Turn Us Again (15 page)

The midwife was summoned again, and this time she stayed, pulling the baby's bottom out first, then feeling around to discover that the hands were wrapped around the baby's head, and had to be pulled down to deliver him. The baby emerged as white as a sheet, and the father rushed in to baptize him. The little mouth gasped its first breath of air at the same time that the eyes opened and gazed upon the world, wizened and long-suffering already.

The baby was in no shape to breastfeed, so Madelyn fed a little boiled water down its throat from a teaspoon. She concentrated on the delicate task, smiling as the baby gurgled and swallowed, imagining the little life burgeoning within. She did not look up as the midwife prepared to leave again, but she was aware of her movements, hoping she would say something complimentary about the accurate identification of a breech and the minor fact that Madelyn had saved the baby's life, not to mention the midwife's career. But Helga left without a word.

She stayed with Mrs. Treasure all morning, caring for the baby while the husband fed the older children. In the afternoon she cycled back to the centre to do her afternoon clinics, where she was reprimanded for carrying out a vaginal inspection. She didn't say a word, though she was filled with an exhausted desire to scream and rend her hair.

‘One month to go before I'm a qualified midwife,' she thought, ‘then I'll get a job and won't be forced to mimic subservience to these lying women.'

After the clinics she cycled back to Mrs. Treasure's house and looked after the baby until Mrs. Treasure woke up in the evening, claiming she felt much better. Madelyn checked her, palpitated her abdomen to ensure the womb was shrinking to its appropriate size and praised her bravery during the birth. “I'm off tomorrow, but we'll have a nice visit the next day. I'll let your husband know that you should spend the next few days in bed.”

“That's a laugh. He'll have me up making food by tomorrow. I don't know how he managed today.”

“I'll tell him in no uncertain terms.”

“And you can leave the laughing gas here too. I think I'll need a bit of that.”

“I'm afraid your husband has already returned it.”

“That's too bad. He'll have to buy some gin instead.”

The two women smiled at one another, conspirators in a successful battle, and Madelyn left for home after being up for more than twenty-four hours.

The next day dawned sunny, and in her youthful, thoughtless way Madelyn forgot all about Mrs. Treasure and the annoyances of her job, even before Sam popped in for a surprise visit. It was becoming a pattern: every blowup, every argument, was followed by several days of silence, and then Sam would drop around and act as though nothing had happened. Those few days allowed her to miss his lively, overwhelming presence and dissipated her anger to the point where she often thought the whole thing was her fault. Men had been gazing at her in adoration — of course that was infuriating to a man of Sam's passion. Or he had been drunk.

I awoke to the sun pouring — always pouring — into my lovely room. I decided to clean the house. The windows thrown open, I carried my rush carpet down the narrow stairs and spread it across the little street, knelt on it with bare feet and swept and swept until I was deliciously exhausted with beads of perspiration pouring from me. I had to return to the house and revive myself with some bacon and eggs and tea. Sat in the sun and smoked Kensitas and read The Observer. Then Sam came and insisted on loudly singing his opera song to all of us “But I have been to Eton, and have read my Mrs. Beeton,
”
and so on. When he had exhausted himself we walked to Trinity, and I upset him by telling him that he didn't know my soul, then asking him about Jewish food — this was quite unintentional and I did not mean to upset him. He parried this by asking me if I gazed at him profoundly because I had read somewhere that wise people do this. That infuriated me but his hurt was deeper. We recovered ourselves and made love and in the short time there was a deep tenderness and blossoming between us, and sweat on Sam's brow. Then he went and I can still hear his “Be nice to me, you know I have an inferiority complex.” I sound like my mother as I sit eternally agreeing with him
.

TEN

M
adelyn knew right away.

Despite the various abuses of her body in the form of booze, cigarettes, lack of sleep, benzedrine and other pills, she was in tune with her physical self. Lying face-down on the bed she felt the tenderness in her breasts as they pressed against the mattress. There is something about pregnancy that exhilarates. Even if it is unwanted, even when the next thought must grapple with solutions to the problem, the first thought is: this is a miracle!

