by Mary Wesley
In the valley before the long climb up to the moor the wind was quieter; he made good progress and began to whistle. Normally he enjoyed a storm, found the roar of the wind exhilarating, loved the sound of rain, but today he was anxious. Juno was near her time and there was no telephone if he needed to send for the doctor. Too, the doctor might be unwilling to come in this weather and the drive to the Cottage Hospital was a long one.
At the foot of the hill a meagre little stream had been transformed into a raging torrent which came up to his hubcaps. He drove through in low gear and was congratulating himself when, fifty yards down the road, an ancient beech keeled over suddenly to crash across the lane, blocking his way. Feeling shaken, he stopped and got out. There was no way round; tangled branches, a great trunk and pathetic upturned roots made progress impossible. Robert cursed. The road would be blocked for days. A few seconds more and he might have been killed. With this sobering thought he tightened the scarf round his neck where rain trickled in and prepared to walk. Calling his dog, he pushed and scrambled past the fallen tree and then, leaning into the wind, began the climb up to Copplestone. As he climbed he mourned the tree, remembering its tender leaves in spring, the carpet of bluebells, the harvest of beechmast in autumn.
When he reached the farm he pushed the door open and shouted for Bert, but got no answer. There was no fire in the grate, no sign of Nipper or his pup; the only occupant of the house was a cat which hissed and spat at Jessie. Grateful to escape the elements for a moment, he stood and listened, hearing nothing but the wind. All the doors round the yard were firmly shut, cattle, pigs and horses under shelter. He turned back into the gale with Jessie following.
The moor gate, blown off its hinges, lay on its side; he left it, the effort of righting it too great. It took all his strength to fight his way up the last bit of hill, cross the yard, open the front door and stand panting, adjusting to the quiet after the turbulence outside. Relieved and exhausted, he sat to pull off his boots, watch Jessie vigorously shake, spray water from her coat, roll. He breathed in, filling his lungs with the warm air, sniffed wood smoke, felt fatigue seep into his bones, looked forward to his armchair and a stiff drink. Then the silence was broken by a voice screaming, ‘Ouch, oh, oh bugger. Aah!’ and he took the stairs three at a time.
Ann said, ‘Thank goodness you are back. Bert and Lily are boiling water in case you didn’t—we should go at once, shouldn’t waste time.’
Robert said, ‘The road is blocked. I walked, there is no getting out, no car.’
‘And the telephone?’ Ann snapped.
‘Lines down all over the place, they say we will be cut off for days. They said—’
‘There’s a war on,’ Juno gasped. ‘Oh, Robert.’
Robert took her hands.
‘And the doctor,’ Ann sounded almost pleased, ‘is old, is lame and won’t be able to get here. We will manage.’
Juno shouted, ‘Oh! Ah! Oh bugger!’ gripping Robert’s hands. ‘Sorry to yell,’ she said.
Robert said, ‘Yell as loud as you please, it’s supposed to help.’
Juno shouted, ‘Oh God!’
Robert said, ‘Sorry, darling, but you’ll have to make do with us.’
Juno laughed at his slip of the tongue and said, ‘You are sopping wet. I am so glad you are back.’
Robert said, ‘How far have we got?’
‘I am walking about, it seems to help. It comes in waves then there’s a gap. I want to get in the bath but Ann won’t let me.’
Ann said, ‘An idiotic idea.’
Robert said, ‘You’re wrong, it should help. The water will support her and the warmth comfort. Go and run it.’
Ann said, ‘Some people!’, but went to run the bath.
Juno pleaded, ‘Make it deep, please.’ Gripping Robert’s hands, she cried, ‘Oh, oh, whoops, oh gosh, Robert, this does hurt, ouch, oh, how right you were when you told me it hurts.’ She was wearing a pyjama top he recognized as Evelyn’s.
‘Let’s get you into the bath. Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can, but help me climb in. I feel so clumsy and huge.’
Robert helped her into the water. ‘How’s that?’
‘Oh, lovely. Oh.’ She rested in the bath. ‘Don’t go away.’
‘How’s the pain?’
‘Gone for the moment. Robert, those two, Anthony and Hugh, said I’d pay for my pleasure. This must be it. I told them I’d had none—’
‘What?’ What was she talking about?
