"Not too bad, dear," Mrs. Ayrton replied. "Those new tablets are helping me a lot. Oh, here's a letter from Connie —how delightful!"
Mrs. Ayrton had been breakfasting in bed ever since her husband's death, but she was now gradually recovering her energy and threatening to get up for breakfast. "Threatening" was Nell's word for her mother's avowed intention; it was so very much easier to carry up her mother's tray than to have her mother coming down expecting to find breakfast set out upon the table and everything in order.
The morning continued to be quite a usual sort of morning; if anything rather better than usual. Nell helped to wash the dishes and to make the beds and then she seized a moment for a very special job to which she had been looking forward. Yesterday she had been to the woods and gathered a basketful of snowdrops—Amberwell snowdrops for Clare and little Stephen—and today she was going to pack them in damp moss and send them off to London.
Clare and her baby had left the hospital and were staying with Lord Richmore; Roger was there too. Roger had got his orders and was going to Egypt, but of course Nell did not know the actual date of his departure. The sailing order of ships were very secret matters in the Spring of 1941. It was horrible to think of Roger going abroad, but it was no use thinking about it; Nell was thinking about another plan. She hoped that when Roger had gone she might be able to entice Clare to Amberwell. As a matter of fact she had picked the snowdrops with this end in view; perhaps when Clare saw them and smelt their woody freshness she would want to come and bring little Stephen to his home.
Nell found an old shoe-box and began to pack the snowdrops in their bed of moss. She was still busy with her pleasant task when the telephone-bell rang; her mind was full of Clare when she picked up the receiver.
It was a trunk call and there seemed to be trouble on the line; she stood there for some moments waiting for the call to come through and looking at the sunshine streaming in at the window onto the faded carpet. It's Spring—almost —she thought Winter is nearly over. The days are getting longer—
"Hullo, is that Nell?" said a voice. "This is Roger."
"Hullo—yes, it's Nell!" exclaimed Nell in surprise.
"Thank goodness I've got you! I've had an awful job getting through. There's been a bad raid. Everything is upside-down. Can you hear me?"
"Yes—but not very well," replied Nell. The line seemed dreadfully bad, there were queer cracklings, and Roger's voice sounded a long way off. Somehow it did not sound like Roger's voice at all, there was a sort of flatness about it.
"Are you all right?" asked Nell anxiously.
"Nell, I don't know how to tell you, but there's no time to waste. They'll cut me off in a minute. Nell—Clare has been killed."
"Roger!"
"I know," said the flat expressionless voice. "It's frightful. They were having supper together—Clare and her grandfather—and the bomb fell in the street outside. I was delayed. I was late getting back from the War Office. When I got there the whole place was in ruins, smashed to bits. The baby was sleeping in the back room and we managed to get him out. Are you there, Nell?"
"Yes, I'm here, Roger. Shall I come?"
"What did you say? I can't hear."
"Shall I come?"
"Come?" asked Roger's voice in a bewildered tone.
"I'll come now—at once," Nell told him. "I can get a train— "
"No, I don't want you to come. It would be no use. I'm leaving tonight."
"But Roger—"
"Listen Nell, there's no time. We'll be cut off any minute. Can you have the baby at Amberwell? I mean I don't know what to do with him. He's here at the hotel. The chambermaid is looking after him. Could you possibly—"
"Yes, of course!"
"The chambermaid says she'll take him as far as Carlisle, so if you could meet her—"
"Yes, I'll meet her. I'll do anything you want."
"What did you say?"
"I said yes!" cried Nell. "I'll meet her at Carlisle."
"There's a train from Euston about one o'clock. I'll put them into it," said the weary voice.
"Do you mean today?"
"Yes, today. Nell, I'm terribly sorry to—to foist him onto you like this, but I don't know what else to do."
"I want him!" cried Nell. "I want him!"
"He's ill, I'm afraid. I don't know much about babies, but he seems very ill. Perhaps he'll die. I hope not, because he's all that's left—but you mustn't worry too much."
"Nannie will look after him."
