“When can I see the baby?”
“You can see her now if you want to. Just for a moment.”
Emily stood up. “I want to,” she said.
They went back into the house. Upstairs, the nurse, bustling and competent, gave Emily a cotton mask to tie over her face. “Just in case,” she said. “She’s an early baby and we don’t want to take any risks.”
Emily, not minding, obediently tied it on. She went with Dr. Meredith into the blue bedroom. And there, in the beautiful bed, propped up with pillows, lay Stephanie. And in her arms, cocooned in a shawl, its little head downed with hair the same colour as Stephanie’s, lay the new baby. A person. A sister.
She stooped and laid her face against Stephanie’s. She couldn’t kiss her, because of the mask, but Stephanie kissed Emily. All constraint between them had melted away. They were no longer shy of each other, and Emily knew that they would never be shy again. She looked down into the baby’s face. She said, wonderingly, “She’s beautiful.”
“We had her together,” Stephanie told her, sleepily. “I feel she’s yours as much as mine.”
“A rare little nurse you’d make, Emily,” the nurse chipped in. “I couldn’t have coped with things better myself.”
Stephanie said, “We’re a family now.”
“Is that what you wanted?” asked Emily.
“It’s all I ever wanted.”
* * *
A family. Everything had changed, everything was different, but that didn’t mean that it couldn’t be good. When she had seen the doctor off, and watched his car disappear around the curve of the drive, Emily did not immediately return indoors. It was growing dark now, the garden dusky and sweet-scented after the long, hot day. The first of the stars shone from a sapphire-coloured sky. A beautiful evening. Just the right sort of evening for a person to start living. Just the right sort of evening for a person to start growing up.
She was very tired. She took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. She looked at the spectacles thoughtfully. Perhaps contact lenses wouldn’t be so bad. If Stephanie could bear having a baby, then surely Emily could learn to wear contact lenses.
She would try. Just as soon as she was old enough, she would try.
Gilbert
Awaking; aware, without opening his eyes, of sunlight and a band of warmth lying across the bed, Bill Rawlings was pervaded with a sense of marvellous contentment and well-being. A number of pleasant thoughts crossed his mind. That it was a Sunday so he didn’t have to go to work. That it was going to be a fine day. That the warm, soft body of his wife lay close to him, her head pillowed in the curve of his arm. That he was, in all probability, one of the most fortunate men in the world.
The bed was huge and downy. An old aunt of Bill’s had given it to them as a wedding present when he had married Clodagh two months ago. It had been her marriage bed, his aunt had informed him with certain relish, and to make the gift more acceptable, had thrown in a beautiful new mattress and six pairs of heirloom linen sheets.
It was about the only thing in the house, apart from his desk and his clothes, that actually belonged to Bill. Marrying a widow had posed certain complications, but where they were to live was not one of them, because there could have been no question of Clodagh and her two small girls moving into Bill’s two-roomed bachelor flat, and there seemed little point going to all the hassle and expense of buying themselves a new house when hers was already so perfect. His flat had been in the middle of the town, within walking distance of the office, but this house lay a mile or so out into the country, and had as well the advantage of a large and rambling garden. Besides, Clodagh pointed out, it was the children’s home. Here were their secret hideouts, the swing in the sycamore tree, the playroom in the attic.
Bill needed no persuasion. It was the right and obvious thing to do.
“You’re going to live in Clodagh’s house?” his friends exclaimed, looking astonished.
“Why not?”
“A bit tricky, surely. After all, that’s where she lived with her first husband.”
“Very happily, too,” Bill pointed out. “And I hope she’ll be just as happy with me.”
Clodagh’s husband, and the father of her two little girls, had been killed in a tragic car smash three years ago. Bill, although he had worked and lived in the district for some years, did not meet her until two years later, when he was asked, as a suitable man to make up numbers, to a dinner party, and there found himself sitting next to a tall and slender girl, whose thick blonde hair was wound up into a knot at the back of her elegant head.