‘No pleasure, of course. Don’t be stupid, that’s my prerogative—Oh, ouch, off we go again.’ She gripped the sides of the bath. ‘Oh, what a mess!’
Robert said, ‘Don’t fight it, don’t resist. Try and push the little bugger out when the pain comes. That’s what cows and sheep do.’
‘And Eleanor?’
‘Yes, Eleanor’s a great pusher.’
‘Okay, I’ll push.’ Juno relaxed. ‘They said, those two jokers, that you could teach me about pleasure.’
‘Did they indeed?’
‘Yes. So will you?’
‘What?’
‘Teach me.’
‘This is hardly the moment to discuss making love.’
‘It seems a very good moment to me,’ Juno shouted. ‘Oh,’ she yelled, ‘we are off again.’
‘Then push, for God’s sake.’
‘And will you?’
‘All right, but for God’s sake concentrate, let’s get on with this job.’
‘I’ll hold you to that! Oh gosh, I’m getting the hang of it, aren’t I, pushing?’
‘You are doing very well.’
‘And to think Eleanor’s litter was fourteen!’ Juno leaned back to rest. ‘Stay near, don’t go away. Oh, Ann wants you—’
‘Sir, you’ll catch pneumonia, get out of those wet clothes.’ Ann held an armful of dry clothes.
‘I’m all right, don’t fuss.’
‘Look sharp about it, sir, get into these dry things.’
‘Do what she tells you, Robert. Oh, ouch, oh! Go on, Robert, don’t be so modest, I won’t look.’ She lay back in the water, breathing hard. ‘This is lovely, but do get changed.’
Obediently Robert got out of his wet clothes, put on dry trousers and pulled the sweater over his head.
‘How long is this likely to go on?’ She looked up.
He was touched by her trust. ‘Not long. Let me rub your back, it’s supposed to help.’ He pressed his fingers down her spine, feeling the knobs. Her forehead was beaded with sweat.
‘Lovely, thanks. How are the dry clothes?’
‘Fine.’ Oh God, he found himself praying.
‘Do you do this to Eleanor?’
‘She manages on her own.’
‘I bit Ann. I am awfully sorry, Ann—’
Ann said, ‘That’s all right, you could do it again if it helps.’ Ann was wonderfully calm.
‘What charity! Ouch! Oh, I can hear Bert, what does he want?’
‘What is it?’ Ann went to the door.
‘Was you wanting them kettles? Don’t tell me Sir is in there!’
‘Sir’s in the bathroom helping her.’
‘Should ’un be? T’aint fitty! What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on is what would have gone on with me, you old goat, if I hadn’t miscarried.’ They heard Ann shut the door with a click.
‘Robert, did you hear?’ Juno was laughing. ‘We shouldn’t laugh.’ Their eyes met. ‘Whoops,’ she exclaimed, ‘we’re off again.’
Robert said, ‘I think you should get out of that now and onto the bed. Hang on to me, just—’
‘I know, I know—push. Oh! Something’s happening.’
Robert helped her onto the bed.
Ann said, ‘Brave girl, nearly there. Wait, steady, oh, Juno, a little boy, your Inigo, he’s lovely.’
‘Oh but—’
‘Look out, sir, hold this one, there’s another, it’s twins. Hey presto! Another lovely boy!’
‘Give them to me, let me look.’ Juno, white, sweating, exhausted, held out her arms. ‘Oh, oh, poor, poor little things, don’t scream.’
Ann exclaimed, ‘Oh, dear God, one of them is blind.’
‘Oh no, he isn’t blind.’ Juno looked into those reminiscent eyes. ‘He just has very pale eyes.’ She gazed at her sons, the one with black eyes, the other’s pale as water.
Robert snorted and blew his nose, staring at the babies. Looking up at him, Juno said, ‘Oh, Robert, you look awful. I think you should give yourself a very strong drink.’
Robert was muttering, ‘I thought—oh, my God, I thought—yes, a stiff drink is a good idea.’
Presently, with a bundle on each arm, Juno said, ‘You were right about shrimps, look at their fingers.’
Gently Robert let one of his fingers be grasped by each tiny fist. He felt terribly happy, almost hysterical. He said, ‘I am so relieved.’
Juno said, ‘You and Ann were marvellous. How can I thank you? We managed jolly well without the doctor, did we not?’
