24
Oh, but Nina was so cold. Dorothy put the shivering girl and her baby boy in the girls’ double bed, and banished Aggie to the spare room. Initially, Aggie baulked at this – knowing what had only recently occurred in the room, and in particular the bed – but Dorothy told her briskly to help herself to fresh bedding from the airing cupboard and to stop being silly, for heaven’s sake. Aggie found the forgotten dough set to rise in the cupboard that morning, and Dorothy told her to throw it away. It was a hell of a waste, but it couldn’t be helped. Dorothy delved into the bottom of her wardrobe and retrieved the stack of nappies and pins she had bought two winters ago. They were huge on the tiny newborn, but they would do. She hauled armfuls of logs and a scuttle of coal upstairs and lit the fire in the double bedroom, then she dressed Nina in a flannel nightgown and bed jacket and put fresh warm socks on her poor cold feet. She piled an extra eiderdown over Nina, tore a bed sheet in half and swaddled the baby in it, and instructed Nina to keep him in bed with her that night, but to be careful. Dorothy helped her to arrange pillows and showed her how to wriggle down the bed so her head was level with the baby’s head, meaning she would not pull up the covers and suffocate him.
Dorothy took to her own bed, but kept her door open so she could hear each time the baby woke up. And each time he did, she got up, poked the fire and added more coal. Nina did not want to feed the baby. So Dorothy explained, with patience, that there was no suitable milk available and Nina would have to feed him if she didn’t want him to die – at least, until they could get milk for him.
‘Might be best if he did die,’ said the bewildered girl, holding her baby awkwardly, but trying to feed him.
‘Do not talk like that,’ said Dorothy as she helped Nina to position him comfortably.
He latched on, squeezing shut his tiny eyes, his little body rigid with the richness of suckling his mother. Dorothy was wakeful, watchful, fearful, all night. She didn’t mind the little boy’s cries and whimpers. She thought these sounds had been taken from her forever. Nina was clearly exhausted, as all new mothers are, but she rocked him and fed him with Dorothy’s help.
By the first light of dawn, as the cockerel announced its arrival, Dorothy was both delighted and dismayed to wake from a fitful doze to find Nina fast asleep, cuddling her little boy, also fast asleep, mother and child breathing in unison, pink-faced and contented. It was a vision Dorothy couldn’t tear herself away from, and a rage ballooned inside her, a blind and fierce feeling of hatred and nausea. She was still rational enough to recognise jealousy, although she had never truly felt it until now.
She put on her pinny and made breakfast, and Aggie went off to work with a concocted tale of her friend’s illness, her vomiting, her incapacity. The need for recuperation. Poor overworked Nina, it had finally brought her crashing down. If anybody questioned her story, Aggie was to ignore the questions. On no account was she to tie herself up in knots. Nina wanted this baby kept secret, and Nina’s wish must be respected. So. There it was.
Dorothy pulled her suitcase from under her bed, blew off the wisps of dust, and with trembling hands unlocked and opened it. Sidney’s clothes were pristine and fresh, and the evermore aroma of dried lavender swamped Dorothy with the welcome surprise of a spring heatwave. She took out the bundle of Jan’s letters and threw them on to her bed along with her notebook and pen. With care she carried the case across the landing to Nina’s room, and showed her all the things she had once made. Nina must use them, of course. There was nothing else. Dorothy gave the baby his first wash – just a lick and a promise, as Dorothy’s mother had always called it – with Nina looking on as she gently wiped the baby’s face and neck and hands with a flannel. And as she and Nina dressed the baby boy, it seemed to Dorothy that this baby was a charmed imposter, animating the ghost-clothes meant for a different baby. A baby who no longer existed, and who might never have existed, he was so distant from Dorothy now. The clothes were a large fit, but Nina’s baby looked well, Dorothy thought, his little legs kicking, his arms quaking up and down as if in joy at the lovely new clothes he was so privileged to be wearing.
