Peggy comes back in with the tea, and while she’s helping Marjorie into her dressing gown and slippers, the officer speaks quietly. ‘It’s not a nice situation, is it? My gran had it, and my old auntie. My mum coped at home as long as she could, but there comes a point when they’re better off somewhere where they have experience, you know.’
She nods. She needs to think more about this, but not now. ‘So, where did you find her in the end?’
‘Verdant Lane, up by Hither Green cemetery.’
‘The cemetery?’ Peggy says. ‘Oh, Marje, why didn’t you ask me to take you?’
‘Nearly frightened the life out of young Steve here, she did.’ He looks over at Marjorie and smiles. ‘Hanging round the cemetery in a long white frock – we thought you was a ghost, Marjorie.’
Marjorie looks up and smiles for the first time. ‘Thought you was a ghost, Marjorie,’ she mutters.
Eleanor, December 1983
Eleanor forced herself to consciousness and tried to focus on the clock – almost twenty to six; she’d have to get up soon to give Sarah her first feed, but it had been another pacing-the-floor night, so maybe she could have just a few more minutes. After all those months at the camp, a warm, dry bed was a comfort she still appreciated every day.
Some of the women kept their babies with them in their tents or caravans, and at the time she’d had no idea how difficult that must have been. If only she’d paid a bit more attention to how they settled their babies at night. She must be doing something wrong, but she couldn’t work out what it was. And she was constantly worried that her pacing or Sarah’s crying would disturb Rita and Alan, whose bedroom was directly below this one. She’d tried feeding Sarah whenever she cried, but she still found it quite painful, not to mention exhausting. Sometimes Sarah appeared to have dozed off, curled into the hollow of her neck, but then Eleanor would try gently to put her back into her cot and her little arms and legs would jerk suddenly, she’d fill her lungs, screw up her eyes and begin crying in earnest. Having Sarah in bed with her didn’t work either, because Eleanor was far too afraid of suffocating her to allow herself to sleep. She’d tried singing to her, humming along to the Brahms lullaby or rewinding the cot mobile over and over again so that there was no break in the tinkling music, but as soon as she crept back to her own bed and allowed the music to slow, Sarah would open her eyes and start crying again.
The health visitor said babies often ‘turned a corner’ at nine or ten weeks, so maybe things would get better soon. She’d mention it at the baby clinic today. Peggy was finishing work at lunchtime and was going to drive over and go with them, then they were going to put Sarah in her pram and push her around Chislehurst village, where the Christmas lights made it look like some sort of fairyland. Even though she was still nervous, she loved taking Sarah out. It made her feel special: the admiring glances of older women as they asked how old the baby was; the way they held doors open for her and helped her on and off buses; it made her feel like some sort of VIP.
She snuggled further into the pillow. It was soft and comfortable under her bare head. The weather was getting chillier by the day, though, so she’d soon have to start wearing something on her head at night. One thing that delighted her was the realisation that she didn’t have to explain her baldness to her baby daughter. It was a completely unexpected joy to discover that Sarah seemed to recognise her instantly – and be pleased to see her – whether or not she was wearing a wig or a scarf.
She sighed and turned over. It was so unusual for her to wake before Sarah that she couldn’t quite relax. She was half listening for the familiar first cries that always started as little mewling sounds but quickly became fully-fledged yells if Eleanor didn’t get there quickly enough. Sarah was such a hungry baby. She hadn’t gone more than three hours without a feed since she was born, which meant that Eleanor hadn’t had more than three hours’ unbroken sleep. It must have been almost four this morning when she finally got her back down, and now it was . . . She reached for the clock, and this time, as her eyes focused properly, she saw that it was not twenty to six, but almost half past eight. Sarah had slept for over five hours! Last night’s long crying session must have tired her out. Or maybe it was just that the health visitor was right and that she had turned that corner.
