She started to run, then pulled herself up, thinking: I mustn’t do this; I mustn’t be silly. Almost as she stopped her foot slipped into a shallow ditch, and to save herself from falling she grabbed at the nearest thing to hand, which was a young silver birch. It bent with her weight, twisting her sharply. Every pore in her body registered the flash of pain that shot through her. She lowered herself slowly on to the grass. Her breath came in gasps. What had she done? Oh God, what had she done? She remained still, waiting. It came again, more terrible in its intensity and sharpness; it shot through her brain, and blotted itself out with its own force. When it passed, she was lying along the grass, her fingers deep in the earth. She was conscious of thinking, I am dying; Rodney will be too late. Then she grasped at a straw: But Steve’s here. Steve will help me.
When the pain came again she screamed, ‘Steve! Steve!’ She continued to scream, ‘Steve! Steve!’ She knew she couldn’t bear this and live.
It seemed a long time before she returned from some deep, deep place and heard Steve’s voice, coming as if from the top of a high mountain, repeating, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. They’re coming. They’re coming.’ As the agony seized her again she clung to him, and the last thing she remembered was the grip of his arms about her as she went down.
8
They took the baby out of Kate’s body at four o’clock in the morning. While Peter, a gynaecologist and two nurses worked in the room above, Rodney and Annie waited below. All night they had been together, not moving far from each other. Whether sitting, walking or standing, Annie kept near her stepfather. Rising above the sick terror in her heart was the desire to help and comfort him; never had she imagined that this god-like man, as he had always seemed to her, could be afraid, yet his fear was so apparent as to make him appear young in her eyes.
Mrs Summers came in with a tray; her face was red and swollen. ‘Try to drink this strong cup of tea, doctor. It’ll do you good,’ she said. As Rodney didn’t answer, she motioned to Annie to press her point, then went heavily out.
Annie placed a cup at Rodney’s hand, then sat down beside him and continued to say her rosary, her fingers moving over the beads in the pocket of her dress.
Looking out of the window into the chill bleakness which precedes the dawn, Rodney cried silently, Kate! Kate! Don’t leave me! Oh, beloved, don’t leave me.
The aeon of pain-filled time which had passed since last night would, he knew, leave its mark on him for ever. If only she had spoken to him between her spasms of excruciating torture. But during the brief spells of consciousness it was Steve’s name she called. The gynaecologist asked who Steve was. His manner of assumed disinterest when told Steve was the chauffeur so annoyed Rodney that he felt compelled to explain that it was Steve who found Kate, and that, as he was the last person her conscious mind registered, she would naturally repeat the name. The gynaecologist had said soothingly, ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’
But now she wasn’t calling; they were cutting her up. The flesh would be folded back over her stomach; there would be the tangle of intestines…One little slip! One little slip! Oh God, if only he didn’t know it, step by step! He buried his face in his hand and groaned, and Annie stood up and put her arms about him, cradling his head on her breast and soothing him. She kept murmuring, ‘There…there,’ very much as Kate herself would have done.
After what seemed another eternity the door at the far end of the room opened, and they both turned to stare at Peter. Rodney got to his feet, and Peter, coming towards him, said, ‘It’s all right, man, it’s all over. It’s a little girl, and she’s alive.’
Rodney gave an impatient shake of his head.
‘Kate’ll be all right too,’ said Peter, with a casualness he was far from feeling; ‘that fellow’s a marvel. He’s coming down now, and we both need a drink.’ He didn’t add that he had witnessed what was, even to his professional mind, a miracle: Kate should have been dead an hour ago; she’d never be as near again. Was it the will to live, or someone’s prayers? He didn’t know. Only one thing was sure: she’d had her last baby.
Rodney closed his eyes. To some unseen force to which he had been pleading for hours he said, simply, ‘Thank you.’ Then he turned to Annie, and they smiled wanly at each other.
‘Can I see her, Uncle Peter?’ Annie asked eagerly.
‘In a couple of days’ time, perhaps,’ he said, patting her shoulder comfortingly.
