Keeping Secrets (23 page)

Annie burst into tears again, shaking with shock and anger. ‘Why're you being so horrible to me?'

Outside, in the garden below, two cats began to yowl, the sound winding through the heat and stillness like an endless length of string. Alice got up, grabbed the plastic jug she used to rinse the children's hair, and ran the tap into it; she flung up the window and leaned out, hurling the water into the darkness. There was a splash, another yowl, snarling and furious, then silence. ‘Good.' She withdrew her head, and put the jug back on the side of the basin.

Annie, mesmerised, looked at her and began to laugh. ‘What did – you
do
?'

‘You saw what I did,' said Alice, and gave her a hug. ‘Now, no more fuss, all right? I'll see you in the morning.'

She led her, uncomplaining, back to her room, and smoothed down her sheet, turning over the pillow.

‘Hettie didn't hear
any
thing.' Annie lay down. ‘Night, Mummy.'

‘Good girl. Night, night.'

Alice went softly back along the landing, and into the bedroom, where Tony had begun to snore again. She lay down, nudging him until he stopped, and smoothed her own pillow, which felt blissfully soft. Perhaps that's done the trick, she thought, hearing no sound from Annie, and then, as she drifted at last into a deep sleep: and how is Hilda going to cope with broken nights? I suppose her baby will be like Hettie, perfect.

Some time after daybreak she was aware of the telephone, ringing and ringing downstairs, and Tony stumbling out of bed to go and answer it. She opened an eye, saw it was only just light, and went back to sleep again. Tony came back to bed, and shook her gently.

‘Hilda's had the baby.'

‘What?' She felt as though she would never wake up properly again.

‘That was Anya – Hilda's had the baby. It's a boy, eight pounds six ounces.' He yawned, and drew her towards him. ‘How nice. We must go and see them.'

On the third floor of the maternity hospital, Hilda lay stiff and aching in a high white bed, waiting for Stephen. Beside her, the baby, who had been awake for most of the night, slept now as if he would never wake again, flat on his stomach, head to one side, full-lipped mouth open a little, fists clenched. A big baby, born after what seemed to Hilda now like a battle, raging through her, threatening to tear her apart, stringing her up in the end in stirrups, somewhere far away watching it all, thinking helplessly: this can't be happening to me. Now, two days later, lying in his crib, the baby looked like a different creature from the one belonging to the woman in the next bed, a tiny little girl called Daisy, with a thatch of dark hair. Hilda's son had almost no hair, and no name yet, either: she was unable to decide on one. She vaguely supposed that she was in a kind of shock.

The ward was hot and sunny – far too hot, especially in the afternoons, when the mothers were supposed to rest, before visiting time. For the babies'sake the central heating was still on, and the high windows overlooking the main road on one side and the car park on the other opened, as in the college, only at the top. It seemed to Hilda that the long cotton curtains should be drawn in the afternoons, but none of the nurses had ever drawn them, and she didn't feel she could ask. She didn't feel she could do anything, wanting only to sleep, but she couldn't sleep: there was always a baby crying, or a trolley rattling, or the kitchen staff banging things. Beyond the flowers and cards on the table at the end of the bed other mothers shuffled slowly past, to the bathroom and back again to the dayroom, where they watched television and smoked when the nurses weren't looking. They were visited by their husbands, their mothers and sisters, and other children. Hannah, the Jewish woman across the table, had given birth to her fifth child: two girls in plaits and two pale boys in earlocks and skullcaps had come to see their new brother yesterday, sitting in a silent row on a bench at the end of the bed; her husband, bearded, black-coated, had kept on his hat throughout the visit. When they had gone, Hannah asked the nurse for a bottle for the baby, explaining that he did not approve of breastfeeding. Hilda watched all these comings and goings, visited so far only by Anya, who had, in the end, been the one to come with her in the ambulance.

‘He is a beautiful boy,' she said yesterday, getting up to go. ‘You will soon feel stronger, Hilda, believe me.' She touched the bunch of Interflora roses sent by Stephen. ‘When is he coming to see you?'

‘When he can,' said Hilda, and turned away.

It was hotter this afternoon than it had been all week, and it seemed quieter: two mothers had gone home this morning, and their beds were still empty. Beside Hilda the baby was motionless; she felt her eyes begin to close, and with difficulty turned over, and pulled, the pillows down.

‘Mrs King? You've got a visitor, dear.' A staff nurse was at her bedside.

Hilda heaved herself up. ‘Please don't call me Mrs King. It's Miss, I've told you.'

‘We call everybody Mrs,' said the staff nurse, plumping up her pillows. ‘It's the rule.'

