She moved all her mother’s clothes into a pile and added the new things that she had insisted DCI Franklin stop for on their way over. A crumpled dressing gown in a shade that had once been pink. A pair of reading glasses. The TV guide. And a half-bottle of rum from under the kitchen sink. Emergency supplies should Barbara ever revive.
At the bottom of the bedside cabinet, Barbara’s sizeable handbag stood firm as a monument to the dead. Margaret heaved it onto her lap and undid the clasp, snip-snap, to check if there was anything important inside that her mother might need. Be prepared. Wasn’t that what Barbara always said? Though Margaret didn’t want to think now about exactly what she might have to prepare for. After all, she’d only ever looked inside Barbara’s bag to get at her purse before – a five-pound note here, a few pound coins there, enough for a hot sausage roll or a bottle of cheap wine. Never to rummage through what might turn out to be her mother’s last relics of life.
A handkerchief, ironed and folded.
Lipstick worn to a brown stub.
Keys for the house.
A tortoiseshell comb.
And right at the bottom, hidden amongst the detritus of a life, a photograph of two dead sleeping children, back in the light at last.
A nurse rattled in with a trolley. ‘Going to brush your mother’s hair?’ he asked, nodding towards the comb discarded on the bed.
Margaret looked at the comb, then back at her mother, hair depleted as though she had been the victim of some terrible radiation attack. Perhaps that explained why Barbara had joined every church within the vicinity. Cancer. Running through her body like some kind of bad spirit, dancing its way through the lacework of her bones. The fine strands of Barbara’s hair reminded Margaret of the contents of the envelope she had given Janie. Some other little relics of the past, once lost, now found again. Blonde. Mousy. Dark. She tried to remember what colour her mother’s hair used to be when they were both young. Brown, perhaps, maybe lighter. But she couldn’t recall. Her mother was just her mother, after all, not someone who had deserved attention until it was all too late.
Margaret reached out and placed her hand over Barbara’s where it rested above the blue wrinkles of the hospital blanket. She was amazed to find how neatly they fitted, like two silver spoons, the bowl of one curved around the next. What was her mother dreaming of, tucked up in this hospital bed? A cherub with a sliced-off arm? A box room crammed with junk? An old Edinburgh flat where all you could hear were babies crying through the wall? Or a Brazil nut with the Ten Commandments etched into its shell?
Thou shalt not.
Next to the bed a monitor flipped its little signal – heart, heart, heart – as Margaret picked Mrs Walker’s Brazil nut from the cup of her mother’s palm. The nut was warm. The promise of new life, perhaps. Or a story that was yet to be told. Margaret bent her cheek towards Barbara’s mouth, skin to lip, and listened for her mother’s breathing, heart racing with all the things Barbara had never told her and all the things Margaret had never thought to ask.
For a moment she heard nothing, and her heart flipped to nothing too as she caught the thought skipping through her brain: This could be it. Then it started up again with a swift drumbeat against her ribs. For there it was, thin as a whisper, like a secret sent around a circle and back. Barbara was still breathing. Wasn’t that what counted, just as DCI Franklin had said?
1963
It was late on a hot summer afternoon when Barbara Penny came to a London hospital to see what she could see.
‘Penny, Ruby,’ said the nurse on duty in reception. ‘Room number twenty-four.’
‘Thank you,’ Barbara said, gloves on, hat on, handbag with its thick gilt lip. Then she headed straight up to another room at the top of the building instead.
At the end of a long corridor on the hospital’s highest, furthest floor, Barbara peered through a wall of glass onto row upon row of cots lined up along the other side. One hundred babies (or thereabouts), all staring back.
‘Which one are you, dear?’ A nurse in a sensible white uniform appeared by her side.
‘Penny,’ replied Barbara, gazing at the tiny faces.
The nurse disappeared, then appeared again a moment later behind the glass this time. She walked up and down the rows glancing at each cot until she stopped beside one and reached in. A bundle. A small hand waving above the institutional wrap. The nurse held the baby up so that Barbara could see. There was a plastic band tight around its ankle, a name written across the middle in miniature script. Barbara couldn’t read the writing through the glass, but she knew what it said. Baby Penny. So much for the Walker roots.
