Rosa, struggling to understand where this is leading, does not speak.
—The problem, of course, Mimi continues, is that you and Samuel have embarked upon starting a family a little too soon. If you were married already, and Samuel was earning money, and you could support yourselves, it would be wonderful. But you have to understand, Rosa, that Gerald’s business has been suffering from the shortages. We are struggling with money, and we can’t afford a wedding, or another mouth to feed. Can you understand that?
—I’m sorry, says Rosa.
—Once the war is over, says Mimi, and your family are free and Gerald’s business has picked up, we will happily make you a lovely wedding with a proper chupah, and a dinner, and a band, and bridesmaids, and everything a girl could want. At the moment, however, things are a little difficult.
—I understand, says Rosa hesitantly, feeling that she understands nothing.
—So what I have in mind, says Mimi, is this. First of all Doctor Ashfield carries out a little procedure. Then we can all start again. You and Samuel can go out together once a week, just the two of you, to a tearoom or something, so long as you are back by blackout. And then, after the war, if you are still fond of one another, you can marry. Your futures will still be ahead of you, Rosa, and they will be wonderful.
—I don’t understand, says Rosa, a procedure?
—Yes, yes, says Mimi, I shall explain. Now, biologically speaking, dear, you don’t have a baby inside you as such. It is more like a cluster of cells, like a little bit of yoghurt or something. With the right training, certain doctors can flush it out.
—Flush it out? My baby?
—Not your baby, dear. The cluster of cells.
—Cluster of cells?
—Indeed. I have just been speaking to Samuel. He wants a proper future with you, he doesn’t want life to be a struggle. He wants to do things properly.
—Samuel wants to marry me. We want to have the baby.
—Of course he does, dear, says Mimi. And you can do that, in your own good time, after the procedure. The procedure will make everything all right, it will give you back your future, it will give you all the time you need. You must understand, Gerald and I cannot afford to support both of you and a newborn. We have supported you for over two years without a single word of complaint, we have given you everything that we give ourselves, welcomed you into our family, despite the financial drain. You’re not a selfish girl, we know that. So now you must do something for us.
—I want to speak to Samuel.
—He’s sleeping now, says Mimi, Doctor Ashfield had to give him sleeping pills. The poor boy was in terrible pain. But he’s all right now, he’s asleep.
Rosa turns away, her mind spinning.
—Shall I tell you a secret, dear? says Mimi.
Rosa turns back to her.
—When I was a girl, I had one of these procedures myself. Looking back, it was the best decision I ever made.
Mimi gets to her feet and opens the door.
—Doctor? she calls. Ready for you now.
Doctor Ashfield enters the room, looking uncomfortable and glancing around. He removes his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, squats over his leather Gladstone bag and opens the catch with a clack.
—All present and correct, he says in his resonant voice, let’s get it over with. Mrs Kremer, we will be requiring a bowl of hot water and some towels, if you please.
—But of course, doctor, there is some water heating on the stove, says Mimi and disappears downstairs.
—Now Miss Klein, says the doctor, regarding her with the chimpanzee eyes set high in his forehead, if you would just lie on the bed.
Rosa, sitting, does not move. The doctor is still squatting.
—So far as I am aware, says the doctor, rummaging in his bag, you have a condition that needs to be remedied?
—I am pregnant, says Rosa.
—Ah, says the doctor and winces.
Footsteps can be heard on the stairs, and then Mimi appears balancing a steaming bowl of water and some towels.
—Here we are, she says, was there anything else?
—Yes, says Rosa, getting to her feet. I have not agreed to anything. What is this hot water, these towels? What is all this?
Doctor Ashfield, from his crouching position, looks up sharply at Mimi; the chain of his pocket watch gleams in the light of the paraffin lamp.
—I thought everything was going to be smooth, he says, I can’t be
—Rosa, as we discussed, says Mimi impatiently, this procedure is the very best way forward. This is for your own benefit—
—I wish to speak to Samuel. I wish to speak to him. Does he know what is going on? Have you discussed it with him?
