Noting her pallor, Sam thought for a moment that Kathleen was about to pass out, as she still did occasionally in stressful moments. He made sure she was comfortable and then reached for her hand.
Mr Bartholomew took all this in but didn’t comment. Then he cleared his throat and said, ‘If you are ready, Kitty, I will tell you the good news.’
Kathleen gave a start. No one had called her that since . . . She tried to put the thought to the back of her mind. ‘Have we . . .’ she managed, ‘met before, Mr Bartholomew?’
‘We have indeed. I was going to tell you that after the official part.’
‘Please tell me now,’ she said.
‘I was a close friend of your father’s. We grew up together in Ireland. I went off to college and he stayed to look after the family farm. I married his sister, your aunt, and when we moved to England, I joined this same firm as a lowly clerk.’ He smiled. ‘Your parents were overjoyed when you arrived, as they were both past forty. I stood as godfather at your baptism, as well as being your uncle by marriage. Unfortunately, my wife and I were unable to have children of our own, and we were both very fond of you. When you were almost seven, your father wrote that he was very ill, and wished to see us urgently.
‘When we arrived at the farm, he told me that he wished to set up a trust fund for you to inherit when you were twenty-one. I had already helped with the wording of his will, which he had lodged with local solicitors some time before. That was straightforward; his estate would be passed on to your mother.
‘He required me to keep the trust fund for you in England, because if his wife remarried, her estate would go to her new husband; he wanted to be sure that you were provided for. This would remain a private matter between the two of us. He died a month or two later, and your mother did indeed remarry within a year. I didn’t trust the man she chose. We were told we were no longer welcome to visit. This is the first time I have been able to speak with you in all these years.’
Kathleen seemed unable to speak, so Sam stepped into the breach. ‘How did you discover that Kathleen was missing?’
‘Like you, I read the reports of the terrible happenings in Croydon, and the rumours of her ill-treatment. I hoped to hear that she was safe and well. We – my wife Dora and I – were distraught to hear that she was pregnant at the time. Eventually, as Kitty was approaching her majority, I decided to advertise in the Times.’
Kathleen found her voice. ‘I came over the Pilgrims’ Way and somehow found my way to a safe haven. Sam’s mother Jessie nursed me back to health. Sam and I fell in love and married. He adopted my first baby, Heather, and she has a little sister, who is called Kitty.’
The men were both silent for a few minutes, then Mr Bartholomew said briskly, ‘I must tell you about your inheritance, then we will go upstairs for our lunch. I will just say, Kitty, your parents would be very proud of you.’
‘Upstairs?’ Kathleen was puzzled.
‘We live above the shop, as it were; we have lovely views of London from our front windows. Dora is so anxious to see you again at last. Now, down to business . . .’
The sum that Kathleen would receive was £5,000, plus interest accrued over the years. Mr Bartholomew – she couldn’t yet bring herself to call him Uncle – wrote the cheque while they watched, dipping his pen in and out of the inkwell, then blotting the cheque with care. He tucked it inside a long manila envelope, ‘Now, if you will please sign these forms, Kitty? You will want to examine the cheque before you seal the envelope and take it to your bank. You have an account already?’
Kathleen shook her head. ‘No, Sam has a business account; we could pay it into that.’
Sam spoke up immediately. ‘No, Kathleen, this is your legacy from your father; you should have your own account.’
‘The money will benefit us all, Sam, don’t argue about it!’ Kathleen asserted.
Sam asked, ‘What about the police? Do we tell them she is safe and well?’
Kathleen immediately became agitated. ‘I don’t want to talk about it to the police or the newspapers. I don’t want to reveal my present address and circumstances – please.’
‘The case is closed,’ Mr Bartholomew told her. ‘The man concerned confessed what had gone on in the house in Croydon; he is not considered mentally stable enough to attend any court hearing. I will, however, inform the police that I have seen you; that you are well, and settled in your new home. The press must be told to respect your privacy.’
‘My stepfather . . .’
‘He had a stroke. He is not fit either to defend himself for his part in all this.’
‘I can’t say I am sorry,’ Kathleen said.
