To The Coral Strand

by John Masters

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then, in what place? In a hovel like this, somewhere in the slums of London? That’s all you’ll be able to afford, if you can’t work ... You’re a man, Rodney. A little girl doesn’t want a man for her mother. No child does. She needs a father who is a man, and acts like a man, and smells like a man. Let the housekeeper do the things a woman must do.’

  The grip of his hand relaxed. He turned away. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but remember, that’s all you will be - a nanny. If I catch you trying to become her mother ... Sumitra means nothing to me, except through the baby. You - even less. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember it ... When are you starting to examine her?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. I shall be late back.’

  ‘Good. Are you well enough trained? What do you know about midwifery?’

  ‘Enough,’ she said wearily. ‘But tomorrow I shall buy a textbook and study it again. And I shall ask to be transferred to the Obstetrical Ward under Mr Dutt. I’ll do everything I can, Rodney, everything that she’ll let me do.’

  She watched his hard face soften slightly. ‘I shall find a name for her. The name of a flower. A Himalayan flower … His lips tightened again and he said, ‘I’ve got to go to work.’

  A moment later she was alone.

  Chapter 22

  Mr Dutt, M.D. (Lon.), F.R.C.S. (Edin.), pulled out a chair for her and she sat down. Then, rummaging around in his desk, he found a bottle of orange juice, and filled two glasses. ‘Why do babies always choose three or four a.m. for entry into the world?’ He sighed. ‘Especially if it’s a difficult entry ... You look tired, Mrs Wood.’

  She smiled wanly. ‘I am.’

  ‘I shall be very sorry to lose you. Too few of our Indian girls can exert that authority in the wards - like a good sergeant-major, if you will excuse me - that you British do ... You are not, of course, pregnant yourself?’

  She fiddled with the juice glass. She was too tired to go on pretending. Mr Dutt was a short plump man, bald, with protruding eyes and fat, strong hands. She had learned a lot from him. This morning’s case had been a nightmare. She felt queasy, imagining that she might have to deal with such a case alone.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘I presume, then, that you are preparing to act as midwife for another lady, who refuses for some reason to have proper medical attention?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And from the intensity with which you have studied obstetrics, and have watched and questioned me, I imagine you are worried about it.’

  She hesitated. ‘It’s not the case, as such. As far as I can tell she’s perfectly normal and healthy, except for lack of exercise and a slacker abdominal wall than she ought to have at her age. But it’s important. Personally.’

  ‘Ah. Personally. You know it is dangerous for a medical attendant to be too involved personally with a patient?’

  ‘I know, sir. But I have no choice. If I hadn’t insisted, she would have had no one but her old ayah. She absolutely refuses anyone else. I was going to tell you, when the time came closer, and ask you to be available in case it developed badly. I wouldn’t try to deal with any serious complications. I’ve been studying so that I can recognise them ... but there’s really no reason to imagine that there will be complications. Except perhaps that, at the moment, it’s a transverse lie.’

  The doctor pulled a pad towards him. A lurid sun hung on the horizon, giving out heat but only a confused light. The electric light still burned, though it was past seven o’clock. A long bar of pale-violet light hung over the sky to seaward, and overhead it was dark and heavily overcast.

  ‘Primigravida? ... I see. Well, with two abortions she’s really not a primigravida ... Pregnancy clinically confirmed? Blood pressure ... Date of commencement of last period ...’

  Her weariness faded as she plunged into the familiar technicalities. Height of the fundus of the uterus. Pelvic measurements. Ah, a good gynecoid arch! Mr Dutt beamed. His voice became lyrical and his eyes sparkled over a good gynecoid arch the way other men’s did over a pair of long, well-shaped legs ... General health and mental attitude. H’m, that’s bad. Drugs. Get these at the dispensary. Doesn’t seem to be anything to worry about, except - except perhaps the dates, coupled with the transverse lie. And didn’t you say you thought, at first, she might be further advanced? Well, an obstinate transverse presentation can be dangerous. If it’s still obstinate close to term it ought to be corrected by version ...

