Louise really couldn’t feel surprised at the exclamation. Anyone other than a mother must surely be horrified at the sight of a baby in the position in which Christine Hooper had managed to get herself. There she lay, sound asleep, her head hanging over the edge of the pram, and her spine bent backwards at an angle which must surely have resulted in instant death to anyone much over seven months old. Louise, of course, recognised these symptoms as indicating merely that Christine was all set to sleep peacefully for hours; but she appreciated that to a less experienced eye the situation might look alarming.
‘It’s all right,’ she began hastily; but Miss Brandon was already bending over the pram, rearranging the outraged Christine into the comfortable position which babies so detest. ‘She’s all right, really,’ repeated Louise, as Miss Brandon, her strong features flushed with stooping, straightened herself, and looked accusingly at Louise.
‘This isn’t your baby, is it?’ she said.
‘Why – no,’ answered Louise, rather taken aback. ‘I’m just looking after her for a friend of mine—’ She stopped rather awkwardly, realising that ‘looking after’ must seem to her listener something of an exaggeration. It was true that she had abandoned Christine and her pram rather unceremoniously in the middle of the hall when the visitor arrived; but what else could she do, with the doorbell ringing, and Mark arriving home, and such pandemonium everywhere? And anyway, hadn’t Mrs Hooper assured her that Christine could be left in her pram indefinitely, anywhere, anyhow?
‘Don’t worry about her, my dear,’ Mrs Hooper had said. ‘I never do. Just leave her anywhere – out in the front, if you like. I’ll be back in time for her feed.’ And then, as if conferring a great favour, she called over her shoulder: ‘If you like, you can give her a bottle when you give Michael his. Any milk mixture will do.’
But, of course, Miss Brandon didn’t know Mrs Hooper and her methods. And anyway, it occurred now to Louise that the accusing stare which was fastened on her so uncomfortably probably had no reference to her neglect or otherwise of the superfluous Christine, but simply to the fact of her owning a baby at all. After all, she had only said three children on the phone, and who would choose to come and live in a house with a baby in it if they could possibly live elsewhere? Apologetically, she plunged into explanations:
‘Actually, I have got a baby about that age. And two older girls. I thought I told you when you rang up. But I don’t think they’ll bother you at all, your room is right up at the top, on a floor by itself—’
Miss Brandon seemed in some indefinable way to have relaxed, and her voice was noticeably less hostile as she spoke again:
‘Yes, yes,’ she reassured Louise. ‘I remember now, you did tell me. Dear little things, I’m sure, I’d love to meet them. And your husband, too, of course,’ she added, as if in afterthought. She hesitated a moment, almost, thought Louise wonderingly, as if she really did want to meet them all, here and now. Not that Louise had any intention of ushering a stranger in to her family without warning at this hour of the evening. Not one of them would have their shoes on, not even Mark. Harriet would giggle, and bury her head ostentatiously in a cushion, displaying a large expanse of torn knicker which Louise still hadn’t found time to mend. Michael would go red in the face and roar – not, as everyone would fondly suppose, because he was shy of strangers, but because the sight of his mother coming into the room would remind him that she hadn’t been there all this time. Margery would stare in ill-concealed and speechless horror, and so, in all probability, would Mark. Louise firmly escorted her visitor to the front door.
Mark was still scowling when Louise rejoined her family, and she could guess at the withering comments hovering on the tip of his tongue. It was something of a relief to know that he would have to postpone them while she fed and changed Michael and put him in his cot; while she dished up supper; while she wrestled with the children’s table manners, tooth-brushing, and finally got them to bed; while she washed up supper, finished the ironing, and ran upstairs to see how it could be that Margery’s eiderdown should have slipped off her bed and vanished without trace in the space of half an hour.
It was nearly half past nine by the time all this had been lived through and Louise could throw herself wearily into the armchair opposite to Mark. For a minute she watched the unresponsive back of the evening paper in silence, wondering dejectedly whether quarrels were improved or worsened by being left to simmer like this for three and a half hours? Did a husband’s anger fritter itself away as one interruption succeeded another and prevented its expression? Or did it gather itself together into one bitter spurt of rage? Or did the delay merely leave him defeated, bewildered, as weary as oneself …?
