Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (22 page)

‘What do you mean, “hide him”?’

‘I don’t want anybody knowing about him. Please, Dot. Not anybody.’

‘Mrs Compton? She could look at him, make sure he’s all right?’

Nina shook her head. ‘No. After what happened with your little … oh, sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’ll keep her out of it, shall we? Dr Soames? But on second thoughts, he’s terribly officious. I’m not sure he’d keep your baby a secret.’

‘Not him, then. Nuns it is. Nuns know what to do with babies, don’t they?’

‘There are no nuns!’ said Dorothy.

Nina wilted a little. ‘Then what the bloody hell am I going to do? I’m not a mother. I don’t want a baby. I’ll be disowned by my mum. She always said to me and Shirley, if either of us gets into trouble, she’ll never see us or the baby. She’ll have nothing to do with us. She meant it too, I know my mum. I ain’t going into one of those homes for unmarried mothers either. I’ve heard about them.’

‘But you’re nineteen, Nina. You’re a grown-up young lady. You can do with your life as you choose. Think ahead, think about five, ten, twenty years from now. You’ll be your own woman and nobody will necessarily know or care that your son was born illegitimately. People get over things like that. And besides, perhaps your mother will actually love her little grandson. Her first special grandchild.’

‘Love him? She don’t even love any of us, so why would she love a child born out of wedlock?’

Dorothy frowned. ‘Nonsense. Of course she loves you.’

Nina snorted. ‘No. She does her duty by us. There ain’t much love to spare in our house. She hates Dad, and he hates her. She’s always said, if she had her time again, she wouldn’t get married and she wouldn’t have kids.’

It didn’t look good for Nina, Dorothy had to admit to herself. Her mother had not written to her since she had been at the farm – could she even write? Dorothy wondered – nor had her elder brothers. Her father, Dorothy gathered, was often drunk. How would the baby fare in such a family? The thought hung heavy over Dorothy like the snow-laden sky she glimpsed through the lace curtains, the large golden-black clouds once again threatening to disgorge themselves.

It was impossible. What were Nina’s options, truly?

‘I’ll take care of him for you.’ Dorothy wasn’t sure at first if she had uttered the words aloud. But they resounded around the room, portentous, like a roll of thunder in the mountains.

‘You?’ said Nina, astonished. ‘What, you’ll be his mum?’

‘If you want.’

The women locked eyes, both desperate, searching. Dorothy felt as if she were finely and perilously balanced on a mountain ledge, and if she were to let go, or stumble, she would fall into a dark and endless oblivion. She breathed hard.

Finally, Nina shook her head.

Dorothy looked at her, trying in vain to silence her heaving heart.

Nina opened her mouth as though to speak, and closed it again. But finally, she spoke. ‘You’d be good to him? You’d look after him, properly? And you wouldn’t care what people said about you, would you?’

‘No.’ Dorothy could barely speak, her throat tight with fear and anticipation.

‘That’s because you ain’t afraid to tell people where to get off. Not really. You’ve got brains. You can work people out. But I’m scared, I am, underneath it all.’ Then, ‘You’d really look after him?’

‘Yes,’ said Dorothy fervently.

‘What, as if he was your own? How would you do it? Everyone knows you ain’t been carrying. You’re thin as a bloody rake. People will know.’

‘People around here will, yes.’

‘You mean, you’d take him away?’

‘I have family in … well, miles from here.’

‘I see,’ said Nina. For the first time since Dorothy had known her, she looked as though she were deep in thought.

‘What do you think?’ said Dorothy, after a while.

‘It sounds all right. Better than nuns. But I can’t ask you to do it for me.’

‘In that case, ask me to do it for your baby,’ said Dorothy, taking Nina’s hand now. ‘I can’t bear the thought of … David in a home, with no real mother. It’s not what the dear little chap deserves.’

Do it for me too, Nina, damn it. Don’t go all doubtful now, you oafish girl, not now it’s within my grasp. I wrap my life around this longing.

‘And nobody would know?’ said Nina. ‘That I was his real mum, I mean? You’d not tell?’

‘I’d not tell a soul.’

‘You’d say he was yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d love him?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You love babies, don’t you? You miss yours.’

Dorothy could tell Nina wanted to convince herself. ‘I do. Very much.’

