by Esther Freud
THE MOUNTAIN OF POST was huge. There had been a skeleton staff over the holidays, but there was nothing that would slow the news. The paper was thick with photographs of the Kennedys, Jacqueline’s hair cut into a bonnet, effortless in every outfit – furs, slacks, the perfect little black dress. In the centre was a double-page spread, Get the Jackie Look, with a model showing how it could be done. Rosaleen put a hand to her stomach, bound flat as it was with one of her nana’s corsets.
‘Nice Christmas?’ It was Betty, watching as she flipped through the pages.
‘Yes, thanks.’ Rosaleen snapped to attention, turning to the piles of letters, passing one round that held Lord Beaverbrook personally responsible for the weather.
The girls chatted and giggled, exchanging stories of dances and parties, and when the rush was over the printworkers trailed in for their tea. ‘How about you, Rose, out somewhere fancy at New Year?’
She was saved from answering by the Father of the Chapel, as the union representative was known, who produced a packet of Bourbons on which the girls descended.
Every few minutes Rosaleen looked at the clock. Never in her life had time passed so slowly. Ten o’clock, and after an hour, twenty past. I might be a little late back, she practised, I have to . . . But when she glanced at Betty’s imperious face, the words died in her throat. Eventually the clock ambled round to one. As leisurely as she could she took up her coat, and while the others stood in a huddle deciding which café to choose, she ran. She ran as fast as she could, along Fleet Street and up King Edward VIII Street and in under the arch of the clock tower, across a courtyard and through the main doors of the hospital. Her heart beat so sharply she could barely speak. ‘My uncle,’ she gasped, ‘he was admitted last week. Felix Lichtman, I have to see him.’ There was a different woman on reception, but she flicked through the same list. When she found his name, she paused, and only then did she look up. ‘Queen Mary Ward,’ she said, not unkindly, and Rosaleen could have kissed her.
‘Thank you!’ Without asking for directions she ran along a corridor, through swing doors, out again, and back. She was breathless by the time she found the ward. ‘Felix Lichtman,’ she panted at the nurse who sat in a small office, labelling glass vials, ‘my uncle, he’ll be expecting me . . . ,’ and as she waited to be told to come back later, she craned her eyes along the row of beds, the humps of covers, the still heads.
‘Your uncle, did you say?’ The nurse led Rosaleen along another, shorter passage. ‘Here we are.’ She stopped outside a door with a glazed window and softly opened it on to a room with one high bed. In the bed was an old man. He had the scratchings of a beard, and his face was grey. ‘We thought he’d be more comfortable in here.’ There was a drip attached to him, and a machine that formed a wavery line.
Rosaleen stared. The man was wearing piped pyjamas, and one hand lay curled on the sheet. She knew that hand. It was square and calloused; the thumb, the twist of it, refined. ‘Felix?’ She stepped closer, and there was his forehead, the beak of his nose, his lovely laughing mouth – not gone, but distant – as if the heat that lived in him had paled. Rosaleen took his fingers and held them in her own. She pressed as tight as she dared, and leaning forward, she put her mouth to his and, very gently, blew. His eyelids fluttered. ‘Felix.’ Tears dropped on to their hands. She bent lower and rubbed at them with her nose. Why is no one helping? She was grateful too to have him to herself. ‘My love.’ She bent closer and slowly, carefully, certain he could hear, she told him how he’d woken her, changed her, shown her how it felt to be alive. She wished she was a poet so that she could form the kernel of her feelings into words, but she did the best with what she had to pour her heart into his ear. When her voice was hoarse, she climbed on to the bed and, turning herself to lie alongside him, she rested her arm across his body and waited for him to wake.
THERE WAS A WALL CLOCK that read twenty past two. Rosaleen stared at it. She must have drifted off. Felix lay beside her. His breath was shallow, his eyelids palely mauve.
‘Nurse!’ She rushed to the door, and still calling, she ran along the corridor. ‘You have to come . . . Mr Lichtman . . .’
The young nurse in the matron’s station stared at her. ‘You still here?’ Together they walked back along the corridor and looked into his room. ‘He’s comfortable, that’s the thing.’
‘Comfortable!’ Why didn’t he wake?
