‘Who cares,’ I said. ‘Whichever way you felt I was the loser.’ I paused then went on: ‘But you still haven’t told me what it is you want me to do—this time.’
‘I’d—hoped that you would help me—perhaps let me stay—just for a few days. I don’t know where else to go. I can’t go home.’
‘Oh, you do have a home then?’
‘I’ve got a small flat in Fulham. I can’t go back there, though—I daren’t. Please—don’t send me away.’
I looked at her coldly. ‘You chose to get into this mess; you went into it with your eyes open, and whatever happens is the result of your choice. It’s not my fault, your condition. I know that the baby is mine—but I want nothing to do with it—or anything more to do with you.’ I waved a dismissing hand. ‘Whatever kind of help you want you’d better go and ask somebody else for it. I’m not interested, so don’t come to me.’
I started to turn away from her and she got up and stood clinging to the back of the chair. ‘Don’t send me away!’ she cried out. She looked desperate, her eyes flooding with tears. ‘Please. I know I did wrong before and I’ve done wrong now in coming here to you, but—Oh, please, don’t make me go. I’m afraid!’ She put her hands up to her face and began frantically to turn this way and that, giving out little cries of fear and pain like some frightened, wounded animal. ‘Oh, God,’ she cried out, ‘if you send me away they’ll find me!’
Her fear was no act, I could see. She came to a stop before me and stood there with the tears streaming down her face. I took a step towards her and she flinched.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘—I’ll help you if I can.’
* * *
On the office phone I ordered soup, a steak, salad and potatoes from the small Italian restaurant across the road. They said they’d send it over. Going back upstairs I said to Catherine, ‘It’ll be here in a while. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something.’
I led the way then through the rest of the flat; the kitchen, bathroom, the two bedrooms. It was all neat and tidy—ready for Ilona’s return. ‘You’ll be comfortable here,’ I said.
She stood next to the bed in the back room. ‘I won’t need it for long,’ she said. ‘—Just till my baby’s born.’
‘What will you do then?’
‘Go away somewhere.’ She paused. ‘A long way from them.’ Turning to me then she said: ‘You don’t even know what I’m really doing here, do you?’
‘It’ll keep for a while.’
Soon afterwards the waiter arrived with the tray of food. I paid him, locked the door behind him and returned upstairs. I watched then as Catherine sat down to eat. When the plates were empty and she was sitting back looking more relaxed I said:
‘All right, now you can tell me . . .’
She just looked at me. I went on: ‘For a start, why are you afraid of them?’
‘Because they want the baby.’
‘But you knew that from the beginning. That’s what the whole deal was about.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, but—they don’t want it as other people would. I mean—it’s not just our child . . .’
‘—What d’you mean?’
‘There are others at the house. Other women.’
‘You mean the nuns—or what they’d have us believe to be nuns . . .’
‘How do you know they’re not really nuns?’
‘It’s a long story, but I know it.’
‘Yes, I thought they were nuns at the very beginning.’ Then her voice changed as she mimicked Mrs. Weldon: ‘ “In the service of the Lord” . . . I fell for that.’
‘Why shouldn’t you. I did too. Anyway, what do you know about them?’
She hesitated before she answered. ‘We were there for the same purpose—to conceive a child.’
‘All?’ I stared at her. ‘All of you?’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘There were five—though now there are only four . . .’
I saw in my mind’s eye the face of the girl with the bird tattoo . . . ‘And those other four . . . ?’
‘They’re still there—at the house.’
‘—Yes?’
‘And all four of them are pregnant.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Why?’ I said. ‘What’s the purpose of it all? And why do they want so many babies?’
She shook her head in silence. I went on:
‘And I say “they”—and I don’t even know who they are. Much less what they’re after. Who are they? And why did they choose us? There must be some common factor—something that ties us all together—you, me, those women—the nuns. But what is it?’ I paused. ‘Do you know what happened to the other one—the fifth one? Was she pregnant too?’
‘I don’t think she was. She wasn’t there very long. She—left.’
‘—Do you know where she went?’
‘No . . .’ She looked at me for a moment as if about to say something else, then shook her head.
‘What’s on your mind?’ I said. ‘Tell me. Nothing’s likely to surprise me now.’
After a little pause she said: ‘I think they—they might have—might have killed her.’ She studied my face as she spoke, as if waiting for my reaction. ‘You don’t think that’s such an insane idea?’
‘What makes you think they might have done that?’
‘It’s just a feeling I have—from what I saw and heard. I think she was making trouble—and that she tried to run away. They were keeping her in the house at the end. You could hear her sometimes, screaming and cursing at them. Obviously she’d had enough and wanted to get out—but then found it wasn’t that easy. Anyway—I think it was one day near the end of the summer—she just wasn’t about the place anymore. I remember I’d been awakened in the night by shouting and other noises—certainly I’d heard her voice—and that afterwards everything was very quiet. Too quiet, I thought. From that time on there was no further sign of her. Nothing at all. I asked Mrs. Weldon what had become of her and she told me not to concern myself about it, and said that the girl had gone back to her family. I know that wasn’t true, though.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because she had no family. She told me so herself.’