The baby wasn’t pretty, nor was it sweet. Its face was round like a piglet, red and contorted. Its eyes not startling, but a commonplace shade instead. The nurse jiggled the crumpled infant in her arms, lifting one small limb to wave it at Barbara through the glass. Barbara smiled and touched the partition with her fingertip. The baby was perfect. It was just like her.
Half an hour later, on the floor below in the corridor outside Ruby’s room, Barbara sat on a chair while a doctor, tall in his white coat, gave her the information he thought she wanted to have.
‘Lost a lot of blood. Bit of a nightmare really, between you and me. Were you with her when it began?’
‘No,’ said Barbara.
‘Should be fine though in a few days, maybe a week.’ The doctor looked down at a chart attached to a clipboard. ‘We can’t get much sense out of her at the moment. Ever had that problem before?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara, handbag on her knee.
‘She keeps asking for someone called Clementine. Do you know who that is?’
‘No,’ said Barbara, feet flat against the polished linoleum.
‘Oh well.’ The doctor flipped his chart closed. ‘Come back tomorrow at the same time and we’ll see what we can see.’
Barbara stood up. ‘What about the baby?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The doctor smiled. ‘She’s fine. Lovely. No problem there at all.’
Two days later and Ruby still had not risen from where she lay, sweating and writhing amongst the rumpled hospital sheets. The doctor seemed more agitated than before. ‘We found her trying to get out of bed,’ he said. ‘Had to sedate her. Ever had that trouble before in the family?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara.
The doctor nodded as though this told him all there was to know. ‘We’ll keep her on drug therapy. Knock her out for a bit.’ He still had his chart and clipboard under his arm. ‘She needs a rest, poor thing. Time to recuperate.’
On the fourth day, Barbara arrived to find a lanky young man standing on the wrong side of the glass. He was holding one of the hundred babies in his arms, and though Barbara couldn’t see the little plastic tag, she knew straight away which child it was. Damp boarding houses, a curtain covered in small blue sprigs and a future Barbara had always wanted but never seemed able to get. Nye Junior. Come to see what he could get too.
Unnoticed in her sensible coat and gloves, Barbara watched as William Nye Junior dipped his head to Baby Penny’s face. The baby gazed back at him, eyes huge, small limbs wrapped tight. Between Barbara’s legs a sanitary towel pressed against the inside of her thigh, hot and thick. This time she was determined to get whatever might be coming, before anyone else took it first.
They met back on the correct side of the glass, Baby Penny consigned to its crib once more. ‘Oh, hello.’ Nye Junior stood before Barbara, colour racing up to stain his cheeks. ‘I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘No,’ said Barbara, her hands cool inside her gloves. ‘I didn’t expect to see you, either.’
William Junior’s gaze darted along the corridor as though looking for an escape. ‘I won’t be here for much longer.’ He lifted a finger to his forehead for a moment. ‘Going abroad soon.’
Barbara’s heart set up a little pitter-patter beneath her matching jumper and skirt. ‘Abroad?’
‘Yes. An adventure.’ The young man let out a
sort of gurgle, a laugh garrotted at birth. ‘That’s what my father calls it.’
‘Oh.’ Heat prickled up through Barbara’s skin where a man’s fingers once pressed into her arm. She gripped harder at her handbag. Be prepared. Wasn’t that what Mrs Penny had taught her? ‘Where are you going?’ she said.
‘Not sure exactly.’ The young man was sweating all the way along his top lip. ‘My father has made the arrangements. But I’ve a few things to sort out first.’ Nye Junior turned his head for a moment to glance through the glass partition, one hundred babies staring back.
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh, this and that. Luggage and so forth.’ William Junior put a hand up to his mouth as though to quell the lie the moment it got out. But Barbara could read it in the colour that burned all over his neck. He was going to take the baby. Whether his father liked it or not.
Her heart beat quicker than ever then beneath her twinset. ‘Will you be gone long?’
William Junior pushed his hair away from his face. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. A few months. Maybe a year.’
