Gypsy (5 page)

‘I think she looks like a Molly,’ Beth said, peeping into the cradle again. ‘I just hope she doesn’t wake up until Mrs Craven comes in. I don’t know a thing about babies.’

Beth slept fitfully in the old armchair by the stove, with her feet up on a stool and some blankets over her. She kept waking at the slightest noise, but each time it was nothing more than crackling from the stove, or a little murmur from the baby. But whenever she tried to go back to sleep, her mind kept mulling over that plea from her mother.

At six in the morning Beth was cuddling the baby and trying to get her to stop crying, when to her relief Mrs Craven came in through the back door, stamping her feet to get rid of the snow on her boots.

‘Baby needs changing and feeding,’ she said bossily, and throwing off her coat, she took the baby from Beth and proceeded to remove the soggy blanket, ordering Beth to go and get the box of baby clothes and napkins.

Beth watched in fascination as the older woman carefully washed the tiny baby and gave her instructions about changing the piece of lint around the stump of its umbilical cord and sprinkling a special powder on the cord until it fell off. She then folded a napkin into a triangle and fastened it around the baby’s bottom.

‘Later, when the shops are open, you must go and see if you can buy a pair of india-rubber waterproof pants for her,’ Mrs Craven said. ‘They didn’t have them when my babies were born, but I believe they are a godsend as they keep their clothes and bedding dry. You must change the napkin every two or three hours. If you leave her wet she’ll get sore.’

As she dressed the baby in a little nightgown, she imparted a great deal more information about babycare, most of which went over Beth’s head.

‘Now, we’ll take her to your mother for a feed,’ she said, handing the baby back to Beth. ‘She might protest as she’s feeling poorly, but a mother always gets better quicker when she holds her baby.’

Alice did look marginally better, in as much as the awful blotching on her face had faded, and she opened her eyes and tried to smile. She winced with pain as Mrs Craven helped her to sit up a bit so she could put more pillows behind her, and she was terribly pale.

Beth knew now that Dr Gillespie had performed what was called a caesarean, and it should have been done in the hospital. But he had no choice: Mama couldn’t be moved and the baby had to be removed quickly or they would both have died.

‘We’ll just let baby have a little feed,’ Mrs Craven said, unbuttoning the front of Mama’s nightgown. ‘Then I’ll get you a drink, something to eat and make you more comfortable.’

Beth blushed at seeing her mother’s breast, but as Mrs Craven put the baby to it and she latched on quickly, sucking eagerly, embarrassment turned to delight at the sight of such greed and Beth had to smile.

‘She’s a little fighter, that one,’ Mrs Craven said tenderly.

‘Now, what are you going to call her?’

‘I think she’s a Molly,’ Beth said, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘Then Molly it shall be,’ her mother said with the ghost of a smile.

Chapter Four

In the days following Molly’s birth Beth didn’t get a minute to herself, for it was a continuous round of changing and comforting Molly, seeing to her mother, including helping her on to a chamber pot because she couldn’t get down to the privy, then doing all the washing and other household chores. The snow still lay thickly on the ground and most days there were more flurries. It was so dark inside the flat that Beth often had to light the gas during the day. When she rushed out to get groceries, she didn’t linger, for however inviting Church Street looked, with the shop windows all decked out for Christmas, the hot-chestnut sellers and the organ grinders, it was too cold to stay outside.

She had become entranced by her baby sister. Looking after her was a pleasure, not a chore, and she didn’t feel hard done by with everything else she had to do either. But within a week the joy was replaced by anxiety about her mother.

At first Alice had seemed to be getting progressively better. On the third day after the birth she asked Beth for an omelette, and she’d eaten every scrap of it, and some rice pudding. She was holding Molly for long periods after she’d fed her, and she was glad to talk to Beth, explaining little things about babies and cooking to her.

On the fourth day she was much the same until the evening, when she suddenly said she was very hot. By the following morning Beth had to run round and get Dr Gillespie because she was feverish.

