‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s all right . . .’
There was no sign of anyone or anything suspicious outside and together we walked to the car and got in. Catherine sat in the back. I turned and looked at her. Her grave, tense expression had lightened somewhat and she smiled at my enquiring glance.
‘I’m okay now,’ she said.
Em was in the flat when we arrived there a few minutes later. She’d just got in from the shops, she told us, having been out to buy the things that Catherine and the baby would need over the next few days. In the bedroom I showed Catherine the cot I’d got from the local Oxfam shop. With a coat of paint and a new mattress it looked like new. She stood gazing down at the forget-me-not-sprigged counterpane and gave a little sigh of pleasure.
‘It’s so pretty,’ she said.
‘Well—it’ll serve well enough while you’re here . . .’
I watched as she laid the baby down and covered her over. For a moment the baby’s face was distorted as she let out a yell of protest, but then she settled, closing her eyes. After a minute Catherine and I tiptoed away.
Back in the kitchen Em reminded me about the letter. I took it out and gave it to Catherine and then watched her as she read it. When, a few moments later, she looked up and smiled at us I knew it was all right.
‘I’ve got to phone them later,’ she said, ‘—but it’s all okay. They say it’s fine.’
‘When will you go?’ I asked.
‘On Monday, Kitty suggests. She says she’ll meet me from the train.’ She gave a relieved sigh and looked from me to Em. ‘Now all I’ve got to do is get through to that time.’
Em said, turning to me: ‘Tom—why don’t you stay up here to sleep—till Catherine goes . . . ?’
‘Would you rather?’ I asked Catherine.
‘Oh, yes! Please.’ She nodded. ‘I’d feel so much safer. It wasn’t so bad before, but now—well—’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘—I’ll make up the bed in the other room.’
* * *
When the shop was closed for the day I sat with Catherine in the studio. We drank tea and she talked about her forthcoming trip up north and the hopes she had for a new life. Later I went down into the office with her while she telephoned her friends in Scotland. When the call was over she turned to me with a broad grin and said things were working out better than ever; her friends had a little country cottage which they said she was welcome to use if she wanted to until she was on her feet again.
As I listened to her enthusiastic words I felt, mixed with my gladness for her, a kind of melancholy. I so wanted her to be safe, but at the same time I didn’t want her to go.
For the moment, though, it was my turn to leave—though only for a while, I told her; I just wanted to spend an hour with the children before they went to bed. I got up and moved to the door. She came after me and stood a couple of feet away.
‘You’ll be back later . . . ?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve got to give up the comfort of your own bed. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘I just want to see you safe—and happy,’ I said. ‘That’s all that matters. Anyway, even in my own bed last night I couldn’t get to sleep. This whole damn thing kept on going over and over in my mind. I couldn’t let it go. I thought about it and thought about it—but I couldn’t come up with any answers.’ I shook my head hopelessly. ‘God, I don’t know what’s going on. I mean, why should they want her—the baby? Why? Why our baby?’
‘But it’s not just ours, is it? There are the others, too—the nuns . . .’
‘Yes. So why should they want so many? You’re quite sure, I suppose, that the others—the nuns—were pregnant?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Then who fathered their children? That’s one thing I’d like to know. If we knew that we might be able to find some—some clue that would give us an answer to the rest of it. And if we had the right answers we might be able to fight them.’ I thought for a moment then asked: ‘Did you see any other men there at the time—who you think might have been chosen—to father the other children . . . ?’
‘No. I only ever saw Carl, Hathaway and the doctor.’
‘I somehow doubt that it would have been any of them,’ I said. ‘I was a puppet in this business; somehow I don’t see them in that role.’
She nodded. ‘Well, for one thing I certainly don’t think it would be the doctor. I can’t see him ever wanting to go near a woman, let alone have sex with one. I think he must hate women. I got that impression, anyway. He was horrible to me.’
‘In what way?’
She didn’t answer for a moment, then she said, ‘—I’ve mentioned it before. The way he treated me.’
‘When?’
‘—On those nights when I was going to see you in your bedroom—and then immediately afterwards when I’d left you.’
‘Yes, I remember. Go on . . .’
‘Well—’ she shook her head as if the memory was painful, ‘—it was the things he did—the humiliating things he did. There’s a room there that’s fitted out like some sort of clinic and—’
‘I know the place,’ I said. ‘I saw it briefly. All white walls . . .’
‘Yes, that’s it. Anyway, that’s where I had to go to see him.’
‘—What for? Tell me.’
After some little hesitation she reluctantly told me what had taken place in that white-walled room. When she’d finished I stood in silence thinking over the things she had said. I became aware that she was looking at me with a puzzled expression.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
I vaguely shook my head. A certain notion had taken shape in my mind. ‘Tell me again,’ I said. ‘Tell me again everything that happened. Every single thing that took place in that room. Every detail—no matter how much you hate even to remember it. Tell me everything.’
‘But—why?’