Nina was clumsy and still in shock. She was feverish and trembling. Dorothy hoped she would not need to call in the doctor, even though she knew, yes, this should be done, really, both for Nina and for her little boy. It was common sense, it was the responsible thing to do.
She brought the tin bath into the kitchen, boiled water and helped Nina to bathe. ‘Let me look after you,’ she murmured.
The girl was cold, hot, shivering. But she pronounced herself warmer after the bath, and Dorothy helped her back upstairs and tucked her back into bed.
‘You’re a good woman, Dot,’ said Nina. ‘I don’t know what the bloody hell I’d do without you.’
‘Nonsense. I’ll bring you some tea.’
Dorothy threw out Nina’s bright red bathwater, rinsed the bath and refilled it for herself. She hadn’t washed since the morning of Christmas Day, and part of her didn’t want to, but she knew she ought to. She luxuriated in the water, taking time to soap herself and to slowly rinse it off with her flannel. Her towel was stiff and warm, and she allowed herself to stand in it for some time, wrapping it tightly around her body. In time she dressed, threw out the bathwater and replaced the bath on its hook in the wash house. There were chores to attend to, a baby and his weary mother to look after.
Dorothy remained confident. She was vigilant. Nina was hardy. She would pull through. She stoked up the fire in the bedroom. Babies need to be kept very warm, she advised Nina. And you need to be warm too, so stay in bed and look after the baby.
‘He was Polish,’ said Nina as she watched Dorothy put coal on the fire.
Dorothy smiled a slow, rueful smile of understanding. It might have been compassion. She hoped it was compassion.
‘He was funny,’ added Nina. ‘I liked him. It’s wartime, ain’t it? I think he’s the one that died. In the crash out the back. The one you tried to rescue.’
‘Oh.’
‘It couldn’t have been … I don’t think it was nobody else. Not at that time anyway. Do you see?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘But that’s no help to me. My mum and dad … I can’t tell them. They can’t ever know about this baby. Shirley. My brothers. I can’t tell none of them.’
‘What on earth will you do?’
‘Have you spoken to the nuns yet?’
‘No, of course not, you ridiculous girl! Oh, I’m sorry, Nina. Forgive me. You gave birth only yesterday. I haven’t had time … it’s … I don’t actually know of any nuns. Nina. Please understand.’
‘You can find out. You’re clever, Dot. People listen to you.’
The baby, who Nina had named David, suckled in unknowing peace at the young woman’s swollen and cloud-like breast. His hair was dark and sticking to his head, and he was blessed with the tangy, musky, minty, yeasty, orangey, earthy, other-worldly smell of the newborn baby. The smell was a drug to Dorothy, but Nina appeared unmoved.
‘Nina, there is no real shame in having a baby, you know. Whatever the circumstances may be. A baby is a gift.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ replied Nina. ‘I don’t want it. I never even knew I was carrying it. You believe me, don’t you?’
Dorothy patted her free hand. ‘I do. I truly do. I didn’t know you were carrying him either, and I’m much older than you and I should have realised. There were signs that I should have noticed. You’ve been so hungry! You even fainted, do you remember?’
‘I do. Rotten feeling, that was. Like falling off the edge of the world.’
‘Just try to get some sleep, will you? If you want to get back to work this week, you must rest.’
‘I am going back to work this week.’ Nina’s jaw was set stubbornly. ‘But what about David? How can we hide him?’
‘What do you mean, “hide him”?’
‘I don’t want anybody knowing about him. Please, Dot. Not anybody.’
‘Mrs Compton? She could look at him, make sure he’s all right?’
Nina shook her head. ‘No. After what happened with your little … oh, sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’ll keep her out of it, shall we? Dr Soames? But on second thoughts, he’s terribly officious. I’m not sure he’d keep your baby a secret.’
‘Not him, then. Nuns it is. Nuns know what to do with babies, don’t they?’
‘There are no nuns!’ said Dorothy.
