Clover's Child

by Amanda Prowse

  She sat on her bus and pictured him turning up only to find her gone. Her heart leapt with longing at the thought of him, but she felt dead on her feet. She remembered her sickness earlier, maybe it wasn’t the smell that had made her sick, maybe it was a bug; that would certainly explain why she felt so awful. Her bed beckoned and she smiled, still high on the memory of the previous night.

  She traipsed up the hallway and into the back room. Joan was palming crumbs from the tablecloth, scooping them into her hand and launching them into the fireplace, where they sizzled and popped.

  ‘Well, that’s your first day done. How’d it go?’

  ‘All right, Mum, actually. Nice bunch of girls and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yep. Here you are, love.’ Joan put a plate of chicken, buttered spuds and greens on the table. She’d been keeping it warm on top of a simmering pan of water for a good forty minutes.

  Dot stared at the plate. ‘D’you know, Mum, I’m really sorry, but I’m too tired to eat. Think I might have a bit of a bug.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, don’t give it to your dad, that’s all I need.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She had no intention of interacting with her dad any more than was absolutely necessary. It didn’t matter how much time passed, his words and the fact that he had hit her were there for perfect recall whenever she closed her eyes.

  The next day at the factory passed much like the first, albeit her hands and wrists ached from performing the small nimble task with her fingers. After her shift, Dot jumped on the bus and thought she might burst if Sol wasn’t waiting for her; it had been too long since he had last held her hand in his. She checked her reflection in her compact mirror: a little pale but otherwise okay. She practically ran to Paolo’s, not caring how ungainly she looked as she galloped along the pavement, eager to get inside.

  The door bell gave its familiar ring as she pushed it open with her shoulder. No Sol, their booth was empty. Dot took her drink and sank down onto the vinyl upholstery. Please come soon; I miss you so much.

  Paolo popped up from the cellar. ‘Ooh just the girl! I couldn’t pass on your note cos he didn’t come in yesterday!’

  ‘Oh! That’s odd.’ Dot was surprised and worried in equal measure. She sipped her Coca-Cola slowly, making it last. With each creak of the door or ring of the bell, she straightened her shoulders and smiled in expectation. But still no Sol. It occurred to her as the counters were wiped down for the night and the Burco boiler was switched off that it was so unlike him to miss two dates in a row, it must be something pretty major to keep him away. As the bus chugged up the road, it clicked – the bug! Of course, she still felt rotten and had even been sick the day before. He must have it worse than her, poor thing. She wished that she could make him tea and snuggle him better in that big old bed at the Merchant’s House. What was the saying – absence makes the heart grow fonder? Weren’t that the truth. She ached for him.

  Sol failed to show at Paolo’s for the next two days as well, leaving Dot with a nervous flutter and a disappointed tummy. By Saturday morning, she was beside herself, agitated and snappy. There was nothing else for it; she would have to go to the Merchant’s House. She put on her best coat, cleaned her shoes and flattened her fringe. She took care with her make-up, careful not to overdo it; there was a fine line between sophisticated lady who had made an effort and tart.

  Dot marched up towards the front door that she had walked in and out of as the cook’s daughter since she was four years of age, and as a lover for the last couple of months. She boldly took the stairs, coughed, then reached out confidently for the brass knob, before shoving her hand back in her pocket and running back down the stairs and around the corner.

  Her heart thundered in her chest and she fought the urge to be sick again. Come on, Dot, you can do this, just knock on the bloody door.

  Slowing her breathing, Dot once again trod the steps, this time at a slower pace and with more caution.

  She heard the bell tinkling inside as she hovered on the wide stone steps. Dot smoothed her blouse to rid it of any creases but also to soak up the sweat that peppered her palm. She exhaled through bloated cheeks, trying to calm her erratic pulse. After what felt like an age, the door was opened briskly and widely. Dot lowered her eyes until her gaze settled on the face of the diminutive housekeeper. The woman had to be in her seventies, a new addition who didn’t know Dot, which made it both easier and harder. She had a bird-like demeanour and bright, fearless eyes that shone from her crêpe-skinned face; her dress was of the palest pink cotton and was starched to within an inch of its life.

