Summer House

by Nichols, Mary

  ‘It will come back to you when you see him again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No doubt you have letters from him.’

  ‘Not as many as I did. And they are so impersonal, as if he is afraid—’

  ‘Everyone out there is afraid.’

  ‘I meant afraid to open his heart.’

  ‘Do you open yours to him?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said, surprising herself. ‘I don’t think he’d like me being over-sentimental. It’s not how he was brought up, nor me come to that. Stiff upper lip and all that.’ She laughed a little in embarrassment. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’

  ‘I suppose because you need to.’

  ‘Perhaps. Please forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ He paused. ‘Do you often come and sit in here?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quiet and I like to look over the lake and dream a little.’

  ‘What do you dream of?’

  ‘A world at peace, contentment, children. I was hoping…’ She paused. ‘It was not to be.’

  ‘They will come.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, or what are we fighting for? Just before you came, I was sitting here thinking of my folks and what would be happening on the farm at this time of year…’

  ‘You must be homesick.’

  ‘I reckon I am, but I’ve enjoyed my time in England, and with people like you and your parents making me welcome, I can’t complain.’

  ‘You are welcome, you know. Come again, come as often as you like.’

  That had been the beginning. They met frequently after that, sometimes in the house when he was with comrades and they would chat as friends do, sometimes walking in the grounds, but most often in the summer house. It was as if they gravitated there without having to arrange it. She would stroll down there and shortly afterwards he would arrive, or it might be the other way around. They talked a lot and before long she realised she knew this man a hundred times better than she did her husband, whose letters had become less frequent and more stilted, as if he were writing to a stranger – which in truth she was, someone he had met briefly and then left behind. It came to her slowly but inexorably that her marriage had been a mistake, that if she had met Oliver first she would never have married Richard. It was a terrible discovery, made more shocking when she realised she was falling in love with Oliver. They were so in tune with each other, almost as if they could read each other’s minds. If they saw each other across a crowded room, their eyebrows would lift and they would smile; it was as if they were alone, as if no one existed for them but each other. And later they would be alone in the summer house.

  She tried to deny it, she really did, but it was undeniable. And when he confessed that he felt the same, they fell into each other’s arms. Even then they held back from the brink, but it became harder and harder to deny the physical expression of their love. It grew worse the nearer the time came for him to return to France. She didn’t know how it happened, but one day when they were trying not to talk about the fact that he was soon to leave her, she found herself in his arms and they were stripping the clothes off each other in a frenzy. This time she did not hold back, did not try to stop him. It was gloriously fulfilling and though she knew she ought to feel guilty, there was no time for that, no time for anything but each other.

  Those last few days were a revelation. Every minute they could manage, they spent together. He could arouse her so completely she was blind and deaf to everything but his murmured words of love, his dear face, his robust, muscular body. She gave herself to him wholeheartedly, roused him as he roused her, and gloried in it. It wasn’t just the sex; they loved each other.

  ‘You’ll tell Richard?’ he had asked her the day before he left for France. ‘You’ll tell him you want a divorce?’

  ‘Divorce?’ Such a thing had never entered her head. She had never given a thought to the future. Now it hit her with the force of a blow to her ribs, taking the wind out of her.

  ‘How else can you marry me? And you will marry me, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know how to tell him.’ Now she had been forced to confront it, she was left with the guilt, shot through with misery because she couldn’t see a way out. ‘I don’t know how to tell my parents either. There’ll be the most unholy row. And you won’t be here.’

  ‘I wish I could be. I’d stand by your side and defy the world, but I can’t. I have to go, you understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had cried, oh how she had cried! He had comforted her, held her in his arms and made love to her all over again. She clung to him, not wanting to let him go, but it was getting dark and she knew she had to go back to the house and he to his barracks. In the end she had promised she would tell Richard, but not until he came home. It wasn’t fair to spring that on him while he was away fighting. They said their goodbyes in the summer house and she went back to the Hall, dragging her feet with every step. She had not seen him again.

  She did everything she had always done: she was gracious towards the servicemen who came to visit; helped her mother when the servants drifted away, one by one, to more lucrative employment; went to church and prayed for victory; prayed that Oliver would come safely back to her; prayed, too, that Richard would understand when she told him she wanted a divorce. No one in her family had ever been divorced; it was unheard of in their circles and she knew there would be an awful row when her parents found out. In the end it hadn’t been the prospect of a divorce in the family that caused the uproar, but her confession that she was pregnant.

  It was teatime and, for once, the three of them were alone in the drawing room. Her mother was presiding over the silver teapot and the bone china cups and saucers; her father was reading a hunting magazine. She suddenly decided to get it over with and blurted out, ‘Mama, Papa, there is something I have to tell you.’ She waited until she had their attention. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘But you can’t be,’ her mother said, puzzled. ‘Richard has been gone a year.’

  ‘It isn’t Richard’s.’

  ‘What?’ her father roared, flinging his magazine on the floor and getting to his feet.

  ‘I said I’m pregnant.’ She had looked up at him defiantly, but it took all her courage.

