‘Ah, hallo, Molly? Is that you?’ It was a woman’s voice, but difficult to know which one, with all the background noise.
‘No, it’s her daughter here. Shall I fetch her for you?’
‘Please.’ There was so much she had to tell, so much news to catch up with, but it would have to wait. Jo had said ‘Use the phone. Make yourself at home,’ but it wasn’t fair to abuse her generosity, indulge in rambling long-distance calls. All she would do was wish the Bertrams a successful party and a happy New Year. She could confide about the baby later, when she had found a room, coax Molly down for a visit, swear her to secrecy.
‘Hi, Molly. It’s Jennifer here. Jenny Winterton.’
‘Jenny! How nice. Look, you’d better shout, my dear. I’ve got hordes of people milling about and I can hardly hear for all the noise. Where are you?’
‘Er … Putney, at the moment.’
‘With Anne and Matthew?’
‘No, with … oh, never mind. Look, I just wanted to say happy New Year.’
‘Same to you. When are you coming up?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, now that Lyn’s back, I hoped you’d be planning to join him.’
‘L … Lyn?’ Jennifer tried to repeat the name, but her voice had skidded away from her. She clutched at the edge of the chair. It, too, felt unsteady, insubstantial. The whole room had started trembling. ‘Wh … what did you say?’
‘Lyn’s sort of camping out at Hernhope. Didn’t you know, love? I’m sorry, I assumed you …’ There was a sudden crackling noise and Molly’s voice stuttered into silence.
Jennifer shook the phone, shouted down it. ‘Molly? Are you still there? What happened? Hallo? Hallo?’
Nothing.
Should she dial again? She had to re-establish contact, find out what Lyn was doing. It was extraordinary, miraculous, that he was back at Hernhope when she had assumed him in some alien land, or at least on the run and footloose. Her heart was thumping, a crazy excitement surging through her body. She had to find out more, but the phone was silent still and dead. Supposing the lines had just come down with all the snow, and they were cut off now for several days? It happened often up at Mepperton.
There was a sudden click and Molly’s voice returned, loud and reassuring. ‘Ah, that’s better. There was some sort of interference on the line, but I think it’s cleared now. Mind you, it’s bedlam here with all these people. We’ve got forty guests already. Hold on a sec and I’ll take it on the phone upstairs. OK?’
Jennifer waited in a fever of impatience. How could just her husband’s name set up such a turmoil? There was anger mixed with the excitement and relief. What was he doing, sneaking back to Hernhope when he had assured her so vehemently he could never return there again? And if he were safe and well and not abroad, then why hadn’t he been in contact, sent her at least a card?
‘Ah, hallo, Jen? I’ve shut the noise out now. Mind you, this is nothing. We’ll be more or less overrun by midnight. I only hope the food lasts out. I’ve made enough for a regiment, but you know what they’re like up here. They’ve already gone through three dozen sausage rolls and a whole two pounds of …’
‘You said … Lyn …’
‘Yes. He’s back at Hernhope. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it? I’m sorry, love, I’d no idea the two of you were so completely out of touch. I realised things were bad, of course, but I hoped you might have patched it up by now. Mind you, I said to Mick it was odd you hadn’t phoned for such a time, and then Lyn just turning up like that, without …’
‘Look, what’s he …? I mean, have you …? How is he?’
‘I haven’t actually seen him, I’m afraid. I’ve had three of the children down with flu, and we were so frantic over Christmas, I didn’t have time to turn round until the Monday, and the snow was so thick by then, I dared not risk his road. I reckon he must be more or less snowed up. The weather’s been quite shocking. I expect you’ve heard it on the radio. One of our farmhands fell on the ice and …’
‘So how d’you know he’s there, then?’ Molly could be wrong, might have mistaken him for someone else, could have …
‘Young Tim saw him driving up on Christmas Eve. We were all inside with the curtains closed and up to our neck in chores, but he was in his tree-house, getting it ready for Christmas, or so he said. I told him he’d break his neck, out there in the dark and cold, but he’s a real desperado, that one. I mean, only last week, he …’
Jennifer shut her eyes, tried to steady her breathing. Molly rambled so. There were more of Tim’s exploits before she returned to Lyn.
