Bay of Secrets (16 page)

‘Yeah.’ Laura looked as if she hadn’t yet become used to the idea herself.

‘When?’

Laura glanced at the baby in her arms. ‘A couple of months ago,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’

‘You can’t remember?’ Vivien digested this information as she got closer to the sofa. The little one was still waking up. It was one of the prettiest babies Vivien had ever seen.

Laura shrugged as if it was all a bit of a blur.

‘A girl?’ She was wearing a pink Babygro and a white cardy.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Did your mother know?’ Vivien realised her breathing had become shallow. She gulped in some air. Pearl had been a grandmother …

Laura shook her head.

Dear God. She hadn’t known. Of course she hadn’t. This baby must have been born only a week or so after her death. ‘You poor, poor girl,’ she said with feeling.

‘She’s hungry,’ Laura said. ‘I need to make up a bottle.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course. You’re not … ?’

Laura shook her head again. ‘No. I tried, but it was pretty useless.’

Hardly surprising, Vivien thought. She was such a slim wand of a girl. She probably wasn’t healthy enough to be feeding her own baby. There was nothing of her.

Laura rummaged in her shoulder bag and produced a bottle, a teat, some formula powdered milk in a tin.

‘Sterilising tablets?’ Vivien asked.

‘Sorry.’

Well, no. She couldn’t imagine Laura worrying about those. ‘Shall I do it?’ she asked, since Laura had made no move to do so. And anyway, she had the baby to look after, and she was crying more loudly now. How come Laura didn’t have a bottle made up and ready? Vivien certainly would have. But then Vivien didn’t have a baby, did she? And she wasn’t Laura either – a girl who had been travelling around Spain and God knows where else. Who probably lived the kind of lifestyle where you didn’t worry about babies crying or bottles of milk being made up in advance. And a girl, she reminded herself sternly, who had just lost her mother.

‘It’s no trouble.’ Vivien got to her feet. ‘I’ll soon read the instructions on the tin.’

She needed to
do
.

By the time she’d prepared the baby’s milk, the little one was howling and Laura’s eyes were big and hollow as eggcups. She was clearly exhausted.

‘Would you like me to take her?’ Vivien had never fed a baby before. There was something so appealing about this little one, even with her gummy screaming. Her fists were as
scrunched up as her red pixie face. Vivien couldn’t help smiling. She had quite a temper on her.

‘Oh, yes please.’ Laura seemed relieved. She handed the baby over and sank back against the cushions. ‘I’m so tired.’

‘Doesn’t she sleep very well?’ Vivien took the screaming bundle carefully on to her lap, tested the milk on the back of her hand, supported the baby’s head and offered the bottle. Immediately the little one latched on to the teat. Silence. Again, Vivien smiled. Such simple needs.

The baby closed her eyes for a few seconds and then stared up at Vivien. Her steady blue gaze was disconcerting. Her brow was hot with the state she had got herself into and with her little finger Vivien smoothed the faintest wisp of fair down away from the baby’s eyes. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that good?’

The baby sucked noisily. Vivien felt strangely calm and she sat back in the chair a bit. The little baby fists had opened now, spread-eagled like starfish, palms up, and Vivien experimentally put her little finger in the centre of one tiny palm. The baby hand closed tight around it. Goodness …

‘No, she doesn’t,’ Laura said suddenly, making Vivien jump. ‘She wakes up twice in the night usually. Sometimes I can’t stop her crying. You’ve got no idea.’ Her shoulders slumped.

It was true, Vivien thought. She had no idea. She thought of the tests they’d had.
Unexplained infertility
, had been the result. She and Tom had just looked at each other helplessly. What did that mean – and more to the point what could they
do about it? In the end they hadn’t done anything – at least not yet. There was the option of treatment – there were drugs; injections of a fertility hormone – gonadotropin, it was called; try getting your tongue round that. There were clinics too. The next step was to find out more information, discover what was available. Or maybe even to accept that it wasn’t meant to be …

She eased the bottle to one side of the baby’s mouth and let the teat refill for a moment. The baby blinked and she replaced it. Vivien was trying to come to terms with childlessness. She knew she had a good life, she had work, she had her painting, she had Tom.

