The Weeping Tree

by Audrey Reimann

  They called her into a little room which smelled of carbolic, where a stout, severe nurse told her to go behind the screen, take off her clothes and lie on the thin white sheet that covered the black rubber examination couch. Shivering with nerves, she did so.

  The doctor was a white-whiskered old man brought out of retirement since the young doctors were in the forces. He pulled back the curtain and came to stand over her. He looked from her medical examination request slip to her ringless finger, and said, with distaste, 'You have missed four periods?' His breath was foul. He handed the cards to the nurse.

  'Yes.' Flora flinched when he put his bony, ice-cold hands on her stomach, then ran them down lower and began to press painfully above her pubic bone. She cried out and drew up her knees as pain radiated from her spine.

  He took his hands away, but slowly. 'Only four months? Are you certain?'

  Another blast of his cheesy breath made her stomach turn in protest as she replied, 'Yes.' What sort of girl did he think she was that she might not know when it had happened?

  'Lie on your side. Pull your knees up as far as you can,' he ordered.

  She shivered, then slowly brought her knees up, closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth while he put a rubber-gloved finger inside her and pushed hard, making her cry out. 'You are hurting me. My back ... !'

  He took off the glove, dropped it into an enamel dish and said, 'All right. Get dressed,' and left the cubicle.

  It took her some minutes to dress. She could not bend easily to reach her chilblained feet, nor could she disguise the worry lines that were etched into her white face when at last she sat opposite him.

  'Four months.' He cast a cold eye over her. 'There is pressure on your sciatic nerve. This will get worse until the baby is born -and I can give you nothing for it.' He picked up her works record, then said, 'Identity card, please!' She put it on the desk. He peered at it closely. 'You are only sixteen? And unmarried?' Sticky white stuff had gathererd at the tight corners of his mouth.

  Her voice trembled. 'Not officially. We are promised.'

  'You are not married.' He was contemptuous. 'You expect him to marry you?'

  'Yes. But he's at sea.' She could feel tears welling and a hard, painful lump in her throat.

  'Get your father to contact his senior officer. Demand that he's given compassionate leave.'

  She was cold. And she was hungry. 'I can't. He's on active service.' Surely they wouldn't call Andrew up in front of the Commander. His chances of promotion would be ruined. She began to cry. 'He wouldn't want his captain to know. I'll wait till he's home.'

  'Will your parents allow you to stay at home to bring shame and disgrace on the family?'

  'I'm an orphan ...' Flora took out her handkerchief and blew her nose hard.

  Exasperated, he looked at the stony-faced nurse. 'I've heard this story so often,' he said. 'This week I have seen four women who have got themselves into the same mess. Two of them with Canadian troopers - and one of them married to one of our own serving men. Why do women and silly girls behave like this?' He turned back to Flora. 'You'll never see the boy again, you realise? You must give up work immediately. This is no place for a pregnant woman. Go to your doctor. See what arrangements he can make for you.'

  She did not have a doctor. She couldn't afford to pay three and six for a visit. In fact she had only been seen by a doctor twice in her life. She'd had a routine medical examination at Guthrie's, and now this one. 'Wh..what arrangements?' she managed to ask, between sobs.

  'Tell her, Nurse.' He walked out of the room.

  The nurse said, slow and disapproving, as if she were a naughty child, 'You will be sent away to a workhouse or a home for unmarried mothers, where the baby will be born. If you have any sense and any real love for your baby, you'll have it adopted at birth. They will find it a good home. If you don't give it up, it will go to a Dr Barnardo's or one of the Children's Society homes, where you will be allowed to visit by appointment. You will make a contribution to its keep. I take it you don't have money or a home?

  She had nothing. A cold fear clutched at her heart. 'No. But when can I get my baby back?'

  ‘When you have a proper home to offer to a child.'

  'Or I get married?' Andrew would be home. He'd marry her properly. They would find a house. Even a single-end or a but and ben -anything.

  'If you get married.' She added, in a cynical voice, 'Girls in your position have them adopted and then they keep their mouths shut. Not many men will marry a girl who's had another man's child.'