"Yes, that's what I thought. Nannie and you. Listen Nell, this is important," said Roger, and for the first time there was an echo of the old Roger in his voice. "Listen, Nell, he's yours. Stephen is yours. Do you understand? He's not to be messed about by other people; I'm leaving him with you."
A voice broke in saying, "Your time's up."
"Roger!" cried Nell. "Roger, take care of yourself!"
"All right, I won't try to get killed—if that's what you mean."
It was what she had meant, and she was thankful for the assurance; there was not much else to be thankful for.
The line had gone dead, they were cut off, and there were a dozen questions she should have asked. She should have asked what the woman was like—the woman she was to meet at Carlisle—she should have asked the woman's name; she should have arranged some sign by which to recognise her. All she knew was that she was to meet a woman with a baby sometime tonight at Carlisle station.
Nell put down the receiver and stood there for a few moments with her hands pressed against her heart. The sunshine was still streaming in at the window onto the shabby carpet; the shoe-box was standing on the table half-packed.
"Clare!" whispered Nell. "Oh Clare! Oh poor Roger! But I mustn't think. There's no time. Oh God, please help me."
2
It was dark when Nell got to Carlisle; the station was filled with dim blue light, a weird sort of light which scarcely relieved the darkness. There had been another raid tonight, somewhere in the midlands, and traffic from the south was completely disorganised. Trains were arriving hours late, crammed with people, and it was impossible to find out what time the mid-day train from Euston would arrive, or at which platform. She asked every official she could find and they all told her something different: the train had been held up at Crewe; the train had been diverted; the train would not arrive for at least two hours; the train was arriving now, at a platform on the other side of the station.
Nell ran wildly from one side of the station to the other, she climbed backwards and forwards over the bridge. She was jostled by crowds of people who were doing the same thing, trying to locate a train or to find a lost friend. There were hundreds of soldiers with packs on their backs—some with white-faced girls clinging to their arms. There were women in uniform, neat and tidy, and women not in uniform with made-up faces and incongruously perky hats; there were little children, tired and dirty and whimpering, being pulled along by one arm. There were women with babies—dozens of them. Nell accosted several and asked if this were Captain Ayrton's baby. Some of the women were annoyed at the impertinent question, others merely answered wearily that it was not.
The scene was macabre. It was like hell—surely hell could not be worse! All these people, with their strained anxious faces, hurrying hither and thither in confusion in the dim blue light! Even the young ruddy faces of the soldiers looked ghastly.
Trains came in constantly to different platforms and people poured out of them and streamed away. Nell ran from one platform to another, becoming more desperate every moment. This is frightful, she thought as she pushed her way through the crowds. If I'm not there when the train arrives I shall never find her at all—it's crazy—I don't even know her name. What will happen if I can't find her?
At last she saw a young Air Force officer who was looking round vaguely and she went up and spoke to him (afterwards when Nell thought of it she could not understand why she had done it; why had she selected this man out of the throng? And s
he could not understand how she had done it either; for she was one of the shyest people on earth).
"The London train?" said the boy. "It came in half an hour ago at this very platform. As a matter of fact I can tell you that quite definitely because I was in it."
"Oh Goodness!" Nell exclaimed. "I'm meeting a woman with a baby. Where can she have gone!"
"If she's got any sense she will have waited here," said the boy. He looked round and added, "There's a woman with a baby! I suppose she wouldn't be the one you're looking for?"
The woman was sitting on a pile of luggage with a little basket beside her, and on her knee was a baby wrapped in a dirty shawl. The woman was dressed in a green coat; her face was very much made-up but in spite of the paint and powder she looked dead-tired and half asleep.
"No, it wouldn't be her, of course," said the young Air Force officer after another glance at Nell.
"It might be," said Nell. "Thank you very much anyhow."
Nell had spoken to so many women with babies that she had become hardened. She went up to the woman and said: "Excuse me, but is this by any chance Captain Ayrton's baby?"
