“Is he? Is he really?”
The staff nurse smiled her cautious smile.
“Yes. He is. But he’s got a long way to go.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Baby Charles survived his second night; Eliza watched him through much of it. He was sleeping when she got there, very still.
“Don’t worry,” said the nurse, seeing her face. “He’s been awake; he’s had some milk.”
They understood every fear that went through her; she felt very close to them, absolutely a part of their team.
They let her stay however long she wanted.
She looked around at the other babies in the unit; the largest, a pair of twins, weighed four pounds each.
“They’ll be leaving us tomorrow, going up to the ward,” said the nurse.
Baby Charles weighed just under two pounds. It seemed impossible that he would ever be as big as they.
He woke; she put her hand in the incubator and stroked him, lifted his hand with her finger, persuaded herself he had responded.
“I love you,” she said over and over again to him. “I love you so much.”
She wanted him to know that, whatever happened.
On the third morning, she woke to find her breasts filled with milk, leaking onto her nightdress. She felt pleased, illogically hopeful, that it was a good sign.
When Matt came back, they sat watching Baby Charles for a long time. She told Matt to do what she did, touch him, lift his tiny hand; he shook his head.
“I might hurt him. He’s so tiny.”
“You won’t hurt him, Mr. Shaw,” said one of the nurses. “Go on; touch him; it’s good for him.”
He looked at her, then grasped Eliza’s hand and very slowly and cautiously put the other one into the incubator, stroked the baby’s head; she watched it, the large, male hand, incongruously strong, reaching out to his son. And realised that Matt’s eyes too had filled with tears. He saw her looking at him and half smiled, embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
“Matt, it’s OK. You can cry.”
“I … I … oh, God,” he said, staring into the incubator. “Oh, God, he’s so helpless.”
In the morning, her breasts aching with their load of milk, she made her way down to the unit; the nurse looked at her warily, clearly feeling awkward.
“Hallo, Mrs. Shaw.”
“How is he?”
“He’s … not quite so well.”
She felt sick.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think you should talk to the doctor. He’s developed a slight liver infection.”
“Oh, God. Well, where is he; where’s the doctor?”
“He’s on his rounds; he’ll be back soon.”
“But I want to see him now.” She heard her voice rising. “Please get him.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. He won’t be long. Please try to be calm.”
“Calm! You tell me my baby has a liver infection and the doctor won’t talk to me and then you tell me to be calm—”
“The doctor will talk to you when he gets back. Which won’t be long. Now excuse me a moment, please; I have babies to feed.”
“Sorry,” said Eliza, suddenly shocked at herself. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“That’s all right.”
She sat down by baby Charles, her heart pounding, an odd echoing roar in her ears. He looked the same. Well … maybe he didn’t. He was very restless; his movements were different, somehow quicker, almost twitchy, and smaller.
“Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t get sick; don’t; stay well; stay strong, please, little one; stay well.”
Her helplessness was almost the worst thing.
The doctor was very honest.
“I’m afraid his liver function isn’t so good. It happens with these babies.”
“And … so?”
“Well, he could get jaundiced, and of course it increases the danger of a haemorrhage.”
“A haemorrhage?”
“Yes. Into the brain.”
“Oh, no,” said Eliza, “oh, no, please, no.”
“I’m sorry. But it hasn’t happened yet. It may not. It’s just important for you to know that it might.”
“Yes, of course.”
“But how do they know?” said Matt. She had rung him at the office, and he had arrived within twenty minutes.
“Oh … just blood tests, I think.”
“Could they be wrong? Should we get someone else to see him?”
“No,” said Eliza, “no, of course not. These are the very best people to be looking after him.”
They resumed their vigil, watching baby Charles and his helpless, feeble movements.
He died twelve hours later. It was a haemorrhage into his brain, they said, a very big one; he couldn’t have survived it. And nor would they have wanted him to, they were told; he would have been helpless, a baby forever.
“I would, though,” said Eliza, tears streaming down her face. “I would have looked after him; I would have loved to; don’t say we wouldn’t have wanted it.”
They let them hold him, once they knew it was hopeless. The nurse wrapped him tenderly, so tenderly, in a shawl and handed him to Eliza; she sat staring down at his tiny face, peaceful now, feeling his warmth, feeling him alive. She lifted him, kissed his head, stroked his cheeks, took the tiny frondlike hand that she had held so often now, and kissed that too.
“It can’t be true,” she said to Matt. “He can’t be dying; he feels … feels like a baby, an all-right baby.”
He said nothing, staring at the baby in silent shock.
“Take him, hold him.”
“No. No, I can’t.”
“Matt, you must. It’s important.”
“I’m so afraid of hurting him.”
“You won’t. You really won’t.”
He took it, the tiny creature in his blue blanket, and sat cradling it. A tear splashed down on the peaceful little face, and then another: Matt’s tears. “Sorry, son,” he said, and wiped them tenderly away. Eliza slid her hand into his and rested her head on his shoulder, gazing at the baby. Time passed, but they had no idea how much of it. They only wanted to be with their baby, sharing what was left of his life.
