More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Rubbish,” said Matt. “She wasn’t up to a partnership, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Really?” said Eliza. “We shall see. I’d put money on us hearing quite a lot about Louise Mullen in the future. I presume it’s all over between Barry and her?”

  “I believe so, yes,” said Matt shortly. “It was never going to work anyway. Not long-term.”

  “Because he’s married?”

  “Well, yes, but also because she was far too ambitious. Not wife material.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Eliza. “Do come into the real world, Matt. Not that I’m in it either,” she added with a sigh. “And it’ll be another twenty years, I suppose, before I even qualify for entry, if you have anything to do with it.”

  She rang Jenny to find out Louise’s new number.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. Very sorry. To hear she’s gone. Please give her my love and tell her if she likes to call me, I’ll always be very happy to hear from her.”

  “I will, Mrs. Shaw. Thank you.”

  “She’s so nice,” Jenny said, reporting this conversation to Louise. “What a time she must have with him. I feel quite sorry for her, even with all she’s got, the money and that.”

  “Jenny, so do I,” said Louise.

  Two weeks later, having worked out her statutory notice, Jenny left also, and moved into the temporary office Louise had set up in her flat. Both Matt and Barry were at a complete loss without her.

  Matt agreed they had lost a lot by Louise’s departure, while adding that there would be a lot less emotion and turmoil around without her and that their day-to-day professional life was certainly simpler. And that no one was irreplaceable.

  Barry wasn’t quite sure how much he meant it.

  The following spring, Eliza became pregnant again. Emmie’s behaviour had slowly begun to improve and she felt—just—brave enough.

  Matt was extremely pleased. “This one will be a boy,” he said. “I know it.” And when he had had a few drinks, he would lie with his head on Eliza’s stomach, talking to the baby.

  “You in there,” he would say, “you listen to me. We’re going to need each other, you and me, protect us from your mother and sister. Don’t worry; I’ll look after you, make sure they don’t boss you around too much. You take care now, son. See you soon.”

  It was very sweet, really, Eliza thought. Sweet and, like so much to do with Matt, unexpected. His unpredictability was one of the things she most loved about him.

  “I have some good gossip,” said Annunciata.

  Eliza and she were having lunch; they did so quite often, now that Eliza had more time on her hands.

  “Jack Beckham’s got the editorship of the News. Frank Fergusson’s been threatening to retire for years, and he’s finally done it.”

  “He’ll be a hard act to follow,” said Eliza. “I love that paper. It’s so clever, broadsheet wearing tabloid clothes. I bet Jack’s over the moon.”

  “He is. I had lunch with him the other day, and he told me. In between criticising Charisma, saying how it’s gone downhill, and telling me I should get a proper job.”

  “Is he going to offer you something?”

  “Hope so. I’ve had women’s magazines, really. And anyway, where could I go after Charisma? Carthorse after the Lord Mayor’s Show, that would be.”

  Eliza called Jack to congratulate him.

  “Thanks. Want to join me?”

  “Um … I’d love it, but—”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re having another baby.”

  “Actually, I am.”

  “Silly cow,” said Beckham briefly. “I could make you a star, Eliza.”

  “Well, that would be lovely,” said Eliza after a rather long moment’s pause, while she envisaged what being a star in Fleet Street meant: your name in lights, your photograph on posters, a huge salary … “But I can’t. Maybe one day.”

  “Maybe. If I can catch you in between confinements. You call me if anything changes, OK? How’s that dinosaur of a husband of yours?”

  “Pretty dinosaurlike,” said Eliza.

  Mark Frost was sitting on Demetrios and Larissa’s veranda, dutifully sinking a bottle of the hated ouzo while admiring their son, Stelios, who was toddling around eating stuffed vine leaves with great aplomb.

  “And this time next year,” Demetrios said, “we hope there will be a sister for him.”

