Mourning Doves (8 page)

Celia came round to find herself sitting on the floor, leaning against Phyllis’s bed. Winnie was kneeling by her, one plump arm round her. She was chuckling at her, as she wiped Celia’s face with a cold, clammy face flannel.

At the same time, Louise was standing by her and scolding her. ‘It’s disgraceful. I told you to leave the room,’ she was saying. ‘Birth is not a pretty sight. Single women are not supposed to watch it – it’s like a guttersnipe gaping at a street accident.’

Winnie squeezed Celia gently, and said to Louise, ‘Now, don’t take on so, Ma’am. Miss Celia’s a brave little lady, and Mrs Woodcock is her dearest friend. Of course she wanted to help – and I think she did.’

‘Indeed, she did help,’ came Phyllis’s voice from above her head. ‘Are you all right, Seelee?’

The sound of her friend’s voice, clear, though a little weak and sleepy, was a great relief. Whatever she had witnessed was evidently something quite normal. The women round her were calm and undisturbed; in fact, as she gazed at them it was astonishing how happy everyone looked; even her mother’s scolding voice did not sound as acidic as she had expected it would be.

‘Come and see the baby,’ urged Winnie as she helped Celia up. As she staggered to her feet, however, Celia’s first thought was for Phyllis.

The young mother lay with eyes closed, great black rings round them in marked contrast to an ashen face. Mrs Fox
was bathing her and there was a strong smell of disinfectant from the bowl of water she was using. As she sponged, she threw each piece of rag that she used into another bowl. Mrs Fox had never yet lost a patient to childbed fever and she was taking no risks with this one. The precipitous arrival of the baby had not given her time to assemble boiled sheets, boric lint, and so on. Disinfectant and her own well-scoured person had to be the barrier against infection.

Celia laid a shaky hand on Phyllis’s narrow wrist. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Phyllis slowly opened her tired eyes. She smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said, and then, with more animation, ‘A little boy!’

‘Congratulations,’ Celia said mechanically. ‘I’m sure Arthur will be pleased.’

A shadow passed over Phyllis’s face. ‘I hope so. Do have a look at him.’

Winnie had turned and picked up the new infant out of the drawer, which, with a bolster pillow in it, had been pressed into service as a temporary cradle.

‘Isn’t he loovely!’ she exclaimed, her plain face transformed into beauty as she looked down at the tiny baby. ‘Here, luv, you hold him for a minute.’ He was thrust into Celia’s arms.

He was so light! So tiny! So helpless! She automatically closed her arms tightly round him, and felt a surge of protective love for him. She was aware of no one else, simply this tiny scrap of humanity and herself. It was the beginning of a lifelong devotion to her godson.

‘Bring him to me,’ whispered Phyllis.

With a sudden sense of guilt, Celia turned and reluctantly laid the little bundle on his mother’s chest.

‘What are you going to call him?’ she asked.

Phyllis’s eyes turned towards Louise, who was handing a clean nightgown for the patient to Mrs Fox. ‘Well, if Mrs Gilmore doesn’t mind, I’d like to call him Timothy
George. I’ll have to ask Arthur if it is all right, of course. When I asked him the other day about names, he said let’s wait to see if it’s a boy or a girl.’ She did not add that he had seemed unable to face the advent of another child.

Her father’s and her dead younger brother’s names.

Celia saw her mother’s face soften. ‘How very sweet of you, my dear,’ Louise said, and bent to kiss the weary mother. She sighed. ‘Since Edna lost little Rosemary, I have begun to doubt if I shall ever have any grandchildren. I must say that it would be so nice to have the names perpetuated.’

Phyllis gripped her hand. ‘You and Seelee have been so good. I can never repay you.’

Mrs Fox came forward to help Phyllis into the clean nightgown.

She muttered a little anxiously that Phyllis must rest now. She took Timothy George away from his mother and then slipped the starched nightie over her patient’s head. In the distance the front doorbell rang.

‘I wonder if that is Arthur?’ Phyllis’s muffled voice came through the fine cotton.

The women waited expectantly. Mrs Fox fussed around her patient. She told her she should sleep for a little while and then have some hot soup. Winnie smiled down at Phyllis and said she had a pan of soup simmering on the kitchen fire.

But Phyllis ignored them, as she watched the door eagerly, and her face fell as only the dragging footsteps of Dorothy were heard along the passage. Arthur was obviously not going to ask the bank manager, under whom he worked as accountant, if he could leave a little earlier, so that he could come to see her. She supposed, despondently, that he would come when his day’s work was finished rather than break his perfect record of never having taken time off, except for statutory holidays. She began to cry weakly and noiselessly; it had been the same with the arrival of all her children.

When Dorothy opened the bedroom door, after knocking politely and being told by an impatient Louise that she could enter, the reason for her slowness and for the whiteness of her face was immediately apparent.

On the small silver tray that she carried lay two telegrams.

She proffered them to Louise. ‘The boy’s waiting on a reply, Ma’am. I asked him into the hall.’