‘You talked to her?’
‘Yes. Right at the beginning, soon after we arrived there. She was in the garden with one of the other girls. I saw her a little later, too, when she was on her own. That second time when we talked she was much more open—and she confided in me a little.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Well, I asked her how long she was going to be there and she said till May. So then I asked her where she’d be going at that time and she said back to London. I asked her more questions and from her answers it was very clear that she wasn’t a nun—any more than were the other young women there. She was quite open about that. Also it seemed that they—and I—had some things in common—among them being that not one of us had any immediate family to be concerned over our absence during those months . . .’ She came to a stop here for a moment and then, looking at me more intently, went on:
‘Of course, when I realized that she—the girl—had gone I—I also realized that no one would ever look for her. By what I’d gathered she—and I think the others were the same—had been a bit—nomadic. I think they’d been just—drop-outs in London—and if they disappeared nobody would even notice. And then I realized something else . . .’
‘Yes?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, in many ways it was the same for me, wasn’t it? If I disappeared nobody would look for me either. That’s when I decided to get away. I grew more and more afraid.’
‘—How did you manage it?’
She covered her face with her hands. When she lowered them she said, ‘—I was desperate. God, I was really desperate. I mean, I knew they’d never let m
e just walk out of the place—even if I offered them their money back—’ She broke off suddenly, was silent for a moment, then said: ‘I shall give it back to them. I shall send it back—every penny. It’s still in the bank. I haven’t touched it.’
‘Go on,’ I said, ‘—tell me how you got away . . .’
‘Yes . . . well, I’d thought of it for a while. I’d soon regretted getting into the whole business. But there wasn’t any way I could think of getting out. After she went, though—that girl—I was even more determined. And it was seeing how they’d treated her that helped me. You see, for one thing I knew that I must never let them know how much I wanted to leave—so they never suspected I was even thinking about it. But of course I was thinking about it all the time—and waiting for a chance. All through that winter I kept looking and hoping. I even sewed some notes into the lining of my coat—just in case there should be an opportunity. I used to go out every morning into the grounds and see if I could find any way out over the wall. Nothing. There were trees growing close to it, but I couldn’t climb any of them. I was getting so desperate as the weeks passed . . . Anyway, early this spring I got an old screwdriver and started to work at a part of the wall, trying to loosen some of the bricks. It was a slow job, though, and I wasn’t making much progress. Then, this morning, I went out again—and found that the storm last night had caused damage everywhere. When I went to carry on with my digging and scraping I found that a tree from outside had fallen right across the wall—and part of the wall was down, and no one in the house knew anything about it. So I—I just went out—and ran across the fields.’
‘It was easy as that . . .’
‘Yes.’ She smiled now. ‘Once on the road I got a lift into Bath. And from there a train to London.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t want to bring you any—trouble—but I couldn’t think of where else to go. I have a good friend in Edinburgh, but I didn’t have the money to get there . . .’
‘—And you said you have no family . . .’
‘No. My mother and father died a few years back. Oh, I’m quite certain that that was one of my main attractions where Mrs. Weldon was concerned. I have more distant relatives—an aunt, cousins, but no one I’m in regular touch with—and as I said, no one who, if I suddenly disappeared, would raise any alarm.’ She came to a halt, sat looking in front of her for a little while, then added:
‘Of course, now that I look back on it all I can see all sorts of things that should have bothered me—and they probably did bother me a bit, subconsciously, but—oh, I remember right at the beginning I asked about the maternity hospital I’d be going to—and Mrs. Weldon said I’d be staying at the house for the baby’s birth—and that Dr. McIntosh would look after me.’ She paused very briefly then said with some bitterness: ‘Dr. McIntosh . . . If I’d met him at the beginning I doubt that I would have agreed to go through with it at all.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Some seconds went by before she replied. ‘Well . . . the things he did when I got back from seeing you. Awful, humiliating things . . .’ She looked at me pleadingly. ‘That’s something I’d really like to forget.’
I went over to her and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. At my touch she put up her hand, laid it on mine and leaned against me, as if both physically and emotionally spent.
‘I’ll make up the bed for you,’ I said, ‘then you can rest. And while you’re doing that I’ll give a little thought as to what we’d better do about everything else.’
She took a bath and afterwards, wearing only her slip, climbed into the bed. I covered her over.
‘Try and sleep for a while,’ I said. ‘I’m going down the road to have a word with my sister. I’ve decided it’s time I talked to her. I’ll be back in a little while. You’ll be quite safe while I’m gone.’
* * *
Em was in the kitchen when I got home.
‘Where are the children?’ I asked.
‘Out with friends.’ She looked at the clock on the wall. ‘They should be back soon.’ She paused to study me as I stood just inside the doorway. ‘What’s the matter?’
