Remember, Remember

by Hazel McHaffie

  I smile now watching Eugene, tall and gangling as his hormones surge into action, propelling Lionel forwards with a guiding hand on his shoulder, and I suspect secretly willing the little one to trip again and send them all flying.

  This is exactly what I always dreamed of: my own family, happy, secure, loved and loving. A home close to the countryside with a large garden and instant playmates. How fortunate we are, George and I.

  I watch all five charge like a Chinese dragon into the trees at the foot of the garden and vanish from sight.

  Only then do I turn away and let my gaze wander over this house that has been such a bone of contention in my marriage. I love every stone and tile of it. I love its moods, its ability to evolve to accommodate the growth spurts of our family. I love its spaciousness and its graciousness. I love the fact that it’s our exclusive territory… at least it is in my perceptions.

  I have no idea why my grandmother May left me such a handsome bequest. If she knew, Mamma refused to be drawn on the subject. For George it has always been mine, never his. He has old-fashioned ideas about his responsibilities as head of the house, and they do not include a monetary contribution from his wife, never mind the larger share. And even with the promotion to manager at the textile mill, his salary couldn’t buy or maintain this property.

  His stubbornness still rankles. ‘Look, the money’s yours. You can do what you like with it. But I want to support my family on my money. That’s my job.’

  ‘And you do. But Grandmamma’s bequest is too much simply to bank. It would be much more sensible to invest it. You said so yourself, remember? It would buy us a nice family home, somewhere for the children to play. We can choose it together. It’s your money too.’

  ‘No. It isn’t.’

  He remained immovable, refusing even to look for a house. When I eventually found Bradley Drive he came to view it but shrugged his shoulders and said dismissively, ‘If it’s what you want. It’s your money.’

  Today’s dispute, 14 years on, was about adding a conservatory. It’s something I’ve always wanted. ‘It would mean we could enjoy the garden for longer each year.’ Surely a trump card given the energy we’ve both put into creating this fabulous garden. But no. George makes up a few specious reservations but nobody’s fooled. It’s so frustrating! He’s happy to have me using his money all the years I’ve been at home bringing up the children, but he can’t accept mine. Men!

  What a curious thing marriage is. I used to wonder about Mamma and Father. They were adults; they’d chosen each other… against all advice. Why didn’t they talk about their differences and agree a solution, calmly, rationally? Why did we children have to endure the weeks of tension, the silences, until the caress, the kiss that signalled the end of hostilities? Was it because she’d ‘married beneath her’, like Aunt Hester said? Was the gulf too big to leap?

  Experience has taught me why. Living together is so much more complicated than my childish notions of happily-ever-after. As husbands go, George has to be one of the most accommodating, honourable and trustworthy, but even he has his limits. Irrational sometimes, at least in my eyes. Using my money is one of them.

  Speaking of limits, my sister, Beatrice, comes tomorrow. And there’s nothing irrational about George’s dread of her visits. I share it. We huddle in our bed at night and dissect her words and actions, anticipate her next move, and sigh with relief when she leaves again. Secretly we acknowledge the debt we owe her; together we scheme to reduce any influence she may have on our growing family.

  She was always the odd one out. To my brothers I was one of the gang, a tomboy who could hold her own. Bea was always girly, looking for admiration and concessions. Even Reuben, who was mature enough to ally himself with me when the younger boys ventured into thoughtless cruelty, would on occasion join them in mocking her.

  Perhaps that was why she seemed impervious to the horror of having all the boys away at the front at the same time. Mamma and I lived in daily expectation of that dreaded telegram. Every soldier who limped down the street or tapped his way along the railings, every house that remained shuttered after the news arrived, reminded me of the real danger the boys faced. Bea just lived for the time she could clock off from the munitions factory and go to dance the night away.

  How different the lives of my children, Jessica, Eugene, Adeline and Lionel, who have no memories of the deprivations or the fear.

  But are they any happier? I shall always worry.

