The Sun Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  Cecily fell to her knees and used her hands to scrape away the remaining leaves. And there it lay: a tiny but perfectly formed newborn baby girl. Her eyes were closed and the only visible sign of life was the rosebud lips that were formed into an ‘o’ as they sucked involuntarily.

  Unable to process what might have happened, Cecily reached down and took the baby into her arms. The child was covered in dust and dirt, and the stump of her umbilical cord was seeping yellow pus. Cecily could see the pattern of tiny ribs through the skin; the stomach unnaturally distended, her tiny legs resembling a large frog.

  ‘But she’s alive,’ Cecily whispered. ‘Oh Wolfie.’ Her eyes blurred with tears. ‘I think you just saved a life. Come on, let’s get this little one back to the house as fast as we can.’

  The baby hardly moved in Cecily’s arms on the journey back and her breathing was so shallow that Cecily could barely detect it. When she arrived at the house, she laid the child on a blanket on the kitchen floor and Wolfie settled down to guard her.

  ‘Now, you stay there and don’t move, okay?’ she said, before racing back outside and into the barn they used as a storeroom. Bill had packed away all the baby paraphernalia in there before Cecily had arrived home from hospital. Some of it still lay in its original boxes and she searched through the pile for feeding bottles and terry towelling diapers. She also grabbed the shawl that she remembered spending weeks knitting, before heading back to the house, thinking she could collect whatever else she might need later. For now, the baby urgently needed milk.

  ‘Heaven only knows how long the poor thing has been lying there,’ she said breathlessly to Wolfie, who hadn’t moved from his spot beside the baby and watched her with mournful eyes. ‘Let’s just hope it’s not too late.’ She grabbed a jug of milk from the refrigerator, warmed some in a saucepan, then washed the bottle in hot water before filling it.

  ‘Come on up here,’ she said to the baby as she wrapped the shawl around the tiny form then settled the child in the crook of her arm. She eased the teat between the baby’s lips and wriggled it around.

  ‘Come on, baby, suck for me,’ she encouraged. ‘It’ll make you feel so much better if you do.’

  Nothing happened, and then Cecily remembered a tip from one of the books she had read when she was pregnant.

  If the baby does not respond to the teat, attempt to dribble the milk on its lips.

  Cecily did so, then waited with bated breath for a reaction. Finally, she noticed the tiniest sucking movement, and quickly thrust the teat back inside the tiny mouth.

  ‘There we go!’ Cecily let out the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

  The suckling was weak at first and it seemed like most of the milk was leaking back out of the baby’s mouth, but finally it became a little stronger and Cecily could see the movement of swallowing in the child’s throat.

  ‘Thank the Lord.’ Cecily let out a small sob, just as the baby decided to throw up most of the milk she’d managed to take down.

  Reaching for a cloth, Cecily wiped herself and the baby down as best she could. The baby emitted small mewling noises that sounded like a pathetic attempt at a cry.

  ‘She must have gotten at least some of that into her little stomach?’

  And sure enough, a few minutes later, a small trail of green tar-like liquid oozed from her backside.

  ‘At least your system is working. Lord knows how long you were lying there before Wolfie found you.’

  Eventually, exhausted from the exertion, the baby – who had yet to open her eyes – relaxed her grip on the teat and exhaled.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ Cecily whispered as she bent her head to try and hear the sound of breathing. She could see the baby’s chest rising and falling. As she slept, Cecily sat there in an agony of indecision. She knew she should call for Dr Boyle to come and check the baby over; lying in the woods for however long must have left her dehydrated or perhaps with other medical conditions that Cecily hadn’t even heard of. But it had been shady and cool where she’d found her . . . Cecily felt her tiny forehead. There was no fever and the baby seemed neither too hot, nor too cold.

  ‘From the colour of those faeces, I’d reckon she’s not much more than a few hours old . . . Besides,’ she added, looking down at the sleeping child, ‘Dr Boyle will just insist he takes you with him and he’ll place you in some dreadful orphanage like the ones Mama raises funds for.’

  Cecily must have drifted off herself, exhausted from all the panic, for when she woke, dusk was already falling and the baby was mewling in her arms.

