*
Much later that evening, after they’ve watched Marjorie’s favourite film – The King’s Speech – on DVD for maybe the fourth or fifth time in as many weeks, Marjorie turns to her and asks, ‘Who was that girl?’
At first, she thinks her mum is referring to something from the film, but Marjorie tuts. ‘No, the one who was here. In the kitchen.’
‘Oh, you mean Dawn? You remember her being here today? That’s really good, Mum.’ Shit; that sounds patronising. ‘Anyway, Dawn is Jill’s daughter. You remember Jill? From the farm where I . . . where I used to live.’
‘Yes, yes,’ her mother says, irritably. Then she leans forward and looks Eleanor right in the eye. ‘She took the baby, you know. I saw her. Put it in that carry thing and walked right out of the house with it.’
Disappointment seeps through her. ‘Mum,’ she sighs. ‘The baby . . . it was Dawn’s baby. Her own little girl. She was just taking her home.’
‘Well, where’s your baby, then?’ Her expression is one of curiosity and her face looks completely normal, as though she’s just asked a perfectly reasonable question.
Eleanor, September 1983
Eleanor woke slowly from a long, dreamless sleep, possibly the best and deepest sleep of her entire life. She still felt exhausted and there was a raw soreness between her legs. She knew something momentous had happened, but for a second or two she was uncertain about where she was and why she was here. She could hear a soft beeping noise that sounded vaguely familiar. She opened her eyes and saw a cream-coloured ceiling that looked bright and freshly painted. She turned her head to the left, registering as she did so that her head was completely bare. The steel trolley by the wall was stocked with surgical gloves, tissues, things sealed in little square packs and a stack of disposable nappies. Now she remembered. Carefully, because her body felt battered and ripped, she managed to turn over. There, a few feet away, was a transparent box that looked rather like a fish tank, and inside it a tiny scrap of orangey-pink in a white nappy that was almost as big as she was. Her pink-and-white gown seemed to be made from a J-cloth, and the miniature cream-coloured hat, which had slipped over one eye, looked as if it were made from a bandage. The baby was lying on her front, eyes closed, knees curled and bottom sticking up. The baby, she thought. My baby; my daughter.
She lay there for a minute or two, trying to assimilate this new reality. She was a mother; she had a child of her own, a real, actual person for whom she was solely responsible. The surge of fear that rushed through her almost made her gasp. Ever since she discovered she was pregnant, she’d tried to avoid thinking ahead to this point, but whenever her mind had hovered over or settled on this moment, she’d felt afraid. The fear she’d felt then was nothing compared with what she felt now. This was her daughter, a new and separate human being, and Eleanor was the one she would rely on to love her, feed and clothe her, keep her safe. It was her responsibility to gently float this new life into the world.
Despite her fears, she was in no doubt about her ability to love this child – she’d begun to do so even before today, before she actually met her. It was the rest of the package that she wasn’t so sure about. Babies were much more fragile than most people realised. One careless action, one wrong move, a slip of the hand, a moment’s loss of concentration – any of these could be catastrophic.
A pain started to spread across her middle, a raw, tightening cramp, not unlike the pains of labour she’d endured all night. The midwife had warned her about ‘afterpains’, but Eleanor saw this as a physical manifestation of her fear. How could they possibly allow her to take this precious living, breathing child out into the world on her own? How could she be trusted? She watched the little chest moving up and down, reassured by the evidence of life. The midwives had told her the baby was jaundiced and a little cold. ‘We’ll just pop her in an incubator to warm her up a bit.’ They talked as if she was a leftover casserole. With some difficulty, Eleanor swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, then took a few hesitant steps closer to the incubator. She could feel tightness where they’d stitched her up, and she was incredibly sore. She could hardly even walk – how on earth could she look after a baby?
She felt her throat constrict as she looked at the tiny creature behind the glass. She mustn’t cry; she was a mother now. I am somebody’s mother, she told herself, and was momentarily caught off balance by the tide of panic that rose inside her at the thought. The name she’d decided on was Aimee Sarah, but her daughter, with her serious little face and sleek dark hair, didn’t look like an Aimee at all. She leant over the incubator and looked into her daughter’s eyes for a few moments. Sarah; that was better. Sarah Aimee.
