The Echo of Twilight

by Judith Kinghorn

  I nodded.

  She glanced about the room, then back at me. “Of course, if it really is meant to be—decreed by the universe and all that,” she added, raising her arms in a dramatic gesture, “then it will be. He’ll come back to you . . . He’ll ride back into your life and you’ll be together, but together in sin. And that won’t be easy, Pearl. Not for you or for him, and certainly not for your child.”

  She paused and I smiled. She had no idea, I thought. Because living in sin with Ralph was not only preferable to a life outside of sin and without him; it was what I had come to hope for. Then she went on. “It’s very easy to be romantic, you know, particularly now.” And there it was again: that phrase, one I’d come to loathe. “Yes, very easy when the object of one’s affection and longing is absent . . . But the reality will be different, quite different. You see, even if Ralph does return—well, he could be maimed, crippled, and then what? He has no money, Pearl. And you’ll have a child, an illegitimate child—and a damaged man, one you barely know, to look after.”

  “I know him and he knows me. He knows me better than any other person in this world.”

  She stared at me, frowning: “No, he knew you for a moment, Pearl. And though you may relive it a thousand times over in your mind, that’s all it was—and all it will ever be.”

  In that instant I almost hated her. She had no idea about love, real love, I thought. She knew nothing. Nothing at all.

  So, minutes later, I didn’t hesitate when she said, “And please, do promise me you won’t go to the cottage.”

  “Yes, I promise,” I said, flicking the pages of an already ancient magazine.

  The path had narrowed, become more overgrown, but as I pictured him—his long stride and feet on that track, his paint-smeared hands reaching out and brushing over the long grass—I sensed his presence. And so strongly, so acutely, that by the time the white building emerged, I thought, maybe . . . just maybe.

  The door was unlocked, the interior empty and stripped of furnishings. Cobwebs hung down from the beamed ceiling, drifting aimlessly in the musty, damp air. An empty jam jar lay on a fly-covered windowsill, its base stained dark red—the only trace, only clue. I stepped back outside, overwhelmed by the emptiness, overwhelmed by a new sense of desolation. It had been September when I’d last seen him. Now it was May. Eight months, I thought; only two seasons. And yet a thousand years might have passed. And I sat down on the grass and wept.

  “You promised me . . . Yes, you did. You promised you’d not come here.”

  Ottoline marched toward me, her tam-o’-shanter askew, her skirt still hitched up into her belt from her bicycle ride. She helped me to my feet. She said, “I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I try to warn you?” She threw back her head in disgust. “You silly girl . . . What am I to do with you? Haven’t I said—and over and over—that you have to be strong? You have to accept that he’s gone and that he might never come back.”

  “But where are his things—his paints and canvases?”

  “They’re safe, in storage. I promised I’d keep it all for him.”

  Still holding on to my hand, she led me at a march back down the path, toward the house, muttering all the way about the price she’d had to pay for some butter and the nonappearance of the butcher from Elgin, and the state of the road and a puncture. And I thought, Puncture? However did she know how to mend a puncture? Was that her mother, too?

  Later, she carried the old tin bath downstairs to the kitchen, then boiled kettles of water to fill it. She helped me to undress, helped me into it. And as I sat in the bath, she stood smoking a cigarette, talking to herself as she surveyed the lined-up jars of spices she had found in a cupboard; from time to time stirring the pan of something she said she had “invented” earlier that day on her unfortunate bike ride.

  “You know, I rather like the name Paprika,” she said, sprinkling, then turning and smiling back at me.

  And I thought, Hector Campbell—you silly, silly man. You have absolutely no idea.

  My contractions started shortly after luncheon, which we had taken together in the kitchen, and where Ottoline remained for some time, cleaning up. When she finally came into the drawing room and saw me—standing with my head down and gripping the marble mantelpiece—she rubbed my back and told me it was just the beginning. I was irritated by this comment, by her touch and even her wisdom.

  Then the pains stopped. Stopped completely. And we sat looking at each other, waiting. “You have to brace yourself, dear. It could go on like this for days,” Ottoline said, smiling at me as she picked up the newspaper.

