The Rainbow Years

by Bradshaw, Rita

  Her baby. It was beautiful, beautiful. But shouldn’t it cry? Didn’t all babies cry when they were born? She tried to ask but the retching took hold again and for a few minutes the room swam and she felt as though she was going to pass out.

  The nurse holding the bowl and stroking Amy’s forehead glanced across at the doctor who had cleared the baby’s tiny airway. He was now giving artificial respiration to the perfectly formed little boy lying so limply under his hands, but in spite of all his efforts the baby never once took a breath.

  And then one of the nurses said, ‘Doctor?’ and he looked across to where she’d inclined her head and saw the ever-growing red stain soaking the sheet under Amy’s body. Gently he wrapped the tiny little body in a snowy white blanket, shaking his head at the nurse who bit down hard on her lip. Walking across the room to Amy he saw she had lost consciousness which was probably the most merciful thing in the circumstances. But if he wasn’t to lose the mother as well as the child he had to act fast to stem the bleeding. He was due to go off duty in a few minutes and he hated leaving after something like this. He knew he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.

  The team around Amy worked furiously under the doctor’s direction for some time, but eventually he said, his voice terse, ‘Inform the theatre staff to scrub up and someone call my wife and tell her I shan’t be home for hours. Where’s the husband? I need to have a word with him.’

  ‘Mrs Callendar was accompanied by her housekeeper, Doctor, who has since returned home. She led us to understand the husband was too intoxicated to stand by himself when the ambulance arrived. She telephoned a little while ago to ask for news and said Mr Callendar is still sleeping it off.’

  The doctor stared at his nurse for a moment and then looked down at the ashen-faced woman on the bed. ‘I hope the so-and-so never wakes up,’ he said bitterly, shocking his staff. Then he strode out of the room with a face like thunder.

  When Amy next woke it was in the dead of night, and thinking that she had only been asleep for a few minutes, she turned her head on the pillow, her voice a whisper as she said, ‘I want to see my baby.’

  Immediately the nurse who had been dozing in a chair by her side was awake, her voice soft as she said, ‘You’re awake, Mrs Callendar. That’s good.’

  ‘My baby?’ But even as she spoke, Amy’s eyes were closing and she slipped back into the deep sleep which had followed the operation to remove her womb but which had been necessary to save her life.

  It was daylight when she next surfaced and this time she was aware of deep aching pain but it was a different pain to the one she’d experienced when her baby was being born. There was no nurse by the bed this time but when she went to raise herself on her elbows, one appeared at her side. ‘Easy does it,’ the matronly woman said cheerfully, assisting Amy into a sitting position and arranging the pillows behind her back as she spoke. ‘Now, do you feel like a sip of water?’

  Amy’s head was spinning but the nausea which had taken hold when she had first sat up was diminishing. She swallowed hard, her lips so dry she felt they were cracking. ‘Yes, please.’ She could see she was in a large ward with a row of beds either side and a nurse’s station right in the middle. After she had taken what amounted to a thimbleful of water, she said, ‘Where is my baby?’

  The nurse didn’t answer this directly. Instead she said, ‘You have been very poorly, Mrs Callendar, and the doctor had to perform a little operation. He’ll be round shortly to explain everything to you. Now you mustn’t try to get out of bed. If you need anything, just call one of the nurses. Will you do that?’

  The woman was talking in a tone one would use for a bairn. Amy stared at her, a dread settling on her. She wanted to ask about her baby again but instead she said, ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘In the hospital? I understand you were brought in late Tuesday evening and it is now Thursday morning,’ the nurse said brightly. ‘Your husband sat at your bedside all through visiting time yesterday afternoon but you were still too heavily sedated to know he was there. No doubt he’ll be in later. He was very concerned about you.’

  ‘Has he seen the baby?’

  ‘Let’s just leave things until the doctor comes, shall we, Mrs Callendar? He’s due,’ she glanced at the small watch attached to her crisp white apron, ‘in ten minutes. Now, would you like me to wash your hands and face and brush your hair before he comes?’

  She couldn’t care less about what she looked like. The sense of panic which was taking hold was stronger than the pain she felt at the slightest movement. Nevertheless she nodded her head and submitted to the nurse’s ministrations.

  Amy was sitting with her hands folded on the coverlet and her eyes on the door when the doctor walked into the ward a few minutes later. She saw his eyes go straight to her bed and then the nurse who had helped her with her toilette spoke to him, her face sombre.The doctor nodded and made his way to her, the nurse accompanying him. As she drew the curtains round the bed, the doctor smiled at her. ‘Sitting up already? That’s good, that’s good.’

  No, it wasn’t good. Nothing was good. Amy stared at him and she forced herself to speak quietly when she said, ‘I want to know what’s happened, Doctor, and where my baby is.’

