by Hannah Emery
If only she had tried to tell Harry before this morning, it might have all been different. If only, if only.
Gaspings House was a red-brick Victorian building with jutting leaded windows. As Victoria sat in her father’s car, an irrepressible urge to yank the door open and run away tore through her body. But then her father was suddenly there, beside her door, taking her hand and helping her out of the car. He looked down at her, a strange, pinched expression on his face.
He didn’t want to leave her, Victoria realised with a start. She gazed up into Jack’s eyes, but the moment of softness passed, leaving Victoria wondering if it had ever been there to begin with.
The air, once out of the car, was still and silent. The front garden of the house was bare and pale with a week’s worth of frost, the ground soft under Victoria’s feet. As she stood with her father at the wide front door, Victoria felt her mother drifting behind her like a shadow. She turned to look at her. Something seemed not quite right, but before Victoria could work out what it was, the scene shifted as it might in a dream and they were all of a sudden standing in the hallway of Gaspings House.
It was clear that it had been a beautiful home once. A twisting staircase spilled out from the centre of the hallway, its imposing dark bannister polished but worn. There was plenty of furniture: plastic, mismatched chairs in the large hall; a tired rug; a vase of artificial flowers on the windowsill. But something seemed missing somehow. The house had that aloof, detached feel of a school or a hospital. It wasn’t somewhere you might want to sleep or wash your hair or brush your teeth.
The woman who had let them in was silent for a few moments as Victoria and her parents shuffled in and looked around.
‘I’m Matron,’ she barked eventually, in a voice that seemed too loud for her frail body.
There was a smell of eggs floating in the air, and without warning Victoria was transported back to that day last summer with Harry and the omelettes and the thunderstorm. Harry, with his kind eyes and his confidence in Victoria’s writing and his disappointment on the day she told him she was going away to stay with Sally and her aunt. A surge of heavy guilt swept through her. Why had she lied to him that day? Why hadn’t she just told him then, before it was too late? Sorrow lurched forwards in her, bringing back the urge to run home, to Harry, to anywhere but here and now.
‘I need Harry to know,’ she said, turning to her mother and finding herself tugging at her dress like a child.
Her mother paled. ‘That’s enough, darling. Don’t cause a scene, now.’
Matron coughed like a teacher, not to clear her throat but to make the point that she was in control and that things were on the verge of getting out of hand and she’d like them back in hand, please.
Jack turned, swivelling his broad body around to face his wife. ‘What’s she saying?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Victoria breathed through her mouth to avoid the smell of eggs. In, out, in, out. Keep breathing, and all of this will somehow evaporate into another time, she told herself.
‘Come upstairs,’ Matron said briskly, gesturing for Victoria to pick up her case from where she had left it on the floor. ‘You need to see where you’ll be sleeping.’
The house was split over three floors. Victoria lugged the blue suitcase up as she followed Matron up the stairs. Her parents lagged behind. Her father didn’t touch anything, didn’t hold onto the bannister, didn’t offer to help Victoria carry her things. The brittle thread that had floated between them previously, before Victoria had met Harry and got into this state, was broken.
‘This is where you’ll stay,’ Matron said loudly as she opened the door to a room in which four beds were lined against the back wall. ‘There’s a bed spare. That one, by the window.’
Victoria gazed over to where Matron was pointing. The window ran along the whole length of the bed. The net curtains moved softly in the draught, even though the air outside had been still. It was going to be freezing in here tonight. It was impossible to imagine lying in that bed. What on earth would it be like sharing a room with three other girls? Victoria thought of Sally. She imagined her friend sitting on the assigned bed, jiggling about and commenting on the state of the mattress and the ugly green blankets. A sickening longing for Sally floated down onto Victoria’s shoulders. If only she were here now.
‘Some of the girls have finished their jobs for today, and so they’re in the common room,’ Matron said, snapping Victoria out of her thoughts and making the vision of Sally sitting on the bed vanish into a stark nothing. ‘If your parents are happy to leave now, I’ll take you down and you can introduce yourself.’