Left alone, Annie went to the window-seat and knelt down. She took her rosary from her pocket and began to recite the five Glorious Mysteries. All night she had said the five Sorrowful, dwelling on Christ’s Agony in the Garden, but now the agony was over and she prayed with deep thanksgiving.
When she at last rose to her feet she stood and leant her head against the windowframe…Never again would she say she hated anyone. The blinding hate she felt for Cathleen last night was, she imagined, in some way responsible for what had happened to her mother, as if God was showing her there could be greater pain and greater losses than her own little personal ones. And her hate was a greater sin, too, because of what she had already promised to God. To promise to give Him your life, then to let hate consume you through jealousy, was dreadful. Oh, she would try to be better. She would.
She gazed at the room’s reflection in the windowpane. Everything stood out in minute detail: the large open fireplace with the firedogs glinting in the reflection of the flames, the white bearskin rug on the red carpet, the two small railing-topped tables, the deep armchairs, all combining to make a picture of comfort. It’s beautiful, she thought, but I would never have wanted to see it again if Mam had died. And she nearly died, I could feel it. I have so much, and I am so ungrateful. Oh God, make me grateful and content.
The night had seemed endless, but now it must soon be dawn. She had never seen the sunrise. She had a sudden desire to go outside into the chill air and to see the sky lifting its dark curtain to light and warmth. Taking her hooded coat from the hall-stand, she went outside and walked slowly down the curving path to the gate. But even before reaching it, even before she saw the glow of the cigarette, she was aware of someone standing there. She paused, and a voice said, ‘It’s all right, it’s only us.’
‘Oh!’ she said, and put her hand to the neck of her coat and pulled it tighter about her throat.
‘How is she, hinny?’ It was Mr Macbane’s voice.
Annie replied, ‘The baby’s born, it’s a girl. And the doctor says Mam will be all right.’
‘Ah! Thank God…Well, that’s summat to know. Now I’ll get back an’ tell the missis.’
Annie stepped nearer to them. ‘Oh, Mr Macbane, you should have come in; you shouldn’t have stayed out here all night.’
‘Well, we wor a bit worried, ye know. We haven’t been oot all the time; we took our turns.’ Mr Macbane had helped Steve to carry Kate on a stretcher to the house, and her groans were still ringing in his ears. He said, ‘Well, I’m glad it’s over…I’m off, lad.’ His steps crunched away, and Annie stood watching the glowing tip of the cigarette as Terence inhaled.
‘It was good of you to wait,’ she said.
And he answered, low, ‘It would have been dreadful if anything had happened to her.’
In the silence between them the cigarette glowed more deeply, until Annie hesitantly said, ‘I came out to see the sunrise.’
It was some time before he replied, ‘You won’t see it from here, because of the trees. You’ll have to go to the end of the lane; it rises over Thorpe’s cornfield.’
Into their silence a faint rustling sound came from the woods, followed by definite movements in the hedge opposite and to right and left of them. A bird called. Then another. There were answering calls. Then the birds all seemed to speak at once, a crescendo of sound filling the air, blending into a chorus which soared up to the paling stars.
Annie looked up into the sky. It seemed to be getting higher and higher, as if the birdsong was pushing away the black night; the dawn
was breaking.
When she again looked at Terence, she could see the sharp outline of his face. He was gazing at her. The hood had fallen back from her head, and to him she appeared as she had done that night on the step of the cottage when she came to ask him to the party. Only now, even in the dim light, he could see she looked tired and her face was strained.
‘I’ve never heard them make such a noise before.’
‘You must sleep well,’ he said, ‘for they always do. This is the dawn chorus. Some of them start much earlier, but they all get going with the light.’
‘Do you often hear them?’ Her voice was impersonal and calm.
‘Yes, often. Are you going to the end of the lane?’ he asked gently.
She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said quietly, ‘Yes.’
He opened the gate, and she passed through, and they walked down the lane together, neither of them speaking. Studiedly, they kept their distance.
When the silence became almost unendurable Annie ventured, ‘Term will soon be starting again.’
