When I Was Yours

by Lizzie Page

  ‘What lookers they’ll be!’ Matron said suddenly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your children.’

  I inhaled sharply.

  ‘He’s handsome, your husband. And you, well, you’re as beautiful as a movie star, Mrs Lowe. It’ll be all right. I’ve seen this before. They come back, holding twins sometimes.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said. My voice was tremulous. I realised I must have been crying again.

  * * *

  After Matron’s kind words, I resolved something. I realised I couldn’t go back in time, and I could do nothing about my war years, but I could make sure I never mentioned them again. It was the least I could do. I probably shamed Edmund by telling people what I had done in France. No one wanted to hear. And the other thing I could do was simple. I could love Edmund more. I could be a better, more devoted wife and keep a tidier house and make sure my pies had a piped crust and not plain.

  I felt better already. I had steps to take. Action. Goals. I had something tangible to focus on.

  * * *

  When I next woke, three men with white coats were haunting the end of my bed like ghosts of pregnancies past, present and future. I thought Olive would be the only one who’d laugh at that and once more I missed her so much. But maybe I never knew the real her at all.

  I had to trust what Edmund and I had. We were the family, the little family I had always dreamed of. I didn’t choose Sam, I didn’t choose Olive, I chose what was right and good. I chose what was normal. I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of.

  It was strange: whenever I was with a doctor, I wanted to say, ‘I used to be on your team, cleaning and cutting, holding and hoping,’ but they would be looking at me indifferently, and it was with a sinking realisation that I would understand: I’m on the other side now, I’m a body on the bed. I’m just a collection of parts from a science textbook.

  No, they weren’t looking at me that indifferently.

  Something had piqued their interest: something in my notes. They pointed and gazed between me and the clipboard. I had their attention, that was for sure. So, I reached up, and stroked back my hair, hoping I was not looking too dishevelled. The matron had referred to me as a beautiful woman only that morning, so surely it couldn’t be that in just a couple of hours, I had become too ugly to have a baby.

  Three doctors. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

  Why won’t they say anything?

  Hauling myself upright, I said, ‘I have an aunt who had a miscarriage before she had her son, Richard.’ My voice, the story, trailed off. ‘He died in the Great War,’ I added, even though this information was redundant, my whole sorry tale was redundant. But perhaps if they had only known Richard, and what a glorious boy he was, they would treat me differently? If only everyone were a bit more like Richard – cricket matches, cream teas, big smiles.

  ‘And,’ I continued uncertainly, ‘my mother died in childbirth. But this was a long time ago.’ I smiled nervously. ‘So, things have changed presumably?’

  They stared at me.

  ‘Is it…’ I paused. ‘Is it a hereditary condition?’

  The men looked at each other.

  ‘Or could it be…’ I forgot my resolution for a moment. ‘I served in the war. It was pretty filthy there and maybe the water was contaminated?’ I added, thinking of Olive’s letters from Belgium. ‘And I transported men who had been gassed. And all sorts.’

  One of the doctors laughed slightly, but I recognised that it was not an amused laugh – it was a fear-laugh. Olive used to do the same. She knew it was offensive, but she couldn’t stop. The worse the situation was, the more she would cackle. The others nudged the fear-laugh doctor and he strode to my side resolutely; he even took my hand. I knew then.

  It must be very bad news.

  ‘Mrs…?’

  He had forgotten my name; perhaps that accounted for the hand-holding. Perhaps he had good news. Perhaps my baby was not dead after all? Or perhaps they could just give me another one. Perhaps a woman had died and her baby needed a mother. No one need know.

  ‘Lowe.’ I debated telling him ‘with an E’, then decided not to. Let him think I am low. I am low.

  ‘Mrs Lowe,’ he repeated. He had a slight northern accent. Gentle hands, a whiff of cologne. I wondered if he made his wife happy.

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first?’