‘So David would be the son you didn’t have?’

What to say? What was she looking for? What to say now, not to destroy everything, not to ruin this chance, with the wrong words, the wrong tone, the wrong look. The words came to Dorothy, one by one, as if in translation.

‘No, Nina, he wouldn’t be that. I believe … I know that I can give David all the things you can’t or won’t be allowed to give. I’m fortunate to be able to give him a life you can’t even imagine. I mean that in a kind way, Nina. I will have property one day. Money, I hope. There is a nice home for him, a bedroom all of his own. I shall fill it with toys and books. He’ll go to a good school. He’ll make friends. He’ll want for very little. Of course, you can send him to the nuns if you feel that would be better for him …’

Nina looked at her baby, fast asleep at her breast, milk glistening on his chin, his breathing soft and calm. Dorothy watched the girl, then looked at the baby – who she knew she would not call David – and she prayed, as hard as she ever had, with all her heart, so hard she almost believed that somebody was actually listening and could help. And when Nina handed her the baby, dressed in Sidney’s clothes, Dorothy took him in trembling arms, and held him close to her heart, and kissed his head.

Nina turned away to sleep, and stated that she would not feed him once Dorothy had sorted something else out, because milk leaked on to her clothes and she couldn’t have people seeing that. It was embarrassing, and it would give her away, wouldn’t it? Dorothy said she understood, and then she carried the baby downstairs and laid him in the big black pram that had been languishing and mouldering out in the shed for two years. She had brought it in, late the night before, scrubbed it clean and aired it by the fire overnight. She covered the baby boy in the blanket she had knitted once in such hope and gladness.

Unaware, the baby slept.

Practicalities took over. Dorothy would need to procure milk. She had bottles, bought for Sidney – Dorothy had planned to feed him herself, but Mrs Compton had recommended the purchase ‘just in case’. She dug out the four bottles, still in their boxes, and washed them, enjoying the sensation of the smooth glass in her hand as she traced the odd banana-like shapes. She inserted the teats into the bottles, in readiness. She had never fed a baby before.

Bottles were easy, milk less so. Dorothy did not want to use the powdered milk she had heard about. It was unnatural. No, real milk it would have to be. But cow’s milk was too much for a tiny baby, she knew. It would make him sick, give him stomach ache, or worse. Goat’s milk? She knew it was nourishing, good for poorly babies. A wet nurse, even if there were any left these days, was out of the question.

Nina’s milk would dry up. In a few days she could return to work, and Dorothy could make arrangements. In a delirium of joy and fear, she stood, alert, gently rocking the pram. She felt – she knew, intuitively – that from this point on her life would be governed by falsehood. It would be so, and her life, with this baby, no matter what, would prevail above all else. There was no other future for her. It was laid out before her like a map, and she could trace every turn she would have to make.

She rocked the pram, and waited for the baby to wake up. Unbearable hope bloomed again in Dorothy Sinclair’s heart. And she knew if her hopes were to come to nothing, yet again, the disappointment would crush her, finally and forever.

And Jan. She almost did not want to think about him. He had been but the briefest of interludes. Sweet, welcome and glorious. Just yesterday –
yesterday!
– he had been her great opportunity. Today, he was gone. It was inconceivable, but already she had another, a greater, opportunity.

And Sidney, her precious little boy, what of him? She allowed herself to worry that he might not like this new baby, this other little boy taking his place. But Dorothy knew such thoughts were illogical, irrelevant. Her secret was safe from Sidney.

The baby shuddered, and sighed, and slept.

Marshall

I hate you Rachel hates you we all hate YOU so the best thing you can do is never get in touch with us again do you hear me you ugly little man? My sister and me, we’re going to be okay after all but not until you are history so please leave us in peace to sort things out we no longer require you do you get that?

Jacqueline

(Letter found inside John Gray’s
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
, quite a well-read copy, so priced at a reasonable 80p and placed on the self-help shelf in the back room.)

P
ortia fails to understand the grief that follows my father’s death.

I weep, I rage.

She stares at me, cold and uncomprehending. ‘Histrionics!’ she seems to say.

I don’t think I like cats very much. Why is she even here? Her mission in life, apart from irritating me, seems to be to wilfully destroy delicate life, birds and mice and shrews, such dear little trembling creatures. I make a note to contact the Blue Cross. Let them take her. I don’t want her here any more.