I didn’t want to worry her with the whole Woolvercombe House affair and for a while I’d wondered whether I should perhaps invent some story to explain Catherine’s presence in the flat. But I knew I’d have to tell her the truth; it was the only thing to do.
‘I have to talk to you,’ I said.
Sitting facing her in the sitting room I told her everything. In the past I had told her practically nothing. Now, though, I went through it all—all the happenings in their sequence, right up to the present time with Catherine resting in the flat above the shop. When I got to the end of the story I looked at her questioningly. She’d sat so quietly throughout my narrative.
‘It—it makes me feel afraid,’ she said.
‘No, there’s nothing to be afraid of,’ I said. ‘Nothing else will happen now. They won’t bother with me anymore—as I’ve fulfilled my function. And they won’t look for Catherine here. Why should they?’ I gave a deep sigh. ‘And anyway, it’ll soon be all over. Catherine’s baby is due very soon and afterwards she’ll be on her way again.’ I turned and looked off, unseeing, through the window. ‘It’s the babies they want,’ I said. ‘Well . . . I can’t do anything about those of the other women—but I can stop them from getting Catherine’s.’
* * *
Simeon came into the house five minutes later and when he’d stopped for breath Em told him that as soon as Julia was in we were all going to the shop. ‘What for?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got to help Daddy with a few things up in the flat. You and Julia can stay down in the shop and do some drawing or something, can’t you?’
When Julia returned the four of us got into the car and drove up to the High Road. In the shop I saw the children happily settled with paper, pencils and crayons and then, with Em at my heels, went upstairs to the flat.
In the bedroom I found Catherine asleep and for a while we busied ourselves putting away in the refrigerator and food cupboard the various items Em had taken from the Lansbury Crescent supply. When that was done Em put the kettle on for some tea and set out the cups on the kitchen table.
‘Should we wake her?’ I asked.
‘We’ll have to,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to talk; decide what to do. She can rest again afterwards.’
Em had also raided her wardrobe on Catherine’s behalf and a minute later I returned to the bedroom carrying a nightdress and a dressing gown over my arm. Standing over the bed I called Catherine’s name. As she awoke to find me there I saw a momentary flash of alarm in her eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s all right.’ I gave her the clothes and went back out to the kitchen. When Em and I went into the bedroom a little later we found Catherine sitting up against the pillows with the dressing gown draped over her shoulders.
If I’d had any anxiety about Em’s meeting with Catherine it was soon dispelled. Em, having been put in the picture—as far as I knew it—had accepted the situation and now her only object seemed to be to help find a solution to the problems and see an end to the whole business. On learning that the baby was due that coming Thursday or Friday she said arrangements would have to be made at once for Catherine to go into the local maternity hospital. ‘You’d better go and see John Halton,’ she said to me, ‘—and get it fixed up.’
‘I’ll try to see him this evening,’ I said. I turned to Catherine. ‘I don’t even know your last name. I must have it for the doctor.’
‘Langham . . .’
Em said to her: ‘You’re going to want clothes and other things. Have you got what you need?’
‘In my flat I have.’
‘In Fulham,’ I explained.
‘Well,’ Em said to me, ‘that’s not far. You or I could drive over in the morning.’ She looked back at Catherine. ‘Have you got the keys?’
‘No, but the woman in the next flat has a spare for my front door. She’s been keeping an eye on the place while I’ve been away. I’ll phone her in the morning and tell her to let you in . . .’
We would leave then, we told her, and see her early tomorrow. In the meantime, I assured her, she’d be all right. ‘There’s no one here to bother you.’ I gestured towards the ceiling. ‘There’s only Mrs. Wilcox in the top flat, and she won’t disturb you.’
As Catherine gave me a tentative smile I added: ‘You wait . . . you’ll see—everything’s going to work out fine.’
* * *
Back at the house I phoned our family doctor, John Halton, a local GP who had, over the years, proved himself an able medical man and, into the bargain, a good and understanding friend. When I asked him if I could come and see him on a very urgent matter he agreed at once.
I got back into the car and drove straight round to his house. There, after the mandatory pleasantries were over, I told him—not without some considerable hesitation—that a young woman with whom I’d had a brief affair in the past summer had now arrived at my home, pregnant, and with nowhere to go. Could he, I asked, arrange for her to be admitted to a maternity hospital when the time came . . . ?
‘When is that supposed to be?’ he asked.
‘Next Thursday or Friday or thereabouts . . .’
He gave a little whistle of surprise and said that the young lady had left it rather late and should have made arrangements before this time. I could only agree and add that her circumstances had made it impossible.
‘Has she no parents?’ he asked. ‘What of her next-of-kin?’
‘She’s quite alone. She has no one at all.’
He paused for a few seconds. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘obviously you wouldn’t have come to me unless it was absolutely necessary. Of course I’ll do what I can.’ With a shake of his head he added, ‘I don’t think the hospital’s going to be any too pleased, but there, they won’t turn her away.’
I thanked him. He asked me where she was now.
The Reaping Page 14
