No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I think it’s disgusting. At her age. She’d better not have a baby, that’s all.’

  Jamie wasn’t entirely sure what sexual intercourse was, but the idea of his mother having a baby was dreadful. He was her baby; she was always saying so. She surely wouldn’t want that to change.

  Celia stood in the church, holding Giles’s hand, wondering how she could be doing this: singing, actually singing Away in a Manger, listening to the choir, pointing out the crib: when only two hours before, she had – no don’t think about it. Don’t.

  ‘Look,’ she whispered to Giles, ‘look, they’re coming with the candles now.’

  It was very dark in the church; it had been dark in the room. Sylvia’s room. Too dark to see anything really. All those shadows. Impossible.

  Giles squeezed her hand, looked up at her, smiled; Sylvia had squeezed her hand too, very feebly, whispered thank you. For what? For nothing. Nothing at all really. Just for – for comforting her over her baby. Her dead baby. It had been dead. Quite dead. Still and white and collapsed in on itself. On herself. A girl, it had been, as Celia had said. A tiny, sweet-faced girl. Too tiny. Born too soon.

  The virgin’s baby was enormous; rosy and smiling. Not tiny, not born too soon. Six weeks too soon. The virgin was smiling; Sylvia had smiled, finally, as she bent to kiss her goodbye, smiled through her tears.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ she had said, ‘poor baby.’

  It had been for the best; the baby couldn’t have survived. Even if she had been born alive. The midwife had said so.

  She had a dreadful sort of wound on her back, and her legs were twisted together, literally wrapped round one another. But her face had been beautiful; peaceful and almost smiling. Celia knew she would never forget it, that face. As long as she lived.

  She’d told Sylvia she would probably be coming that day, had been looking forward to it, to seeing her face when she opened the hamper. She’d sat in the car (having had the statutory rest) excited, like a child. It was going to be a lovely afternoon, and afterwards there was the carol service. She could really enjoy it this year. It was, after all, what Christmas was all about.

  When she got there, had got out of the car, a man she’d never seen before – Ted she presumed – had been sitting on the steps. He was a big burly man; he looked at her and tried to smile.

  ‘Are you Lady Celia?’ he asked, as if there could be some doubt, as if people were always arriving in the street in large chauffeur-driven cars. Yes, she said, she was, she’d brought a few things for Christmas.

  ‘She’s having it,’ he said, ‘she’s having the baby now. It’s too early. She – she just started. A couple of hours ago. I had to get the midwife, she said, not just Beryl next door, it was all going wrong she said.’ He looked dreadful, ashen, was shaking.

  ‘Oh God,’ Celia said, ‘oh, God. I’m so sorry. I’ll go away. At once. I’ll come back tomorrow, when it’s over.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, she said, if you came, could you go in. She said it would – help.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘she was so frightened this time. I don’t know why.’

  Celia looked at him. She felt rather frightened herself.

  ‘Mummy – Mummy. Can we go and see the baby?’

  ‘No darling, you can’t. I’m sorry—’

  ‘The other children are . . .’

  What was she saying? She was thinking of the other baby again, of Sylvia’s baby. Not the one in the crib. She took a deep breath, managed to smile at Giles.

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, darling. Mummy wasn’t thinking. Come on, we’ll go and look at the baby. Bring your candle.’

  They walked across to the crib; stood in the queue to put their candle by it. She looked down at the baby in the crib; at the smiling rosy baby.

  She’d looked down at the other one; lying so still and white, in her arms. Only a few minutes old, only a few minutes dead. The midwife, Mrs Jessop she was called, had tried to revive her, massaged her chest, breathed into her little mouth, but it hadn’t done any good. She had simply lain there, white and still and somehow broken. Like a doll. Mrs Jessop had handed her to Celia, had gone tutting off to her own house down the street to fetch more towels and newspapers.

  ‘I told them to get plenty, they should know by now. You stay with her, she can’t be left.’