Her finely boned face he instantly found beautiful, and yet, at the same time, sad. Her eyes were grave, her mouth hesitant. It was this very sadness that caught at his tough and experienced heart. Her fragile neck, exposed by the old-fashioned hairstyle, seemed to him vulnerable as a child’s, and when at last he made her laugh, and her smile came into its own, he fell, like any young man, head over heels in love.
“You’re going to marry her?” asked those same astonished friends. “One thing, marrying a widow. Another, marrying a ready-made family.”
“That’s a bonus.”
“Glad you think so, old boy. Ever had anything to do with children?”
“No,” he admitted, “but it’s never too late to start.”
* * *
Clodagh was thirty-three; Bill was thirty-seven. A confirmed bachelor. That’s what he was known as. A handsome, cheerful sort of fellow, good for a game of golf, and a useful player at the local tennis club, but definitely a confirmed bachelor. How would he manage?
He managed by treating the two small girls like grown-ups. They were called Emily and Anna. Emily was eight and Anna was six. Despite his determination not to be intimidated by them, he found their straight stares unnerving. They were both fair, with long hair and blue eyes of startling brightness. These two pairs of eyes watched him incessantly; moved around the room as he moved, showed neither affection nor dislike.
They were very polite. From time to time during his courtship of their mother, he gave them small presents. Tubes of sweets, puzzles, or games to play. Anna, the less complicated child, was pleased by these, opened them at once, and showed her delight in smiles and the occasional hug of appreciation. But Emily was a different kettle of fish. Politely, she would thank him, then disappear with the parcel unwrapped, to deal with her loot in private, and presumably decide, on her own, to give or withhold approval.
Once, he was able to mend Anna’s Action Man—she did not play with dolls—and after that there was a certain rapport between them, but any affection that Emily had to show was bestowed only on her pets. She had three. A hideous torn cat, which hunted ferociously and had no conscience about stealing any food he could get his brazen claws into; a smelly old spaniel who could not go for a walk without returning home filthy; and a goldfish. The cat was called Breeky, the dog was called Henry, and the goldfish was called Gilbert. Breeky, Henry, and Gilbert were three of the many good reasons why Bill moved into Clodagh’s house. One could not imagine these three demanding creatures being domiciled anywhere else.
Emily and Anna came to the wedding in pink and white dresses with pink satin sashes. Everybody said that they looked angelic, but all through the ceremony, Bill was uncomfortably aware of their cool blue eyes boring holes in the back of his neck. When it was over, they dutifully flung a bit of confetti and ate some wedding cake, and then departed to stay with Clodagh’s mother, while Clodagh and Bill went off on their honeymoon.
He took her to Marbella, and the sun-drenched days slipped by, each a little better than the one before, enriched by laughter and shared experiences and starlit nights when, with the windows open wide to the warm velvety darkness, they made love to the sound of the sea whispering on the beach below the hotel.
By the end, though, Clodagh was missing her children. She said a sad goodbye to Marbella, but Bill knew that she was looking forward to getting back. When they drove up the short appro
ach to her house, Emily and Anna were there, waiting for them, with a homemade banner held aloft, proclaiming, in wobbly capitals, that they were WELCOME HOME.
Welcome home. Now, it was his home. Now, he was not only husband, but father as well. Now, when he drove to the office, he had two small girls in the back of his car, to be unloaded out onto the pavement in front of their school. Now, at weekends he did not play golf, but cut grass and planted out lettuces and mended things. A house without a handyman can slide into disrepair, and this house had had no man in it for nearly three years. There seemed no end to the squeaking hinges, defunct toasters, and balky lawnmowers. Out of doors gates sagged, fences collapsed, and sheds demanded creosote.