  Flora left the clinic and went downstairs out on to the dark January street, behind a string of people who were going home. It was like playing follow-my-leader in the pitch black. She prayed with every step, 'Please God, send Andrew home,' until they came to where the pale moonlight reflected on the choppy waters of the Forth and she could find her way to the house on the esplanade.

  In the morning, shaking with cold and fright and with the fatigue of a sleepless night dragging her down, she dressed in her warmest things - a brown woolly dress and matching brown cardigan which she had knitted herself. Her bedroom was freezing cold. Ice had glazed and crazed the inside of her window. It did not thaw out from one day to the next. Carefully she rolled on her best lisle stockings over her numb feet, jumping at the sharp nip of the chilblains that had spread right along the side of her feet as well as to the knuckles of every toe. She fastened the tight suspender belt that cut red weals into her flesh, desperate to get downstairs where there was a small cloakroom with a lavatory and washbasin right beside the front door. Every morning for the last month she had been sick first thing, quietly because Mr Davidson had sharp ears.

  She kept a torch at her bedside, for there was no light on the landing. Flashing the weak beam on to the steps, she made her way downstairs and looked for the post. There was nothing for her - no letter from Andrew. Where was he? There might be one in the midday delivery, but her heart sank as it had done every day for the last two months. She retched painfully, vomited, wiped her ashen face over with an ice-crackled face cloth and made her way down the cheerless hallway to the still dark kitchen, where she switched on the light.

  The kitchen had a rank smell of damp and escaped gas that would not disappear until the room was warm and aired. Her insides were painful, caving in from need of food, but before she could eat the dry biscuit she took with hot water, she must first pull the blackout blind and open the window an inch or two. Outside, in the stone-walled yard, a freezing white mist hung over the icy black flagstones. No fresh air would breeze through the kitchen today. Putting a match to the fire in the range, she chafed her hands together as it blazed and caught while her mind jumped from one alarming thought to another. She must say nothing to Mr Davidson about leaving her job.

  There was a pot of oatmeal soaking and now she struck another match and turned the gas ring on to bring the porridge to the boil, then left it to simmer while she sipped her hot water and bit into a biscuit. Shudders of fear came in waves down her back as she cut bread for toast and placed the margarine, marmalade and cups and saucers in exactly the right spots on the enamel-topped table. There was nothing for it but to see Andrew's Ma and tell her everything.

  She cut more bread, opened a pot of fish paste and made sandwiches for Mr Davidson's lunch, then arranged them on a plate and covered them with an upturned pie dish to keep them fresh.The kitchen was warm and welcoming and smelled of hot toast by the time Mr Davidson came down and sat in his place. 'Good morning, Flora,' he said, 'I trust you slept well.' Only in the last few weeks had he stopped using the formal, 'Miss Stewart' and had begun to use her Christian name - and that only because the woman next door had told him that Flora was not, as he'd imagined, a grown woman but an attractive young girl whose presence under his roof was causing much gossip and speculation.

  'Yes. Thank you,' she answered, surprised that her voice sounded normal while a hundred nervous butterflies twitched at her eyelids and pulled the corn
ers of her mouth down. 'I'll leave your sandwiches and a glass of milk on the desk,' she said. 'Would you like haggis for supper tonight, Mr Davidson?' She would queue at the butcher's before she got the train to North Berwick and take the haggis with her to Ingersley in her shopping bag.

  'That would suit me well,' he said. 'Do you know what I'm going to do today?'

  'What?' Her lips were dry. She placed his porridge before him.

  'I am going to take a dish of tea with the lady next door.' He chuckled as he sprinkled salt on it. 'She says that we are going to become good neighbours and get to know one another.' He stirred his porridge. 'I expect that when she has found out all she wants to know, she will invite the ladies of the Esplanade round and they can exchange stories.'

  Mr Davidson evidently thought the neighbour was harmless. Flora licked her dry lips and shuddered. If they discovered that she was having a baby, Mr Davidson's good name would be ruined. They would naturally think…Oh God! What would they say? She sat down heavily, jolting her back and making Mr Davidson jump.

