Born of Woman (85 page)

‘I'm sorry I left you,' she said. ‘I won't again.'

It was difficult to talk to him. He seemed so grave and somehow withdrawn. Baby-talk was impossible. He was too dignified for that. He still had the hospital name-tag on his wrist. ‘Baby Grant.' Jennifer went to fetch Jo's nail-scissors, snipped it off.

‘Baby Winterton now,' she told him. ‘I'm afraid you haven't got a first name yet.'

Despite the pressure and suggestions of the nurses, Susie had left the baby nameless. She herself had tried a score of names, but none seemed quite to suit him.

‘Graham?' she suggested now. That was her father's name. Her father had died young and unfulfilled. Not Graham. Charles, perhaps—in honour of her favourite nephew. No—that was too close to Matthew and therefore dangerous. Every time she thought of Matthew, she felt a wave of shock that this baby was his flesh and blood—his fifth and youngest son—with the same dark colouring as the other four. Supposing he grew up to look like them (and him) and so aroused everyone's suspicions? She would have to keep away. Yet even that would …

‘Tea up!' shouted Jo, banging on the door. ‘I've brought the little blighter's bottle, too. He didn't seem to want it while you were away, though I shoved it in his direction once or twice. I think I'll leave you to it and grab some lunch in peace. Make yourself at home, love. Sorry things are such a mess, but there's a pouffe thing there you can put your feet up on, and if you want cottonwool and talc and stuff, its all in the bathroom. I'll give the room a clear-up in the morning, make more space.'

‘You're an angel, Jo.'

‘Angels are males, dear, so I can't accept the compliment.'

Jennifer waited till Jo had gone downstairs again before settling the baby on her lap and offering him the bottle. It was somehow a private moment—a most important one—his first meal out of hospital as her sole responsibility. She let herself sink back, cuddled him against her, watched his screams shudder into silence as he fumbled for the teat. He sucked slowly and in snatches, stopping every few moments and staring round him as if to check there were no dangers, his hands clenching and unclenching against the bottle.

She felt a surge of warmth and strength flood into her bloodstream, as if she were being fed herself. The baby's tininess, his helplessness, made her huge and powerful. She was tower and refuge, shield and anchor. She had a purpose now, as protector and provider, totally committed. Whatever she might choose to do, or want to do, the baby's sheer physical needs would always tug her back. It was almost a relief. She was no longer split three ways, tugged apart by conflicting obligations. Susie had gone; the marriage with Lyn was over. Both hurt. In fact, the loss of Lyn was a pain too huge and cold to measure, yet he couldn't accept a baby, least of all his half-brother's. Why should he? The child was Matthew's responsibility, and Matthew was already in his debt. Even if she passed if off as Sparrow's baby, never breathed a word to Lyn, Matthew himself might guess the truth, start acting strangely, stir up trouble or try to interfere. Better to follow the dictates of the Women's Group and manage on her own.

Money was a problem, but Jo had offered her a job—the sort of menial low-paid work she was always warning women to refuse—as a general help and assistant in all her different feminist activities. But it was only a temporary measure. She would move to another job as soon as she felt more settled—or could find one where a baby would be welcome.

It wasn't safe to be in Putney, anyway, with Matthew living there. Thank God he was away—and for quite some time, so Anne had said in her brief and frantic phonecall before the family left for their holiday abroad. They were taking a longer break than usual, Anne had explained, and had even arranged for the boys to miss some school, on account of Matthew's exhaustion. Both the Winterton men had somehow gone to pieces—Matthew, once a tower of strength, now ill and overwrought; Lyn, feverish and ragged, living on the run. Lyn, too, might be abroad, for all she knew. That would explain his silence, his lack of communication. Less agonising, really, to have him far away—like Susie. Easier, then, to cut them off, start again anew.

She could see it as a challenge, living on her own, finding a place and making it really hers, for once, reflecting her own taste instead of someone else's. She had moved from her mother's chintzy overspill to the junk-shop Edwardiana with which Matthew had furnished Cobham; on again to the gloomy splendour of Matthew's own house in Putney; from there to a shabby bedsit painted Susie-style, and finally to this lumber-room of Jo's. Once she got her own place, it might be bare and poor, but at least she would keep it tidy, make it cheerful. She might even start on Hester's country crafts again, earn a bit of money making patchwork or preserves.