  ‘You dirty little slut! I never thought…’ He stopped because he simply could not get his breath and his face had turned purple. She cringed, half expecting a blow. ‘Whose is it? I’ll kill him. Did he force himself on you? Were you afraid to tell us?’ He was grasping at straws and she could have said she had been raped, but she could not do that, could not deny her love for Oliver.

  ‘No, he did not force me. We love each other.’

  ‘Rubbish! You are a married woman. You love your husband.’

  ‘No. I thought I did, but now I know I don’t. I intend to tell him when he comes home and ask for a divorce.’

  ‘You will do no such thing. We’ll have to get rid of it.’

  Her mother had gasped at that. ‘Henry, you don’t mean an abortion?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll find someone willing to do it.’

  ‘No, you will not!’ Helen had screamed at him. ‘I want this baby.’

  ‘You can’t possibly mean to keep it,’ her mother said. ‘It’s unthinkable. What will you tell Richard? What will everyone say?’

  She had become reckless. ‘I don’t care what people say. I shall explain to Richard and when Oliver comes back, we are going to be married.’

  ‘You can’t, you already have a husband.’

  ‘Oliver?’ Her father picked up on the name. ‘Who is Oliver?’

  ‘Captain Oliver Donovan.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Here. He’s one of your protégés, a Canadian.’

  ‘And that’s how he repays my hospitality, is it? I shall go to his commanding officer and have him kicked out…’ He was pacing the drawing room floor, so agitated she was afraid he’d have a
heart attack.

  ‘Henry, I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ her mother said softly. ‘We don’t want to draw attention to Helen’s plight, do we? Perhaps she should go away, she could stay with my aunt in Scotland. We can always say she has gone to be near Richard.’

  ‘He’s in France,’ Helen reminded her.

  ‘Then for the purpose of saving your good name, he’ll have to come back,’ her father snapped.

  ‘If you think I am going to get into bed with him and then pretend the child is his, Papa, then you are mistaken. I will not deceive him.’

  ‘You already have.’

  ‘I’m sorry for that, I never meant to hurt him, and in any case I do not think he will be too upset. I don’t think he loves me.’

  ‘And what about Richard’s parents? His father is a judge, for goodness sake. Have you thought of anyone else besides yourself? To think a child of mine should behave in such a wanton and depraved manner is more than I can stomach.’

  ‘It wasn’t wanton or depraved. Oliver and I love each other. He will accept his child. He’ll be pleased.’

  That was more than her father could take. He ordered her to her room just as he had when she had been naughty as a child, and her meals were brought to her by the chambermaid. After three days of solitary confinement, her mother came to her. She had been writing to Oliver, but put her pen down and covered the sheet with blotting paper.

  ‘Helen, your father and I have made the arrangements.’ She sat down heavily on the bed. ‘You are to go and stay with my Aunt Martha in Scotland until it is time for the child to be born, and then you will go into a private clinic. You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Kathy? Does she know?’

  Her cousin Kathy lived with her parents in Beckbridge Rectory. She and Kathy had gone to the same boarding school, and as schoolgirls had giggled over shared secrets and later had laughed together over the different young men who came calling. Until Richard came along. She supposed it was bound to make a difference to their relationship; she was suddenly a married woman and Kathy must have felt left out. They had remained friends, though not so close, but even that had come to an end when Kathy had come upon her and Oliver in the summer house. It had precipitated a terrible quarrel; dreadful things had been said, mostly about the effect it would have on Richard if he found out. Helen had tried explaining, but Kathy wouldn’t listen and had gone home in a huff. It was then Helen realised that Kathy was in love with Richard. They hadn’t spoken since.

  ‘No, I’ve told no one.’

  ‘Good. And no one will be told. If you want to correspond with Kathy, you can, but you will do it through us. And you will say nothing of your disgrace, do you hear? I could not bear it to become common knowledge.’

  ‘Great Aunt Martha?’

  ‘She knows, of course. But as far as her friends and neighbours are concerned, you are staying with her to await the birth of your husband’s baby.’ Mama had smiled grimly. ‘Not that you will be expected to do much socialising; Aunt Martha is old-fashioned. In her day, pregnant women were kept hidden away.’

  ‘And I am to be kept hidden.’ The prospect was not a happy one, but given the atmosphere at home, she would be glad to get away. She would spend her time knitting and sewing for the baby and writing long letters to Oliver. He might even manage to get leave and come to see her, though she realised that was unlikely until the war ended. She prayed it would be soon; if Oliver came back before Richard it would make it so much easier, if only because she would have an ally. ‘But what happens when I return home? You can hardly hide a baby.’

  ‘You won’t be bringing it home. It will be adopted.’

  ‘No! I will not agree to that.’

  ‘Helen, do not be obtuse. You know you cannot suddenly produce a baby when everyone knows your husband is away in France and has been there over a year. And what do you think he will say when he comes home?’

