The little mouth latched on to her. Strong little jaws clamped and sucked vigorously and Isobel heard him gulping down that first thick, sweet, yellow milk.
She looked at Magnus. Tears were coursing down his cheeks. Her own tears had gone. She was being transformed, through joy and love, into the fiercely protective creature that was a new mother. ‘Isn’t he beautiful, Magnus? Which name are we going to give him? Have you decided?’
‘He looks like me. He looks just like me …’ Magnus cried.
‘He’s the image of you, darling. There’s no question. He’s your son.’
‘Robert!’ said Magnus who had taken out a handkerchief and was blowing his nose fiercely. ‘Bobby while he’s little.’
Magnus had only been gone a couple of hours when there was a commotion in the entrance hall, just beyond the door. Then she heard Mrs Hammond’s voice, loud and dictatorial. ‘I insist! I can’t allow you to stand between me and my grandson.’
The nurse would lose the battle if she tried to get Mrs Hammond to come back tomorrow. She was being far too polite saying, ‘I think it might be better if …’
Isobel heard her mother-in-law sweep past the nurse. ‘Do you know who I am? Out of my way!’ and she came sailing into the room, her face a picture of satisfaction.
‘I’ve brought you some calf’s foot jelly,’ was her greeting as she swept past Isobel to sit on the chair next to the crib. ‘It’s quite wrong to give nursing mothers fruit or chocolate.’
‘Oh,’ was all Isobel could think to say while she waited to see what her mother-in-law would do next.
Mrs Hammond had not taken her eyes off the crib since she’d seated herself. She gave Isobel a quick, unwilling smile. ‘Mr Hammond – er – Magnus’s father–’ She coughed; started again. ‘I have been ordered to make peace with you.’
‘Oh.’
She was gazing at her grandson as she spoke. ‘I said to John, “Good gracious! There’s no ill-will between us. Isobel will know what drives a mother to protect her son now that she has one of her own!”’
She stood up and without a by-your-leave scooped the sleeping baby out of his crib and sat down again with him cradled in her arms.
Isobel watched closely as she peeled back the shawl. And a smile such as she had never seen before on that remote, classical face came like lightning across it. Her eyes were filled, lit with pride. ‘He’s the living image of Magnus as a baby,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring some photographs when I come tomorrow, to show you.’ She got to her feet, holding the baby fast to her chest, and came to stand over Isobel. ‘No problems with the cord?’ she said. ‘No bleeding?’
Isobel found her voice. ‘He isn’t haemophiliac, Mrs Hammond, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘Mrs Hammond? You’d better start calling me Mama. At once.’
For eighteen months Isobel had revelled in her new life; in bringing up her baby, looking after Magnus, being part of her new family, content that her angel child had the foundation rock of his life laid for him. Bobby had what she had never known. His own true father.
Bobby, the beautiful golden-haired boy, was the apple of Magnus’s and the grandparents’ eyes. Magnus’s parents spoke highly of Isobel too, saying that she was ‘the brains of the family’ and ‘the best thing that ever happened to Magnus’ and ‘the mother of our pride and joy’, for Bobby was theirs. He was their Hammond grandson and nothing was too good for him.
Isobel had expected friction between Mam and the Hammonds, but to her amazement, there was none. Mam adored Bobby, and on her half-day the three of them, Isobel, Mam and the baby went into town. Mam insisting on pushing the pram so she could enjoy the attention of acquaintances and customers and bask in their exclamations of, ‘My word. He’s a bonny baby. And you, Mrs Leigh, look much too young to be a grandmother.’
There was nothing to indicate what was coming unless one took account of Nanna’s old superstition that sudden deaths never came singly. In July 1939 Sylvia’s twin boys were born. They were haemophiliac babies and lived only two days, bleeding to death at the umbilicus. They had not got over the shock; Sylvia never would – and tragedy was coming for all of them.