‘Why? Because,’ I said, ‘I think we may have found part of the answer we’re looking for.’
* * *
John Halton’s consulting hours had just finished and as his last patient made her exit he gave me a nod and beckoned me into his office. There at his desk he sat listening intently as I talked, just asking the odd question for clarification and making notes on the pad before him.
‘Someday,’ I finished, ‘perhaps I can tell you what this is all about. But for the moment—’ I came to a stop. He nodded. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I must confess that I am—naturally—rather bewildered and intrigued by it all—by your question, but I’ll help you if I can.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It’s certainly an interesting question.’
‘Do you think it’s possible,’ I asked, ‘for that to happen?’
He gave a slow shrug. ‘I really don’t know. It’s not in my province. But I’ll try to find out for you.’
I thanked him, then said hesitantly: ‘Have you any idea when that might be . . . ?’
He studied me for a moment. ‘There’s some urgency, is there?’
‘Yes, there is, believe me there is.’
He nodded and smiled. ‘I’ll try to get an answer for you as soon as I can.’
* * *
Sleep didn’t come easily that Friday night either.
Long after Catherine had gone to bed I stayed up in the studio. Thinking. In the end I realized that I was just going over the same old ground. Give up, I told myself. Get some rest.
So I gave up one venue of sleeplessness for another and lay awake for hours in the single bed, aware of Catherine on the other side of the wall—and wondering whether she was awake too. In the early hours I heard the baby cry, followed by the soft sounds of Catherine’s feet as she passed by my bedroom on the way to the kitchen. Off to prepare the baby’s food . . . A little while later, over the sound of
the still-crying child I heard the door of her bedroom close again. After that there was silence and eventually I slept.
When Catherine and I had breakfasted the next morning I went down and opened up the shop. For once I was glad that it was Saturday—that I’d be kept busy until closing time. It was the tension I couldn’t cope with—it was in the flat all the time. And it would remain, I knew, until Catherine and the baby were gone. How could it be otherwise? It couldn’t—not with that threat always present.
In the afternoon Simeon phoned me at the shop to ask when I’d be coming back home. I had told him it was necessary—owing to business—for me to sleep at the flat for a while. Now I said it would only be a couple more days and I’d be back. Good, he said, I’d be home for his birthday . . . With his words I suddenly remembered I’d done nothing about getting his bicycle. I hadn’t even sent him a birthday card.
Stricken with guilt I said quickly: ‘D’you think there’d be time to go shopping after you get out of school on Monday?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Very eager.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘—supposing I meet you from school. Would that do?’
It would, he said; it would do very well.
Not long afterwards John Halton phoned. On my behalf, he said, he’d approached a friend of his, Professor Graham Gordon, a gynaecologist who was willing to talk to me and, if possible, answer my questions. ‘I’ve told him you want the material for a book you’re thinking of doing,’ he said, ‘—so don’t make me out a liar.’ After giving me the professor’s telephone number he suggested that I phone him at once.
Two minutes later I heard Professor Gordon’s voice on the other end of the line, and when the initial pleasantries were over he said in a bright, breezy voice, ‘Well, how can I help you, old chap? Do you want to talk over the phone or would you prefer to drop in and see me?’
I didn’t have much privacy on the phone, I said, so if it was all right I’d prefer to see him in person . . .
‘It’s not going to take long, is it?’ he asked.
‘—Ten minutes—at the most.’
‘And where are you coming from?—Streatham?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘if you can leave now I’ll see you within half an hour.’
Leaving Arthur to look after things at the shop I hurried outside, got into the car and drove to the address in Putney that I’d been given.
The professor’s wife opened the door to me and smilingly showed me into a large, bright sitting room that looked out over the river. She went away then and a few minutes later the professor came in, a tall, dark-haired, well-built man with a florid complexion, a warm, open smile and a firm, though gentle, handclasp. ‘Well,’ he said, when we were seated facing each other, ‘John gave me an idea of the kind of information you’re looking for, but perhaps you’d better tell me yourself . . .’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘—well for a start what I need to know is—how long after intercourse will sperm live inside a woman . . . ?’
‘It can be up to twenty-four hours,’ he answered, ‘—though it depends to a degree on where it’s situated. Also, its condition will deteriorate with the passing of time.’
‘I see.’ I nodded. ‘And would it—-is there some way of taking it out again?’
‘Taking it out? You’d have to do it pretty quickly.’
‘But it could be done. . . ?’
‘—I don’t see why not. Some of it, anyway. Though, as I say, you’d have to look pretty sharp about it—if you want it to be viable.’
I thought of Catherine on those three occasions getting up from my bed and leaving me before I’d even had a chance to recover my breath. ‘If it were done within a few minutes?’ I said.
‘Yes, I should think that would be soon enough. But why,’ he asked, ‘would this have to be done—the extraction of the semen?’
‘The idea I have—for my story,’ I said, ‘is for it to be implanted—introduced—whatever the word is—into another woman . . . Would that be possible?’