  ‘It’s for the best,’ Sylvia said, determinedly brave, looking up at her from the bed, ‘it’s for the best really. I knew there was something wrong. I knew. Can – can I hold her? Just for a moment.’

  Celia handed the baby over tenderly; Mrs Jessop had wrapped her in a towel. She kept thinking of the shawl she had bought, thinking foolishly that the baby would be warmer in it. Sylvia looked at her, stroked her face.

  ‘Oh, the poor poor little thing. Look at her, look at her legs, oh, it’s so dreadful. I knew, I knew, didn’t I say?’

  And yes, Celia, said, she had indeed said. ‘Well, thank God, thank God she died – oh dear God.’

  Sylvia started to cry; quietly at first then more loudly. Celia felt absolutely helpless, not knowing what to do in the face of such grief, so she just stayed there, looking down at them, at Sylvia and the baby, half crying herself.

  And then it happened. Or had it? It was so hard, so hard to see. But the tiny chest had moved, she thought. Or was it the lamp? Flickering, guttering, with the cold wind coming in the door. Did it just look as if it had moved? Surely, surely it couldn’t have. But then it happened again. The chest moved again. And this time Sylvia saw it. And then there was a tiny sigh. And, ‘Oh God,’ Sylvia said, ‘oh dear God, no.’

  And then she looked at Celia and said quite calmly, as if she was standing up, perfectly well, wringing out the washing, or cutting bread, ‘Will you help me?’

  And Celia had said, just as calmly, ‘Yes, I’ll help you.’ All she had done was fetch her a pillow; that was all. She was sure that was all. To lay the baby on.

  ‘Mummy, put your candle down. Go on.’

  ‘Sorry darling.’

  ‘Here, with the others.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She put her candle down. They were all flickering. Brilliant, golden, dozens of them.

  The light had flickered like that in the room. Perhaps, perhaps they had both been mistaken. Yes, they probably had. The baby hadn’t breathed at all. She couldn’t have done. She had twisted legs and a damaged spine and she had been born dead. She hadn’t breathed. To believe anything else was madness. The midwife had tried to revive her and she hadn’t been able to. And anyway, she couldn’t have survived, having not breathed for so long, her brain would surely be damaged too, starved, like the body, of oxygen.

  Mrs Jessop had appeared rather annoyed that everything had changed, that Sylvia herself was holding the baby, that she was now wrapped in a shawl, rather than in the threadbare towel. ‘I left you holding it,’ she said to Celia, ‘what’s been going on?’

  ‘Nothing’s been going on,’ said Celia. ‘Mrs Miller wanted to hold her baby. That’s perfectly natural. It – comforted her. I gave her the baby to hold. And wrapped her in the shawl. I brought the shawl, it was a Christmas present.’

  ‘Well, I’ll take it now,’ Mrs Jessop said. ‘I have to take it away.’

  ‘It’s she, not it,’ said Celia. ‘She’s a girl. A baby.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ said Mrs Jessop, ‘it’s dead. So I have to take it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia, ‘yes, that’s true. She certainly is dead.’

  ‘Why are you crying?’ asked Giles.

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I have something in my eye.’

  ‘Poor Mummy. Let’s go back to our place.’ He looked again into the crib. ‘Is the baby asleep?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so.’

  ‘His eyes are open.’

  ‘I know. But I think he’s asleep.’

  Billy had said that, when she’d left: ‘Is the baby asleep?’ He was at t
he top of next door’s steps waiting to find out what had happened.

  It had been difficult to answer, but she knew she had to; it would be one thing that would help Sylvia and Ted, not having to break it to the children.

  ‘I’m sorry, Billy,’ she said, sitting down on the steps, taking him on her knee, big boy as he was, ‘I’m afraid the baby’s died. I’m so sorry. It was a little girl and she – she was very ill. But your mummy’s perfectly well,’ she added, ‘and she said she’d see you later. When she’s had a little rest.’

  She suddenly felt she needed a little rest herself; she couldn’t imagine feeling anything but utterly exhausted ever again.