  Chapter 22

  Fifteen years earlier

  I FLING AN ARM around my sister’s shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Bea? Tell me. Come on. Tell me what’s upset you.’

  ‘I am so… Oh, Doris, what am I going to do?’ she wails.

  ‘About what? Come on. You’ll feel better if you share it.’

  She was always given to the melodramatic so I’m completely unprepared for what comes next.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  I’m stunned into silence.

  The paroxysms redouble. ‘See, I knew you’d be cross.’

  ‘Cross? Never mind that. Bea, how far on are you?’

  ‘Three months gone.’

  ‘And what does Mamma say?’

  ‘I haven’t told her. I haven’t told anyone else. Oh Doris, I can’t!’ She twists her hands into knots. ‘I can’t tell her. What will she think of me?’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that! How on earth did this happen?’

  ‘I thought you’d at least know that!’ she flashes. ‘Now you’re married. Or are you too pure to have George poking his thing up you?’

  I flush, stung not only by her crudity but the memory of my own naïvety on our wedding night, George’s astonishment, his gentleness. For Mamma left that particular piece of information out of my curriculum entirely.

  ‘But you’re not married!’ I retort, the edge of my voice sharper than I intended.

  ‘And nice girls don’t do it,’ she singsongs, sarcasm in her sneer as well as her tone.

  ‘Well… no.’ It sounds lame even to me.

  ‘Well… this one did. Get real, Jess. There’s a war on. Tomorrow may be too late.’

  ‘So are you going to get married?’

  ‘Married! Good heavens, no! I can’t! I’m only 16. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. I can’t tie myself to a baby!’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I came to see you. What can I do?’

  I can think of nothing whatever to say so I stall for time.

  ‘Who’s the father?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ This time she does have the grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Beatrice. What on earth were you thinking about?’

  ‘It was just a bit of fun. I never dreamt…’

  ‘Well, I can’t think straight right this minute but leave it with me. I’ll help you if I can. You’ll need to give me time to think of something. And you’re going to have to find a way to tell Mamma. You’ll soon start to show.’

  ‘I know,’ she wails, fresh tears sparkling on her lashes. Not for the first time, I marvel at how pretty she is. I’d be all blotches and puffiness; she simply goes into soft focus.

  I’m still lost in her problem when George comes home from work. His right leg, damaged in a childhood accident, has spared him active service, but he’s on fire watch duty tonight so I have limited time to talk about today’s crisis. And I have to tell him today. Tomorrow might be too late. I’m not superstitious but we agreed: because there’s a war on, don’t leave things till the morning, in case.

  I go through the motions of listening to his day and feeding him, but once he’s settled in his chair beside the fire I broach the subject.

  ‘George, can I talk to you about something? Something serious.’

  ‘Course you can,’ he says, laying down his paper.

  Several false starts later he gets up and comes across to me, dropping on one knee beside my chair.
r />   I giggle nervously. ‘Looks like you’re going to propose all over again.’

  ‘Will do if you like,’ his voice gruff, ‘if it’ll put a smile back on your face.’

  ‘It’s Beatrice.’ There, it’s out now.

  ‘What’s she been up to this time?’ he sighs, leaning back on his heels.

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  His smile vanishes. ‘Blimey Charlie!’

  ‘George, I’m so, so sorry. I never knew.’

  ‘Why d’you need to apologise? It’s no fault of yours.’

  ‘But she’s my sister.’

  ‘And so you’ll bear the shame. Not with me you won’t, lass. That sister of yours, she’s a wild card and no mistake. Everybody round here knows she’s not like you. People talk. Well, never mind about that. But you’re different so don’t you go mixing her up with you.’

  ‘Thank you, George. Thank you. I couldn’t bear to have you think ill of me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. And I never will. So don’t you ever imagine it. You’re far too good for the likes of me and I’ll never know what you saw in me to make you take me on. But I thank God every night you did.’

  He suddenly kisses me so thoroughly that I’m in danger of forgetting what we were talking about.