The woman was no older than Rosaleen. A student. Maybe not even a nurse at all. There must be someone, something; she ran to the door. ‘Help!’ she bellowed. ‘We need help here! Please.’
The nurse caught her by the arm – ‘That’s enough’ – but she wasn’t about to stop shouting, couldn’t stop, not until someone came. Soon the room was full of people. ‘What’s the commotion?’ It was Matron, and a doctor, a clipboard in his hand. ‘This isn’t going to help, not in the slightest.’ He gave Rosaleen a stern look, and Matron led her to a chair. ‘Drink up.’ She handed her a glass of water. ‘Wash these down.’ Two large capsules were pressed into her palm.
‘Were you very close to your uncle, is that it?’ The doctor gave the shadow of a smirk, and he glanced at her stomach, just for a second, and up into her eyes.
Rosaleen gulped down the pills, and when she spoke her voice came out like a child’s. ‘Why won’t he wake up?’
The doctor was suitably professional. ‘We are doing what we can for him.’ He turned, and for the first time, he looked at the patient. They all looked. Felix’s proud face, his hair springing short and dark. ‘His wife will tell you the same. She usually comes in about now.’ He inspected the chart then, and lowering his voice, he spoke sharp instructions to the nurse.
They left her then. Her limbs were heavy, her thoughts unclear. There was something she had to do, she knew, but also, there was nothing. She dragged the chair as close to the bed as she could get, and waited, in the trap of her confusion, her hand curled into Felix’s, pulsing small squeezes, feeling for a response. She stroked his rough thumb, the calloused pads on his fingers, kissed his eyebrows, the warm skin of his neck. ‘Don’t leave me, we’ve only just begun.’ She mopped her tears with his cuff and, unable to remember what it was that might be happening about now, she told him her news. The baby kicking during Christmas lunch. O’Malley winking at her mother.
It was darkening outside the window, and her stomach spiked with lack of food. ‘I’ll have to find something,’ she said, and kissed him – even a cup of tea would do – and she drifted off along the corridors, following the old boiled smell of a canteen. She bought a teacake, and ate it at a table in the corner. It was quiet in here; people spoke in whispers, clustered together, or sat, like her, alone. Between sips of tea she let her eyes roam, settling on families, on couples, on the occasional patient well enough to leave the ward, and then on the far side of the room, she saw the boy. He had Felix’s straight eyebrows, his same determined mouth, and as she watched, he lifted his head to the ceiling and shook it in Felix’s own impatient way.
‘WILL YOU HAVE YOUR TEA NOW?’ Mavis called to her as she came in. She’d thought better of going back to the Express, braving Betty’s interrogation, the watchful faces of the girls.
‘I’m all right, thank you.’ It was as much as Rosaleen could manage to walk upstairs. ‘I’ll have a rest first.’ She kicked off her shoes, dropped her coat, and crawled under the covers of the bed. If I could stay here . . . She was numb, but she knew, tomorrow, she’d have to start again.
It was her nana who came up with a cup of tea, and then went down again and brought her a bread roll. She said nothing, only sat at the dressing table, brushing her long hair, singing a song in some faraway language.
‘Thula thul, thula baba, thula sana . . .’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Thu’u babuzo ficka, eku seni.’
Rosaleen watched her in the mirror, the lullaby drifting over her.
‘Thula thul, thula baba, thula sana. Thu’u babuzo ficka, eku seni.’
‘Nana,’ Rosaleen aske
d her when she paused. ‘Did you sing that to your children?’
‘My tannie, in Johannesburg, she sang it to me, long ago. When I came to England, I sang English songs.’ Smiling at her through the glass, she started: ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless the bed that I lie on . . .’
Rosaleen joined her. ‘Four corners to my bed, four angels round my head. One to watch and one to pray, and two to bear my soul away.’ She turned on her side and closed her eyes.
* * *
Betty had the aloof look she adopted when displeased.
‘I’m so sorry . . .’ Rosaleen had a speech prepared, but the postmistress put up her hand. ‘If you disappear like that again’ – Meg and Sally glanced over at her, concerned – ‘there’ll be no second chance.’
