The Edge of the Fall (6 page)

Grudgingly, he walked to the bottom of the bed. Celia watched
him. The nurse pointed. He crouched. ‘Turn the lamp,' he said. They were still. Emmeline groaned, her eyes closed, face white.

He stood up. ‘You're right, miss. Now it's urgent. Mother, you need to push hard. Now!' He was rolling his sleeves up now, his face concentrated.

‘Come on,' said Celia. ‘You can do it.' She tried to pull Emmeline to sitting again, but her sister was heavy, leaden in her arms. ‘Emmy!' Her sister groaned, didn't open her eyes.

‘Nurse Gregg. Wake her up.'

Gregg came over, slapped Emmeline's face. She fell back. Celia wanted to hit Gregg too. Gregg hit her again. Emmeline's eyes fluttered, closed. ‘No good, sir.'

‘Try water. All of it.'

‘Don't!' screamed Celia, but Gregg had already reached up and dumped the entire bowl on Emmeline's head. It caught Celia and a few drops must have hit the baby in the drawer, for he started crying again. Emmeline didn't stir.

‘Pass me my bag,' the doctor said.

Celia looked at him, pinning back his sleeves. ‘Aren't you going to wash your hands?'

‘No time, I'm afraid. Try and wake up your sister.'

Celia shook her. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘You can hold her. You're going to have to keep her still.'

‘But what are you going to do?'

‘Is there any hot water?' he asked again. ‘Send the man for some. Although probably too late.' She flurried to the door again. Celia watched him take out two knives and then a thing that looked like two big spoons joined in one. ‘What's that?'

He didn't answer, rubbed it with his flannel.

‘Aren't you going to wash it?' Even on the front, they'd washed the knives in hot water and disinfectant.

‘If the water gets here in time. Otherwise no. She'll die. As will the baby. We'll have to take the risk. Please assist me, Nurse Burns.'

‘But what about Emmeline? You can't do this. She'll feel it.'

He was busying himself moving the light. Nurse Burns held up
the spoons. ‘I doubt it. She can't feel anything. Look at her. But if she does, it will be over soon. And you're here to hold her down. Now take down her pillow, so she's flat. That's it.' Celia touched her sister's forehead. ‘It will be over soon. I promise!'

He crouched down. ‘No sign of the water? Hold up her legs please, Nurse Gregg.'

Celia hated the woman as she pulled up Emmeline's legs, bent them back at the knee. She felt sure she saw her sister wince.

He picked up the knife. ‘Ready to hold her?'

Celia nodded, hands on her sister's chest. He brought the knife down and Emmeline screamed. The baby screamed from the drawer too. Celia fell on her sister, pressing down. ‘Good girl,' he said. ‘Not long.' He did it again and Emmeline jolted again. The baby was weeping now, hysterically. Celia could hear – suddenly – all the other noises of the hotel. She heard people walking past, someone in the room above testing the bed. People were downstairs dining and talking, others were going out of the hotel for the evening. And she could hear the man bearing the water knocking on the door, growing more desperate. ‘Can I come in?'

No one heard but her. Dr Freedlove was using the spoons now and Emmeline was screaming, her torso bucking, begging them to stop. The baby was shrieking. Celia was holding tight to Emmeline, but she couldn't stop her moving. ‘Keep her still!' shouted Nurse Gregg.

‘Why didn't you give her something?' Celia shouted. ‘Why?'

The spoons were flashing in the light. The baby was still weeping. Dr Freedlove delved in again and Emmeline screamed once more. Then there was another scream, a new one. A child. Freedlove held up the child, spanked it and it wailed even harder.

‘A girl,' said Nurse Burns, words spilling out of her in her relief. ‘You could call her Peace. You could get both of them in the papers, you know. Peace Day babies.'

Emmeline fell back, eyes wide, staring. Celia averted her gaze from the terrible blood all over the sheets. She walked to the drawer full of blankets and the weeping baby.