‘No one would expect that, Kitty. Put it all out of your mind. Are you ready for lunch? Dora will be wondering where we are.’
*
The apartment was not what they had expected. It was rather claustrophobic, with heavy old-fashioned furniture, highly polished; the chairs were upright, with flat cushions, and weren’t comfortable to sit on for too long. However, the view from the drawing room window was spectacular, and Kathleen spotted pigeons fluttering on the roof in the warm air from the chimneys.
Dora was of a similar height and rotundity as her husband; Kathleen had a sudden memory of the little weather house on the mantelpiece in the kitchen of the family farm, when she was fascinated to see if the old woman or the old man had come out, to indicate whether it would be a fine day or a cold one. She wondered what had happened to that favourite ornament; she didn’t recall it in the Dublin house.
‘We would have taken you in,’ she became aware that Dora was talking to her, ‘when your poor mother passed away, but the wretched man she married said you were going to live with his sister in Croydon. I would have been a mother to you, Kitty.’
‘I have someone I think of as my mother now,’ Kathleen said. ‘Jessie, my mother-in-law. After Sam and my children, Jessie is the most important person in my life.’
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Dora said abruptly, ‘Lunch is ready. What time do you plan to leave?’
Sam had been about to ask if he might use the telephone, and if the Bartholomews could recommend a local boarding house, but before he could do so, Kathleen gave her answer: ‘We are travelling home tonight.’
‘I have a timetable for the trains,’ Mr Bartholomew said. ‘Please sit down. Ah, fish.’ He sniffed the aroma. ‘Good for the brain, so they say . . .’
Everything was white, Kathleen thought; the fish, coated in white sauce without the addition of chopped parsley, was served with lumpy mashed potato, followed by rice pudding, pallid without the usual topping of grated nutmeg. It was with relief that she and Sam sat down after the meal and were given an old photograph album to study, with sepia pictures of herself as a small child with her parents.
‘You may keep it and take it home with you. The pictures were taken by me,’ Mr Bartholomew said, sounding sad.
I could have said I would keep in touch with him, Kathleen thought, but although Dora is my father’s sister, too much has happened in the past to make that possible. I just want to go home to my family.
NINETEEN
‘Aren’t you getting up today?’ Mrs Amos demanded of her daughter. She pursed her lips. ‘You’ll have to be livelier when the baby arrives, I can tell you. Look after Danny, too – why should I have to cook him bacon and eggs every morning, and do his washing?’
Marion turned her face to the pillow and muttered, ‘I’m too tired to do anything – you don’t seem to understand.’
‘Understand? Of course I do! Childbirth is something to be endured, but women must look after their husbands or they are likely to stray.’
‘That wasn’t your advice earlier on,’ Marion reminded her. ‘I had to keep Danny at arm’s length, you said.’
‘I was only thinking of you – men just want what they want,’ her mother asserted.
‘Well all Danny wanted was to be loved – like me. Please leav
e me alone!’
‘I’ll ask Nurse Buss to call in this morning to talk to you; I must say, the telephone saves a lot of running about.’ Mrs Amos was exasperated when she saw Marion’s eyes close. She’s pretending to be asleep, she thought. She dabbed fiercely at her own eyes.
Later, Nurse Buss bustled into the bedroom, pulling the curtains open on her way to the bed, and said briskly, ‘Now, Marion, what’s all this I hear? You should be up and about . . .’ She broke off as she saw how pale her patient was, that she was literally gasping with pain. Nurse felt her pulse, then her forehead, which was cold and clammy despite the warm weather outdoors. She pulled back the covers gently and said quietly, ‘Oh, you poor girl! You’re in labour, my dear. How long have the pains been coming?’
‘All night,’ Marion said faintly, gripping the nurse’s hand. After a pause, she managed, ‘The baby is coming too early . . . will it be all right?’
Nurse Buss didn’t answer that, said instead, ‘We must telephone the local doctor and get his opinion. You may have to be taken to hospital. Where is Danny?’
‘He’s at the stables – he came back earlier for his breakfast, but Mother sent him off with a flea in his ear. All he said was “I’ll see you later.” ’
‘He must be contacted too. I’ll be back shortly, after I speak to Mrs Amos; she can deal with the telephone calls while I make you more comfortable.’