As well, there were Emily’s animals, which seemed to thrive on emergency and drama. The cat disappeared for three days and was given up for dead, only to reappear with a torn ear and a hideous wound in his side. No sooner had he been wheeled off to the vet than the old dog ate something unspeakable and was sick for four days, lying in his basket and gazing at Bill with red-rimmed, reproachful eyes, as though the whole thing were his fault. Only Gilbert the goldfish remained boringly healthy, swimming around his tank in aimless circles, but even he needed constant care and attention, his tank cleaned, and special food purchased from the pet shop.
Bill coped with all this as best he could, remaining deliberately patient and cheerful. When tantrums blew up and there were quarrels and fights, usually ending with cries of “It’s not fair!” and an earthshaking slam of a door, he kept out of the way, leaving the necessary arbitration to Clodagh, terrified of getting involved and saying or doing the wrong thing.
“What was all that about?” he would ask, when Clodagh returned to him, looking exasperated, amused, exhausted, but never cross, and she would try to explain, and then stop explaining, because after about one minute of her explanation he would probably have put his arms around her and started kissing her, and it is almost impossible to explain and be kissed at the same time. He found himself amazed that despite all these domestic ups and downs, the magic they had discovered in Marbella was not lost to them. Things still seemed to get better with each passing day, and he loved his wife to the very extent of his being.
* * *
And now it was Sunday morning. Warm sun, warm bed, warm wife. He turned his head and buried his face in her neck, smelled her silky, fragrant hair. As he did this, a warning chord struck. He was being watched. He turned his head back and opened his eyes.
Emily and Anna, in their nightdresses, and with their long straight hair tousled from sleep, sat on the brass rail at the end of the bed, observing him. Eight and six. Was that too young to start sex education at school? He hoped so.
He said, “Hello there.”
Anna said, “We’re hungry. We want breakfast.”
“What time is it?”
She spread her hands. “I don’t know.”
He reached out and found his watch. “Eight o’clock,” he told them.
“We’ve been awake for ages, and we’re starving.”
“Your mother’s still asleep. I’ll cook you breakfast.”
They did not move. He eased his arm from beneath Clodagh’s shoulders and sat up. Their faces showed disapproval of his naked state.
He said, “You go and get your clothes on, and clean your teeth, and by the time you’re ready, I’ll have breakfast on the table.”
They went, their bare feet pattering on the polished floor. When they were safely out of sight, he climbed out of bed, pulled on a towelling robe, closed the door of the bedroom silently behind him, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, Henry snored in his basket. Bill stirred him awake with a toe, and the old dog yawned, had a good scratch, and finally deigned to climb out of his bed. Bill led him to the back door and opened it onto the garden, and Henry made his way out of doors. As he did this, Breeky appeared from nowhere, looking more like a battered old tiger than ever, and shot past Bill’s bare legs into the kitchen. In his mouth was a large, dead mouse, which he laid in the middle of the floor and then settled down to devour.
It was too early in the day for such cannibalism. At risk to life and limb, Bill removed the mouse and dropped it into the trash can under the sink. Breeky was furious and set up such a caterwauling that Bill was forced to calm him with a saucer of milk. Breeky drank this as messily as he could, splashing milk all over the linoleum, and then, when the saucer was emptied, leapt up onto the window seat, closed his eyes to yellow slits, and started to wash himself.
After he had wiped up the milk, Bill put on a kettle, found the frying pan, the bacon and eggs. He put the bread in the toaster and laid the scrubbed pine table. When this was done, the two little girls had still not appeared, so he went back upstairs to dress. As he pulled on an old cotton shirt, he heard them going down to the kitchen, chattering in their high-pitched voices. They sounded happy, but a moment later there floated up to him a wail of despair that chilled his heart.
With his shirt still unbuttoned, he shot out onto the landing. “What is it?”
Another wail. Imagining every sort of horror, he bolted downstairs and into the kitchen. There Emily and Anna stood with their backs to him, staring into the goldfish tank. Anna’s eyes brimmed with tears, but Emily seemed too stricken to weep.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Gilbert!”
