by J F Straker
Her dedication delighted Robin. He had always known that she wanted children, so that when, around the end of the previous year, he had suggested it was time to make a start, he had been surprised by her apparently half-hearted response. You don’t think it’s too early? she had said; we’ve only been married eight months. Not too early for me, he had said; I’m pushing forty, and I don’t want to be in my dotage when the grandchildren start arriving. You are sure? she had said. Quite sure, he had told her; whereupon she had promptly led him up to the bedroom with the comment that there was no time like the present. But though he had then realised that her half-heartedness had been on his account and not on hers, he was nevertheless happy to know, now that the step had been taken, that she shared his pleasure. Occasionally she would sit staring into space, a frown on her pretty face; but when he asked what was troubling her — nothing, she would say, she was merely daydreaming. The apparently unaccountable flashes of irritation, the tiring headaches, had gone and such minor indispositions as troubled her were largely the result of her condition.
Derek Foley came for a weekend. Recalling how Karen had rejected Maria’s embrace, Robin was curious to see how she would react to Derek’s. Curiosity remained unsatisfied, however, for Derek did not offer his customary kiss. He took her two hands in his, told her she looked more beautiful than ever and left it at that. Nor did he embrace her on leaving. Had Derek heard from his aunt, Robin wondered, and decided not to risk rejection? It was a disturbing thought. Derek was a friend as well as his agent and the possibility that their hitherto happy relationship might turn sour was distressing.
The baby was due around the end of October. As the time approached some of Robin’s former uneasiness returned, but for a different reason. Karen was huge and found movement cumbersome and tiring; and although she did her best to remain cheerful he got the impression that she was becoming apprehensive about the ordeal ahead of her. Dr Hardy, the principal at the Emsley Clinic, assured them that everything was fine and that there was not the slightest cause for concern; but the apprehension was there, and it showed. It was a relief to Robin when she was finally admitted to the clinic; modern and well-equipped, with a pleasant and highly skilled staff, it gave him confidence, and he hoped it did the same for Karen. He spent much time with her in her room, talking and watching television. She could not have had more attention or better care, she told him, although she doubted whether she would find giving birth to a baby the wonderful experience that Kate Mallett and others had predicted. But she was certain of one thing: she didn’t want him to be present. ‘I imagine it’s a messy and rather undignified performance,’ she said, ‘and I’d rather not have an audience. Or does that disappoint you?’
He assured her truthfully that it did not.
The baby was born on the last day of October, a Sunday, in the early hours of the morning. He had spent the evening at the clinic, but there had been no indication that the birth was imminent. He was sound asleep when the telephone rang; but perhaps because subconsciously he had been expecting the call every moment since she had been admitted to the clinic he was almost instantly awake. In his haste he managed to knock the telephone off the bedside table, and receiver and instrument parted company as they fell. Leaning over, he hastily retrieved them, fearful that there might be damage.
‘Hello!’ he shouted. ‘Robin Granger here.’
‘This is the Emsley Clinic, Mr Granger,’ a calm female voice told him, ‘Your wife has had her baby. A boy.’
‘A boy, eh?’ Pride and delight lit his voice. So young Martin had made it! ‘Is my wife all right? And the boy?’
‘They’re both fine.’
‘There were no complications?’
‘No, Mr Granger. No complications.’
Why the slight pause before she answered? He looked at his watch. Nearly four-thirty. ‘I’d like to see them,’ he said. ‘Now. All right if I come over?’
‘I’m afraid they’re both asleep,’ the woman said. ‘We wouldn’t want to disturb them.’
‘When, then?’
‘I’ll make an appointment for you to see Dr Hardy at ten o’clock. Will that be convenient?’
‘Yes. But —’
‘Very well, then. Goodnight, Mr Granger.’
He replaced the receiver and put the telephone back on the table. The cool, almost aloof voice had sounded out of tune with the occasion. He had become the father of a son, and all the bloody woman could arrange was an appointment with the doctor! He didn’t want to see the doctor, he wanted to see Karen and young Martin. And why no congratulations? How detached could a woman get?
