by Ken Follett
He sprang to his feet. ‘Hello, this is a surprise.’
He was blushing. He probably still had a crush on her. It had been very cruel of her to kiss him, when she had no intention of letting the relationship go any further. But that was four years ago, and they had both been kids. He should have gotten over it by now.
She looked at the book in his hands. It was in German, and had colour pictures of badges.
‘We have to know German insignia,’ he explained. ‘A lot of military intelligence comes from interrogation of prisoners of war immediately after their capture. Some won’t talk, of course; so the interrogator needs to be able to tell, just by looking at the prisoner’s uniform, what his rank is, what army corps he belongs to, whether he is from infantry, cavalry, artillery, or a specialist unit such as veterinarian, and so on.’
‘That’s what you’re learning here?’ she said sceptically. ‘The meanings of German badges?’
He laughed. ‘It’s one of the things we’re learning. One I can tell you about without giving away military secrets.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Why are you here in Wales? I’m surprised you’re not doing something for the war effort.’
‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘Moral reproof. Did someone tell you this was a way to charm women?’
‘Pardon me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to rebuke you.’
‘Anyway, there is no war effort. Barrage balloons float in the air as a hazard to German planes that never come.’
‘At least you’d have a social life in London.’
‘Do you know that used to be the most important thing in the world, and now it’s not?’ she said. ‘I must be getting old.’
There was another reason she had left London, but she was not going to tell him.
‘I imagined you in a nurse’s uniform,’ he said.
‘Not likely. I hate sick people. But before you give me another of those disapproving frowns, take a look at this.’ She handed him the framed photograph she was carrying.
He studied it, frowning. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘I was looking through a box of old pictures in the basement junk room.’
It was a group photo taken on the east lawn of Tŷ Gwyn on a summer morning. In the centre was the young Earl Fitzherbert, with a big white dog at his feet. The girl next to him was probably his sister, Maud, whom Daisy had never met. Lined up on either side of them were forty or fifty men and women in a variety of servants’ uniforms.
‘Look at the date,’ she said.
‘Nineteen-twelve,’ Lloyd read aloud.
She watched him, studying his reactions to the photo he was holding. ‘Is your mother in it?’
‘Goodness! She might be.’ Lloyd looked closer. ‘I believe she is,’ he said after a minute.
‘Show me.’
Lloyd pointed. ‘I think that’s her.’
Daisy saw a slim, pretty girl of about nineteen, with curly black hair under a maid’s white cap, and a smile that had more than a hint of mischief in it. ‘Why, she’s enchanting!’ she said.
‘She was then, anyway,’ Lloyd said. ‘Nowadays people are more likely to call her formidable.’
‘Have you ever met Lady Maud? Do you think that’s her next to Fitz?’
‘I suppose I’ve known her all my life, off and on. She and my mother were suffragettes together. I haven’t seen her since I left Berlin in 1933, but this is definitely her in the picture.’
‘She’s not so pretty.’
‘Perhaps, but she’s very poised, and wonderfully well dressed.’
‘Anyway, I thought you might like to have the picture.’
‘To keep?’
‘Of course. No one else wants it – that’s why it was in a box in the basement.’
‘Thank you!’
‘You’re welcome.’ Daisy went to the door. ‘Go back to your studies.’
Going down the back stairs she hoped she had not flirted. She probably should not have gone to see him at all. She had succumbed to a generous impulse. Heaven forbid that he should misinterpret it.
She felt a sharp pain in her tummy, and stopped on the half-landing. She had had a slight backache all day – which she attributed to the cheap mattress she was sleeping on – but this was different. She thought back over what she had eaten today, but could not identify anything that might have made her ill: no undercooked chicken, no unripe fruit. She had not eaten oysters – no such luck! The pain went as quickly as it had come and she told herself to forget about it.