‘Right.’ But Barbara knew already that it would be a lifelong thing. Heads to the north. Tails to somewhere else. To a land where cars were as big as boats, perhaps, and kitchens came with floors in which one could see one’s face. Take me, she thought then, all of a sudden. Over the hills and far away. To somewhere we can start afresh. But as Nye Junior turned to go, she knew that he would not. For someone had got between them right from the start. Dancing on those curtains. Dancing across that wallpaper. Dancing over the narrow frame of a bed. After all, if Barbara could never forget Ruby, why should anyone else?
The very next day, no time to waste, Barbara sat opposite a large mahogany desk in an office just off Ironmonger Lane. Across from her a young woman with bony knees sat behind three large phones. Neither of them spoke. On the mantelpiece a stuffed stoat winked at Barbara in the low light. Through the wall came the sound of a bell. The young woman coughed. ‘Mr Nye Senior will see you now,’ and she reached behind her to open a door made of books.
In Nye Senior’s office Barbara sat in a very upright chair, while the father-in-law she would never have advised her on what she must do next. ‘It isn’t difficult, my dear. It has been done before.’
‘Has it?’ said Barbara. Despite drudging in a solicitor’s office, she realized Mrs Penny had been right: Barbara knew nothing of life really. But she was determined to find out.
‘Oh, yes, dear.’ Mr Nye turned his eyes to a folder in front of him tied with a ribbon dip-dyed pink. An admissions form. Adoption certificates. The deeds for a house. One family transformed into another with just the dotting of some is and the crossing of some ts.
‘I don’t have any money,’ Barbara said, shifting in the uncomfortable chair.
‘Not to worry, dear,’ said Mr Nye Senior. ‘I’m sure there is something we can sort out between us.’ He leaned up against the edge of his desk where he sat, right in front of Barbara, one elegant leg draped across the next.
‘Like what?’ Barbara had declined his offer to remove her coat. She knew from Ruby where that could lead.
Mr Nye Senior glanced towards his wall where a thousand naked women gazed back. ‘I believe your sister owns a painting.’
Ruby with her legs thrown out. Ruby laid out on a chaise. Barbara gave a little twitch of her nose. ‘That small brown thing. Is it worth a lot?’
‘Oh, no, dear.’ Mr Nye Senior slid himself further towards Barbara along the precipice of his desk. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Sentimental value only.’
‘I might have seen it,’ Barbara said, eyes sliding towards the gap on Mr Nye Senior’s wall. ‘But I’d need to check.’
‘Of course, dear. No hurry.’ Mr Nye Senior leaned forward and touched her for a moment on the shoulder, just as once he had touched her arm. Barbara felt the way her skin began to tingle. ‘But the first thing we must do is arrange the paperwork. Then we’ll see what to do next.’
The day after that, Barbara registered the birth herself, on Mr Nye Senior’s advice. Rule number 3 – no unnecessary surprises. Though even as a child Barbara had thought, isn’t that what a surprise is meant to be?
The Chelsea Old Town Register Office was not the place for surprises either, just somewhere to get the job done. Barbara arrived a little before closing with all the documents she might need. Her birth certificate. Her proof of address. And a letter from a solicitor, just in case.
‘What is your name?’ said the woman behind the desk.
‘Barbara Penny.’
‘And you are the mother.’ It wasn’t a question, so Barbara did not reply. ‘And what name do you want?’ The woman was writing as fast as she could now that home time approached.
Barbara was flustered for a moment. ‘I’m sorry?’ She had a name already; why would she need another?
‘For the baby.’ The woman held her pen poised above the ledger, which once completed, with its dotted is and crossed ts, would be sacrosanct in every way.
‘Oh, yes.’ Barbara had wondered about that. There was Clementine, of course, Ruby’s first choice. But why name a baby after someone who was irretrievably lost? And Dorothea seemed so ancient, apart from the fact that it was already inhabited by a ghost. Which left Mrs Penny. But Barbara wasn’t even sure that she knew what Mrs Penny’s first name was. For a moment Barbara was uncertain. How did one name a child when all the rest of the family were absent or dead?
The woman in front of her coughed and Barbara looked up. Beside the woman, on the table, was a handbag much like Barbara’s. Next to that a pair of gloves much like Barbara’s too.