He left them with a small turn of his head towards Eliza, who was holding him once more, and a soft, long sigh; and then they realised with something that was shock in spite of everything that all his movements had stopped, and the faint strength they had still felt in him was over …
They held a funeral for him in the Wellesley village church. It seemed important, made him important, a real person who had lived, however briefly.
They laid him in a small white coffin with a spray of white roses on it, and put inside it a letter Eliza had written to him, telling him how much she loved him and how she would never forget him or his short, important life.
Matt, white faced but dry eyed, carried the coffin alone into the church, Eliza walking beside him, and they stood holding hands through the short, painfully sweet service. There was only the family there: Scarlett, fighting back tears, Sandra and Pete, Sarah, and Charles, who said he was so proud that the baby had been given his name. It was felt to be too much for Emmie to cope with; she was left with one of Eliza’s friends.
They sang no hymns, but the organist played very beautifully, and at the end, Eliza read the lovely Gaelic blessing, which felt so appropriate:
“May the road rise gently at your feet.
May the sun shine warmly on your face.
May the wind be always on your back.
May the rain fall softly on your fields.
And until we meet again
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.”
How she got through it she never afterwards knew, and she broke down once, but for the rest of the time her voice remained strong and steady, and as Matt picked up the coffin again at the end of the service, she bent her head over it and kissed it and even smiled as she s
aid, “Good-bye, little one.”
And then she could be brave no longer and ran ahead of Matt out of the church through the graveyard, and was found by Charles leaning on a tree, literally gasping with pain, and looking with huge trepidation at the thought of the rest of her life.
It wasn’t what she wanted. In fact, it was pretty well the opposite. But having done ten presentations in ten virtually identical boardrooms to ten groups of stony-faced and/or patronizing board members, she felt she had no choice. At least he knew her, knew her track record, and had some respect for her abilities. Just the same, it was potentially humiliating.
She called him in his office and invited him to lunch. After a lot of predictable innuendo, about how she must be very busy shopping these days, his saying he was free the following Monday—“But it’ll have to be fairly quick, very busy at the moment, and where did you have in mind?”—was worth enduring every one of the innuendos.
“You girls really do get everywhere these days, don’t you?” he said finally.
“And further every day. Twelve forty-five all right? I’d say one, but I’ve got a three o’clock, myself.”
“Round one to you,” Louise said to herself, putting down the phone.
She was waiting for him when he got there. Because she ate at the Savoy Grill on a regular basis with her journalist friend Johnny Barrett and he gave it a lot of good publicity, the maître d’ knew and liked Louise and had agreed to give her one of the best tables. She had attracted a lot of attention as she walked across the room; she was wearing a black trouser suit, a white ruffled shirt, and very high heels; the four men at the next table were patently intrigued by her and who her companion might be. Probably expecting some kind of sugar daddy, she supposed.
She whiled away the ten minutes Roderick made her wait studying the city pages of the Evening Standard, and managed to appear so engrossed that the waiter who had brought him over gave a small cough and said, “Your guest has arrived, Miss Mullen.”
“Oh,” she said, standing up. “Sorry, Roderick; just keeping up with the markets, you know.” She offered him her cheek. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” he said. And then, eyeing her up and down: “You look very nice.”
“Thank you. Your usual?” And then as he nodded: “Gin and tonic,” she said to the hovering waiter, “large. And a Virgin Mary for me, please.”
“What the hell’s a Virgin Mary?” he asked, sitting down.
“I discovered it in New York.” She had never actually been to New York, but he couldn’t possibly know that. “It’s tomato juice without the vodka. Keeps the head clear. Now, let’s order straightaway, shall we, and then we can concentrate.”
He ordered pâté and then “beef from the trolley”; she asked for a tomato salad and a steak au poivre. “Rare. And then, Roderick, you can order the wine if you like, but the 1952 Château Cheval Blanc—it’s a St. Emilion”—she’d got this from Johnny Barrett—“and it’s amazing.”
“Right,” he said, a certain respect in his eyes she hadn’t really seen before, “but I’ll take a look for myself, if you don’t mind.” He started thumbing through the leather-bound encyclopaedia the grill presented as its wine list, and said, “So what are you doing with yourself these days? Must be odd to be unemployed. Or are you enjoying it?”
“I wouldn’t be,” she said briskly, “if I was. But I’m not.”
“Oh, really? You and Matt kissed and made up, have you?”
“Matt and I have not made up, as you put it,” said Louise, “and are most unlikely to do so ever again. There are, however, other ways of working in our business than as an undervalued partner.”
“Of course. So … are you looking for a job, Louise; is that it?”
There was an expression in his eyes she couldn’t quite analyse, but it wasn’t hostile or dismissive. That had to be something.
“No,” she said, “no, I’m not. Oh, look, here’s the sommelier back. What are you going to order?”
“Well … let’s see.” He flicked over a couple of pages, then said, “Tell me, would you recommend the Cheval Blanc ’fifty-two?”
“An excellent choice, sir, if I may say so.”
“Right. Well, in that case, let’s have it. I presume it’s chambré, all that sort of thing?”
