‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose I am, while she is here anyway.’
‘And when she goes back, Emma, who is her mother then?’
I glanced at Ruby but she was running her fingers over Audrey’s jewelled knuckles. I lowered my voice. ‘There is TB in Ruby’s family. She won’t be able to return.’
He nodded.
*
After the meal the men retired to the study, throwing open the French window to blow the smoke outside. It was past eight, so Ruby went up to bed, with me making sure that she said goodnight to everyone in turn. Audrey and I went to the sitting room and started to lay the seating plans for the ball out on the carpet.
‘Well, well, well!’ said Audrey, her eyebrows raised dramatically, ‘I had no idea you had this kind of thing in mind. You are a fast worker – a cosy little ready-made family!’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ I said, pleased.
Audrey stared at me. ‘Emma,’ she said slowly, ‘I was being flippant.’
I blushed.
‘So how long have you got the brat?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said trying to rise above the insult.
‘You do know that you will have to return her?’
‘It might not come to that,’ I snapped.
Audrey took a compact from her bag and dabbed her nose with a film of powder. She examined herself in the glass for a few moments. ‘She’s not a puppy, you know, people will usually object to you taking away their children.’ Her eyes flicked from the mirror and back to me.
‘Ruby’s got a big family,’ I said. ‘I’m sure if the worst happens one of them will care for her. Besides, there’s everything a girl could want in Evesbridge – she has brothers and a father who is a farmhand and a little cottage. I’m sure she would prefer all that to being with me on Sunningdale Estate.’
Audrey shot me another condescending look and started talking about the preparations for the ball. This year it was to be held at the pavilion in Missensham Lido. This was a much better choice than the stuffy old village hall, she said, and much more modern. I nodded briefly, grim-faced, hoping she would notice that she had offended me. She didn’t. Instead she started reeling off a list of names; people I had never heard of and long explanations about who they should be seated with. I gave up and let her drone on, making sure that I nodded at the right moments. I only began to listen again when her talk moved on to the decorations. The theme of the ball was to be the British Empire. Audrey had thought of the idea herself. It was the year of king’s silver jubilee after all, and with this bungling Third Ministry of the government, the loss of the colonies, this frightful depression and all the quibbling between fascists and communists, she felt that Missensham needed a bit of national pride. It would be easy enough; everything would be red, white and blue.
At last I stopped her. ‘I know someone who dyes cloth,’ I said. ‘We could dye the tablecloths and napkins from last year, instead of getting those expensive new coloured ones. Then we would have more money to spend on the refreshments, maybe we could even get some champagne!’
Audrey clapped her hands in excitement but looked a bit crestfallen when I explained that the plan would involve working in a cottage in Evesbridge while being instructed by a sickly Maud Brown.
‘Wait here,’ I told her and ran upstairs, sure that I could convince her when she saw Ruby’s beautiful red hair ribbon.
The ribbon had been left on the bathroom sink, the end shivering with the gust from the open window. I tied it round my wrist, but then sat at the top of the stairs breathing in the cool air and wondering how long it would be before I was missed. Paper rustled in the lounge as Audrey rearranged the seating plans and the men’s voices droned from the garden. The gentle hiss of Ruby’s breath drifted from the back bedroom, sometimes regular, sometimes delayed, as if breathing itself needed thought.
Then a clunk of wood came from downstairs, followed by the snap of a latch. A gust of cigarette smoke wafted up the stairs and the men’s voices grew louder.
There was just one word: ‘Emma.’
I held my breath, straining to listen.
‘I do see what you mean,’ it was Walter’s voice.
Then silence.
‘I thought as much,’ George said at last, his voice deep and quiet.
Then Walter said something; such a funny word I wasn’t sure if I’d misheard: ‘Psychoneurosis.’
And George repeated it.
‘I have some old contacts at St Catherine’s who know more about these sorts of things,’ said Walter. ‘But they were pretty sure from what I told them. She still feels guilty about the loss of the child.’
‘I have tried to explain it to her, many a time,’ said George. ‘The problems were down to a placental haemorrhage, there are no obvious causes, there was nothing anyone could have done. Nobody was to blame, especially not—’
‘—Yet she clearly does blame herself,’ said Walter, ‘and guilt can sometimes manifest in this way. The child with the… with the face – well she was just an unfortunate trigger. Have you noticed the marks?’
‘She has a birthmark of a kind,’ said George. ‘But how one could compare it to that of a newborn baby last seen nine years ago is beyond me. I try not to mention it when I am with her, it gets her too excitable.’
Walter sighed. ‘And you say she is even trying to force the baby’s things on to the girl?’
There was another silence.
Then Walter’s voice again: ‘I thought you had it sorted, old man.’
‘I did,’ said George. ‘It was sorted a long time ago. You would think that after a funeral and everything—’
‘It’s a shame they did not let her see the body back then. It’s just what was done in those days. Ideas are changing now of course, things are becoming more progressive. I might mention this case in one of my journals, make an argument for facing death…’ but his voice tailed off. ‘Sorry, old man, how insensitive of me, so sorry.’