She returned to her quarters in the basement. She was living in what had been the housekeeper’s flat: a tiny bedroom, a sitting room, a small kitchen and an adequate bathroom with a tub. An old footman called Morrison was acting as caretaker to the house, and a young woman from Aberowen was her maid. The girl was called Little Maisie Owen, although she was quite big. ‘My mother’s Maisie too, so I’ve always been Little Maisie, even though I’m taller than her now,’ she had explained.
The phone rang as Daisy entered. She picked it up and heard her husband’s voice. ‘How are you?’ he said.
‘I’m fine. What time will you be here?’ He had flown to RAF St Athan, a large air base outside Cardiff, on some mission, and he had promised to visit her and spend the night.
‘I’m not going to make it, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, how disappointing!’
‘There’s a ceremonial dinner at the base that I’m required to attend.’
He did not sound particularly dispirited that he would not see her, and she felt spurned. ‘How nice for you,’ she said.
‘It will be boring, but I can’t get out of it.’
‘Not half as boring as living here on my own.’
‘It must be dull. But you’re better off there, in your condition.’
Thousands of people had left London after war was declared, but most of them had drifted back when the expected bombing raids and gas attacks did not materialize. However, Bea and May and even Eva were agreed that Daisy’s pregnancy meant she should live at Tŷ Gwyn. Many women gave birth safely every day in London, Daisy had pointed out; but of course the heir to the earldom was different.
In truth, she did not mind as much as she had expected. Perhaps pregnancy had made her uncharacteristically passive. But there was a half-hearted quality about London social life since the declaration of war, as if people felt they did not have the right to enjoy themselves. They were like vicars in a pub, knowing it was supposed to be fun but unable to enter into the spirit.
‘I wish I had my motorcycle here, though,’ she said. ‘Then at least I could explore Wales.’ Petrol was rationed, but not severely.
‘Really, Daisy!’ he said censoriously. ‘You can’t ride a motorcycle – the doctor absolutely forbade it.’
‘Anyway, I’ve discovered literature,’ she said. ‘The library here is wonderful. A few rare and valuable editions have been packed away, but nearly all the books are still on the shelves. I’m getting the education I worked so hard to avoid at school.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Well, curl up with a good murder mystery and enjoy your evening.’
‘I had a slight tummy pain earlier.’
‘Probably indigestion.’
‘I expect you’re right.’
‘Give my regards to that slob Lowthie.’
‘Don’t drink too much port at your dinner.’
Just as Daisy hung up she got the tummy cramp again. This time it lasted longer. Maisie came in, saw her face, and said: ‘Are you all right, my lady?’
‘Just a twinge.’
‘I have came to ask if you are ready for your supper.’
‘I don’t feel hungry. I think I’ll skip supper tonight.’
‘I done you a lovely cottage pie,’ Maisie said reproachfully.
‘Cover it and put it in the larder. I’ll eat it tomorrow.’
‘Shall I make you a nice cup of tea?’
Just to get rid of her Daisy sai
d: ‘Yes, please.’ Even after four years she had not grown to like strong British tea with milk and sugar in it.
The pain went away, and she sat down and opened The Mill on the Floss. She forced herself to drink Maisie’s tea and felt a little better. When she had finished the drink, and Maisie had washed the cup and saucer, she sent Maisie home. The girl had to walk a mile in the dark, but she carried a flashlight, and said she did not mind.
An hour later the pain returned, and this time it did not go away. Daisy went to the toilet, vaguely hoping to relieve pressure in her abdomen. She was surprised and worried to see spots of dark-red blood in her underwear.
She put on clean panties and, seriously worried now, she went to the phone. She got the number of RAF St Athan and called the base. ‘I need to speak to Flight Lieutenant the Viscount Aberowen,’ she said.
‘We can’t connect personal calls to officers,’ said a pedantic Welshman.
‘This is an emergency. I must speak to my husband.’
‘There are no phones in the rooms, this isn’t the Dorchester Hotel.’ Perhaps it was her imagination, but he sounded quite pleased that he could not help her.