The doctor said women often became that way on the fourth or fifth day after confinement, and recommended Beth make her drink lots of fluids and keep her warm. But Alice grew worse and worse, so feverish she hardly knew who she was. A nasty smell was coming from her, and she was racked by terrible pain in her stomach that even the medicine the doctor had given her didn’t stop.

Mrs Craven called it childbed fever, but Dr Gillespie had a much more fancy name for it. He came in twice a day, irrigating Mama’s womb with some kind of antiseptic solution and then packing it with gauze.

They carried on putting Molly to her breasts, even though Alice couldn’t hold her, but this morning Mrs Craven had brought in a glass bottle with a rubber teat. She didn’t have to explain why; it was evident that Alice’s health was so poor that she couldn’t produce enough milk.

Molly took to the bottle with gusto and Beth got a great deal of comfort too from sitting in the comfortable chair by the stove nursing her. She loved the way Molly’s eyes opened very wide as she began to feed; they looked like two dark blue marbles, and she waved her tiny hands as if that helped her to get the milk down faster. But as she reached the end of the bottle, her eyes would droop and her hands would sink to her sides.

Often Beth would sit for an hour or more holding Molly up by her shoulder, rubbing her back the way Mrs Craven had advised to get her wind up. She loved the smell and the feel of her, the little sighs of contentment and everything about her. Even when she’d finally changed her napkin, swaddled her in a blanket so just her little head was visible and tucked her back into the cradle, she would stand and watch her sleeping, marvelling at the miracle of new life.

Yet the joy was marred by her mother’s poor health. Neither Dr Gillespie nor Mrs Craven had even hinted that Alice wasn’t going to recover, but however hard Beth tried to be optimistic, she could sense death approaching in the next room.

Their goodhearted, competent neighbour was popping in every two or three hours now, and Beth knew by the increase in bloodstained sheets, the foul smell, the way Mrs Craven kept piling more coal on the bedroom fire and the tightness of her expression that it was only a matter of time.

Beth didn’t tell Sam of her fears, for she knew he was worried about money. Mr Hooley at the hosiery shop had taken a dim view of Beth wanting time off at his busiest period, and there was no question of him holding her job open until she could return. On top of that Sam was freezing in the shipping office and he said that it was hard to write neatly when his fingers were numb with cold. The thought of another two or three months of winter in such an icy workplace filled him with dread. Beth reasoned that if she told him that their mother was likely to die and he’d single-handedly have to support Beth and Molly, he might just be tempted to take to his heels and run off.

However, on Sunday evening, when Sam had been home all day observing the frantic activity, Beth could see by his anxious expression that he had finally realized how serious things were.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked Beth reproachfully as she sat cuddling Molly.

‘You had enough to worry about,’ she said truthfully. ‘Besides, I hoped she might improve.’

The little bell Beth had put by their mother’s bedside so she could call if she needed anything, tinkled. Beth got up and went into the bedroom with Molly still in her arms.

It was very hot and stuffy, and the unpleasant smell had become even stronger.

‘A drink, Mama?’ Beth asked with her eyes averted from her mother’s face. It hurt to look at her, for the flesh on her face seemed to have sunk back into her bones and her eyes stood out like those of a fish on a fishmonger’s slab.

‘No. Get Sam, I must speak to you both,’ she replied, her voice a mere croaky whisper.

Sam came in immediately, his nose wrinkling at the smell.

‘Come closer,’ their mother whispered. ‘It hurts to speak now.’

Brother and sister edged closer to the bed, Beth holding Molly tightly against her chest. ‘What is it, Mama?’ Sam asked, his voice shaking.

‘I have something bad to tell you,’ Alice said. ‘I know I am dying but I can’t go with it on my conscience.’

Sam started to say she wasn’t going to die and anyway, she was pure and good, but she waved her hand feebly to stop him. ‘I’m not a good woman,’ she said, her voice faltering and rasping. ‘Your father killed himself because of what I did.’

Sam looked sideways at Beth questioningly. His sister shrugged, thinking their mother was just rambling with the fever.

‘There was another man. Your father discovered it a few weeks before he took his life. He said he would forgive me if I made a pledge that I would never see the man again.’ She broke off, coughing weakly. Neither Beth nor Sam moved to help her drink.