  I was dozing, flitting in and out of dreams, half listening to a wood pigeon in the trees outside and the ticking of the clock within the room, when a great wave convulsed my body and threw me out of my slumber. And this time I buckled and cried out in pain.

  “Breathe . . . You must breathe through it, dear,” said Ottoline, sitting down next to me and grabbing hold of my hand.

  And I tried, and I tried, and as it subsided, I said, “I think . . .you need . . .to fetch . . .”

  “The midwife—Mrs. Grant? Yes, I think you’re right. Do you want me to help you upstairs—to my room? It might be more comfortable for you there.”

  I shook my head. “I want to stay here.”

  She plumped up the cushions behind me, suggested that I lie down. But I couldn’t. Instead, as she left the room, I rose to my feet and paced about the carpet, waiting for the next wave to come. I saw her through the window, pedaling like fury up the driveway, disappearing into the peach-colored evening. And then, as pain seized me and shot up my spine, I banged my fist on the glass pane and cried out: “Ottoline! . . . Ottoline!”

  I’m not sure how long she was gone, but by the time she reappeared, I was half undressed and crawling about the tartan carpet on my hands and knees. I knew the design, each shade and almost every one of those checks. She dropped some towels to the floor and knelt down beside me, and I placed my head on her shoulder and cried—with relief, and fear, and exhaustion, knowing the worst was still to come.

  She placed a cool flannel to my brow. “Mrs. Grant will be here soon, very soon.”

  “Have you ever delivered a baby?” I asked.

  “No. But I have given birth to three.”

  “Three?”

  Then it came again, more intense than the last time. And like an injured animal, I panted and moaned and whimpered. And as Ottoline spread out towels and pulled cushions down from the sofa beside us, I felt a strange tingling sensation, something warm and wet running down my legs. She said, “Ah yes. I think your waters have broken.”

  “Three?” I said again. “You had three?”

  “Yes, there was another—after Billy. A girl. She lived for only a few days. A hole in her heart, they said.”

  “A girl . . . You had a daughter?”

  Another wave of pain. I gripped hold of Ottoline’s hand. And when she reminded me yet again to breathe, I told her she sounded like Mrs. Bloody Bart, and she said, “Yes, that’s it . . . Release it all. Say whatever you feel.” And I heard myself scream Ralph’s name.

  Then wave after wave it came, flooding my senses, drowning out who I was, where I was and everything that had come before or could come after, until there was only it, and an overwhelming desire to expel it from my body.

  But Ottoline said, “No, not yet . . . not yet . . .”

  And I thought I would die. And I shouted and screamed that at her.

  Then, finally: “Now! Now, Pearl.”

  My daughter entered this world shortly after nine o’clock on Midsummer Day, screaming just as passionately as her mother, and a week late—according to Ottoline’s calculation. Minutes later, the elderly midwife arrived. I was checked. My baby was checked. “A bonnie bairn, Mrs. Morton,” she declared. “Seven pounds, six ounces.”

  And later that evening,
after the midwife had left us and as dusk began to fall, I sat with my feet up on the sofa—feeling proud and swamped with a sort of contentment I’d never before imagined or known. Drinking a cup of deliciously sweet tea, I watched Ottoline as she cradled my baby in her arms.

  “So, is she to be Kitty?”

  “No. Nor is she going to be Paprika.”

  Ottoline raised her eyes to me and smiled.

  Quietly, privately, in the days leading up to my daughter’s birth, I had for some reason kept thinking on the name Arabella. It was a pretty name, a fine name, I thought, for a daughter—Ralph’s daughter. But Arabella Godley was quite different to Bella Morton, and I had known too many Bellas in service, and my daughter would never be in service, I decided. Arabella Godley was a notion, a mere idea, and a missing piece of a jigsaw, and Bella Morton would only ever be my reaction to it.

  After my daughter’s birth, there could only be one name. Or at least one name she would be known by.

  “She’s to be named after the person who brought her into this world . . . She’s Lila.”

