‘Mummy’s like me. She’s a pragmatist. Anyway, she’s fielding phone calls. Don’t worry, Jamie, it’ll all be fine.’
The nursing home was a large mock-tudor house just outside Luton. The staff were polite, efficient, detached.
‘Here’s your room, Mrs – Henderson. Perhaps you’ll get undressed for me, and then Doctor will come and examine you.’
Susie undressed, got into bed. A nurse shaved her pudenda, gave her an enema. It was horrible. She felt very odd, light-headed, slightly sick.
Doctor was an iron-grey man with a sickly manner.
‘Mrs Henderson. Good morning. What a cold one. I’m Brian Miller. Now if I can just –’
He smiled rather condescendingly at her when he had finished. ‘Yes. About eleven weeks. Just in time. Have you had anything by mouth this morning?’
Susie shook her head.
‘Good. All over by lunchtime then. Your doctor is quite right, much too soon for you to be having another baby, you’re still not fully recovered from the last one. Now you won’t know anything about it, of course, you’ll need a very light anaesthetic and you’ll be in theatre for about twenty minutes. A simple D and C. You know what that is?’
‘No,’ said Susie. She did, but for some reason she wanted to hear it.
‘Dilatation and curettage.’ He looked a little impatient.
‘I understand dilatation, but what’s curettage?’
‘Well – the strict definition is a scraping. To remove tissue. And – er – any growths.’
‘Oh,’ said Susie. She pulled the sheet up higher over her body. ‘Yes I see.’
‘Right then.’ He picked up his notes. ‘Any more questions?’
‘No. No, I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll pop in and see you afterwards. When it’s all over. Nurse will be in to give you your pre-med in a little while.’
Susie lay there, trying not to think. The phone by her bed rang.
‘Darling? It’s me.’
‘Oh – Jamie. Hallo.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’
‘He’s a very, very good chap, Miller. You really don’t have to worry.’
‘I don’t?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
‘I love you, Susie. I’ll ring you later.’
‘All right, Jamie.’
She lay there and thought about her baby. Hers and James’s baby. Conceived in a moment of such fierce, flying, tearing rapture there was a physical remembrance of it; her body stirred at it even now. And it was still there, the rapture. It had become something real, something living, had not just passed away into nothingness. She had it within her, she surrounded it; it was hers.
She thought of it, what it was to her in truth: not a cluster of cells, not even the strange primeval being she knew it to be, but an embodiment of happiness, of pleasure, of love.
The nurse came in. ‘Right, Mrs Henderson, ready for your pre-med?’
‘Oh – yes.’ She put on the hospital gown, open at the back, the paper hat, surrendered her rings.
‘Just pop onto your side for me then.’
Susie rolled obediently onto her side, felt the needle jab into her buttocks. The nurse dabbed at it with a swab, smiled at her distantly.
‘We’ll be back for you soon then. Have a little sleep, I would.’
No you wouldn’t, you silly bitch, thought Susie, you wouldn’t at all, you’d lie here, like I am, thinking of what you were doing, what you were allowing them to do. To dilate you, to open you up, and then to – what was the word he had used? – oh yes, scrape, scrape away this baby, this little living thing, that she knew, she knew although she had tried not to think about it, who already had a head, eyes, hands, feet. Christ, she must stop this, stop thinking of the sweet smiling blunt foetus-face that she had seen so many pictures of, stop thinking of what she was doing to it, killing it, dragging it from the snug, safe darkness of her womb into the light and then – what? What did they do, what did they do to these babies, these little tiny half-people, how did they get rid – No, Susie, don’t, you mustn’t, it’s only a few cells, only a dot, don’t think about it, don’t, don’t, don’t, you have to go through with this, you have to.
The door opened. A porter came in with a trolley, the nurse helped her onto it. She felt dizzy, confused, far away from them. They began to wheel her down the corridor. She felt panicky suddenly, sick, frightened of what was going to happen.
She closed her eyes; the corridor spun. Oh God, this was horrible, horrible. ‘I feel sick,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the nurse. ‘It’ll pass in a moment.’
