The Fifth Child (2 page)

Not possible to find the kind of house they wanted, for the life they wanted, in London. Anyway, they were not sure London was what they needed—no, it wasn’t, they would prefer a smallish town with an atmosphere of its own. Weekends were spent looking around towns within commuting distance of London, and they soon found a large Victorian house in an overgrown garden. Perfect! But for a young couple it was absurd, a three-storeyed house, with an attic, full of rooms, corridors, landings.… Full of space for children, in fact.

But they meant to have a lot of children. Both, somewhat defiantly, because of the enormity of their demands on the future, announced they “would not mind” a lot of children. “Even four, or five …” “Or six,” said David. “Or six!” said Harriet, laughing to the point of tears from relief. They had laughed and rolled about the bed and kissed and were exuberant because this, the place where both had expected and even been prepared to accept rebuff or a compromise, had turned out to be no danger at all. But while Harriet could say to David, David
to Harriet, “Six children at least,” they could not say this to anyone else. Even with David’s quite decent salary, and Harriet’s, the mortgage of this house would be beyond them. But they would manage somehow. She would work for two years, commute with David daily to London, and then …

On the afternoon the house became theirs, they stood hand in hand in the little porch, birds singing all around them in the garden where boughs were still black and glistening with the chilly rain of early spring. They unlocked their front door, their hearts thudding with happiness, and stood in a very large room, facing capacious stairs. Some previous owner had seen a home as they did. Walls had been pulled down to make this a room that accommodated nearly all the ground floor. One half of it was a kitchen, marked off from the rest by no more than a low wall that would have books on it, the other half with plenty of space for settees, chairs, all the sprawl and comfort of a family room. They went gently, softly, hardly breathing, smiling and looking at each other and smiling even more because both had tears in their eyes—they went across the bare boards that soon would have rugs on them, and then slowly up the stairs where old-fashioned brass rods waited for a carpet. On the landing, they turned to marvel at the great room that would be the heart of their kingdom. They went on up. The first floor had one large bedroom—theirs; and opening off it a smallish room, which would be for each new baby. There were four other decent rooms on this floor. Up still generous but narrower stairs, and there were four more rooms whose windows, like the rooms below, showed trees, gardens, lawns—all the perspectives of pleasant suburbia. And above this floor was an enormous attic, just right for the children when they had got to the age for secret magical games.

They slowly descended the stairs, one flight, two, passing rooms, and rooms, which they were imagining full of children, relatives, guests, and came again into their bedroom. A large
bed had been left in it. It had been specially made, that bed, for the couple they had bought the house from. To take it away, so said the agent, would have meant dismantling it, and anyway the owners of the bed were going to live abroad. There Harriet and David lay down side by side, and looked at their room. They were quiet, awed by what they were taking on. Shadows from a lilac tree, a wet sun behind it, seemed to be enticingly sketching on the expanses of the ceiling the years they would live in this house. They turned their heads towards the windows where the top of the old lilac showed its vigorous buds, soon to burst into flower. Then they looked at each other. Tears ran down their cheeks. They made love, there, on their bed. Harriet almost cried out, “No, stop! What are we doing?” For had they not decided to put off having children for two years? But she was overwhelmed by his purpose—yes, that was it, he was making love with a deliberate, concentrated intensity, looking into her eyes, that made her accept him, his taking possession of the future in her. She did not have contraceptives with her. (Both of course distrusted the Pill.) She was at the height of her fertility. But they made love, with this solemn deliberation. Once. Twice. Later, when the room was dark, they made love again.

“Well,”
said Harriet, in a little voice, for she was frightened and determined not to show it, “Well, that’s done it, I’m sure.”