‘Don't pick him up!' said Nurse Gregg. ‘You can't go to babies
the minute they cry. He's settled over there, perfectly fine. They need to learn.' Celia ignored her, hoisted the baby into her arms. He was tiny, pink like a baby cat. She went to the door to open it for the man with the water. Nurse Burns was fussing over the second baby.

‘You did it, Emmy,' she said, coming back, sponging her sister's head, still holding the baby. ‘Two Peace Day babies.' Her sister looked sicker than ever.

‘Will she live?' she asked Freedlove.

‘Of course. This was nothing. An easy birth, if you ask me. We'll just stitch her up and she'll be fine.'

‘You're going to give her something this time?'

‘We'll try.'

Celia stared at her sister. Her eyes were closed, her face waxy. She'd crossed over into another world.

‘Can you remember where Mr Janus is working, Emmeline? Which friend he was with?'

Emmeline didn't answer.

Nurse Burns came up behind Celia. ‘Would you like to hold her?' said Burns, the little girl wide-eyed in a blanket in her arms.

Celia nodded and held out the boy baby. Burns did a little juggling, handed her the blanket. Celia gazed into the baby's eyes, looked at the tiny fist next to her red, screwed-up face. ‘I'll look after you,' she said.
I found you
.

THREE

Peace Day, 1919

Celia

Two hours later, Celia walked down the stairs. She'd tried to settle in her room, but her mind was spinning, overwhelmed. She'd written to Mr Janus but they had no idea where to send the letter as Emmeline didn't seem to know where he was. She'd have to wait until his return. He was probably awake, calling for justice, rousing his audience. Everybody else was asleep; her parents, Emmeline – quiet now, given a sleeping draught by Dr Freedlove, his final present – the babies, probably even Nurse Gregg, in her chair by the bed. Nurse Burns had finally gone to her party, Rudolf pressing twice her usual fee into her hand.

Celia knew she should sleep too. But when she lay down, her eyes sprang open, her head pounding, face on fire. She told herself that the more she lay in the darkness, the more upset she'd get and the more she would resist sleep. The answer would be to walk a little, settle her mind, then try again. She dressed herself hurriedly and wandered out of her room. She supposed, at this late hour, she'd have the hotel to herself. Hopefully, she thought, the hotel manager had gone to bed. She rather dreaded his kind solicitousness, the concern, and underneath all of it (she felt quite sure), his gently insistent wish that they leave, as soon as possible.

But downstairs the reception area was still bustling. Men and women were arm in arm, groups were chattering. You'd think, Celia thought, that it was the middle of the day, not past midnight. The throngs comforted her, made her feel as if she were
hidden, that she could slink in between them and no one would see her face, say, ‘Are you quite alright, miss?'

She fell into a chair, near the bar area. ‘May I have some tea?' she said to the waiter who came to her. He looked exhausted, his moustache limp.

‘Only drinks with meals, miss,' he said. She looked to the side. The group of laughing young men on the next table were eating piles of ham, drinking great glasses of wine.

‘I'll have a sandwich, then. Anything.'

‘Cheese?'

‘Fine.'

‘Sherry, miss?'

She shook her head. ‘Tea is fine.'

She watched him retreat into the flurry of bodies around the bar area. If she were outside in the sun, she'd close her eyes. Here she had to sit upright, look
normal
. She gazed down at her white dress, patted it on to her knees. Actually, she thought, she
was
hungry, she really couldn't think when she'd last eaten. The cakes sent up by the manager after the birth hardly counted. A cheese sandwich would be most welcome, really. Maybe, she thought, she should call him back and ask for ham.

She looked up and caught a man's eye by mistake. He was standing against the wall. Tallish, wearing uniform, tanned by the sun, short hair, an expression of satisfaction on his face. She looked down immediately, instinctively, then found herself gazing-back again.

