The Last Summer (22 page)

She sat in the armchair by the window in my room, looking anywhere except at me, still lying upon my bed, fully clothed; for Dr Riley hadn’t taken long to deliver his prognosis. He’d asked me a few simple questions, in his usual quiet and kindly way, and smiling at me all the while: could I recall when I had last menstruated? Did my breasts feel somewhat tender, larger? Had my waist thickened . . . were my clothes a little tighter? Then he’d asked me to lift my blouse and unbutton my skirt. He pressed his hand down upon my distended abdomen. ‘Hmm, yes,’ he said, and then turned to Mama and nodded.

Mama did not visit me in Plymouth. It was much too complicated, she said, and anyway, she needed to be in London for Henry. Aunt Maude was my only visitor during my stay at St Anne’s. She came each week, on Wednesday afternoon: the only day we were allowed visitors. Charlie continued to write to me, care of Maude, and she brought his letters, along with any from Mama, and took away my replies. I pretended to Charlie that I was having a splendid time in Taunton; that life was gay and all was well. I invented excursions, events, even conversations. And in his letters he told me how very sensible it was for Mama to have sent me there, and how much he longed to see me. He told me that he loved me and that when the war was over we would be married. And, if I still loved Devon, he’d buy a cottage for me there.

My mother’s letters to me were measured, formal, and always without any reference to the circumstances. I could easily have been a friend, an acquaintance even, on holiday in Devon. She updated me on the weather in London, her visitors, and on Henry’s movements and news. And she always included a précis of her recent correspondence: who was where, with whom and doing what. Each letter ended, ‘You are ever in my prayers . . .’

But Mama and our house in Berkeley Square felt so far away, so long ago; for days in Devon lasted longer, much longer than days in London. And I inhabited a dimly lit world. A world, it seems to me now, without any dawn or sunset; a place adrift, almost outside of time. Minutes flattened, stretching into shapeless hours; days merged with nights, weeks with months. I used my voice little, and my eyes even less. I retreated to that place of warmth and light, breathed in the scents of lavender, jasmine and rose; I stood under a Sussex sky, the clouds high above, the cornfields in the distance, and Tom – watching me.

Kiss me . . . kiss me now . . .

I made only one friend at St Anne’s: her name was Edith
Collins. Edith was a year younger than me, though she could easily have passed for five years older. I can’t recall where, exactly, she came from, but she’d been working as a kitchen maid in a large house somewhere in the West Country and had ‘fallen’ – as she put it – to the son of her employer. I don’t think I saw her shed a tear once. Her approach was pragmatic, her attitude one of defiant optimism; she would put this behind her and move on, she said, although she wasn’t entirely confident that it wouldn’t happen again. ‘What would I do with a baby?’ she said. ‘Far better for him to have a life with a proper family than be stuck with me.’

At first I didn’t tell Edith too much about myself, or my circumstances, and she, still mindful of her place, didn’t ask. Mama had made me swear never to tell a living soul of my predicament; had made me promise to never again mention the name
Tom Cuthbert
, to anyone. But after knowing Edith for a few weeks, and realising that I’d probably never again see her, I decided to tell her my story. Unlike her, I cried the whole way through my shameful confession.

‘But what’s the problem? You love him, he loves you – you could get married . . .’ she said, putting her arm around me.

‘No, no,’ I said, shaking my head, still crying. ‘You don’t understand. It’s impossible . . . would never be allowed.’

‘Says who, your mother? You could elope . . . you could, you know, plenty have.’

I tried to explain. I told her that Tom wasn’t even aware I was having his child, and then, through my sobs, that he may not even be alive. ‘It’s hopeless, Edith . . .’

For nineteen days I nursed my baby. And each day, as I held her, I watched the dusk descend earlier and earlier: a damp, colourless blanket enshrouding that unfamiliar place. For nineteen days I watched her feed and sleep and grow. Her tiny pink fingers curled tightly around my own as she suckled at
my breast, a silent drizzle weeping at my window. I sat by her crib, studying her features, memorising her perfect face, listening to the sound of her breathing. For nineteen days she belonged to me.

I told her all about her father, and about Deyning. I described the gardens, the house, each room, my bedroom, reminding myself of who I’d once been. I took her for walks through my memory; following all those familiar paths to secret places. I carried her through the fields, walked down through the lower meadow and stood with her by the lake. I showed her off and introduced her to people she’d never meet, a life she’d never know, and that place called home.

. . .
Home, it has become an ideal, like heaven, inhabited by angels. A place we dream about & speak of & long for. And all those things we once complained about, found irritating & annoying, those people we disliked & avoided, those places so dull and dreary to our untired, untrained eyes, we now long for, & would surely welcome with joy & open arms. Out here, the next best thing to Home is Heaven, and so each day hundreds gallantly march across that threshold, like a doorway back to safety . . .

I wrote to Tom:
I wonder where you are now, if these words will ever be read . . . and if you will ever come back to me. We have a baby, my darling, a beautiful baby girl, but I can’t keep her . . . I’m not allowed to keep her.

And then I tore up my words.