‘There was another car on Christmas Day. That’s unusual. It’s like a morgue up here, once everyone’s returned from church. I didn’t see it myself. I was basting the turkey and by the time I’d manoeuvred it back into the oven, the car had turned the corner. But Helen saw it—a dirty great Mercedes, she said. It must have been going to Hernhope. I mean, we’re the last two houses on the road.’
Jennifer’s legs were twisted round each other, her hand clenched painfully tight on the receiver. Lyn didn’t have friends with Mercedes, hardly had friends at all. What was going on? Had he only returned to Hernhope to share it with someone else? It must be a close friendship if he had invited them for Christmas.
‘I meant to call, Jen—see if I could help or invite him round or something. But Ruth came over queer right in the middle of Christmas dinner and by Boxing Day, I had three of them in bed with streaming colds and temperatures. Then Mick’s great-aunt came to stay. She’s quite a handful on her own. She’s still here, actually. You ought to see her—over eighty and all dressed up like …’
Jennifer wasn’t listening. Only Lyn existed, not the brimming Bertram household. Why had he taken someone else to Hernhope when he refused to take his wife? Except she wasn’t his wife—not in fact or spirit. Hadn’t she just decided to go it alone, devote herself to the child? So why should it concern her that Lyn was back at Hernhope? The marriage was over. Lyn had annulled it by his actions, by withdrawing his body and his presence.
‘Jen, are you still there, love? I can’t hear a dicky bird. This line’s impossible. I suppose it’s all the snow. Actually, we’ve only just got the phone back on. All the lines have been down the last few days. Damn! there’s another ring at the door. I’d better go. Mick’ll be wondering where on earth I’ve got to. Look, try and come up and see us soon. We’d love that, and maybe Lyn will feel different … now he’s back in the house. I mean, he’ll need a woman there. There’s not even any electricity. The generator broke down weeks ago. It must be pretty grim for him. I’d liked to have helped, you know that—but I wasn’t too sure he’d welcome any overture. I mean, after what you told me about him wanting to be on his own and everything. Help! Another invasion by the sound of it. Must dash now. Mick’s hollering for me. Happy New Year!’
‘Happy New …’ Jennifer rose slowly from her chair, paced up and down the room, dodging chairs and chests of drawers, every conflicting emotion battling in her head. Should she dash straight up to Mepperton, have it out with Lyn, rage at him, rebuke him? Or dash straight up to Mepperton and fall into his arms? But what about the baby? Lyn wanted nothing to do with babies. Anyway, she had promised to keep the child in in the warm. If she couldn’t risk three hundred yards to Jo’s local Chinese restaurant, then she could hardly embark on an odyssey to the other end of England. She must stay down south and simply shrug Lyn off. The baby needed her, had no existence at all outside her own, whereas Lyn had proved he could live without her, maybe even preferred being alone and independent.
Alone? She shut her eyes, saw a tall, rich, glamorous woman who drove her men as wildly as her Mercedes, lunging towards him in the lightless house, using the darkness as a cover for her passion. No Lyn hated woman like that. Perhaps it was a different type of girl—artistic, deep, someone who shared his interests, spoke his language, and who had no ties, no dependents. Was she still up there, or had departed afte
r Christmas? It was unheard of for her husband to have company on New Year’s Eve. He and Hester had always crouched in the house unvisited, shut out from the celebration of Old Year’s Night. Not only was their house the furthest and least accessible, but Hester had disapproved of all the flushed and boozy revels, the whisky-sozzled night.