She was pushed into the anteroom of the theatre; Dr Miller was there.
‘Ah, Mrs Henderson. All right?’
‘No,’ croaked Susie. Her lips were very dry, she was having trouble framing her words.
‘You will be soon.’ He smiled at her, patted her hand.
Yes, she thought, I will be. But it won’t. My baby won’t. It won’t be a baby any more. It won’t be anything.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘right, Nurse. Let’s get this good lady into the theatre, shall we?’ He had his needle poised; he was smiling at her, his awful steely sickly smile. ‘Now, when I’ve given you this injection, Mrs Henderson, I want you to count for me.’ Susie nodded feebly. She would count, and the baby would be gone. One, two, three, bye-bye, baby. Oh God, it was horrible. Horrible. Why did she have to do this? Why had she ever agreed?
‘Right.’ He rubbed a swab over her hand. ‘Ready? Now remember, count for me, one, two –’
‘No!’ she screamed, managed to find the strength to sit up, thrust his hand and the needle away. ‘No, no, no. Don’t do it. I don’t want you to do it. Stop. I forbid it. Stop.’
‘Now, Mrs Henderson. Don’t be silly –’ The nurse looked alarmed, tried to push her down again.
‘Come along, Mrs Henderson. This isn’t very sensible, is it? You wanted this, it’s much for the best. Now let me –’
‘No. I said no.’ She was lying down now, hanging onto the sides of the trolley to try and stop the dizziness, but she was totally awake. ‘Don’t. Don’t you dare. I shall sue if you do. I don’t want you to. I forbid it. It’s my body, my baby. You are not to. Take me back to my room, at once. At once.’
‘Dr Miller, I think perhaps –’ The nurse was looking uncomfortable. Miller looked at her, and Susie thought she had never seen such distaste, such cold fury on any face.
‘Very well. Take her back. Get her out of here quickly. Mrs Henderson, I hope you realize you are still liable for the full fee. I would be grateful for your acknowledgment of that in writing, along with your cheque.’
‘You’ll have your fucking cheque,’ said Susie politely. ‘And your fucking acknowledgment. Get me a bowl, would you?’ she added to the nurse. ‘Quickly. I’m going to be sick.’
The nurse wasn’t quick enough. With something very close to pleasure, Susie threw up all over Dr Miller’s white theatre shoes.
‘Susie! Susie, we’re here.’ Harriet patted her hand gently. Susie opened her eyes, smiled at her.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to go to sleep on you.’
‘That’s OK. You look better.’
‘I feel better.’ She did. Much better. And James was walking towards them. Susie’s heart lifted, as it always had, always would, at the sight of him.
‘Hallo, Jamie.’
‘Hallo, you two. No, no news. I’ve been over to see the Bergins. Josh is very upset.’
‘And Julia?’
‘Well she’s upset too, but she seems to be what she calls handling it. She says she’s quite sure Cressida will be back, as soon as she has had a little – space, I think the word was.’
‘Oh God,’ said Harriet. She smiled at her father. ‘She is something else, as they say. What about the bank manager, Daddy?’
‘He still hasn’t called.’
‘How’s
Mummy?’
‘Asleep finally. Janine as well.’
‘I’ll go and make us some tea,’ said Harriet.
They looked fondly after her. ‘She’s a glorious girl,’ said Susie. ‘I know. I know she is.’
‘I wish –’ She looked at him and laughed. ‘No I don’t.’
‘What?’
‘I was going to say I wish Rufus wanted to marry her.’
‘That would never do. One of my nightmares, actually.’
‘Really? Do you know, it never occurred to me.’
‘Yes, well,’ he said, and his voice was heavy, almost bitter, ‘bad things never do occur to you.’
And then fear and what she realized was anger hit her and her eyes filled with tears; the golden day, Jamie’s face, blurred and she looked away.
He took her arm, gentle suddenly. ‘What is it? Darling Susie, what is it? I’m sorry if all this has upset you.’
‘No, Jamie, it’s not this. Really. Can we – can we talk?’
‘Yes of course. Let’s go down to the bridge.’
