The Edge of the Fall (5 page)

Celia perched, uncomfortably, on the leather arm of the chair. She reached down and tried to right her sister's hat. Her hair was
damp, matted – it felt like illness, smelt of it too. Emmeline was breathing heavily, now. She raised her head. ‘I feel,' she said, then closed her eyes again, as if even that was too much effort.

‘Sister?' Celia said. Emmeline didn't answer.
What if she had the baby now
,
in the middle of the Savoy?
She squeezed Emmeline's hand.
Don't be silly
, she told herself sternly. Still, her heart was surging. ‘That's it, sister,' she said, trying to sound calm. ‘Breathe.'

She looked up and a man in a suit was approaching. ‘May I help you, ladies?'

‘Are our family above? We were separated at the parades and my sister is a little unwell. As you can see.'

Emmeline raised her face, pale and sweating, dropped it again.

‘Ah yes,' said the man, ‘quite so. Where is your room, ladies? Let me take you up there.' He clicked his fingers and called over two porters. ‘Get a couple of maids, would you?

‘Now, you said your family was with you?'

‘My parents. But we are not sure if they're upstairs or not.'

‘And do you have a doctor with you?'

The panic came rushing into Celia's chest, hard now. She shook her head.

‘A nurse, then?'

‘No. My sister is not due to have her baby for at least six weeks.' She held Emmeline's head, slumped on her chest now. ‘Her husband's at work.'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. I think we shall have to get you someone right away. We have an excellent doctor, Dr Freedlove. Whether he can get here, I don't know. I will send a man for him. We must get your sister upstairs as quickly as we can.'

‘Thank you,' she whispered. Her voice was drowning. The whole of her was drowning. In the rush of people, the echo of heels, the chatter, the laughter, soldiers and women, parents and children, she was falling and none of her was left.

Within a few hours, the fireworks started. They were in Celia's room and Emmeline was in bed, trying to breathe slowly, as they told her to, groaning quietly. Rudolf had sent a man to the flat
to leave a message for Mr Janus. Verena had fretted and wept so much that Dr Freedlove had told her to stay in her room. ‘The sister can stay instead,' he said. ‘You sit there, dear,' one of the nurses, a girl called Burns, had said at the beginning. ‘You can help count later.' A second nurse, Gregg, an older woman, thickset, strong-faced, was holding Emmeline's hand. A man from the hotel stood outside for anything they might need. The manager had promised new bowls of hot water every ten minutes. They would have to run up and down the stairs with it, Celia thought, not spilling it.

Celia stood by the dark window, trying not to listen to her sister. She watched shots of gold, silver, bursts of red, heard distant screams of delight. She'd loved fireworks as a child, watching Rudolf and the footmen assemble them outside the house, laughing as they exploded. She'd been looking forward to seeing the fireworks today. But now, they didn't need a great wheel of red and white fire in London, perched on the Palace over the King and Queen. Instead, they had one in their room, Emmeline, possessed by a whirling, terrible thing, a fire inside her that made her twist and scream and beg for it to stop.

‘Can't you help her?' Celia cried at the doctor. ‘Please!' She wished Mr Janus was here to shout and demand.

‘She's fine, getting along. Now, miss, you need to count for us.' He was a small, bustling man with glasses, sleeves rolled up. His movements were slow, deliberate. Celia wondered, desperately, if he'd even be quick running from a bomb.

They told Celia to count through the minutes, starting when Emmeline quietened, stopping when she began to scream again. But even when they said she was quiet, she was still writhing, moaning. ‘I can't!' Celia said, when she'd muddled the numbers too many times, put eighteen in front of thirteen, forgotten whether she was on twenty-one or thirty-one. ‘Please, can you do it?'

‘We're occupied,' said Nurse Burns. She was rather a pretty girl, Celia thought, dark hair, red lips, probably half the age of Nurse Gregg. She was crouching at Emmeline's legs, trying to hold them still. ‘You have to do it. Don't look at your sister if you
can't.' The lamp propped over the nurse was so bright it made Celia's eyes burn.

She forced herself to count through. You learnt as a child, she told herself crossly. You can. One. Two. Three. Four. She stopped, started again. She looked down, kept going.

I drove an ambulance, she wanted to say to them. I'm strong. But she said nothing, they wouldn't listen. Emmeline screamed again.