It was Friday 1 September and as hot as any June day. In another two days they would know if there was going to be war. Hitler had been given an ultimatum: ‘Withdraw from Poland or our country will be at war with Germany’. Nobody doubted that they would have to fight. The factories were crying out for hands. Hammond’s Silks was busy again. Chancellor’s was printing camouflage cloth; the other factories were making shell cases and munitions, small parts for bigger guns, bullets, shells, webbing and rope. Once the men were called up the women would have to do men’s work. They would be needed in the factories, on the land, in the hospitals and the forces. Air-raid shelters were built, gas masks had been distributed and children were arriving in town, evacuated from London and Manchester and Liverpool.
Isobel drove through the Waters where a group of evacuees were being marched up Churchwallgate to the Market Place. The older ones, excited and voluble, held little white-faced children, some as young as four, by the hand. In front of the Town Hall their families were waiting for them in the blazing sunshine.
Next to her Bobby sat in a special seat that had been made for him by a coachbuilder. Isobel said, ‘You’re a lucky boy. Going to Grandma’s.’
‘Where Mummy go?’ He stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Isobel said, ‘Mummy and Daddy are going to the pictures.’ They had booked seats for Gone with the Wind and a dinner table at the Macclesfield Arms as a belated anniversary treat. It would be their first evening alone at Bollinbrook Road since Bobby was born; the first time Bobby had been left overnight in his grandparents’ care, and this was their chance to see the film everyone was raving about.
Bobby understood little at eighteen months, but he liked his mother to chatter to him as she drove. He sat, blond curls falling forward over his brow, eyes drooping, as they went up Hibel Road and on towards Manchester Road and Bollington.
‘Mummy is going to leave you with Grandma and Pop. You like that, don‘t you?’ Isobel pulled his thumb out of his mouth but he stuck it straight back in, so she left it there, tenderly thinking that there was no reason to deny a baby anything. His grandparents indulged him with every comfort a child could have.
Magnus was now on the sidelines of his parents’ lives. They gave all their time and attention to Bobby. Magnus said it was a relief to come second, to be overlooked and not to be on the receiving end of the Chilprufe coats, the fine wool underwear, the hair shampooing with beaten eggs, the delicacies they lavished on their adored grandson.
Isobel and Magnus were in high spirits when they left Archerfield to return to Bollinbrook Road to change their clothes. Isobel wore a short beige dress with padded shoulders and a crossover skirt that had buttons down the left side, Magnus put on his new tweed suit and less than an hour later they were sitting at a table in the Macclesfield Arms Hotel, eating their way through a six-course dinner.
They had tomato soup, baked haddock, roast fowl, apple charlotte, savoury aigrettes and cheese – and cream crackers with coffee. They drank wine with it, a claret which was Magnus’s favourite. Magnus said he felt devilish because he’d had three forbidden things, the tomato soup, the apple and the red wine. Isobel wanted to stop him but he would not be ordered about since he’d put his foot down to his mama. He certainly never allowed the least criticism of himself in public, so Isobel said, ‘Do you think it’s wise, darling? Drinking wine as well as eating apple and tomato?’
He was bold after two glasses of claret. ‘Life’s not worth living if a man is not his own master,’ he said.
She agreed tactfully but stopped him from ordering more by saying, ‘Come on. We’ll be late for second house. We don’t want to miss any.’
They left the car in the Market Place and went arm in arm down Mill Street to the Majestic. Magnus used only one stick when Isobel was with him, and especially wh
en walking downhill.
Magnus said, ‘We had a call from Ian this morning. He has passed out. He finished his officer training at Greenwich. He’ll be appointed to a ship soon. He’s going to Edinburgh for a week’s leave.’
‘Where will they send him?’
‘It could be anywhere.’
‘Maybe he’ll stay in this country,’ she said. ‘They need doctors at the naval bases, don’t they?’
‘Ian will want to see action. He’ll volunteer for service on an aircraft carrier, or at least a battleship.’ He added, ‘I wish I could do my bit.’
‘Your mill is producing parachutes. You are doing your bit, Magnus,’ Isobel said as a shiver ran through her. It was a beautiful evening, balmy after the heat of the day. The trees had not shed their leaves and the hills and farmland around Macclesfield were at their sleepy, end-of-the-season best. It was hideous to imagine that in two days’ time they would be in danger from bombers and guns and gas attacks.
