A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Of course it is,’ Clover said quietly.

  ‘But knowing you, I suppose you wanted to hide it from him anyway, eh?’

  Clover nodded. ‘I didn’t realise I was pregnant till after you were married. If I’d known, I would have gone to him.’

  ‘And by rights, you should be married to Tom…Not me…I deserve to be in the workhouse.’

  Clover sighed. Inside she was trembling. She felt like screaming, like tearing down the pretty curtains at the window of this, Tom’s home…So this was how she’d been robbed of the man she loved. Somehow she was not surprised. Always she’d had the feeling she’d been cheated. But not like this. Never like this.

  ‘Oh, Ramona,’ she lamented mournfully. ‘What fools we’ve both been. What troubles we make for ourselves.’

  And poor Tom. A cuckoo’s egg had been laid in his nest and no mistake. He was the one who had been used, taken advantage of, wittingly or unwittingly. He was nowhere near as bad as Ned made him out to be. And he’d been noble; typically, he’d done his duty by Ramona as he saw fit, sacrificed himself, unaware she was carrying another man’s child.

  ‘My baby’s going to die with me, Clover…Will you tell Tom for me what I’ve just told you? Will you tell him the child wasn’t his? I haven’t got the courage any more…Nor the strength.’

  ‘But Ramona, how can you tell that to a man?’ Clover queried, wiping an errant tear from her cheek.

  ‘Sometime…I want him to know…Sometime…To release him from any guilt he’s bound to feel when I’m dead and gone. He’ll think it was his fault I died – having his child…Don’t you see? I’d like him to know how sorry I am…how much I appreciated his standing by me…He never loved me, you know, Clover. He only ever loved you. The very night I told him I was pregnant he’d told me just before that he was giving me up…so as he could win you back…’

  Clover heaved a great, gushing sob. ‘Oh, Ramona, stop it! You’re breaking my heart…’ She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the flood of tears. ‘Don’t tell me any more…I can’t stand it.’

  Ramona reached out to place her hand on Clover’s. ‘Hear me out, please…’ She went on in barely a whisper, her voice distinctly weaker now than when she started. ‘I didn’t love Tom at first either…But I was determined to make him fall in love with me…I didn’t succeed, Clover…I know I didn’t…But I did succeed in one thing…’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘In falling in love with him myself.’ Tears filled Ramona’s eyes and her colourless face contorted as her bottom lip began to quiver. ‘He’s the most—’

  ‘Oh, look at you,’ Clover reprimanded gently, her own eyes streaming. ‘See how you’re upsetting yourself.’ Typically selfless, she put her handkerchief to Ramona’s cheeks and eyes, and gently patted them dry.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been such a fool, Clover…’ She paused, plumbing depths of her reserves for the extra strength to finish saying what she was bent on saying. ‘I’ve lied and cheated and – oh, you’ve no idea what a whore I’ve been…’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Clover answered gently. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of your confessions. I’ve been fool enough for both of us as well. Why don’t you get some rest now?’

  Ramona nodded weakly. ‘I will. But first promise me that you’ll tell Tom for me? Promise?’

  ‘All right,’ Clover replied. ‘I’ll tell him. If you think it will ease his conscience.’

  A faint smile formed on Ramona’s lips. ‘Thank you.’ She closed her eyes and drifted off into sleep.

  Ramona passed away peacefully that afternoon. Tom sat staring at her for a long time afterwards. Motes of dust played in the diffused beams of weak sunlight that entered the room obliquely in that cold March afternoon. He watched as the extremity of one of those indistinct shafts of light moved slowly, poignantly across the pale, slender fingers of her left hand, one of which bore his wedding ring.

  He had held that hand while she was dying, after Dr Carter had visited her again and told him there was no hope. As the end approached, she had opened her lack-lustre eyes and tried to smile at him through cold, parched lips. Then, faintly, he’d felt her feebly squeeze his hand as she’d mouthed something which he believed were the words, ‘I love you’. Then he held her hand more tightly as if, by so doing, he could stop her going, prevent her from leaving this imperfect world of theirs, for it was infinitely better than a cold, dank grave. Well, now she was gone. Ramona. Nineteen years old. A princess of a girl. Plucky. Wily.

