Not That Sort of Girl (28 page)

‘No, thanks, my dear. I am no good with babies.’ Edith backed away. ‘I had Nanny for George and Richard; I like children when they are older.’

‘House-trained?’

‘That’s it. I think you girls who look after your own babies without help are wonderful.’

‘Emily?’

‘Most extraordinary, that brother Nicholas helps her, baths the baby, I hear …’

‘They are keen on baths.’ Rose shouted above Christopher’s yells; he was working himself up into high gear. ‘How are the evacuees?’ she bellowed. ‘Hush, hush, won’t be a minute.’ She held hungry, smelly Christopher as a shield between herself and Edith.

‘Marvellous, my dear. Tremendous fun. They all go to the village school, bright as buttons, they don’t get on with the village children who simply loathe them, but all ten are pretty well behaved, bless them, that’s why I haven’t a chink of room for the chaps on leave. I started you off with an Australian, by the way, he’s a nice young man, broke his leg learning to fly. Such a shame, though it’s probably saved his life, they say far too many bombers are getting lost. I’ll just go and see he is settled now you are back, then I must fly, Archie has our only spare bed. He was coming back by bus after talking to you, but perhaps you could run him back, you seem pretty flush with petrol?’

‘I …’

Edith Malone hurried ahead into the house, mistress of the situation.

Rose took the baby to her room, changed him and sat down to nurse him. Mylo had been taken from her, she was afraid to protest.

Alone with the child, she found herself trembling with a mixture of anger and fatigue. She tried to compose herself while Christopher sucked and nuzzled at her breast, fat tears wet on his cheeks. He looked old and pathetic; he snatched and grabbed at her nipple, strenuous with hunger and anxiety, reminding Rose of Ned when he feared the war and its unknown consequences. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘there, quiet baby, quiet. Don’t be in such a hurry, you’ll get wind. Take it easy. Take it slow.’ When Edwina put her head round the door, she said, ‘Come in, tell me what the hell’s going on. Is this a plot?’

‘Got it in one.’ Edwina came in and shut the door.

‘Sit down and tell.’

Edwina sat. ‘Your fellow’s all right. He got straight into bed without a word. Wants sleep, I’d say, and quiet.’

‘Thanks. And?’

‘People are more observant than you give credit,’ said Edwina.

‘What if they are?’ snapped Rose.

‘Someone, some busybody in the village maybe, sees you and him together the last time or the time before, it doesn’t matter who. They talk. Talk spreads, see? The master’s Uncle Archibald …’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that …’

‘Just our joke, Farthing’s and mine. Well, his Uncle Archie gets a sniff, smells a rat. When he called by chance, he said it was by chance, and found you gone. You follow me?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘He didn’t say anything, nor will he, but he acts, takes advantage of this scheme of Mrs Malone’s for officers and men from all over on leave with nowhere to go and, what ho, bingo, it’s done. He pops an Australian into the house, and you’ve got yourself a chaperon.’

‘Damn him, curse his guts,’ said Rose.

‘He’s protecting your name from gossip. Instead of playing with fire and singeing your reputation, thanks to him and Mrs Malone you are doing important war work.’ Edwina cackled with laughter, ‘Can’t say it’s not funny.’

‘Most droll. Bloody hell, how could …?’

‘You are so wrapped up in yourself, you never think anybody notices what you are doing, do you? You are too young, they think, to be on your own with him overseas. They watch …’

‘Curse them.’

‘They commune.’

‘They what?’ Rose laughed now and the child at her breast eased perceptibly.

‘They commune,’ Edwina repeated, enjoying the word, ‘that means nothing gets said, but a lot gets thought and with those sort of crafties, they act. Sort of sly.’ Rose could see that Edwina admired Archie and Edith.

‘Does Mr Malone play any part in this?’

‘No, no. Driven out of the house by the evacuee children’s noise, he spends a lot of time in London these days, says he’d rather have the air raids.’

‘What a lot you know,’ said Rose sarcastically.

‘Well, Farthing and I are over the initial stage, you might say. We can see beyond our noses. Hear too, stopped being blind.’

Rose giggled, she held the baby up to pat and stroke his back. ‘Come on, my pretty, don’t go to sleep. Burp for mother.’ Christopher obliged so violently a mouthful of curdled milk trickled out. Rose wiped his mouth and put him to her other breast. ‘So we have an Australian lodger. What’s his name?’