Danny had actually returned to Home Farm before going on to the stables. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Jessie, who had just cleared the breakfast table, ‘but the dragon said she hadn’t the time to cook me anything, and Mother, I’m starving!’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Danny, and don’t call Mrs Amos the dragon,’ Jessie reproved him, but she added, ‘How about bread and milk? I just made a bowl of it for little Kitty; she’s cutting teeth and needs something soft to eat.’
Just then the phone shrilled in the hall. Jessie answered it. There was an agitated voice at the other end: ‘Mrs Mason, it’s Mrs Amos. Big trouble here – I need to get in touch with Danny immediately.’
‘He’s here, I’ll fetch him – just a minute.’ She took a deep breath. Marion, she thought. What was wrong? ‘Danny, your mother-in-law needs to speak to you!’ she called.
When Danny replaced the receiver on the telephone, he turned to his mother. ‘Marion’s in labour – Nurse Buss is there and the doctor is expected. She said that Marion will probably have to go into hospital. I’ll have to go over there, Mother. Can Daisy let Doc know I won’t be working again today – oh, and Mrs Amos said Marion is asking for Kathleen . . .’
Jessie nodded. ‘Just go, Danny! Good luck.’ Six weeks early, she thought, poor Marion. I’d better tell Daisy and Kathleen what’s up.
*
The doctor agreed with the nurse. ‘Twins, did no one suspect that before?’
Nurse Buss took him to one side. She whispered, ‘I can only detect one heartbeat . . .’
‘It’s vital that the patient is delivered as soon as possible then, before we lose them both.’
Danny, despite Mrs Amos telling him to knock on the door first, burst into the room and rushed to the bedside. Marion, moaning, eyes closed, appeared not to be aware he was there. The pain was constant; she couldn’t speak. Danny knelt beside the bed, attempting to hold her hand, but she thrust him aside. He asked the nurse, ‘Will she be all right?’
‘The ambulance is on its way to take her to hospital; Mrs Amos should pack a bag for her with a few things.’
‘Can I go with her?’ he pleaded.
‘The doctor came in his motor car; he’ll take you there. I’ll be looking after her in the ambulance.’
Mrs Amos was in the kitchen. She turned and said, ‘Thank goodness you are here, Danny!’ The next thing he knew, she was sobbing. He put his arms round her and held her close as he would have done if she were his own mother.
The back door opened and Kathleen rushed in. She hadn’t bothered with her bicycle bloomers, but had hitched her skirt up and ridden there the moment Jessie told her about Marion.
‘Nurse is getting her ready to go to hospital,’ Danny told her. ‘I’m going too.’
Mrs Amos said, ‘I’ll wait here for news. I must pack her bag – excuse me.’ She dried her eyes firmly and went back to the bedroom.
Danny sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair. ‘Jessie said I was to make sure you ate something,’ Kathleen said. ‘She made ham sandwiches. They are in my bicycle basket.’
As she gave him the packet, he caught at her arm. ‘Kathleen, do you think Marion will come through this?’
‘Oh Danny, I can’t answer that,’ she said sadly. She looked out of the window. ‘The ambulance is here . . . the doctor’s there too. Mrs Amos is giving him the bag.’
Mrs Amos came into the kitchen. ‘Danny, Doctor asked if you would you carry Marion out to the ambulance. Kathleen, you can see her for a minute when Danny brings her out. Then go home and wait for news with Jessie.’ She added unexpectedly, ‘Thank you for coming.’
Danny gathered his wife into his arms; the nurse adjusted the blanket round her. Marion was sweating profusely and her breathing was shallow. He tried not to stagger under her weight. No wonder she hasn’t been able to get around this past month or so, he thought.
The ambulance was like a horsebox on wheels, with a large cross painted on both sides. It was pulled by two sturdy chestnut horses, and the young male driver was already on his seat, ready to urge them on.
Kathleen was allowed to step up and watch her friend being transferred to the long leather-covered bunk, where she was gently covered with the blanket from her bed. She spoke her name quietly and saw Marion’s eyes flicker. ‘Don’t be afraid, you’re in good hands.’