  “Good gracious,” said Mark, “how very impressive. Now tell me, Demetrios, has Miss Scarlett been out here recently?”

  Demetrios said she hadn’t, but her club had worked very well for them.—“All such very, very lovely guests”—and that they were hoping she would be out very soon.

  “Now, the other thing,” Mark said, “is that I would like to bring my mother out here shortly, to see my house. I think she’ll like it, but in case she doesn’t, it would be nice if she could stay here.”

  “Mr. Mark, I hope she will not like your house too much. You know how much we enjoy to have the famous Mrs. Frost staying here in our hotel.”

  It seemed the happiest, the sweetest, the most hopeful of days. A hot day in early August, and she’d been having a picnic in Richmond Park with Heather and Coral; she was in London and not at Summercourt only because she’d had an appointment at the hospital. Everything was fine, they said: she was twenty-four weeks; the baby was developing absolutely according to the book; her blood pressure was a bit high, perhaps …

  “You’d have high blood pressure,” Eliza said to the midwife, “if you lived with my husband.”

  She couldn’t ring Heather, because she had only the pay phone in the hall, so she just went round on the off chance. Heather greeted her at the door, looking pale and tired. She said a picnic sounded really nice.

  “Good. I’ve bought the food already; I hoped you’d be able to come.”

  “We got sick of the swings, didn’t we, Coral? All the bigger children there, now it’s school holidays, it’s a bit rough for her. Everything all right at the hospital?”

  “Yes, fine, thanks.”

  “You’re so lucky. I’d give anything for another, but Alan says not till he’s got made up to works manager and we can look for a different place. Maybe with a garden. Trouble is,” said Heather, settling Coral in the backseat of Eliza’s new car—a bright yellow Renault, and her pride and joy—“it’s made us nervous of doing anything, you know, case I do get pregnant. And then, of course, that spoils everything, I can’t relax and he realises and—”

  “I think you should have another try with the Pill,” said Eliza. “They’re much better now, lower dose of hormones; you might be OK.”

  “I’ll try,” said Heather.

  It was a beautiful day, the sort that England occasionally does so well. The sky was cloudless, the sun hot, and there was a slight heat haze hovering above the bracken.

  They found a small stream and helped the children dam it, ate their picnic, played hide-and-seek, and then lay down in the sun while Emmie taught Coral how to paddle, as she put it.

  It was all very idyllic.

  And then: “Ouch,” said Eliza.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Tummyache. Oh, that’s better. Must have got in a funny position.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, honestly. It’s fine now.”

  “When are you going back to your mum’s place?”

  “Oh … tomorrow. I want to spend the rest of the summer there.”

  “In the country? How lovely,” said Heather, without a shred of rancour in her voice. “Wish my mum lived there.”

  “Yes, it’s nice,” said Eliza. She would have given a great deal to invite Heather down to Summercourt, but she couldn’t. It might spell the end of their friendship, an unbridgeable chasm. So stupid. So unbelievably stupid.

  “Um … Eliza.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask your advice about something? I’m in a bit of bother—money bother. A few weeks ago, I just ran out of
money. I couldn’t wait till Tuesday, you know, when I get my family allowance, and I didn’t dare ask Alan, because he’s just put my housekeeping up, and he gets so cross when I can’t manage …”

  Eliza, who couldn’t imagine how anyone could manage on Heather’s housekeeping money, sat up and looked at her.

  “And?”

  “And, well, the lady at the corner shop, she lets you get things on tick. If you’ve … you know, run out. So I had to do that, get a few things, just for Coral, some fruit—you know how she loves her fruit—and some cornflakes and—”

  “Heather, it’s all right; you don’t have to justify what you spent to me.”

  “No. Anyway, it was ten shillings before I knew it. Of course I paid it off the minute I got next week’s housekeeping. Only that meant I only had four pounds ten left, and it wasn’t enough. So I had to borrow again from Mrs. B. And it just … went on. And now I owe her a pound and it’s happening every week, and I don’t know what to do. It’s just getting worse, and I can’t sleep for worrying about it. So—do you think I should tell Alan, ask him if I can have a pound to pay her back?”