Nina wilted a little. ‘Then what the bloody hell am I going to do? I’m not a mother. I don’t want a baby. I’ll be disowned by my mum. She always said to me and Shirley, if either of us gets into trouble, she’ll never see us or the baby. She’ll have nothing to do with us. She meant it too, I know my mum. I ain’t going into one of those homes for unmarried mothers either. I’ve heard about them.’
‘But you’re nineteen, Nina. You’re a grown-up young lady. You can do with your life as you choose. Think ahead, think about five, ten, twenty years from now. You’ll be your own woman and nobody will necessarily know or care that your son was born illegitimately. People get over things like that. And besides, perhaps your mother will actually love her little grandson. Her first special grandchild.’
‘Love him? She don’t even love any of us, so why would she love a child born out of wedlock?’
Dorothy frowned. ‘Nonsense. Of course she loves you.’
Nina snorted. ‘No. She does her duty by us. There ain’t much love to spare in our house. She hates Dad, and he hates her. She’s always said, if she had her time again, she wouldn’t get married and she wouldn’t have kids.’
It didn’t look good for Nina, Dorothy had to admit to herself. Her mother had not written to her since she had been at the farm – could she even write? Dorothy wondered – nor had her elder brothers. Her father, Dorothy gathered, was often drunk. How would the baby fare in such a family? The thought hung heavy over Dorothy like the snow-laden sky she glimpsed through the lace curtains, the large golden-black clouds once again threatening to disgorge themselves.
It was impossible. What were Nina’s options, truly?
‘I’ll take care of him for you.’ Dorothy wasn’t sure at first if she had uttered the words aloud. But they resounded around the room, portentous, like a roll of thunder in the mountains.
‘You?’ said Nina, astonished. ‘What, you’ll be his mum?’
‘If you want.’
The women locked eyes, both desperate, searching. Dorothy felt as if she were finely and perilously balanced on a mountain ledge, and if she were to let go, or stumble, she would fall into a dark and endless oblivion. She breathed hard.
Finally, Nina shook her head.
Dorothy looked at her, trying in vain to silence her heaving heart.
Nina opened her mouth as though to speak, and closed it again. But finally, she spoke. ‘You’d be good to him? You’d look after him, properly? And you wouldn’t care what people said about you, would you?’
‘No.’ Dorothy could barely speak, her throat tight with fear and anticipation.
‘That’s because you ain’t afraid to tell people where to get off. Not really. You’ve got brains. You can work people out. But I’m scared, I am, underneath it all.’ Then, ‘You’d really look after him?’
‘Yes,’ said Dorothy fervently.
‘What, as if he was your own? How would you do it? Everyone knows you ain’t been carrying. You’re thin as a bloody rake. People will know.’
‘People around here will, yes.’
‘You mean, you’d take him away?’
‘I have family in … well, miles from here.’
‘I see,’ said Nina. For the first time since Dorothy had known her, she looked as though she were deep in thought.
‘What do you think?’ said Dorothy, after a while.
‘It sounds all right. Better than nuns. But I can’t ask you to do it for me.’
‘In that case, ask me to do it for your baby,’ said Dorothy, taking Nina’s hand now. ‘I can’t bear the thought of … David in a home, with no real mother. It’s not what the dear little chap deserves.’
Do it for me too, Nina, damn it. Don’t go all doubtful now, you oafish girl, not now it’s within my grasp. I wrap my life around this longing.
‘And nobody would know?’ said Nina. ‘That I was his real mum, I mean? You’d not tell?’
‘I’d not tell a soul.’
‘You’d say he was yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d love him?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You love babies, don’t you? You miss yours.’
Dorothy could tell Nina wanted to convince herself. ‘I do. Very much.’
‘So David would be the son you didn’t have?’
What to say? What was she looking for? What to say now, not to destroy everything, not to ruin this chance, with the wrong words, the wrong tone, the wrong look. The words came to Dorothy, one by one, as if in translation.