Louise woke with a start, and opened her eyes to find that the evening paper had been flung aside, and that Mark was already half way through a sentence:
‘… Why, on top of everything, you had to have that wretched Hooper brat here just when you knew someone was coming to look at the room? Why?’
Louise fought back the drowsiness which always, now, lay in wait for her, ready to pounce; she tried to gather together her rather scattered defences.
‘Well, you see,’ she began, ‘I couldn’t really avoid it. I mean, Mrs Hooper simply dumped her on me – you know what she is.’
‘Of course I know what she is!’ exploded Mark. ‘And that’s just exactly why I can’t understand why you’re eternally putting yourself out to oblige her. And putting me out, too – that’s the point. Do you know that damn kid was yelling without a break the whole time you were upstairs?’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ contradicted Louise, conscious even as she spoke of the childish folly of such an appeal to accuracy in an argument of this nature. ‘She couldn’t have been. She was sound asleep when I came down.’ Fortunately Mark paid no attention to this ill-judged appeal to facts, and went on as if she had not spoken:
‘As if it wasn’t bad enough to have to come home to my own kids’ yelling! God, what a shambles! I’m surprised that woman didn’t turn straight round and walk out again!’
‘Well, she didn’t,’ retorted Louise; and then, in an attempt to change the subject, she continued: ‘She really seemed to like the room, you know. She wants to come in tomorrow. She doesn’t mind about your mother’s books, or anything.’
‘The woman must be mad,’ muttered Mark; but his voice was perceptibly mellowed as he asked: ‘And what did you think of her, Louise? Do you think she’ll do?’
‘Yes – oh, yes!’ said Louise, with a misleading enthusiasm which stemmed more from her relief at having successfully changed the subject than from any liking for the new tenant. ‘Yes, I think she’s just what we want. And I think she must be quite fond of children – she simply rushed to pick up Christine when she thought something was wrong. Or’ – Louise’s brief enthusiasm waned – ‘do you think it just means that she’s interfering?’
‘More likely it means she was trying to strangle the brat,’ said Mark with gloomy relish. ‘For two pins I’d have done it myself. But listen, Louise, seriously, we must see that there is less uproar in the house now that someone else is living here. Particularly at night. You’ve got to see that Michael stops crying at night. You can’t expect anyone else to put up with it. I’ve had just about all I can stand myself.’
Louise was conscious of an aching, helpless weariness; and as she glanced at her husband’s face, the tired lines more deeply drawn in the lamplight, she felt a tiny stab of fear. For the first time, she wondered: Does it sometimes happen like this? Do men sometimes stand up in the divorce court, tired and bewildered, and say simply ‘Yes, I still love my wife; yes, I still love my children; no, there isn’t another woman; it’s just that I can’t go on any longer without any sleep.’ Do they? And why does it never get into the papers …?
Scream upon scream from upstairs. Louise was at Margery’s bedside and with her arms round the little girl before her conscious mind had even registered which child it was that called her. And, after all, it
was only one of Margery’s dreams.
‘The Rubbish Room!’ sobbed Margery, as soon as she could speak. ‘I dreamed I went to the Rubbish Room, and there was a horrid brown lady in it, and she was looking for something, and when she turned round I saw she had enormous hands. Oh, Mummy, they were enormous! Like – like great flapping cardigans. And I couldn’t move, and she came at me—’
It was half an hour before Margery was soothed and sleepy again; and by that time Michael was demanding his ten o’clock feed. Another night was beginning.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Oi!’ The syllable used by Mrs Morgan was not exactly ‘Oi.’ It was something so discreet, and at the same time so peremptory, that it defies transcription. But it was sufficient to make Louise set down the basin of steaming nappies on to the grass, and go to the wall over which Mrs Morgan’s small brown eyes glinted excitedly. It was barely eleven o’clock, and so Mrs Morgan had not yet made herself up ready for her daily shopping expedition, and the wisps of untidy grey hair protruding from her hairnet added to the air of illicit conspiracy with which she beckoned Louise to the wall.
