A Gathering Storm

by Rachel Hore

  Back in the bedroom, she pulled on a thick skirt, a clean blouse and her cardigan, and was rolling on a pair of much-mended stockings when the baby stirred and began to wail. She reached into the cradle and pulled him, a warm, damp, struggling bundle, into her arms, the milk already burning its way through her breasts in a rush of love. She’d feed him, she told herself, as he clamped his mouth to her breast, then give him to Nanny to change and dress while she had breakfast. The room being chilly, she climbed with him back into bed, and settled herself to enjoy the peaceful sounds of him drinking, the gamey fragrance of him.

  She’d first seen this child as an inconvenience, then she’d wanted him furiously, the more so after the news of Guy’s death, but she’d still not been prepared for the fierceness of her love for him, the strength of her determination to protect him and provide for him. He let go of her nipple suddenly, turning his head to stare up into her eyes, unblinking, as though learning her by heart. She was locked into his gaze, unable to look away even if she’d wanted to. ‘Oh, you little sweetheart,’ she whispered, and the spell broken he began to drink once more. She lay back against the pillows, loving this intimate moment with her child, the pleasant calm of the room, the comforting sounds of domesticity going on below, the world beyond the window, still and silent. They were safe in a cocoon where she wanted to remain for as long as she could.

  Despite the make-do-and-mend of it, 1941 was the loveliest Christmas Beatrice could remember. A neighbour had given them a small goose, which in the end Nanny had to pluck and prepare, since Angie made such a terrible fuss about it. There was a Christmas pudding of sorts, and Beatrice went out herself and cut down a small fir tree that Hetty decorated with homemade paper lanterns and scraps of ribbon. Gerald arrived as darkness fell on Christmas Eve, having managed to cadge a lift from a senior officer, and they spent a merry evening playing games with Hetty, lighting some candles on the tree and fixing two large socks, one for each child, to the mantelpiece for Father Christmas to fill.

  They were woken early next morning by Hetty’s cries of delight, for Father Christmas had managed to procure her an orange and some nuts, and Nanny had used an entire week’s sugar ration to make peppermint creams. The baby’s stocking contained a pair of mittens and two pairs of bootees, knitted by Nanny, and a toy dog with button eyes that Beatrice’s mother had made out of an old pillowcase and stuffed with cut-up nylons.

  ‘Are you sure the old chap can’t have a sweet?’ Gerald asked, peering at the boy on Beatrice’s lap with a mixture of wariness and wonder. It was after lunch, and they were sitting round the fire in the drawing room as the light dwindled outside. Hetty and Angie were playing Beggar-My-Neighbour at a small felt-topped table whilst Nanny washed up, which she insisted she wanted to do now that she’d heard the King’s speech.

  ‘No, he cannot!’ Angie cried. ‘Honestly, Bea, quite what Gerry’s going to be like when we have children I simply daren’t imagine. He hasn’t the slightest idea about what’s suitable. Hetty, you can’t do that, it’s cheating.’

  ‘But you’ve got all the good cards and I can’t go.’ Hetty rounded her shoulders. At thirteen, she was turning from an awkward child into an awkward adolescent. She’d been out sledding that morning after church, but she didn’t know the local children yet and hung about on the edge of their games. Beatrice felt a little sorry for her, always stuck with adult company.

  ‘I expect I’ll be all right making them little carts and teaching them how to shoot,’ Gerald said. ‘It’ll be rather jolly.’

  ‘If they’re boys,’ Beatrice pointed out, ‘and old enough.’ She’d noticed he didn’t take much interest in Hetty .

  ‘I wonder if the war will be over by then?’ Angie said. Hetty shrieked in triumph as her sister let her win a trick.

  ‘Now America’s in with us it’ll make all the difference, you’ll see,’ Gerald said. He jabbed at a log on the fire with short, savage thrusts of the poker. She wondered if he had ever had to attack a man bare-handed like that, and if he would hesitate. She shivered. As far as Beatrice could tell, he’d not seen any real action since before Dunkirk. She wondered, not for the first time, what his present role was.

  When Nanny brought in a tray of tea, Hetty took it as a sign to rush over to the Christmas tree and start to distribute the newspaper-wrapped packages arrayed underneath.