  CHAPTER 6

  The doctor was wearing a black tie; his expression as he came into the waiting room was sombre. God, Oliver thought, dear God, something’s happened, something terrible’s happened. He wondered wildly if he kept a black tie in his rooms at the nursing home in permanent readiness for tragedy. Deaths of babies, deaths of mothers. Twice as likely, perhaps, with twins. He stood up, braced himself physically for what he was about to hear. Let it be the babies, dear God, please let it be the babies.

  The doctor smiled: beamed, held out his hand and shook Oliver’s enthusiastically. And Oliver realised. The black tie was for the king. The king had died that morning. In his anxiety over Celia, he had quite forgotten. The hard-living, pleasure-seeking, philandering king was dead: long live the king. But—

  ‘Marvellous news,’ said the doctor. ‘Girls. Twin girls. Identical.’

  ‘And my wife—’

  ‘Very well indeed. She did splendidly. Very brave, very brave indeed. And now she is extremely happy of course.’

  ‘May I go in?’

  ‘You may.’

  Oliver pushed open the door gently, looked in at Celia. She was lying back on a mountain of frilled pillows; she was pale and her eyes were shadowy, but she smiled at him radiantly.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous? Aren’t I clever? Look at them Oliver, look at them, they’re beautiful.’

  ‘In a minute. I want to look at you first. My darling. My dearest darling. Thank God you’re all right. The doctor said you were very brave.’

  ‘I was quite brave,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Giles. Even though there were two of them. And I had some wonderful whiffs of chloroform.’

  Oliver shuddered within himself; he was not physically brave, indeed he was not particularly brave in any way, he knew. And the thought of what Celia, any woman, had to go through to bring a child into the world filled him with a sort of sick awe.

  ‘I love you so much,’ he said simply.

  ‘And I love you. Do look at them, Oliver, go on.’

  He went over to the two cradles, set side by side. Beneath their mountain of blankets, two absolutely identical faces looked up at him: unseeing dark blue eyes, thick dark hair, tiny rosebud mouths, finely waving, frond-like fingers.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ he said, His voice had a catch in it.

  ‘Aren’t they? I’m so, so proud. And pleased and excited and – well everything really. Shall I tell you what I think we ought to call them?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Venetia and Adele.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Why? Very nice, but why?’

  ‘Venetia after Venice. Which is where they were conceived. And Adele because it was my grandmother’s name. And she was named after William the Conqueror’s youngest daughter, she was called Adele, and she married Stephen of Blois and became a saint. So good omens all round.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver slightly feebly. He knew there was no point arguing with Celia; she had clearly made up her mind. And they were nice names: he might have chosen different ones, plainer perhaps, more English. But she had had the babies, after all.

  ‘I was thinking, darling, as I was having them, we ought to do a book of names. A sort of dictionary. What do you think? Every single mother-to-be would buy it. I think it would do awful well.’

  ‘Celia,’ said Oliver, sitting down, taking her hand, smoothing back her hair, ‘Celia, how can you possibly manage to think about books and publishing when you’ve just had twin babies?’

  ‘Oh really, Oliver,’ she said, ‘I never stop thinking about books and publishing. You know that. Even when I wasn’t allowed to work, and all the time I was pregnant, I was thinking about them. And I’ll tell you something else. I can’t wait to get back to it. Well, you know, in a month or two.’

  Oliver looked at her doubtfully. He had rather hoped that she might have enjoyed the past few months so much that it would convert her to a life of domesticity. He was obviously wrong, if she was talking about coming back to work a mere hour after she had given birth. Of course she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. He was very anxious that she shouldn’t rush back. Apart from anything else, Giles would need attention; the entry of an extremely powerful invading force into his safe cosy self-centred little world was bound to be difficult for him. And then Oliver was never quite sure if he really liked Celia being at Lyttons or not. She had a lot of very good ideas, she had a strong visual sense, she seemed to possess an instinctive grasp of publishing and what would do well and what wouldn’t, but he did feel constantly undermined by her presence, robbed just slightly of authority, of the mystique of being the person in charge. And she was so good at presenting her views, and at dismissing the arguments which opposed them (usually presented by himself) that she was almost irresistible. Which meant he knew he would lose almost before he had begun.