Then, soon, the pains were so close together that she couldn't count them, and Dr Freedlove didn't even seem to need her to. She carried on trying, using her fingers now, because there hardly seemed to be a rest between Emmeline's screams. Ten, eleven, twelve. Then came the blood, so much of it. The fireworks exploded in her head, the Catherine Wheel shot round in a circle.

‘There's the head!' Burns shouted and Emmeline screamed, the fireworks exploded again, and the rest of it came slithering out, like some kind of seal. ‘It's a boy,' said Nurse Burns with satisfaction. ‘A fine boy.'

Emmeline fell back, legs apart, nightgown covered in blood, closed her eyes. Dr Freedlove held the child up – not so rough! Celia almost cried – then clapped it on the back to hear it scream. ‘Wash him, please,' he said. ‘Quickly. Before the mother goes to sleep.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘She's about to.'

Burns attended to Emmeline, wadding material between her legs, washing her face. Celia watched Gregg sponge the child in the corner, wrap him up in a blanket. What a strange thing it was, dark pink, covered in hair, all clenched fists. It looked nothing like a human at all. And its cry was so strange, a thin, hopeless wail, more like the croaking of a bird than a child. Burns pulled the sheets over Emmeline, then left to get more water. Celia walked over, stroked her sister's forehead. Emmeline's face was white, her forehead clammy, hair so wet and tangled you wouldn't recognise it.

‘Hello, Emmy,' she whispered. She felt as if it was almost impossible to touch her. She couldn't believe a person could still be alive after losing all that blood.

‘Do you think she's quite alright?' she said, turning to Dr Freedlove.

He smiled. ‘Yes, quite well. A good sleep is all she needs.'

‘Can we give her some water? Or tea? Emmeline, would you like some tea?'

‘No drinks just yet, I'm afraid. We'd overtire her. Best the body rights itself, you know.'

Gregg came to the bed. The baby was still wailing. ‘Would you like to hold him, Mother?'

Emmeline didn't open her eyes.

She turned to Celia. ‘Would
you
like him, miss?'

Celia gazed at her, uncomprehending.

‘Miss?'

Celia held out her hands. The child was terrifyingly light, a bundle of nothing, really. He was still wailing, eyes closed. She tried to see Emmeline or Mr Janus in him but couldn't discern either in the squalled pink face.
What if I drop him? After all that
.

‘Good, healthy lungs,' said Gregg. ‘Shall I take him from you, dear?'

She nodded.

‘Poor thing,' she said, gathering up the baby in her arms. ‘He's tired us all out.' She patted Celia's shoulder. ‘Never seen blood before, miss? You forgive me, I'm used to it now. Never mind. Stay single, I would.'

‘I should go and tell my parents. I wish Mr Janus – her husband was here.'

‘Sit down first, dear. You look like you're about to faint. I'll call for some tea in a minute.' She jogged the baby. ‘Never had a hotel birth, me. And what a day for it. I was supposed to be at a party in the street.'

‘Me too,' said Nurse Burns. ‘First one in ages as well. I'd bought a new dress.'

Nurse Gregg touched the child's face with a finger. ‘You're my little Peace Day baby, aren't you? If he was a girl, you might be able to call her Peace. Or something.' She put him down in a nest
of blankets made in a drawer. The baby began to cry. ‘Naughty boy! You need to give your mama some rest.'

‘Indeed,' said Dr Freedlove, cleaning his instruments at the side of the room. ‘Can you ask the man for some more hot water, Gregg?'

Burns came back to Emmeline, pulled down the sheet and started sponging her legs. The water dripped. She looked up. ‘Sir? Are you sure we're quite finished, sir?'

She stood up.

‘Things don't seem quite right, sir.'

She glanced up, her wide eyes making her look, Celia thought, disconcertingly like a child.

‘Well, the poor girl is exhausted,' Dr Freedlove said. ‘Ridiculous to have come to town in her state. We'll get the afterbirth out and let her sleep.'

‘I don't know, sir.' Burns put her hand on Emmeline's stomach. ‘Doesn't feel right to me, sir.'

‘Just a lot of fluid, still swollen.'

Emmeline was lying back on the pillow, her face waxy. Celia watched the nurse and Dr Freedlove talk, back, forth. The baby was still crying.

‘Haven't you seen this before?' Burns was saying. ‘I have. Exactly the same, just two months ago. We have to.'