  Beatrice, laying the sleeping baby on the settee beside her, was touched to see Mrs Wincanton had sent something for him, a matinée jacket and leggings knitted in navy wool that looked as though it had come from an old jumper. The Wincantons had really been so kind to her. Shortly before the baby’s birth, a cheque for a considerable sum had arrived from Angie’s father. It was the only indication she’d had until then that Michael Wincanton knew of her predicament. She supposed Angie must have told him.

  When the boy was a week old she’d written to Guy’s parents and told them they had a grandson. Several anxious days passed and then a letter arrived from Guy’s father. It was guarded, very guarded. He offered money, but the offer was phrased in such a negative way that she took it to be some kind of test: if she took the money she would have failed. She was particularly cross about this as, in her letter to them, she’d specifically said she wasn’t asking for money, but perhaps they’d taken the mere mention of money as a hint that she did want some, so she had only herself to blame. It was like a ridiculous game.

  Worse was yet to come. Not long after this letter a parcel of baby clothes arrived from Guy’s mother. Beatrice was touched by this, especially since they seemed to be ones once worn by the Hurlingham children, but the short letter accompanying them, though it asked that she let them know if she needed help, suggested that it might be the best thing if Baby were to be raised by a respectable family. Beatrice had destroyed the letter, but the clothes she put away for when her son was big enough. It pleased her to think that he’d wear something of his father’s.

  It was astonishing, really, that when the Hurlinghams and her own parents had judged her and found her wanting, the Wincantons, who were no relation to her at all, had welcomed this tiny collateral victim of war without question. She would always remember and love them for that, she vowed, laying the little outfit on her lap.

  ‘And, it’s not fair, another for you.’ Hetty held out the package from under the tree.

  Beatrice took it carefully and stared at the dear familiar hand. When it had arrived the day before she’d tried to take it away to open it in the privacy of her room, but Hetty had put a stop to that, insisting that it go under the tree with the rest of the presents to be opened on Christmas Day.

  It was the first time she’d heard from Rafe since September. Once, when she was still at Dinah’s, he’d sent a postcard of the Lake District and she’d hastily written him a letter back, not acknowledged. After the baby’s birth she’d written again, telling him where she was, but had received nothing until now. He must have received that letter, because he knew to send the parcel here. She tried to guess what might be inside. It was small, about the weight of a book, and knotted up with many pieces of string. Nanny handed her a pair of sewing scissors and she cut it open. She drew out two wrapped bundles. One was marked for her and the other for her son. There was a letter, too.

  ‘What have you got?’ Hetty asked, leaning over the arm of the sofa, and putting out a commanding hand.

  ‘Hetty, we don’t have rudeness,’ Nanny said.

  Beatrice turned her bundles over, hardly daring to open them in case she was disappointed.

  ‘Oh, do hurry up, Bea,’ Angie said.

  She opened the baby’s first.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Gerald said.

  ‘What an extraordinary gift for a little child,’ were Angie’s words.

  ‘You may say that, but I happen to know,’ Gerald said, ‘that Rafe was a baby when he was given it. By his paternal grandfather, I think.’

  It was a small antique silver pistol, the handle beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Be
atrice turned it over in her hands, admiring the craftsmanship, then Gerald asked to have a look. She handed it over thinking, not for the first time, that if Gerald felt any guilt for taking Angie from Rafe, he never spoke of it.

  ‘Sending it in the post, too!’ Nanny tutted. ‘It might have got lost or fallen into the wrong hands.’

  ‘What’s your present?’ Hetty asked, impatient.

  An ornate silver photograph frame emerged from the second bundle. The picture was of Rafe in uniform, his face handsome, boyish, smooth. She contemplated it for a moment or two, then showed it to the others, but its presence, as though he himself were suddenly in the room, seemed to disturb everyone.

  ‘I wonder where he is,’ Angie said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I hope he’s all right.’

  Gerald said, ‘I expect he will be. He’s proved himself a survivor, our Rafe.’