He made himself a cup of tea and sat in an armchair and started planning for the future, too excited to consider further sleep. There was an excellent pre-prep school in the town. After that a first-class preparatory school. He would need guidance on that, but not from his father, who disapproved of private education. And then — Eton? Harrow? Rugby? Winchester? He spoke the names aloud, revelling in the images they conjured up. Finally, of course, an Oxbridge college. Having successfully got the boy through university he daydreamed further on careers. What sort of talents would young Martin develop, in what sort of world would he make his way? Watching his son grow up — cherishing him, guiding him — must surely provide some of the most enthralling years of a man’s life.
At eight o’clock he dressed and shaved and rang first his parents and then Karen’s sister. There was no reply from Martin’s flat and he made coffee and wrote a note for Mrs Huntsman. Then, because he could stay in the house no longer, he got out the Rolls and drove the few miles to the clinic and sat waiting in the car. When the clock on the fascia board showed ten minutes to ten he hurried into the building.
‘I’m Robin Granger,’ he informed the young woman in Reception. ‘I have an appointment to see Dr Hardy at ten o’clock.’ Adding, because the news was too portentious to withhold, ‘My wife gave birth to a boy during the night.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Congratulations, sir. One moment, please.’
That’s more like it, he thought. ‘It wasn’t you I spoke to during the night, was it?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t come on duty till eight.’
She announced his arrival over the house telephone. Replacing the receiver, she said, ‘Will you take a seat, please, Mr Granger? Dr Hardy will be with you in a minute.’
Too impatient to sit, he stood staring out of the window. It had been dry but windy when he left the Hall. Now it had started to rain and he watched the drops roll slowly down the pane. ‘It’s my wife and son I really want to see,’ he said. ‘Not the doctor.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But Dr Hardy usually likes a word with the fathers first.’
That eased the tension. He was no longer a special case, with the bad news that seemed to imply.
Dr Hardy was in the middle forties, of medium height, with a square, rugged face and a forthright manner that inspired confidence. Robin liked him and generally enjoyed chatting with him. But not that morning. As Hardy came in he said brusquely, ‘Now look here, Doctor —’
‘Ah! Mr Granger. Sorry to keep you. Come along to my room. We can talk there.’
‘But I came to see my wife, not to —’
‘I know, I know. But I need to talk to you first.’ Hardy put a friendly hand on Robin’s shoulder. ‘Please! I won’t keep you long.’
Robin went with him down the corridor to the plush office overlooking lawns and flowerbeds that looked tidy even in late autumn. He sat in the armchair Hardy indicated and waited impatiently while the other settled himself behind the desk.
‘Smoke if you wish,’ Hardy said. ‘I don’t myself, but —’ Robin shook his head. ‘How about a coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Look, Doctor! If you’ve anything to say please say it. They’re all right, aren’t they? Both of them?’
‘Yes, yes. No worry on that score.’ The doctor hesitated. ‘Believe me, Mr Granger, this isn’t easy. I wish—’
Another pause, while Robin waited with mounting tension. ‘The fact is, sir, I have to tell you that you are not the father of your wife’s child.’
Robin stared at him open-mouthed. Then, as he realised the apparent irresponsibility of the doctor’s statement — how could the man know who was or was not the father? — he gripped the arms of his chair and stood up, white with rage.
‘How dare you?’ he stormed. ‘Good God, man, do you realise what you’re saying? That my wife has been unfaithful! And how in hell would you know that, damn you? I’ve a good mind to — to’ His voice trailed into silence as he saw the look of compassion on the doctor’s face and knew, even in his anger, that there was something here beyond his comprehension. His throat had gone dry and he swallowed painfully. ‘Dammit, man, you must be off your head!’
Hardy sighed. ‘Right now I wish I were,’ he said. ‘But I’m not. You see, the child is black.’