  “No,” said Eliza briskly. “He’ll be cross with you and he shouldn’t be and it’s not fair. I’ll give you a pound, Heather—”

  “No, Eliza, that’s not what I meant, and I couldn’t let you.”

  “Yes, you could. Look …” Somehow it had to be said. “Look, you must realise, Heather, we’re not … not exactly hard up.”

  Heather was silent.

  “I could give you a pound and not notice it.”

  “Could you really?” The hope in her voice was unmistakable; then she said, “No, Eliza, honestly I couldn’t. Don’t, please, even offer it. I’d feel … feel so bad.”

  “All right,” said Eliza, “I’ll just lend it to you. You can pay me back when Alan’s got his new job. Please, Heather, you’re lying awake and worrying about a pound that I’d probably waste on a new T-shirt for Emmie, when she’s got—”

  “Dozens,” said Heather, and laughed.

  “Not exactly. But lots. Now, look, here you go; take it now.” Eliza took out her wallet, a present from Matt for Christmas, and (carefully covering the Gucci logo with her hand) pulled out a pound note.

  “Go on, Heather; it’s yours until you can pay me back. I—Oh, God, there it goes again.”

  “What?”

  “My tummy. Feels like a cramp.”

  “We’d better get back,” said Heather anxiously, “just in case.”

  For some reason, Eliza didn’t argue with her.

  By the time the pain had come the fourth time, just as she reached home, she realised, while not wanting to, that there was a pattern to it.

  She called her GP; he told her to rest for an hour and then, if it was still going on, to ring the antenatal clinic. After an hour, and two more contractions, she rang; the clinic told her to time the pains and, if they continued, to come in.

  “Is baby moving around much?”

  “Um … yes, think so,” said Eliza, feeling as she spoke the reassuring dance of the baby in her uterus. Surely nothing could be wrong if he was jumping about like that …

  Another pain—she began to feel frightened and rang Sandra, asked her if she would look after Emmie, and drove over to Clapham, very slowly and carefully, asked Sandra to ring Matt and warn him, and then drove in a growing panic to the hospital.

  She walked into the antenatal clinic, shaking, remembering and marvelling that only a few hours earlier she had run in, carefree and unafraid, offering breathless apologies for being late and simply looking forward to the rest of the now-darkening day …

  Matt arrived white with fear and sat by her, holding her hand as they checked her, monitored her pain, and palpated her stomach.

  “He’s moving around, all right,” said the registrar. “Doesn’t seem too bothered by all this.”

  But his eyes were just slightly evasive.

  “That’s fine,” said the midwife, listening intently to the small trumpet pressed to Eliza’s stomach, “good strong heart there.”

  But her smile was just a little bit too bright.

  By eight o’clock the contractions were coming every five minutes. The registrar came again, and said she should be moved to the labour ward.

  “I’m sorry, Eliza, but that baby’s coming, and we have to do the best we can.”

  The small, perfect creature slithered out of her just before midnight; it was Matt, standing holding her hand, who told her that it was the longed-for boy.

  “He’s beautiful,” he said, “a beautiful baby.”

  He was alive, the beautiful boy, wailing if not yelling, but still quite impressively; so far so good, the registrar said, smiling at Eliza. She was allowed to hold him for little more than ten seconds, and then he was gone, to lie within his other, substitute womb, an incubator in the premature unit. She didn’t cry, just gripped Matt’s hand, closed her eyes, and did what all mothers do when their children are in danger, and whether they acknowledge it or not: she prayed.

  She was to do a lot of that in the days to come.

  She lay awake all night. Towards dawn she managed to get up and stagger to the nurses’ desk.

  “Mrs. Shaw,” said one of them, “let’s get you back to bed. I’ll check on your baby and let you know if there’s any news.”

