The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  Saffron bit her lip, nodding. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then may I…’

  Tears spilled over, trickling down her bloated cheeks. ‘I suppose… Oh, yes. Yes, anything. Just help me! Oh, dear. Oh, dear!’

  As she doubled up with another spasm, Philip Farcroft looked up at me. ‘You hold the dog. Stay near.’

  ‘I certainly shan’t leave her alone with you!’ Scandalized by the impropriety of what he was doing, I turned my back and walked away, calling to the dog, ‘Here, boy.’

  ‘She’s a girl, not a boy,’ the young farmer said flatly. ‘Her name’s Bess. All right, Mrs Rhys-Thomas. I’m sorry about this, but…’

  I managed to catch the dog and take hold of her collar, talking to keep her calm – or was it to calm myself? My heart beat unsteadily in my throat. The mist pressed round. Like one of my nightmares. Behind me, Philip Farcroft’s deep voice murmured reassurance to my aunt. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I was grateful that he seemed to have taken charge. Grateful, embarrassed, angry…

  ‘This would never have happened if it hadn’t been for your father!’ I raged. ‘He could have killed us! He should be locked up for a madman!’ And similar remarks, because I felt so helpless.

  Philip ignored me.

  I heard Saffron moaning, muttering my name, ‘Kate… Kate…’

  Then: ‘Kate!’ Philip bellowed with an urgency that made me spin round. What I saw made me pause in horror – Saffron with her knees in the air and…

  And then there was no time for thought, for embarrassment, or formal niceties. There was only practical action. The child was being born.

  I did as I was bidden, soothing Saffron, encouraging her to hang on and push. I was dazed, but I remember it in detail, the three of us sharing those moments of unreal time, cut off from the world by walls of grey mist. Saffron’s nails bit into my hand, my other hand held the dog’s collar tightly. My frantic, pain-riven aunt watched my face, as if trying to disassociate herself from indignities elsewhere. But I was mesmerized by the glistening, black-streaked pate that was pushing its way out of her. I had had no idea it happened like this. No idea at all. The head slid out, already yelling lustily. Tiny, with a red, wrinkled face, slimed with blood, long black hair matted to its head… Horrible. Beautiful. Philip wiped mucus from the screaming mouth, cradled the small head, guided the shoulders out. ‘No!’ Saffron gasped. ‘Oh, I can’t! No!’ But her body convulsed again. The child slithered out in a mess of water and blood, straight into Philip Farcroft’s big, gentle hands.

  A child was born. A new life. A new Rhys-Thomas. Still attached to his mother by a pulsing blue cord…

  ‘Something to wrap him in,’ Philip snapped. ‘Quickly!’

  All I had was the jacket of my black two-piece. I stripped it off and spread it on the grass, and watched as he laid the yelling baby down. ‘Is he all right?’ Saffron croaked.

  ‘Perfect,’ I assured her, my throat thick.

  ‘I need some twine,’ came the next command, making me look at Philip in astonishment.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I need to— Just get it. It’s in my left pocket. Bess! Down! Stay!’

  Finding the twine was a horribly intimate performance, so close to him I could feel the thick stuff of his shirt and smell the sweat on him, and hay, and dead rabbits. He had a knife in a sheath at his belt – he told me to get that out, too.

  While I watched in appalled fascination, he cut two lengths of twine with which he secured two places on the cord attached to the baby’s navel. Using his wicked-looking knife, he severed the cord, and swaddled the now-silent baby in my jacket. It made an unsatisfactory covering. Seeing that, Philip stripped off his shirt and used it as extra wrapping before placing the precious bundle in Saffron’s arms. I swiftly pulled her skirts to cover her, my glance unwillingly drawn to the young man’s naked white torso as he bent beside her – broad shoulders and muscled back, every vertebra in his spine visible, curving down to where a thick leather belt held his corduroys. It was a relief when he straightened to his feet and moved aside, allowing me to kneel closer to my aunt.

  Her clothes were ruined, her hair a bird’s-nest, her face puffed and discoloured. But her eyes lit with glory as she gazed at her tiny son.

  ‘I knew it!’ she breathed. ‘I’ve been praying for a boy. “Please God, let me do something right, for once.” D’you know what I mean? Maybe she’ll like me better now – now that I’ve given her first proper grandchild.’