  * * *

  The fury came in fast, unrelenting crashing waves. The fury took me over; I was riddled with it, broken with it. It was not what they first thought. It was not syphilis – great news, Mrs Lowe! No, it was a quite unusual mix of gonorrhoea and chlamydia – a very interesting case – and unfortunately, while this was not life-threatening, Mrs Lowe, it did have dire consequences, especially for a woman trying to conceive a child.

  Those missing six months when I was in France and he was ‘in hospital’. Intelligence work? An issue of the mind?

  For goodness’ sake. How could I have been so blind? Where was my intelligence – had I lost my mind?

  But I was a woman who had never raged, not properly, never let her temper get away with her. My self-control was what people liked about me. My willingness to get on, to forgive, to be kind, was my distinguishing feature. I did not know how to react.

  * * *

  In my heart, Sam lived on. More vivid, more alive than ever before. In my heart, I could picture the carcass of the plane, the hunger of the flames – I could bring it all back, and I could make different choices. I could go back to the fork in the road and choose a different path…

  But it was too late.

  Edmund didn’t come back to the hospital for two days. He was preoccupied with his new toy. ‘Breaking in the motor,’ he said contentedly. I said nothing. ‘How she purrs.’ He continued, reporting on the car and the state of the roads. As if I cared!

  He picked up his newspaper and started to read. After some time, he must have noticed I wasn’t my usual Edmund-pleasing self for he turned slightly pink around the collar and blustered. ‘How are you anyway? I thought they’d let you out sooner. They did last time.’

  ‘They’ve told me why they think it happened,’ I said quietly.

  He slowly set down his paper and folded it. He wasn’t looking at me when he said: ‘Oh?’

  ‘Do you want to know what it is?’

  ‘Do you want to tell me?’ he said. Typical of Edmund: brush it off, hit it back.

  ‘I’ll tell you. You gave me gonorrhoea and chlamydia, so that’s fantastic,’ I said. I was practically hissing at him. ‘Fantastic. I can’t have children. Ever. Because you managed to get yourself some filthy, rotten disease. You’ve ruined me.’

  He sat rigid in his chair.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything? Anything at all? How could you have married me, knowing that it would end this way?’

  ‘I didn’t think it would matter, Vivienne. I didn’t think you’d be affected—’

  ‘Did the doctors tell you that?’

  ‘No,’ he grunted.

  ‘You just decided it yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked so sorry for himself, it made me want to howl.

  I didn’t ask how he contracted it; that’s the word, ‘contracted’ – an oddly formal phrase. I always thought it suggested a business arrangement. You are contracted to purchase twenty rugs from Istanbul, five foot by five.

  Deep down, I knew how he contracted it. How couldn’t I know? I had met enough girls in Calais so hungry that their ribs showed through their thin blouses, who would steal mouldy bread off the ducks. Girls forced to do anything for money.

  Riddled, infested, diseased, full of it. Filthy, dirty, poisoned, green, loathing, don’t touch me, don’t touch me. DON’T TOUCH ME.

  Damn you, Edmund Lowe!

  ‘Did your mother know why you were in hospital during the war?’

  Edmund didn’t say anything.

  I grabbed his hands, I pulled at his arms.

  ‘
Did your mother know, Edmund?’

  He nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud but the north–south nod was telling enough. Yes, she knew.

  So damn you, Edmund’s mother, too.

  And all those loving letters to me at Lamarck Hospital made sense to me now: the belated welcome to the family. The delight at having a daughter. The hurry-up with the wedding.

  She knew he was spoiled goods, she knew he was rotten: that’s why I had become good enough for him.

  * * *

  At my request, one of the doctors brought me a medical encyclopaedia. In my rage, I initially found it incomprehensible but kindly, the doctor sat with me to answer my questions. Apparently, it was not rare in soldiers of the Great War – or any time, he said wryly. ‘But it’s not much talked about.’

  ‘I bet it bloody isn’t.’