  Nanny pushed herself to her feet and said, ‘Isn’t it time for Baby to be woken now, Mother? He’ll miss his tea.’ To Bea’s chagrin, she scooped up the sleeping child. Instantly he woke and began to yell.

  Bea took advantage of the distraction to hide Rafe’s letter in her pocket.

  ‘I’m taking him upstairs for you,’ Nanny called behind her. Bea bundled up the gifts and took them with her as she followed.

  Some time later, after Nanny had bathed the baby and laid him down to sleep, and Beatrice was alone with him, she lay on the bed and read Rafe’s letter in a pool of light from the bedside lamp. It was characteristically short.

  Dear Bea

  I am so sorry not to have written before, but I assure you that it’s hardly been possible. I can’t tell you where I am or what I’m doing, indeed, I don’t know what it is myself yet, but I’m determined to play my part to defeat Hitler and all he stands for. Now the Americans are in I’m convinced we will win this war. I’m very glad to hear of your son’s safe arrival, and I shall think of you and of him and it will help me be courageous.

  My grandfather gave me this pistol when I was christened, and I like the thought of passing it on to another little boy now in case I never have one of my own. I’ve no idea who gave me the picture frame, but you might think it pretty and I want you to have it and sometimes to think of me. Keep yourselves safe, whatever you do. You can try writing, but I can’t promise I’ll receive your letters or be able to reply.

  All my love, Rafe

  It was a strange letter, alarming. It gave the impression that he was distributing his personal effects in case he never returned from wherever he was going. She got up and went over to the chest of drawers and picked up the gun, examining again the engraved patterns on the silver, the snug little chamber where the bullets went, though there were no bullets there. It really was a pretty piece. It spoke to her of Errol Flynn, of the swish of silk dresses, of derring-do and adventure. The handle fitted snugly in her palm. She gripped the weapon and pointed it at her reflection in the mirror, screwed up her eyes to aim, rasped, ‘Your money or your life.’ And in the glass caught sight of the cradle behind her. Horror and shame at what she was doing washed over her. She lowered the gun and swung round to look at the baby who slept innocently on.

  Quickly she opened the top drawer of the chest and shut it inside. Angie was right. The pistol was a peculiar present for a baby.

  Boxing Day morning, and although there was no hunt, the brave and the proud held stirrup parties. Gerald and Angie set out in stout boots to the home of some friends, taking Hetty with them. It was too cold to venture anywhere with a newborn, but Beatrice was glad of the excuse to stay at home. Angie’s friends were always perfectly civil to her, but in such situations she was visited by those old feelings of inadequacy. Besides, she loved the prospect of a tranquil couple of hours with just Nanny, preparing soup in the kitchen. Whilst the child slept upstairs she tried to read a book, but her concentration these days was shot to pieces, and her mind couldn’t help turning to anxious thoughts of the future.

  It was so warm and peaceful by the dancing fire, the snow starting to fall again outside. She snuggled up under her rug and tried once more to read.

  Nanny’s heavy footsteps could be heard overhead and her voice, talking to the baby. Soon she appeared in the drawing room with him struggling and grizzling in her arms.

  ‘I thought he’d slept long enough and that Mother might wish to feed him.’

  ‘Oh, Nanny, yes, of course,’ she sighed, putting away her book.

  ‘I could make him up a bottle.’

  ‘No, I’ll have him here.’

  ‘It is time he got used to a bottle. You’ll spoil him.’

  ‘Just a little while longer,’ she said.

  ‘Then we’ll change his napkin again, won’t we, my little man, then after lunch, Nanny will take you for a little walk in the perambulator.’

  ‘Oh, no, Nanny, it’s icy out.’

  ‘A little fresh air never did Baby any harm.’

  It was so hard to argue with her, though Beatrice tried. What did she, Beatrice, know about looking after babies? And she was grateful to Nanny, for washing his clothes and nappies and bathing him and playing with him when he was fretful, as he often was lately in the run-up to bedtime.

  The day following Boxing Day, Gerald took a train back to Devon. Warmer winds were blowing in from the south, and in the days that followed, melting snow dripped from the trees or slid, with sudden alarming thuds, from the roof. The countryside became brown and sodden and the sky was rent by planes once more. ‘At least they’re ours,’ Hetty said.