  The doctor stood up, yawning. ‘Excuse me ... And, Mrs Wood - do please have the courage to ignore the patient’s protests the moment you have any doubts. Millions of women have been happily delivered by midwives far less competent than you, and thousands have died though treated by doctors far more competent than I ... but there is a middle ground, not large in percentage but far too large in terms of human suffering, when you think what a baby really is - our projected selves, our dreams, our hopes, our future - where a midwife can do nothing, a doctor, perhaps, can ... I am at your service whenever an emergency develops - preferably before that. Good luck, in everything, and thank you for all that you have done for me - all of us - here at Wad alia. Are you going to see the patient now? ... Good. Give me a ring at eight p.m. Or come round, if you want to.’

  Half an hour later, the prescriptions made up and stowed into her capacious handbag, Margaret left the hospital. She ate ‘supper’ in a nearby cafe, as was her custom on days when she visited Sumitra. Out in the streets the air felt even more close and oppressive than in the hospital. The violet light had turned to a dull purple and was spreading slowly upward across the sky from the west, though no breeze stirred at street level. The sun had vanished.

  She took the bus, as usual, to the corner nearest Sumitra’s apartment, and walked along the familiar street, through the door, and up the stairs. The old ayah greeted her with a small softening of her wrinkled face. Margaret thought that in herself the old woman wanted to like her, but Sumitra’s attitude made it impossible for her to show it. Perhaps also she resented the Englishwoman with her Western notions interfering in a responsibility that had been hers alone.

  She entered the big room, and almost before she was inside the door Sumitra cried, ‘You again? I don’t want to be examined today.’ Her voice was ill-tempered and the dark rings very noticeable under her eyes. She lay on a couch under the window, her feet up on cushions, her belly rising in a hump in front of her, her hands stretched over it, not calmly or protectively, but with fingers outspread, in anger.

  Margaret said, ‘I’m afraid I must. It won’t last much longer.’ She went to the closet and got out the brown suitcase which she had stocked with all the necessities of private midwifery. She washed her hands and prepared for examination, while Sumitra pulled up her sari and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

  Margaret set to work. Half an hour later she had half convinced herself that Sumitra must be wrong with her dates. She had looked for the signs that Dutt had told her of; she had measured and palpated ; and she felt sure - almost.

  After helping the other woman rearrange her clothes, she sat down opposite her on a hard chair. ‘I forgot to ask you your full menstrual history, in the beginning. Are you normally regular or irregular?’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with it now? Will you never stop asking me questions, pawing and pushing? You’re not a doctor, what do you know about it? ... Oh, all right. I have always been irregular.’

  ‘Have you ever had any flow which you have mistaken for a period, but which later turned out not to be?’

  ‘Yes. When I was seventeen my mother took me to a doctor for it. I used to have two-day haemorrhages in the middle of periods. The doctor said there was no physical cause, it was due to nerves. I was very unhappy at the time.’

  ‘Now - the period from which we are basing our calculations, the one of December 24. Was that on time? How long did it last?’

  ‘Yes. No. How
can I remember?’

  ‘I’m sure you can remember if you try. A woman who thinks she is pregnant by her lover is going to remember very well.’

  Sumitra glared at her. ‘It was ten days late. It lasted two days.’ Margaret leaned back. Suppose it had not been a period at all, but a haemorrhage? Then the calculations should be made not from December 24 but from the last true period before - November 17. In that case Sumitra was at or past term now.

  ‘You’re dripping sweat on to my feet,’ Sumitra said, ‘sit farther away, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s awfully hot.’ She mopped her forehead.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Sumitra said. ‘Is there something wrong?’ Margaret rose and found a smile. ‘Nothing at all, that I know of. But you may be closer to term than we thought. If you are, then we ought to get a doctor to alter the lie of the baby. It’s lying across instead of head down. It’s simple to move before labour begins.’

  ‘No,’ Sumitra said. ‘Ayah will be quite capable of dealing with it, even if you aren’t. She looked at me only yesterday and said it was fine. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.’ Margaret controlled herself with a huge effort. She said, ‘Wouldn’t it be much wiser to get another nurse instead of me? I can find a good one for you without any trouble ...’

  ‘No.’

