Goodnight Lady

by Martina Cole

  ‘Goodnight, Henry. I’ll keep you informed of what’s happening.’

  He walked from the room. As he sat on his own bed drinking a large brandy, it occurred to him that she had won again. She would bring the gutter brat’s child into his home and he was powerless to stop her. Her strength of purpose was terrifying to him. Never had he felt so powerless, so utterly powerless.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. Seeing Briony in his mind, he shuddered. He would not be in this predicament if it hadn’t been for her. Well, he had a long memory and a lot of money. He would wait for his chance and get his own back on her eventually.

  Happier now he had a fixed goal in mind, he waited for a drunken sleep to claim him. But the light was already sneaking in at the chinks of the curtains before it came.

  Chapter Eight

  Briony sat on the park bench waiting for Tommy. She shifted her position slightly as she had a dull ache in her back. The child had dropped inside her and her stomach felt as if it was lying on her knees. She was wearing a large silk cape to hide the enormous bulge that seemed to be quivering and turning constantly. She took a deep breath as she felt a stabbing pain go through her body. She closed her eyes until it passed. Isabel had been right, she should not have left the house today. But the thought of seeing Tommy had been too much of a draw for her and after nearly having an argument with the nervous woman she had finally got her own way. Now, though, she wished she had heeded the advice and stayed home. The last couple of days she had been possessed of a great energy, feeling as if she could climb a mountain if she wanted to. In the space of an hour that feeling had been replaced by one of a dull lethargy.

  She felt Tommy sit beside her and opened her eyes.

  ‘You look ill, girl. Are you all right?’

  Briony stared into his face and shook her head. ‘I think it’s on its way.’

  Tommy saw her eyes widen as she sat forward, clasping her stomach with both hands.

  ‘Oh Tommy ... Tommy ... I’ve wet meself!’

  The boy jumped from his seat in panic. ‘Stay there and I’ll get someone... I’ll get the doctor!’

  Briony laughed despite the pain. ‘Just get me to the cab and back to the house, as quick as possible.’

  Her voice had a strength in it that calmed the youth in front of her.

  ‘Here, give me your arm and walk me to me cab.’

  Tommy helped her up and they walked slowly towards the entrance of the park where her cab waited. In ten minutes they were outside her house. Tommy helped her down while the cabby knocked at the door. Pandemonium erupted.

  Mrs Horlock and Cissy took Briony up the stairs while Mrs Dumas sent the cabby for the doctor. Tommy stood in the hallway watching in amazement. Isabel turned to him as she went to walk up the stairs and looked at him as if just seeing him for the first time. She unconsciously took in the neat suit and the well-cut hair. His penetrating blue eyes stayed her and she walked towards him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, young man, thank you for bringing my charge home.’

  Tommy looked at her, decided he liked the look of her and smiled.

  ‘I’m a friend of Briony’s actually.’

  The woman stood stock still.

  ‘Really? I can’t say she’s ever mentioned you before.’

  ‘Well, she’s mentioned you, Mrs Dumas. My name’s Thomas, Thomas Lane.’

  He held out his hand and Isabel took it before she had time to think.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Lane?’

  ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay for a bit, see that she’s all right like...’

  Isabel was nonplussed for a second. She wasn’t sure what to say to the boy. She was saved from answering by Cissy running down the stairs.

  ‘She wants her mum, Mrs Dumas. She’s insisting on having her mum here.’

  Tommy stepped forward. ‘Tell me where she lives and I’ll go for her.’

  Two minutes later he was rushing from the house and on his way to Molly’s.

  Briony felt as if her whole body was being rent in two.

  ‘Oh, Mam, Mam ... it’s hurting me ... it’s hurting me!’

  Her voice was high and filled with terror.

  ‘Calm yourself, child. Would you calm yourself... It won’t be long now.’

  Molly looked at the doctor and he nodded at her, confirming her own opinion.