  ‘Then I shall stay away. Find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘How? What will you live on? You have never wanted for anything in your life, never done a hand’s turn of work, and you certainly would not have the first idea how to go about bringing up a child. I can promise you Papa will not help you and I dare not go against him. When it is all over, you can come back here as if nothing had happened. We will none of us mention it again.’

  ‘And keep it secret from Richard, I suppose,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘It would be best.’

  She knew she was getting nowhere and was tired of arguing. It would be a few more weeks before she began to show and by that time Oliver would have replied to her letter, might have managed some leave. But she hadn’t been given even that respite; she had been packed off to Scotland the very next day.

  Her father was drawing into a petrol station. She watched while he got out, spoke to the attendant who came out to serve him, paid the man and returned to the car. Then they were on their way again, without either having spoken. They stopped for lunch at a hotel. The conversation was confined to polite enquiries about what she would like to order. Was it going to be like this the whole way? Could she get through to him if she tried? But what was the use? Aunt Martha had been right; Oliver had deserted her. Either that or he was one of the many casualties of war, and without him she could not hope to bring up a child. It didn’t matter; she didn’t feel anything for it. It was an uncomfortable lump that wouldn’t let her sleep at night, that made her want to go to the lavatory every five minutes. She would be glad to be rid of it. So she told herself.

  They stayed in Edinburgh overnight. The hotel was luxurious, the bed far more comfortable than the hard mattress at Great Aunt Martha’s, but it did not help her to sleep. They left very early the next morning and the pattern of the previous day was repeated. Helen tried to make conversation, to remark on how much warmer it was as they journeyed southwards. She wondered if they might take a little detour to go to Beckbridge, she would have liked to see her mother. But of course Papa would not do that. She could not go home until her figure was back to normal. It was late at night when they entered the suburbs of London and it was then she began to wonder where this hospital was. It was another half hour before her curiosity was satisfied.

  They drew up outside a dingy red-brick building in a part of the city she had never been in before. Her father got out and fetched her case from the boot. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘I want my bed even if you don’t.’

  Stiff with sitting for so long, she clambered awkwardly from her seat and followed him up the steps. A plaque on the wall announced it was the St Mary and Martha Clinic. They entered a gloomy hall, lit by gaslight. There was a desk and a bell, which he picked up and rang vigorously. It was answered shortly by a young girl in a grey uniform to whom he gave the name of Lord Warren and told her the matron was expecting him. While she was gone he turned to Helen. ‘You are to be known as Mrs Jones, please remember that.’

  She nodded, not caring what she was called. She didn’t like the smell of the place, nor the strange cries coming from its interior. For the first time she began to be afraid of the ordeal to come. ‘Are you going to leave me here, Papa?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What else did you expect? I’ll go to my club tonight and then I’m going home. When I hear from Matron that it is all over, I shall return for you.’

  If he had been going to say more, he did not, because Matron was hurrying towards them. ‘Do not address me as Papa,’ he murmured.

  Matron was fat. She wore a navy blue dress and a wide belt that seemed to cut her in two. Her hair was scraped back beneath a starched cap. ‘My lord, please come this way. Would you like some refreshment before you go?’ She ignored Helen, who trailed behind them, weariness in every bone of her body, the fight gone out of her. She longed for her mother.

  The matron conducted them to an office where the particulars of her pregnancy were noted. She had been sick early on but otherwise had kept well. The docto
r she had seen in Scotland had said there was no reason to expect complications; she was young and well nourished.

  ‘And the expected date is the middle of March, I understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A servant arrived with a tea tray but Helen was not offered any of it. She was handed over to a nurse to be conducted to her room. She turned back to her father, wanting to say goodbye, had his name on her lips when she remembered his stricture that she should not address him as Papa. He had not said so but she guessed he was pretending she was a servant for whom he felt some responsibility. For a second her spirit returned. She straightened her back. ‘Goodbye, my lord. Please remember me to her ladyship.’ Then she followed the nurse.

  Normally patients would not arrive so far in advance of their due date, but her father had not wanted to risk her giving birth in Scotland or on the way to the clinic. She had her own room and was expected to remain in it and take her meals in solitary splendour. That palled after the first day and she asked to be given something useful to do. She was allowed to help the other patients, those who had already given birth, taking them their meals, fetching glasses of water, talking to them. They were mostly young, unmarried and ill-educated. Some had even been ignorant of what was happening to them until their bodies began to swell. Some had been raped, some abused by male relatives. She was appalled. Not one seemed to have a loving partner and not one expected to take their infants out with them. And the nurses were far from sympathetic. What had her father – the man who had given her life, had nurtured her through childhood, a loving, if strict, disciplinarian – brought her to?

  Helen’s baby, a lovely dark-haired girl, was born in the early hours of the morning of the fifth of March, ten days earlier than expected, and put into her arms. She fell instantly in love with her. The fact that Oliver had deserted her didn’t seem to matter any more. She wanted to keep her. She helped bathe and dress her in the little garments she had made for her and was allowed to give her a feed. The pull of the baby’s mouth on her breast set her weeping again and strengthened her resolve. This tiny child was hers and she’d be damned if she would give her up. She would call her Olivia.