And Robert said, ‘We did. I think I will get myself that drink now.’ But downstairs in his library, pouring himself whisky, he had to pause and fumble for a handkerchief.
THIRTY-SIX
‘WHAT ARE THEIR NAMES?’ Priscilla peered into the cradles.
‘The dark one is Inigo and the fair one Presto.’
‘Presto? Is that a name?’
‘It’s what Ann exclaimed when she picked him up, “Hey Presto”, so so far he is Presto.’
‘It seems a frivolous name.’ Priscilla looked surprised.
‘He may be a frivolous person,’ Juno suggested.
‘They are not identical twins.’ Priscilla examined Juno’s infants. ‘I must say, as babies go, they look splendid. I know one is supposed to ask what they weigh, but don’t bother to tell me. I am sure they weigh enough.’
Juno said, ‘They haven’t been weighed, but it seemed a ton when they were inside me.’
Priscilla said, ‘I bet it did, but you look wonderful now, radiant.’
‘It was Ann who was wonderful, and Robert. I did not enjoy it one little bit—yelled my head off. I feel as though I’d been run over by a bus.’
‘They say you forget about it.’ Priscilla sat by the bed. ‘Are you nursing them?’
‘Yes.’
‘That will keep you busy.’
‘Yes.’
So many questions one would like to ask. Priscilla held her tongue; neither infant bore the slightest resemblance to anyone she had ever seen and the mother looked like a postcard Madonna, butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Has the doctor managed to reach you?’
‘Not yet. How did you get here, Mrs Villiers?’
‘By the cliff path, it’s a bit of a scramble. I shall go back by the road. Ann tells me Robert and the men are chopping and sawing to get it clear.’
‘Yes.’ Juno wished Mrs Villiers would go away. Watching the strain of those pent-up questions made her tired; she had been dozing when the woman arrived, listening to the gasps and grunts of her infant sons, resting between feeds to snooze, relax, feel happy, wonderfully happy.
‘Now you will be able to wear all those lovely clothes your mother sent you.’ Priscilla was speaking again. ‘Get your figure back.’
Juno said, ‘Yes.’
‘Has your mother had her baby yet?’ One could surely enquire.
Juno said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ Priscilla was thoughtful. ‘Does she know about these?’ She gestured towards the cradles.
‘No.’
‘I see.’ I see nothing, Priscilla thought. ‘No business of mine,’ she said.
Juno smiled.
‘Their uncle or aunt may not even be born yet,’ suggested Priscilla. ‘It’s an original situation.’
Juno laughed.
‘And your aunt?’
Juno shook her head.
‘I won’t put my foot in it a second time,’ Priscilla promised. ‘I have often wondered what one is supposed to have trodden in.’
‘Shit?’ Juno suggested. Seeing Priscilla’s eyebrows rise she said, ‘Sorry, I found myself yelling words I hardly knew while they were being born. I can’t have fully recovered. I should have said dog mess, shouldn’t I?’ And Robert had called her ‘darling’, deranged by the situation.
Priscilla said, ‘It’s in the dictionary. Speaking of which, I ought to go. I have left my poor Mosley tied up in the porch. Now if there is anything I can do at any time,’ she leaned down to kiss Juno’s forehead, ‘you know where to find me, please remember that.’
Juno said, ‘Thank you, I will.’
Priscilla said, ‘I admire your gumption,’ and went, leaving Juno listening to her receding footsteps.
At the foot of the hill Robert and the men had finished clearing the road; he greeted Priscilla with a friendly kiss. He smelt of sawdust and sweat. ‘Couldn’t keep away, I see. Curiosity lent you wings.’
‘I walked over by the cliff path to see whether there was anything I could do to help Ann, but she says no, everything is under control,’ said Priscilla. ‘And you seem to have managed the accouchement brilliantly. Congratulations.’
‘It was uncomplicated.’
‘Very lucky.’
‘Yes.’
‘Neither infant resembles anybody I have ever seen.’ Priscilla eyed Robert closely.
Robert called, ‘Bert, if you can clear my car of branches, I can drive us all home. You never give up, do you, Priscilla?’
Priscilla persisted, ‘Do they look like anybody you know, Robert?’
Robert said, ‘No.’
‘No friend of Evelyn’s, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘You know, Robert, I rather supposed, and I dare say you did too, that Evelyn was the father,’ Priscilla ventured.