  ‘Yes?’ Her tone was clipped. Dot wasn’t sure if this was because she had been in the middle of doing something or because she’d taken an instant dislike to her face.

  ‘Hello, I’m Dot Simpson, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve come to see Sol. Solomon?’ Dot had adopted her posher than usual waitressing voice.

  The woman opened the door wide and beckoned Dot inside. ‘Wait here,’ she said and, without turning her head, strode purposefully towards the back of the house.

  Dot stood in the middle of the great hall, which was almost as big as the entire footprint of their little house in Ropemakers Fields. The tiled floor gleamed and the brass door plates shined, fingerprint-free and reeking of Brasso. She glanced at the wide stairs that wound their way up and was tempted to run up them and find her beloved; sick bed or not, she wanted to be with him. She remembered her and Sol climbing the stairs hand in hand, unable to keep their hands off each other, stopping on every other tread for a kiss. She bit her bottom lip and smiled at the secret.

  The housekeeper reappeared. ‘Follow me.’

  Dot was surprised not to be led up the staircase towards the apartment. Instead she was shown into the library at the back of the house, a room she hadn’t been in since she’d popped into it by mistake when she was a little girl.

  Double doors opened into the imposing room, whose panelled walls were lined with bookshelves that were fit to bursting. Small tables were placed beside leather wing-backed chairs and were littered with beautiful sparkling things: a crystal fruit bowl sat alongside heavy brass curios that looked like ships’ instruments.

  There was a leather-topped bureau with a stack of papers sitting neatly and squarely in one corner. A large leather-bound blotter and an oversized brass lamp dominated the desk space.

  Two tall sash windows afforded a perfect view of the garden and the staircase outside the grand ballroom where she and Sol had loitered on that magical night when they first met. She recalled the first time she had touched his hands and how she had almost disliked him, wary of his skin colour and defensive in the face of his intelligence. Yet look at her now, they were going to get married!

  Dot tried to focus, to calm her nerves. She hadn’t known what to expect, had tried in fact not to conjure an image that was too detailed or to imagine the interaction, it would have made her too nervous. The door opened and in walked Vida Arbuthnott. She was tall, muscular but slim, elegant and beautiful, wearing a shirtwaist dress of red cotton, and red patent-leather square-heeled boots that came to her knee. Dot swallowed the bile of inadequacy that rose in her throat. She tried to imagine what it would be like when Joan and Vida met as equals. She’d have to tell her mum to get her hair done and wear her good shoes.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Sol’s mother’s tone was neither welcoming nor dismissive.

  Dot took her place on the little chair in front of the desk. Vida sat on the other side, as if it were an interview.

  ‘You must be Clover?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dot smiled and nodded, happy that Sol had given that as her name; it made her sound like someone significant.

  ‘I expect you are here to see my son.’

  Dot nodded again. ‘Yes, I hope he’s feeling better. I’ve had a rotten bug and expect he’s got it too.’ Her cheeks reddened at the thought of how the bug might have been transferred: contact, dancing, kissing…

&
nbsp; Vida adjusted the large diamond earrings that nestled in each of her lobes and clasped her hands on the desk in front of her.

  ‘A bug? No, no, I believe he’s quite well. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh.’ A furrow of confusion appeared at the top of Dot’s nose. She didn’t know what to say. She ran through her next sentence in her head: ‘I know this is a little bit awkward, but I think you and I need to get to know each other a bit, Mrs Arbuthnott. I’m really not as bad as you might think I am! I will treat Sol brilliantly because I love him and so I don’t want you to worry. After all, we will be related one day.’ She knew it was a lot easier to begin a conversation like that inside her head.

  As Dot drew breath, Vida elaborated. ‘No, Solomon is not ill, he’s gone home.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘My son is not here, he has gone.’

  ‘Gone? What?’

  ‘He has gone home, to St Lucia.’

  ‘Whaddya mean “gone”? How can he have gone to St Lucia?’ Dot gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘I mean that he is no longer in London, he is homeward bound. Did he not tell you?’