  ‘Okay, okay, let’s try a little more milk.’

  When the baby had finished suckling, Cecily withdrew the bottle and saw that she had drunk over an ounce, and so far it had not come back up.

  ‘Right, I’m sorry, baby, but we need to clean you up. I’m going to put you right there in a bowl in the sink and give you a good wash.’

  Setting to with a soft clean cloth and a bar of soap, Cecily was wetter than the baby by the time she had cleansed her thoroughly. There was an odd waxy coating on her skin to remove, but she had done her best to keep the umbilical cord dry, remembering that from her baby book. The baby had hollered loudly all the while, flexing her tiny limbs, which gave Cecily confidence that she was healthy.

  After swaddling her in a dry towel and laying her gently on the bedroom floor, Cecily went back outside with the flashlight to fill the bassinet – still sheeted in Cellophane – with things she might need overnight. Back inside, she tried her best to pin the diaper on the baby correctly, then placed her in the unwrapped bassinet on her bed. The baby had once again fallen asleep, so Cecily took the opportunity to make herself a quick sandwich, then hurried back to the bedroom clutching another bottle of milk as she heard her crying again. The baby took almost two ounces of milk this time, although she was a little sick just after. Then Cecily changed her diaper, and dressed her in the tiny cotton nightgown her mother had sent in the parcel from Bloomingdale’s over a year ago. Adding a knitted bonnet, Cecily chuckled at what her mother would think of the little black face encased inside it.

  ‘I’d love to see your eyes soon, baby,’ she said as she lifted her into the bassinet once more. After preparing another bottle just in case the baby woke in the night, and storing it in the refrigerator, Cecily locked up the house, turned out the lights and climbed into bed, having checked the baby was still breathing in the bassinet next to her.

  She heard Wolfie whimpering outside the bedroom door, eager to be let in. Cecily could only smile at the thought that he wanted to protect his charge.

  ‘You stay there, boy, the baby’s fine in here with me. Goodnight.’ Switching off the bedside light, Cecily rested her head on the pillow. She remembered back to that conversation she’d first had with Bill when he’d asked her if Njala could come and stay. And how he’d been somewhat vague about exactly what would happen to the baby once Njala had given birth. When she thought about it rationally, Cecily supposed that there were few alternatives; Njala had been in hiding because it must not be known that she was pregnant, or her marriage would be cancelled and she would become an outcast. So had she known that her baby could never return with her . . .?

  Help baby.

  ‘Oh Lord!’

  Suddenly, it all made sense. That last day she’d gone to the camp, Njala hadn’t meant that Cecily should help with the birth, she’d meant exactly what she’d said.

  Cecily sat bolt upright in shock.

  ‘She wanted me and Wolfie to find her . . .’

  The baby whimpered in her sleep next to Cecily. Cecily reached for her and tucked her into the crook of her arm.

  ‘Hush, little one. You’re safe now. Safe here with me.’

  Every day for the next week, Cecily told herself she should at least call Bill and let him know what had happened, but each time she went to dial his number at the War Office in Nairobi, she put the receiver down. She was positive he would insist that he take the baby away to
an orphanage. As one day rolled into the next, and all her bottled-up maternal instincts began to flow out, the thought of anyone harming a hair on the head of the little being who was so dependent on her brought tears to her eyes. Even though she was exhausted from the night-time feeds – the little newborn who had barely had the energy to suck a few days ago was now a voracious feeder and had a wail that could wake the lions on the plains below – Cecily had never felt quite so happy and content. She had set up a nursery in the room originally designated for her own baby, and taken out everything from the barn to furnish it. Now, the once empty room smelt deliciously of the talcum powder that she sprinkled over Stella’s tiny behind. The baby book had guided her on how to care for the stump of umbilical cord and it was drying out nicely and should drop off in the next couple of days. There was no time for her garden; she slept when the baby slept, grabbing a slice of toast whenever she could in between feeds.