I am alone in the world. My father is actually dead, my mother may as well be dead, and I don’t even have Charles Dearhead any more to make sterile love to. I miss him, all of a sudden – because, I believe, even sterile love is better than no love at all.

And I no longer remember to eat. My clothes are becoming loose, my hair lank. I can’t be bothered to hoover or dust, wash up or shop.

I fret, I sleep.

I dream that I am a little girl again, being bounced on my father’s knees, squealing with delight, waving my hands around, too vigorously, scratching his cheek, but I didn’t mean to – ‘I’m sorry, Daddy’ – and he’s dabbing at his cheek with his handkerchief, annoyed, but telling me not to worry, little Robbie Roberta, and he tells my mother my nails need cutting, and my mother, sitting in her chair by the fire, her long hair shining in the firelight, ignores us. And now I can no longer decide what is real. She was still with us. Maybe it was the following day that she left? She didn’t collect me from school. I waited and waited in Miss Romney’s class, and she let me cut paper and card in the guillotine. Miss Romney remained bright and cheerful, but I knew she was worried. Eventually, Dad came into the classroom and picked me up and hugged me. He was crying, which I didn’t like. He shook his head at Miss Romney, thanked her and carried me home.

I must be unwell, I have a temperature, I think. I feel aglow. A day in bed. That’s what I need.

Day one: sleep. Sweat, a lot. The logical part of me that appears still to function underneath the raging tells me I have flu, a fever.

Day two: more fever, more sweating, Portia’s endless complaining, my mother’s sleek and shiny hair in the firelight. Nothing happens, but I think I feed Portia. I ought to feed Portia. My father has a gravestone, but it’s written in a strange script that I cannot read, and it is high summer. The bees are buzzing around the honeysuckle that grows under my kitchen window. The bees are buzzing around me, swarming, hideous and loud. I think my phone is ringing, I think I hear a girlish and familiar voice saying she’ll try my mobile. My mobile, plugged into its charger on the bedside table, rings. I can’t move. It rings, it stops. I think I sleep.

Day three? Feeling hot and thirsty and weak, and hating Portia. She looks thin too, I think. And then I understand, she would look thin, I’m not feeding her. I ran out of her food, possibly yesterday, possibly the day before. I’m surprised she is still here and has not absconded to the neighbour who, I am fairly certain, feeds her regularly, just as she fed Tara. This could be day three, or day six, or seven. I can’t count any more. And the awful truth is that there’s nobody to help. I am alone in this world and living now among the fevered and garish rubble that once was strong and good, my life that I had once built for myself.

Day four, I think, or eight? The doorbell ringing, and my not truly hearing it or connecting with it, and it ringing again.

My mobile rings. I grapple for it as it falls on to the floor. I pick it up, I can’t read the name. Was it my father? Surely not my mother?

‘Hello?’ I think the voice is mine. Or maybe it’s Portia’s? She has been speaking to me recently. At least she is still here. I am not alone. Oh, she looks hungry.

‘Roberta? It’s me. Philip. Are you all right? I’m at your flat. But I guess you’re not in?’

Philip? He’s never been to my flat.

‘I am here,’ I manage to say. My voice sounds like a squeak. ‘Hang on. Please.’

I stumble into the hall and, sure enough, there is the shadow of a real person through the frosted glass of the door. I eventually unlock it, and I stare at a man who looks exactly like my former boss, Philip Old, only more handsome. He stares back at me. The first person I have seen in four days. Or five. Or eight? Is it Friday? Somehow, I think, it must be a Saturday. The sun is shining like it does on Saturdays. It’s bright, and shining frostily, like it does in autumn. Is it still autumn? I have been floating through the poetry of summertime. My Dad has a gravestone, but I can’t read what it says. The language is foreign, it is gobbledegook. The honeysuckle is in full bloom. The bees torture my head, they crawl inside my ears and into my mind, colouring my world – ugly, visceral colours. My mother is so beautiful.

‘Roberta, you—’

I think he gets no further. The world is folding in on itself, I can’t breathe, my throat is tight, I can’t think or compute, but I know I’m slumping, and I know there is someone there to catch me, so I must let it happen, I must slip down into the unconsciousness which I know is waiting for me.