Rosaleen threw herself into the usual flurry, bundling the letters, sliding them into pigeonholes, grateful for the time it devoured, and for the busy morning that made it impossible for the girls to enquire after her story.
‘Tea’s up,’ Betty declared once the first stacks were sorted, and as if they’d heard her, the printworkers came trooping in. Today the Father of the Chapel had custard creams. He drew them from his pocket like a trick. Betty accepted with a small prance of her head and moved away to put them on a plate. The room was warm and steaming up, and soon there were more people than could fit. Rosaleen felt faint. ‘Go on.’ The biscuits were handed round, and when she declined, the man beside her grinned. ‘Watching your weight, eh?’ He shook his head as if to say Girls! There’s nothing I don’t know. Rosaleen picked up that day’s paper and leafed through, staring into Jackie Kennedy’s dark eyes. Wealth, beauty, an enviable marriage. How might it be to swap places even for a day? But there was work to do, and Betty was rising, her cigarette held high. ‘Righto, fellas, time’s up,’ and the printworkers drifted out.
Time passed even more slowly than the day before, each second dragged into a minute, each minute an hour. She stood by the one window that looked on to the central shaft and sipped at the cool air. She could feel Betty watching her, and so she gathered up the pile of letters addressed to the Agony Aunt and considered the futility of writing one of her own. I am nineteen, unmarried, pregnant. Please advise where I should turn for help. If she did write, how would she sign off? Ignorant Imelda. Desperate Deirdre. She and Angela had laughed over the names girls gave themselves. Now she’d have to think up a name of her own.
At one o’clock she was finally released. She kept her head down as she hurried towards the hospital, and when she reached the entrance, she avoided the main desk. No one asked what she was doing. Porters, nurses, patients: they accepted her presence. She found Felix’s ward and tiptoed along the passageway. Light showed through the square of window set into his door.
‘Excuse me?’ It was Matron, who only yesterday had pressed those pills into her hand. ‘May I enquire as to your business?’
Rosaleen felt the familiar jut of her chin. ‘You may not.’ Her voice was brattish, even to her ears, and she had an image of Sister Benedict, could feel the bat wings of her fingers as they clasped her by the arm; and then, as if she’d spun through time, Matron had hold of her. ‘Mind your manners, young lady.’ Her grip was steel.
‘It’s none of your bloody business what I’m doing here. Let go of me.’ Her protests spiralled, drawing nurses from their stations, their faces terrified and thrilled. ‘No!’ She twisted, escaping long enough to press her face against the glazed window, long enough to see Felix, propped up with pillows, his wife at his side. He swerved his eyes away. He’d seen her! ‘Felix,’ she mouthed, but he did not look around.
Defeated, Rosaleen was handed to a guard. He was a big unwieldy man, embarrassed by her wilted form, who closed his fingers over the bruise above her elbow and in silence escorted her out. He left her before the fountain in the square. ‘No more trouble now,’ he warned, and for his sake, she nodded her compliance.
There were four cherubs in the fountain holding up a giant urn, burdened and straining, the weight unnecessarily cruel. Stray splashes caught Rosaleen’s face, formed a sheen over her coat. I must get back to work, her thoughts scrambled, and with a supreme effort, she dragged herself away.
The afternoon was long. Her stomach cramped, her skin itched against the ribbing of the corset. What will I do? The thought ran in a loop, so fast there was no time to consider, and then it was over, and the girls, Sally and Meg, were waving and calling ‘See you tomorrow, bye, love, bye,’ before skipping away down the street.
There were a pair of phone booths outside the station. Rosaleen stepped inside and fished into her purse for change. With numb fingers she dialled the number Anastasia had supplied.
‘How many weeks?’ The voice at the other end was brisk.
Rosaleen counted back to France. ‘Eighteen?’
‘You’re too far gone.’
‘I can pay.’ She’d been unsure before what she should do, but now she knew that she was desperate.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Couldn’t I come by, I might not . . . it may be less.’ She knew that it was more.
‘It’s too much of a risk.’
‘No one would know.’
‘If you end up in hospital . . .’ The woman was impatient.
‘I wouldn’t tell.’
‘Sorry.’ Before Rosaleen could think of a new way to convince her, she’d put down the phone.