  Margaret let the sweat run down her cheeks. ‘Please, Sumitra, let me get a doctor, now. You need one badly.’

  ‘For the last time, no! You shall deliver the baby, and if you do make a mess of it - how wonderful that will be, won’t it? Or suppose it’s born a cripple. Or an idiot. It’s yours already, you see. I don’t care. I just have to lie here and grow it and give it to you.’

  Margaret repacked the case, and stowed it in the closet. Sumitra lay silent under the window, staring at the ceiling. Margaret turned to go. Ayah opened the door for her and she went out.

  Her clothes were soaked through with sweat when she reached the tenement, and the purple-banded sky was dark violet in the lower segment, black as pitch to the west. The landlord was standing on the front step when she entered. He waved a hand at the sky: ‘Storm coming.’

  She nodded and forced her weary legs up the stairs. She prayed that Rodney was asleep. These days he had to make his own meals. The dirty plates greeted her - let them lie. This was her last day of treble responsibility, thank God. From tomorrow, there would be only Rodney and Sumitra. She pulled off her clothes and fell into bed. Must call Mr Dutt at eight.

  A heavy shaking and roaring awakened her, and a ketchup bottle fell off a shelf, smashing on the floor. She tumbled out of bed, her head aching, and slammed the creaky window down against the violence of the wind. The sky was now totally dark except for a thin red line across the centre of the sky. She switched on the light and found her watch. Half past five. The window rattled, the walls shook. She found pan, bucket, and cloth and began to clean up the mess. The door opened and Rodney stalked in.

  ‘You were late getting back this morning,’ he said, ‘I fell asleep waiting for you.’

  She said, ‘Mr Dutt kept me, and then I had to spend longer than usual with Sumitra.’

  ‘Why? How is it?’

  She wrapped the mess into newspapers, dropped it into the bucket, sat down, and tried to explain her doubts. He listened intently. Ever since the day of Sumitra’s visit he had eaten little and, though now suddenly beginning to take care of his person and clothes, he had thinned and his eyes had developed a starved, luminous intensity. His movements had become sharp and jerky, and when he spoke it was in clipped phrases.

  She ended: ‘There might be no cause for worry. But I’m going to go and see Mr Dutt, because a transverse lie at term can be dangerous. The uterus ...’

  ‘Call it the baby, for God’s sake.’

  She put out her hand. ‘Rodney, it isn’t a baby yet. It’s a foetus, inside a uterus. Even if you don’t think of it like that, and Sumitra doesn’t want to - mothers never do - I have to ... She’s in a bad state. She ought to be living with a friend, someone she can talk to.’

  Rodney stared at her. The longing came over her that he might look at her like that about her own baby - distraught, intense, involved. It would not do to think about it. He shook off her hand and began to pace the floor.

  He said, ‘This damned foolishness has gone on long enough. If there’s the slightest doubt, she’s got to have a doctor.’

  Margaret said, ‘I told you, I’m going to see Mr Dutt. But what can he do if she refuses to let him examine her, even let him into the room?’

  ‘Why don’t you smuggle him in? Hide him in the cupboard where he can see?’

  She smiled wanly. ‘That’s impossible ... If we could only carry out an X-ray examination, we would know what we needed to know.’

  ‘She’s got to go to hospital for that ... I’ve got it! Make her ill. Give her something that will make her feel so awful she’ll want to go to hospital. Once she’s there the rest’s easy. Put her out, for Christ’s sake. Give her a knockout drop and have the ambulance waiting outside.’

  ‘I can’t do any of those things,’ she said, marvelling at his persistence. ‘There’s no illness I could induce, no drug I could give her, which might not harm the foetus at this stage.’

  ‘No, not that. All right, I’ll go and see her. There’s nothing else for it. I’ll take her to hospital by force.’

  ‘That would really harm the - the baby.’

  ‘I’ll ... I’ll promise to marry her. I can’t stand this.’

  Margaret turned away and began to dress. The misery didn’t seem any greater than usual. Perhaps Sumitra had been working towards this all the time.

  Rodney said, ‘I hate her, but ... the baby. I’m going round there now. You’d better not come with me. I’ll have her at the hospital by eight.’