So Madelyn danced through the house, singing at the top of her lungs. She made a huge breakfast for all her roommates and took it to them in bed. Greta wanted to eat in the kitchen, but Madelyn refused to let her, insisting that she had to be prostrate to give full rein to the rapture of her taste buds.

Lavinia, who had made Madelyn endless cups of tea and for whom Madelyn had never made anything at all, was overcome. She stuttered her thanks, and Madelyn looked at her smiling, weeping face and felt tears rushing to her own eyes. Sitting on the side of the bed, she clasped Lavinia's hand. “It's not just eggs and bacon, it's a cheese omelette. And I fried the bacon up with onions and mushrooms. Look, the bread is fresh so I didn't have to toast it. It's soft as butter.”

‘I'm being emotional,' she thought, ‘like women in my condition tend to be.'

She gazed at herself in the mirror, convinced that her breasts were bigger. She had always wanted bigger breasts, and she rummaged through her clothes to find a tight top, excited by the idea that she would remain slim for several months, yet sport larger breasts. A perfect body.

There was nothing tight enough. It was no use asking Greta to lend her anything, and Lavinia didn't possess tight clothes, so she knocked on Louise's door. After the Red Sweater experience she had been hesitant to borrow clothes from Louise. But, convinced that the red culprit was just the right consistency and tightness for her present needs, she was consumed with a passionate desire to wear it.

“Have you finished your repast?”

“Yes. Delicious. Even more so because it's the first time I remember you getting up in time to make breakfast on your day off. Why on earth are you so happy?”

Madelyn cast around in her mind for other occasions when she had made breakfast, but soon abandoned the attempt.

“Dear Louise, I do other things for you.” Louise looked quizzical, and Madelyn hurried on. “You know life would be boring without me. I liven you up, I am the life and soul of this house. Imagine living with Greta and Lavinia alone!”

Louise smiled enigmatically.

“Have you forgiven me for that incident over the red sweater? You know it wasn't ruined in the end. So un-ruined, in fact, that I would love to borrow it again. Especially since you never seem to wear it.”

“It's all stretched out of shape.”

“Just a bit at the back. It's lovely and tight at the front. I particularly want to wear something tight today.”

The peculiarity of a Tight Front request aroused Louise's suspicions. Madelyn saw her eyes darting over her modest front and began to prance and cavort, simper and smirk, wiggling her chest in such a ridiculous fashion that Louise had silent hysterics on the bed.

“Be thankful that you have little breasts, my friend,” said Louise.

“Maybe they'll get bigger one day!”

“What do you mean by that? You're not being a fool, are you?”

“I am a fool. I love Sam and he loves me, it's wonderful.”

“Take precautions, fool! Be careful!”

And then Sam himself strode into the house, calling for Madelyn.

It was cold stripping and climbing into bed, but your love and my thoughts of you, your warm Jewish lips holding mine, made me warm, warm and glorious with your glow around me. My beloved idiot, my adorable Joy, oh what mad moonlit nonsense is this, my fingers are numb with cold and your grinning devilish face under the lamp. Sam moya dusha, you may not know that tonight we were closer than we have ever been. How will it end? Is an end inevitable? Will I know when it is the last time to climb the repainted stairs to your little room and find you so tense, waiting, loving. And you will suffer less which is right, for you felt most
.

ELEVEN

I
lift my head from my mother's manuscript and do a quick calculation. This baby isn't me, it was conceived before my time. This baby was either never born, or it was given away for adoption. The thought that I might have a brother or sister being raised by another family somewhere in the world is disturbing. But unlikely.