  Five minutes later the doctor rose from the chair beside his patient’s bed. He had been kind, very kind, and even now Amy could feel his eyes on her almost like a physical touch. She hadn’t spoken all through his discourse and when he had finished and asked her gently if she understood all he had said, she had nodded. Yes, she understood. It was simple. Simple and devastating. Everything inside her was screaming but still she sat like stone, the blood thundering in her ears and her soul pierced through.

  ‘Keep the curtains round the bed for the time being, please, Nurse.’ The doctor bent and patted Amy’s hands and she looked up into the concerned elderly face, wondering why she wasn’t crying. He had just told her her little boy was dead and that she would never be a mother. Shouldn’t she be crying?

  ‘Can I see him?’ she whispered.

  ‘See him?’ For a moment the doctor’s brow wrinkled and then he said quickly, ‘Oh no, my dear, I’m afraid that’s not possible.You had a miscarriage.Your baby never breathed by himself, you see.’

  ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘Now don’t agitate yourself, you must keep calm.You have had a major operation and you won’t feel yourself for some time.’

  ‘I want to see him.’ As she tried to get out of bed, the nurse was there, pushing her down with firm, capable hands. The next moment she felt something prick her arm but even as she went into unconsciousness she could hear herself saying, ‘I want to see him, I must see him.’

  She continued to ask to see her baby on the second day and the third. By the fourth she didn’t ask so often and on the fifth not at all.

  She didn’t talk to anyone and she refused any visitors, lying most of the time with her eyes shut. That way the picture of a small sweet face was clear on the screen of her mind. It was all she had left of her child and she couldn’t bear to think the image might become blurred or fade altogether.

  On the seventh day Charles walked into the ward. The matronly nurse was with him, gushing, ‘Now here is the young man who has been waiting so patiently to see you.’ Amy stared at Charles’s face and felt the screaming inside which had never lessened erupt from her mouth. It threw the ward into pandemonium and brought doctors and nurses running, but when Amy next woke from a drug-induced sleep, she found a stillness had settled on her. The screaming had been silenced. In its void was an acceptance that the old Amy was gone and in her place was someone whom she would never have chosen to be and whom she barely understood. This new person was filled with anger and bitterness and a deep hatred. It would change everything, her whole future, her entire life. She couldn’t continue being Charles’s wife, and she did not want to live in a place where there was any chance she might see him.

  Because of him her baby was dead and she ha
d been mutilated and stripped of everything that made her a woman. That’s how she felt. She was barren. Wasn’t that what they called someone like her in the Bible? A distasteful word, shameful.

  She lay in the small single room she had been moved to after the screaming episode, her rational mind telling her she had to do something, make plans to leave. But that would involve talking to people and as yet she couldn’t face it. She just wanted to drift into nothingness, to be in a place where she didn’t have to think or feel. She didn’t term this heaven in her mind, not now. God hadn’t listened to her plea for her son. He didn’t care and she didn’t care about Him. If there was a heaven and hell she was in the latter right now and no amount of incense or candles or sprinkling with holy water could alter that. When she left here she would be on her own, totally on her own, and she would make it on her own too. And still she hadn’t cried.

  Amy discharged herself from the infirmary three days later, against medical advice.The long wound in her lower stomach wasn’t hurting so much now, and only the day before, the kind doctor had informed her it would soon fade into a faint pink and then a silvery colour which would be barely noticeable. She had wondered why he would think she cared about what her stomach looked like, why she would care about anything, but she had quietly thanked him, recognising he was trying to be of some comfort.

  She waited until she thought Charles would be at the restaurant and then she dressed once more in the black dress and underclothes she’d worn when she was admitted, and which had been stored neatly in her bedside locker. The frock’s full gathers under the bust line mocked her new shape but she didn’t dwell on this. She needed all her strength for what she was about to do.

  One of the nurses called a cab for her, and she settled back in the seat and concentrated her mind on her plan of escape, going over each step in her mind. She hadn’t considered what she would do if Charles was at home; the very thought of seeing him brought the rage rising.

  July had come in on the crest of a heatwave while Amy had been confined in bed but a storm the night before had brought cooler, unsettled weather. As the cab took her to the house she had shared with Charles for over two years, it began to rain. It seemed fitting somehow.

  When the cab approached the large iron gates which opened onto the pebbled drive of the house, Amy saw they were open. This meant Charles was not at home and, sure enough, as the vehicle scrunched its way to the front of the house she saw the garage doors were ajar and the Rover was gone. She felt the air leave her mouth in a long whoosh of relief. She hadn’t realised until this moment how tense she had been at the thought of seeing him.

  After instructing the driver to wait, Amy walked to the front door and rang the bell. It was opened immediately by Cecilia, the current maid. The young girl’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her mistress on the doorstep. Mrs Randall appeared as Amy stepped into the hall. The housekeeper’s voice was full of consternation as she said, ‘Mrs Callendar, whatever are you doing home? We weren’t told—’

  ‘No one was told, Mrs Randall. I wanted it that way. I wonder if you would help me with some packing, and perhaps you, Cecilia, would fetch the portrait of my mother which is hanging in the drawing room. I have a cab waiting and a train to catch.’