Eleanor stretched and sat up, feeling quite decadent. Who’d have thought she’d ever consider five hours’ sleep to be such a luxury? She yawned as she pulled her dressing gown on and padded across the carpet to what she now thought of as ‘Sarah’s room’. She’d started to look forward to picking her daughter up in the mornings; she was no longer quite so afraid of dropping her, or stabbing her with a nappy pin. When she thought back to how determined she’d been not to have children, she went cold inside, as though an icy sea was rolling in over her stomach. She couldn’t imagine life without Sarah now. True, she had a long way to go in terms of trusting herself completely, but she felt more confident with each passing day. She particularly loved the mornings, and found herself anticipating the wonderful baby smell that wafted over her as soon as she lifted Sarah up out of her cocoon of blankets. There were few things more precious than the warm, salty-sweet smell of her baby’s hair, still sweaty-damp from sleep. Every now and again she felt a pang as she imagined how her mother must have loved that smell too; how she must have missed it.
The only light in the tiny narrow space came from the electric night light, the base of which revolved, casting an ever-moving scene of fairies, elves and bobtailed bunnies in shadows on the wall. Eleanor turned the handle and gently pushed open the door to allow a little daylight into the room. The hush of early morning rushed up to greet her, and the shadows of dancing fairies faded back into the night.
There was no sound or movement from the cot.
*
Even before she’d touched the tiny form in the centre of the cot, she knew Sarah wasn’t breathing. Instantly, she snatched the baby up into her arms and yelled for Rita. The changing mat was still on the table in the main room, surrounded by baby clutter; she swept everything else onto the floor in one movement and laid Sarah down on the mat. It had happened; the thing she’d most dreaded, the reason she hadn’t wanted children, the thing she’d somehow known was going to happen but in her complacency had stopped being on the alert for. ‘Rita!’ She yelled again at the top of her voice. ‘Anyone! Help me, please.’ She stamped her foot on the floor as hard as she could. Please let someone come soon, someone who’d know what to do. She tried desperately to recall the basic first-aid training she’d had at Girl Guides all those years ago, but panic was filling her mind. It was different for a baby, she knew that much; somehow she had to remember how to do it, she had to get a grip. Instinctively, she leant over and covered her precious daughter’s tiny mouth and nose with her own mouth. It started to come back to her: she could see the training woman in her St John Ambulance uniform, standing at the front of the guide hut with the life-size dolls they had to practise on. The adult one was called ‘Resussie Annie’, and there was a baby doll, too . . . That was it: gentle breaths, only for a second or so, and light chest compressions using just two fingertips.
She heard someone on the stairs. ‘Help me!’ she called, between breaths. The door opened.
‘What . . . Oh my God!’ It was one of the guests, wearing a long black nightie, hair all over the place. She stood frozen in the doorway.
‘Ambulance,’ Eleanor screamed between breaths. ‘Get an ambulance.’
She carried on with short, steady breaths; turn away, light compressions, inhale, repeat.
She heard the woman hurrying down the stairs and, in no time, someone else running up them. Alan burst into the room, closely followed by Rita. ‘What’s happened?’ Rita said, her face ashen.
‘Not breathing,’ Eleanor said. She could hear the panic in her own voice, then she heard the woman shout something up the stairs. Alan went running down but was back almost at once.
‘Ambulance is on its way,’ he cal
led from the doorway. ‘They’re still on the phone. They want to know exactly what happened.’
Inhale, steady breaths, turn away. ‘Went to get her up . . .’ Inhale, count the breaths . . . three, four, five, turn away, light compressions. ‘She wasn’t breathing.’
‘Right.’ He shouted down the stairs. ‘Baby wasn’t breathing when her mum picked her up.’
He paused. ‘Ten weeks, I think.’ He looked at Eleanor for confirmation, then went back out to the stairs. Yes, she heard him say, they were doing mouth-to-mouth, and, yes, the baby’s mother knew how to do it. Then there was a pause. ‘Hang on a sec,’ he said and put his head round the door again. ‘Eleanor! You do know how you do it, don’t you? The bloke on the phone says they can talk you through it.’
Eleanor was struggling to keep the panic at bay. She nodded. ‘Did first aid.’ She mustn’t cry, mustn’t cry mustn’t cry. If she cried, she wouldn’t be able to do this properly. Breath, breath, breath, breath, breath, turn away. Inhale.