After a war in which a telegram almost always announced a death or, at best, someone missing in action, the very sight of a small orange envelope was terrifying;
two of them at the same time was enough to paralyse Louise. She could not make herself take them off the tray.

Mrs Fox was the first to recover. She moved a chair swiftly under Louise, and said gently, ‘Sit down, Ma’am.’

Staring at the tray as if it were a cobra about to bite her, Louise mechanically did as she was told.

Already very shaky, Celia was fighting against fainting again. She made herself move towards her mother and put a protective hand on her shoulder. ‘It really can’t be anything very much, Mother,’ she half whispered. ‘The war’s over.’

Winnie broke in. ‘Maybe Miss Edna and Mr Paul has landed,’ she suggested.

‘Of course,’ responded Louise with immediate relief. She took the envelopes off the tray, and said, ‘Thank you, Dorothy.’

While she slit the first envelope, the others relaxed and muttered about being so silly over telegrams.

She read the missive aloud.

‘Darling Mother stop so sad about Father stop meet me Lime Street Station London train arriving 1.30 pm Friday stop all my love Edna stop’

Louise laughed in relief. ‘Quite right, Winnie,’ she told her beaming cook.

As she opened the second envelope, Celia queried, ‘I wonder where Paul is. Edna sent the telegram.’

The answer to her question was in the second telegram, sent by Edna’s father-in-law, Simon Fellowes.

Louise’s voice faltered as she read it out.

‘Regret to report passing of my son, Paul, from influenza stop died aboard ship stop buried at sea stop devastated stop our condolences to you in your loss stop letter already in the mail stop’

‘My God!’ Louise let the telegram flutter into her lap. ‘I thought the flu epidemic was finished.’

‘I seen one or two cases recently.’ It was Mrs Fox’s cool voice as she read the telegram over Louise’s shoulder. ‘It’s lucky your daughter didn’t get it, Ma’am. When it strikes it tends to take everybody in the prime of life.’

Louise nodded agreement. Edna alive – but widowed – and still so young – it was too awful to contemplate. ‘It’s too much!’ she cried. ‘I can’t bear it.’ She began to rock herself backwards and forwards like a demented child.

‘Don’t, Mama. Please, Mama.’ In tears herself, Celia clasped her mother to her.

Gone was the woman who had so efficiently organised the baby’s birth – Louise was again wrapped in her own grief, crying with a depth of despair which had not occurred even when her husband’s body had been brought home.

‘Let her cry, Miss. She’ll be better afterwards,’ Winnie whispered.

‘Poor Mrs Gilmore! Poor Edna!’ Propped up on one elbow, Phyllis was staring at the stricken group of women at the foot of the bed. She stretched out her hand towards them. She turned her gaze towards Celia. ‘Celia, dear.’

Winnie was saying, ‘I’m so sorry, Ma’am,’ while Dorothy stood transfixed, silver tray in hand, only her nose quivering, as she tried to gather herself together.

‘Wh-what shall I tell the telegraph boy, Ma’am?’ she finally stuttered.

Fighting her growing panic as, in a flash, she saw all the implications of this further death in the family, it was Celia who picked up Edna’s telegram from her mother’s lap and said swiftly, ‘I will come downstairs, and write a reply for him. One of us must meet Edna tomorrow.’

Her mother muttered almost gratefully, ‘Thank you, dear.’ She had stopped rocking herself when Celia had embraced her, but, sitting on the stiff wooden chair, she
looked lost and broken while hopeless tears ran down her face.

Winnie stepped forward and issued an order herself. ‘Dorothy, go and get the Master’s brandy from the dining-room sideboard, and pour a glass for everyone.’ She emphasised the word everyone, to make it clear that she included Mrs Fox, Dorothy and herself.

Clinging to the banister, Celia walked carefully down the long, red-carpeted staircase to deal with the patient telegraph boy.

The youngster was standing in the hall with his hands behind him like a soldier ordered to be at ease. He knew better than to sit down on one of the four red velvet chairs set stiffly against one wall; they were not intended for the lower orders.

He was used to white-faced women with trembling hands, trying to find pencil and paper, and he immediately brought out both from the breast pocket of his grey uniform.

‘Oh, thank you,’ breathed Celia with relief, as she addressed a loving and sympathetic answer to Edna, care of her father-in-law, and another of condolence to Mr and Mrs Fellowes themselves.

After he had carefully counted the number of words and she had paid him for its transmission, from the change purse in her skirt pocket, the telegraph boy paused and looked hopefully at her.

Celia was puzzled and then realised her omission.

A tip! That was it. She produced another silver threepenny piece and pressed it into his hand. He grinned and picked up his peaked cap from the hall table. She watched him cram it on to his head, as he ran down the steps to his bicycle.

As she slowly closed the heavy front door after the boy, she felt again a terrible sense of despair, made worse by a
threepenny piece handed to a patient boy. The small silver coin represented her own inadequacy: her ill-preparedness for dealing with even the smallest problem, never mind coping with a distraught mother and with poor Edna, the loss of her father and her home.

