Spilt Milk

by Amanda Hodgkinson

  He had weighed seven pounds at birth and had lain peacefully in Birdie’s arms, as if he had always been held by her. Her son made a small grumbling sound and Birdie hushed him. She was disturbing him, standing over his cot. She stared at him sleeping and wondered when she would feel love for him. All she felt was a kind of relief that he wasn’t going anywhere. That she did not need to keep him a secret from anyone.

  Framsden rubbed his hands against his face. His tiny fists were encased in small white mittens that the midwife had said were important because babies sometimes scratched themselves. If his fingernails needed trimming, Birdie must very gently bite them with her teeth.

  ‘Don’t cut them with scissors until he’s at least two years old or they’ll grow with a sharp edge.’

  Birdie thought of the letter her mother had sent her after his birth. A great long list of things she must and mustn’t do with a baby. In it she had given her the same advice about the baby’s fingernails, except she had warned that cutting a baby’s nails with scissors meant he would grow up to be a thief. Charles had laughed at the idea of it.

  He really was a lovely boy. So docile and sweet-natured. He rarely cried and Charles absolutely adored him. That alone filled her heart with a deep, warm joy.

  She supposed that the couple who had adopted her daughter must love her very much too.

  Kay and Framsden. Her daughter and son. Kay was lucky. She had two mothers. Or was that unlucky? Twice the amount of problems that mothers could bring?

  It was an odd kind of sorrow she felt over Kay. An itch, like the sense of frustration that comes from wanting something a little out of reach. With every passing hour, day, week, her daughter grew and changed yet Birdie remembered her only as a new baby. That’s how she would stay in her memories for ever.

  Nellie looked cheerful when she got down from the trap. She was wearing a pair of brown flannel slacks and a red-checked shirt. Birdie had never seen her in trousers. Her tall figure was just right for them. Life by the sea obviously suited her.

  Birdie looked at the tea tray and the neat triangles of meat-paste sandwiches. There was a vase of cornflowers on the table. She remembered her mother didn’t like flowers indoors. Quickly she ran into the kitchen and tipped the water down the sink, the flowers into the bin. She felt diminished, childishly trying to please her mother like this.

  ‘Birdie!’ said Uncle George when he stepped into the hall and she came out to meet them both. ‘How’s my darling girl? Where is he then? Let’s see him! Where’s our little lad?’

  Uncle George gave her a bear hug and Birdie kissed his cheek.

  ‘He’s sleeping for the moment.’

  ‘Babies are at their best when they are asleep,’ said her mother. ‘Are you going to bring him down?’

  She looked so pleased, Birdie almost weakened.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said firmly. They’d have tea and then she’d get him. She had a routine and she had to keep to it. The baby had to sleep for at least another half-hour.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Uncle George. ‘Mother’s absolutely right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘Of course. Yes, let him sleep.’

  They sat in the living room and her mother laid a brown paper bag on the low coffee table. Inside was a blue crocheted jacket for the baby.

  ‘Nellie made it herself,’ said George.

  ‘I’m no good at crocheting. I don’t really have the patience for it. It was something to do in the evenings while George listened to the wireless.’

  ‘Nell, don’t be modest,’ said Uncle George. ‘Have you seen the little buttons, Birdie? She spent ages making it for him. Lucky kid to have a grandmother like Nell.’

  Birdie’s mother shook her head.

  ‘George, stop it. You know I’ve got two left thumbs. It’s probably too small for him anyway. I made it months ago.’

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, and Birdie knew they were both waiting for the baby to be brought downstairs. Though there was still ten minutes to go before she should wake Framsden, Birdie gave in and went to get him.

  ‘Is this my grandson?’ her mother asked as she came downstairs with him. She lifted her hands, cupping them as if she were already holding the child.

  Nellie took the child in her big strong hands.

  ‘I have him safe,’ she said, though she looked nervous. ‘Don’t worry. There. Now, shall we go outside? I want to show my grandson the orchard. I kept bees. Did I tell you, George?’

  Birdie and George followed her mother out of the house and across the orchard. Then her mother took the path down towards the river.