They walked down slowly. Susie was silent for a while. Then she began to tell him. She didn’t look at him, didn’t touch him. When she had finished he sat down heavily on the seat, started stripping a large daisy of its petals, one by one.
‘Is that my prognosis?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
There was a long silence; then he said, ‘Have you told Alistair?’
‘I haven’t told anyone.’
‘But you’ll have to. Tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said. ‘I needed to tell you first.’
‘Of course.’
He picked up one of her hands, turned it over, raised it to his lips. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘so terribly sorry.’
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘I love you too.’
‘Jamie –’
‘Yes?’
‘What is the prognosis?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. Not my field really.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘Sorry. Well, it’s not great. But it does depend on what they find. It could be dealt with fairly swiftly or –’
‘You mean a mastectomy?’
A long silence. Then, ‘From what you’ve told me, possibly. And chemotherapy. But it might not come to that –’
‘And it might be worse?’
‘Susie, this is impossible. I haven’t seen your X-rays, haven’t talked to your consultant. Don’t make me say things that may be wrong, irresponsible, please.’
‘Sorry.’
She sat there, and looked down the years, the long, happy years, at closeness, sweetness, love, and wondered how she could have found them wanting. There had been shadows, to be sure, gentle difficulties, slight pain; they had quarrelled occasionally, longed for one another often, been forced to share one child across two sets of lives. But there had been so much good, so much joy; they had lain so often, shaken after love, smiling at one another, taking happiness for granted, pleasure as a right, and been careless of it all. And now they were to lose it, lose certainty, closeness, and she was to go alone and fearful into a new dark destiny.
‘I shall need you now,’ she said suddenly, before she had meant to, but the fear took her, chilled her. ‘All the time, for as long as we can have. You won’t leave me, will you, not any more, Jamie, you’ll be there with me? I mean really with me, living with me? It’s the only way I can bear it.’
She waited for him to answer and realized she had never known true fear before; she had experienced its lesser compatriots, panic, apprehension, even dread, but not this, this ugly, driving invasion of her body as well as her mind, and the fear itself frightened her.
She felt tears rising again, felt at the same time nausea, faintness; her mouth was dry, her throat closed with terror. She knew she could not have moved, could not have cried out even, no matter what might happen to her; and then he smiled at her, gently, tenderly, and as always her self-control, her courage came back to her, and she looked at him, at her love, and gripped his hand and clung to it, as she had when Lucy had been born, and said as she had then, ‘Don’t go away, will you? Whatever they say or do.’ And he said, ‘No, Susie, I won’t go away. I’ll stay with you now, for as long as you need me.’
And the fear receded quite quickly then, just as pain can sometimes do, leaving only a sweet weariness behind it, and she sat with her head on his shoulder, staring at the water, and trying not to wonder how short a time together they might actually have.
Chapter 13
Harriet 4:30pm
The cups of tea looked horrible when she poured them out. Dark, with a floating scum on them. Harriet stared at them, amazed as always by her inability to accomplish the simplest domestic task. It was a family joke that she couldn’t even make a nice jug of water. Things burnt while she watched them, remained raw however long she consigned them to the oven; any bed she made was lumpy, anything she ironed looked creased. Her only near-culinary skill was mixing martinis, which she did superbly; Merlin Reid had been her tutor and Theodore Buchan was one of her most appreciative customers. He said not even at the Ritz in Paris, or the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills, had he experienced such martinis. ‘Not tasted, Harriet, experienced. There is a great difference. It is a rare talent in a woman.’
Harriet told him cheerfully he was a sexist pig but she liked the appreciation nonetheless.
Having made the stuff, she couldn’t even find Susie or her father: how irritating. They’d probably gone for a walk: they were good friends those two. Cressida had often hinted they were more than that, but then Cressida was like that, finding intrigue, scandal where there was none. It was wishful thinking, an attempt to make them all more glamorous and interesting. Like her absurd idea that their mother was in love with Theo. ‘You can laugh,’ she’d said to Harriet, the first time she’d propounded it, when she was about fifteen, ‘but I know I’m right. And it’s so embarrassing for poor Theo. I mean Mummy’s lovely, but she’s hardly – sexy, is she?’