  It was a sin.

  It was a sin that God should take one so young, one so full of vitality.

  With tears in his eyes he looked around him. On the mantelpiece, over the small fireplace where a fire still flickered, stood a clock and two candles that had afforded the only light by which Dr Carter, uncomplaining, had worked so hard to try and save her. In front of the fire lay her slippers, where she had left them. Just two days ago she had been padding about in them. How much can happen in just two days. On the wash stand stood the bowl and ewer and close to it a towel and a feeding bottle in case they could not find a woman who was lactating to feed the baby. Next to that was a jug of lemonade, a glass half full, half consumed. On the second-hand dressing table lay her gold necklace and a pair of gold earrings – gifts from Jake.

  Death had erased the ominous lines of pain, suffering and fatigue. Her hair remained abundant and unruly in death as it had been in life, golden curls caressing that pale, girlish face that had lured so many admirers. It was a face always so full of expression, now devoid of any. And yet he could still imagine that at any moment she might open those eyes and smile at him again.

  Tom sighed, feeling guilty that he had never loved his poor wife who had made the supreme sacrifice in bearing his child. A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped onto the counterpane that covered her. Ramona. Young, sparkling Ramona, never fazed, never afraid, never loved – well not by him. ‘I’m so sorry, Ramona,’ he mouthed in his anguish as he stroked her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, my poor love. You deserved better than this. You deserved so much better than I could give you.’ He let go of her hand. ‘Goodbye, Ramona…Goodbye…’ He leaned over and placed a kiss on her cold cheek, stood up and pulled the counterpane gently over her head.

  He dried his eyes, thinking what best to do next. Pull the curtains to. Shut out that intrusive, pallid sunlight. Quietly he went downstairs, straight down to the scullery. Miriam had the child at her breast.

  ‘He’s feeding, Mr Doubleday,’ she said with a smile of triumph on her round face. ‘See, he’s sucking away like mad. He’s hungry. I think we’ll rear him yet.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Thank God.’ It was some good news amid the sadness.

  ‘How’s Mrs Doubleday now?’

  ‘She passed away about twenty minutes ago, Miriam.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Mr Doubleday. Oh, wait till Mr Tandy knows…’

  Clover reckoned it was the ride on Jake’s dray that started her off in labour that afternoon. By the time Ned returned from work she was experiencing the first contractions. Immediately he went to fetch Annie Soap, the local midwife. There was pandemonium in the Brisco household from then on. Florrie started running round like a cat scalded by the gallons of water she was putting to boil. She swabbed down the table, the furniture – anything with a hard surface – with caustic soda so that it was clean and free from germs. She sent Clover to bed and fussed over her until she was content that her daughter-in-law was as comfortable as she could be. She fetched a shawl she had washed and ironed specially to wrap Ned’s child in when it was born, and put it on top of the tallboy, ready. It was the same shawl Ned had been swaddled in.

  The baby, a girl weighing seven pounds eight ounces, was born at ten minutes past two next morning, Tuesday 9th March. It was a straightforward birth; no complications, and Clover met her new daughter with a surge of happiness the likes of which she had not known since the child’s conception. She decided to name her Josephine
.

  Her joy was marred by the news later that morning when Jake called to tell her that Ramona had died. Ramona’s son, to be christened Daniel, seemed to be on the mend, however.

  Ramona was buried in St Thomas’s churchyard on the Friday. Clover could not attend the funeral because of her confinement but Ned represented her, though he kept a low profile. Most of the mourners retired to the Jolly Collier afterwards, although Ned did not; he did not wish to remain where Tom Doubleday was, even though he felt sorry for his old rival. Too vividly he recalled the fight they’d had outside the Jolly Collier all those months ago; sheepishly, he recalled his own occasional evenings out with Ramona. Instead, he went to register the birth of Clover’s daughter.