Molly had told her how, after Thomas’s death, the Wintertons were never again included in first-footing. Six months after the funeral, the tall dark shepherd who was first-foot for that year, had struggled up to Hernhope in ice and snow. Hester had refused to open the door. Next year, the visits finished at the Bertrams’ house. Not once, during Lyn’s whole boyhood, had he ever received the first-foot with his gifts of food and fire. He and Hester had gone to bed at nine, like any other night, with the fire damped down, the larder locked. Some rumoured in the village that was the reason Hester had always had bad luck. The locals took their superstitions seriously. Molly herself believed in them, was always telling tales of first-foots in the past who had been the cause of sudden illness or bumper crops of lambs.
They weren’t all idle stories. There was just the possibility of some ancient truth embedded in those superstitions. Old Year’s Night had always been a magic night, even centuries ago, marking not just a change in calendar, but a vital and mysterious transition from one state to another for nature, man and universe. That was so true of herself, this year. Everything was changed—new role, new start, new home, new job, new baby. So why turn back to the old, the problematical, which had proved itself a failure? She must keep her gaze fixed only on the future, live chiefly for the child. He was her new life.
And yet … She stumbled across to the window, pulled the curtain aside, stared beyond the tidy roofs to the astoundment of the stars. Wasn’t Lyn the one who understood best about rituals and mysteries? He had always seen the terror in the world, but also its immensity. He knew the importance of Christmas, New Year, Easter—the victories over cold and dark, the vital switch from one state to another, fear surmounted, life continuing. He understood the ceremonies, became part of them himself—not in obvious ways like eating, drinking, partying. It went deeper than that with Lyn. He died with winter, rose again with spring, was in tune with earth and nature. It sounded phoney and pretentious put like that, but it was only now she realised how she missed it.
Susie lived on a different plane entirely. The world for her was just a supermarket—a familiar, even boring place, where you grabbed what you wanted at the cheapest price, and which was bounded by the checkouts and the polystyrene ceiling. There were no stars for Susie, only the strobe lights of the disco; trees were simply things in parks which shaded you from freckles, or which you could nick an apple from, whereas Lyn saw grandeur in a single leaf. She suddenly realised now why resentment had dulled her pity on Christmas Day. It wasn’t just Susie’s rejection of the baby, but her whole attitude to birth itself. Its astonishment, its awe, its extraordinary alchemy of wonder and trauma mixed, had totally eluded her. Susie had fixated only on the pain. Easy for her to criticise when she had sat on the sidelines, shut out from all the blood and sweat and tears, but she knew that even doubled up with labour pains, she would still have realised she was taking part in something humbling and momentous, some vital act of creation, which joined her to all nature, however agonising and messy it might be.
Lyn would understand. He was frightened of birth and babies, but only because he saw that power, acknowledged it. He was aware of all the vastnesses—the gaps in the sky which let God’s finger through, the creak of the earth as it shuddered on its axis. It was only rarely and haltingly that he put such things into words, but they were such raw and urgent words, they excited and inspired her. He had transformed the world for her, made it stranger and more startling than it would ever have been without him. It was as if she were standing on his shoulders, seeing things shut off to her when her feet were on the ground, breathing thinner air.
She jerked back from the window. She needed Lyn—his depths, his soul, his poetry—even his strangenesses and moods which were only their dark underside—missed him so fiercely it was like a real and stabbing pain. And yet she was bonded and committed to a child. Both ties seemed equally essential, both loves precious and compelling, yet the two were tugging her in opposite directions. The child would have to win. She hadn’t been entrusted with a frail and precious infant so she could risk its life and happiness in fulfilling her own needs. Lyn didn’t want her, anyway. He had made that all too obvious—returning to Hernhope without inviting her, letting Christmas come and go without a word. She hit out in rage and disappointment, punching empty air, then sagged back on the sofa. She was overreacting, exhausted from her six-days’-long ordeal. A good night’s sleep and she would see things in perspective, leave Lyn in the past, get on with washing nappies rather than trying to share his vision and see eternity in pebbles or kaleidoscopes in stars. And if she couldn’t sleep, at least she could relax. Best to blank out the phone-call altogether, forget it was New Year’s Eve and settle down for a normal cosy evening.