  Mrs Randall stared at her for a moment and then said softly, ‘Of course, madam. And after Cecilia has brought the picture, would you like her to prepare sandwiches and a flask of tea for the journey?’

  Thank goodness she understood without having it spelled out. Amy nodded. ‘That would be very welcome, thank you.’

  In the master bedroom Mrs Randall packed a suitcase quickly and efficiently with the clothes Amy pointed out, making sure the portrait of Bess was well protected in the midst of the clothes and adding toiletries and other personal items. Amy changed her dress and shoes, leaving the black dress where it fell. It symbolised everything she was leaving behind. After choosing a summer coat, they went downstairs. In the hall Amy said, ‘Would you take my case to the cab, please, and tell him I’ll be a minute or two. I have a letter to write.’

  Again they stared at each other and then Mrs Randall said worriedly, ‘Are you sure you are strong enough for this, madam? For a train journey by yourself, I mean? I have a sister in South Shields who runs a small guest house and she would be more than willing to take care of you for a little while until you are stronger. She is very discreet,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Randall, but I have already made arrangements, ’Amy lied. South Shields wasn’t nearly far enough away. ‘I shall be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Excuse me for being so forward, madam, but have you sufficient funds to hand?’ Mrs Randall had gone pink at her temerity. ‘It’s just that I have a little money tucked away for a rainy day under my mattress and you are more than welcome to borrow it. I’ve never been one for the post office or banks,’ she added.

  The housekeeper’s unexpected kindness touched Amy deeply. It was dangerous, though; it pierced the iron control and brought the hurt and grief to the forefront of her mind, rather than the anger and hatred which was sustaining her at present. She swallowed helplessly, turning away as she said, ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Randall, but I shall manage.’ She walked steadily to the morning room, shut the door behind her and then leaned against its solid bulk for a moment as her legs wobbled.

  She took several long breaths, willing herself not to break down. It was harder than she had thought, being home again. But this wasn’t her home, not any more.

  The thought brought her straight and stiff once again and she made her way to the writing desk set in front of the large bay window. She took the key to the desk out of her handbag and unlocked it, taking out the cash box inside. She had been about to settle a number of household bills for the tradesmen who delivered their meat, bread, groceries, coal and other items to the house before she had been taken into hospital so the box held a tidy amount.

  Once the contents of the box were in her purse she took a piece of writing paper, picked up her pen and dipped it in the inkwell. She did not hesitate as she wrote; the words had been engraved on her mind for days.

  Charles, I am going away and I have no wish to speak to you or to see you again. You may do what you like with regard to the matter of a divorce but I shall not live as your wife again. In the same way I have no child, I have no husband. Once I’ve engaged a solicitor I shall instruct him to write to yours so that any legal niceties connected with our separation can proceed. I shall not ask for a penny from you, nor would I take one even if it was offered. If you have ever had any feeling for me at all, please do not try and find me. I shall not hold myself responsible for my actions if you do. Amy.

  She read it through once, folded the paper, and slid it into an envelope and sealed it. She did not write Charles’s name on the front. She picked up her handbag and coat and left the room. Mrs Randall was standing in the hall waiting for her, Cecilia by her side, and Amy held out the envelope, saying, ‘Could you give this to Mr Callendar, please, Mrs Randall? I would prefer that you didn’t telephone him but let him have it when he returns home.’

  ‘Yes, madam, I understand.’

  ‘And thank you, both of you. I . . . I don’t expect we’ll meet again.’

  ‘Oh, madam.’ Mrs Randall shook her head. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ Amy took the cloth bag holding the food and drink from Cecilia and turned away. She couldn’t say any more without falling apart.

  In the cab Amy did not look back at the house or the woman and young girl standing on the doorstep. She kept her eyes straight in front as the vehicle drew away from the house and made its way out of the drive. She was feeling exhausted now, sick and ill and frighteningly weak, but once she was on the train she could rest. Until then she could not afford to relax the tight rein she was keeping on her mind and body.

  When they reached Central Station, the cab driver was very helpful. From the sidelong glances one or two folk gave her, Amy gathe
red she was looking as ill as she felt, and she was grateful for the man’s hand at her elbow as he carried her suitcase to the ticket booth. It wasn’t until she was asked her destination that Amy realised she couldn’t face going to Kitty’s after all. If Charles did try to find her it would be the first place he would look, besides which she didn’t want to be with anyone she knew, not even Kitty. She didn’t want to have to talk or socialise. She wanted to disappear. ‘London, please.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper and she had to repeat herself before she was given her ticket. And then the kind cab driver carried her suitcase to the train which, as luck would have it, was just about to leave, and within minutes she was watching the station disappear from the window of the train.