But they were at the Majestic. The queue went round the white marble pillars outside the cinema and up the hill as far as Roe Street. They passed through the foyer and studied the photographs of the film stars and Magnus said, ‘You are awfully like her, you know. Vivien Leigh. Everyone says so, even Father.’
‘Oh, you flatterer,’ Isobel laughed, and said, to return the compliment, ‘You look rather like Leslie Howard.’
‘Do you think so?’ Magnus made a haughty gesture.
Isobel awoke at about four in the morning, very cold: Magnus was icy. Half asleep, she tried to pull the covers higher, to warm his shoulders. Then her hand slid over his arm and it fell forward, cold and lifeless, and at once all her senses came jerking into life.
There was a stench in the room, her lower body was wet. There was silence. There was no sound at all from Magnus, and he was not responding to her touch as Isobel pulled him over on to his back.
‘Magnus! Magnus!’ She clicked on the light switch over the bed.
A glaring light came down to reveal the white, waxen face with lifeless eyes and jaw fallen open. His blood, a massive haemorrhage, had stained him and her and had soaked the bed beneath him, right up to the pillows and bolster. Magnus, her darling husband, was dead in her arms.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Magnus was buried in the little graveyard at Archerfield on a warm September afternoon. Isobel was deathly pale from shock and loss as she watched yet another coffin of yet another loved one being lowered into the earth. She had Bobby by the hand, and only his warm hand in hers gave her any comfort, any hope, any relief.
She heard not a word of the service and she didn’t look at a single face in the crowd of mourners. The Mackenzies were here – Ian, Rowena and their father; the Hammonds, Sylvia and Ray. Mr Chancellor came out of respect – he was quiet this time, none of the sobbing he’d been unable to control at the funeral of Sylvia’s twins. The staff of Archerfield paid their respects and a few Bollington tradespeople came, but it was the family’s loss and the family members had been rendered numb.
Nobody cried. Magnus’s mother and father stood silent, holding hands as their son’s body was laid into the earth. The priest said, loudly, so that all could hear on that golden afternoon with a soft breeze coming down from the hills above, Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may we seek for succour, but for thee, 0 Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased.
And fanciful though Isobel might be she lifted up her eyes to those hills and prayed for strength because, she told God, ‘Magnus was not a sinner. Magnus was a good man, who did good things. Why have you taken him from me?’
Then Bobby came closer and leaned his hot little golden head against her leg and held tighter on to her hand. ‘Go home, Mummy? Bobby go home, Mummy!’ and Isobel picked him up and pressed his face close to hers until the last amen was said.
After the funeral tea Mam went back to Lindow with Nanna, and the Hammonds demanded that Isobel and Bobby stay at Archerfield.
‘I can’t,’ Isobel told Magnus’s father. ‘I must go home. I need to be alone. I have to cry. I have to remember Magnus, tonight.’
‘Then leave Bobby here, with Grandma and me?’ Pop Hammond was kind but firm. ‘Mr Chancellor will drive you back to Bollinbrook Road, I am sure.’
On the drive back to Bollinbrook Road she was silent, holding back tears until she could be alone. Mr Chancellor was clearly worried. At last he said kindly. ‘You’ve had a bad do, lass. There’s nothing I can say that would comfort you, is there?’
Isobel began to cry. ‘It’s my fault. If it hadn’t been for me …’
‘Hey! Hey! None of that,’ he said. ‘We can’t have you thinking like that. It’s not your fault. Whatever made you think so?’
‘I’m full of guilt. I’m afraid – afraid I’ll go like I was before, thinking of dying and wishing I’d gone instead of Magnus. Thinking everyone’s against me – whispering behind my back–’
‘Whispering what?’
‘That I’m a nobody – nothing. That nobody wants me. I bring trouble, shame, disgrace wherever I go.’