Samuel, in his room, hears voices from across the landing, raised voices, Rosa’s voice among them. He is dizzy, woozy from the barbiturates, and having trouble marshalling his thoughts. He gets to his feet, leaves the room and walks out onto the landing, his feet as heavy as in a nightmare, his mouth terribly dry. He turns the handle of Rosa’s door and it swings open; in the copper light of the lamp, as if in an oil painting, he sees Rosa sitting on the bed, his mother standing over her and Doctor Ashfield squatting on the floor, looking over his shoulder at the intruder, half obscured by a coil of steam rising from a bowl of water. Samuel squints, shakes his head, trying to clear it.
—Samuel, says Rosa, at last.
—My dear boy, says Mimi, what are you doing out of bed? The doctor said that you must rest.
—I thought I heard something, says Samuel, thick-tongued. What is going on here?
Doctor Ashfield, exasperated, gets to his feet.
—This is a medical procedure, he says. I can’t be having all these interruptions. What are you doing out of bed?
—Ah, says Samuel, yes. Ladies’ matters. Sorry to interrupt. Carry on.
—You knew about it, says Rosa, you knew?
—Go back to bed, says the doctor, you look as if you’re about to pass out. And so you should, given the medication you’ve taken.
Samuel takes a step back, suddenly the cottage is spinning, Rosa is saying something – he is aware, on the edge of his mind, that she is saying something – he thinks she is addressing him, but he cannot be sure; his eyes are drooping, his mother is taking him by the arm, ushering him from the room, and she is speaking, and there is movement, and then it is dark, and he is in bed, sinking into the mattress, being tucked up like a boy. The covers are being drawn up round his ears, he feels light-headed and disoriented, as if he is floating, and it is not altogether unpleasant, just a procedure, a procedure for pregnant women, ladies’ matters, the voices are fading, his bed is spinning, he falls asleep.
Mimi comes back into the room, smoothing her skirt.
—There now, she says, let’s get on with it.
—Wait, says Rosa, just wait. I need some time to think. Leave me alone for a moment. Please.
The doctor looks at Mimi, then consults his pocket watch and replaces it in his waistcoat.
—I’m not feeling very confident about this, he says. If it gets messy it could be rather compromising.
—Come now, Mimi replies, she just needs to gather her thoughts, that’s all. Why don’t we go outside and settle up in advance, I’ve got the money in my handbag.
They leave the room, closing the door behind them. Rosa paces to the window and back again several times, then sits down heavily on the bed. She is trembling and her face feels hot and shiny, like steel. Dumbfounded, she tries to gather her thoughts. He has betrayed her. Samuel has betrayed her. He knew all about the procedure, he knew; he agreed it behind her back, without consulting her, and then he walked out, leaving her alone, refusing to come back, refusing to talk about it; he has betrayed her. Now what can she do? She must decide, she has only minutes to decide. Papa would tell her to be strong, she must be strong, but how? Should she run away? Where could she go, what would happen to the baby? And what if Samuel is right, what if Mimi is right
? They didn’t ask for this child, they didn’t intend to have it, and it would put a strain on the Kremers, and Mimi did promise that after the war they can marry, and have children, and that would be perfect – ah, perhaps wishing to keep the baby is weak, perhaps she is giving in to her emotions, not thinking clearly. Mimi had this procedure herself, after all, perhaps everyone has it, perhaps it is common in England, perhaps it isn’t so bad. A cluster of cells, a cluster of cells. Would it really be strong to—should she run away? No question, she couldn’t survive. She has no money, nowhere to live, no family or friends, she would be done for.
Rosa turns to her parents, she can almost see them sitting beside her, Papa with his pipe, serious yet calm, and Mama holding her hand, stroking it with her thumb the way she used to, what are they saying, what are they saying? I cannot hear, thinks Rosa, your words are too faint, I cannot hear your advice. Speak louder, Papa, can you not? Mama, speak louder, I cannot hear. I need to know what you are saying, I need your advice. What should I do, Papa, Mama? Tell me, what should I do?
The door opens and Mimi enters with the steaming bowl of water, followed by a twitchy-looking Doctor Ashfield.
—There now, says Mimi, are you ready, dear? I had to take more water from the stove, the first lot had cooled already. So no messing about now, do you hear?