  Briony twisted her head on the pillows. Her whole being was filled with pain. It seemed to her at that moment that even her teeth ached with it. Molly stared down at her child and felt such love come over her she would gladly have borne the pain for Briony at that moment. The doctor suddenly pushed past Molly.

  ‘This is it, it’s coming.’

  Molly stood by, helpless, as the top of the child’s head appeared. She watched the opening of her daughter’s body stretch and the tiny head, that looked so small and vulnerable to her and felt so big and cumbersome to Briony, push its way out into the world. Then its shoulders appeared and it slipped from its mother and into the doctor’s arms where the baby immediately began to cry, big, gasping, lusty cries that made Molly smile in delight. The child had a reddish tinge to its downy hair and its face, unlined and smooth, had a peach colour to it that denoted health and strength. Looking at it, she felt a stirring inside her. This was wholly Briony’s child, that much was evident.

  Briony lifted her head from the pillows and tried to glimpse the baby, but she could see nothing. Then the doctor put the child on her now blessedly flat stomach and she looked into the sea green eyes of her son. He looked at his mother and his crying ceased immediately. It was as if mother and child sized each other up for a few split seconds.

  Molly saw Briony smile at him and felt a great sadness for her. It would be hard to give up a big beautiful child like this, but give it up she must. Instinctively she grasped her daughter’s hand as the doctor finished cutting the cord and Mrs Horlock swaddled the child. She kissed Briony then, tenderly, in a way she had never kissed any of her children before. It was as if she and Briony had become sisters, sharing now a common bond: the pains of birth and of motherhood.

  Isabel was sitting in the morning room with Tommy Lane. They had hardly spoken to one another. Both sat silent, straining their ears to hear what was happening upstairs.

  Tommy noticed that the woman was wringing her hands together. He watched her ample bosom heave as she waited for the outcome of the birth. Then they heard the long low shriek and the sound of a child’s crying.

  Their eyes met and of one mind they stood up and went to the door. They met Molly on her way down the stairs.

  ‘It’s a boy child. A big, lusty boy child.’

  Isabel lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs like a girl, her face glowing with happiness and expectation. She burst into the bedroom where Briony lay in the bed with her son in her arms.

  Looking down into his face, Briony experienced a feeling like looking forward to ten whole Christmasses rolled together. Like the excitement caused by a very high place or the opening of a large present. She traced his every feature with her eyes, drinking in the smell of him, the size of him, the shape of his jaw.

  She lifted her eyes to Isabel Dumas, and saw mirrored there the same expression as her own. But she also saw the raw longing, the gnawing want that would never be fully assuaged.

  Holding out the child to her, Briony smiled widely. ‘Look at him, Isabel, he’s beautiful.’

  She took the child and sat on the edge of the bed with him.

  Mrs Horlock watched the exchange and felt a surge of relief go through her. She had convinced herself that Briony would not let the child go. She bustled from the room taking Cissy with her, on the pretext of making Briony a strong cup of tea. The doctor patted the mother’s hand and walked from the room, ready to get his money and depart.

  Alone together, Briony and Isabel looked at one another.

  ‘He’s beautiful, Briony.’ Isabel’s voice broke and Briony placed her hand over Isabel’s so both of them w
ere holding the child. He stirred in Isabel’s arms and settled himself more comfortably. Staring at the two faces above his. Trying to focus on one and then the other.

  ‘You’ll look after him, won’t you?’

  Isabel smiled and nodded her head vigorously. ‘I’ll look after him all my life, I promise you that. Thank you for giving him to me, Briony. Thank you.’

  Satisfied, she lay back against the pillows, her face white and drawn. She felt so tired and so sore all she wanted to do was sleep.

  Tommy waited until he was sure that Briony was safe and then left the house, telling Cissy he would be back the next evening.

  Molly was the next to depart, then Mrs Horlock and Cissy both drank a large hot rum to celebrate the safe delivery.

  Briony awoke at eleven in the evening, after sleeping for nearly two hours. Cissy was sitting by her bed and as soon as Briony was fully awake, went for Mrs Horlock.