“Of course, sir. I do assure you you’ll enjoy it very much. But no doubt you’re familiar with it? It’s a favourite with many of our more, shall we say, discerning clientele.”
God, thought Louise, I’ll throw up in a minute.
“Right, we’ll go for that then.”
The sommelier gave a small bow, took the list. “I’ll have it brought to the table, sir.”
“Thank you.” The first course had arrived; Roderick gave Louise a very slightly shamefaced grin. She met his eyes rather coolly.
“I’m glad we’ve made a good choice of wine,” was all she said, and then: “So, have you seen Matt? Since the … well, since the baby died.”
“I have, yes,” he said, and added, surprising her, “Poor bugger. Awful thing to happen. He was very cut up about it.”
“I see Scarlett from time to time, his sister, you know; she’s a friend of mine. She says Eliza has been in a really bad way. On antidepressants for a while, spending a lot of time in the country with her mother. Well, at weekends anyway.”
“Ah, at Matt’s famous pile.”
“I don’t think it’s exactly Matt’s,” said Louise. “It’s part of Eliza’s family trust. As I understand it.”
“Yeah, yeah, but we all know it was Matt’s money saved it, OK? And what Matt pays for, Matt’s bought.”
“I suppose so. Oh, now look, here’s the trolley, so let’s just—Oh, and the wine.”
There was a lot of fussing, of choosing meat near the bone, of sniffing and tasting; finally, Louise said, “Right. Let’s get down to business. I know you haven’t got long and neither have I.”
“I thought you didn’t want a job,” said Roderick slowly.
“I don’t want a job. I want some backing for a project.”
“You want backing! From me? Louise, you should get into the real world, girl. Go and talk to an investment bank; they’re the ones with the money.”
“I did. They all turned me down.”
“Yeah? They obviously thought it wasn’t a good enough proposition.”
“No, they thought I was a woman.”
“Uh-huh. Well, fair enough. You can’t argue with that.”
“I know. But I thought they’d have the nous to see beyond that.”
“Clearly not.”
There was a silence; then Louise said, “Don’t you even want to know what my project is?”
“Well … OK. But I’m telling you, Louise, I don’t have any money available for investment. Everything I’ve got goes straight back into the company.”
“OK. You’ve made that pretty clear. Anyway … it’s hotels.”
“Hotels!”
“Yes. The industry is absolutely booming, growing by the day. London’s full of tourists. Has been ever since the ‘swinging London’ thing. And there aren’t enough hotels. The American market alone is massive. I was talking to Scarlett about it the other day; they flock here in thousands. Her clientele is the boutique end, but she sees the frustration of people trying to find places to stay. And how far out they have to go to find anywhere. All income levels too; I’ve got some figures if you’re interested …”
She reached for her briefcase and the folder she’d prepared for him, a full set of statistics, the number of hotels in London, the number of tourists visiting annually, the consequent potential, expressed in investment terms, and a list of possible sites.
“The thing is, we need to act fast. There’s such pressure on sites. It’s going to get more difficult, with these bloody conservationists getting a hold. I mean Covent Garden, what a fantastic place for a hotel that would be. But all those trendies who live and work around there, actors and artists and so
on, are preparing a campaign to save it—God knows what for. And, of course, the thing about hotels is you can build up and up. It’s a big plus; you’re offering people views over the city. Look at the Hilton in Park Lane. Something like four hundred and fifty rooms, twenty-eight storeys. How’s that for plot ratio? So pressure on space is less of a problem.”
“You know the Queen opposed that place, don’t you?” said Roderick, grinning. “It overlooked her back garden. Well, I’m not saying it’s not a good idea, Louise; to be honest, I’m impressed.”
“Look at the figures, Roderick. Go on.”
“I told you, I don’t have that sort of money. I mean, what are you looking for, hundred K or are we into really fancy money?”
“I reckon we could make a start with a million. It’d have to be that, because of the site cost. It’d have to be central.”
“A million! Louise, I’d have trouble laying my hands on fifty grand right this minute.”
“Roderick, I’m not asking you to put up the money. Just to front the venture, with me as your partner. I told you, the bankers only turned me down because I’m a woman. One of them more or less said so. There’s so much money out there still; it’s growing on trees. We could get the capital I need tomorrow, with your record.”
He was silent for a moment; then he said, “No. Honestly. I’ve got enough on my plate, and I don’t know anything about the hotel business; it’d be crazy.”
“No one’s asking you to get into the hotel business—all we’re doing is providing the buildings. Then we sell them. Or build them under licence.”
Another silence. Then: “No, it’s just too risky. Sorry.” He looked at his watch.
OK. Time for the trump card.
“Well … OK. If that’s your final word.”
“It is. Absolutely final.”
“You do know, I presume, that the government’s giving a tax incentive—or it might be a grant; my accountant told me this morning—to assist in the development of hotels just because of exactly what I’m talking about, the shortage. It’s going to be in the press tomorrow, apparently. Oh, well. I’ll just have to find someone else. Pity. But I will. I’m not giving up.”
More Than You Know Page 32