Her father had always done the tipping. A small item in the perplexing world into which she was inexorably being pushed. But she knew it was important if she was to get service. She must remember to take some change with her, if she went to the station to meet Edna. Porters had to be tipped.

As she went back upstairs, her shock gave way to realisation of how much she had been depending upon Paul’s arrival. His loss would mean that she and her mother had no one to lean on but Cousin Albert. Edna had, at least, her father-in-law to turn to for advice.

In the bedroom, the baby was crying healthily, Mrs Fox was packing up, after downing a thimble-sized glass of brandy proffered by Dorothy, and Phyllis was lying down again and staring at the ceiling.

‘Where’s Mother?’ Celia inquired of Mrs Fox.

‘Your Winnie took her to lie down and drink her brandy in her bedroom.’ Mrs Fox glanced in the dressing-table mirror, to make sure that she had pinned her wide-brimmed black hat on straight, and then picked up her shawl to wrap it round her shoulders. ‘Mrs Woodcock must sleep now. If she wants the baby by her, make sure you put it back into its cradle when she falls asleep – you don’t want to overlie it, do you, Mrs Woodcock?’

Phyllis smiled weakly. ‘No, of course not. Dorothy is making me some tea and biscuits – I mustn’t have brandy. Then I’ll sleep. Celia, you should drink your brandy, though; it’s on the dressing table. You must be feeling awful.’ She turned to the midwife, to thank her in a weak voice for easing her pains so skilfully.

‘You’re welcome, Ma’am. It wasn’t a difficult birth, was it, Ma’am? I’ll come back this evening to take a look at you. If you don’t feel right, Miss Gilmore’ll phone me, won’t you, Miss? I’ve left me number on the chest of drawers – it’s really the chemist next door. He’ll send his boy to tell me quick enough, though.’

Celia had no idea where she was going to find a phone from which to make such a call, but hoped her mother might know of one. And there was always Ethel – she loved being sent out with a message. She nodded agreement, and, with a smile and a half-bob, Mrs Fox departed.

Immediately she could be heard going lightly down the stairs, Phyllis said, ‘Bring Timothy to me, dear. Poor little thing, crying his head off!’

Very carefully, Celia did as she was told, and then sank down on the bedside chair. With his head on his mother’s breast, the baby was comforted and fell asleep. The room was at last quiet.

Though she was crooning softly to young Timothy, Phyllis saw that Celia was trembling almost uncontrollably. She repeated to her, ‘Drink your brandy, Celia.’

Celia got up and, while still standing, she gulped it down. It made her splutter, and Phyllis laughed. ‘Not as fast as that!’ she said. ‘Slowly!’

Feeling even more stupid, Celia nodded and sat quickly down on the chair again.

After a few quiet minutes, she asked, ‘When will Arthur come to see you, do you think?’

‘About five o’clock, I expect – when he’s finished work. He’ll probably get a carriage or a taxi to take me home.’

Celia was shocked. ‘Surely you shouldn’t be moved yet? I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind if you did your whole ten days’ lying-in here. We’re not going to move yet.’

‘Oh, I’ll be all right. I only stayed in bed for two days after Eric. Arthur couldn’t stand the disruption.’

‘He shouldn’t give you babies then!’

Phyllis was silent. Celia had accidentally hit squarely on the problem which lay between herself and her husband, a fear of intercourse which seemed to produce babies every year. She did not know how to solve it. She had never heard of birth control.

She swallowed hard and then changed the subject by saying, ‘Edna is going to need all your help, Celia – with no child to console her.’

The brandy had helped Celia. She was feeling steadier, and fractionally more optimistic. She said, ‘Yes. Yes, she will.’ Then she added, with a sigh, ‘I hope she will be more of a comfort to Mother than I am.’

Phyllis was too tired to do any comforting herself. Her eyes drooped. Celia gently took Timothy from her. He whimpered, and she instinctively held him close to her and rocked him for a while before putting him down in his improvised cradle. Then, after tucking the bedclothes closer round Phyllis and putting a little more coal on the fire, she went out into the passage, closing the door behind her.

She stood for a moment leaning against the closed door and staring at the rich jewel colours of the carpet. Then she shut her tired eyes.

Poor Paul. To escape the war and yet still be taken. It was true that the Spanish flu had gone through the younger members of the population like some mighty scythe. It had killed the remains of the same age group which had died as a result of battle. You only had to look at the crowds in the streets of Liverpool, she thought helplessly; there were lamentably few male faces between the ages of, say, sixteen and forty, and not that many young women – Celia had been luckier than two of her women friends, in that she herself had survived an attack of it.

She shifted her feet uneasily. In the richly furnished, silent hall, she had a dreadful feeling of being quite alone, and she wondered why she should be alive when all her potential
friends, never mind the ones she actually had had, were dead.

She shivered with sudden cold, and straightened herself up. Then slowly, with dragging footsteps, she went along the hall to her mother’s bedroom, and tapped on the door.