  ‘She hasn’t told anyone else yet. She thinks I can help her decide what to do. But what do I know?’

  ‘So is the fellow going to make an honest woman out of her?’

  ‘She says not. She says she can’t tie herself down at her age.’

  His eyes dilate. ‘She’s going to get rid of it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask that. I didn’t know what to say. I was so shocked.’

  ‘But you know that’s against the law. You do know that, don’t you? And it’s dangerous.’

  I nod. Fear sneaks in alongside the shock.

  ‘Better to put it up for adoption than that.’

  ‘They say it’s awfully hard on girls, doing that,’ I venture.

  ‘She should’ve thought about that before she hanky-pankied around.’

  A thought hits me with the force of a hammer blow. I lean forward and clutch his hand in both mine. ‘George… d’you think… could we adopt it?’

  ‘What?’

  My mind is racing with possibilities.

  ‘Blimey! A baby! I don’t know, Doris. That’s a big thing to ask. And we’ve only just got married. I thought, well, you know, we’d have kids of our own.’

  ‘We will. We can. Later. And the baby wouldn’t be here till we’d been married nearly a year. It wouldn’t look strange. Nobody needs to know it isn’t ours.’

  ‘You mean pass it off as ours?’

  ‘Then people needn’t know about Bea.’

  George shakes his head, a strange expression on his face. ‘Doris, lass, you’re something else, you know that?’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘You’ve no business to be that unselfish. Beats me how you and Beatrice came out of the same family.’

  ‘So, would you?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. And that’s all I’m saying on the subject tonight. But I’ll say this for you, Doris Mannering, I reckon I didn’t know the half of it the day I married you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did though,’ I say, meaning it. ‘I like being married to you.’

  He laughs and pulls me close. ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that because I’m quite partial to you too.’

  It’s a raw November day in Inverness when Beatrice goes into labour. At last. She must be nearly two weeks late by my reckoning.

  Condensation runs down the windows of the room she and I have been renting for four months now. The lino on the floor chills our chilblains. The fire splutters spasmodically, but any heat it emits is instantly absorbed by the drying rack of clothes around it. We continue to shiver. But from the moment the pains start Beatrice forgets the spartan conditions. Her moans take on an intensity that scares me. What do I know of what’s normal in the world of childbirth? What if something goes wrong and it’s all my fault?

  When I eventually get through to the nursing home they tell me to bring her in straight away. The crescendos of screams on the journey have convinced me my sister’s death is imminent, so it’s a relief to hand her over to two uniformed staff who dismiss her histrionics with, ‘That’s quite enough of that, Mrs Mannering.’

  It takes George eleven hours to negotiate his way in the blackout from Edinburgh through the unmarked roads and diversions to the nursing home. Until then I sit alone in the reception area.

  A woman in a high starched cap greets him curtly in spite of the soft Irish accent, ‘And would you be after being the father?’

  George simply nods, keeping his eyes on the floor, for all the world like a man embarrassed by his part in this whole business.

  ‘Sure. Right. Will you ever wait out here then, with your sister-in-law. We’ll come and tell you when it’s over.’

  When there’s no one about we clutch hands, urging each other to hold our nerve. Footsteps force us apart and we sit primly, waiting for news.

  ‘At least you’ll soon be home now,’ he mutters. It’s been hard for me too being parted from him so long and so soon into our marriage. Beatrice has been petulant. The landlady has been suspicious. My conscience has been troubled by the lack of useful wartime occupation. But George knows little of that; I want him to want this baby.

  An hour drags by. Two. Three. Still no news. Four. Four and a half. Every one an eternity.

  The regimental click of heels makes us both sit upright. We draw the veil back over our frightened eyes.

  There’s no smile, no kindness in her manner. ‘It’s all over. You can come in now, but I should warn you, your wife’s exhausted. Don’t be surprised if she’s asleep by the time you get in there.’

  She turns on her heel and marches back down the corridor. George and I tiptoe along behind her, keeping a respectable distance from each other.