As she stood there with her hand on the incubator, she could feel tears welling up. Sarah seemed even more vulnerable from this angle. She was sucking her thumb, her tiny fingers with their delicate pink nails curled around her nub of a nose. God, this child was beautiful; she had never seen a baby more perfect, more exquisitely proportioned; not that she’d allowed herself to be close to many babies before now. She ached to show her off to her mother: Look what I did, Mum; look what I made. But how could she possibly go to her mother and flaunt her own live child? Peggy and Ken said she’d have to tell her mum at some point, because she couldn’t keep the baby a secret forever. But she’d argued that it didn’t have to be just yet. It would only upset her mum, she felt, and it would make things even worse between them.
As she stood looking down at the plastic crib, the door swung open and a large, motherly-looking nursery nurse in a plastic apron came in carrying a tray. ‘Had a good rest, Mummy?’ She was smiling broadly. ‘You slept through lunch and tea, but I saved you a jam sandwich from the trolley and I’ve made you a cuppa.’
‘Thank you,’ Eleanor said, taking a step back towards the bed. At that moment, the baby uttered a small cry. Eleanor froze.
‘Oh, listen, Baby’s awake too.’ The nurse beamed as she set the tray down on the table at the end of the bed. ‘Let’s see how she’s doing, shall we?’ She looked expectantly at Eleanor, who was still standing halfway between the incubator and the bed. Then she turned back to the baby. ‘She’s warmer now, but make sure she keeps her hat on while she sleeps. The jaundice is looking better but we’ll do more blood tests tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’ She eased herself back into bed. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was and how desperate for that cup of tea.
‘Okay, little one,’ the nurse was saying, ‘let’s take you to your mummy.’ She lifted Sarah out of the incubator and turned to Eleanor. ‘You’re breastfeeding, yes?’
‘Yes.’ She’d thought about bottle feeding, but she didn’t want to take the risk. She’d read a lot about it. Apparently, you had to be ultra-careful to measure exactly the right amount of powder when you were mixing the milk, and if you got it wrong, the baby could be very ill or even die. What if she was distracted while she was measuring?
‘Good. Much better for Baby. Now, she must only have breast milk or boiled water for the first four months, okay?’
Eleanor nodded. Only breast milk or boiled water for the first four months. She must write that down; she must not forget.
The nurse brought Sarah over to the bed. She was really crying now, juddering, grizzly cries, and her fists were clenched as if she was absolutely furious. With the nurse’s help, Sarah latched on, and Eleanor gasped at the strength with which the little mouth clamped to her nipple. She hadn’t expected it to hurt that much.
‘Good, good,’ the nurse muttered. ‘She’s latching on nicely. It looks like you’re a natural.’
Eleanor, September 1983
She was glad she’d managed to get into Greenwich District Hospital. The only other option was Lewisham, where her mum was a nursing assistant. But even though she didn’t work on the maternity ward, there was a risk of bumping into her. She hated that dismal old hospital anyway; this one was still fairly new and much more bright and modern than Lewisham. Ken ca
me in with Peggy the first day and took some photographs. He’d get them developed straight away, he said, and send them in tomorrow with Peggy. After they left, Jackie, the girl in the next bed, leant over to speak to her. ‘Was that your mum and dad?’ she asked.
‘No, my dad’s dead and my mum . . .’ She didn’t finish because Jackie’s baby had started crying and she turned away to attend to him, and then soon after that it was the mothers’ rest time. The nurses came in and drew the curtains around each mother and baby, then they turned off the main ward lights so there was just an orangey glow above the beds. This quickly became Eleanor’s favourite time of day; the warmth of the ward, the soft, golden lighting, the comforting hush which was disturbed only by an occasional newborn’s cry and the soothing murmurs of its mother.