This time, he raised his eyebrows at her and she felt her face grow hot. Did she
know
him? Perhaps she did, one of the men in the ambulance station, one of the MOs? If so, she should surely smile. Then she thought not. She was a lady alone, eating a sandwich, and who minded if she'd known him in Etaples? All that was three years ago.

Where was the waiter with her tea? That would give her something to look at. Her gaze was swinging, nearly pulling back to him. What was she
doing
? She blushed and looked down at her lap.

When she lifted her head, hoping for the waiter, the man was standing in front of her.

‘Good evening, madam,' he said. He
was
tall, she was right, wearing the uniform of a junior officer, handsome tanned face, an Eton kind of voice cut with something regional. Kent, maybe?

She gave him a vague smile. Where
was
the waiter?

‘Are you alone on Peace Day evening, miss? Seems a shame.'

She shook her head. ‘My family are upstairs.'

‘May I join you, miss?'

She shook her head. ‘I'm just going to eat my sandwich, then return. My family will be wondering where I am.'

He bowed his head, a strange mock-courteous action. ‘Sorry to bother you, miss. Good evening.'

He turned. Then, as he did so, she looked past him and all of the people in front of her suddenly changed into a group, a large group of them all holding hands, it seemed. They were like a cocktail party, a band of friends. They all knew each other, except for her.

‘Wait,' she said, to his back. ‘I—'

He turned around, saw her face. In a minute, he was sitting next to her.

‘Name's Gilligan,' he said. ‘Stephen Gilligan. Nice to meet you, miss.'

She was almost surprised by how close he was to her.

‘Celia,' she said. ‘Celia Smith.' She was ashamed of herself for lying, still, about their name, when the Germans weren't enemies any more, not strictly, things were all about peace and the Kaiser was beaten down, paying money for forgiveness. But still, she wanted to be someone else, anyone.

‘Have you come up just for the parade?'

‘Yes. You too?' She didn't want to talk about herself.
Tell me about you
, she wanted to say.
Just keep talking
.

‘I know it's quite a cheek, me coming over. But I saw your face and I thought – there's someone who's seen war. You know. Not all this
let's get over it quickly
business. You know, smile, move on, don't talk of it.'

She nodded. ‘I didn't see the war, though. I was at home the whole time.' She'd make herself into someone else, just by saying it. She wouldn't be the woman who'd told the recruiting office she knew how to drive when she'd only once been behind the wheel of Rudolf's car. She wouldn't be the woman who held tight to Shep, her closest friend in those days, in the training school in Aldershot and then at the station in France.

She wouldn't be the girl who watched an ambulance, chased by a bomber, swerve off the road – and then saw that the driver was Shep. She would forget crying so much that she thought it would never stop hurting. She would forget hearing the news that Michael had died, forget the pain.That wouldn't be her, she was someone else, far from the war, above it.

He nodded. ‘Too young, I suppose. Of course.' He paused. The waiter arrived, put down the sandwich and some tea. ‘Sir?' he asked.

‘A sherry, please.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

She poured her tea, the sound of the milk and water in the cup echoing against the voices.

‘I was watching you while I was standing there. Hope you don't mind me saying, but you seem lonely, miss.' He flashed regular white teeth. She supposed he was the sort of man who women wanted to speak to, who knew he had them in his hand.

‘I'm not. Well, a little. Surrounded by crowds, one feels it, you know. My sister's just had twins, upstairs.'

He raised his hand, as if a glass was in it. ‘Congratulations, Miss Smith. I hope they're all doing well.'

‘Were you in France?' she said, cutting him off. The birth was so hot and new in her head. She wanted to talk about something else. ‘Tell me about France.' He could have been anywhere, of course, Belgium, Mesopotamia like Smithson, Greece, but all the men she met had always been in France. She was a pull for them, she thought, even though they didn't know it, they saw the same thing in her.

‘I don't know where to start.'

‘Start anywhere. Before the war, if you like.'