In Her Mothers' Shoes (22 page)

The following day was the same. She stayed in bed, blinds drawn, only getting up at the time when Michael said he was bringing Jessie home from hospital.

He made several trips up and down the stairs, bringing in all Emily’s and Jessie’s paraphernalia then set about making them a cup of tea while Liz sat with her daughter on either side of the carrycot, watching over Emily.

‘How are you getting on?’ Liz asked.

‘She’s fine. My milk’s started to come in and she’s much more settled now. They said I’d be fine at home with her.’

‘That’s good. She looks very contented.’

‘She is.’ Jessie turned her attention away from the baby and looked across at her mother. ‘It’s you I’m worried about, Mum. Michael says you’ve been locked away in your room every day, not even getting out of bed. What’s the matter with you?’

Liz was taken by surprise. ‘Nothing. I’m okay. Just a bit tired, that’s all. I think it must be the jet lag.’

‘Jet lag? Don’t be silly, Mum, you’ve been here nearly two weeks. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘No. Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Is it something to do with Emily? Are you upset about being a grandmother? Does it make you feel old or something?’

‘Heavens no. I’m thrilled to be a grandmother.’

‘Then what is it? What’s wrong?’

Liz looked away out the sash window at the leafy branches of the oaks lining the street. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been out of sorts for some reason. I’m sorry to be such a burden …’

‘You’re not a burden.’

‘I am. This is such a happy time for you both. I’m just dragging you down. I’ll get a flight home as soon as I can and get out of your hair.’

‘Mum, you don’t have to do that. You’re welcome …’

‘No, I should go. I think I’ll come right when I get back home to Steven. He says it’s much warmer now and he’s been out weeding the vegetable garden nearly every day. I’ll ring up the airline and book my flight tomorrow.’

Jessie tried to persuade her to stay but she was adamant: she’d be fine at home. It was time to go.

~   ~  ~

The plane took off from Heathrow on the first sunny day that week, climbing over the green hills and dales of Surrey before rising through the clouds to the eternal sunshine of thirty-three thousand feet. Her hands still smelt faintly of the 4711 eau-de-cologne lingering in the wet hand-towel the stewardess had handed her.

Liz pressed her nose against the plane’s small oval window and peered down on the patchwork of grey roofs packed between roads jammed with traffic. They seemed much too close. Was the plane about to crash into the ground? She’d felt the same leaving Auckland, then Sydney and Singapore, Cairo and Rome, and it was even worse landing; she’d been terrified as the ground rushed up to meet the plane. But now, on the return journey, she was a seasoned traveller of some twelve-thousand miles, with another twelve-thousand ahead over the next two days.

The high-altitude sun warmed the side of her face, reminding her of the summer she was flying home to. She basked in it for a moment, eyes shut, trying to empty her mind from the disturbing, jumbling thoughts of London, as crowded and intrusive as the Bakerloo line at rush hour, while keeping at bay further disturbing thoughts of the new Adoption Bill.

The stewardess offered passengers in her row a drink. She asked for a gin and tonic so she could make it last for two drinks; she felt like drinking a whole bottle. Quickly, while she was fiddling with the miniatures and finding the tonic, Elizabeth reached down and pulled the last letter she’d written to Steve – and never sent - out of the black handbag Jessie had persuaded her to buy, releasing an aroma of new leather.

‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the drink and juggled the plastic cup, the tonic bottle and the letter so they all managed to squeeze onto the tray table. She sipped the drink and nearly spat it out again it was so strong. After adding a little more tonic she opened the letter and started to read.

She’d said far too much, that was immediately obvious. All that stuff about Katharine; she must have been half way to the loony bin putting it down on paper. What was wrong with her? She had definitely not been herself in London. Jessie had noticed, had even asked her if she’d like to see the doctor. Was that why she’d written so freely about her babies – all three babies including Katharine? Or was it seeing Jessie with her new baby, the way she bonded so quickly, the unconditional love that shone through so clearly? Was she jealous of her daughter?

She sighed. Only three sips of gin and already she was feeling maudlin.

She turned the page.

She should throw it away, she knew that. But there was a strange attraction to the words on the page, words she’d never written before and certainly never spoken. Would it help her feel better, keeping those words, reading them again? She could lock the letter away in the secret compartment in her mother’s mahogany escritoire. Or she could rip it up and throw the pieces in one of the rubbish bins at the stopover in Rome.

She took another swig of gin.

March 22, 1987

Mrs Elizabeth Davidson

109 Marine Parade

Eastbourne

Wellington.