‘I made that pledge,’ she went on as the coughing abated. ‘But I couldn’t stick to it and continued to see the man when I could get away. The last time I saw him was the morning of the day Frank hanged himself.’

Beth was stunned. ‘How could you?’ she burst out.

‘You, you…’ Sam exclaimed, his face turning red with anger and disgust. ‘You whore!’

‘There is nothing you can say which will make me feel worse than I do,’ Alice rasped out. ‘I betrayed your father and I am responsible for his death. He was a good man, too good for me.’

‘And Molly? Who is her father?’ Beth shouted.

‘The other man,’ her mother said, closing her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to see her children’s angry faces. ‘Look in the drawer where I keep my stockings,’ she said. ‘A note I found that night, Frank had tucked it under my pillow.’

Sam opened the small top drawer in the dressing table and rummaged for a moment or two, then pulled out a sheet of writing paper. He took it over to the gaslight to read it.

‘What does it say?’ Beth asked.

Dear Alice
, Sam read.

I have known for some time that you are still seeing your lover. By the time you find this I will be gone and you will be free to go with this man you care for more than me. All I ask is that you wait a respectable time after my death before taking up with him, for our children’s sake.

I loved you, I’m sorry that wasn’t enough.

Frank.

Beth had begun to cry as Sam read the note. She could imagine her quiet, gentle father penning it down in the shop and coming up here at teatime to slip it under the pillow. Even with a broken heart he hadn’t resorted to anger or spite, but had carried on being a loving husband and father till the end.

Sam moved over to Beth and put one arm around her, looking down at Molly asleep in her arms. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

‘Why, Mama?’ he cried out. ‘Why did you have to do that?’

‘I did love your father, but it was the sweet love of a friend,’ she replied brokenly. ‘Passion is quite another thing. Maybe one day you’ll discover that for yourselves and understand.’

‘But why didn’t this other man come for you?’ Sam shouted in anger. ‘If it was true love, why isn’t he with you now?’

‘My biggest failing was to confuse passion with love,’ she replied, her eyes burning as she looked at her son. ‘He vanished into the night as soon as he heard Frank was dead. That was my real punishment, to know I had thrown in my lot with a philanderer who cared nothing for me, and Frank died thinking he’d found the way to make me happy.’

‘Did this other man know you were carrying his child?’ Beth sobbed.

‘No, Beth. I didn’t realize until after the last time I saw him.’

She began to cough and wheeze, and it was plain she was too weak to say anything more. ‘Go to sleep now,’ Beth said curtly. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow.’

In the kitchen later, Sam walked up and down, white with anger. ‘How could she?’ he kept repeating. ‘And if she doesn’t recover, are we supposed to look after that brat?’

Beth was crying as she nursed Molly in her arms. ‘Don’t say that, Sam. She’s just a baby, none of this is her fault, and she’s our sister.’

‘She’s no sister of mine,’ he raged. ‘Our father might have been weak enough to accept his wife had a lover, but I’m not going to follow in his footsteps — she can go.’

‘Go where?’ Beth asked through her tears. ‘Are we to take her to the Foundling Home? Leave her on someone’s doorstep?’

‘I can’t and won’t keep the child of a man who seduced my mother and caused my father to take his own life,’ Sam said flatly, his mouth set in a determined straight line. ‘Get rid of her!’

Beth stayed up for a long time after Sam had gone off to bed. She fed and changed Molly and put her down in the cradle, then sat in the chair trying to make sense of everything.

But nothing did make sense to her. Until tonight she hadn’t thought it possible that a woman who had a good husband, children and a comfortable home could ever want anything else. She had of course heard whispers of loose women who went with men other than their husbands, but she had always had the idea that they were the kind of sluts who went into ale houses and painted their faces. Not ordinary women like her mother.

‘Passion’, in the way her mother had meant it, she had no understanding of. Miss Clarkson had been fond of the word, though she had mostly used it in connection with music. But once, when she was talking about how babies were made, she had said that ‘passion’ overtook some women and robbed them of their own will. Beth had to suppose that was what had happened to her mother.