The ambulance men arrived within minutes, although she could have sworn it was several hours before she finally heard them clattering up the uncarpeted stairs to her room. One of them took over the mouth-to-mouth immediately while the other prepared a tiny oxygen mask and held it over the baby’s face. There was something about seeing these two tall, capable-looking figures attending to Sarah that allowed Eleanor to stop trying to hold it all together. One of the men was young, not much older than she was. But the other reminded her of Ken, and was about the same age as her dad would have been if he was still alive. She allowed herself to cry now, and when Rita put her arms around her, she felt herself crumple as though someone had just removed her innards. Rita held her and tried to comfort her while the ambulance men worked silently. Alan stood unmoving by the door.
She had no idea how long they tried to bring her baby back; she was only aware of the fact that they’d stopped. When the two uniformed figures straightened up, sighed and shook their heads, something inside her snapped. ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted. ‘Don’t stop!’
The older of the two looked at her, his face a picture of compassion. ‘I’m sorry, love.’
‘Try again!’ she yelled, breaking away from Rita’s embrace. ‘You can’t stop, you can’t!’ She began hitting the younger man, who turned towards her with tears in his eyes. ‘It’s no good. I’m sorry, but she’s probably been—’
‘Try again,’ she sobbed. ‘Please try again.’
‘No, Eleanor,’ Rita said softly as she tried to stop her from hitting the poor man again. ‘Come away, now.’
‘Come on, love.’ The older man put his hands on her shoulders and gently but firmly steered her away from the younger man, who looked devastated. ‘I think we all need a cup of tea now, don’t you?’ He turned towards Alan, who was still standing by the door, his face stricken. ‘Would that be all right, sir?’
Alan swallowed. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Downstairs in the kitchen, the older man pulled out a chair and guided Eleanor, still sobbing, into it. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ Eleanor was crying too much to speak. She put her arms on the table in front of her and slumped over so her head was resting on them.
The man sat down in the chair next to her. He put his hand over hers and turned back to Rita. ‘What’s her name, love?’
She told him.
‘Now listen, Eleanor,’ he said, leaning in towards her and speaking softly, still covering her hand with his, ‘I know this is going to be difficult, but I need to tell you that in cases like this, I’m afraid we have to inform the police, love, okay? It’s nothing to worry about.’
Rita, who was pouring milk into mugs for tea, spun round. ‘The police? Why on earth do you need—’
‘It’s routine, I promise you. It doesn’t mean anything else, it’s just that it’s technically an unexplained death, which is why we have to report it.’ He sighed, then squeezed Eleanor’s hand and nodded towards Rita. ‘Your mum can stay with you.’
‘That’s not her mum,’ Alan said, then he turned to Eleanor and said gently, ‘Eleanor, I think we should phone your mum.’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want her to know.’
‘Why not?’ This was the younger ambulance man, who’d gone over to help Rita with the teas. ‘Surely your mum—’
‘It’s all right, Danny. Young lady can decide later.’ The older man accepted a mug of tea from Rita. ‘Thanks, love.’ There was a pause, and it seemed to Eleanor as if everybody in the room was stirring their tea too loudly and for longer than was necessary. ‘Is her boyfriend . . . ?’
‘No,’ Rita said.
‘She’ll need someone with her.’
‘My sister’ll go. They’re very close.’ Rita leant down to Eleanor and put her arms around her shoulders. ‘I’ll ring Peggy at work in a minute, all right? She’ll be here in two shakes, I’m sure. Are you absolutely determined for us not to fetch your mum?’
At that moment, although she knew it would pass, her longing for her mother was so powerful it almost hurt. A fresh wave of tears prevented her from speaking, but she shook her head again, more vigorously than was really necessary. She began to feel light-headed, as though she might faint. She put her head down on the table again. Maybe this wasn’t actually happening; perhaps it was just a nightmare, brought on by sleep deprivation and worry about Sarah. In a minute, she’d realise she was still in bed and that Sarah was crying for her six o’clock feed.
Then she heard someone sighing, and the older of the two men asking if he could use the telephone.