—Did you really have this procedure yourself, says Rosa, when you were a girl?
Mimi glances awkwardly at the doctor.
—Indeed, she says. Best thing I’ve ever done.
Doctor Ashfield arranges his jacket carefully on the wooden chair and begins rummaging in his Gladstone bag again. Rosa catches sight of a range of wicked-looking implements, like teeth in the jaws of a whale; the doctor spreads a rubber sheet on the floor and begins arranging his equipment, an orange tube, some medicine bottles. Rosa cannot watch.
—Very well, says Mimi, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you require anything further, doctor, yes? I’ll be downstairs.
With that she leaves the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Doctor Ashfield turns to Rosa, his cheeks creasing around his fleshy lips as he attempts to smile.
—Now, Miss Klein, he says, let’s get this over with before I change my mind. There’s a war on, you know, money is scarce. Lie down if you please.
Rosa hesitates.
—Lie down, Miss Klein, says the doctor sharply. I haven’t got all night. I’m a medical man and I’ve a job to do.
Rosa does not move. The doctor makes an exasperated noise.
—Good God, he exclaims, you’d better lie down now or I’ll jolly well pack up and go home. Then you’ll be in trouble.
He takes her by the arm, steers her to the bed, sits her down and swings her legs up onto the mattress. Her heart is racing, she tells herself to resist, but this man is a doctor, and he is taking control, and she is rooted to the spot; she wants to challenge him but no words will come. He crouches once more over his instruments. Perhaps it is a feeling of duty, perhaps it is nothing more than fear; perhaps she is buckling to his air of authority, perhaps she has come to the end of her strength. Trembling, she presses her head into the pillow and does not move. The funnel of shadow has spread across the ceiling, seeping into the corners, no longer a funnel but an opaque rectangle of darkness. She closes her eyes.
11
Another morning breaks. The sun rises upon the village of Northrepps, and in the bedroom window of an ancient, flint cottage a white face looks out, motionlessly watching the dawn. It is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, or as Gerald likes to call it, at-one-ment; he will spend the day in prayer, fasting, not drinking water even, praying for a favourable judgement for the forthcoming year. Mimi, too, will fast, though she will not go to synagogue Samuel and Rosa need to be looked after, she cannot leave them. At the moment, however, as the sun lifts its bloody head inch by inch above the ocean, everyone in the house is in slumber, everyone apart from the white face at the window, looking out at the sun, the distant sea.
Rosa has been awake ever since the barbiturates wore off. In her abdomen there is a hot pain, like a piece of coal embedded, and its malicious heat spreads down through her thighs, her legs and into her feet. She gazes out of the window, in her hands is a folded note, in her mind are images of the baby from the train, and the baby that she might have had, she would have had, if only she had not been so stupid as to mistake weakness for strength. Last night was a mistake, she knew it as soon as she regained consciousness, and now it cannot be undone; a single moment is all it takes to start a life, and a single moment to undo it. She might have been under pressure, unable to think, and Samuel might have betrayed her, and Mimi might have been persuading her, but ultimately she knows it was her weakness that was to blame. Yes, her weakness, but not any more; for she has vowed never again to give in, she has vowed from now on to be strong. She turns the note over in her fingers, resisting the urge to read it again. Painfully she raises herself from her chair and pads quietly around the room, dressing; then, with some effort, she drags her old suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, dusts it off silently and packs. It does not take long, she does not have many possessions; soon the suitcase is filled.
Nothing can be heard save the sound of draughts, the creak of beams. Rosa drops to her knees and feels under the bed, draws out her painted box, looks inside; yes, here are the letters, here is the doll, the watch, all present. She tucks it into the suitcase and fumbles with the buckles, fastening them tightly. Then, wincing from the pain, she takes a final dry-eyed glance around the room and creeps onto the landing.
The shadows are deep and orange, falling fuzzily into each other, and heavy breathing can be heard from Gerald and Mimi’s room. Rosa pads over to Samuel’s door, crouches and slips the note underneath – there, it is gone, she can no longer change it. She makes her way silently downstairs.