‘What’s your name?’ Barbara asked.
‘Margaret.’ The woman sniffed.
Margaret, thought Barbara. That will do.
‘It won’t be for long.’ That was what the doctor said, sitting behind his desk as Barbara sat before him. ‘A month or two, perhaps, maybe six. We can review it at regular intervals. See what you think.’
‘Yes.’ Barbara nodded. She understood exactly what he meant.
‘There’s no need to be concerned. We have all sorts of new therapies now. All sorts of drugs.’
‘Yes.’ Barbara was still wearing her hat.
‘Runs in the family, I understand.’ The doctor put out his hand to hold down a buff folder with the name Walker inscribed on the outside. ‘Your solicitor mentioned it. Though not everyone succumbs.’ He bent his head in Barbara’s direction and she gave a slight nod of acknowledgement in return.
‘You’ll be taking the baby, of course.’ It was not a question either. ‘Probably best, under the circumstances.’ Barbara waited while the doctor wrote something on his notes. Then he pushed a piece of paper towards her side of the desk. ‘We have the admissions form here. It’s just your signature we need now.’
The last time Barbara came to visit Ruby she brought a suitcase containing everything her sister might need. It used to belong to Mrs Penny, before Ruby stole that too.
Barbara laid the suitcase on the end of Ruby’s bed, her sister sitting in a chair to the side, still wearing her hospital gown. Ruby’s body was slumped, all folded over at the neck. Dark lashes curved against her cheeks as though she were eight years old once more. Her breathing came shallow and swift and her skin was a sort of ghostly blue, like a new mother’s milk. Her eyes were half closed, veins running hither and thither across pale-violet lids.
Barbara pressed her thumbs to the suitcase’s little metal clasps. Click-clack and that’s that. Opened up the lid.
A slip.
A skirt.
A jumper worn at the elbows.
A teaspoon with a tiny apostle soldered to the end.
And an old green dress.
It wasn’t much, but Barbara knew that Ruby only ever travelled light. She took each item from the suitcase, laying them one by one into a drawer. Then she closed the suitcase. Clack-click. That’s it. And turned to leave.
‘Help me, Barbara.’
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Barbara turned to where Ruby sat in her chair. Ruby’s body might be tranquillized, but it appeared that her mouth still worked.
‘Help me, please.’
Ruby’s fingers fell open in a loose curl on her lap. In her palm was a Brazil nut, all scratched and worn. Barbara went over and picked the Brazil nut out of Ruby’s hand.
Thou shalt do no murder.
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Thou shalt not steal.
‘There you are,’ Barbara murmured. ‘I wondered where you’d gone.’ She turned the nut in her hand, then put it down on the bedside cabinet. ‘I always wanted this,’ she said. ‘But I think you need it more than me now.’
There was a knock on the door and a matron entered, carrying a syringe in a metal dish. Behind her came a nurse carrying a baby swaddled in a hospital blanket. And behind the nurse, a man cradling a camera and twirling one of the buttons on his black pea coat. W. H. SYMMONS & Co. Est. London 1933. Next generation along.
‘All ready then?’ The matron put the metal dish down on a table by the bed.
‘Yes,’ said Barbara.
‘Help me, Barbara.’
‘Now, now, dear.’ The matron went over to Ruby and laid a firm hand on her arm. ‘Your sister’s come with your things.’
‘She’ll have to sit up a bit,’ said the photographer, fiddling with his camera. He was a young man, impatient, determined to drag his father’s business away from contracts such as this.
‘We always like to take a photo, just in case.’ The matron rearranged Ruby’s gown so that it covered as much of her bare legs as it could.
Barbara didn’t need to ask in case of what. A lot of babies left this hospital without the woman who first brought them in.
The matron tried to smooth Ruby’s hair, sliding her into a more upright pose. ‘Come on now, dear. Got to look your best.’ But Ruby just rolled her head away, hair all a tumble across the shadows of her face.
Barbara stood back in the doorway as the photographer took up his position. ‘Right, first on her own and then one with the baby.’ And he lifted the camera to his face.
The Other Mrs Walker Page 29