They reached Bollinbrook Road. Mr Chancellor had gone quiet. He helped her into the house and sat her in a chair by the fireplace. Then he stood over her where she sat, sobbing and incoherent.
Isobel saw the helpless expression on the face that was always so cheery and breezy. She said, ‘Leave me alone. If only I had someone to share it with–’ She put her head on to her arms and sobbed.
He put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Can’t you share it with me, lass?’
‘No. No. I can’t tell anyone. I want my husband. I never had a man of my own. I never knew my father. I want my own man. Don’t you see? I can’t take any more.’
He was very quiet. Twice he started to say something but held himself back. Finally he said, ‘You can’t be left on your own like this. Don’t do anything daft. I’ll go back and get someone to stay with you.’
It was an hour before they arrived – Ian, Rowena and Sylvia – to comfort her and talk and to try to put hope and spirit back into her.
Sylvia cried, ‘I know what it’s like. We will comfort one another. Ray’s call-up papers came this morning. I shall be all alone. Oh, Isobel!’
Rowena said, ‘You made Magnus very happy. You didn’t think you’d have him for ever. Throw yourself into something as soon as you can, that’s my advice. Don’t dwell on your misfortunes.’
The girls fussed over her. They would stay the night, sleeping together in the spare bed. They made hot drinks for her and put her to bed. They gave her a draught of something to quieten her and at last, when they were satisfied with their ministrations and Isobel was warm and sleepy and had no tears left, Ian came upstairs and sat on her bed, holding her hands.
‘You have to rise above it,’ he said. ‘None of it is your fault. We’ll need all our strength for the fight. Don’t spend yourself on self-pity.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ve got Bobby.’ She was very sleepy but she said, ‘And you, Ian?’
‘Me?’
‘Have you found some girl, perhaps?’
He was silent for a moment. He just sat holding her hands and looking at her puffy face. Then he leaned forward and kissed her on the brow. ‘No. I haven’t found anyone. I’m joining my ship tomorrow. Write to me now and again.’
It was not until she was going through Magnus’s belongings, clearing out the roll-top desk where he kept all his private papers, that she found the letter. It was tucked inside a slim volume called Haemophilia: Clinical and Genetic Aspects. Isobel remembered it as one of the books from the redwood bookcase that had belonged to Mrs Chancellor. The envelope was addressed to Miss Sarah Pilkington, written in Pop Hammond’s distinctive hand, and just as Magnus had, she read and understood
at once the significance of the words written so long ago.
Archerfield House, 5 January 1915
My dear Sarah,
Where have you been hiding these last weeks? My letters have gone unanswered. I have missed you. I wanted to talk to you and I have not seen you since the night last November when I came, undeserving, to your bed and you gave yourself so generously. Your love gave me such comfort. I am glad there have been no repercussions …
Magnus had kept this secret to himself because to tell would have broken so many hearts. But he had kept the letter, hoping that one day she would find it, and understand. And he had known that Sylvia, though married to her own half-brother, was a carrier of the disease that would stop her from bearing a normal son. There was nothing Magnus could have done about it. ‘Oh, Magnus,’ she wept. ‘You were a good man who did good things. Why did you leave me?’
Brilliant moonlight lit up the countryside for miles around. Because Mam was in Macclesfield, Isobel went to Lindow to see Nanna at ten o’clock that May night. She had left Nanna only two hours before, but a little whispering voice had come to live inside her head and it told her that she should return. That night would be one of the worst and one of the last of the blitzes. Everyone stood on the moonlit lawn at Archerfield, watching formations of German bombers going over White Nancy, which was no longer white but painted green and brown and khaki in camouflage pattern. They saw the sky burning orange and red where Manchester lay to the north. Isobel put on her slacks. It was shocking to see a lady in trousers, Grandma Hammond said – then she went to Lindow.
Nanna was in bed. She had been tired for a few days, breathless, and unusually for her had had no appetite. Isobel went straight upstairs to the bedroom where Nanna was lying, eyes closed, breathing fast but easily.
‘Nanna!’
She opened her eyes. ‘Eeh, glad you came, our Lil. I’ll not see the night out.’
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