Victoria stared at Matron. There it was. In those perfectly pleasant words was a trace of what she had expected: disapproval. She looked past the small, greying woman to her mother, who stared out of the window to the frozen hills beyond. Her father looked down at the floor: an orange carpet that Victoria knew would make her feet itch if she went barefoot.
Victoria touched her belly fleetingly and behind her duffle coat felt her bump. The baby had been still for most of the day, but now it flipped around like an eel. Even the baby knew that things were changing: that an end, or a beginning, was hurtling towards them like an angry bull.
Matron’s eyes flickered down to where Victoria’s hand rested and she gave a small sigh of irritation. ‘Come on. I’ll see you out now, Mr and Mrs Lace.’
This would surely be it. This would be the moment where Victoria’s parents took her by the hand and told her that she had been punished enough. Any second now they would seize her sleeve and pull her down the musty corridor, bundle her back into the car and whizz off into a future with Harry and the baby and a new Silver Cross pram. They would.
Any minute now.
Victoria waited, but the moment never came. Instead, her parents walked softly in Matron’s aggressive footsteps to the front door of Gaspings House. When they reached the door, Jack stood well back and nodded at Matron, his eyes never reaching Victoria’s. The smell of Chanel wafted over Victoria as her mother gave her a brief hug. Victoria clung to her mother, her nails digging into her bony back, but her mother retracted them carefully. As she did, Victoria felt her fingers being quickly prized open, and something cool and sharp being placed into them.
‘For the baby. For hope,’ her mother whispered, the milky scent of her breath covering the words and making them sweet.
The door opened, an unpleasant swirl of icy air swept into the hallway and her parents moved out into the mist. As she stood in a painless, strange horror, Victoria remembered her mother’s gift. She opened her fingers and stared down. There lay a fragment of bright-green emerald that she remembered always dangling from a chain around her mother’s neck, a chain that she now realised hadn’t been there today. That’s what had been different. She clasped her fingers around the stone again, the edges pricking at her skin like needles. Her parents’ car coughed to a start so slowly that Victoria wondered if she might have time to run out and climb in, but before she could make her shaking limbs move, the car was gone and she was alone with Matron in the fading light of the corridor.
Chapter 15
Isobel: 2011
My Queen,
I’ve been re-reading the short stories that you left with me all those months ago, before you wrote the Castle piece. I like holding your paper, seeing the strokes of your pen and creating your own images in my mind. I remember that you asked me to tell you what I honestly thought of them. I honestly think they are excellent. But you also made me promise that I’d tell you what you could work on, and make better.
There’s only one thing to make better now, Victoria. Come back and read them with me.
H
It feels as though Isobel has been asleep for a hundred years. When her eyes flicker open, she sees white curtains and a grey ceiling. Her eyes close again and her mind begins to whir with memories that are only half-formed: the tangy smell of blood, wetness between her thighs, pe
ople gripping her hand then leaving her and then coming back again. She remembers the feeling of pain pulsing through her, as though it was going to rip her apart. There was beeping, wheeling of trollies, the steady murmur of voices. A sharp sting in her back, and then an uncomfortable, heavy numbness that spread through her legs and is still there now. As her eyes begin to open again, a sense of something surreal flutters down on her.
The baby.
She tries to sit up, but can’t. The bed she is in is hard and so infuriatingly smooth that when she manages to ease herself up on the pillows, she slides back down again.
‘Hey, Isobel, Isobel. It’s me.’ Tom is standing over her, his face grey.
‘What happened?’ Isobel manages to say, her voice rasping and not her own. She swallows and presses her lips together. They are dry and hard.
‘You’re okay, Isobel. You’ve had a bad time.’
‘But the baby?’
Tom’s face transforms, lifts. ‘It’s a girl,’ he says.
‘She’s okay?’