  ‘It’s a shame your father isn’t here to see the little fellow,’ said George.

  ‘Did you never want children, Uncle George?’ she asked as they walked towards the river. ‘I mean, I just don’t know why you never married and had a family?’

  ‘What a question!’ said George. The high colour in his cheeks darkened and he quickened his pace, stumbling over the uneven ground.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘No, no, quite all right. I was always a bachelor, I’m afraid. Not now of course. Now I’ve got a wife, and I’m lucky to have her. Nellie and you are my family, Birdie. You’re very special to me. Like a daughter.’ He began to hurry away. ‘Nellie? Nellie, wait up!’

  They reached her mother, and the three of them sat on the grass with Framsden between them. Birdie watched her mother and Uncle George cooing over the baby. She regretted having spoken to her uncle like she had. She should not have been so personal. The poor man had been mortified.

  It was just as Aunt Vivian had said it would be. She had given up her daughter and nobody would ever know. And if, like her mother, they did know, it was clear they would never speak of it.

  Aunt Vivian came a week later. She brought a hand-stitched christening gown she had made herself. A soft cotton gown with lace at the collar and cuffs, and pin pleats on the shoulders, embroidered white swans along the hem. Birdie folded it in her lap and sat smoothing the fabric.

  ‘Did you like living here?’ she asked. ‘When you were a child, I mean? I saw Rose’s gravestone in the churchyard the other day. I liked the inscription. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. And my grandparents’ headstones too. It’s strange for me to come here from London and find I have family already in the churchyard.’

  ‘Nellie and I had promised Rose we’d stay together, but so much happened to us after her death. Now you are here, I think Rose would have been pleased. We didn’t even have the money to give her a proper funeral, you know. It was Mrs Langham who paid for everything. She was a good friend of your mother’s. Mrs Langham was the one who gave Mother and Rose the cottage rent-free after Father died. I don’t remember our parents, but Rose loved them. Their ghosts were very present in our childhood. It must be fate that brought you here, Birdie.’

  ‘And what was Rose like? Ma doesn’t like to talk about her, I think.’

  ‘She was harsh but fair.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know you can’t tell me the names of the people who took my daughter. I know that, but can you tell me where she went? Just so that I can imagine her somewhere.’

  ‘Rose never married,’ said her aunt, as if she had not heard her. ‘That was our fault. She dedicated herself to us.’ She was looking intently at Framsden. ‘I do think women need to be married. Whether it’s for love or companionship …’

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Did I tell you I spoke to Matilda on the telephone the other day? She sends her regards. She has a baby son. A little lad called Andrew.’

  ‘And my daughter?’

  ‘You don’t have a daughter.’

  ‘I just need to know where she is.’

  ‘Birdie, you cannot do this. I can tell you that the child went to a couple near here. They were grateful to you. I can’t tell you more than that.’

  ‘Thank
you,’ said Birdie softly, gently, grateful to her aunt. Hoping she could stop now with her wondering and questions.

  Birdie stood in the nursery, looking out of the window. Her aunt was in the orchard, by the old railway wagon. Had it been cruel, forcing her to talk about it? She had not wanted details. Just something to help her when she imagined the little girl. Now she could think of her growing up somewhere nearby, a house somewhere in this wide landscape. There was so much space here. Huge skies and open fields, deep ditches, flint and stone churches and dispersed farmhouses. Her daughter would be part of this place. She saw her in her mind, a small blonde child running through cornfields, stopping to wait for the shadowy couple who walked behind her.

  She turned to look at Framsden sleeping in his Moses basket, and carefully picked him up. She pressed her face to the window. In the orchard her aunt was picking cornflowers. She headed towards the river with armfuls of blue. Then she slipped out of view.

  Birdie would tell her son he had a sister when he was twenty. Just before he reached adulthood. It sounded like the silly kind of promise made in a fairy tale, but she believed he should know. Charles too should know. But not yet. Let them get through Framsden’s childhood first. By then she and Charles would have a large family. Large enough that one more child would not be all that remarkable.