  The smile slipped from Dot’s face as she shook her head; it took a while for her brain to register what Mrs Arbuthnott had just said.

  ‘How long’s he gone for? When’s he coming back?’ She stared at the woman who would be her mother-in-law.

  Vida gave a small laugh. ‘Oh, that Solomon is such a naughty boy! I thought he might have informed you. He is not coming back; not at all. He’s gone home for good.’

  Dot felt her body weaken and slump down into the leather seat. Her breath came in irregular pants. ‘Not coming back? Whaddya mean? That can’t be right… But… he… we were…’ She pictured the two of them dancing in Ronnie Scott’s.

  ‘Don’t ever let me go, Sol.’

  ‘I’ll never let you go, baby.’

  Dot didn’t realise that she was crying – hot, heavy tears that trickled into her mouth and dripped from her chin. She rubbed her eyes, smearing her eyeliner into a panda-like smudge.

  ‘I think there must have been a mistake! He wouldn’t just… He wouldn’t… We…’

  Vida’s voice was calm. ‘There is no mistake, Clover. He has returned to St Lucia and he is not coming back. Not ever. He has a life there, a very important life.’

  Dot looked at Sol’s mother through the fog of tears. ‘He said he’d take me with him.’ Her voice was small. Her shoulders heaved as she breathed through her sobs. ‘He… he said we would get married…’

  ‘Did he now?’ Vida shook her head and gave a small tut. ‘Can you really imagine him taking you back to St Lucia?’

  Dot shook her head. No, no she couldn’t. Not really. Not if she was being honest, she couldn’t. The beach was no place for someone like her, the girl from Ropemakers Fields.

  Vida continued. ‘He has the gift of the gab, that’s for sure, but for him it was just a little fun. He told me so himself, he said you were a distraction.’

  ‘He said that?’ Dot’s mouth hung open, her eyes closed tight. She thought of Gloria Riley.

  ‘Yes he did.’

  ‘He said that about me?’

  ‘Yes. And I only tell you this, Clover, so that you can put it behind you and move on. I’m sure it’s been a fun adventure, but it’s over. You must put it behind you and move on.’

  ‘He told me he loved me, and I love him. I love him, I really do.’ Dot twisted the bottom of her coat in her hands.

  ‘No you don’t, dear. It just feels that way right now. Trust me.’

  ‘I can’t believe he never even said goodbye…’ This Dot said to herself, as though speaking it aloud might help her understand. She felt so confused.

  ‘That tells you all you need to know, doesn’t it? If he loved you, would he simply disappear without speaking to you first? If he had wanted you to go with him, he would have made provision for that, but he didn’t, did he?’

  Dot shook her head. No he didn’t. The two sat without speaking for a few seconds, the silence punctuated by Dot’s sobs.

  ‘Can I call you a taxi?’ Vida was keen to bring the meeting to an end.

  Dot shook her head again. ‘No… No thank you.’ No more taxis for her; she could just about afford the bus fare.

  Vida Arbuthnott watched as, for the second time that week, a young person with a broken heart trod wearily down the front steps. She swept her hand over her face, trying to wipe away the guilt that threatened to settle on her. It was for the best.

  * * *

  Dot lay on her bed and cried for forty-eight hours. It wasn’t the small trickle of tears that a stubbed toe or soppy film might provoke – this was different; this time she had absolutely no control. Her tears continued to fall despite the fact that her eyes were sore and swollen shut, her face was peppered with purple blotches and her pillow and the yoke of her nightie were sodden. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the two of them swaying as one, in time to Etta. Every time she opened her eyes, she heard his words, his lies, ‘… the lights twinkling from Reduit Beach on the curve of the horizon. Crickets’ll chirp in perfect time, providing our nightsong. There might be the gentle whir of a fan overhead in the great hall or the creak of wood as our rocker lulls us like babies…’

  She left the confines of her bedroom only to venture to the loo and this she did on the wobbly legs of a drunk and with the headache of someone who had been on mother’s ruin all night. Waves of nausea swept over her, which made eating impossible.