  ‘Right now, Doris,’ she says bracingly. ‘Here’s your husband come to see you and the child. Are you after showing him what you’ve got?’

  Beatrice looks unrecognisable. Her face is bloated and bruised. Her hair clings to her head as if she’s been out in a thunderstorm. The bed is neatly made around her, the frills of my new nightdress peak above the sheet, but all I see are her eyes. Staring, vacant. She gives no sign of recognition or of welcome.

  ‘Come on now, Doris, your sister’s been after waiting outside ever since you came in and your husband’s been here hours too. Sure, the least you can do is let them have a little look, don’t you think?’

  Still nothing from my sister.

  The midwife waits a moment more, then bends to pick up the baby from the cot beside the bed.

  ‘Well, here you are, Mr Mannering. You have a little girl. Mummy says her name’s to be Jessica. Jessica Marina.’

  George peers into the bundle of blankets with a stunned expression which makes me want to giggle.

  Instead I creep closer until I can just see what’s visible of this new member of our family. Wide dark eyes, a frown creasing the forehead, the tip of a tongue lapping against the lips. Splayed fingers close over the edge of the blanket. Perfect miniature fingernails.

  ‘Oh George, look at her,’ I whisper.

  Before he can reply the midwife whisks the baby out of reach, talking as she goes. ‘Now, Doris says she doesn’t want to feed the child herself. We don’t approve of bottles in here, but she insists. Sure, it’s because she’s so tired. So I must ask you to go now and give your wife some peace. We’ll give baby Jessica a bottle this time, but we need Mummy to regain her strength so she can give the child what nature intended.’

  I’m flabbergasted by the inference that it’s entirely George’s fault that Beatrice is exhausted. I want to leap to his defence, shout out his heroism. But of course, I can’t.

  If the midwife thinks it odd that the brand new parents neither speak nor touch, she gives nothing away. But wartime
changes relationships. Partings, meetings… who knows what tomorrow will bring? And the staff neither know nor ask about this one.

  Some things are simply best left unsaid.

  Ten days later the borrowed car coughs its way from Inverness to Edinburgh. Negotiating the unfamiliar roads and controls requires all George’s concentration. Beatrice is too preoccupied, I am too overawed, so for most of the journey we travel in silence. The baby, Jessica Marina, is now in my arms, for as soon as the doors of the nursing home closed behind us Beatrice and I exchanged roles.

  We return to Edinburgh a new family. George and Doris Mannering and their new baby daughter born 10 months and 25 days after their wedding. A certificate to prove it. Aunt Beatrice in attendance. All very decent and in order.

  Beatrice, now 17, will begin work next week in a munitions factory far from us, where no one knows her. Her choice. She wants to see as little as possible of Jessica.

  My parents want to contribute to their granddaughter’s maintenance; George refuses categorically. ‘If she’s to be my daughter, she’s my responsibility.’

  This man I married has depths and strengths I never dreamed of a year ago. How can I ever repay him?

  Postscript

  DAY ELEVEN.

  ‘More wine, Mrs Wiseman?’

  I’m toying with the honey roast duck with apricot stuffing, acutely aware of Aaron’s foot stroking mine under the table. But when I sneak a glance he’s not even looking at me. He’s grinning at someone behind me.

  ‘I’m afraid my wife seems rather preoccupied tonight. More wine, darling?’

  ‘Oh I’m so sorry. Yes, please.’

  As soon as the waiter moves away Aaron leans forward and whispers, ‘You realise he’s now convinced you’re my mistress, don’t you? He thinks the ring is a fake and the signature a forgery and he’s probably contemplating sending an incriminating photograph to my home address.’

  I grimace. He reaches across to lay a hand over mine.

  ‘You may not respond to your new name but I have to tell you, I’m loving the sound of it. Revelling in the fact that my legally wedded wife is actually here alone with me, hundreds of miles away from all responsibilities, no one to distract her or give her an excuse to leave.’