Rosaleen stood in the phone box with the receiver pressed against her ear, and when no queue formed, she slid down the wall, her back against the ridged panels, and cried. At first the sheer work of her grief provided comfort, but her tears were not without their limits and eventually they stopped. She raised her head and stared out at the rain. There was nothing left to do; there never had been. She pushed her way out of the booth and walked through the streets, glancing at the women hurrying by, wondering how many of them were in a fix. There’d been a piece in the Express – she ran over the details; a girl so fearful of discovery she’d hidden in the tunnel of a station to give birth. Tragic Teresa, the caption had read, and her first thought had been for her old friend Teresa Donnelly, but the last she’d heard she was living in Chelsea in the house of a professor, escorting him to dinner in lieu of rent.
The train was crowded, although she found a space, squashed in beside a woman so large she overlapped the seat. Tears, unwanted, seeped from her eyes.
‘You all right, love?’
Rosaleen startled. ‘I’m . . .’ She wanted to say that, yes, she was fine, but no words came.
‘Buck up.’ The woman touched her arm. ‘He’ll be back, you’ll see, lovely girl like you,’ and she squeezed past her and swayed away down the aisle. Rosaleen turned her face to the window, and pressing her forehead to the glass, she looked out at the dark.
That night she sat at her nana’s dressing table and wrote:
Dear Teresa,
I’m sorry not to have been in touch for so long, I’ve been back from Ireland since the summer, working at the Express. How are you anyway? I can’t believe I’ve not visited. I know Chelsea’s not so far. But everything has been such a whirl. Right now I’m living at my Auntie Mavis’s. Which is partly why I’m writing. Could I come and stay for a few days? It would be super to catch up.
Your friend, as ever,
Rose
Teresa replied by return.
Rosaleen Kelly! I always said that you’d go far. The Daily Express! Of course it would be great to have you here. The Professor’s not too bad, and as long as a girl’s young and presentable [there was a sketch of a woman with a wasp waist and pneumatic bosom], he’ll be delighted if you stay. Write and let me know when to expect you. It will be super to see you.
Always,
Terrie
While her nana was downstairs filling the hot-water bottle, Rosaleen unwound the scarves she bound herself with, unhooked the corset with its hooks and eyes, and examined her body in the wardrobe mirror. Her legs and arms were thin as ever, but her breas
ts were mountainous and her stomach was a smooth round gourd. Slow footsteps on the stairs alerted her, and she fumbled for her nightdress.
That night she dreamt she was standing in the street, calling to Felix with every bit of her strength. His window wrenched up, far above, and his wife looked out. ‘Get away from here!’ Instead of keys she threw down a black flower, and Rosaleen woke flailing and battling as the charred petals caught in her hair.
‘Child,’ her nana soothed her. She had a hand on her head and she was stroking. ‘We must be strong.’
Rosaleen wrote to Felix before leaving for work. She hoped he was recovering, that he wasn’t in any pain. She longed to see him, could hardly bear to be apart, and she needed his advice. What was she to do? She took it to the hospital herself first thing.
A week passed in which she heard no news. She wrote again, and delivered it to his flat. She rang the bell and waited, her ear against the grille, and when there was only silence, she forced it through the snap of the letter box and listened to it fall.
Kate
I LOOK OUT OF THE CAB WINDOW AT THE RAIN, THE PEOPLE dashing through it, the macs and umbrellas, the bowed heads. Surely it would be quicker to get out and walk, but Matt has a suit on and I’ve straightened my hair.
‘I hope tonight won’t be too boring.’ Matt takes my hand. ‘If there’s someone I don’t introduce you to . . .’
‘It’s all right.’ We’ve had this conversation before, and I promise to break in and introduce myself, and not, as I did last year, use it as an excuse to sidle away and wait out by the coats.
The lights change and we shunt forward and stop again outside Marylebone Town Hall. Neither of us speak. I press my face against the glass and screw my eyes up to imagine Freya, six weeks old, a white-wrapped bundle in my arms. I wonder, as I wondered then, was my own birth registered? Did my mother take me to a town hall? This town hall? And what did she name me? I listen for it in the hiss of the rain, the splash of the wheels, but the cab lurches forward and we sail on.