  Chapter 25

  Motherhood came naturally to Clover. She idolised her child and watched her bloom into a healthy, contented baby. Little Josephine tended to take her mind off the marriage that, increasingly, she was regarding as utter folly. More and more, she saw herself as having been both foolish and reckless in marrying Ned. Just think – if she’d waited just a few more days she would have remained unmarried, free to wed Tom in his widowhood. Why hadn’t she waited? Couldn’t Fate for once have been kind and prompted her somehow, given her a sign? All right, she would have had Josephine out of wedlock but then she would have let Tom know her child was his. He was sure to have married her after a suitable delay; she would have waited.

  Additionally, Clover saw Florrie, her mother-in-law, as interfering and domineering, although she knew she meant well. Clover wanted to raise her daughter her own way, without some of the old-fashioned notions that Florrie propounded. Clover was horrified when one day Florrie suggested they have the baby’s ears pierced and place studs in them. ‘She might not thank me for that when she gets older,’ Clover explained. ‘Besides, it would hurt and I’m not going to hurt her.’ For a while afterwards she was afraid to leave the child with Florrie, lest she carry out her intention anyway.

  She had not expected Ned to show the same interest in Josephine that a natural father would. However, he was totally disinterested in the child. He never offered to do anything for her and seldom held her in his arms. His attitude was a disappointment but, after all, the child was not his so she did not censure him. At least he had given her his name and the money he turned up every week meant that he kept her as well. Ned, however, was beginning to expect favours in return.

  Clover’s figure returned to its former slenderness. While she carried no excess fat, her curves were utterly feminine. Her pregnancy had left no stretch marks and her stomach had returned to its former youthful shape. Her breasts, though, were round and alluring as she fed her child. Ned watched her every night as she gave Josephine her last feed before going to sleep. With lust in his eyes and resentment in his heart that so far, his attentions had been successfully fended off, he lay in bed beside her, his hands behind his head, enjoying the sight one Sunday evening in June.

  Through the bedroom window they could see the last slanting rays of the swollen sun skimming the chimney-pots of Hill Street. It had been a hot day and, anticipating a warm night, Clover wore a sleeveless cotton nightdress that buttoned down the front. Florrie and Old Man Brisco had gone out for their Sunday evening constitutional at the Dog and Partridge in Cromwell Street, so they had the house to themselves.

  Ned looked on. The smoothness and plumpness of Clover’s breasts looked so inviting. Momentarily, the baby stopped sucking and lost the nipple. He saw it glistening with wetness, hard, and he felt a potent stirring below. He felt jealous of the child, who had access to that alluring part of Clover that was as yet denied him.

  Clover guided her nipple to Josephine’s searching mouth once more and Ned watched the child resume feeding. Clover was sitting up next to him in his bed and, in his mind’s eye he tried to visualise her nakedness beneath her nightgown. She was so close – almost touching – and yet she was so far from him. Every night in bed he felt the luxurious warmth of her desirable femininity radiating towards him, he wallowed in the sweet, warm scent of her, relished the brushes with her skin that he made, hoping they would appear accidental. In a morning, when he awoke and threw the bedclothes off, he looked to see if her nightdress had crept up in the night to afford him a glimpse of her creamy, unblemished thighs. This enforced celibacy, while lying next to the woman he desired so earnestly, the one woman he had always desired, was driving him mad.

  He longed to take a good handful of Clover’s breast and gently knead it between his fingers. He wanted to run his tongue over those soft, smooth contours and feel her body writhing ecstatically under his. He wanted to taste her milk in the same way the baby was doing right now. He longed to explore the soft hair between her legs that so far only his arch-rival, Tom Doubleday, had had the pleasure of knowing. What was it that Tom possessed that he lacked himself? What was it that Clover loved in Tom that she had failed to recognise in him? It was driving him mad not being allowed to touch her.

  Clover looked up and saw his frown. ‘A penny for your thoughts.’

  He shrugged like somebody hard done by. ‘I was just wondering when we might actually be man and wife – in the real sense, I mean. You can’t put me off for ever.’

  ‘My body’s not ready yet, Ned. It’s been barely three months since Josephine was born. A woman’s body takes time to heal after having a baby.’