The night before they came, Edith handed me a small green bottle. She instructed me to mix its contents with a little of the quinine, in a separate bottle. It would help me sleep and, she said, soothe my nerves. The sisters had told me that Emily would,
eventually, go to a good home; to a childless couple who’d prayed for a perfect little baby girl just like mine. There was nothing for me to fret about, all would be well; and once I’d recovered I could make a new start. It would take time, they said, but my baby would be loved and cherished, and surely that was what mattered. I must pray, they said; pray to the Good Lord for his forgiveness and for his blessings upon my poor illegitimate daughter.

When they lifted her from my arms I was in a laudanum haze, scarcely stirring and conscious of nothing but the vaguest sense of being alive. And then, for some reason, the words of the twenty-third psalm:
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .

Later, I did pray, but not for God’s forgiveness: I prayed for my daughter’s forgiveness. I prayed that one day she would find it in her heart to know and understand my actions. And I prayed that one day we’d find each other; that I’d be able to hold her and love her again. I don’t remember much about that time now, and in the years that have since passed I’ve tried to understand why my mother did what she did. I tell myself, she did what she believed was right; she did what she thought was best. It was different then.

It was different then . . .

Two days after Emily left St Anne’s, I did too. I said goodbye to Edith, whose own baby was due any day, and I returned to London on the train, accompanied by Aunt Maude. I stared up out of the carriage window at the bruised sky hanging over England: all black, blue, pale purple, grey and yellow. Beneath it, a dark patchwork of meadows and pastures, sewn together by hedgerow and thicket; then a farm, a cottage; and every so often the huddled stone and steeple of a village. I thought of the people inside those farms and houses and cottages, gathered around a fire, or perhaps in the kitchen by the range, and I
wondered if Emily would soon be carried into one of those homes; if she’d be held and made warm.

Maude tried hard not to mention her. She spoke of trivial things, chit-chat, and gossip. Edina was living in London, working as a nurse at one of the general hospitals, and had recently become engaged to a doctor. Lucy remained at home with her parents. Maude had already lost both of her sons, my cousins. Archie had been dead for over a year, and Johnnie killed that June. And she spoke about the war: the war, the war, the bloody war. At that moment it was a background noise in my life. An irritation I didn’t need; something I didn’t want to think about or hear about. And then, when she finally said, ‘It’ll all come good, Clarissa. It’s for the best,’ I began to cry again, and so did she.

It was dusk when we arrived at Paddington, and as I stepped off the train on to the platform, I remembered the girl with the swollen belly who’d passed through that same station months before, and I stopped, and placed my hand upon my stomach. Maude took hold of my arm, but for a moment I could neither move nor speak. ‘Come along, dear,’ she said, ‘your mother will be waiting.’ And I contemplated running, where to I don’t know; perhaps back on to the train, back to Plymouth.

‘I don’t want to go home,’ I said.

‘Oh now, don’t be silly, dear. Your mama is longing to see you . . . longing to see you.’

As we passed through the streets of London, heading from the station towards my mother’s home, I noticed the shop windows, ablaze with twinkling lights and tinsel, festooned Christmas trees and garlands. I hadn’t thought of Christmas, hadn’t realised it was upon us. I felt as though I was returning from a long exile in another country, as though I’d been away for years.

At the house, as the cab driver lifted our bags out on to the
pavement, my mother appeared at the door. She never opened her own front door and, looking back, I suppose that in itself was a gesture. But it meant nothing to me at the time. She took me in her arms and held me. I remember her perfume, so familiar; my lips touching the pearls of the choker she wore around her neck. She looked as she always did: immaculate and in control. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Inside, the house looked exactly the same. And it struck me then how queer that whilst my life had been turned upside down, nothing in my mother’s home was in any way altered. There were flowers, a winter arrangement, I think, of berried holly and white roses on the hallway table; a fire burned there and another in the drawing room, where a maid I’d never met before brought in the tea tray. As Mama and Maude discussed the journey and our timings, the maid served tea, offering me milk and sugar, as though I were a new caller. I watched my mother as she spoke with Maude; saw her glance across at me once or twice, then lift her hand, trying to find a curl she could twist and tuck back in place.

‘We’ve already had so many heavy frosts,’ she said to Maude, ‘the pavements have been lethal, quite lethal. Only this morning I had to ask Dunne to put down more salt on the steps outside.’

I sat in silent numbness, felt myself disappearing, shrinking in front of them: a fallen woman, a disgraced daughter, indelibly stained. When, eventually, I rose to my feet and asked to excuse myself, to unpack I said, Mama looked at me anxiously and said, ‘Yes, you do look a little pale, dear. Perhaps you need to rest after your journey.’

My journey, my journey . . . the one you sent me on.

That night I did not go down to dinner and I have no idea what Mama and her sister spoke of. Did they mention me? Did they talk about my baby, the baby I’d given away for Christmas? I don’t know, and at the time I didn’t care. I never wanted to
leave my room again. I wanted to disappear, forever. Later, she came to my room, sat down upon my bed and took my hand in hers.

‘My darling, what you need is a good night’s sleep in your own bed. Everything will seem so much better once you’re properly rested.’