  The name ‘Stella’ had come to her when she’d dozed off and woken to find a pair of huge clear eyes, the irises as dark brown as a coffee bean, staring up at her. She’d thought how like Njala’s they were, and then remembered Bill telling her that Njala’s name meant ‘star’ in English.

  ‘Stella,’ Cecily had said, remembering from her schoolgirl Latin lessons that it also meant ‘star’. Besides, she couldn’t just carry on calling her ‘Baby’ . . .

  ‘So Stella you shall be, at least for now,’ Cecily had sighed.

  Two days ago, she’d heard the rumble of a vehicle snaking up the drive. Running to the window, Cecily had seen Katherine’s pick-up pull up outside. Knowing the front door was locked, Cecily had crouched beneath the window with Stella in her arms as Katherine had proceeded to knock on the door, then shout her name before wandering around the outside of the house to peer in through the windows, obviously confused by Wolfie’s loud barking from inside. Katherine knew that the dog was either left outside if Cecily had gone shopping, or was somewhere away on the farm with her. When the pick-up had finally trundled out of earshot along the drive, Cecily had stood up with the baby in her arms, feeling rather stupid, but just now she wanted nothing to destroy the cosy world that she and Stella and Wolfie had created together.

  However, when Cecily woke from yet another disturbed night, she heard the telephone ringing. After debating whether to ignore it, she slipped out of her bed and went to answer the call.

  ‘It’s Bill here,’ he said down a line that was as crackly as the one to New York. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘All’s well here, Bill, yes. Very well. And how are you?’

  ‘Suffice to say, the situation in Europe – and possibly here too – gets bleaker by the day. However, I will be home on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘When is that?’

  ‘Why, Cecily, it’s in three days’ time. Are you quite well?’

  ‘Absolutely, never been better, Bill. I . . . went shopping but there wasn’t much meat at the market, or much of anything else either,’ she lied.

  ‘Don’t you worry, I shall be barrelling home loaded up with festive cheer, even if it costs half my army wages to do so. Are Katherine and Bobby joining us for Christmas Day as they did last year?’

  ‘I haven’t asked them. Should I?’ Cecily bit her lip, knowing with each word he spoke that the halcyon days alone here with Stella were coming to an end.

  ‘I’ll speak to Bobby about it, don’t worry, my dear. Are you sure you’re all right? Bobby said Katherine called round and you weren’t in.’

  ‘News travels fast! I was almost certainly in Gilgil, that’s all.’

  ‘As long as all is well with you,’ he said. ‘I shall see you on Christmas Eve. I’ll have to travel back the day after Boxing Day to be in the office, but I was rather hoping you’d join me in Nairobi and we could take in the races. You might enjoy them.’

  ‘We can talk about it when you get home,’ she said abruptly, having heard a whimper from the baby. ‘Bye, Bill.’

  Cecily put down the receiver with a heavy heart and walked slowly back to the bedroom where Stella lay in her bassinet. Her arms were sprawled above her head and with her long eyelashes fluttering against her skin as she dozed, she was the perfect picture of relaxation.

  Cecily sat down next to her.

  ‘Oh little one, what on earth are we going to do when Daddy gets home . . .?’

  Apart from dashing out while Stella was sleeping to buy jugs of fresh milk from the Maasai woman who had a stall on the road that led to Gilgil, Cecily’s preparations for Christmas were virtually non-existent. Time and again she tried to think what she would say to Bill, but eventually she decided that she would simply have to play it by ear.

  On Christmas Eve, she put a record of carols to play on the gramophone, thinking how difficult it was to feel Christmassy when the thermometer was nearing seventy degrees. She bathed in the tub, washed her hair and left it to dry naturally – Bill had commented how he liked it like that – taming the curls slightly with a couple of bobby pins. She dressed in a fresh blouse and cream skirt, fed and changed Stella and put her to bed in the bassinet in the nursery. Then she fixed herself a hefty gin with a little vermouth, and sat in the drawing room waiting for her husband to arrive home.

  As she heard the sound of tyres on the drive, her stomach did a crazy flip.

  It’s okay, Cecily, you just have to tell him that you cannot possibly let him take her to an orphanage . . .