In the hall she puts on her coat and hat quietly, then buckles her shoes, puts her gas mask over her shoulder, opens the door and steps out. The air is cold and foul with the remnants of night. She slips along the path and searches in the privet hedge for the bicycle; it takes only seconds to strap the suitcase onto the rack, she is surprised at how snugly it fits. She pauses, looks back one last time at the lopsided flint cottage looming behind her like an apparition. The windows are dark apart from the one in the sitting room, which despite the blackout glows with a flickering candlelight. She swings her legs gingerly over the bar, wincing as coils of pain unravel around her pelvis and down her legs, and steers the bicycle through the garden gate and out onto the lane.
Slowly she pedals, rotation by painful rotation. The pain becomes excruciating but just when she can pedal no more she reaches the hill, and the bicycle picks up speed of its own accord. She knows that soon she will have to abandon the bicycle, it is too agonising, she will have to walk somehow; but for now she guides the machine down the hill, her coat flapping behind her. The world becomes a blur as she races through the autumn countryside, the cold air causing tears to spring from her eyes, streak sideways across her face and disappear in her fluttering curls. I’m leaving, I’m leaving, I’m leaving. Her mind fills with visions of Samuel, sitting on the handlebars of her bicycle, kissing her in the fields, on the cliffs, in the woods, tenderly cradling her head in his arms, reassuring her; and then, with that cruel insouciant face, betraying her.
A long journey lies ahead of her to Gunton, especially weighed down by the suitcase. The hill steepens, and as she cuts through the dawn the dynamo heats up, the headlight glows inside the cocoa tin and a hazy row of slits appear, shuddering on the ground in front of the bicycle. The pain throbs with each jolt, and Rosa fixes her mind on her destination, Gunton railway station. Soon she will be leaving Samuel behind, leaving the Kremers behind, leaving the countryside behind, and never coming back. I’m leaving, I’m leaving, I’m leaving. Yes, soon she will be stepping off the train, pushing through the crowds; her German shoes will again be beating the hard pavements of London.
25
November 1941, Brentwood, Essex
1
This place is like a maze, thinks Rosa nervously, not a house but a maze, and here she is dragging her suitcase along this endless corridor, with every step it is growing heavier, and this parcel under her arm is not exactly light either, and it is a little painful to carry heavy objects, it has been weeks but she can’t have fully healed. Her shoes make a strange thudding noise on the thinly carpeted floorboards, the thuds echo off the walls, resound off the fire hoses coiled on drums, the posters displaying evacuation procedures, and rise up to the ceiling, where they settle around the lights with their blackout shades, where they fade. Here, it is one of these rooms on the left. Not this one, and not this one, perhaps it is the next; yes, here it is, a nondescript door like all the others, welcome to Merrymeade, welcome home.
Merrymeade House is a large country house in Essex, built in 1921 on the twin principles of sturdiness and symmetry, with a servants’ wing, voluminous attics and extensive grounds. It is the elegant family dwelling of Mrs Horne Payne no longer; since the beginning of the war the house has been commandeered as a training centre, packed to the rafters with new sets of students every seven weeks; now, two years later, it is beginning to show signs of significant wear and tear. As Rosa stands outside her room, her hand resting on the door handle, thirty-four other girls of the new set are settling in, unpacking suitcases, changing into uniforms, freshening up over washstands, tidying their hair; at last she is not alone.
Rosa is looking forward to her new life. Her first days in London were filled with nothing but darkness, day and night, staying in a moribund B & B in Russell Square, shutting her ears against the arguing couple next door, crying herself to sleep in the cold as her body slowly healed, thinking again and again of Samuel, wishing he were here, glad that he is not, thinking she loves him, thinking she does not, struggling with the guilt of the baby that might have been, rereading the letters from her parents, walking the streets of London looking for work, staring at the bomb sites, the salvage sales, the rubble. As soon as she arrived in the city she wrote to Heinrich, confiding in him about the true circumstances surrounding her move and notifying him of her new, temporary address; after a very short time she received his reply, astounded at the speed of delivery – the Red Cross usually took months to process the post – and upon finishing the letter she knew exactly what she must do.
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