  He said, 'Have you eaten already?'

  'Yes .. .' she said. 'It's ten to eight. Will you leave everything until I get back? Don't wash the dishes or anything.' She struggled into her coat, pulled on her hat, wrapped a scarf around her neck and left the house.

  At nine o'clock that same morning, at Ingersley House, Ruth was in bed, opening the letter which the housemaid had placed on her morning tea tray. She slit it open and withdrew the two pages written in Gordon's strong, sloping hand. The letter had been posted in Liverpool a week ago. Why had he not come home? Surely he would get a few days' leave? He used to ring Elizabeth as soon as he docked.

  'Dear Ruth ...' He wrote as if she were nothing more than an employee on the estate. Not 'darling' or even 'wife'. He obviously didn't care any more. He probably regretted marrying her.

  I have received two letters from you so the mail is getting through to the ship but I can't be sure that outgoing mail reaches its destination.

  I am sorry that you are inconvenienced by the house being requisitioned for a convalescent hospital. However, they tell me that they have made a good job of moving the house furniture upstairs and that the top, nursery floor is put to good use as bedroom accommodation. You still have two upper floors and only yourself and Nanny in occupation. We must be thankful that our injured servicemen and women ...

  As if she cared two hoots. Government measures for the requisitioning of properties were excessive. Beside, there were dozens of large houses in the area that could have been requisitioned before Ingersley. It was not as if she hadn't done her bit. She had filled all the cottages accessible to the road with evacuees - mothers and babies, expectant mothers with young children though at least she was compensated for that. A government grant per head of placement gave a much better return than the rents of tied cottages. There were no worries about repairing the properties or of tenants falling behind with the rent. The ministry gave the money directly to her for this stream of endlessly shifting people.

  But Gordon ought to have demanded that Ingersley be excluded from requisitioning, or at least that she be consulted. She sipped her tea and snapped a biscuit in half. How dare those awful Ministry men walk in and decide how her house should be run?

  She ate half a biscuit, flicked the crumbs off the sheet and refilled her tea cup. There had been one small victory. She had won a battle of wills with the dreadful Wilkins from the Ministry when she demanded that they convert the room above Gordon's study into a kitchenette preserved for her privacy and the workmen had made a speedy and good job of it.

  Ruth got out of bed, slipped off her silk nightgown and quickly pulled on the fine wool vest and knickers which had been wrapped around a hot-water bottle. Then she took a bottle of Atkinson's lavender water from the dressing 'table, unscrewed the silver lid and splashed the cool, fresh scent over the insides of her wrists to calm herself and soothe her nerves before she could return to the bed and her tea. How dare Gordon say, I am sorry that you are inconvenienced? Inconvenience was a massive understatement. She was worn to a shadow with it all. If he were here, he'd see for himself.

  Mrs Stewart was taking up one of the beds at the hospital at this moment, struck down with influenza a week ago. And with her out of action, Maud and Bessie, mother and daughter, the two remaining servants who lived rent-free in one of the cottages, were having to do the cooking as well as the cleaning. Bessie would be making breakfast in the kitchenette instead of getting on with cleaning the drawing room and lighting fires. It was too bad of Mrs Stewart. She could not expect to be off work for much longer. She was needed here.

  “I am certain that you will be called upon to assist when the injured start to arrive. And then you will not feel so helpless, as you put it.”

  She had meant, by saying that she felt helpless, that she was managing without help. Nanny was no use. In fact she was becoming very managerial since she had opened two bedrooms at Ivy Lodge for mothers who could not be delivered in their own homes. So far Ivy Lodge had not been needed as a maternity home and Nanny found it more convenient to remain at Ingersley, especially as Lucy Hamilton was pregnant and had asked Nanny to attend her and deliver the baby.

  Not only that but Nanny, who had driven an ambulance in the Great War, had volunteered to help both with the hospital and the District Nursing Service. They had taken up her offer with alacrity. Today she was to have driving instruction at some Ministry department or other. Ruth had no doubt that they would use Nanny’s services at the most inconvenient times.