‘My husband will be at the ceremonial banquet. Please send an orderly to bring him to the phone.’
‘I haven’t got any orderlies, and anyway there’s no banquet.’
‘No banquet?’ Daisy was momentarily at a loss.
‘Just the usual dinner in the mess,’ the operator said. ‘And that was finished an hour ago.’
Daisy slammed the phone down. No banquet? Boy had distinctly said he had to attend a ceremonial dinner at the base. He must have lied. She wanted to cry. He had chosen not to see her, preferring to go drinking with his comrades, or perhaps to visit some woman. The reason did not matter. Daisy was not his priority.
She took a deep breath. She needed help. She did not know the phone number of the Aberowen doctor, if there was one. What was she to do?
Last time Boy had left he had said: ‘You’ll have a hundred or more army officers to look after you if necessary.’ But she could not tell the Marquis of Lowther that she was bleeding from her vagina.
The pain was getting worse, and she could feel something warm and sticky between her legs. She went to the bathroom again and washed herself. There were clots in the blood, she saw. She did not have any sanitary towels – pregnant women did not need them, she had thought. She cut a length off a hand towel and stuffed it in her panties.
Then she thought of Lloyd Williams.
He was kind. He had been brought up by a strong-minded feminist woman. He adored Daisy. He would help her.
She went up to the hall. Where was he? The trainees would have finished their dinner by now. He might be upstairs. Her stomach hurt so much that she did not think she could make it all the way to the attic.
Perhaps he was in the library. The trainees used the room for quiet study. She went in. A sergeant was poring over an atlas. ‘Would you be very kind,’ she said to him, ‘and find Lieutenant Lloyd Williams for me?’
‘Of course, my lady,’ said the man, closing the book. ‘What’s the message?’
‘Ask him if he would come down to the basement for a moment.’
‘Are you all right, ma’am? You look a bit pale.’
‘I’ll be fine. Just fetch Williams as quickly as you can.’
‘Right away.’
Daisy returned to her rooms. The effort of seeming normal had exhausted her, and she lay on the bed. Before long she felt the blood soaking through her dress, but she hurt too much to care. She looked at her watch. Why had Lloyd not come? Perhaps the sergeant could not find him. It was such a big house. Perhaps she would just die here.
There was a tap at the door, and then to her immense relief she heard his voice. ‘It’s Lloyd Williams.’
‘Come in,’ she called. He was going to see her in a dreadful state. Perhaps it would put him off her for good.
She heard him enter the next room. ‘It took me a while to find your quarters,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Through here.’
He stepped into the bedroom. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Get help,’ she said. ‘Is there a doctor in this town?’
‘Of course. Dr Mortimer. He’s been here for centuries. But there may not be time. Let me . . .’ He hesitated. ‘You may be haemorrhaging, but I can’t tell unless I look.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Go ahead.’ She was almost too scared to be embarrassed.
She felt him raise the skirt of her dress. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘Poor you.’ Then he ripped her underpants. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is there some water . . . ?’
‘Bathroom,’ she said, pointing.
He stepped into the bathroom and ran a tap. A moment later she felt a warm, damp cloth being used to clean her.
Then he said: ‘It’s just a trickle. I’ve seen men bleed to death, and you’re not in that danger.’ She opened her eyes to see him pulling her skirt back down. ‘Where’s the phone?’ he said.
‘Sitting room.’
She heard him say: ‘Put me through to Dr Mortimer, quick as you can.’ There was a pause. ‘This is Lloyd Williams. I’m at Tŷ Gwyn. May I speak to the doctor? Oh, hello, Mrs Mortimer, when do you expect him back? . . . It’s a woman with abdominal pain and vaginal bleeding . . . Yes, I do realize most women suffer that every month, but this is clearly abnormal . . . she’s twenty-three . . . yes, married . . . no children . . . I’ll ask.’ He raised his voice. ‘Could you be pregnant?’
‘Yes,’ Daisy replied. ‘Three months.’