He laughed. A loud, reckless, unscrupulous laugh, quite unlike modest, humorous, judicious David. Now the room was quite dark, it looked vast, like a black cave that had no end. A branch scraped across a wall somewhere close. There was a smell of cold rainy earth and sex. David lay smiling to himself, and when he felt her look, he turned his head slightly and his smile included her. But on his terms; his eyes gleamed with thoughts she could not guess at. She felt she did not know him.… “David,” she said quickly, to break the spell, but his arm tightened around her, and he gripped her upper arm with a
hand she had not believed could be so strong, insistent. This grip said, Be quiet.

They lay there together while ordinariness slowly came back, and then they were able to turn to each other and kiss with small reassuring daytime kisses. They got up and dressed in the cold dark: the electricity wasn’t on yet. Quietly they went down the stairs of their house where they had so thoroughly taken possession, and into their great family room, and let themselves out into the garden that was mysterious and hidden from them, not yet theirs.

“Well?” said Harriet humorously as they got into his car to return to London. “And how are we going to pay for it all if I am pregnant?”

Quite so: how were they? Harriet indeed became pregnant on that rainy evening in their bedroom. They had many bad moments, thinking of the slenderness of their resources, and of their own frailty. For at such times, when material support is not enough, it is as if we are being judged: Harriet and David seemed to themselves meagre and inadequate, with nothing to hold on to but stubborn beliefs other people had always judged as wrong-headed.

David had never taken money from his well-off father and stepmother, who had paid for his education, but that was all. (And for his sister Deborah’s education; but she had preferred her father’s way of life as he had preferred his mother’s, and so they had not often met, and the differences between brother and sister seemed to him summed up in this—that she had chosen the life of the rich.) He did not now want to ask for money. His English parents—which was how he thought of his mother and her husband—had little money, being unambitious academics.

One afternoon, these four—David and Harriet, David’s mother, Molly, with Frederick—stood in the family room by the stairs
and surveyed the new kingdom. There was by now a very large table, which would easily accommodate fifteen or twenty people, at the kitchen end; there were a couple of vast sofas, and some commodious armchairs bought second-hand at a local auction. David and Harriet stood together, feeling themselves even more preposterously eccentric, and much too young, faced with these two elderly people who judged them. Molly and Frederick were large and untidy, with a great deal of grey hair, wearing comfortable clothes that complacently despised fashion. They looked like benevolent haystacks, but were
not
looking at each other in a way David knew well.

“All right, then,” he said humorously, unable to bear the strain, “you can say it.” And he put his arm around Harriet, who was pale and strained because of morning sickness and because she had spent a week scrubbing floors and washing windows.

“Are you going to run a hotel?” enquired Frederick reasonably, determined not to make a judgement.

“How many children are you intending to have?” asked Molly, with the short laugh that means there is no point in protesting.

“A lot,” said David softly.

“Yes,” said Harriet. “Yes.” She did not realise, as David did, how annoyed these two parents were. Aiming, like all their kind, at an appearance of unconformity, they were in fact the essence of convention, and disliked any manifestation of the spirit of exaggeration, of excess. This house was that.

“Come on, well give you dinner, if there is a decent hotel,” said David’s mother.

Over that meal, other subjects were discussed until, over coffee, Molly observed, “You do realise that you are going to have to ask your father for help?”

David seemed to wince and suffer, but he had to face it: what mattered was the house and the life that would be lived in it. A life that—both parents knew because of his look of determined
intention, which they judged full of the smugness of youth—was going to annul, absolve, cancel out all the deficiencies of their life, Molly’s and Frederick’s; and of James’s and Jessica’s life, too.

As they separated in the dark car-park of the hotel, Frederick said, “As far as I am concerned, you are both rather mad. Well, wrong-headed, then.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “You haven’t really thought it out. Children … no one who hasn’t had them knows what work they make.”

Here David laughed, making a point—and an old one, which Molly recognised, and faced, with a conscious laugh. “You are not maternal,” said David. “It’s not your nature. But Harriet is.”

“Very well,” said Molly, “it’s your life.”

She telephoned James, her first husband, who was on a yacht near the Isle of Wight. This conversation ended with “I think you should come and see for yourself.”