  First proper… The words shook me into silence. Before I could think how to react, our helper said, ‘We ought to get them to the house.’

  I got to my feet, trying to keep my eyes on his face though his bare chest held a terrible fascination for me – I had never seen a man stripped to the waist before. ‘How? The car’s stuck. She can’t possibly walk—’

  ‘I’ll carry her.’

  ‘All that way?’

  ‘Not to Denes Hill! We’ll go to the farm. It’s nearer.’

  ‘We can’t—’ I stopped myself, realizing there was little choice. ‘Is your father there?’

  His mouth twisted into an unhumorous smile as he bent to take the baby from Saffron and hand him to me. ‘No. He went to Wells on the early train. He won’t be back until this evening. Here, you take the baby. Just make sure you support his head. Like this, look.’

  ‘I’ve held a baby before!’ I snapped.

  A glittering glance, full of undisguised disgust, pierced me for a second. Then he crouched again and set Saffron’s arms round his neck before bracing himself and gathering her up against his chest, using his long legs as levers. I remember thinking grudgingly that, whatever his feelings towards my family, he was a good man to have on hand in a crisis.

  ‘Home, Bess.’ Responding to his soft command, the dog bounded ahead.

  Not far away, a gate led into the field of stubble. While I closed it behind us, holding the baby in the crook of my arm, Philip strode on, strong boots and corduroys armouring him against jabbing stubble. My own light shoes and long skirts were scant protection. Forced to pick my way step by step, I trailed behind, scratching my legs, snagging my stockings and skirts, sinking deep in soft loam, all the time protecting the small warm weight in my arms. He was wide awake, but quiet, as if testing all his senses trying to make out what was happening. Great dark-blue eyes stared at me from his wizened red face. Though I had been told that a newborn baby couldn’t focus properly, this one seemed to be watching me with intelligence and interest.

  I found myself talking to him. Talking nonsense. ‘Hallo, Kleinschen. I’m your aunt Katie. Hallo, then, Bengel.’

  Eventually, the clear patch that moved with us through the mist parted to reveal a hedge. A gap in it led to a plank over a dry ditch, and then along a path worn in deep grass, beneath gnarled old pear trees hung with long green fruit. The farm appeared piece by piece as we approached, yards at the rear behind head-high walls, the end wall with a single leaded window gleaming like a watchful eye under a dipping sweep of roof. Purple and pink clematis sprawled up a trellis and round a wooden porch that protected a side door.

  ‘Through here,’ Philip instructed with a nod that bade me open the door, and, ‘Stay, Bess,’ to the dog, in much the same tone. He was sweating profusely, face and neck red from the effort of carrying Saffron, the muscles in his back visibly knotted. My aunt seemed to be asleep, but I guessed she had simply closed her eyes, resting and trying not to think about what was happening. She was right – the past fifteen minutes were hardly comfortable for a decent woman’s recollection.

  Through a dark passageway floored with quarry tiles, we came to a low doorway where Philip had to duck his head as he kicked the door further open. Beyond lay a large room with a low ceiling striped with old dark beams. All I gained at first was an impression of comfort, solid old furniture, functional rather than fashionable, and a great inglenook fireplace, its hearth cold but still holding the ashes of its last fire. A dark wooden stairwa
y climbed up against the far wall.

  ‘Cupboard under the stairs,’ he threw at me. ‘A blanket. Quickly!’

  Beneath the stairs, a wedge-shaped door opened on to shelves crammed with linen, where warmth came out and met me. One-handed, I grabbed the first blanket I could see and swathed it over a big horsehair sofa, where he laid Saffron gently down with a sigh of relief.

  ‘All right? Rest now.’ Straightening, he eased his aching body, sending muscle rippling under pale skin that contrasted oddly with his sun-browned face, neck and forearms as he turned to me. ‘There’s no one here to help, I’m afraid. We fend for ourselves on Mondays. Mrs Gaywood stays at home and does the washing.’

  ‘I can manage.’ I hoped he couldn’t read my confusion: the nearness of his naked body both appalled me and aroused me. His skin looked as though it would be soft to the touch. Vulnerable. Appealing…

  ‘Right, then.’ He took off his cap, raked his fingers through tousled curls. ‘Just stay with her. Keep her calm. Let her hold the baby.’