She smiled down at the baby. ‘We'll manage,' she told him. ‘Somehow.' She had to convince herself as well as him. He had stopped sucking and was gazing anxiously around, his mouth opening and shutting soundlessly, his forehead furrowed still.

He suddenly looked so small—his tiny hands with their diminutive fingernails flailing feebly against her neck, his feet limp and helpless on her giant's arm—rag-doll body, sparrow bones. Had she been irresponsible to remove him from the shelter of the hospital? Supposing something
did
go wrong?

Her hands were not quite steady as she changed his nappy and settled him down to sleep. She had totally forgotten her tea, took a sip of it now, to try and calm herself. It was cold and forming a skin. She went down to make a fresh cup, found Jo still in the kitchen, ironing a long, hairy skirt which looked as if it had been cobbled out of an ancient piece of sacking.

‘All fed?' she asked.

Jennifer nodded, sank into a chair.

‘You look done in. Why not have a nap and then you'll get your second wind and be fresh enough to come out with us this evening. I've invited a group of girls over. Thought we'd go to our local Chinese restaurant and have a bit of a nosh and a knees-up. You can bring Yours Truly in his carry-cot. The proprietor won't mind. He's got hordes of kids himself. I mean, you can't be all alone on New Year's Eve.'

Jennifer checked her chores—nappies to wash, clothes to iron, suitcase to unpack. She had also promised Sister to keep the child indoors. ‘No thanks, Jo. It's sweet of you to offer, but I'm not much good at cat-naps. I'd rather have a really early night. To tell the truth, the best New Year's Eve treat I can think of is to rush through my jobs and be fast asleep in bed by nine o'clock.'

By nine o'clock, she and the baby were still both wide awake. His feeds had got out of phase. He refused to stick to her timetable and took so little milk at a time, she had been warming fresh bottles every two hours or so. She couldn't settle, anyway. The actual fact and presence of the baby after so long and fraught a wait for it, seemed too momentous an event to allow her to sleep at all. She wanted the world to share in her excitement, flock to the cradle and rejoice. Instead, it was busy with other people's parties, fixated on New Year. Ordinary mothers would be showered with flowers, telegrams, cooing visitors, congratulation cards. Perhaps all that razzmatazz helped to soften the shock and startle of another life.
Her
baby had entered the world with hardly a witness or a well-wisher. Up at the Bertrams', she had often felt sorry for the stoic sheep who produced their lambs and then returned to the cold and lonely hillside with no proud father-ram, no admiring grandparents. She remembered one which had refused to mother its lamb. Mick had transferred the tiny shivering bundle to another ewe who had lost her own and was obviously in mourning. Both mother and child had rallied miraculously. She smiled to herself, wondered how Molly was. Nice to have a confidante, someone she could tell ‘Today he gained two ounces,' or turn to with a problem. It was hard to be independent, self-sufficient. She had planned a whole lifetime on her own, yet even the first few hours of it were proving lonely and oppressive. It seemed wrong to spend New Year's Eve in her nightie, drinking a toast in baby's Cow and Gate.

She gave up trying to sleep, brought the baby down to Jo's main living-room, decided to sit and read. Jo's early training as a librarian was still in evidence and there were four separate bookcases all overflowing with political manifestos, sociological textbooks, sex and psychology manuals, and every reference book and dictionary from a children's encyclopaedia to a directory of Quaker meeting-houses. Nothing, though, to amuse or entertain. Jo didn't believe in novels, even less in women's magazines.

Jennifer wandered into the kitchen, made herself a cup of coffee. She had already found half a tin of beans and eaten them out of the tin, with Sugar Puffs for pudding—a Susie meal. She had learnt a lot from Susie, felt a sudden wave of loss. If Susie were here, she would be concocting champagne cocktails, cavorting round the room.

She moved the carry-cot closer to the phone, went and sat beside it. It would be comforting to ring a friend, say happy New Year to someone, but she had to be so careful. For Susie's sake and Matthew's, she was forced to lie low, suppress the baby's existence and therefore her own. She had already phoned the hospital, assured them all was well and Susie sleeping. She still hardly dared think about the problems of the morning, the string of lies, or the brazen disappearance, deceiving people who trusted her, dodging the whole gamut of social services. And supposing she needed those professionals—if the baby got ill or refused to feed? If she dashed back to the hospital in some crisis or emergency, but with no Susie at her side, they could wrench the child away from her, put it into care.