  ‘Hello,’ Bill said, as he arrived in the hall, carrying a large tree that despite its needle-like leaves, didn’t much resemble the Christmas trees she remembered from New York. ‘Look what I dug up en route! I’ll put it in a bucket in a jiffy and maybe you’d like to decorate it.’

  ‘I . . . okay.’

  ‘I’ve also managed to purloin a number of delicious things for us to eat. I’ll fetch them in a moment,’ he added, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, Cecily.’

  She was rather taken aback by her husband’s unusually high spirits. Trying but failing to remember how Bill had been last Christmas – the whole thing had passed in such a blur of misery, the memory had been wiped from her mind – she was glad he seemed so cheerful. It might aid her cause.

  ‘Oh! I almost forgot, there’s a hamper from Kiki which Aleeki dropped off at the club for you. It’s still in the back of the pick-up, and I’m pretty sure from the smell that it includes a side of smoked salmon. It probably needs eating pronto.’

  ‘Smoked salmon sandwiches, what riches!’ Cecily smiled as Bill bolted out of the door to retrieve it.

  She poured them a gin and vermouth each, as Bill filled up a bucket with soil and positioned the ‘Christmas’ tree in it so they could decorate it.

  ‘It’s all a bit “make do and mend”, but who cares?’ he said. ‘One should definitely celebrate Christmas as well as one can.’

  ‘You like Christmas?’ Cecily stated the obvious.

  ‘I love it. Always have, since I was a little boy. It may seem out of character for a man like me but I just enjoy the fact that everyone is in a good mood. Even my parents didn’t fight over Christmas. Now, I’m sure we have some decorations from last year in the barn. I’ll go and get them.’ Bill moved towards the back door.

  ‘Wait! I . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just a bit weary, that’s all. Could we put them up tomorrow?’

  ‘Cecily, tomorrow is Christmas Day, and it’ll all nearly be over bar the shouting. It won’t take me a minute to get them and I can put them on the tree myself if you’re too tired.’

  Bill was out of the door and Cecily was out of excuses to stop him. She hoped against hope that he wouldn’t notice the things that were missing from the barn.

  He was back in a trice, carrying the box of decorations.

  ‘All the things you gathered for the baby have disappeared. May I ask what you’ve done with them?’

  ‘Oh . . . I’ll tell you later. Now, let’s get these decorations on the tree,’ she said, gulp
ing back some gin as she led Bill towards the drawing room.

  ‘You know, Cecily, the difference in you from this time last year is remarkable. You stayed in bed on Christmas Day, do you remember?’ he asked her as they began to hang baubles on the tree.

  ‘I’m ashamed to say that no, I don’t.’

  ‘You were not yourself by any means . . .’

  A sudden loud screech emanated from beyond the drawing room.

  ‘Good God! What the deuce is that?!’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’ Cecily felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair.

  The screech came again, and then turned into a full-scale wail.

  Cecily’s heart sank; she’d been hoping to tell Bill what had transpired before she introduced him to Stella, but now it was too late.

  ‘It’s coming from somewhere inside the house. Have you got a wild animal locked up in here or something?’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  But Bill was already on his way along the corridor to find the source of the caterwauling.

  Cecily followed him anxiously as he looked into each of the bedrooms in turn and eventually pulled open the door of the tiny room wedged between them. She watched as Bill leant over the bassinet, then recoiled in shock.

  ‘Bloody hell! What is this?!’ he demanded as he turned to her.

  She squeezed past him and picked up Stella, just in case Bill was tempted to do something dreadful to her. She walked out of the room with the baby in her arms and into the kitchen, where she retrieved a milk bottle and put it in a pan of water on the stove to warm.

  ‘Cecily?! For God’s sake, can you at least explain to me what the hell is going on?!’ Bill was standing at the entrance to the kitchen.

  ‘Let me settle her with a bottle and then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I need another gin . . .’

  Cecily watched him retreat to fetch his drink, then sat down with the baby at the kitchen table. The wailing abated and peace descended as Stella suckled heartily.

  ‘Right then.’ Bill was back. He took a gulp of his drink and sat down on the chair opposite her.