“Very well, I will,” said he, agreeing as much to what had not been said as to what had: his difficulty in keeping up with his wife’s unspoken languages was the main reason he had been pleased to leave her.

Soon after this conversation, David and Harriet again stood with David’s parents—the other pair—in contemplation of the house. This time they were outside it. Jessica stood in the middle of a lawn still covered with the woody debris of the winter and a windy spring, and critically surveyed the house. To her it was gloomy and detestable, like England. She was the same age as Molly and looked twenty years younger, being lean and brown and seeming to glisten with sun oil even when her skin was without it. Her hair was yellow and short and shiny and her clothes bright. She dug the heels of her jade-green shoes in the lawn and looked at her husband, James.

He had already been over the house and now he said, as David had expected, “It’s a good investment.”

“Yes,” said David.

“It’s not overpriced. I suppose that’s because it’s too big for most people. I take it the surveyor’s report was all right?”

“Yes,” said David.

“In that case I shall assume responsibility for the mortgage. How long is it going to take to pay off?”

“Thirty years,” said David.

“I’ll be dead by then, I expect. Well, I didn’t give you much in the way of a wedding present.”

“You’ll have to do the same by Deborah,” said Jessica.

“We have already done much more for Deborah than for David,” said James. “Anyway, we can afford it.”

She laughed, and shrugged: it was mostly her money. This ease with money characterised their life together, which David had sampled and rejected fiercely, preferring the parsimony of the Oxford house—though he had never used that word aloud. Flashy and too easy, that was the life of the rich; but now he was going to be beholden to it.

“And how many kids are you planning, if one may ask?” enquired Jessica, looking like a parakeet perched on that damp lawn.

“A lot,” said David.

“A lot,” said Harriet.

“Rather you than me, then,” said Jessica, and with that David’s other parents left the garden, and then England, with relief.

Now entered on to this scene Dorothy, Harriet’s mother. It occurred to neither Harriet nor David to think, or say, “Oh God, how awful, having one’s mother around all the time,” for if family life was what they had chosen, then it followed that Dorothy should come indefinitely to help Harriet, while insisting that she had a life of her own to which she must return. She was a widow, and this life of hers was mostly visiting her daughters. The family house was sold, and she had a small flat,
not very nice, but she was not one to complain. When she had taken in the size and potential of the new house, she was more silent than usual for some days. She had not found it easy bringing up three girls. Her husband had been an industrial chemist, not badly paid, but there never had been much money. She knew the cost, in every way, of a family, even a small one.

She attempted some remarks on these lines one evening at supper. David, Harriet, Dorothy. David had just come home late: the train was delayed. Commuting was not going to be much fun, was going to be the worst of it, for everyone, but particularly of course David, for it would take nearly two hours twice a day to get to and from work. This would be one of his contributions to the dream.

The kitchen was already near what it ought to be: the great table, with heavy wooden chairs around it—only four now, but more stood in a row along the wall, waiting for guests and still unborn people. There was a big stove, an Aga, and an old-fashioned dresser with cups and mugs on hooks. Jugs were full of flowers from the garden where summer had revealed a plenitude of roses and lilies. They were eating a traditional English pudding, made by Dorothy; outside, the autumn was establishing itself in flying leaves that sometimes hit the windowpanes with small thuds and bangs, and in the sound of a rising wind. But the curtains were drawn, warm thick flowered curtains.

“You know,” said Dorothy, “I’ve been thinking about you two.” David put down his spoon to listen as he would never have done for his unworldly mother, or his worldly father. “I don’t believe you two ought to rush into everything—no, let me have my say. Harriet is only twenty-four—not twenty-five yet. You are only just thirty, David. You two go on as if you believe if you don’t grab everything, then you’ll lose it. Well, that’s the impression I get, listening to you talk.”

David and Harriet were listening: their eyes did meet, frowning,
thoughtful. Dorothy, this large, wholesome, homely woman, with her decisive manner, her considered ways, was not to be ignored; they recognised what was due to her.