‘I agree with Dr Freedlove,' said Gregg, smugly. ‘You're letting the excitement get to your head, Burns.'

‘I don't think we can take the risk.'

Celia stepped forward, assumed her best imitation of Verena in the old days, when she had been grand. ‘What are you talking about? Please explain.'

‘I believe there's another child in there, miss,' said Nurse Burns. A strand of hair had fallen from her bun. ‘I don't think it's over.'

‘And I believe just as strongly that there is not,' said Freedlove. ‘Nurse Burns, you simply aren't seeing correctly. See your sister's face, miss? That is the face of a mother who has birthed her baby. Nothing more.'

‘So you mean,' Celia said slowly, gazing at the three of them,
the doctor, Gregg and then Burns, her face alive with agitation, ‘you can't know for sure if there's another baby in there or not?'

‘
I
know,' he said. ‘There is not.'

Celia moved over to Emmeline, put her hand on her clammy forehead. ‘Emmy?' Her sister didn't open her eyes.

She looked up at the doctor. ‘What if there is? What if there is another baby?'

‘There is not.'

‘We don't have much time if there is,' said Burns. ‘In my experience, second one should come out as quickly as possible after the first.'

Celia looked back and forth to the doctor and the nurse, their faces set. She wished for Mr Janus, but there was no point. And no time to find her parents, that was clear enough from Burns's face. She reached down to her sister.

‘Emmeline,' she said, touching her forehead. ‘You have to try again. I think there is another baby. You need to push again.'

Emmeline didn't open her eyes.

‘Sister? I'm sorry, but you must.'

Then Emmeline opened them, wide and bewildered. ‘No,' she said. ‘I can't.'

Celia clutched her hand. ‘Just try. I will try with you.'

‘I can't. I won't.'

Nurse Burns was at Emmeline's other side. ‘Just give it a little go, dear. Just a small one. We'll get you something to drink, some water. Only a small few pushes, that's all.'

‘Get her tea,' said Celia. ‘She needs something proper to drink. And ask for a biscuit.'

Dr Freedlove bristled. ‘I won't have that. Mothers must only have water.'

‘She can't do it on nothing but water,' said Celia. She looked at Nurse Gregg. ‘Ask the man outside for tea and three plain biscuits. And some hot water. As quick as he can.' She patted her sister's forehead. ‘Good girl, Emmy. Nice tea. Then we can have one last push.'

Nurse Gregg returned and Celia held her sister's hand as she
drank her tea. Emmeline was crying, big round tears falling down her face. ‘I can't,' she whispered. ‘Really.'

‘This is very ill advised,' said Dr Freedlove. He'd rolled down his shirt sleeves, was buttoning them up.

‘She's fine,' snapped Celia. ‘In ten minutes she can sleep as long as she wants. Anyway, who pays your bills? I can guarantee my father won't if he finds another baby died and' – she looked down at her sister – ‘goodness knows what else.'

Emmeline bit at the biscuit, fell back. Celia propped her up. ‘Sorry, dear, but you have to. Do you want to eat?'

Emmeline shook her head, tears rolling. ‘Why?' she said. ‘Why are you doing this?'

Nurse Burns patted her legs. ‘Don't waste energy talking, miss. Now, just gather it all up and push it right down. You know.'

Celia hoisted Emmeline up. ‘Come on, sister. Do it hard.'

Emmeline closed her eyes, clenched her fists, her face red. She stopped, fell back against the pillow, tears pouring down her face. ‘I can't,' she said. ‘I really can't. Why do you make me?'

‘Right, dear, try again,' said Burns.

‘But I can't
feel
anything.'

‘No one can at this stage, dear.'

Celia stroked Emmeline's hair, thick with sweat. Her forehead was clammy, face pale. The doctor was right. She looked about to collapse. If she died now from strain, it would be all Celia's fault. She could hear the child crying in the drawer. Someone should go to it, she thought.

She stroked her sister's forehead. It seemed as though Emmeline couldn't even feel her touch.

‘She's feverish,' said Gregg. ‘Look at her.'

‘Right, dear, time to push again.'

Celia propped up her sister's head. ‘It's the last time,' she lied. ‘You can do it!'

Emmeline's head lolled but she clenched her fists again. Celia could feel her body tensing. Nurse Burns crouched down. She stood up. ‘Would you look at this, Dr Freedlove.'