‘No, Nina, he wouldn’t be that. I believe … I know that I can give David all the things you can’t or won’t be allowed to give. I’m fortunate to be able to give him a life you can’t even imagine. I mean that in a kind way, Nina. I will have property one day. Money, I hope. There is a nice home for him, a bedroom all of his own. I shall fill it with toys and books. He’ll go to a good school. He’ll make friends. He’ll want for very little. Of course, you can send him to the nuns if you feel that would be better for him …’
Nina looked at her baby, fast asleep at her breast, milk glistening on his chin, his breathing soft and calm. Dorothy watched the girl, then looked at the baby – who she knew she would not call David – and she prayed, as hard as she ever had, with all her heart, so hard she almost believed that somebody was actually listening and could help. And when Nina handed her the baby, dressed in Sidney’s clothes, Dorothy took him in trembling arms, and held him close to her heart, and kissed his head.
Nina turned away to sleep, and stated that she would not feed him once Dorothy had sorted something else out, because milk leaked on to her clothes and she couldn’t have people seeing that. It was embarrassing, and it would give her away, wouldn’t it? Dorothy said she understood, and then she carried the baby downstairs and laid him in the big black pram that had been languishing and mouldering out in the shed for two years. She had brought it in, late the night before, scrubbed it clean and aired it by the fire overnight. She covered the baby boy in the blanket she had knitted once in such hope and gladness.
Unaware, the baby slept.
Practicalities took over. Dorothy would need to procure milk. She had bottles, bought for Sidney – Dorothy had planned to feed him herself, but Mrs Compton had recommended the purchase ‘just in case’. She dug out the four bottles, still in their boxes, and washed them, enjoying the sensation of the smooth glass in her hand as she traced the odd banana-like shapes. She inserted the teats into the bottles, in readiness. She had never fed a baby before.
Bottles were easy, milk less so. Dorothy did not want to use the powdered milk she had heard about. It was unnatural. No, real milk it would have to be. But cow’s milk was too much for a tiny baby, she knew. It would make him sick, give him stomach ache, or worse. Goat’s milk? She knew it was nourishing, good for poorly babies. A wet nurse, even if there were any left these days, was out of the question.
Nina’s milk would dry up. In a few days she could return to work, and Dorothy could make arrangements. In a delirium of joy and fear, she stood, alert, gently rocking the pram. She felt – she knew, intuitively – that from this point on her life would be governed by falsehood. It would be so, and her life, with this baby, no matter what, would prevail above all else. There was no other future for her. It was laid out before her like a map, and she could trace every turn she would have to make.
She rocked the pram, and waited for the baby to wake up. Unbearable hope bloomed again in Dorothy Sinclair’s heart. And she k
new if her hopes were to come to nothing, yet again, the disappointment would crush her, finally and forever.
And Jan. She almost did not want to think about him. He had been but the briefest of interludes. Sweet, welcome and glorious. Just yesterday – yesterday! – he had been her great opportunity. Today, he was gone. It was inconceivable, but already she had another, a greater, opportunity.
And Sidney, her precious little boy, what of him? She allowed herself to worry that he might not like this new baby, this other little boy taking his place. But Dorothy knew such thoughts were illogical, irrelevant. Her secret was safe from Sidney.
The baby shuddered, and sighed, and slept.
25
Marshall
I hate you Rachel hates you we all hate YOU so the best thing you can do is never get in touch with us again do you hear me you ugly little man? My sister and me, we’re going to be okay after all but not until you are history so please leave us in peace to sort things out we no longer require you do you get that?
Jacqueline
(Letter found inside John Gray’s Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, quite a well-read copy, so priced at a reasonable 80p and placed on the self-help shelf in the back room.)
Portia fails to understand the grief that follows my father’s death.
I weep, I rage.
She stares at me, cold and uncomprehending. ‘Histrionics!’ she seems to say.
Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase Page 17