  At some point Dee had crept in and placed her small hand on her big sister’s cheek. ‘Don’t cry, Dot, I made you something!’

  Dot forced her eyes open and looked at the picture of a rainbow that Dee had painstakingly coloured in with crayons. It reminded her of their day in Selfridges; she thought about the brown paper bag nestled in her chest of drawers and her material that was almost the colour of the St Lucian sky.

  ‘Thanks, tin ribs,’ she managed, through a mouth twisted with distress.

  It took two weeks for Dot to pluck up the courage to visit Doctor Levitson. He was known throughout Limehouse. He had delivered her and tended to her every ailment since she was a baby, from whooping cough to chicken pox and most things in between. He was the same doctor that had helped deliver Dee, ministered to her nan when she was sick, diagnosed her Dad’s dicky chest and lent an ear to her mum when times were darkest. It was going to be an awkward encounter. Dot plodded up the surgery steps and sat in the square waiting room with all the old ladies who sniffed into tissues, rubbed at joints or exhaled deeply for no apparent reason.

  Doctor Levitson had always been ancient. He had prominent features, wide-set eyes and large ears from which tufts of grey bristle peeked. The furrows on his forehead were deep and his eyes disappeared into them when he smiled, which he did a lot. Before applying his large hands to his patient’s skin, he always warmed them by placing them up his jersey first, and when Dot was little he could make a coin appear from behind her ear, which was quite impressive.

  ‘Mum okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dot didn’t want to discuss her family; it made them seem present in a way that made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Dad resting up?’

  Dot nodded.

  ‘Good, good and what can I do for you, little Dot?’

  She swallowed. She liked being little Dot, but knew that in approximately twenty seconds she would vault the line from child to woman.

  ‘I’ve not been too well, Doctor.’

  ‘You do look tired, a little peaky. Your mum said you are up at Bryant and May? How’s that working out?’

  ‘S’okay. Nice bunch of girls…’

  ‘Good, good.’ He smiled again and was silent, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. Dot focused on a small hole in the sleeve of his hand-knitted jersey; it had been darned with orange cotton, forming a little nub that drew your eye. Surely Mrs Levitson could have found a better match.

  ‘Thing is, Doctor Levitson…’

&nb
sp; He stared at her, waiting.

  ‘The thing is, I think I might be in trouble.’

  ‘I see. What kind of trouble, Dot? The police are chasing you and you need to take refuge in my cupboard under the stairs, or the pregnant kind?’

  Dot nodded as her tears spilled. ‘The pregnant kind.’

  It was the first time she had said the word aloud and it felt terrifying. Two syllables with such a terrible connotation, two syllables with the power to destroy her whole life. She shook inside her coat. Oh God, Oh God…

  ‘Okay. Well, first things first, let’s do a test and make sure of the facts; otherwise we could be getting in a lather over nothing.’

  Dot nodded. Yes, a test would be good.

  ‘And then if you are, Dot, we can take it from there. If you are, is marriage an option, does the father know?’

  Dot shook her head and closed her eyes; it was somehow easier to voice the facts without being able to see anything. ‘No. He’s done a runner. I thought he loved me, we were going to get married.’

  ‘Oh, Dot, if I had a shilling for every time I’ve heard that.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, to explain that she and Sol were different, that they had been in love and she was not like all the other girls who got caught with the promise of a ring and happy ever after, but stopped when she realised she was exactly like that.

  ‘And if you are, you will have to tell your mum and dad, you know that, don’t you?’

  Dot nodded and could only imagine how that conversation would go.

  Four days later, Dot sat in the same chair in front of Dr Levitson and he confirmed what she had suspected for some time. She was having a baby, she was having their baby.

  ‘Promise me, Dot, that you will tell your parents.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And sooner rather than later?’

  Again the nod. Too stunned to speak and too frightened to move. What on earth was she going to do?

  Dot decided to wait until she had got her head around the situation before she faced her mum and dad; a couple of days would make little difference. She considered going to see Sol’s parents, but decided against it. Her humiliation at the last visit still caused her cheeks to flame. She would just have to figure something out, although quite what, she couldn’t begin to imagine.