  ‘I know what to do!’

  The answer was a mutter which didn’t sound complimentary; he turned away, making for a door at the foot of the stairs. Glad of his absence, I bent over the couch and gave up my sweet burden, laying the baby in his mother’s waiting arms.

  ‘He ought to be washed,’ she fretted. ‘Kate… Where are we?’

  ‘The Farcroft farm.’

  ‘Mad Jack’s place?’ Her eyes filled with tears, but she was laughing, too, biting her lip. ‘She’ll be beside herself. Spitting fire. Won’t she?’

  ‘Probably,’ I agreed with a sigh. We didn’t need to identify the ‘she’ – both of us knew who the female dragon was. ‘But there’s not much we can do about it. At least the baby’s all right. And you, too. Aren’t you?’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’m in a horrible mess, down below, but don’t—’ She stopped, glancing beyond me as our unlikely knight reappeared. He had found a shirt from somewhere, buttoned it to the throat and was now rolling back the sleeves. Though more grey than white, and with a large patch at the shoulder, at least it covered him decently. ‘Will the others be coming this way?’ he asked.

  ‘Uncle Frank was going to find the doctor and bring him after us,’ I told him. ‘I presume he’ll take the short cut.’

  ‘Then I’ll go and wait for them. I’ll see what I can do about that motor, meanwhile. Can you manage alone, till someone gets here?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  His look said he doubted that, but he started for the door. ‘Mr Farcroft…’ Saffron was gazing down into the blood-streaked face of her sleeping child. One tiny hand peeped from its wrappings and curled round her forefinger. ‘I’m going to call him Edward, after the late King. Little Eddy, that’s who you are, my sweetie. And Henry, for your Daddy. And…’ She looked up at the young man looming behind the couch. ‘And Philip. That’s your name, isn’t it? Would you mind? Edward Henry Philip Rhys-Thomas. That’s a lovely name.’

  ‘It’s longer than he is,’ the young farmer said, gruff but not displeased, a stain of red creeping up his lean brown face. ‘No, I don’t mind. I can’t say about your family, though. Well… Help yourself to anything you need. You’ll find the kitchen through there.’

  And he was gone.

  ‘I shall call him what I choose!’ Saffron muttered, kissing the tiny fingers. ‘You’re Edward Henry Philip, my darling, aren’t you? Besides, the old witch will be so pleased to have a grandchild at last…’ She stopped herself, glancing up to add hastily, ‘A grandson, I mean. The first boy.’

  Though my mind and heart were racing, I heard myself argue, ‘You’ve forgotten my half-brothers. Rudger, Pieter, Hansi…’

  ‘Oh, yes, but they don’t count. Not really. They’re von Wurthes. This little man is the first Rhys-Thomas. And he does need a wash, Kate. D’you think you could…’

  Beyond the door at the foot of the stairs, I discovered a short passageway which led to a kitchen. Ancient oak beams spanned the ceiling, supporting muslin slings bearing great hams and marrows, above a scrubbed table still laid with the remains of breakfast – dirty cups; a fat teapot; milk and sugar with muslin covers weighted by blue beads; plates showing evidence of egg and fat ham; and a bread knife lying among crumbs on a battered board. A fire burned in a big kitchen range, with a kettle on a chain hanging near it, faintly steaming, and on top of the side oven a great iron stockpot sent out a savoury aroma. A pump supplied cold water to a stone sink, where I used the carbolic soap and scrubbing brush which lay, still wet, on the wooden drainer. The lace curtain at the window was splattered and stained, with dead flies scattered on the windowsill around pots containing vigorous flowering plants.

  I found what I needed – hot water in the kettle hanging over the fire, an enamel bowl under the sink, clean cloths, towels and other linen from under the stairs. The linen cupboard backed on to the kitchen range, that was why it was so warm; some of the things at the back had been there so long they had gone yellow. I found a voluminous apron and wrapped it over my skirt and blouse somewhat belatedly. Only then, catching sight of myself in a mirror in the hall, did I fully realize what a dishevelled state I was in, from head to foot.