‘Yes, two more days and I go up. When do you go back?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘It’s my last term,’ he said.
‘Are you sorry?’ she asked.
‘Yes and no. I’ll be glad when I’m teaching.’
They were talking like polite strangers. There seemed nothing more to be said, and again silence fell between them until they reached the end of the lane. And there Terence exclaimed, ‘We’re just in time. Look at that!’ His voice was full of wonder, as if he were beholding the scene for the first time.
Annie looked across the cornfield on the opposite side of the main road. Over its far edge came the heralds of the rising sun: rays of purple, red and green, spreading out into a fan of flame, sweeping up into the sky and sending the stars to their night.
‘It’s wonderful!’ she breathed, entranced, wondering why she had never seen this before. Every morning this happened, and yet she was seeing the sunrise for the first time. She realised dimly that one of nature’s greatest wonders was witnessed each dawn by only a handful of the world’s millions. Sleep claimed weary bodies, and most people who were about at this hour were, like herself, only there through some unusual occurrence. Of course there were exceptions, like Terence, who got up to see the sunrise, or walked all through the night to meet it. Yes, he was different. She looked at him and found his eyes fixed on her face. His lips were apart as if he were on the point of saying something. She would not meet his eyes, but turned back up the lane, saying, ‘I’ll have to be getting back, Rodney may be wanting me.’ That’s how he had looked at her in the hall at the party, and then kissed Cathleen afterwards.
She mustn’t let it affect her, she must keep cool and calm.
He walked by her side to the gate, and there she turned to him and smiled gently, saying coolly, ‘Thank you, Terence, for being so thoughtful about Mam…Goodbye.’ And as she walked up the path she was conscious that he was standing watching her, and her heart suddenly leapt, in spite of her efforts to remember that it meant nothing.
It was about eleven o’clock when Mrs Summers bent over Annie and gently shook her. ‘Miss Annie!…Hinny! Miss Annie, wake up!’
Annie sat bolt-upright in bed. Wide-eyed, she stared at Mrs Summers. ‘It’s Mam! She’s worse?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. She’s sleeping peacefully. No. It’s young Macbane. He called at the front door and asked for you. He’s all ready for the road. I didn’t tell him you were in bed, I just told him to wait…It won’t take you a minute to get your clothes on. Come on now.’
Mrs Summers didn’t leave the room until Annie was out of bed and clambering into her clothes.
Every little counts, she said to herself as she went downstairs. Very little escaped Mrs Summers; she went about, as she was apt to say, with her eyes wide open, and she’d had them open for years where Annie and her interest in Macbane were concerned.
Still dazed with sleep, Annie rushed to the bathroom and douched her face with cold water. She decided there wasn’t time to do her hair, so she just combed the top smooth, threw the tousled plaits behind her back and hurried downstairs.
Terence wasn’t in the hall, but she could see him through the open doorway, standing on the path and talking to David. The sight of him made her pause, and ask herself, Why am I hurrying? What does he want?
She walked slowly towards him. He had his back to her and was saying, ‘I sleep in a field; my little tent’s in here.’ He patted the bulging knapsack on his back.
‘And is your bed in there too?’ David asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!…I wish I could go with you and sleep in a field…Oh I do, Terence. Could I come?’
‘Yes, when you’re a little bigger.’
‘How much bigger?’ asked David. Then, catching sight of Annie, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, Annie, Terence is going to sleep in a field…I want to go and sleep in a field too.’
Terence turned and said hurriedly, ‘I called to see how your mother is…and…and to say goodbye.’
Annie didn’t answer. He had never before called to say goodbye. She stared at him, and he continued, ‘I do hope she is better soon.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘Apparently she is still sleeping.’ And after a pause she added, ‘I thought you had another two days?’
He hitched the knapsack further up on his back. ‘I’ve decided to cycle back,’ he replied. ‘It’ll take me a couple of days…And my friend returns home today. There’s nothing much to stay for.’ As if realising what his words implied, his face flushed, and he bent down to put on his cycle clips.
David cried, ‘Let me! Let me help you, Terence!’