‘She’s come, then?’ Mrs Morgan spoke in a penetrating undertone, at the same time glancing cautiously to right and left.
‘Who’s come?’ asked Louise, who was always rather slow at switching her mind off the problem of what to cook for lunch that would be ready if Mark was early; wouldn’t spoil if he was late; and wouldn’t matter if he didn’t come at all. Besides, conversations with Mrs Morgan nearly always started off at cross-purposes because of Mrs Morgan’s habit of referring to everyone as ‘She’ – with a nervous backward glance as if the subject of her remarks might be lurking unseen among the wisps of London Pride by her back door.
‘She. Her,’ explained Mrs Morgan obligingly. ‘Her that’s took your top room. I saw her come up last night. In a taxi. Not wanting to be nosey, it’s not my business of course, but she didn’t bring much with her, did she? Isn’t she stopping long?’
‘Why – yes, I think so,’ said Louise. ‘At least, I suppose she will, if she likes the place. She didn’t say anything about it being temporary.’
‘Ah!’ Mrs Morgan allowed the significance of this observation to sink in. Then: ‘Well, it’s none of my business, but you’re only young, dear, and I wouldn’t like to see you took advantage of. Where did you say she come from?’
‘Why, I – well, to tell you the truth, Mrs Morgan, I never thought of asking her. I suppose from some other lodgings somewhere.’
‘Ah.’ You could tell that the conversation was taking the turn that Mrs Morgan was hoping for. ‘You didn’t have no references, then?’ she proceeded, moving in for the kill.
‘No. Why, should I have?’ asked Louise, settling her elbows less painfully on the roughness of the brick wall, ready for the drama that was to follow. By rights, she supposed, she should have felt bored and restive at being thus cornered by such an old gossip. Other intelligent women did. They sighed and fidgeted, and bemoaned the impossibility of getting away without giving offence. But Louise felt as if she was waiting for the curtain to go up at the theatre. All sense of hurry and overwork left her; the wet piles of washing seemed to dwindle, and the bitter spring wind felt suddenly warm on her bare, damp arms as Mrs Morgan began, in hoarse, conspiratorial tones: ‘Well, I don’t want to upset you, dear, but…’
This time it was even more absorbing than usual. It appeared that Mrs Morgan had a friend, and a very good friend she’d always been, too, who had once let a room without asking for a reference, Two very nice ladies they had seemed, respectable you know, nicely dressed. They had paid a week’s rent right away, and had said they would come back that evening. And back that evening they came, this time carrying between them a very long, heavy-looking parcel, which they had hurried upstairs and into their room without so much as a word. Well, Mrs Morgan’s very good friend hadn’t wanted to be nosey, just like Mrs Morgan herself never wanted to be nosey, but all the same she felt it was her duty to know if anything was going on. So the next morning, when the two ladies had gone out to business – Mrs Morgan’s friend never took in ladies that weren’t business ladies, it was just asking for trouble – well, after they’d gone, she felt it her duty to slip into their room, seeing she happened to have an extra key. Just slip in for a moment, see, just to make sure that everything was as it should be. And when Mrs Morgan’s friend went in the door, what did Louise think she found?
‘A corpse,’ said Louise promptly, though a little sorry for thus robbing Mrs Morgan of her climax. But apparently she had robbed Mrs Morgan of nothing of the kind, for the grey head only shook triumphantly.
‘No – that’s just where you’re wrong, dear. Of course, that was what my friend – though she was never one for throwing no aspersions at anybody, you understand – that was just what my friend had it in mind that she might see. But she didn’t. She saw worse than that. She saw an imbecile. Lying there on the bed, gibbering and rolling its eyes something horrible, and not even the wits to move hand or foot! That was the parcel what they brought in, their sister, see. They couldn’t get no one to take her in, poor thing, not like she was, so they’d schemed it up like I told you, to bring her into my friend’s house done up like a parcel, and leave her there. It was a great shock to my friend, of course, and after that she always asked for references from her ladies. Because as she said, you never know.’