He repeated her answer, then there was a long silence. Eventually he hung up the phone and returned to her.
He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘The doctor will come as soon as he can, but he’s operating on a miner crushed by a runaway dram. However, his wife is quite sure that you’ve suffered a miscarriage.’ He took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. The pain seemed less, but she felt terribly sad. The heir to the earldom was no more. Boy would be so upset.
Lloyd said: ‘Mrs Mortimer says it’s quite common, and most women suffer one or two miscarriages between pregnancies. There’s no danger, provided the bleeding isn’t copious.’
‘What if it gets worse?’
‘Then I must drive you to Merthyr Hospital. But going ten miles in an army lorry would be quite bad for you, so it’s to be avoided unless your life is in danger.’
She was not frightened any more. ‘I’m so glad you were here.’
‘May I make a suggestion?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think you can walk a few steps?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let me run you a bath. If you can manage it, you’ll feel so much better when you’re clean.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then perhaps you can improvise a bandage of some kind.’
‘Yes.’
He returned to the bathroom, and she heard water running. She sat upright. She felt dizzy, and rested for a minute, then her head cleared. She swung her feet to the floor. She was sitting in congealing blood, and felt disgusted with herself.
The taps were turned off. He came back in and took her arm. ‘If you feel faint, just tell me,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you fall.’ He was surprisingly strong, and half carried her as he walked her into the bathroom. At some point her ripped underwear fell to the floor. She stood beside the bath and let him undo the buttons at the back of her dress. ‘Can you manage the rest?’ he said.
She nodded, and he went out.
Leaning on the linen basket, she took off her clothes slowly, leaving them on the floor in a bloodstained heap. Gingerly, she got into the bath. The water was just hot enough. The pain eased as she lay back and relaxed. She felt overwhelmed with gratitude to Lloyd. He was so kind that it made her want to cry.
After a few minutes, the door opened a crack and his hand appeared hol
ding some clothes. ‘A nightdress, and so on,’ he said. He placed them on top of the linen basket and closed the door.
When the water began to cool she stood up. She felt dizzy again, but only for a moment. She dried herself with a towel then put on the nightdress and underwear he had brought. She placed a hand towel inside her panties to soak up the blood that continued to seep.
When she returned to the bedroom, her bed was made up with clean sheets and blankets. She climbed in and sat upright, pulling the covers up to her neck.
He came in from the sitting room. ‘You must be feeling better,’ he said. ‘You look embarrassed.’
‘Embarrassed isn’t the word,’ she said. ‘Mortified, perhaps, though even that seems understated.’ The truth was not so simple. She winced when she thought of how he had seen her – but, on the other hand, he had not seemed disgusted.
He went into the bathroom and picked up her discarded clothes. Apparently he was not squeamish about menstrual blood.
She said: ‘Where have you put the sheets?’
‘I found a big sink in the flower room. I left them to soak in cold water. I’ll do the same with your clothes, shall I?’
She nodded.
He disappeared again. Where had he learned to be so competent and self-sufficient? In the Spanish Civil War, she supposed.
She heard him moving around the kitchen. He reappeared with two cups of tea. ‘You probably hate this stuff, but it will make you feel better.’ She took the tea. He showed her two white pills in the palm of his hand. ‘Aspirin? May ease the stomach cramps a bit.’
She took them and swallowed them with hot tea. He had always struck her as being mature beyond his years. She remembered how confidently he had gone off to find the drunken Boy at the Gaiety Theatre. ‘You’ve always been like this,’ she said. ‘A real grown-up, when the rest of us were just pretending.’
She finished the tea and felt sleepy. He took the cups away. ‘I may just close my eyes for a moment,’ she said. ‘Will you stay here, if I go to sleep?’
‘I’ll stay as long as you like,’ he said. Then he said something else, but his voice seemed to fade away, and she slept.
(iii)
After that Lloyd began to spend his evenings in the little housekeeper’s flat.