I hear my father's feet padding along the corridor towards the toilet and glance at my watch. It's almost midnight. I wonder if he suffers from incontinence along with everything else. The footsteps stop outside the door of the sitting room. I wave the manuscript in the air in a futile attempt to dispel the smoke. To judge by the air I must have been smoking non-stop the entire time I was reading. I wonder whether to snap off the electric fire, Dad was always so stingy about using electricity. Then I feel annoyed at the amount of anxiety produced by the sound of faltering footsteps, and smile. All this in the split second before the door is pushed open and Dad's grizzled head pokes through. He catches my smile and enters.

“I cannot sleep. All of my life I have suffered from insomnia. I used to think it was the most intrusive physical problem, because it prevented me from functioning well in life. Now I have so many ailments I know that all physical suffering is intrusive. Do you suffer from insomnia too?”

“No, I don't have insomnia. I'm just fascinated by this manuscript.”

My father settled in the armchair opposite mine, on the other side of the electric fire.

“What part are you reading?”

“Madelyn thinks she is pregnant.” I can't call this woman Mum. She is the heroine of a story that has nothing to do with me. And her name has been changed from Anne to Madelyn. I know it will be changed for the third time, later on, to Mummy.

“Ah yes. You are just getting to another area where it appears I behaved badly, though I never knew about it till I read the manuscript. At the time I thought my behaviour was exemplary, taking charge of a situation many men would have felt was the woman's problem.”

I hold up my hand. “Don't tell me. I was just sitting here wondering whether I have an adopted brother or sister somewhere in the world, or whether it died. Don't ruin the book by revealing the ending.”

“I see. Would it be possible to read the next bit together? You are forging ahead in my absence. You might have questions about my behaviour or reactions to things, and then forget them before you see me. I have no chance to present my perspective.”

Instant opposition. Reading out loud, my father interrupting with annoying comments whenever he felt the urge, would take away the pleasure. All this anxiety about representing his side seems paranoid to me. “I'm just reading it, Dad. I'm not harbouring evil feelings towards you or anything. It's about somebody I don't know, and I'm sure most of it is fiction. She doesn't remember all the events detailed here, let alone the conversations. It's just a story.”

“I must insist that we read the next bit together. I regret giving you the manuscript already.”

He trembles like he wants to wrench it out of my hands by force. I remember that he is ill.

“All right, if it's that important to you.” I don't look at him. I feel annoyed. “Shall we go to bed now, and make a date for tomorrow night?”

“Just one point about what you've just read. The reason your mother was so happy about the pregnancy is because she thought she'd ‘caught' her soon-to-be Cambridge don, something she wanted right from the beginning.”

“According to her manuscript, she could have chosen from a number of people.”

“But I was entrapped.”

“Only after she had made love to you! She didn't do that to entrap you, it was you who pushed her. That was a huge thing for her to do!”

He flushes red, embarrassed at the mention of sex.

“That's none of your business!” he barks. “Men have strong physical instincts. They desire deeply. You can see from the book that there were a lot of men after your mother. She chose me, right from the beginning.”

“In order to entrap you?”

“Subconsciously.”

I leap to my feet in a sudden desire to get away from him. “Would you like a cup of tea before I go to bed?”

“No. Good night.”

Contrary to my assurance that I sleep like a log, it takes me ages to get to sleep. Flopping from one side to the other, a dialogue races through my mind. Actually it's more like a monologue, where I explain to my father what it feels like when he maligns my mother, and he listens with respect and dawning understanding. That's what's so great about these one-sided conversations.

The next day I catch the subway into Central London and walk around till my feet ache, taking in the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, Westminister Abbey, where all the poets are buried. I am exhausted when I get back, but instead of curling up with my mother's manuscript I pick a book off the shelf and congratulate myself for filial obedience. I could read the manuscript alone, and then recite the same bits out loud to my father, without him knowing the difference. But surely I can respect one of the few requests my father has made of me?

That evening after dinner I settle in the armchair opposite Dad. We are both armed with large pints, and there is a little bowl of chips resting on the table between us. I can feel the chill of the house against my back, while the electric fire scorches my legs. Without any preliminary, I open to the place where I left off and begin to read.