Born of Woman (19 page)

He would check of course—double, triple check—search the records at Somerset House, snoop around that Southwark hostel, make a few discreet enquiries both at Mepperton and Fernfield. But he was almost sure he would draw a blank. So why allow solicitors to poke their expensive noses into private family matters he could settle on his own in quarter the time?

Best to bar the lawyers altogether. Nothing should go wrong if he were to make a private agreement with his brother, without letters of administration, once he had satisfied himself that the elder son was dead and Lyn still the only living offspring. All right, it wouldn't be quite as watertight as a formal legal contract drawn up with Lyn as administrator, but there were advantages, nonetheless. He might get a better deal that way, fob Lyn off with less, and it would certainly be less risky than raising the spectre of a rival heir. That mysterious nine-pound baby must return to the darkness where it had lain for sixty years, and neither his readers nor his brother must ever know it had seen the light at all.

Matthew eased himself off the bed, unbuckled his belt, untied his shoes. He had made his main decisions, and though Lyn still had to be persuaded to make any deal at all, he was confident he could change his brother's mind. He'd return to Cobham, intensify the pressures—but that could wait till morning. It was getting late now, and he'd better go down to the baths, before they closed. He removed his shirt and trousers, leaving his clothes folded neatly on the chair, remembering wryly that it was Hester who had taught him his neatness and efficiency. Strange how much he owed her, really. Gratitude was still mixed with resentment, excitement with distaste. He
would
make his book a tribute to her.

He walked down the steps into the hot and steamy basement, glanced at his body as he stood under the shower. Thank God he hadn't run to fat. He loathed obesity, worked at his figure with the same vigour and single-mindedness he brought to his business or his tax affairs. Endless self-control and a master plan. If he indulged in strawberry ice-cream once or twice a month, then he had it instead of dinner, not as well as. A small slice of toast for breakfast—nothing else—sugarless tea and coffee, using his legs instead of lazy elevators.

The water was gushing warm across his shoulders. He turned the dial to cold. It was a school shower now with its old-fashioned metal taps, its complaining whine and gurgle, its ice-cold water punishing the flesh. He cocooned himself in his towels and walked briskly to the steam-room, recoiling from the naked bodies all around him, with their slack distended stomachs, their flaccid folds of flesh. He closed his eyes, tried to plan his overseas campaign.…

All the different countries were running into each other, melting in the heat. He could feel his mind shutting off, his limbs relaxing, as heat engulfed him like a woman's body. Water was running down the walls, dripping off the pipes, plopping in warm droplets from the ceiling, mixing with his own sweat. Normally, he never perspired. He was a cold man, a controlled one, always buttoned up. It was a relief to be naked now, to feel his own dampness seeping into the towel, to taste biscuit crumbs still sweet and forbidden in his mouth.

The eighteen-year-old Hester was suddenly on the bench beside him, her shameful flaunting belly pressed against his own, her breasts leaking strawberry flavoured milk as he tongued and muzzled them. He tried to push her off. She herself had taught him to fear and discipline the flesh. Now he understood why. It was all too easy to sin, to fall. He had never allowed his own sons to indulge in ‘dirty talk' or bring dubious comics home. Sex with Anne was quick and clinical. He had always preferred it when he was trying to make her pregnant, transforming that flat chest and girlish waist into the fruitful curves he craved. There was some god-like power in creating living sons from sperm and slime. Some men disliked the idea of sex with lumberingly pregnant wives, but the more Anne swelled, the more he had desired her. She had been working for him then, not just in his office but in some more basic and important way, carrying on his genes, his looks, his line, proving his fertility and his manhood.
He
had made her swell like that, changed her shape, endowed her with that seductive combination of hallowedness and vulnerability. He could see her now, nine months gone with Charles, her small face and narrow frame contradicted by that awesome bulge.

He groped out his hand towards her, touched only hard wet wood, forced his mind back to plans and timetable. He must produce his book as soon as possible, before any further crises could affect it—aim for a summery publication date such as middle May or June. If he started design in mid-August and production in October, he would have more or less nine months. That would be his
own
pregnancy—nine month' labour before he delivered his fine and bouncing offspring to the world, his profits running over, his coffers swollen with cash.