  ‘So you keep telling me. I’ve been talking to the blokes at work. One of ’em even had it with his wife two days after their kid was born.’

  ‘Oh, that’s disgusting,’ she said with disdain. ‘It can’t have done her any good.’

  ‘At least he’s happy.’

  She turned to face him. ‘Oh, he’s happy?’ she repeated indignantly. ‘But is his wife happy? Did you ask him that? I don’t suppose he cares too much whether she’s happy or not.’

  ‘But three months, Clover. Some women are pregnant again within three months of the first.’

  ‘Do I glean from that then, that you want to make me pregnant?’

  ‘Josephine isn’t mine. You know that. I’d like to father a child of my own – by you.’

  ‘If you paid a bit more attention to the child we already have I might be more inclined to consider it.’

  That struck a chord, she could tell. He didn’t answer straight away and there was a pause while she looked down at the child sucking contentedly.

  ‘In any case,’ she said eventually, ‘you remember what we agreed.’

  ‘Look, I gave you my name. I also gave your bastard my name.’

  That hurt and Clover visibly flinched at his harsh words. It was the first time he had been so obtuse about Josephine and never would she have believed he could be so unfeeling. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for you to call Josephine that. Let’s face it, she’s not to blame. Anyway, you were keen enough to take us on. It was all your idea. I wasn’t bothered.’

  ‘Whether or no, it’s me that keeps you both. I think I deserve something in return. You owe me, Clover. I agreed to marry you when you were in trouble. I gave you respectability.’

  ‘And at the time, if I remember correctly, I told you to expect nothing in return. I told you I had nothing to give you back. That hasn’t changed. It didn’t change your mind then. Why should it now?’

  ‘Because I want you. I always assumed, when you’d had the baby, that we’d be like any other man and wife.’

  ‘Whereas I thought I’d made it plain we wouldn’t be.’ The child stopped feeding, evidently sated. Clover wiped the wetness from her breast with a cloth and covered herself up, then she put the baby against her shoulder and gently rubbed her back. ‘I didn’t make you any promises I haven’t kept, Ned. It might pay you to remember that.’

  ‘Well I can’t go on like this. I demand my rights as a husband…Otherwise…’

  ‘Otherwise what?’

  ‘Otherwise…’ He was going to say otherwise he would turn her out of the house. But of course, if he did that, she would almost ce
rtainly run to Tom Doubleday now he was free. There was always Tom Doubleday lurking in the background, damn his hide.

  ‘Otherwise what?’ Clover urged, aware of his dilemma.

  He had no threat strong enough. And, short of rape, which was not an option, he was not going to get his way. Not yet at any rate. If he was ever going to have his way, he was going to have to earn it.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ned.’ She cradled the baby in her arms. ‘In any case, I could never feel relaxed enough to do it in this house, with your mother and father listening to every squeak of the bed-springs. The walls are paper-thin.’

  The comment was not intended as encouragement; Clover was unhappy about Florrie’s interference. She would do anything to escape her influence.

  Ned, however, was encouraged. ‘So if we moved to a rented house somewhere, would that make it all the more likely to happen?’

  ‘I’d be happier somewhere else,’ she answered ambiguously.

  Rented unfurnished accommodation was plentiful and they found they could take their pick. Within a month they had moved into a small terraced house in Hill Street, just around the corner from Florrie and Old Man Brisco. The back yard, although separated by a high wall, backed on to the Briscos’ back yard while the privies stood almost back to back. Indeed, an exchange of gossip would not have been impossible, albeit in a raised voice, had visits to their respective lavatories occurred simultaneously. The house itself had two bedrooms and a box-room. You went up the narrow, twisting staircase by opening the door at the side of the fire grate and descended to the cellar using the door next to that. The only entrance from the street was via the front room that had a decent fireplace with useful cupboards on either side. The sash window, however, was seized up solid from layer upon layer of ancient paint and varnish. The place needed decorating so, while Ned was at work, Clover knuckled down to some serious paper-hanging when Josephine’s needs had been tended to.