  Lila. She was to me the most perfect creation. Ever. Adorable from the start, and comical, too; with a rather large head covered with a down of fine golden hair, bright inquisitive blue eyes, neat button nose and enormously fat cheeks. She had a tiny rosebud mouth that twisted and turned and offered up every nuance of feeling without any words, and long slender fingers like her father—artistic fingers, which she liked to stretch out or sometimes clench and wave in anger. And skin so soft and mouthwateringly delicious that Ottoline and I often fought over whose turn it was to press our lips to it.

  When Ottoline produced an ancient-looking perambulator from one of the outbuildings, I laughed. “I’m not putting her in that.”

  “Oh, but it’ll scrub up fine,” she said, wheeling the thing into the kitchen.

  And it did.

  Each day my Lila grew fatter and more beautiful. Each day I loved her a little more. Very quickly, I couldn’t imagine my life without her. For almost eight weeks Ottoline and I watched her, sighed, cooed and fussed over her—as though she were a present to us both from the gods, a miracle. We set clocks by her, watched clocks for her, listened for her stirrings and whimpers. And using the newly scrubbed perambulator—or “baby carriage” as Ottoline called it—we wheeled her along the banks of the A’an, sat next to it beneath the pines on the lawn, looked back at each other and smiled, for together we had brought Lila into this world, this unimaginably beautiful and troubled world.

  It was during this time that Ottoline said, “Can we share her? Will you allow me to love her, just a little? Because we’re much more than lady and lady’s maid now. We’re friends—dear friends. You and Lila are like family to me. And I am after all her blood relation.”

  It was only right that Ottoline be Lila’s godmother, and I decided on Billy and Rodney Watts to be her godfathers. I wrote to Billy to ask him and received some sweet words in return: I can’t begin to tell you how deeply honored I feel. And though I can’t promise to be at the christening in person, I shall be there in spirit—and simply can’t wait to meet her.

  We headed south earlier than planned. It was not long after the first anniversary of the beginning of the war and shortly after Ottoline received word from Lord Hector that Hugo was to come home on leave. There was great interest in us—now three—when we arrived back at Birling. Yes, Lila had come early . . . Yes, she was indeed a robust little thing . . . Something of a celebratory atmosphere drifted around the house. Hugo was coming home, and a baby, it seemed, was what everyone needed—and, as Rodney said, a most welcome and happy addition. But it was Mrs. Lister I was most concerned with and needed to seek out alone.

  So, on the evening of our arrival, after I had settled Lila, I returned to the kitchen in search of Mrs. Lister. Tentatively, I inquired if she would be willing to look after my baby for a few hours each day, so that I could attend to Ottoline—continue my duties as her maid. Mrs. Lister’s face went pink; for a moment she appeared to have stopped breathing, and I thought she might very well explode.

  I said, “You’ll be paid, of course. And Her Ladyship is happy if you are . . . But I can find someone else if it’s not—”

  “No!” she yelled in a great gasp, then took a gulp of air. “You don’t need to find anyone else.” Another gulp. “I love bairns . . .” A brief pause and another gulp, and then it came: “You ask my Frank. Love them I do. Wished I had more. And him as well. Oh yes, him as well. But it weren’t to be, you see. And you don’t need to worry. No. Don’t need to worry about a thing. Treat her like one of my own, so I will. Just like one of my own. Well innocent, aren’t they? Yes, innocent and from God. Precious little mites. No, you don’t need to worry about a thing. Your little Lila will be fine with me. And you know I’ve had a few. Oh yes. Not that it was easy with my last, mind you. Lost ten gallons of blood, I did. Frank thought I was a gona. Sent for my mother, he did. They had my grave dug. Beside himself, he was. Beside himself.”

  Eventually she stopped. I went to tell Ottoline, who smiled and said, “Did she go on and on?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you.”

  She had.

  But what I hoped for, what mattered to me more than anything, was for my daughter not just to be accepted, but to be cared for and loved. And that night, with Lila sleeping soundly in her cot—Billy’s old cot—next to me, I felt relieved and happy that Mrs. Lister would be looking after her when I was not. And happy, too, that despite my circumstances, I was to continue as Ottoline’s maid.