  The old woman brought Briony up a simple meal of coddled eggs and broth, knowing that hunger would have made itself felt by now. After a few sips of the broth, Briony looked at the wizened old face and smiled.

  ‘I feel much better now. Where’s the baby?’

  Mrs Horlock put the bowl of broth on the bedside cabinet and sat beside Briony on the bed.

  ‘He’s gone to the mistress’s house, Briony.’

  She sat upright in the bed, her face a study in disbelief.

  ‘What? Already? But I only saw him once. I want to see him again. Now!’ Her voice had taken on a strident quality and Mrs Horlock pulled her into her arms.

  ‘It’s no good, Briony. If you see too much of him at first you won’t be able to let go. I know, I’ve seen it happen before.’

  Briony felt a hotness behind her eyes.

  ‘But he’s my baby, Mrs Horlock. I want to see him.’

  She started to cry then, her little shoulders heaving inside the nice white lawn nightdress with the pink bows that she had been so delighted with, had loved to think she owned.

  Mrs Horlock held her while she cried bitter tears. When she quietened, the old woman went from the room to make her a strong hot whisky with lots of sugar in. She would ensure the child slept. It was a great healer.

  Alone in the room, Briony looked around her. At the brocade curtains and bedspread, the carpeted floor, and the pictures on the walls. Above the bed was a tapestry, worked by her own hands in the long afternoons of her pregnancy. It was a proverb from the Bible and read: ‘For whom the Lord loveth, he correcteth.’ It was one of Mrs Prosser Evans’ sayings and Briony had always remembered it. Now, though, she knew exactly what it meant.

  All that she now had - this house, the money that was being given to her, the fact that her mother and sisters would benefit from her giving away her little child - meant nothing. All the nice clothes and all the good food and all the warmth would never replace the feeling she had experienced when she had looked at her son.

  Her son. He was her son, her son and Henry’s.

  But he would live with his father, a man who only wanted little children. A man who had taken Briony and abused her, tempted her with his promise of luxury and warmth and three pounds a week.

  Now he had everything and she had nothing.

  She had lain racked with pain, had pushed a life into the world, and at the end of it all she didn’t even know what they were going to call her son.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  Isabel looked down at the well-shaped head in the crib and sighed with contentment. The baby moved, snuggling into the warmth then, snuffling through his button nose, drifted back off to sleep again. Sally, his nurse, looked on and smiled to herself. Her own baby, born two months previously, had died after a week as if he just couldn’t be bothered to breathe in the slum he’d been born to. She had made sure of keeping her milk by letting her sister’s children suckle her, now she was ensconced in this lovely house, had been bathed and given two uniforms. She had her own room with three guaranteed meals a day, and milk and beer as and when she fancied it. Even if talk in the house was rife, if they did say that the child was the master’s by a whore, what did she care? As long as she kept her position she would look after the child of the devil himself.

  Isabel was beside herself with excitement. She had a child, a dear and blessed little child, and felt as if she had been touched by the good Lord himself. Unable to sleep with excitement, she watched the wet nurse feed him, watched his strong lips find the nipple and suck on it hungrily, and wished fervently that she could do that particular job herself. She was gratified that he looked like his mother, that he would be a handsome boy. He was big, so big. She had not been prepared for the sheer size of him. For the force of love the baby would awaken in her. Already Briony was all but forgotten.

  Hardly able to contain herself, Isabel took the child from the wet nurse as soon as he was replete and, taking him back to her own room, sat in front of the fire and just looked at him.

  She held him in her arms and drank in every part of him. He grasped her finger and she laughed out loud in the silent room. He was strong and he was hers.

  Her son, Benedict Dumas. All the frustrated longing and the unrequited love she possessed would be channelled into this boy. He would be loved, cared for and educated. He would have everything that money and her influence could give him. He was, from that day on, her boy.

  Her darling boy.

  Henry walked into Isabel’s room as she sat with the child. She heard the door open but was unable to take her eyes from the child long enough to see who it was.