Peggy came in to see her every night, and even Rita managed to pop in during the afternoon, but the only time she could get away from the guest house was right in the middle of the mothers’ rest time, so she was only allowed in for ten minutes.
‘Was that your mum, then?’ Jackie said when Rita left.
*
When she and Sarah were discharged, Peggy and Ken came to pick them up. Ken carried the baby down to the car in her carrycot while Peggy helped Eleanor with her bags. Everyone was quiet on the drive to Chislehurst. Sarah slept and Eleanor was still feeling a little stunned; she was slightly surprised to have been allowed to take Sarah with her when she left the hospital. She kept thinking someone was about to pop up and say no, you can’t actually keep her. When they pulled up outside Laburnum Lodge, Ken said sorry, but he wouldn’t be coming in. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Ellie, and I hope you know I wouldn’t want to see you upset, not if it could be avoided.’
‘Ken—’
‘No, Peg. I’ve got to say what’s on my mind. I know it’s nothing to do with me, and you’re a grown woman now and all that, but I’m sorry, Eleanor, I don’t hold with keeping all this from your mother. It’s not right.’
‘I know,’ she said quietly, her hand hanging limply over the edge of the carrycot so that her fingers rested on Sarah’s warm little body. ‘And I’m sorry. I know I’ve put you in a difficult position, but—’
‘Difficult position? I think that’s understating it somewhat, don’t you?’
From the back seat, she saw Peggy’s hand move over and touch Ken’s arm. ‘All in good time, Ken.’
‘I can’t condone it, Peg. There. I’ve said my piece, and that’s all I wanted.’
‘Yes, well,’ Peggy said, in a tone that made Eleanor think they would probably ‘have words’ later. ‘You’ll take the carrycot upstairs for her, won’t you?’
He didn’t reply, but got out, opened the back door and carefully lifted the carrycot off the back seat.
*
Peggy and Rita had moved her things up from the box room while she’d been in hospital. Peggy had told her that her new room would be ready when she got back, but when she actually walked in and looked around, she immediately felt choked at the trouble they’d gone to. The bed was made up and covered with a new patchwork quilt in blues and reds; there was a bowl of fresh fruit on the drop-leaf table they’d found in the cellar, and a white vase filled with pink carnations and baby’s breath.
Compared to the room downstairs, this one was enormous. They’d turned it into a temporary bed-sitting room, and although the big walk-in cupboard that led off the main living area could hardly be classed as a nursery, it was big enough for the cot and a small chest of drawers, so at least she’d be able to put the baby to bed and still watch TV or listen to music in the evenings. Rita suggested she still have most of her meals downstairs, especially at first, but with her own kettle, toaster and a single electric ring, at least she wouldn’t have to keep running up and down to the main kitchen every time she wanted a cup of tea or a snack. The only other room on this floor was a small bathroom, so she was completely self-contained up here, separate from the guest bedrooms and from Rita and Alan’s quarters on the floor below. There was a cardboard sign that said SARAH’S ROOM hanging on the door to the walk-in cupboard. The lettering was pink and the words were surrounded by lilac butterflies. ‘I know it’s not really a room,’ Peggy said, ‘but at least it makes it a bit more . . .’ Eleanor opened the door to find a musical mobile had been fixed to the cot, and an assortment of teddy bears and a large pink rabbit were sitting on a shelf above. Hanging on the edge of the cot was a tiny woollen dress, duck-egg blue with a scattering of yellow chicks. A night light in the shape of a fairy palace stood on the chest of drawers.
Eleanor found herself in tears yet again. She cried easily at the moment.
*
The baby bath looked like a little yellow boat. It stood on the table, half filled with water. Eleanor added a squirt of Johnson’s Baby Bath and used a thermometer to test the temperature. It was still too hot, so she added more cold a little at a time until she managed to get it between the ideal range of 90 and 98 degrees Fahrenheit. Now everything was ready. Beside the bath was the changing mat with a yellow towel spread over it so she could wrap Sarah in it immediately if she got cold. Next to that was a clean nappy, a nappy liner and nappy pin and a pair of rubber pants. She’d also laid out an envelope-sleeved vest and one of the white cotton nighties that Peggy had given her, the ones with the pink and yellow flowers and sweet little bluebirds embroidered across the chest.