  After her aunt went home, Birdie took Framsden down to the water to watch the fish. Caught in the reeds were blue cornflowers. Vivian had thrown them in the river. They were beautiful, slowly sinking into the waters. She sat down on the grassy bank and made daisy chains and threw them in the water too.

  They celebrated Framsden’s first birthday with an iced cake and sandwiches. Charles, Connie and Judith, and Kathleen with her new son James and her daughter Ella. Birdie had found it easier not to invite her mother or her aunt. She had her own life now. She could not avoid laying the blame for what had happened on them. They could have helped her keep her child, but they had been ashamed and acted accordingly. She knew she was cruel, but really it was easier this way.

  Kathleen’s children danced around her legs. They had pearly pink fingernails and soft, pale faces. Both had milky-blond hair, but Ella had brown eyes and would grow out of her blondeness in time, whereas James’s eyes were blue and one look at his freckled skin was enough for Birdie to know he would always be fair.

  Connie’s little girl, Judith, was a bright, dark-haired little toddler with big wide eyes framed by a straight fringe. She was strong-willed like her mother and sure of herself. Poor Framsden was always crying because she liked to take his toys away from him. They all stood around the kitchen table singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Framsden.

  Ella pulled on Birdie’s skirt, and she lifted the smiling little girl into her arms.

  Birdie held her tightly, the child’s smock dress scrunched up around her chubby legs. Dear, sweet little Ella Hubbard. She was the same age Birdie’s daughter would be and such an adoring infant. The sun poured in through the open back door. The table was covered with plates of sandwiches and bowls of jelly that Birdie had been preparing all afternoon. Green and pink balloons hung from the ceiling, bumping back and forth in the breeze.

  Connie had a new Box Brownie and insisted on taking a photograph.

  ‘Come on, Charles,’ she said, gathering them together. ‘Let’s get you in the picture too.’

  Framsden’s babyish fingers were glossy with cake crumbs and butter icing. He sat in his high chair and grabbed Ella’s leg as Birdie stood over him. She pushed his hand away, telling him to be a good boy. Ella leaned towards Framsden and mimicked her, pushing him away too. They all laughed. Birdie gave Ella a kiss and then bent to kiss her son. It felt like things were getting easier after all.

  Two years later, in 1946, Birdie thought she might be expecting another baby. Her periods were late and she waited, ticking off each day. On the ninth day she told Charles, and they grinned at each other. They sat on the verandah and discussed names. Birdie liked Rose. Charles liked Gillian. They were sure they would have a girl this time.

  Birdie was in the dairy, milking the cows, when she felt a deep, cramping ache spreading across her back and between her legs. She knew there was nothing to be done. She went to bed in tears, holding a hot-water bottle.

  Charles refilled the hot-water bottle for her when it went cold. He picked cornflowers that flowered in the orchard, putting them in a vase in their bedroom. When Birdie refused to leave her bed, he took Framsden over to Connie’s house. The boy stayed for a week until Birdie felt strong enough to go and get him back.

  Framsden and Judith were playing in the back garden with a red tin bucket and spade in a sand pit.

  ‘I had flu,’ she said, though she knew Connie had been told.

  Framsden saw her and burst into tears.

  ‘He’s missed you,’ said Connie. ‘He needs you, Birdie. Don’t think of what might have been. Think of what you’ve got. That’s what I do, and some days I even manage to feel lucky.’

  ‘You go and enjoy yourself,’ said Charles. A month had passed and he thought she needed to get out and see her friends. Connie came by on her bicycle, asking her to go over to Kathleen’s. They were jam making together. Charles lifted Framsden into his arms, where the boy sat happily. He was three years old and stocky, with his father’s straight nose and long-lashed hazel eyes. A pudgy little boy who wasn’t quick to smile, but when he did, his whole face lit up. He had a way of nodding at things, as if he was taking his time to add up what might be said on different matters.