  Saffron, though, was in even worse case, as I discovered after we had gently dabbed the blood from the baby and wrapped him in a clean sheet. We laid him in a nest of blankets on the floor while I tended to his mother, learning a great deal that my sheltered upbringing had kept from me. The lesson was a messy one. I managed to pad her thoroughly and make her more comfortable. Then I settled her to rest, and went to make a pot of tea.

  With a battered old tea caddy in my hands, I stared past the stained net curtain at the yard outside. Outbuildings with patched roofs and green-painted doors surrounded it, a few leggy weeds grew in cracks, an old tin tub hung against the wall, a couple of chickens scratched…

  An old, old house, with a personality of its own, it seemed almost to be breathing. I was conscious of the quietness, another sheltering layer around me. From a corner alcove, a grandfather clock ticked off the seconds, emphasizing the stillness. Strangely, though, I felt safe there, all alone with Saffron and the baby, especially when Mad Jack was far away. The world seemed distant, shut out by thick walls and leaded windows beyond which the mist still pressed.

  But even in this brief Eden a worm stirred in my mind. Twice, Saffron had called her baby ‘the first grandchild’. Oh, she had spoken unthinkingly, too full of her own distress to consider the effect her words might have. But I had no doubt she had voiced the feelings of the family – Harry’s child was to be the favourite. Clara’s children didn’t count. The Menschen were little German half-breeds, beneath notice, and I… was female.

  For myself I didn’t care: I had never hoped for anything from the Rhys-Thomases, so another rejection couldn’t hurt me. And my little half-brothers, with their father to provide for them, could laugh at indifference from this side of the Channel. It was my mother I felt sorry for. How could I stay here? Oh, I had to go home! Soon…

  Six

  As I set the tea tray down on a table near the window in the living room, I heard the sound of wheels, and through the mist a carriage appeared. Frank leapt out, followed by Harry, and then the doctor. Thank goodness!

  The doctor had not been at the funeral: he had been called away to attend an injured man and Frank had commandeered a carriage to go after him. When eventually they returned, they had encountered the funeral procession forming up at the church, where the anxious Harry had joined them. They had met Philip Farcroft at the entry to the back lane.

  He had not told them the whole truth: they believed he had taken Saffron to the house and left us alone to cope with the birth. If they had thought about it, they would surely have known that I couldn’t have managed alone, but I suppose they preferred not to think about it. So another myth was born – that I was the one who had played midwife. Saffron seemed to feel it was simpler that way.

  Less commendably
, our gallant knight Philip had implied that the car had stopped of its own accord. When Frank discovered what had really happened, he was so furious that he sent the police to have a look at the lane, and told Oliver Wells to sue Mad Jack for damages.

  Grandmother was furious over the whole affair, though she hid her anger behind tight lips until the funeral guests had departed. Then, she summoned Frank and me to her pretty blue and white sitting room in the south wing, and blamed him for ‘leaving a young girl to cope. That’s so typical of you – you’re irresponsible. When are you going to grow up?’

  ‘I’m in no mood for post-mortems, Mother,’ Frank said stoutly. ‘In my opinion, the “young girl” coped admirably. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the men together and see about rescuing my car.’

  ‘This was all because you defied me,’ she threw after him. ‘If you had used a carriage like normal people, none of this would have happened!’

  The slamming of the door was the only reply.

  Drawing a breath, she lifted her neck to its full extent and looked along her nose at me, blue eyes sharp as gimlets. ‘You did manage well,’ she grudged, and for a moment I thought she was praising me, but, ‘I do wonder at the kind of education they allow young girls in Prussia. At your age, Catherine, I knew nothing about childbirth. Nor did I wish to. I suppose your mother spoke freely to you when she was engaged in breeding those three boys. Clara always did have a strange sense of propriety.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t say such things!’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t intend to be impertinent, Grandmother, but… Everyone seems to be against her, and it’s not fair.’

  She watched me in silence for a moment and I could almost see her brain working, cold as clockwork. ‘She brought it upon herself, Catherine. She was headstrong. It’s a trait you appear to have inherited.’ (She prounced it ‘tray’, the French way, which was typical of her.) ‘But I shall say no more. No good ever came from opening old wounds.’