  She finished the tea and left the second biscuit uneaten. Still, if Nanny learned to drive properly it could be an advantage. Ruth had purchased a licence long before mandatory driving tests were introduced, but she detested driving. Nothing but a dire emergency would induce her to get behind the wheel of a car. Nanny would be able to chauffeur her around in the Armstrong Siddeley, which had been spared the ignominy of being requisitioned for the police or fire brigade by Nanny's District Nursing work. Indefatigable,Nanny was sixty-one.

  Gordon's letter went on, Yes, I do think about our future. As soon as I can, I will offer Ingersley either to the Ministry or to Hamilton. We will buy something more manageable. It would be different, I agree, if we had children. But we do not.

  As curt as that. How did he know she was not already pregnant? The last time they had made love was four months ago, on Mike Hamilton's wedding day, before Gordon returned to the ship. If she had become pregnant after that encounter it could not have been confirmed before now. A lady simply did not speak of such things, even to her own doctor, until she was sure, around the fourth month. But Ruth was not pregnant, and had been distraught to find that she was not. The only way she'd keep Ingersley, and probably her marriage to Gordon, was by giving him children, preferably a son. It had come to that. It was now vital that she had a child. She read the line again: It would be different, I agree, if we had children. But we do not. There was no shadow of doubt. Unless she bore a child Gordon would sell the estate. She needed a baby. Now.

  She crumpled the letter and pitched it into the waste basket, then retrieved it, flattened it out and read it again. Gordon must come home. She would telephone the base in Liverpool tonight and tell him he was wanted here.

  She dressed quickly. She'd give Heather a good ride out on the beach this morning. Road riding on the lanes as she'd had to do for the last months was no good for either of them, and a good gallop on the freezing cold beach would cool her temper. She pulled on jodhpurs and a heavy jumper and went down to what had been their bedroom floor and was now the living area.

  Standing in the doorway of the new kitchen, she gave instructions to Bessie who was preparing breakfast for herself and Nanny. 'I won't be taking breakfast this morning. There's only Nanny.'

  The maid raised a hand in weary acknowledgement. Ruth went over to her. 'You all right?' she asked. Bessie's normally florid face this morning was pale.

  'I don't feel too good, Lady Ca
mpbell. 1 think I'm getting the flu or a cold,' she answered. 'I'll have to go home.' This was the last straw. If the woman went down with influenza then Mrs Stewart must get out of bed and help run the household.

  Ruth said, 'Oh dear. I hope it isn't infectious. Before you go, prepare a light lunch for me and Nanny. A sandwich and some soup.' She added, 'Your mother will be here to serve it and to make a simple meal this evening, won't she?’

  Ruth left the kitchen, slung her hacking jacket across her shoulders and ran downstairs. The lift had been commandeered along with the house and she never used it, not wanting to have contact with those terribly common hospital people who talked incessantly in frightful voices. Nanny and she used the main stairs instead. Since Ruth had insisted that the front door entrance - their entrance - was not to be used by hospital visitors or employees, she could get by with a brief nod in the direction of the occasional over-familiar hospital staff she might have to pass on the stairs.

  There were some advantageous spin-offs, though. The tradesman's entrance at the back of the house had been enlarged and fitted with smart double swing doors of bombproof reinforced glass, and the small patch of weedy gravel in front of the servants' door had been transformed into a wide area covered in concrete. It gave plenty of room for ambulances to turn in and would be useful when this damned war was over. The roof, too, had been repaired, and painted in camouflage colours which she would insist was returned to normal when the war was over.

  Outside, the bitter cold nipped into her fingers and nose. She wrapped her scarf about her head and across her mouth and pulled on her lined-leather gloves. When the South Lodge's iron gates were requisitioned for scrap metal, Ruth had insisted on having solid wooden gates made to close the entrance. There was now no way in from the road, as the gates were bolted from the inside. The price of her privacy was thus a serious inconvenience to herself, for she now had to use the North Gate, the drive to which passed right in front of the Hamilton's farmhouse. But closing the entrance had prevented every Tom, Dick and Harry of the hospital staff from using the front drive, which remained blissfully her own.