  This made him smile. He showed me a page of pictures of genitals black, swollen or shrunken, but explained that I was a carrier and not all carriers ‘show’.

  ‘You have no outward signs of infection or distress,’ he explained. I thought, How typical: my version of this disease is private, turned inwards. Isn’t that me all over? Tiptoeing through my own bloody life?

  * * *

  A few days later, Edmund’s mother had the audacity to come to the hospital. Presumably, Edmund had been as tight-lipped about this latest turn of events as he had been about everything else. She carried a big bouquet of lilies, the same ones that had been such a success at Father’s funeral, and very pleased with herself she looked too.

  ‘Exquisite,’ said Matron admiringly, whisking them away to find a vase.

  ‘How are you feeling, Vivienne, dear?’

  ‘You knew.’

  She didn’t know what I was talking about at first. And then she did. I could see the horror rise in her eyes. They had been found out.

  ‘You knew. You knew! You knew when he married me that he was diseased. That he would pass it to me.’

  ‘I didn’t…’ she started. ‘He didn’t… We… we all hoped for the best—’

  ‘Get out!’

  She hesitated for a moment at the foot of my bed, but then just as Matron made her way back with the vase overflowing, she turned to go. I closed my eyes and she tap-tapped away down the ward. Some mornings, I can still hear that sound.

  53

  1943 – Now

  Pearl is curled up on the sofa. She’s been tired a lot lately; could be the change in the weather, or maybe she might be homesick. Her mother and grandmother have moved to South Wales. Pearl’s mother works on the land by day and sings at night. She comes to take Pearl out every two months or so. She is always impeccably turned out and always very gracious with me. The last time she came she brought a cabbage as a thank-you gift and the time before that, a punnet of blackberries.

  Pearl loves to listen to Glenn Miller. ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ and ‘A String of Pearls’ are favourites, but she also adores ‘In the Mood’ and ‘Moonlight Serenade’. So do I. Everything is rationed but not music, as the old joke goes, nor singing along to your favourite tunes.

  I am preparing rabbit. It’s a fiddly, horrible job, and I like to be alone in the kitchen when I do it, no distractions. Pulling the foot out, getting the meat. It’s like undressing something. Rabbit is not on the ration; you have to know someone who knows someone. Mrs Burton does. I’ll put it in a pie. There is no egg, but I’ve made a crust with potato and starch. The oil is six weeks old but I’m not changing it for rabbit.

  Pearl’s school books are all over the table. Fortunately, Edmund hardly comes in this room any more. He’s barely in the house nowadays.

  ‘I need to write about another country. It’s a project for school.’

  Tapping her legs to get her to make room, I sit myself next to her.

  ‘If you’re thinking about France, or Belgium or Italy, I might be able to help.’

  She screws up her nose. ‘I was thinking more of China?’

  ‘China? I know a few words of Chinese.’

  She pulls her knees up to her chin. ‘Really?’

  ‘Let’s see, what can I remember? Nihao. Xie xie.’

  She seems interested.

  ‘My sister worked—’

  ‘In China?’

  ‘No, in Belgium, but there were many Chinese people there, during and after the war, helping us.’

  Pearl works on the project all weekend, her tongue out in concentration. I hear her repeating the words.

  ‘Nihao. Xie xie.’

  * * *

  A few days later, we take the train to London. We’re braving the city. This will be our sixth meeting with Sam – I’m counting – and this time we are going to stay over in a bed and breakfast so we will have all day tomorrow together too. Pearl and I will share one room, Sam will stay in another. Edmund is away again. It’s October and you can smell the approaching autumn.

  We have been to Yarmouth (my favourite), a car auction (Pearl’s favourite), a stately home and twice to the woods. We haven’t seen him for three whole months; I have been looking forward to this trip for what seems like an indecently long amount of time.

  Sam still feels something for me. I know it. It’s there every time we share a joke about the past, a hope or an observation. It’s there when he stands up to let me pass, when he holds open a door or takes my coat for me.