"Crumbs!" exclaimed the woman. "Are you Miss Ayrton? I was beginning to think you wasn't coming. I've been in a good many jams but this seemed about the worst. I was wondering what on earth to do?" She rose as she spoke and handed the baby to Nell.
Nell took him in her arms. He was so small and so unexpectedly light that she nearly dropped him.
"He's a bit dirty," said the woman apologetically. "I'd have washed his shawl but there wasn't time to get it dried and I hadn't got anything else to put on him."
"It doesn't matter," said Nell. She held him close and her heart seemed to swell. Roger's little son!
"I've had an awful time with him," declared the woman. "He's been crying on and off all day. I tried to give him a bottle but he wouldn't have nothing to do with it. He hasn't had a drop past his lips. His mother was feeding him— that's why."
"He's very quiet now."
"Pore little soul, he's tired himself out crying!"
The small puckered face was greyish-blue in the grim light. The tiny hands were limp and cold.
"He's very—pale!" exclaimed Nell in alarm. "Do you think—"
Their eyes met.
"Babies are queer," said the woman. "I've had a good deal to do with babies—one way and another. Some babies want to live and 'll come through a lot and others don't seem to think it's worth the bother."
The woman meant to be kind—it was a warning—and looking at the tiny wan face of her nephew Nell realised that the warning was justified. It certainly did not seem as if this pathetic little creature had the will to live—and if he thought life wasn't worth the bother you could hardly blame him. Nell's arms tightened round him . . . but he shan't die, she thought. If I can only get him to Nannie! I must get him to Nannie as quickly as I can.
"Well, cheeri-ho!" said the woman. "I done what I said and I don't regret it—not now. I don't mind telling you I was regretting it when there was nobody here to meet me— calling myself all sorts of a fool for being such a softy."
"It was good of you to come," Nell told her.
"Well, I was sorry for Captain Ayrton. I was so sorry for the pore young fellow I'd have done almost anything . . . No, thank you, miss. Captain Ayrton paid me; he paid me handsome, I will say that."
"Is this the luggage?" asked Nell, pointing to the suitcases upon which the woman had been sitting.
The woman laughed. "Luggage!" she exclaimed. "There isn't a thing belonging to the baby but what he's got on. There isn't even a nappie; I had to tear up some towels. The house was all smashed to bits and they got him out of the ruins. His daddy crept in under a heap of rubble and got him out—that's what the policeman said. Well anyhow there he is, pore little soul. You'll do your best for him, I can see that." She took one of the tiny hands and kissed it and turned away. "Cheeri-ho!" she said again.
"Where are you going? Can't I help you?" cried Nell.
The woman waved and hurried off.
3
The journey back to Westkirk was a nightmare to Nell. She was so tired that everything seemed vague and shadowy. She managed to find a north-bound train and getting out at Lockerbie she took a taxi to Dumfries; after hanging about in Dumfries Station for more than an hour she got a train to Westkirk. All the trains were packed—especially the train from Carlisle to Lockerbie—but Nell was thankful to get in. She stood in the corridor with the baby in her arms until a sailor seeing her plight rose and gave her his seat.
For most of the journey the baby seemed to be asleep, or in a sort of coma (Nell knew so little about babies that she did not know which) but once or twice he woke up a little and whimpered miserably. At Dumfries she got some milk and hot water and tried to feed him with a spoon, but it was useless. Then she tried dipping her finger in the milk and moistening his lips. Nannie would have been horrified, she knew, but she was so desperate by this time that she would have tried anything . . . and the plan worked. She actually managed to get a few drops of milk between his lips. After that he slept again—and slept so quietly it seemed to Nell that he had stopped breathing. She put her cheek against his face and it was as cold as death. She was so terrified that she took out her powder compact and held the mirror to his mouth. The glass misted . . . which meant he was still alive.