  Hugo’s leave was delayed. But the fine weather held out for the final day of the Feast Week celebrations at Warkworth. All of us at Birling went, on foot, and en masse. For Feast Weeks were part of summer in every village and town, in every county, like flower shows and cricket, or strawberries and cream. And there were strawberries, and ice cream, and a fancy dress pageant at the castle, with music and dancing, and where Mrs. Lister—dressed in medieval costume—sang “The Ballad of Chevy Chase.” There was a carnival on the river, with streamers and flags and colorful floats, and a rowing race, during which we almost burst our lungs, and then burst them again when our young under-gardener with a clubfoot took first prize. And there was what Mrs. Lister referred to as “the Hoppings”: a funfair and amusements in the market square, with shuggy boats and a roundabout, a coconut shy and endless stalls.

  “What a grand day,” said Mrs. Lister, out of costume and in charge of the perambulator once again as we trailed behind the others down the dusty road home. “Just like old times.”

  But there was a war on; husbands were absent, children fatherless and servants in short supply. As a consequence, a doubling up of roles had come about. Instead of housemaids and parlormaids, we now had house-parlormaids, and instead of a head gardener, under-gardeners and grooms, we now had gardener-grooms; and no footmen, none at all. And so I suppose it was inevitable that my own role should also expand. Though I have to admit, when Ottoline first suggested it to me, I felt a little insulted. It was a man’s job, I thought, and I had no idea how to drive a motorcar, added to which, it had taken me a long time to earn my position as lady’s maid. But Ottoline assured me that it would be only for the duration of the war, because after that, everything would get back to normal. And an ability to drive, she said, would be another string to my bow. She would teach me.

  “It’s really terribly easy. The main thing one has to remember—concentrate on—is the steering,” she said, moving her hands as though controlling a horse’s reins.

  Easy it was not—not for me. I spent five consecutive afternoons driving one of Lord Hector’s motorcars up and down the driveways and lanes around Birling with Ottoline in the passenger seat, smoking incessantly as she pointed out obstacles and trees, issuing instructions like a sergeant major. More than once we bounced along a grass verge, but only once did we end up in a ditch. A loca
l farmer pulled us out. Eventually, I got the hang of it, and we drove all the way to the nearby market town of Alnwick and back—without glitches, hitches or ditches. And thus, I became a lady’s maid–chauffeur, or something of that sort.

  My very first trip out alone in the motorcar was to collect Lord Hector and Hugo from the station. “Not too far. An easy one,” Ottoline said. I set off extra early, drove slowly, and then had to wait a full half hour at the station, wrapped in a rug from the back of the car. But when the train eventually rattled in and drew to a halt, only Lord Hector appeared on the platform. Perhaps not surprisingly, he seemed a little disconcerted to see me there—waiting for him. So I explained how Ottoline had taught me to drive, and then I helped him into the car and offered him the rug. I didn’t ask about Hugo, didn’t want to.

  As we turned out of the station, it seemed unusually dark and gloomy until His Lordship mentioned that it was in fact dusk and suggested I turn on the headlights. But I wasn’t sure how to, where the switch was. So we had to stop, briefly, for him to show me. After that, he sat up front with me, and I drove back even slower than I’d driven there. But when we drew to a halt outside the house, as I switched off the engine, His Lordship said, “Excellent, Pearl. Very well done.” And I felt proud.

  I learned about Hugo’s absence at supper. Rodney told us that Lord Hector had received a telegram only that morning—and only hours before he was due to meet his son. Hugo had been injured in an ambush and taken to a casualty clearing station somewhere near Loos. Details of his injuries were vague: leg and head wounds, Rodney said, but nothing life threatening.

  Two days later, after the harvest festival, Lila’s christening took place as scheduled, with Ottoline and Rodney as the attendant godparents.

  “Ottoline Constance Katherine Charlotte Wilhelmina,” said the vicar, in a slow, somber monotone, and eyeing me. But nothing could rankle me that day. I was proud of my daughter and of her names; all five of them. Each one of them meant something, honored someone, and whereas I had only the one name, snatched at random and meaning nothing, my daughter had five—and a christening.