‘Lots of people choose not to have children,’ Tom had said, trying to make her feel better maybe. But that was the problem – Vivien had had the choice taken away from her. It wasn’t the end of the world and she’d come to terms with it if it wasn’t meant to be. But still, she thought, looking down at the baby in her arms. But still …

‘What happened when you had her?’ Vivien asked. ‘Were you in Spain?’

‘Yeah.’ Laura was slumped even further into the sofa now, half swallowed by it. She’d drunk her tea and eaten at least six biscuits. Life must be hard in Spain, Vivien thought.

‘What was the hospital like? Did everything go OK?’ She simply couldn’t imagine.

‘I didn’t have her in hospital.’ Laura yawned.

Oh. ‘Where then?’

‘In the camper van.’

‘The camper van?’ Vivien tried not to look too shocked. But – how could you have a baby in a camper van? It wasn’t exactly hygienic was it?

‘We put down some sheets and stuff,’ Laura said. ‘We had hot water.’

Vivien looked down at the baby. ‘It must have been difficult,’ she said. But she found herself wondering other things. Like who had cut the umbilical cord? And had there been any pain relief available for Laura – or had she just got stoned?

‘It’s where we sleep.’ Laura sounded defensive now.

Vivien gave her a reassuring smile. ‘She looks healthy enough,’ she said. And she did. She was a small baby, but perfectly formed. Her cheeks were slightly flushed but now that she had her milk she was the picture of contentment. ‘And you had someone with you, did you – for the birth?’

‘Yeah.’ Laura didn’t elaborate.

Vivien wanted to ask so many more questions. But something in Laura’s expression stopped her. For God’s sake, Vivien, she told herself. The girl has just lost her mother. It wasn’t important. None of it was really important.

‘So when did you say she was born, this little one?’ she asked brightly.

‘I told you I couldn’t remember.’ Laura sounded sulky now. ‘A few months ago. Does it matter?’

‘Well, it matters to her.’ Vivien forced a lightness into her voice. ‘Otherwise how will she know when her birthday is?’
Birthday cake, candles, children’s party games
 … Her mind spun out the images.

‘We’ll choose a day,’ Laura said. She stared out of the window.

Choose a day? Perhaps she had post-natal depression. It was understandable – more than understandable after everything that had happened. ‘You haven’t registered her birth then?’ Vivien asked carefully. Really, the girl didn’t seem to have a clue.

‘We don’t believe in it,’ Laura said.

‘Oh?’

‘Being labelled, being controlled, being dictated to by society,’ Laura said. ‘Why should she be “registered”? She’s just a baby. A free spirit, you know?’

‘Hmm.’ Vivien was sure that there were lots of reasons why births had to be registered, but she decided now was not the time to discuss it. And Tom would say – quite rightly – that it was none of her business.

‘Will you be staying here in Dorset, Laura?’ she asked instead. ‘Or will you go off travelling again?’ With the baby, she was thinking. Free spirit or not, was that the right way to bring up a child? Without boundaries? Without structure? Without even knowing when she had been born? Laura would have to stay around for a while, of course. Vivien supposed that as next of kin she would have to deal with the sale of Pearl’s house and all her effects. It would be hard for her. A nightmare, actually. She would need all the help she could get.

‘I’ll stick around for a while.’ But Laura was still looking out of the window and Vivien suspected that she couldn’t wait to be gone.

‘I’ll do what I can to help,’ Vivien promised. ‘I’ll look after the baby for you whenever I can.’ It wasn’t just that she felt sorry for Laura. And it wasn’t just for Pearl. It was more than that, of course it was more than that.

‘Thanks.’ Laura stared at her, reminding her uncannily of the baby, her daughter. Once, Laura’s straggly hair had been nothing but wispy down like this; once, she too had been innocent and helpless. And now …

‘Who’s her father?’ Vivien asked. ‘Is he here with you?’

‘No.’ Laura’s eyes moistened.

Gently, Vivien removed the teat from the baby’s tiny mouth and wiped a dribble of milk from her chin. She put her on her shoulder. Gently, she patted the baby’s back, feeling the soft, dimpled flesh under the little white cardigan. A feeling of contentment washed over her. So this was what it felt like.

‘But Julio’s a nice guy,’ Laura said, straightening up and looking animated for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘I’m with him now. We drove the VW back here from Spain.’