‘I’m following the ambulance in the doctor’s car,’ Danny promised.
‘Look after Mother, Danny. Please . . .’
‘I will.’
‘Let me help you down, Kathleen,’ he said, and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms for a brief moment before he jumped into the doctor’s car. She stood by the door, waving to them, and then became aware that Mrs Amos was beside her.
‘You’d best get off home to your little girls,’ Mrs Amos said.
‘Will you be all right?’ Kathleen asked.
‘I will telephone you with any news,’ Mrs Amos told her. ‘Now I must get on, I’ve a bed to change.’
‘I could help you with that.’
Mrs Amos shook her head. ‘Bert will help me when he comes back from feeding the poultry. Please pray for Marion, Kathleen.’
‘I will.’ And Danny too, she thought. She mounted her bicycle and made sure her skirt wouldn’t catch in the wheels. Another wave, then she was pedalling fast to Home Farm.
*
Bert had observed all the comings and goings but had tactfully kept out of the way. He followed his usual busy morning routine among the henhouses. It was getting on for lunchtime when he ventured into the kitchen. There were no pans bubbling on the stove, no cooking smells; the kettle was boiling dry, so he shifted that off the hotplate. He was hungry, because like the rest of them, he had not had his usual hearty breakfast. Mrs Amos seemed to have disappeared. He called out, ‘Missus?’
She emerged from the scullery, sleeves rolled up, hands red from pounding the soiled linen from Marion and Danny’s bed, scrubbing the stains fiercely in the sink full of soapy hot water. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. Bert noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed too.
He hesitated. He had known from his first day working on the poultry farm that it was not wise to question anything she said, because she believed she was always right.
‘It’s dinner time, missus. Can I get something for you – us – to eat? I guess you’ve been real busy this morning . . .’
Mrs Amos sat down on a kitchen chair, which creaked under her weight. ‘Help yourself, Bert, I’m not hungry.’ She didn’t sound at all like her usual self, Bert thought. She indicated a paper bag on the
table. ‘Mrs Mason sent some ham sandwiches.’
‘I’ll fill the kettle first, missus, I need a cuppa tea, and I ’spect you do too.’
‘There’s cheese and pickles in the pantry, and some lettuce from the garden. Plenty of bread; I was baking yesterday . . .’
‘I’ll see to it, missus,’ he said. He took down two plates from the dresser. ‘You got to eat.’
‘You’re pretty handy for an old bachelor,’ Mrs Amos remarked.
‘I was married once,’ he said, surprising her.
‘I didn’t know that. All you told me was that you’d been in the army and fought in the Boer War.’
‘I was younger then, not an old codger. I was born in the East End of London in 1860, and was married when I was twenty. My wife was only eighteen years old and she died a year later.’ He didn’t add ‘in childbirth’.
‘You’re about the same age as me,’ Mrs Amos exclaimed. Although he was short and stocky in stature, he had a ramrod-straight back as befitted an old soldier, but his face was seamed and brown from working outdoors and his hair was sparse and grey. She thought, I hope I don’t look as well worn as that. I haven’t got any grey hairs yet, thanks to using henna.
‘I feel older’n that, missus.’ He had a wry smile. ‘But we’re both widdered.’
She said, ‘Well I am now, but if you must know, my husband ran off with the girl I employed to collect and sort the eggs when Marion was young. I’d inherited this business from my parents, and he resented that he was just . . .’
‘The hired man, like me?’
‘I suppose so – but I never intended it to be like that.’ She gulped down the hot tea. ‘I reckon you think I’m a hard woman, Bert.’
‘I respect you,’ he said honestly. ‘You’re not as bad as my old sergeant major.’
Bert started work at 6 a.m. each day, and was busy until 1 p.m. Then he had three hours off until the evening shift from 4 p.m. until 7. He seemed tireless. He could see that Mrs Amos was exhausted from dealing with the laundry this morning. ‘You have a rest on your bed, missus. I’ll listen for the telephone and call you if it’s the hospital,’ he offered.
The Winter Baby Page 15