  Birdie and Connie rode their bicycles up the farm track towards the village. They rode down empty lanes, on the slight downhill incline to Ark Farm. Dog roses scrambled through the trees and spikes of foxglove flowers reached as high as their shoulders. The hedgerows on the back road were filled with tall young trees forming a tunnel of green-flecked light overhead. Through this leafy canopy, Birdie could see Ark Farm. It had been pebble-dashed during the war and painted a pale pink. There was a narrow gravel drive and two dark holly trees either side of the front door. The lawns in front of the house were silky green and dotted with white daisies.

  ‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ said Connie, looking at the house. ‘But Kathleen’s not as smart as you think. She’s had voice training, you know. She was Norman’s secretary. That’s how they met.’

  Three overweight black spaniels ambled across the grass, wagging stumpy tails. They pressed their soft mouths to Birdie’s hands as she stooped to pat their heads. The dogs ran away as they walked across the gravel drive to the front door of the house. Only the eldest of the dogs, greying at the muzzle, with a sagging body and long, ugly, improper pink nipples that Birdie tried not to look at, stayed loyally beside her.

  ‘Why, it’s our Pearly Queen,’ Norman said, opening the door. ‘And Connie. Come on in. Her ladyship is expecting you.’

  Kathleen’s voice drifted through the house. ‘Is that you, Connie? Birdie? Come on through. Ignore Norman. He thinks he is being funny.’

  They stepped into the kitchen. It was the nicest room in the house, Birdie thought. The other rooms were neat and unlived in, the floors shone and the furniture gleamed, but it was in here, this room with its long refectory table and colourful rosettes won at horse shows pinned on the walls, that Kathleen spent her time. A large orange cat was curled up on a chair. There was a sweet smell of sugar and the sharp tang of cooking blackcurrants.

  Kathleen stood with a wooden spoon in her hand, a flowered apron over riding trousers and a navy-blue jersey. In a big copper pot, a purple-coloured jam boiled and bubbled on the stove.

  ‘The children are both having their afternoon nap,’ she said. ‘I could be out walking or riding, but instead here I am, being the perfect wife.’

  Norman came in behind them, asking Kathleen where his cigarettes were. He wore a cardigan and a striped shirt with a narrow tie, wide trousers and polished brown brogues. He had bright blue eyes and a boyish smile. Birdie felt herself smiling too.

  �
��You are always the perfect wife, my dear,’ he said.

  Kathleen rolled her eyes. She picked up a packet and handed it to him.

  ‘So, how’s the gang?’ Kathleen asked as he shut the door. ‘Cup of tea? Do you want to make it, Birdie? Only I’m watching this jam like a hawk in case it begins to burn.’

  Birdie boiled water, gathering cups and the teapot, reaching up on the shelf for the tin of black tea. Kathleen had a way of expecting people to do whatever she asked. Connie was putting out jam jars. Kathleen said Norman was furious with her because she’d sacked their nanny. Now they had to find somebody else.

  ‘I can have the children,’ said Birdie. ‘I’d be glad to.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she heard herself say. ‘Framsden would be pleased to have friends to play with.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ll take you up on that. And what about the new job?’ Kathleen asked Connie. ‘Do you enjoy it? I suppose you must know everything about us all in this village, working for the doctor.’

  ‘It’s good to have a bit of work. The pay’s not great, but I only do three days a week. When Judith’s older I’m going to train to be a nurse. And I’ve put my name down for one of the new council houses being built in the village. Married couples will have first pick, of course. Unmarried mothers don’t count for much, according to this government.’

  Kathleen said that she hoped council housing wasn’t going to have a bad effect on the village. All this new building was just the kind of thing that was destroying country life. Connie shook her head.

  ‘I’d like a council house. And there’s a housing shortage, you know. People need new homes.’

  Kathleen tutted. ‘Well, I’m only going on what Norman says. I don’t know anything about it. He thinks the countryside is under attack from urban planning and property developers.’ She peered into the copper pan. ‘And I think this jam is done.’

  Kathleen carefully ladled out the hot jam, and Connie put waxed paper over the full jars. When they’d finished, Kathleen refilled their teacups and they took them outside onto the red-brick terrace.