‘She’s absolutely fine. You both did so well. But it was a bad labour and you lost a lot of blood.’
Isobel touches her stomach. It’s baggy and stretched, like an old water balloon that’s almost empty.
‘Where is she?’
Tom grins and gestures next to Isobel. There, in a transparent cot, is a tiny bundle. Isobel forces herself up on her elbows and gazes down. The baby’s lips are full and pink, its eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the life it has been thrust into.
‘I can’t believe it’s happened.’
‘You were out of it on drugs for most of it. Iris called me and told me you’d gone into labour on the beach while you were out walking together. She’s gone home to get some rest. She stayed here the whole time, to make sure that you were okay.’
‘I remember her talking to you on the phone. That was just after the pain started. We were walking on the beach and then I was suddenly in agony. Everything after that is a bit of a haze. I can just about remember the labour, but it feels like a dream.’
Tom strokes Isobel’s arm and she stares up at him. His expression is not like his usual one. He looks jagged and tense. Her eyes move to the cot and Tom wanders over to it and gazes at the bundle inside. ‘So her name…’ he begins.
Isobel looks at him cautiously. ‘You’re sure you’re fine with it?’
‘I love it. Honestly.’
Isobel smiles at him, her lips cracking and burning with the movement. She turns awkwardly to dangle her hand in the cot and stroke her daughter’s cheek. ‘Hello, Beatrice. Happy birthday,’ she says.
Beatrice writhes a little and then lets out a soft snort. She reminds Isobel of a piglet: pink and new, snuffling into the mustard hospital blanket.
‘Your dad is on his way,’ Tom says after a moment.
Isobel lies back on the hard, high bed. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. He’s coming with my mum for visiting hours.’
‘I didn’t think he’d come here. He’s funny about hospitals.’
‘I think people who are funny about hospitals make allowances for babies. It’s an exception to the rule.’ He hands Isobel a drink of water from the jug on her bedside locker. It’s warm and metallic. Tap water. It reminds her of childhood, of home, of her mother. She turns to the cot and looks again at Beatrice.
I won’t mess things up for you, she says silently. I won’t fade out of your life before you’re ready for me to and I won’t let anybody let you down.
Isobel is lying with her eyes closed when Daphne and her father arrive. They think she’s asleep and whisper, their words hissing in the air.
‘How’s she doing?’
‘They’re both doing well.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘Get a photo.’
‘Have they checked her over?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine.’
Isobel hears the soft bounce of a helium balloon and the rustle of a carrier bag. She hears Tom walk over to the cot and lift out Beatrice. Beatrice begins to yowl like a hungry cat.
Isobel opens her eyes and sees her father holding Beatrice awkwardly. The sight makes a lump appear in her throat, stings her eyes, makes her whole face ache.
‘I didn’t think you’d come, Dad.’
He doesn’t move his eyes from Beatrice. ‘Of course I came.’
‘So don’t you want to know what we’ve called her?’ Tom says to the small group eventually as quiet falls like snow over the room.
‘Yes!’ Graham’s cheeks are red. He looks like he’s been out in the sun. He is more excited about hearing the baby’s name than he has been about anything in the last three years.
‘It’s Beatrice,’ Isobel says, watching her father cautiously.
‘I love it,’ he says.
‘It’s quite unusual,’ adds Daphne, peering at Beatrice.
‘It’s popular these days. And it was Isobel’s mum’s name,’ Tom tells her, his hand resting on Isobel’s shoulder.
Graham holds Beatrice out to Daphne. ‘Do you want to hold her?’ he asks.
Daphne takes Beatrice awkwardly, slowly, her face collapsing. Isobel can see tears gathering in her eyes, her fingers turning white beneath the nail as she clutches at the blanket tightly. Daphne turns from everybody, rocking Beatrice in her arms and singing a strange, strangled lullaby. When she turns back around, her face is puffed and pink. She hands Beatrice back to Tom.