Peggy took a week off work and, having told Marjorie that she was helping her sister with the guest house, which, she said, wasn’t actually lying, she was staying here to help Eleanor get settled. She was downstairs at the moment, making spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. ‘I’m here if you need me,’ she’d said. ‘But you won’t. You’ll be absolutely fine.’ Eleanor found Peggy’s quiet confidence reassuring, but she was acutely aware that her fear of lowering a baby into water was, in her case, rather more than simple new mother nerves.
You were supposed to bath your baby while you were still in hospital, but the midwives and nursery nurses were so busy with a flood of new admissions that the first bathing session had to be cancelled. The second time, when she and Jackie were summoned to the nursery with their babies, she panicked at the last minute and pretended to feel faint and dizzy, so she’d got out of it on that occasion. Another bathing session was set for the following afternoon, but she’d been in hospital for almost a week by then and had asked if she could go home. The doctor took a look at her stitches in the morning and said that she was ‘healing nicely’, so he would be happy to discharge her.
So now Sarah was nine days old, and Eleanor still hadn’t bathed her. The home midwife had visited every day since she was discharged, and she seemed to be happy enough, but Eleanor didn’t feel confident at all.
‘Right,’ she said aloud as she carefully undressed Sarah and removed her nappy, ‘nothing can go wrong.’ She tried to sound firm with herself. ‘She’s my baby and I need to be able to give her a bath without making a fuss about it.’ She looked at her tiny daughter, whose eyes were wide open and fixed intently on her own as though she were actually listening to her. She smiled. ‘Don’t I?’ The baby kicked her legs in response. She slid her hands under Sarah’s back and lifted her, one hand cupping her head, the other cupping her bottom. Her skin was dry and warm with a softness that felt like raw silk. Her hands trembled just a little as she lowered her daughter into the bath. Sarah gave a slight shudder as her skin made contact with the water. Eleanor’s grip tightened in fear and for an awful moment she worried she’d grabbed her too tightly, but then Sarah began kicking her legs, blinking and opening and closing her mouth as if she was trying to taste the water.
Eleanor had attended every antenatal appointment and parentcraft session, and she’d concentrated extremely carefully on the bathing demonstration so she could commit the whole process to memory. Remembering what she’d been shown, she rested her right hand, the one holding Sarah’s head, against the base of the plastic bath. That felt quite safe until Sarah kick
ed her legs, but then her whole body swayed and Eleanor was worried she would let go. She tried to slow and steady her breathing, tried to calm herself enough to slide her other hand out so she could swish the foamy water gently over her baby’s shiny, slippery skin. But she couldn’t bring herself to let go; so instead, still supporting Sarah with both hands, she moved her gently back and forth in the water, so it was as though tiny waves were washing over her skin. Sarah watched her the whole time, eyes wide open and full of trust.
Marjorie, October 1983
Marjorie knew there was something wrong as soon as she saw their faces, but she pretended not to notice. They’d probably had another row; she knew things were strained between them. She filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Whatever’s easiest,’ Ken said, as usual.
‘They’re both easy, Ken, it’s instant coffee or teabags. Which would you prefer?’
‘Tea,’ Peggy said, not meeting her eye. ‘We’ll both have tea.’
They pulled out chairs and sat at the kitchen table while she got the tea things out of the cupboard, but no one said anything. Usually, Peggy would be chatting away from the moment she walked in the door, especially when they’d not seen each other for a few days. Marjorie tried to think of something to say but the longer the silence went on, the harder it was to break it. The kettle was taking ages to boil, too.
‘So.’ She smiled. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
‘Wait till you sit down, Marjorie,’ Ken said. ‘We have something to tell you.’
They’re getting divorced, she thought as she put the mugs on the table. Poor Peg.
She sat down and looked from one to the other. She hoped her expression was suitable; Ted always used to say she wasn’t very good at arranging her face.
Untitled Book 3 Page 21