He crossed the floor, and over their heads, peered into the tank. At its bottom, on his side, with one round lifeless eye staring upwards, lay the goldfish.
“He’s dead,” said Emily.
“How do you know?”
“Because he is.”
He certainly looked dead. “Perhaps he’s having a sleep?” Bill suggested, without much hope.
“No. He’s dead. He’s dead.”
With that, the two of them burst into tragic tears. With an arm for each, Bill tried to comfort them. Anna pushed her face into his stomach and wound her arms around his thigh, but Emily stood rigid, sobbing uncontrollably, her skinny arms crossed over her bony chest, as though she were trying to hold herself together.
It was terrible. His first instinct was to free himself and go to the foot of the stairs and yell for help. Clodagh would know what to do …
And then he thought, No. Here was a chance to show his mettle. Here was a chance to break down the barriers; to cope on his own, and earn their respect.
He calmed them down at last. Found a clean tea towel to use as a handkerchief, led them to the window seat, and sat them down, one on either side of him.
“Now,” he said. “Listen.”
“He’s dead. Gilbert’s dead.”
“Yes, I know he’s dead. But when people, or pets, that we’re fond of, die, what we do is to bury them decently, give them a beautiful funeral. So why don’t the pair of you go into the garden and find a really peaceful spot, where you can dig a nice hole. And I’ll see if I can rustle up an old cigar box or something to use as a coffin for Gilbert. And you can make wreaths to put on the top of his grave, and perhaps a little cross.”
The two pairs of blue eyes, watchful as ever, slowly showed some interest. Tears were still wet on their cheeks, but drama and high tragedy had great appeal, and were too attractive to resist.
“When Mrs. Donkins in the village died, her daughter wore a black veil on her hat,” Emily remembered.
“Perhaps your mother can find a black veil for your hat.”
“There’s one in the dressing-up box.”
“There you are. You can wear that!”
“What am I going to wear?” Anna wanted to know.
“I’m sure Mummy will find something for you.”
“I want to make the cross.”
“No. I do.”
“But…”
He interrupted quickly. “The first thing to do is decide on a good place. Why don’t you both nip off and do that, while I cook you some breakfast. And then after breakfast…”
But they did not listen for more. On the instant,
they were up and away, not able to wait. At the back door, Emily stopped.
“We’ll need a spade,” she said, in her most businesslike manner.
“You’ll find a trowel in the toolshed.”
They sped across the garden, brimming with enthusiasm, all sorrow forgotten in the excitement of a real, grown-up funeral, with black veils on their hats. With mixed feelings, he watched them go. The little scene had left him drained, and ravenously hungry. Grinning wryly to himself, he went back to the stove and began frying up the bacon.
As he did this, there came the sound of soft footsteps on the stair, and the next moment his wife appeared through the door. She wore her nightdress and a loose cotton dressing gown. Her hair was all over her shoulders, her feet bare, her eyes still cloudy with sleep.
“What was all that about?” she asked, through a yawn.
“Hello, my darling. Did we wake you?”
“Was somebody crying?”
“Yes. Emily and Anna. Gilbert is dead.”
“Gilbert? Oh, no. I don’t believe it.”
He went to kiss her. “I’m afraid it’s true.”
“Oh, poor Emily.” She drew away from his embrace. “He’s really dead?”
“See for yourself.”
Clodagh went to the fish tank and peered inside. “But why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know much about goldfish. Perhaps he ate something that disagreed with him.”
“But he wouldn’t just die, like that.”
“You obviously know more about goldfish than I do.”
“When I was Anna’s age, I had goldfish of my own. They were called Sambo and Goldy.”
“Original names.”
They fell silent while she observed the lifeless Gilbert. Then she said, thoughtfully, “I remember Goldy once behaving like that. And my father gave him a tot of whisky, and he started swimming around again. Besides, when fish are dead, they float to the top of the water.”
Bill ignored this last observation. “A tot of whisky?”
Blue Bedroom and Other Stories Page 13