  It wasn’t working with women that he minded; he had always done that, always enjoyed it, and made use of LM’s clear mind and talents. It was working with his wife that was emotionally difficult; it was so hard to ignore intimate knowledge, to set aside domestic disputes, to resist personal pressure. However, there was no point arguing with her about that either: she would come back when she wanted. He knew that very well.

  ‘Twin girls!’ said Jago. ‘Very nice. God, I bet they’ll be a handful.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ said LM, ‘they’re already in danger of taking over the entire household, as far as I can make out.’

  ‘The one I feel sorry for is the poor little bugger who’s there already. He won’t get much of a look-in will he? One small nose properly out of joint there, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said LM, ‘Celia and Oliver are very good parents. I’m sure they’ll be careful with Giles.’

  ‘Twin girls!’ said Jeanette. ‘How very, very lovely. What are they called? Boys, you have two new cousins. Two little girls. Wouldn’t you like to meet them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jamie.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Laurence.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Jamie.

  DOUBLY FANTASTIC NEWS STOP CAN’T WAIT TO MEET THEM STOP DOUBLE CONGRATULATIONS STOP WANT TO BE GODFATHER STOP LOVE JACK

  ‘Darling Jack. Not sure about the godfather bit though . . .’

  ‘Why not? He is their uncle.’

  ‘Oliver! Godfathers are supposed to be a good influence. Oh, I’m only teasing. Of course he can be a godfather. As long as we have a really stolid one to balance him. When does he go out to India?’

  ‘In August.’

  ‘Well that’s fine. Plenty of time for the christening.’

  ‘Two babies!’ said Giles. ‘Why two? One is all we need.’

  ‘Darling, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘No it won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well because they’ll play with each other. They won’t want to play with me. I think one should go back.’

  ‘Oh Giles, don’t be silly. Of course they’ll want to play with you.’ Giles looked at her and his little face was wary. ‘I don’t think they will.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t do anything about it. Two babies is what came and two babies are staying. And they’re very sweet and very lovely, and we’re very lucky to have them.’

  Giles didn’t say any more. Like hi
s father, he had learned not to argue with his mother. But he didn’t think he was lucky at all. The babies had already taken over the nursery and most of Nanny’s time, there were two more nursery maids, neither of whom seemed very interested in him, and another lady who certainly wasn’t. Everyone who came to the house, his aunt, his grandmother, his mother’s friends, his own friends even, and their mothers and nannies, went on and on about how wonderful to have twins, how unusual, how special they were, how exciting, how beautiful.

  The only person who had seemed to understand how he might be feeling was his grandfather; he had had a look at the twins and said, ‘Very nice,’ and then turned, winked at him, and said, ‘pretty boring, babies, aren’t they? And two are twice as boring. Let’s go for a walk by the river and look at the boats.’ Giles had really appreciated that.

  All the stupid twins ever did was cry and want bottles. And his mother had far less time for him as well, was always exclaiming over them, saying how they were both crying or smiling or touching each other, and how even she couldn’t tell the difference between them. They had to wear little ribbons pinned to their blankets and shawls and their cots, so that everyone knew which was which, white for Adele, yellow for Venetia. Giles had managed to swap them over once, it had seemed a nice little piece of revenge for all the trouble they were causing him; he’d liked the thought of them growing up from then on with the wrong names, but Nanny had noticed. Apparently Venetia had a thing on her bottom called a mole, so they were swapped back again. Nobody actually said anything to him, but he was afraid that Nanny, for one, had suspected him. Nanny was the nicest about it, she actually seemed to realise there was more to life than having two sisters who looked exactly the same, but that didn’t stop her being too busy to play with him most of the time. Nor him being bored, stuck up in the nursery, listening to the twins crying.