‘Jack Bowen. He’s harmless enough. I think, on the whole, those two did right.’

‘Traitor. Tell me one reason,’ said Rose in fury.

‘You don’t want to burn your boats so far from land, that’s one.’

‘I believe you and Farthing want me to be respectable, to conform to …’

‘There’s such a thing as compromise, too.’

‘Ugh.’

‘He’s not exactly offering you security, is he, your young fellow? You have the baby to consider.’

‘I do …’

‘The house. The farm. The place …’

‘You and Farthing?’

‘I didn’t say so.’ Edwina flushed.

‘Oh, Edwina, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s got to be said; he comes and goes, you never know where you are with him; let’s face it, one of these days he might not come back. You don’t even know where he goes, do you?’

‘I do,’ said Rose bravely.

‘Somebody had to say it, love.’

When Edwina left her, Rose sat on with the child dozing on her knee. She had felt trapped, she remembered in age, sitting in the sun near the top of the hill looking at the view. She had viewed the trap she was in with sorrow and, she admitted now but not then, with resignation. Even if Uncle Archibald and Edith Malone had not interfered to frustrate her by the tacit use of their social act, she would have been self-snared by her promise to Ned. We had enough obstacles without them butting in, she thought. I hope I am wise enough not to interfere between Christopher and Helen.

She remembered that she had put Christopher down to sleep, washed her face, brushed her hair, and gone down carrying the dirty nappies in a pail. Archibald Loftus had been hovering in the hall. ‘Hullo, everything all right?’ he had asked, rather bluff.

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll just get rid of this lot, then I’ll drive you home,’ she had said.

‘Oh, yes, ah well, thank you.’

One supposes she had thought unkindly that he wants to have his say too, otherwise he could perfectly well have gone home with Edith; I shall not ask him to stay for tea.

He had settled himself beside her in the car; Comrade had leaned from the back seat to sniff and breathe on his neck. He had winced and Rose had not restrained the dog, taking petty pleasure in his annoyance. ‘You’re a cat lover, aren’t you?’ she had said pertly.

‘Would you stop in the village, I want to buy a
Picture Post
for you to take back for your visitors.’

‘That’s kind of you. They must not be allowed to get bored,’ she had said crisply.

‘Don’t be like that.’ He had shown a tinge of weakness and for a mile or two she thought he might withhold whatever he had that he wanted to say, but in the end he had circumnavigated his indecision: ‘I am not saying you are unwise, I am saying that you looked as though you might be, which amounts to the same thing.’

‘Yes, Uncle Archibald.’

‘Your friend Emily appears to have been a great deal more indiscreet than you (a touch of bad luck there, one assumes). Edith, an old old friend you know, Edith knows and I know you have done nothing reprehensible. Of course not, of course not! But it looked wrong.’

I wouldn’t call it reprehensible, Rose had thought, you silly old man; if you think I am an innocent ninny, think away. ‘Is that all, Uncle Archie?’ she had asked sweetly.

Uncle Archie had shot her a look which had she been older and more experienced she would have interpreted as an invitation to something very reprehensible indeed, but being only twenty at the time all she said was, ‘We can buy a
Picture Post
at the newsagent,’ and Archibald Loftus thanked her. Now at sixty-seven Rose chuckled in recollection. Uncle Archie was such a devious old man, he could not imagine her other than straight. He was funny that way. Or, she thought, frowning at the view, looking back along the years, was he even craftier than I thought? Did he guess I was tempted by security?

M
YLO WOKE SWEATING. THE
weight of the bedclothes oppressed his wounded leg. He was handicapped. Visions of police, Gestapo, suspicions of unreliable friends raced through his mind, then, fully awake, he remembered where he was. He lay back, perspiration cooling on his chest as the heart which had thundered in terror slowed its pace.

He looked at his watch. He had slept seven hours since Edwina Farthing undressed him, manoeuvred legs and arms into pyjamas and rolled him into bed. He lay listening to the silent house, then cautiously got out of bed, limped to the window. A full moon lit the garden; across the fields an owl hooted. Under this moon he had held Rose after the winter tennis, kissed her as they listened to the vixen screech.

Pricked by desire, he hobbled into the passage, listened again. A board creaked as the house cooled; from a neighbouring room the Australian snored; he remembered his arrival with Rose, her expression, mixed astonishment and irritation, as Mrs Farthing imparted her news, her eyes wild as Archibald Loftus helped him into the house, the old man’s grip firm, compelling, her expression changing to hopeless resignation as command of the situation was whipped from her. He had guessed that she was outmanoeuvred, was best left alone, but now—he made his way along the passage, opened Rose’s door and walked in.