  Sam meets us on the platform at St Pancras station under that glass and iron arched roof. It always feels like a special occasion here. But why must I blush every time I see him? He asks if we would like to start with a movie, since there is such a damp chill in the air.

  Yes, we do, of course we do.

  ‘I haven’t told you which one it is yet.’

  Pearl and I laugh. ‘Any!’ she says.

  ‘We love all the movies,’ I say.

  Off we go, to the bright lights of Regent Street Cinema, where Casablanca is showing. I used to be a London girl but how unfamiliar everything in the city seems to me now. It’s not just the war, it’s my perspective, I think. Whereas once I strolled through London without a second thought, now I hardly feel entitled to tread on its pavements.

  Sam knows the projectionist, of course he does. ‘Let’s go and say hello,’ he suggests. Pearl and I make surprised eyes at each other. ‘Okay,’ Pearl says doubtfully. ‘If you say so.’ He leads us up the stairs to a box-like room, a cubbyhole. Pearl looks around in awe, at the bright lights and view through the glass. A wrinkled old man is operating the machinery like a wizard behind a curtain. When he sees Sam, he thumps him on the back.

  ‘Is this her then? The one?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Sam responds. He is a perfect salmon pink.

  As we take our seats, I lean over and whisper, ‘What on earth did you tell him about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says unconvincingly. ‘He just watches too many love stories.’

  I try not to smile.

  * * *

  As we sit in our row, I remember watching the show Chu Chin Chow in the hospital with Sam. I am about to say something about it to him when, with one eyebrow raised quizzically, he leans over Pearl, who is happily nestled between us, and murmurs: ‘Remember Chu Chin Chow?’

  ‘Who could forget?’

  ‘That’s the day I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Was it the exotic dancers?’

  He laughs so loudly that the people in front – who haven’t been so quiet themselves – turn round and ‘Ssshhh!’ at us.

  Pearl swivels her head from him to me, then shrugs.

  * * *

  On screen, Ilsa Lund is just asking her ex-lover, Rick Blaine, to protect her husband, the Czech resistance fighter Victor Laszlo, when Pearl stands, hissing, ‘I need the loo.’

  She is gone ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I keep thinking of how Sam’s hand had felt in mine that evening watching the show in Lanarck – over twenty-five years ago! – and I try not to think of our last goodbye kiss. What is the matter
with me? It’s some consolation to find Rick Blaine, the manager of Rick’s Café Américain, is also struggling with the past catching up with him.

  Pearl returns noisily.

  ‘Couldn’t you find it?’

  ‘I found it,’ she mutters.

  * * *

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Pearl asks after the film. She expects Uncle Sam to have a big plan. To be fair, he usually does.

  ‘I thought I’d take you to the restaurant with the worst service in London.’

  Pearl squeals with excitement while I laugh.

  ‘Ooh, you take us to the best places.’

  I try to take Pearl’s hand but she won’t let me, which is unusual but I don’t want to make a thing of it. Not in front of Sam.

  It’s called Bloom’s and it’s in Whitechapel. Our bed and breakfast is just along the road from here. There are queues of people waiting to get in, but Sam… Sam has ways. I get our ration books ready.

  ‘What do you want in your bagel?’ the waitress shouts at me. I don’t know what a bagel is. Sam is smirking at me. His eyes say, I told you the service was bad.

  ‘Bacon?’ I suggest. The woman gives me a glare that could turn me to stone. Sam makes a noise like a hiccup.

  ‘This is a kosher establishment,’ she says. ‘If you don’t like it, the door is over there.’

  ‘Then I’ll have an er… kosher bagel, please,’ I say. I look at Sam – he can’t stop laughing.

  * * *

  Pearl goes to the loo and once again she is in there for ages. After about ten minutes have passed, I go and tap on the cubicle door. It opens slowly. Pearl looks exhausted. Those old dark rings are back, under her eyes.