  There wasn’t any news, except that the baby was still alive.

  “He’s doing well,” said the staff nurse, adding, lest Eliza might grow too hopeful, “considering the circumstances. We’ll take you down there later. And meanwhile, I’d like you to try to express some milk—colostrums, anyway.”

  “He’s feeding!”

  “Of course he is. You can’t starve babies, Mrs. Shaw; you should know that. Does them no good at all.”

  The morning—a thunderous August version—suddenly seemed brighter, her heart lighter.

  Matt arrived, silent and tense; she smiled at him.

  “So far, so good. He’s still all right. I’ve even had to try to express some milk for him.”

  “Good,” he said, but he didn’t seem reassured.

  They wheeled her to the premature-baby unit.

  Their baby was the smallest there, so tiny, so desperately tiny, with a head that looked too big for him, and scrawnily thin limbs. His skin seemed transparent and almost shiny, the veins showing painfully through it. He wore only a nappy; there was a tube through his nose.

  “Oh,” said Eliza, “oh, that must be so uncomfortable for him; why does he have that?”

  “He can’t suck properly,” said the nurse in charge of him, “and the tube leads down to his stomach.”

  “I see. And … how … how is he?”

  “He’s doing well. Considering.” They all said that. “He’s breathing OK, at the moment, but his lungs are very underdeveloped. He may need help with that later.”

  “Is he asleep?” she said, afraid by his stillness.

  “Yes, he is now. But he has been awake, moving around.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. He was moving before, in the womb, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she said, remembering those strong, thrusting wriggles, and felt like crying. He had been so safe then, she had thought.

  “So … what might happen next?” asked Matt.

  “We just wait. The next forty-eight hours are pretty crucial. But every day is a bonus. So far his liver function is good—that’s very important—he’s showing no signs of jaundice, and—”

  “Look,” said Matt, “look, he’s waking up.”

  The baby moved restlessly, turned his head, slowly opened his eyes. Milky-blue unseeing eyes.

  “Oh,” said Eliza, “look, Matt, he’s looking at us. Oh, baby, I want to hold you so much.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the nurse. “He has to stay there for a long time yet. Look, there are some holes in the side of the incubator, bit like portholes. That’s how we feed and change him. Put your
hand in there—that’s right.”

  She put her hand in very gently; it looked vast next to her baby, half again as big as he was. She stroked his skin, his smooth veiny skin; it was wonderfully warm. She moved her hand near his, tried to lift it, then pulled back.

  “I’m afraid to disturb him.”

  “No, it’s all right. Put your finger under his hand; that’s right. Don’t be frightened.”

  “Oh,” said Eliza, as the minute hand rested on her finger, “oh, my God.”

  God was much in her head over the next twenty-four hours; she prayed relentlessly and silently, sitting by the baby for hours at a time, willing her strength into his. Matt grew restless and miserable; she understood and sent him away.

  “I don’t mind, honestly. Go and get some rest or do some work; you’ll be better. There’s nothing you can do here. Come back this evening. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Have they said anything about why …” he said.

  “They say it’s just one of those things.”

  “So … nothing you—we—could have done?”

  “They said not.”

  He nodded, bent to kiss her. “I’ll be back later.”

  She watched him going down the corridor away from her, guiltily relieved.

  “Does he have a name?” the nurse asked.

  “No. I suppose he should have.”

  “It would be nicer for you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can we call him Charles?” she said when Matt came back that night.

  “Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.”

  He obviously thought it was unnecessary, a bit of foolish optimism; she felt angry suddenly.

  “Matt, you’ve got to stay positive. He’s going to pull through; I know he is. And he has to have a name.”

  “Fine. Call him Charles, then.”

  “Right, Mrs. Shaw. Time to express some more milk. I’ve got the pump.”

  “I’m so pleased he needs it.”

  “He certainly does. He’s a lively little thing.”