This seemed to Louise a rather tame sort of moral to be drawn from such a horrific experience; however, she admitted that perhaps she should have asked Miss Brandon for references, adding: ‘But I’m sure she’s all right. She teaches at the grammar school, you know, so I could always find out about her from them if I wanted to, she knows that. Besides, you saw yourself that she didn’t bring much luggage. Not enough to include a corpse, or an imbecile sister!’
But Mrs Morgan would not smile. ‘You never know,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There might be other things what you haven’t thought of. And she’s a funny age, too,’ she added darkly, as was her habit when the victim of her discourse happened to be a female anywhere between the ages of thirty and sixty-five. ‘You can’t never be certain, not when a woman gets to a funny age.’
‘What does worry me,’ Louise went on, ‘is Michael. He still cries every night, you know. He didn’t stop till five o’clock this morning, and I know it disturbed her. I heard her door opening and shutting softly two or three times – you know, as if she was thinking of coming down to complain, and then thought better of it. I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t get him to settle.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Mrs Morgan, just as Nurse Fordham had said, and Mrs Hooper had said – as everyone, in fact, said, who didn’t actually have to live through those weary hours before the dawn. ‘Don’t you worry, duck, he’s cutting his teeth on the cross, see? My Herbert, he cut his teeth on the cross, and he was a proper terror. I never got a wink of sleep for three years. Not a wink.’
For a moment Louise seemed to glimpse, beyond the young, pinched leaves of the lilac, beyond the grey, scudding clouds, a far-off time in which she, too, would be able to lean at peace on someone else’s wall, and talk with comfortable reminiscence of the long-ago days when she never got a wink of sleep. How trivial the phrase sounded, even a little farcical. How little it described the gnawing, relentless weariness that could suck every joy out of body and mind … could batter to pulp all the contentment in a marriage….
‘Did your husband mind?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Did he complain?’
‘Oh. Him!’ Into Mrs Morgan’s voice was gathered forty rewarding years of putting the male sex in its place. ‘Him! I should worry! The men get it easy all the way, dear, don’t you worry about them! Let me tell you—’
But already the church clock was chiming the half hour. Louise eased her elbows, deeply patterned by the brickwork, off the top of the wall.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘They’ll all be back for lunch in an hour, and I haven’t even fin
ished the washing yet!’ She hurried back to her basin of clammy garments, and began pegging them out in hasty, uneven loops, while Mrs Morgan shook her head in pitying tolerance.
‘There, dear, don’t fluster yourself,’ she admonished, radiating the philosophical calm which is born of not having anyone expected back for lunch. ‘Don’t worry. What I always say is, the work’ll still be there when you’re gone.’
Like other, more eminent philosophers, Mrs Morgan managed to deliver her pet aphorism with such conviction that it was some moments before her hearer realised that it had no meaning. And yet, somehow, the senseless, irrational optimism of it was like the spring itself; it was a part of this gay, sharp wind which was already billowing out the nappies into lovely, glittering curves; filling Louise’s soul with that unrehearsed, unsolicited joy which comes so strangely and so unfailingly as the wind first catches a line of washing.
It was nearly six before Louise had occasion to think about her new tenant again. The gusty, chilly morning had worsened, and now a steady, hopeless rain was falling. Louise shifted Michael to her other breast, and stared out at the almost colourless garden, where the nappies she had forgotten to bring in hung still and sodden on the line. The dull, relentless daylight of a wet spring evening was still undiminished; it seemed to go on – and on – and on. Would it never be time to switch on the lights, draw the curtains, and let it slip back into firelit winter again?
‘Never mind, my precious – only two hundred more scrubbing days till autumn!’ said Louise, addressing Michael with unguarded idiocy. ‘And then we can both—’ She stopped, embarrassed, realising that she and Michael were no longer alone. Miss Brandon was standing in the doorway, her brown costume dark with damp, her neat school case dripping.
‘Oh – good evening. Won’t you come in by the fire for a bit?’ exclaimed Louise, with awkward hospitality, conscious of the extreme social disadvantage of the noisily-sucking Michael still clamped to her. ‘You must excuse me – the baby – he’s nearly finished—’ She waved her free hand in an ambiguous gesture of apology, explanation and invitation.
The Hours Before Dawn Page 3