  Early one morning in January, Beatrice was woken abruptly by the sound of Angie’s door bursting open and Angie’s voice pronouncing in hollow tones, ‘Oh, God’. The bathroom door slammed and the sounds of violent retching could be heard. Hetty banged on the bathroom door. ‘Angie, are you all right?’

  ‘No. Go away.’

  Later, when Hetty had left for school, Bea was eating breakfast when Angie staggered into the dining room. The colour of her skin made Bea think of dirty dishwater.

  ‘Tea,’ Angie gulped, dropping onto a chair. ‘No milk.’ And her head sank onto the table.

  ‘Are you sure it’s something you’ve eaten?’ she asked Angie, with heavy irony, placing the cup and saucer in front of her. ‘It is the third day running.’ She was lucky not to have felt nauseous herself, but she recognized the signs in others.

  Angie shook her head. ‘You know damn well what it is,’ she said. ‘I’m having a baby.’ She tried a sip of tea.

  ‘Angie, that’s wonderful. Does Gerald know?’

  ‘Yes. Eearghh,’ Angie said, and rushed out of the room.

  Later she said, ‘I don’t know why they call it morning sickness. It lasts most of the day.’

  ‘I never had it. Do you feel better now?’

  ‘Much, thanks.’

  They were huddled by the fire in the drawing room. Nanny had gone to bed early complaining of a cold starting, so Bea had guiltily brought the wakeful baby downstairs instead of leaving him to cry, which was what Nanny would have made her do. She’d fed him and now he was happily staring round the room at the lights and the fire and the fascinating faces of the two women.

  ‘But you’re pleased. About the baby, I mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh Bea, of course I am. And we’re so lucky to have Nanny to help us. She’ll be busy with two, won’t she? It’ll be like old times for her. I do hope she’ll still manage.’

  ‘I don’t think we should expect too much of her. How old do you think she is?’

  ‘Nanny? I’ve no idea. She’s always seemed exactly the same to me.’

  ‘And Hetty will be an aunt.’

  ‘Poor thing, she’s not very happy here. I wish she’d make some friends of her own age. It’s not good for her to be on her own so much.’

  ‘I suppose it’s my fault that we needed Nanny,’ Beatrice said. ‘Hetty would have been happier staying with her cousins.’

  ‘She didn’t want to be there without Nanny.
I think it’s too bad of Mummy not to have Hetty. The poor girl misses her.’

  ‘But she can’t live in London. Your father spends all day advising mothers to evacuate their children. It would look bad if he kept his with him.’

  ‘Mummy should come and live down here then.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like that, you’d quarrel.’

  ‘No, we wouldn’t. Though I suppose there isn’t room for her really.’

  Angie, more spirited now she wasn’t feeling so sick, was, Bea thought, looking particularly lovely, her pregnancy imparting an ethereal fragility instead of her usual healthy glow. She had changed since her marriage, Bea could see that. Gerald had settled her as no one else seemed to have been able to do, and she clung to him, and spoke of him often when he wasn’t there. She seemed happy in this small rented cottage, though there were no luxuries and they had to scrape together the basics of daily existence. And now there would be another small baby to look after.

  ‘Angie,’ she said gently, ‘there would be room for your mother if you wanted her. I can’t go on staying here with you for ever.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Angie said, putting out her arms for the baby. ‘Let me have a go with him now.’

  ‘I need to get a job. I’ve no money.’ Bea passed the child over and Angie sat him on her knee where, with his head sunk into his neck wreathed by the shawl, he watched her so gravely that she burst out laughing. ‘He’s just like a little old man,’ she said. ‘Oh look, he’s smiling, Bea. Look – he’s really smiling.’

  ‘He did that earlier,’ Beatrice said, but sullenly. He’d not smiled like that before, not for her.

  Angie’s face was radiant. ‘Yes, you smile for me, don’t you, you little darling.’ And he smiled at her wider than ever.

  Bea broached the difficult subject of her departure again a few weeks later. They were walking back from the station on a muddy February day, having been shopping in the local town. It was the longest time she’d left her child with Nanny and her nerves were on edge the whole time.