She picked up the receiver. There must be someone she could ring, to distract her from such fears. How about Molly herself? Surely she was safe enough, all those miles away in Mepperton? She would certainly be in, presiding at her party in her Sunday Best, which meant a skirt less clogged with dog-hairs than her usual one, and a daring dab of powder to cower her ruddy cheeks. The Bertrams always had a do on New Year's Eve—or Old Year's Night, as they called it in the counties close to Scotland. It was the most important night up there, even more special than Christmas. The date was surrounded with superstition, especially the ceremony of first-footing which had been observed for centuries and was believed to influence the whole succeeding twelve months. If the first person to cross the threshold on New Year's Day (which usually meant a minute after midnight on Old Year's Night) was a young, dark, male stranger bringing gifts of bread and fire, then the house would have good luck for the coming year. There weren't many strangers in Mepperton, so they usually chose a local dark-haired man who would do the rounds of the village, calling on as many houses as he could, to bring them good fortune and prosperity. Molly had explained the custom to her, how it wasn't just an empty ritual, but something almost as serious and solid as an insurance policy. This year, she was particularly excited, as her husband, Mick, had been chosen as first-foot. They had invited almost a hundred people to come and eat and drink with them before Mick set out on his rounds at the stroke of midnight. It would be a good time to ring them now, before the party got too riotous. She dialled the number, relaxed back in her chair.

‘Ah, hallo, Molly? Is that you?' It was a woman's voice, but difficult to know which one, with all the background noise.

‘No, it's her daughter here. Shall I fetch her for you?'

‘Please.' There was so much she had to tell, so much news to catch up with, but it would have to wait. Jo had said ‘Use the phone. Make yourself at home,' but it wasn't fair to abuse her generosity, indulge in rambling long-distance calls. All she would do was wish the Bertrams a successful party and a happy New Year. She could confide about the baby later, when she had found a room, coax Molly down for a visit, swear her to secrecy.

‘Hi, Molly. It's Jennifer here. Jenny Winterton.'

‘Jenny! How nice. Look, you'd better shout, my dear. I've got hordes of people milling about and I can hardly hear for all the noise. Where are you?'

‘Er … Putney, at the moment.'

‘With Anne and Matthew?'

‘No, with … oh, never mind. Look, I just wanted to say happy New Year.'

‘Same to you. When are you coming up?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Well, now that Lyn's back, I hoped you'd be planning to join him.'

‘L … Lyn?' Jennifer tried to repeat the name, but her voice had skidded away from her. She clutched at the edge of the chair. It, too, felt unsteady, insubstantial. The whole room had started trembling. ‘Wh … what did you say?'

‘Lyn's sort of camping out at Hernhope. Didn't you know, love? I'm sorry, I assumed you …' There was a sudden crackling noise and Molly's voice stuttered into silence.

Jennifer shook the phone, shouted down it. ‘Molly? Are you still there? What happened? Hallo?
Hallo
?'

Nothing.

Should she dial again? She had to re-establish contact, find out what Lyn was doing. It was extraordinary, miraculous, that he was back at Hernhope when she had assumed him in some alien land, or at least on the run and footloose. Her heart was thumping, a crazy excitement surging through her body. She had to find out more, but the phone was silent still and dead. Supposing the lines had just come down with all the snow, and they were cut off now for several days? It happened often up at Mepperton.

There was a sudden click and Molly's voice returned, loud and reassuring. ‘Ah, that's better. There was some sort of interference on the line, but I think it's cleared now. Mind you, it's bedlam here with all these people. We've got forty guests already. Hold on a sec and I'll take it on the phone upstairs. OK?'

Jennifer waited in a fever of impatience. How could just her husband's name set up such a turmoil? There was anger mixed with the excitement and relief. What was he doing, sneaking back to Hernhope when he had assured her so vehemently he could never return there again? And if he were safe and well and not abroad, then why hadn't he been in contact, sent her at least a card?