There was a long silence and I leant my head on the balustrade, daring not to breathe, willing the rustling of paper from the lounge to stop, for the clock to cease ticking and for the deafening hum of the light bulb to be silenced.
Then Walter spoke again: ‘If she believes the girl to be her baby then how exactly does she explain the situation to herself? How does she rationalize it?’
George’s answer didn’t come immediately. There was a string of stutters and little choking noises before he said: ‘Well, I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
There was a pause and the next voice was Walter’s: ‘And how have things developed since the girl has been lodging here?’
‘I just don’t know; they seem two of a kind sometimes, as if they have a bad effect on each other.’ George’s voice was stronger now. ‘Emma seems to be enthralled by her, won’t hear a bad word about her, and the girl, well, she has even picked up Emma’s little habits. She’s taken to sitting on that window seat and staring out towards the memorial for hours and hours, exactly the way Emma—’ He stopped suddenly and there was a silence that seemed to intensify with every passing second, the rustling paper, ticking clock and humming light bulb all fading to nothing. Then came a long sigh and I could imagine George stood in the dull light of the study, removing his spectacles to rub his eyes the way he so often did. ‘She won’t have to go to one of those places, will she? Not somewhere like St Catherine’s?’
‘No, no, not a doctor’s wife of her standing. Look, these things can sometimes sort themselves out, given time.’ Walter paused. ‘In the meantime these might help.’
There was another silence and I could sense the stillness in the room. Then, after several minutes, Walter said: ‘Well, it’s up to you, of course, I’ll just leave them here. In case you change your mind.’
*
After Walter and Audrey had left, George sat down in his armchair and beckoned for me to do the same. I started to explain about the dirty dishes waiting in the sink but he told me to sit down, sayi
ng that he wanted some quiet time with his wife – he should at least be allowed that.
I sat on the window seat, smiling nervously across the room. George seemed distant, his face cast in the shadow of the lampshade. ‘I know things have been hard for you, Emma, ever since…’ He stopped, as if he was choosing his words carefully. ‘Well… sometimes we all need some help, don’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘Well some of your recent behaviour has been a little strange, you have to admit that.’
I said nothing.
He sighed. ‘I mean with the girl and everything.’
‘The girl?’ I said. ‘Do you mean Ruby?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. It’s just that you seem to have developed rather an unhealthy fascination with her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well…’
‘Come on, George!’
He leant forward, the light from the reading lamp clouding the lenses of his spectacles.
‘Well, there’s the gifts and bringing her to stay here. You seem to have spent rather a lot… and… well when it comes down to it, you have to admit that she is just a little girl, like any other, yet you seem to think she is special somehow.’
‘George!’ I cried. ‘She isn’t just any other little girl. Are you blind?’
‘Blind?’ he scoffed. ‘Well I—’
‘How can you not see it?’
‘See what? What are you talking about?’
‘Her face!’
‘What? What about—’
‘Oh come on, George, don’t pretend you can’t see it!’
‘You mean the birthmark,’ he said slowly.
‘Yes, yes, of course I do. The mark that you always pretend not to notice. I see when you look at her; you try and look anywhere but her face.’
‘That’s nonsense!’
‘Is it? Look at you – you can’t even have a normal conversation about it!’
‘Well it’s just a birthmark.’
‘No, it’s not just a birthmark, it’s just like the one that…’ I stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to say it, to talk about my baby, to say her name.
‘Like what?’ he said.
‘Please don’t do this George, you must be able to see that it’s the same!’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
I stared at him, searching for some emotion behind those opaque shields of glass, something to suggest understanding, some softness maybe, something to show that he understood how I was feeling, a touch of uncertainty even. But there was nothing.
I felt my body slump, my back resting on the thick curtains, as my eyes stung with tears
‘I heard what you said, George, I heard what you were saying with Walter. You said that you had it sorted, that you had it sorted a long time ago. What did you mean by that?’
‘Oh Emma, please!’
‘He asked you what I thought was happening, how I would explain it. Well what do you think is happening?’
George sat still, his face was blank, not even a twitch of muscle round those frosted eyes.
‘When you last saw Violet at the hospital, was she really dead?’
‘What?’ cried George. ‘Of course, of course she was!’
‘But I never saw her body; all I ever saw was the coffin.’
George waved his hand in front of his face. He shuffled his feet and started to mutter to himself.
‘George, please!’
‘Ridiculous, nonsense.’ He opened the newspaper and held it high in front of him. I stared at the blur of newsprint, then I got up quietly and left the room.
In the study, a little brown bottle of pills sat on the desk.
30
The sound of the alarm clock drilled inside my head. George swung his arm over the nightstand, sending the clock crashing to the floor. The mattress bucked underneath me as he left for the bathroom and, when he returned, it was only to rummage in the wardrobe for his clothes. Soon after I heard the slam of the front door and the roar of tyres on gravel. Gone were the days where he would hover by my pillow, wondering whether to wake me for the sake of a kiss. The air of the September morning was starting to bite and I shivered as the blankets slid off me, dressing quickly with just a splash of cold water to liven my complexion.