Ten
The words hit him like a stunning blow between the eyes, numbing his brain. They were so impossible, so shattering, so diabolical that it was difficult to assimilate them. Wide-eyed, he sank slowly back into the chair. A pulse started to hammer in his temple, there was a singing in his ears. A steel band seemed to tighten round his chest, restricting breathing.
‘Black?’ he gasped. ‘You mean — really black?’
‘I’m afraid so. Coloured, anyway. I imagine the father was either a West Indian or of negroid origin.’ The doctor poured brandy and came round from behind the desk. ‘You’d better drink this.’
He drank greedily. The brandy burned his throat, and he gulped. ‘You — you’re quite sure?’ he said breathlessly. ‘There couldn’t be a mistake? A mix-up? It happens, doesn’t it?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘No mistake, I’m afraid. Your wife’s baby was the only one born here during the past twenty-four hours.’ He hesitated. ‘I take it you were unaware that your wife — that this might happen?’
‘No,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I — we didn’t know.’
If the doctor was surprised by the ‘we’ he made no comment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very sorry. I can imagine how shocked you must be.’ He took the empty glass from Robin’s hand. ‘Look! There are a couple of visits I have to make. Why don’t you sit here for a while and consider your options? No one will disturb you. Help yourself to brandy if you feel like it; the bottle’s in the bottom right-hand drawer. I shan’t be long. When I come back we can discuss the situation further. All right?’
Robin nodded. Hardy gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and Robin watched him leave and sat staring at the closed door. He felt sick. His head throbbed and his throat had gone dry. Gradually misery and grief were superseded by a terrible anger, and he got up and paced the room, banging a clenched fist against walls and furniture, mouthing obscenities. The bastards, he thought, the filthy, sodding bastards! Not content with holding her to ransom they had filled her with dope and then raped her. In a too vivid imagination that made him cry his anguish aloud he saw her lying unconscious on the bed in the darkened room, clad only in a flimsy nightdress and negligee, with some foul black bastard lowering himself on to her, slobbering in triumph as he pumped his filthy seed into her defenceless body. And all these months, while they had imagined young Martin taking form and growing within her, her womb had been harbouring a — a...
‘Oh, God!’ The words came in a hoarse whisper. ‘Oh, God, no!’
Near to choking, he felt the taste of bile in his mouth and the dampness of sweat on his skin. It seemed that the room was closing in on him, and he opened a window and leaned out, letting the wind and the rain buffet him. Low clouds, grey and puffy, moved across the sky and in the distance his gaze lit on the minaret of the town’s mosque. In his present anger it seemed an affront.
He did not turn when he heard the door open. Hardy joined him by the window. ‘Gets stuffy in here, doesn’t it?’ the doctor said diplomatically. They stood in silence for a minute. Then Hardy tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, reaching to close the window. ‘We need to talk. Or would you prefer to see your wife first? You won’t get much out of her, I’m afraid. She’s still pretty muzzy.’
Robin took a deep breath. ‘Does she know?’
‘About the child being black? Yes.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Badly, I’m afraid.’
‘Has she seen —’ He paused. ‘Has she seen it?’
‘Briefly. But one glance and she wouldn’t have the child anywhere near her. Screamed at the nurse to take it away. She became so hysterical that we had to sedate her.’ Filled with pity for Karen, Robin nodded. Watching him sink back into the chair, Hardy said, ‘You said earlier — implied, anyway — that your wife was unaware that — well, that she was carrying another man’s child. You don’t have to explain that, of course, but naturally it puzzled me. It seemed so unlikely.’
It had been so obvious to Robin that he had taken it for granted that it would be obvious to the doctor. Now he saw that it was not. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have explained. My wife was raped.’
Shocked, Hardy expressed his sympathy. ‘But I still don’t see —’
‘She was unconscious at the time,’ Robin said tonelessly, trying to squeeze from his mind the image that the words once more evoked. ‘She never saw the man.’
