ‘You were forever urging us to hold each end so you could show off your prowess in the middle.’

  ‘And you were hopeless at it. Especially when it required two ropes to be turned at once.’

  ‘Never could get the hang of it, no.’ He shrugged, feigning shame. ‘Would you consider a pot of tea welcome before we proceed?’ I noted he didn’t add a condescending ‘my dear’.

  ‘I would,’ I replied, ‘although now you have my interest piqued as to where we shall be proceeding to.’

  He grinned and I glimpsed the neat, polished teeth I used to admire, and was pleased to see he’d taken good care of them. I took his elbow as he gestured towards the doors of the tearooms. ‘Later all will be revealed. Shall we?’

  I pushed away the immediate self-consciousness as heads turned to glance our way and allowed myself to be escorted into the shop, which had appeared deceptively small from the street. Inside, its sizeable length was filled with patrons enjoying a mid-morning beverage, and plenty of food was being served too, I noted.

  ‘I reserved a quiet spot over here.’ He pointed and led me to a small booth. ‘I hope it shall do?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, seating myself and slipping off my scarf and gloves, trying to appear relaxed. ‘Although maybe I could have left the fur collar behind in London.’ There – I’d already showed my in
security; if he noticed, however, he didn’t react.

  ‘Why? I think you look splendid and I’m sure every man here is envious of me.’

  ‘Maybe a little overdressed?’ I smiled, hating how pathetic I must sound. Wasn’t this everything he reviled?

  ‘If you wish —’ he began.

  I raised my hand slightly to stop him. ‘I’m annoyed I mentioned it. When you get to know me better you’ll see that I set little store by what’s appropriate or not.’

  ‘I look forward to reacquainting myself with that precocious young thing who used to stare at me and make me stammer.’ Mandeville leaned in and I could see darker motes of colour, like tiny shards of shrapnel, in his pale eyes. ‘Incidentally, I thought meeting you here among everyday folk – all strangers – might relax both of us.’

  I smiled. ‘Most thoughtful,’ I assured. ‘You did have a slight stammer,’ I gushed, recalling it now.

  ‘All your fault. You were rather serious, and for someone so young, a bit prickly on occasion.’

  I couldn’t help the chuckle. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You had an awfully big brain throbbing away and it used to unnerve me at times.’ He frowned. ‘“Do you know the capital of Turkey, Jove?”’ he mimicked in a girlish voice. ‘“Because I do. It’s Ankara; used to be known as Angora. Most people think it’s Istanbul because as Constantinople it used to be the capital of the Roman Empire in the East.”’

  ‘I never said such a thing!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, you did. You were terrifying.’

  ‘I was trying to make conversation. My mother said I always acted rather strange around you and she was terribly fond of you and wanted me to be friendly.’

  ‘I loved your mother.’

  ‘We all did.’ I sighed. ‘Still do.’ It came out sadly. ‘Sorry.’