  The door slammed behind him. She sat, unseeing, at the table until half the window shattered and burst into the room on the wings of a shrieking wind. She went again to her brush and swept up the glass. There was nothing to be done about the window. She pulled her bed farther from it and anchored all light objects under pots and shoes. The wind lifted the bedclothes in long waves and, under its howling, in the blackness outside, she heard isolated shouts of fear and the crash of a falling chimney pot. She tried to cook her evening meal, but the wind blew sparks and burning charcoal sticks round the room, so she doused the fire, found some bread, and ate that with butter and jam. The milk had turned rancid and she could not make tea. Twice the light went out and twice came on again. The third time it did not come on.

  After an hour and a half of waiting, ten minutes after the light finally failed, she saw a taxi struggling up the street, almost like a man bent against the wind. It stopped and Rodney jumped out. She caught a glimpse of his set face as he hurried across the sidewalk. The taxi waited.

  He burst in. ‘She’s gone. Come on.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ayah doesn’t know. Come on.’

  She followed him down the stairs, and into the taxi. The taxi drove off, the driver shouting over his shoulder, ‘This is my last trip today, even with double fares. Look at that ...’ A chute of heavy slates whistled diagonally across the street, ripped bodily off one roof and sent like shell fire against the upper front of the house opposite, thence to fall shattered on to the sidewalk. Huge drops of rain began so spatter against the windows.

  At the apartment house Rodney said, ‘Wait here.’

  The driver shook his head. ‘I’m not waiting, sahib. I didn’t want to wait back there.’ Before Rodney could pay him he slammed the car into gear and raced away down the street.

  Up in Sumitra’s apartment the walls creaked under the wind. Ayah squatted in a corner looking fearfully at the blind windows and the darkness beyond. Here the lights still burned.

  ‘Rani Sahiba wapas nahin agya?’

  The ayah rose, pressing her bony hands together. Her face was clammed with fear. ‘Nahin, sahib.’

  Rodney
flung himself into a chair. ‘She left here about five o’clock. She told ayah she was going for a walk. That’s all. The chowkidar didn’t see her go out. No one did ... She might be taking shelter from the storm, but I don’t think so. The storm had just started by then. She went out into it. Where?’

  ‘Janaki’s?’

  Rodney grabbed the telephone. ‘What’s the number?’

  ‘24096.’

  He dialled and soon after spoke in Hindi. He put the phone down. ‘Janaki’s out of Bombay, visiting relatives. But Sumitra is not there, and has not been.’ He turned to the ayah and Margaret could understand he was asking her who else had visited the flat. ‘No one,’ the ayah wailed, ‘no one!’

  The lights failed. Ayah moaned. A long torrent of lightning poured slowly down the sky and in its glare Margaret saw the sea stretching away in violet and white, running mountain high towards the black outline of harbour and city to the left.

  Rodney spoke out of the darkness: ‘How long do we wait here? And then, what do we do? ... Nearly eight o’clock. The telephone’s going to go any moment. Use it while we can. Get on to Dutt.’

  He lit a match and she dialled quickly, asking, ‘What am I to say?’

  ‘Tell him first what you learned this morning ...’ Margaret held up her hand. ‘Mr Dutt? It’s Margaret Wood … ‘ Quickly she gave him the details. The surgeon’s voice was strained. ‘Get her to the hospital, Mrs Wood. She must be put under the care of an obstetrician.’

  Rodney, listening with his head close to hers, took the phone from her. ‘This is Rodney Savage, doctor,’ he said, ‘the woman is Sumitra, Rani of Kishanpur.’

  She heard Dutt’s gasp, the Bengal accent suddenly strong. ‘Oah, my Goad!’

  Rodney continued harshly: ‘The baby is mine. Sumitra’s disappeared. Went out at five. Please get all your things, come round here in your car, and we’ll go and find her.’

  ‘It is impossible.’ Mr Dutt’s voice was faint but decisive as she strained to hear. ‘I have every sympathy with you, but I cannot spend my time looking for a lady who may not be in urgent need of my help if we do find her, while half a dozen women are even now awaiting my attentions. I am going to the hospital now.’