There were various comings and goings during the rest of the morning, and she lost track of what was happening. Then Peggy arrived, her eyes already red and puffy, her eyelashes still wet.
‘Ellie,’ Peggy said, shaking her head, ‘I can’t believe . . . Oh, Ellie . . .’ She sat next to her, taking her other hand and holding it between both of her own. The three women sat in stunned and tearful silence until the young police constable arrived. He had a freshly scrubbed, not-old-enough-to-shave look about him, and he appeared so upset and awkward that Eleanor felt sorry for him. He took his hat off and sat on a chair opposite while Rita got up to make another pot of tea. He was so sorry for her loss, he kept saying. He understood how difficult it was, but he had to ask these questions and he hoped she would forgive him. There would have to be a post-mortem, he said, usually within a few days so she could get on and organise a funeral. At that point she became aware of a strange noise, like an animal in pain. It was only when Peggy put both arms around her and Rita came rushing back in that Eleanor realised the noise was coming from her own mouth. The constable had gone very red in the face and was mumbling apologies again. The coroner might order an inquest, he explained, and she was not to worry. It was the same thing that the ambulance man had said – routine in these cases, where the death was unexplained.
‘It’s a cot death, surely?’ Peggy said. ‘Why put the poor girl through this? Christ, you can see she’s distraught.’
The policeman nodded, then sighed. ‘I’m sorry, madam. I understand how upsetting this is, but it’s only a formality, I can assure you.’
Peggy tutted, muttered something under her breath and then said, ‘Okay, but this had better happen quickly. Look at the state of the girl.’
After the police officer left, a doctor arrived. He gave her an injection to help her sleep, and some pills, which he left with Peggy. She couldn’t face going up to her own room, so Rita made up the bed in the box room for her, and Peggy tucked the quilt around her body just as she had when Eleanor was little. A flood of tears engulfed her. She ached for her mum, but she was emphatic when Peggy suggested contacting her. She couldn’t bear to imagine what her mother would think of her now.
Her head began to feel heavy and she was sinking. It felt like she was dying. Part of her wanted to fight it, but another part of her was relieved that she didn’t have to bother any more, so she let herself sink down and down
with the hope that she might just dissolve into the ground and never wake up.
Marjorie, January 1984
Marjorie had cried so much her eyes felt sore and dry; it hurt even to blink. It happened five weeks ago, Peggy said. Five weeks! And Eleanor didn’t want her to know because she thought it would remind her of what happened with Peter. Her insides seemed to liquefy when she heard that. She was still angry with Peggy and Ken for not telling her about the birth straight away; she should have made them take her to Eleanor, but she’d been afraid of scaring her away again. She couldn’t possibly go to work, so as soon as she was able to compose herself, she telephoned the ward sister and said she had the flu and would call again in a week or so. Her heart ached to think of her poor, grieving daughter. She wanted Eleanor home, she told Peggy now, here in this house, where she could look after her. ‘I don’t care how you do it,’ she said, a steely edge to her voice, ‘but you are to bring my daughter home. You owe me that much.’
*
Marjorie sat holding the photograph Ken had given her a few days after they told her about Eleanor and the baby. He’d taken it in the hospital – Greenwich District, apparently. She was glad she had that piece of information, because until then she’d been picturing Eleanor in Lewisham, where she’d given birth herself long before she worked there. It was a grim place in those days, and you could see it had once been a workhouse. And the idea that she could have been at work one day while her own daughter was giving birth in the same building . . .
She looked down at the photo. All she could see of Eleanor was her arm and hand as she cradled her new daughter. The sleeping baby had a mass of dark blonde hair, the same as Eleanor had when she was born, and she was dressed in one of those little pink-and-white hospital gowns that look as if they’re made out of J-cloths. She looked perfect, just perfect. Marjorie swallowed. Poor, poor Eleanor.
She glanced at the clock. They’d be here soon. She put the photo back in the envelope, opened the sideboard drawer and slipped it under the cutlery tray. She’d find somewhere else for it later. Eleanor didn’t know she had this picture, and she certainly didn’t want her stumbling across it unexpectedly.
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