‘I hope you’re going to take very good care of her,’ Daphne says as Tom readjusts Beatrice’s hat.
He looks up. ‘Of course I am.’
But it seems Daphne hasn’t finished. ‘You can’t be changing your mind about what you want, you know. Not now. You need to focus on Isobel and Beatrice.’ Her voice is quiet as always, but it’s sharpened by an unpleasant, insistent tone.
Tom frowns at his mother and takes Beatrice from her. Isobel tries to work out if his face betrays any knowledge of why Daphne is being so accusing, so harsh. She tries to think why her words pull at a cord of anxiety. But her head aches and her mind is strangely slow and heavy. She can see nothing. She closes her eyes, hoping that there is nothing to see.
She didn’t think they would let her go home so soon.
But they do. They don’t seem to be concerned that neither she nor Tom know what they are doing: how to change a nappy, how to be responsible for all eternity, how to work out why the baby keeps wailing like a faulty siren.
So home they go, to Broadsands. Tom leans gently over the just-unpacked car seat, working out the buckles and straps while Beatrice screams blue murder in his face. He drives home slowly, meticulously, glancing every couple of seconds into the back of the car. Isobel closes her eyes as they wind through the uneven roads of Silenshore, trying to sleep, if only for an instant.
‘Looking forward to getting back?’ Tom asks, when there is a lull in Beatrice’s crying.
Isobel nods, although she knows he probably doesn’t see her. But her words seem to have all gone. Perhaps her words are all still on the beach, where the pain ripped the life she knew away. Perhaps they are wandering around with the old versions of Isobel, floating along the coastline like ghosts.
When they get back, Daphne loiters in the corner of the kitchen.
‘Do you want to hold her?’ Tom asks as they bring Beatrice in and set down their bags on the table.
Daphne shakes her head. She looks tired: her eyes are weighted with lines and grey shadows.
Tom shrugs and takes Beatrice from her car seat himself.
‘You go and have a lie down, if you like,’ he says to Isobel, motioning to the lounge.
Even though it’s a warm day, Daphne has lit the woodburning stove and it glows luminous in the centre of the wall. Isobel sinks down onto the sofa carefully. She watches as Tom rocks Beatrice gently and sees her pale-pink translucent eyelids droop. Once Beatrice is in the crib in the corner of the room, Tom disappears and then returns with a pile of pink congratulation
s cards. Isobel stretches out on the sofa as Tom puts all the cards up on the oak mantlepiece. The sight of him carefully displaying them all next to one another in a neat row makes her ache with something, although she’s too tired to identify exactly what it is. He puts up the last card, a huge creation involving a pop-up stork, and then wanders over to the couch. He bends over and kisses Isobel, and she smells the not altogether unpleasant stale smell of him, of his unwashed hair and skin. He hasn’t showered today because he rushed to the hospital first thing this morning and stayed with Isobel all day, chatting to her as she held Beatrice to her breast, wincing along with her at the ferocity of the relentless little mouth on her nipple.
‘You know, you should get some sleep before Beatrice wakes up again,’ Tom says.
Isobel nods and Tom stands up. He pulls a fleece blanket over her and draws the curtains. It’s still light and the room is bright with early summer sunshine that glows through Daphne’s yellow curtains. Isobel closes her eyes, but once she hears Tom leave the room, her insides begin to slowly whirl around in a panic that she can’t seem to grasp or stop.
Sleep seems a million miles away.
She sits up and looks across at the outline of the little bundle in the crib next to the couch. She’s been staring at Beatrice for most of the day, trying to relate what she sees to the shifting, growing belly that she’s had for the past six months; the hopeful, excited glances that she and Tom shared the weeks before the birth. But she can’t relate to it at all. She can’t relate this, this intensity of feeling, this little shrimp in a blanket, this blur of exhaustion and shock, to anything that has ever gone before.
She lies back on the sofa and stares into space until the bundle next to her begins wriggling and mewling. Tom appears.
‘Is she hungry?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know.’