The problem was, could he deliver it on time? He really needed the gestation period of an elephant or a giraffe—but he couldn't wait that long to make some money. It was already early July and he hadn't won Lyn round yet, nor confirmed the death or disappearance of that irksome elder son. He would then need a breathing-space to study all the materials, decide on his plan and presentation, produce a dummy and sell it to a publisher. Even without wasting time on lawyers, it would still be an infernal rush. Yet he had to keep his cool, especially with all the worry of his tax affairs. One false step and …

He mopped his streaming forehead with his towel. It was difficult to concentrate. Someone had turned the dials up and the whole room was writhing with clouds of steam, swirling in his eyes, his mind. He groped through the warm wet fog to the hottest of the hot rooms—dry heat there—no vapour. He could almost
see
the heat, stretched like a shimmering gauze across the room, scalding the delicate membranes of his nose and throat. He could hardly breathe. The bench scorched his buttocks, the floor was too hot to step on. He lay back, smelling heat, tasting it on his dry and burning lips. It was too extreme for any woman, yet they had followed him even here. Anne gloriously pregnant with Hugh now, the teenage Hester still sprawling on her back, pigtails unplaited and tumbling round her shoulders. Now Jennifer had joined them, in her thin blue nylon nightdress, pulling down the ruching, letting her breasts spill over in his hands. Pregnant breasts again, full and firm. The room was packed with females—all young, pregnant, taunting. He stretched out a dozen mouths, a score of hands …

‘Mr Winterton, sir, I believe you booked a body scrub. I'm ready for you now.'

Matthew opened his eyes. A brawny attendant dressed in gym shoes and a rubber apron was standing over him.

‘Er … yes, Len. I … hadn't forgotten.'

He followed the attendant to the shower-room, stretched himself out on the cold white marble slab, wincing as it shocked his still hot and sluggish body. Len filled a metal bowl with icy water, flung it over Matthew's lower half. Thoughts of Hester drained away. A second bowlful, aimed at his chest and shoulders, sent Anne and Jennifer gasping down the sluice.

‘Late for you, sir, isn't it?'

‘I've had a busy day, Len.'

‘You'll have the glove, sir, will you?'

‘Please.'

The last of the pregnant schoolgirls crept away as Len picked up the scratchy loofah glove and scoured it across Matthew's thighs and stomach. He lay helpless on his back, a child again, being punished for his idleness, his forbidden feast of biscuits, his shameful private orgy in the hot room. Nanny Len flipped him on his front, drubbed him with a vicious bristled brush.

‘Family all well, sir?'

‘Fine, thanks.' They would have cleared away the dinner by now, the boys settled down to their homework, Anne preparing for the morning rush. He hadn't finished his own homework, got too distracted and aroused, but he would start again first thing in the morning.

Len rinsed him off with three sluicings of cold water, then slapped and pummelled his flesh as a final service. ‘Right, that's it, Mr Winterton. Have a good evening, sir. It's still hot outside, they tell me. And lovely weather forecast again tomorrow.'

Tomorrow. Matthew climbed off the slab, purged, restored, refreshed. Tomorrow he must work on Lyn again, invite Hartley Davies's chairman for a drink and start a few rumours going, persuade his staff to curtail their summer holidays, think about a printer. Tomorrow …

‘Business going better, sir?' Len was still hovering for his tip.

‘Yes, Len, thanks. I think I can truly say that things are looking up.'

Jennifer lay alone in her squalid bedroom, tried to ignore the dust, the mess, the overflowing waste-bin. A few short hours and she could be up again, make a start on the house. The haemorrhaging had stopped, the doctor was hopeful, she had saved her baby. She should feel more triumphant, but her early elation had withered like a rose attacked by blackfly. There were roses in the room, huge scarlet ones from Matthew's garden, brought on his second visit as a bribe and a reward. They needed water. They were drooping in the vase, petals already falling, splashed like pools of blood on her cheap white dressing-table.