‘Did you really?’
‘Yes, really. I thought he might have slipped up. Come on, Robert, you must have thought so too.’
‘No must about it.’
‘And have you asked?’
‘No.’
‘Shall you?’
‘No.’
‘Shouldn’t you?’
‘No.’
Priscilla exclaimed, ‘I don’t know how you can bear not to.’
‘Oh, Priss, you old sleuth.’ Robert laughed outright. ‘Do you want a lift home?’
‘No thanks, dear Robert, I’ll walk, but I shall see you very soon.’
‘I am going to London.’
‘Oh? For long?’
‘I have to see to Evelyn’s house. I have not been up since his funeral.’
‘Oh.’
‘Bert and Ann can see to things here. It’s a good time to go away, nothing much to do on the farm.’ Robert strolled towards his car, where Bert and John already sat on the back seat.
‘Don’t you think it peculiar, Robert, that one child is dark and the other fair?’ She peered in at the car window.
Robert pressed the starter and the engine sprang to life. ‘Mind your head.’ Priscilla withdrew.
I have to get away, Robert thought, reorder my mind, go through Evelyn’s things, get used to my new situation. Get used to this fresh pain. ‘Goodbye, old girl,’ he shouted and set the car at the hill; if he hurried, he could catch the night train.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ROBERT PAID THE TAXI and watched it drive off. The steps of Evelyn’s house were unswept. Fragments of paper and cigarette stubs had drifted into corners; the letterbox and door-knocker, unpolished for months, were almost black. Fumbling for the key, he noticed that the house across the street had had a direct hit. Had Evelyn told him? The windows of the ground floor were boarded up, but on the second floor he could see into what had been a bathroom. A lavatory bowl was suspended in space, a basin dangled at an angle; in an adjoining bedroom beautiful wallpaper hung in strips and what looked like a good flower print still hung on the wall. Had Evelyn known the occupants? Had the war made them friends? In the previous war he r
emembered the stink of the trenches, scuttling rats, parts of bodies to be collected for burial, the distended stomachs of dead horses, the disgust engendered by lice. Now one was treated to the intimacies of a neighbour’s bathroom. He wondered why such a pretty print had not been salvaged, where the inhabitants of the house were now. He pushed Evelyn’s latchkey into the lock and let himself in.
The hall was musty and dry. He switched on a light, laid his hat on a table, set his case on the floor, listened.
Time was when the house was full of sound. Evelyn had had many friends, loved music. Walking to the stairs his footsteps sounded loud. Somebody had rolled up the rugs. He climbed to the first floor, went into the drawing-room where Evelyn had died. There was no sign of him now. He sat at his son’s desk and began pulling out drawers, sifting through papers. He had done this after the funeral, taken care of the few unanswered letters, paid the bills; there had been little of interest but he might have missed something. It was here that Evelyn had written that last letter.
Finding nothing, Robert picked up the blotter and took it to a mirror hanging on the wall, dusted the glass with his handkerchief, held the blotter up. Reflected in the glass he read in his son’s writing: ‘Dear Sarah’, ‘Dear Johnson’, ‘Yours sincerely, Evelyn Copplestone’, ‘Love, E’, ‘So sorry but’, then, ‘Dear Father, Juno’, then a squiggle, a smudge, a note in pencil, ‘Ring Sinclair Saturday’. He put the blotter back on the desk, said, ‘Bugger Sinclair, whoever he may be,’ and felt ashamed. On the desk the telephone rang; he picked up the receiver. ‘Hullo?’
A woman said, ‘I saw you arrive. I am the next door neighbour who—’
Who had found Evelyn, who had telephoned him at Copplestone, told him Evelyn was dead. Robert said, ‘Of course, Mrs Hunt’
‘I wondered, can I help? Would you like a meal or a drink? Or am I intruding?’
‘No, no. Would you come round? I would be delighted.’ She had made soup, he remembered, came in every evening during the raids, was lonely, Evelyn had said. She might remember something. He could but ask.
She said, ‘I’ll come at once,’ sounding pleased. He ran down to let her in, said it was kind of her to come. She said, ‘I heard your taxi, thought it might be a visitor for me.’ She was of indefinable age, past the middle years, not yet succumbing to age. ‘You must think me very nosy.’