‘Honestly, Cressida,’ Harriet had said, ‘you read too many romantic novels.’ And Cressida had shrugged and told her to watch her mother next time Theo came to the house. ‘She blushes a lot and sort of looks at him under her eyelashes. It’s so sad.’
Harriet watched in spite of herself and could see what Cressida meant. ‘But he’s such a terrible old flirt himself, Mummy’s only responding, and she hasn’t had much practice. Anyway she’s only got eyes for Daddy, you know that.’
As she grew up, Harriet had become increasingly aware of an oddness in her parents’ marriage. It was not so much that her father was so extremely good-looking still, and so easy and amusing, while her mother was (despite a sweetly pretty face) so overweight and clumsy and frumpily dressed. That happened in a lot of middle-aged marriages; in the end they levelled out again. It was more that her father, against all logic, tried so much harder than her mother: he paid her compliments, teased her, kissed her, always invited her opinions, asked for her company if he was going for a walk, a drive, a drink. And her mother was cool, almost indifferent, made no effort with her appearance, no attempt to respond to him.
‘I really would rather not come,’ she would say to many of his invitations, or ‘I really don’t have an opinion’ to his promptings. She was pleasant, but treated him rather as if he was a brother she was not particularly fond of, and he continued to work away at her, meeting detachment with affection, dullness with sparkle, apathy with interest. He never criticized her, either openly or behind her back, never indicated for a moment that he might deserve better. His patience with her seemed infinite, his acceptance of her without limit. It was as if, Harriet thought, he had drawn up some kind of contract and these were the terms and he had accepted them without question.
She had always adored her father; the constant acceptance by everyone when they were small that Cressida was Daddy’s girl hurt her every hour of every day. Sometimes, as sh
e watched Cressida snuggled deep into his lap, her great blue eyes sleepily contented, she hated her so much she could easily have killed her, dragged her onto the floor and pulled off her hair ribbon and wound it round and round her neck until she choked, until those eyes bulged, those cherubic features turned blue. And then he would notice, and set Cressida gently down, tell her to go to Mummy, and hold out his arms to her, and say ‘Come on, Harriet, grown-up girl’s time now.’ But although she would flash a triumphant look at Cressida as she scrambled up, and snuggle into his arms herself, she knew it wasn’t really quite a victory, that he did it out of duty, out of a sense of rightness, that he had had to notice, to remember her, whereas Cressida seemed always there first, by right.
When she was older she felt in some way she had become the son he hadn’t had; she walked with him, played tennis with him, sailed with him, discussed things with him, and that was wonderful, but it was still Cressida who charmed him and sparkled for him, flattered him, flirted with him. It was Cressida who went to official dinners with him or played hostess at home when Maggie had one of her many migraines, Cressida who jumped up and made him soup, a drink, a sandwich when he arrived at the Court House late on Friday nights, Cressida who ran up and down endlessly with trays on the rare occasions when he was ill. ‘I honestly don’t mind, Mummy,’ she would say, ‘you look tired, and I’m not. And he’s such a bad-tempered old bugger when he’s ill, and it just rolls off my back, and I know it upsets you.’
It was Harriet’s observation that her father’s bad temper had no effect on her mother either but it led to a quieter life not to argue with Cressida.
The roles intensified as they grew up and left home. ‘Harriet has a career,’ Cressida would say, smiling sweetly, self-deprecatingly, ‘and I’ve got a job.’ This was true, but it was certainly of her own making; she had, Harriet knew, a brain as sharp and as effective as her own. She had done modestly well in her A-levels (3 Cs) and could perfectly well have gone to university. But she had chosen to do a secretarial course and after a rather large number of run-of-the-mill jobs, had become secretary/ receptionist to a large paediatric practice in Harley Street, where her charming manners, genuine fondness for children and sympathetic efficiency had made her (as more than one of them had remarked) as crucial to its success as any of the doctors themselves. The same qualities and the knowledge she had absorbed in her time there would of course equip her even more perfectly to be the wife of an upwardly mobile young medic.
Another Woman (9781468300178) Page 23