Hardy frowned. ‘You mean she was unaware that intercourse had taken place? Both at the time and later?’
‘Yes.’ He spoke sharply, for he had thought to hear incredulity in the other’s voice. And in the short, rather strained silence that followed a tiny niggling worm of doubt crawled into his tortured mind, seeming to give credence to the other’s incredulity. To kill it, yet aware of and ashamed of the disloyalty the question implied, he said, ‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’
The doctor hesitated. ‘I imagine it would depend on the circumstances.’
Robin told him about the kidnapping. It was better that he should know the truth rather than believe that Karen had perhaps been a willing partner in what had occurred. ‘She was drugged for practically the whole time. She had periods of vague awareness — washing, being fed, incidents like that — but for the rest it was more or less a blank. So you see —’
He hesitated, reluctant to repeat the question. Hardy saw the appeal in his eyes and nodded.
‘Yes. Yes, in the case of a young married woman, provided she remained unconscious for some time afterwards — and provided no force was used and all external traces were removed — yes, it would certainly be possible.’ The doctor looked thoughtful. ‘I presume the kidnappers were never caught?’
‘No. We didn’t inform the police. My wife dreaded the prospect of the resultant publicity, and rather than subject her to questioning by police and Press — not to mention the ordeal of a possible trial — we decided to forget it.’
Except that they had not been able to forget it, he thought.
‘Wasn’t that rather anti-social, Mr Granger?’ the doctor said.
‘Perhaps. But to me my wife’s health and peace of mind were more important than putting the men responsible behind bars.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice as he added, ‘I love my wife, doctor. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save her from pain or distress.’
The doctor nodded. ‘I believe you, Mr Granger. Tell me —’ He broke off as a nurse entered carrying a tray. ‘Ah, coffee!’
Robin watched him pour. Black, he said, when the doctor asked, and squirmed inwardly at the word. For how long would it contain an evil connotation? He had never been a racist, the colour of a man’s skin had never been important; and one did not condemn a race for the villainy of one of its members. Had the rapist been white his loathing would not have been less. Yet would ‘white’ then become synonymous with evil? Although white villains were probably more numerous than black, he knew that it would not, but his brain was too tired to consider the paradox.
Hardy looked at hi
m over the rim of his cup. ‘You say that although your wife never actually saw or heard the man she was aware of his presence. When an injection was given, for instance. Did her awareness go so far as to realise he might be a negro?’
Had it? Robin wondered. Subconsciously, perhaps, if not consciously? Did that explain her reaction when Maria Foley had tried to embrace her?
‘No,’ he said.
‘And the kidnappers’ voices on the telephone. No hint there?’
‘None.’
‘H’m!’ The doctor sipped coffee. ‘Did your relatives and friends know that your wife had been kidnapped?’
‘Only two. Two friends we could trust not to talk.’
‘But presumably they all knew your wife was expecting a child. How will you explain the present situation without revealing the kidnapping? Because if you don’t it must inevitably reflect on your wife’s good name.’
Robin was silent. With so much to occupy his mind since he had arrived at the clinic, this was a problem he had not yet considered. But it was one that could not be shelved. Already Mrs Huntsman would be answering telephone calls back at the Hall, informing callers that Karen had given birth to a son. Soon people would be visiting the clinic — his parents, Polly, Martin, the Malletts and others expecting to congratulate Karen and enthuse over the baby. How could the dilemma be resolved without revealing the truth?
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘There is a solution, of course, but it would need your cooperation.’
‘In what way?’
‘The child could have been still-born, couldn’t it? Or have died shortly after birth.’
Hardy was shocked. ‘Good God, man! Are you suggesting —’
‘Of course I’m not. But if that is what I tell my friends I’ll need your confirmation in the event of an inquiry.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Much as I appreciate your predicament, Mr Granger, I couldn’t do that.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Robin sighed. ‘Well, could you at least adopt a passive role? By that I mean, answer questions truthfully if you feel you must, but volunteer nothing.’