He pondered this for a moment, then said: ‘Why not? Basically it’s just another means of artificial insemination. A somewhat bizarre means, granted—’ he grinned here, ‘—but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? Obviously you want to impregnate this other woman . . . ?’
‘Yes—Several other women, as a matter of fact.’
‘Several!’
I watched as the expression of surprise on his face gave way to one of thoughtfulness, and over the next fifteen minutes I sat there as he pondered aloud—with obvious enjoyment—the questions I posed. When I left the house later and got into my car my head was buzzing with his jargonistic phrases and the odd names of various medical instruments he had mentioned. But with it all I had the answer to my question; it was the one I had expected.
‘So anything you want to know about pipettes, speculums or whatever, just ask,’ I said to Em. ‘I feel I’m something of an expert now.’
I had driven to Lansbury Crescent straight from Putney and now sat facing Em across the kitchen table. From the direction of the sitting room I could hear the voices of Julia and Simeon as they played cards.
‘And you have no doubt at all,’ Em said, ‘that those women, the nuns, were made pregnant through you . . .’
‘No doubt whatsoever.’
She shook her head. ‘But it’s incredible. I—I never heard of such a thing.’
‘No, neither had I—and neither had the professor. But, as he said, that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. He says it is possible—perfectly possible.’
After I’d related to Em all that the professor had said I went up to the flat and told it all over again to Catherine.
‘He said that before intercourse the woman—you, that is—might have had some kind of absorbent sponge—or capsule placed inside you. Something that would keep the semen together—and also provide a—a protective environment for it. And of course it would have been removed as soon as you got back to the clinic.’
Catherine just sat staring at me. Then she said, ‘—I don’t know. I don’t know what was happening. McIntosh rarely spoke a word to me—certainly not to tell me anything. And obviously I was in no position to see what was going on.’
‘And you couldn’t tell whether he did that—put anything inside you—and left it there?’
‘No. All I remember of it is how he probed about—and how hateful and humiliating I found the whole procedure.’
‘Yes . . . Mind you,’ I went on, ‘the professor said that such a thing—like that sponge or whatever—might not have been necessary. After all, you left me so quickly on each occasion and—’
‘Those were part of my instructions.’
‘Exactly.’ I nodded. ‘In which case McIntosh could just have used some instrument—a pipette, the professor called it—to extract it—draw it up—the semen.’
She shrugged. ‘As far as I was aware he could have been doing anything.’
‘Were the nuns there at the time?’ I asked, ‘—when you got back to the clinic?’
‘No, never. But that doesn’t mean anything. Obviously they’d have been brought in after I’d gone back to my room—’
‘—And the seed put into them.’ I was silent for a few seconds then I said: ‘They weren’t taking any chances, were they, those people? They really tried to make sure it would work.’
‘You mean having it happen more than once?’
‘Yes. And even the pattern of it—three occasions over four nights.’
‘I wonder about that,’ Catherine said. ‘Why was there a gap between the second and third nights . . . ?’
‘The professor gave me the answer to that too. He said that after two successive nights of intercourse the sperm count would be fairly low. So obviously that—that rest night was to enable me to build up a reasonable spe
rm count again.’
‘They really did think of everything, didn’t they?’
‘Oh, yes, and also, don’t forget that you and each of those other girls were chosen so that you all reached the peak of ovulation—if that’s the correct term—at the right time.’
‘Well, I know that’s true where I was concerned.’
‘So everything possible was done to ensure the likelihood of conception. Nothing was left to chance. And who knows what other tricks the doctor might have had to help promote success . . . ? As for the placing of the semen in the other girls—according to the professor that wouldn’t have presented any problems at all. That would have been a relatively simple operation.’
Catherine and I sat looking at each other. After a few moments she said: ‘So now we know a little more of the truth—that you’re the father of those babies.’
‘Yes.’
She frowned. ‘And you realize what that probably means, then? It means that I—and those other girls—are not important to the scheme, whatever it is; we’re not important as people.’
Slowly I nodded. ‘Yes . . . of course. It’s me, isn’t it? I’m the one. I, in particular, was chosen. I’m certain of it. They chose me to father a whole string of children.’
‘But why?’ Catherine said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why?’
Chapter Twenty-one
Although we discussed it at length we could neither one of us get any nearer to finding any reason for it all. And the only thing it did for Catherine was make her more anxious than ever to get away. She would, she said, be catching the noon train on Monday—which would get her into Edinburgh just before five o’clock. I asked her then what was to happen about her flat.
‘The rent’s paid till the end of next month,’ she said. ‘I took care of all that before I went away. I doubt that I’ll ever go back to it, though.’
‘What about all your bits and pieces there?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s just books, clothes and things. Nothing I really want. You already collected anything there was of any value.’
‘—And your mail?’
‘Eventually, when I’m sure things are—all right again—I might get in touch with a few people again. But I don’t know.’
The Reaping Page 16