Thank God she had stopped bleeding. Every drop had seemed like a cell or pore of her precious baby flushed down the lavatory or seeping into a sanitary towel. Even now, she feared it might be born minus vital bits and pieces, as if what had leaked away could never be replaced. ‘Complete rest and relaxation', Dr Groves had urged, and as if in mockery, there had been constant turmoil and upheaval. Everything had got muddled up together—her baby, their return to Cobham, Lyn's fury, Hester's diaries, Matthew's pleadings and all their jobs and futures.

She closed her eyes and saw Matthew sitting there, his tall grey form shaming and over-awing the shabby little room, his voice booming and wheedling on, confusing her, enticing her, taking things away. She had been torn between him and Lyn, Lyn and the baby, even Lyn and herself. Now she felt only drained and exhausted.

She slumped back against the pillows, stared through the window at the jumbled roofs and chimneys jigsawed against the tiny square of sky. Cobham felt so confining after the splendour of the Cheviots. She missed Hester's house already. Eleven weeks had made her joint mistress of it, and even Lyn had seemed content to stay there, once he had recovered from his cold.

Spring had come and helped them renovate the house. Bare branches trembled into leaf, grass changed from grudging scrub to cocksure green, birds coupled, hatched and flew. Lyn had been a different person, then. They had laughed together, talked together, made love inside, outside, on walks, in woods, in bed. Proper love—the front way—but always with a Durex now. She'd had a strange instinctive feeling that it was too late for Durex, that she was already pregnant from their one encounter in the cellar, but dared not say in case words could somehow puncture it, make it just a dream. It
was
a dream in some ways—living in the country, working in the sunshine, watching Lyn grow healthy and contented as she cooked Hester's dishes, tried out Hester's herbs, and felt Hester's grandchild build from cell to cell inside her.

Only when her period was two weeks overdue did she feel she had to tell him. He might well have noticed himself, except he was always vague and ostrich-like about things like periods. She tried to choose her moment. It wasn't easy. They seemed always to be busy—eating, working, sleeping, discussing something else, even making love. It was worse when they made love—seemed a double deception to let him go on fumbling with those futile rubbers, taking all that trouble to prevent a baby who was there. Or was it? Could she be that sure? She had seen no doctor, had no test. Perhaps she was so eager to be pregnant, she was holding off her period by the sheer force of her will. Better see if she missed a second one.

She did. By then she was feeling sick as well, and her breasts were taut and swollen, which was harder to conceal. She couldn't bear to deceive Lyn any longer, but every time she tried to broach the subject, the words aborted on her lips. All the ordinary words like baby, expectant, pregnant, were somehow too worn and faded for the wild scared excitement leaping in her belly. It was more than just a baby—part of a whole tradition and a lineage. She had conceived this child the night she found the diaries, so it was special, sacred, meant. How could she present it to its father in stale, insipid clichés, while they were munching toast and marmalade or plastering a wall?

In the end, she made an occasion of it, cooked Hester's Celebration Pie and packed it in a basket with a chocolate cherry cake and a bottle of home-made wine. It was a shimmering summer evening in the first week of July, and they were lying on the grass at Windy Gyle, the hills crouched all around them, the sky so close it was almost touching their heads. They had picnicked there, alone except for the curlews and the sheep. She packed away the wrappers, scattered crumbs for birds, then stuttered out her news, voice weak and tiny like an embryo itself.

Lyn had said nothing, absolutely nothing. She wasn't sure if he had even heard. The steady munching of the sheep seemed to move closer and closer until it was roaring in her ears.

‘Lyn, did you hear what I said?'

‘Yes.' There was less blue in the sky, more cloud now.

‘Did you know already? Had you guessed?'

‘No.'

‘Well, aren't you going to say something?'

‘I … I don't know what to say.'

‘You're pleased. Or worried. Or even angry. You must feel something about a child.
Our
child.'

‘It's n …
not
a child. You … you probably missed your period because of the shock of Hester's death. Or being in a strange environment or …' Lyn was torturing a piece of grass, slitting it with his thumbnail into smaller and smaller shreds. ‘Look, we'd better go back. It's getting cold.'