  Clearing his throat, he walked across the room and stood behind the chair, forcing himself to look. He was unprepared for the sheer beauty of the child in his wife’s arms. He saw the strong hand holding on to his wife’s fingers. Saw the perfectly shaped lips and the button nose that were wholly his mother’s. He saw the startling green eyes and caught his breath in his throat.

  Looking down on to the wide awake infant he felt a revulsion inside him that was so acute he could almost taste it. It was as if every nightmare he had ever had was there, in that body on his wife’s lap. It was his flesh and blood, he knew that, but he wanted no part of it. No part of it at all.

  Molly arrived at nine the next morning and was closeted with Mrs Horlock for a good hour before she ventured up the stairs to her daughter’s room. She looked around her as if seeing everything for the first time. It amazed her that her daughter of only thirteen owned this house. Owned everything in it. That her child was now a woman of property.

  She walked into the bedroom and forced a smile on to her face. Briony lay in bed, pale and wan. Her usually animated face was drawn and dark circles were visible under her eyes. Molly could see the expert bindings around her breasts through her nightdress, and the sadness in her daughter’s drawn face.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Briony?’

  She looked at her mother and sighed.

  ‘She took him, Mum. Isabel. She took him home with her.’

  Molly sat on the edge of the bed and grasped Briony’s hand. ‘Of course she did, love. It would do you no good to see too much of him.’

  Briony pulled her hand from her mother’s and her face set in a pout. It made her look very young and very spoilt. Seeing the look, Molly herself sighed. Briony was the only one of her daughters who had never been biddable. She had always gone her own way. Even as a tiny child, when Molly had chastised her for something, Briony had taken the punishment and then gone and done exactly what she wanted to. It was this trait in her daughter’s character that was evident now. Briony was quite capable of getting out of bed and going to Isabel Dumas’ and taking the child. Molly tried a different tack.

  ‘Look, Briony, Mrs Dumas can give the boy everything. He’ll be educated, he’ll be well looked after, with all sorts of people seeing to his every whim. He’ll grow up with all this-’ she gestured around her ‘-as part and parcel of his everyday life. Would you honestly take that chance from him and bring him up in Oxlow
Lane? Because if you take that child now, you can kiss goodbye to this place, and the three pounds a week, and everything else you ever wanted. If someone had come and asked me for any one of you, I’d have given you up, and gladly. This is like a gift from the gods, girl. Your boy’s being offered the chance to be somebody. Don’t ruin it for him.’

  Briony let her mother’s words sound inside her head. It saddened her that she was in such a position. It was as if the three pounds a week to keep her mother and sisters at Oxlow Lane was the most important thing in the world. And the worst part of all was, she knew it was important. It was Briony’s sole responsibility to keep them where they were now accustomed to being. How could she take Eileen and Kerry and Bernie and Rosalee back to the dockside slums? Eileen would never be fit to work again so it would all fall on Briony’s shoulders and her mother’s while the two younger girls would be left to look after Eileen and Rosalee. Their lives would all become set into a pattern that they’d never be able to change.

  ‘Shall I get you a nice cup of tea, love?’

  Molly’s voice broke into her thoughts and she nodded. Unknown to her, all her thoughts were plain to her mother. Molly had deliberately set the chain of thought in motion and now she wanted to leave Briony alone for long enough to think through the consequences of any foolish action. No rash decisions must be allowed to wreck an otherwise harmonious arrangement.

  Briony didn’t watch her mother leave the room, just waited with bated breath until she was alone once more. It was the first time Briony had felt the full force of the responsibility she had assumed. When it had all been a childish game, when she had dreamt of being a lady in the eyes of the world, looking after her family and taking over where her father had left off, it had all seemed glamorous somehow. Now, after the birth of the child, her child, who was even as she lay here being looked after and fed by a stranger, the sheer enormity of her own actions bore down on her, leaving her feeling crushed and afraid. She could no more ask Isabel for her son than she could ask the good Lord himself to take her to tea at Claridges. It was out of her control now.