Nell arrived at Westkirk at last. It was half-past-five in the morning and pitch dark but fortunately not raining. At that hour Westkirk Station was deserted; there was no taxi, nor any sort of conveyance, so she was obliged to walk. The baby had seemed light when she took him in her arms but now she had had him in her arms for hours and he seemed to get heavier at every step. She turned in at Amberwell gates and walked up the avenue . . . and now she began to wonder how she was going to get into the house for the house would be shut up at this hour and everybody asleep. She would have to ring and knock until somebody came; perhaps Mrs. Duff would hear.
Then, as she turned the corner of the drive, she saw that the front-door stood wide open and there was a light in the hall.
Nell dragged herself wearily up the steps and as she did so Nannie came out of the baize door which led to the kitchen premises—Nannie looking brisk and cheerful, dressed in the large white apron which was her badge of office.
"Nannie!" cried Nell with a sob. "Oh Nannie—I think he's dying!"
"O the puir wee lamb!" exclaimed Nannie. She took the dirty little bundle from Nell's arms and held it against her heart.
"He's—dying," repeated Nell. "I've tried—to feed him—"
"O the wee doo!" crooned Nannie. "Well get some food into him somehow. We'll not let him die. Away off to bed with you, Nell. You've done your bit." She turned as she spoke and hurried up the stairs with the precious bundle.
Nell was too tired to go to bed. She sat down on the chest in the hall and began to cry weakly.
Nannie paused on the stairs and looked back. "Nell," she said crossly. "There's no sense in sitting there crying. Away to bed—I've put in a hot bottle for you—you can cry much more comfortably in your bed."
CHAPTER XV
1
It was dark when Nell woke. She looked at the clock and saw to her amazement that it was half-past-ten—so she must have slept for fourteen hours! She put on her dressing-gown and came out onto the landing—and listened. There was no sound, the house was perfectly still, but she saw a light under the door of the nursery.
For a few moments Nell hesitated, afraid to go in, and then she turned the handle quietly. Nannie was sitting by the fire darning some stockings; she looked up and put her finger to her lips . . . so he was still alive!
A bassinet stood beside Nannie's chair; Nannie pointed to it and whispered softly, "He's asleep."
"Is he . . ."
"A wee bit better," said Nannie nodding. "I've been feeding him every two hours all day—with a medicine dropper. It takes a long time but I had to get food into him somehow. It's been a
battle between him and me. I had a sort of feeling he wanted to go after his mother. Maybe it was silly, but that's what I felt. Once or twice I thought he was going, but I just hung on. I gave him a few drops of brandy."
Nell bent over the little bed and looked at the baby and was astonished at the change; the wee face had smoothed out—it was no longer wrinkled like the face of an old man—and it had lost the grey tinge which had alarmed her so much.
"You see a difference?" asked Nannie anxiously.
Nell nodded. She put one of her fingers into the tiny hand and the hand closed over it tightly. She was so pleased that her eyes filled with tears.
"He's grimed with dirt," said Nannie with a sigh. "I've not dared to wash him. I've just fed him and kept him warm with hot-water-bottles all round him." She got up and added, "It's time for another feed."
"What about the doctor?" asked Nell.
"We got him to come this morning. It was that young Doctor Brown. He just looked at the wee lamb and said to keep him warm. I knew that already—and I knew what he was thinking too."
"You mean he thought—"
"He thought it wasn't much use bothering," said Nannie grimly. "That's what he thought. Mind you I'm not blaming the man. If it hadn't been Roger's wee son I'd have given up hope myself—and that's the truth."
By this time Nannie had measured out the milk and was heating it in a small saucepan. She went on talking. "Listen Nell, you'll need to sit up with him tonight and let me get a sleep; I'm not as young as I was and it's been an awful day —it's been about the worst day I can remember. If you come here a minute I'll show you what you're to do; it'll not be difficult because I'll leave everything ready. I'm giving him milk and water and sugar of milk every two hours—and you'll need to keep on filling the hot-water-bottles. Not too hot, mind; just nice and warm."
When the food was prepared Nannie arranged all the paraphernalia on the table beside the fire and lifted the baby. He began to cry. It was not a loud cry but it was a very different sound from the pathetic whimper which Nell remembered, and which she did not think she would ever forget.
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