‘That’s good.’ Vivien was glad she had someone. She wondered where the VW was parked. It sounded as though Laura was more likely to stay in the camper van than live in her mother’s house. And in a way, she couldn’t blame her.

‘We got stopped loads of times,’ Laura complained. ‘We were targeted just because of the way we look and because of the van.’

‘Really?’ Drugs, she supposed.

‘It’s a great life though.’ Laura’s expression was dreamy.
‘Having the freedom of the road, you know. No rules or regulations. Stopping wherever you want. Waking up and hearing the rain beating down on a tin roof.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘All that stuff.’

‘Yes, I can imagine.’ Though Vivien couldn’t, not really. Casual drugs, parties, not following the rules. Her life had been very different. Living with Tom before they got married was about the limit of her rebellion.

‘I’d better get off then,’ Laura said. ‘He’ll be waiting for me.’

‘OK.’ But Vivien didn’t want her to leave. Or to be more accurate, she didn’t want the baby to leave. ‘What’s her name?’ she whispered, for the baby’s head – surprisingly heavy – had nodded into her shoulder. She was asleep. Already. How incredible was that?

Laura looked at the baby girl.

Vivien couldn’t quite read the look, but it was a kind of exasperation.

‘Ruby,’ she said. ‘Her name is Ruby.’

Barcelona, 1942

Every morning at the Canales Clinic, Sister Julia began by taking morning prayers. Dr Lopez had asked her to carry out this duty and she was happy to oblige. After this, she would help with the bedmaking, personal washing duties and breakfast, and then after the nurse had checked the temperatures and blood pressures it was time for Dr Lopez to carry out his morning round. The clinic was not large. There were only eight narrow beds in the first-floor medical room, and two small delivery rooms adjoining. As in the hospital, there was a sluice room at the other end of the ward with the lavatories and sterilising equipment and the small kitchen was beyond that.

On this particular morning, the doctor paused at the bedside of Ramira Baez – a woman who had come to them in response to an advertisement placed by Dr Lopez in the local paper offering help to fallen women who had no one to come to their aid in their time of need. When she’d heard about this, Sister Julia had been surprised – but impressed – by the doctor’s kindness. He seemed at least to want to make the facilities of the clinic available to everyone who needed
them. Even better, he did not insist that his patients must be rich women, nor did they have to be married. Better in fact if they were not. He preferred, he said, to give help to the most vulnerable members of society and he was not interested in material reward.

‘My only goal is to help these poor women, Sister Julia,’ he said. ‘I only wish to do the work that God has preordained for me.’

Dr Lopez did, however, treat these women as if they were lucky to be there – which Sister Julia had to concede that they were. And he expected them to repent.

‘Well, Ramira,’ he said now, after he had examined her, for he tended to be familiar and on first-name terms with many of his patients. ‘You are advancing satisfactorily, I think.’ He glanced at the report that the night nurse had given him.

Ramira had indeed progressed well in the first stage of labour. Her face was pale but she seemed healthy enough. And God knows that was rare enough in these times. The doctor had listened to the foetal heartbeat with the trumpet-shaped tube he called the Pinard and he had placed this back on the trolley beside him. Now, he returned to her bedside and regarded her with his strangely intense but dispassionate gaze. ‘But have you said your prayers and asked forgiveness for your sins?’

Sister Julia moved forwards and rested her hand on the young woman’s brow. Dr Lopez had already spoken to Ramira on this subject at some length in her initial
consultation and yesterday when she was first admitted. He was not happy because she was at present refusing to give her unborn child away for adoption. Sister Julia could understand his frustration and his concerns. But surely now was not the time to further harangue her? She was in pain. She was about to give birth.

‘I have, doctor,’ Ramira whispered.

He nodded. ‘And have you thought more about the welfare of your child?’

‘I have.’ Her face was ashen.

‘And?’ Dr Lopez came closer to the head of the bed, bent his face closer to hers. ‘What is your conclusion?’

She cringed away from him, her body quivering with the pain. ‘Perhaps his best welfare is with his mother,’ she panted.

Sister Julia held her breath. This was not what the doctor would want to hear. He wanted women such as Ramira to be aware of the bigger picture. There was so much poverty and hardship still in their country. And yet there were those who had the means of providing a good home for an unwanted child. Dr Lopez was, as he so often said, thinking only of the children.