She lay as he had left her that first time, her hair tousled, one arm flung across the side of the bed he had just left.

From her basket Comrade thumped her tail as she had when, departing, he had told her to ‘stay’. On the rug the twin cats curled entwined, emerald eyes watchful. It was the same, everything was all right, nothing was changed.

In his cot Christopher sighed, whimpering in his sleep.

Ah. That …

Mylo hesitated as the events of the last few days surged back. The fear, the chase, the pain, the grotesquely noisy hospital, the rescue by Rose.

‘Darling.’ She was awake. ‘Get in.’ She held out her arms. ‘Careful with your leg. Can you manage?’

‘I can manage.’ He struggled out of the pyjamas.

‘You manage pretty well,’ she said contentedly when they had made love. ‘Very well, I’d say. Shall we do it again?’ She kissed his throat, feeling his pulse under her tongue, while he breathed the scent of her hair. ‘Oh, my love, I have missed you so.’

‘If I were blind, I would know you by smell.’

‘If I were blind, I would know you by feel.’

‘Your voice.’

‘Your dear voice.’

Christopher waking, wet nappies cooling around his parts, raised an aggrieved yowl.

‘His
voice! I have to feed him.’ She sat up.

‘At this hour?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tyrannical.’ He watched her get out of bed, snatch a wrapper around her shoulders, pick up the child, change it, bring it back to bed, sit propped by pillows, put it to her breast. Watching, Mylo felt a surge of jealousy, a murderous rage against Ned who thus in the guise of Christopher imposed himself, wedging him apart from Rose. ‘What does your husband think of his heir?’

‘He hasn’t met him yet.’

‘But he knew you were pregnant?’

‘Oh, yes. I wrote. Yes, I wrote and told him.’

‘Wasn’t he delighted?’

‘He had gone overseas when I wrote, so …’

‘So he was delighted?’ (Why do I insist?)

‘Not exactly,’ she answered carefully. ‘Pleased. Yes, I suppose he was pleased.’

‘You suppose?’ Mylo was puzzled. ‘He knew it was his.’

‘Of course. He would not have supposed otherwise.’

‘He trusts you.’ Mylo lay on his back, put his hands behind his head.

‘Of course.’

‘So he must have been enchanted, proud, delighted.’ (My wound is throbbing in time to the baby sucking.)

Rose glanced at Mylo over Christopher’s head, his dark eyes looking at the ceiling glinted in the moonlight. I can hardly tell him having a baby was my idea, my decision, not Ned’s, that Ned played no part, well, very little, was not consulted.

‘I wrote and told him,’ she repeated.

‘And what did the happy father say?’ Mylo hoped the jealousy did not sound in his voice, knew his choice of words was unfortunate, too late to retract them. ‘He must have been thrilled to bits,’ he amended.

‘He said, Let’s pray it’s not a girl.’ Rose kept her voice neutral.

‘Primogeniture?’ Shocked and appalled, Mylo sensed her pain.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘exactly.’

‘So, when he was born, what did he say then?’

‘Thank God it’s a boy. I trust it’s strong and doesn’t squint or anything.’

‘Anything?’

‘Some distant Peel was born with a harelip,’ she said.

‘He telegraphed this?’

‘He didn’t telegraph. He wrote.’

‘Bastard.’

‘He can’t help it,’ she defended absent Ned, ‘he’s a man of property, he’s a kind man.’

‘So you say.’

‘So they say.’

‘Look, he’s had enough, he’s falling asleep. Put him back in his cot, come back to me.’ (One should not dislike an innocent infant.) Propped on his elbow, Mylo watched Rose settle the child in his Moses basket, stoop to kiss the top of its head.

‘He can’t help his nature,’ she said.

Did she mean the child or its father? There was something in the tone of her voice which filled him with elation. ‘I believe,’ he said laughing, ‘that you are a survivor.’

‘I hope you are too,’ she said.

Rose back in his arms, he stroked her hair, pushing his fingers up her scalp, cupping her ears in his palms, bending to kiss her mouth. She heard the roar of the sea as one does when holding a conch to one’s ear and shivered close up to him, reminded of the Channel which so recently separated them.