Ruby sat at the dining room table chewing her toast like a cow with cud, her eyes slowly following me round the room as I collected up the mince-smeared dishes. After I had put the dishes in to soak, I found her in the lounge sat on the window seat gazing out towards the war memorial, just the way George had described.
‘I know, darling, it’s such a sad—’
But she shook my hand from her shoulder and climbed the stairs wearily and soon I heard the ping-ping-ping of the xylophone – a few bars of ‘Frère Jacques’, then ‘London Bridge’ and then ‘Old MacDonald’, as if her mind couldn’t settle.
I wandered about, collecting the remnants of the night before: Audrey’s wine glass with the red print of her lips; George’s plate, spotlessly clean, the knife and fork perfectly aligned in the middle; the tablecloth with the little spot of gravy that Ruby had spilled; and her napkin on the floor by her chair.
In the study were two sherry glasses, amber-stained and sticky. An assortment of cigarette butts remained in the ashtray; Walter’s Turkish Camels and George’s withered Woodbines. This was where two men had sat and smoked as they watched the light fading over the garden. Two doctors discussing a patient, where the man of the house had diagnosed his wife and, in his mind, committed her to a padded cell.
On the desk the notepad lay open. George had begun to write a letter that morning, but then must have thought better of it. Whatever had been written was torn up into dozens of pieces in the wastepaper basket, the scratch of the nib all that was visible of what could not be said.
*
I was up to my elbows in cold soap suds when the doorbell rang.
‘Shit!’ I spat, raking my fingers on my skirt and cursing Mr. Tuttle for his impropriety. But it was not the old man on the doorstep. It was an old, plump woman, her bosom almost filling the doorway.
‘Sadie!’ I said.
She nodded – a curt little nod, not an agreement but an acknowledgement, her lips tightening into one of her poisonous little kisses.
‘You wanted your answer,’ she said, thrusting forward a piece of paper, ‘well, here it is.’
I glanced upstairs quickly but the staircase was empty and the tinkling of the xylophone continued, with no break in the tune. I took the paper, quickly. It was a birth certificate, the birth certificate of a Ruby Brown. ‘Oh,’ I said suddenly, embarrassed. ‘Really, this is quite unnecessary.’
Aunt Sadie jabbed a fat finger at the paper. ‘Name of mother,’ she said slowly, ‘Maud, El-ean-or, Brown.’ She looked up at me, her eyes darting over my face as if she was watching for a reaction. ‘You have to understand that Ruby is Maud’s child.’
‘I see,’ I snapped. I held the document out to her but she raised her hand to block me.
‘No!’ she spat. ‘You return it to Maud when you see her. Put it in her hands when you apologize… and when you return Ruby. And when you do that you can explain why you have it.’
‘Maud is very ill,’ I said. ‘What about the contagion? I can’t return Ruby – she will be at risk if she goes back now.’
‘Things have been sorted out,’ said Sadie. ‘The boys will be going home soon. I’ve got them trained to behave about the place. They will look after Maud, light the fires and keep her fed. They all know to cover their faces if they get too close.’
‘But what about when—’
‘Maud will get better, you just wait,’ said Sadie firmly, as if stating obvious facts to a child.
‘No, Sadie,’ I said, putting my hand on her arm. ‘Maud may seem better at the moment, but you must know that in the end she may never—’ But she shook her arm away from me.
‘All right,’ I
said, ‘but I can only ask Maud what she wants to do. It’s up to her.’
She nodded again, the same curt little nod. ‘But you will respect what she says – respect her wishes.’
‘Of course.’ I shut the door.
I went inside and sat on the window seat. I watched the people on the street walking past the window, their legless bodies gliding along the privet hedge. I thought how ordinary their lives seemed and then realized that I envied them.
Then I saw the little brown bottle of pills on the mantelpiece. George must have put them there as an encouragement for me to take them. He had been right after all, I must be mad. I held the proof in my hands. It was official – I was holding the birth certificate of Ruby Edna Brown. Ruby was Maud’s daughter, she always had been, yet I had mistaken her for Violet, a baby who had died nine years ago. I imagined one of the pills sliding down my throat and everything being erased, everything being happy. But that would be admitting to George that I was wrong and, even if the pills made everything go away, I was still left with the child upstairs. The child I had come to love.
I looked at the document in my hand – the crest of the Missensham registration district adorning the top and a series of boxes, each filled with the slanting handwriting of the registrar. Like Violet, Ruby had been a hospital birth, another baby born at Oxworth General. But where Violet had been born in the labour ward, Ruby’s certificate said ‘isolation (pulmonary)’. Her mother was Maud Brown, just as Sadie had said, but the father’s name was left blank. Somehow I was not surprised. Ruby had been born just a couple of days before Violet on the 5th of May 1926. Ruby did have a lot in common with Violet, this document showed that, but at the same time it proved that she was not her.
But there was another name on the birth certificate; another person had been involved. The informant – the person who had registered the birth – was not Maud and I stared at the entry in disbelief, but there was no mistake. It was one George Arthur Marks, a signature of whorls and loops like a royal seal and an address of Little Willow, Missensham. The only other explanation was written underneath: ‘present at birth’.
The Liar Page 19