Dear Mrs Davidson

I am researching my family tree and your name came up while sifting through some old Hamilton family papers. I am writing to you therefore to see if you can supply information about your branch of the family.

The name on my original birth certificate is Felicity Francis Hamilton. I was born in Christchurch on March 17, 1951. I am now 36 and will soon give birth to my second child. I would be most grateful if you could let me know about your line of the family and your children.

Yours sincerely

Katharine Stewart

Part 2: Rose

Chapter 1.

Christchurch, March 1951

There was a policeman in the nursery. Over six feet tall in sombre black serge and shiny silver buttons, he made a stark contrast with the wall frieze of brown baby rabbits romping across pastel meadows. Ducking his head under the low ceiling, he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his outsized black boots marking an awkward dance pattern on the cream, rose-patterned rug.

So far, he’d been a man of few words, clutching his black round-topped helmet tightly to his chest as he’d followed the inspection party from room to room. It was as if he knew his presence was barely tolerated.

Rose couldn’t see why his presence was necessary at all. Even though she’d been warned a policeman would be present, she still couldn’t understand what a member of the local constabulary could add to the picture the Social Security Department was supposed to be building up on their suitability for adoption.

The Lady Inspector, hunched beneath the sloping ceiling, looked around disapprovingly. ‘This room is very small for baby.’ Her mouth remained a rictus of disapproval. ‘And the roof comes down very low.’

‘It’s the only other bedroom apart from ours,’ Rose said. ‘George has worked hard to make it ready.’ For weeks, he’d spent his evenings sanding and oiling the doors and skirtings, his fussiness and slowness driving her to distraction. She recalled the row over the frames round the dormer windows when he’d chipped away the wood by mistake and given up on the whole project.

‘You can’t stop now, for heaven’s sake,’ she’d cried the night he’d refused to get out his old clothes and return to the tiny box room, which remained a jumble of sandpaper, oil, brushes and paint tins on a stained and scarred wooden floor. She despaired of it ever becoming a nursery. But George stubbornly harboured a grudge against the window frame for almost a week before he conceded he might be able to fill the gouge and allow Rose’s curtains to cover it.

The policeman remained just inside the door, the roof too low for him to come any further. George hovered behind, his expression one of suppressed irritation.

The Lady Inspector, Mrs Lowe – whom Rose had dubbed the Grey Invader ever since she announced herself at the front door half an hour ago dressed from head to toe in light grey – was making it clear, she was not going to be fooled, not for one minute. She plucked at each finger of her grey felt glove and pulled it off, giving the glove a fierce flick as she did so. Then holding out her index finger at an awkward angle, she ran it along the windowsill in the nursery, sniffing contemptuously at the few motes of dust she managed to dislodge.

Lips tightly pursed, she then proceeded to open all the drawers in the dresser.

‘Hmm, towels, facecloths, nappies, feeders, muslin cloths.’ She shut one drawer and opened another. ‘Nightgowns, cardigans, hats, mittens, booties, woollen pants. Did you make these yourself?’

‘Yes,’ Rose answered. ‘All of them.’

‘Hmmm.’

Was this faint praise or faint disapproval?

‘Baby may come with a layette from the mother, but you don’t have to bother with that if you don’t want to.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it will be very fine and knitted with a lot of love.’

‘Hmmm.’ The Grey Invader’s lips remained pursed as the bent over the bassinet, lifting the bedding piece by piece.

Rose had known this visit was imminent; she’d had a letter from the Department saying one of their lady inspectors would be coming to check the premises and the baby’s things; but she’d had no idea exactly when the visit would be. Her friend Joan, who’d had the same experience when trying to adopt, had warned the inspection would be extremely thorough but not that it would be demeaning.

They passed from the baby’s room to the bathroom, where the Grey Invader swooped on the claw-footed bath. ‘This is far too large for bathing baby,’ she said.

‘I know,’ Rose said. ‘The baby bath is downstairs in the washhouse.’

‘In the washhouse? You’re surely not proposing to bath baby there?’

‘No, of course not. I was planning to bath the baby in the kitchen. We have a new tin baby bath.’

Mrs Lowe craned her neck over the toilet bowl, which Rose knew was whiter than the new nursery sheets, then inspected the basin, turning on the tap and waiting for it to run hot. ‘Yes, I suppose that will do,’ she said, turning off the tap before removing the other glove and tucking them both into her small grey leather purse, which she clicked shut again with a loud snap. She made more notes on the official form. Attached to a cardboard-backed pad, the form had two long sheets of carbon paper so everything could be recorded in triplicate.

The whole time she was writing, the water pipes clanged and juddered – as they always did when the hot tap was turned off.