Terence laughed, and allowed David to turn the clips around his trouser legs. Then he straightened and looked at Annie once more, and his steady, intent gaze seemed to be asking her something. She turned quickly away and walked towards the gate. He followed, with David hopping along beside him.
‘My Mammy’s sick,’ David was saying. ‘And there’s a thing in the nursery squealing. Daddy says it’s our baby, and wanted me to look. But I wouldn’t. My puppy doesn’t squeal like that. I’d rather have him, he’s fat, and I’m going to call him Hannigan, like me…Would you rather have a puppy or a squealy baby, Terence?’
‘I’d rather have a puppy.’ He caught Annie’s glance and smiled, and her eyes dropped before the look in his. ‘I hope you enjoy your term,’ he said.
‘Yes, I hope I do. And you too.’ She would remain cool, nothing would disturb her.
‘Goodbye, Annie.’ He was standing before her. She could scarcely bear to look at him; the nearness of him, the tenderness in his eyes, the thinness that always aroused her compassion were unnerving her. What could he mean? There was still Cathleen. But his voice was low, and saying more than just ‘Goodbye, Annie.’
When she did raise her head she returned his smile: ‘Goodbye, Terence.’
They looked at one another for a moment longer. Then without another word he mounted his cycle and rode off. He had gone some little way when he turned and called, ‘Goodbye, David.’
David ran wildly down the lane after him, shouting, ‘Goodbye, Terence! Goodbye! Goodbye, Terence!’
Annie walked slowly up the path, thinking: It means nothing, nothing at all…Oh, but if it did! She suddenly skipped the remaining distance to the front door, and there pulled up abruptly with the thought that there was her promise to God—what about that?
It was about seven o’clock the same evening when Cathleen came in, her face a mixture of various emotions. She went straight to Rodney. ‘Oh, pet, I’m so sorry. How is she?’
‘Still very ill, I’m afraid, Cathleen,’ he replied.
‘Oh my dear, how awful! And you look quite done in. Haven’t you been to bed at all?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I haven’t. But I’m going now to try and get an hour.’
‘That’s right, darling.’ She bent and kissed him.
‘You mustn’t crock up; whatever would Kate do?’
He smiled at her gratefully and patted her cheek. On rising he turned to Annie, who was sitting by the fire, and asked, ‘You’ll call me, won’t you, dear?’
‘Yes.’ Annie nodded.
‘Goodbye, Cathleen. It’s good of you to come up.’
‘Good of me!…Don’t be silly’—she kissed him—‘I was worried to death. Now go and have a good sleep. Don’t worry, pet, everything will be all right.’
When Rodney had gone Cathleen took his seat and lit a cigarette. She handed the case across to Annie: ‘Want one?’ Annie made a motion with her head, and Cathleen laughed. ‘Of course you wouldn’t, you’re not alive yet.’ Her voice held none of the softness of a few moments ago. ‘What are you staring at?’ she asked, then exclaimed, ‘Oh! Can you notice it?…I don’t really need anything on my lashes, but it’s fun.’
Annie saw that besides the lipstick Cathleen always used there was colour on her cheeks, and her eyes were darkened with a kind of grease. The lids looked blue and weird.
Cathleen began to ask particulars about Kate. Had Annie seen her when she was brought home? Was she conscious? Only partly, Annie said, and she had kept calling for Steve.
Cathleen raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Really!’
After a few moments she stood up, saying, ‘Well, I must go and see what’s happened to my Terence, there isn’t much time left…I’ll be glad when he’s finished and gets a post nearer home.’ She looked down on Annie, who was staring at her, and went on, ‘What do you think! We may go to Paris in the summer. Isaac Holt, he’s a teacher at school, has a studio there, with a couple of rooms attached. It’s let up to July, but he says we can pig in with him during the vac.’ She gave her deep laugh. ‘He’d prefer to pig in without Terence, but I said, “Oh no! Terence or nothing.” And do you know John Dane Dee’s coming through? He’s some boy, that!’ She stopped and exclaimed impatiently, ‘Why on earth are you staring like that? What are you gaping at?’
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