She turned on the television, an ancient set which shuddered into focus. A Scot in kilt and cummerbund was singing sentimental ballads. She switched to another channel—a line of sequinned can-can girls kicking up their frills. Old Year’s Night in the South—plastic song and dance, hollow lyrics, tat. It would get worse as the night wore on—gloating chat-shows, garish cabarets, popping balloons, tangled streamers—until the final frenetic hiccupping of Auld Lang Syne. How could she forget the date, when every entertainer was determined to impress it on her? She switched the sequins off, went to check on the baby. He was sleeping now, though even in his sleep, one tiny hand still twitched and clutched, making frantic grabs at nothing as if he were trying to save himself from drowning. Was he struggling in a nightmare, fighting some Lyn-like terror?
She swung back to the bookcase. There must be something she could read, to take her mind off Lyn. She leafed through a casebook on violence in the home, skimmed the chapter headings in a volume entitled Non-Orgasmic Women, dug out a dictionary of folklore. Almost without thinking, she turned to the ‘Fs’—Fig Sunday, Fingal’s Cave, Fionnuala, First-footing. First-footing. She leant against the shelves, pored over the small print, the even smaller footnotes.
‘… ancient ceremony confined not just to Scotland and the North of England, but known to peoples as far apart as Peking and Connemara’. She turned the page, surprised to see how long the entry was. More and more details appeared to have been added over the years, as to the best and luckiest attributes of a first-foot. Not only must he be a young dark healthy male, but he must be neither flat-footed nor cross-eyed. The book suggested the reason for this was that both these disabilities would be obstacles to early man, the hunter. Jennifer was intrigued, took the book to the sofa and settled down with it. ‘The first-foot’, she read, ‘must not have bushy eyebrows which meet across the nose, as that was considered a common sign of an early death or misfortune in love’.
She only hoped the Bertrams hadn’t heard of that. Bushy-browed Mick was an odd choice altogether. Although his eyes were brown, his hair was light in colour and his complexion fair beneath the wind-burn. Neither was he young. The only thing in his favour was his sex. Female first-foots were considered disastrously unlucky. Jo would have fumed about such crude discrimination, lodged a formal complaint to the Equal Opportunities Commission. Jennifer grinned, stroked a finger across the baby’s fuzz of hair. He was dark—truly dark—hair almost black, skin sallow and dark-toned. Even his eyes looked slatey in the half-light, and would soon change to Matthew’s uncompromising brown. They were in no way crossed, nor did his eyebrows meet in the middle, but were so faint and fine as to be hardly there at all. He would be a stranger up in Mepperton—a total stranger, never seen before by anyone, and born three hundred miles away. She drew the blanket back, slipped off his bootees. Supposing he were flat-footed? She cupped one tiny foot in each of her hands, felt the high curve of the arch.<
br />
‘You’re lucky’, she whispered. ‘Do you know that? You could be a first-foot if you wanted. Though I’m not sure babies count.’
They should. If the first-foot must be young, to symbolise the fresh uncorrupted innocence of the New Year, then why not very young—a newborn like the year itself? If only she were up at Molly’s, she could drive the few miles further on to Hernhope, and carry the baby over the threshold, making sure he entered first. That way, she could bring good fortune and prosperity to Hernhope for a twelvemonth.
She sprang up from the floor. Miraculous thought! A first-foot at Hernhope after more than thirty years without one—new start, new luck, new year. The baby was far more suited to the job than mouse-haired Mick. It was as if he had been tailor-made to fit the role. If only he weren’t so fragile, she could travel up with him, leave immediately, arrive in the nick of time. She wouldn’t make it by midnight, of course, but so long as the stranger was the first to cross the threshold on New Year’s Day, even if it were six o’clock in the morning, then the luck still held. It wasn’t impossible. There were heated high-speed trains and she had money for the fare—not much, admittedly, but enough to get to Newcastle.
Born of Woman Page 66