‘Oh, for God's sake. If you have to call me something call me Hilda, all right?'

‘All right,' said the nurse placidly. She looked down at the sleeping baby, and lifted the chart at the end of his crib. ‘He's due for another feed in half an hour. How're you managing – is he feeding well now?'

‘I don't know,' said Hilda. ‘I think so. Can you get my visitor, please?'

‘Of course I can, love.' The nurse walked briskly up the ward to the entrance. Looking after her, Hilda could see Stephen, being told he could come in, nodding and smiling, and then making his way down between the rows of beds, searching for her. He was wearing a pale summer jacket, and carrying more flowers; he looked, as always, well-dressed and personable, but also somewhat disconcerted, and to Hilda he seemed all at once like a stranger, someone who knew nothing of the past few days and therefore, since she was changed utterly, nothing about her at all.

‘I'm over here,' she said, as he drew near, and raised her hand.

He saw her, and smiled, came over and bent to kiss her, dropping the flowers on the bed.

‘How are you?' she asked, offering her cheek.

‘I'm all right,' said Stephen, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘More important, how are you? And this one.' He leaned towards the crib. ‘God, he's tiny, look at him, I'd forgotten …' He leaned over, and with a finger stroked the baby's face. ‘Hello. You're a nice-looking little chap.'

‘Actually,' said Hilda, ‘he looks quite colossal to me. I think he's the biggest baby on the ward. I mean – see that.' She indicated the next bed, where Daisy was being lifted up by her mother and looked, in a tiny white nightgown, like a crumpled fairy.

Stephen glanced at her, then back at the crib. ‘But he's wonderful, he's lovely.' He sat down again beside Hilda, taking her hand. ‘Well … you've done it, you're very clever. Happy now?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Hilda tonelessly. ‘A bit tired, that's all.'

‘Of course you are, it's only natural.' He paused. ‘I'm so sorry I didn't make it.'

‘Never mind. It doesn't matter. The midwives were good.'

‘Midwives? You mean there were several?'

‘I think there were three; it was quite a long labour.' She felt she had to edit it, to give a crisp report on the details of this cataclysm, this undreamed-of climax, as if it were the last thing Stephen would want to know about. ‘Anyway,' she said, ‘it's over now. Tell me how you are – how's work?'

‘Dreadful,' said Stephen, and looked at her, stroking her hand. ‘I'm sure you don't want to hear about it.'

Hilda smiled. ‘That's just what I was thinking – that you wouldn't be interested in the birth.'

‘Of course I am,' said Stephen, although his tone was not one of enquiry. ‘I should think the outside world must seem a long way away at the moment, doesn't it?'

‘What outside world?' asked Hilda, and felt herself, just a little, begin to thaw.

‘That's better.' He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘You look a bit more like my Hilda now.' She felt her eyes fill with tears, and pressed her face into his shoulder as he put his arms round her. ‘There we are. It's all over.'

It's only just beginning, thought Hilda, not trusting herself to speak. Beside them the baby woke, and stirred, making small creaking noises. She drew away, wiping her eyes. ‘He's due for a feed, I'd better pull myself together.' She leaned against the pillows again, unbuttoning her nightdress. ‘Can you pass him?'

‘One baby coming up.' Stephen carefully lifted him from the crib, and kissed the top of his bald head. ‘Here we go. Got him? Well done.'

He sounded steady and in charge, more familiar with the baby and his needs after ten minutes acquaintance than Hilda felt after two days.

‘Thanks.' She held the baby to her, watching him begin to search for her breast, sore and rock-hard. With difficulty she helped him take hold of the nipple, and remembered, suddenly, watching Alice learn how to feed Hettie, laughing and confident. How had she known what to do? The baby began to suck, strongly, and she winced.

‘What's the matter?'

‘It hurts. I suppose I'm just not used to it yet. Oh, God …' Again, Hilda felt as if she were going to cry, and shut her eyes. ‘Perhaps you'd better go. I must be having the blues or something … Sorry.'

‘I think you've got some more visitors,' said Stephen quietly. ‘Can you cope?'

‘What?'

She opened her eyes again to see Alice and the girls coming slowly down the ward towards her, waving.

‘I …' But what could she do, when they'd come all this way? ‘It's all right,' she said, and reached for the box of tissues on the cabinet beside her, wincing again as the baby sucked harder. Beside her, Stephen had risen, and stood aside as Alice reached the bed, slender, suntanned and fair. She looked diffident and cautious, but at the sight of the baby she relaxed, softening, on familiar ground.

‘Hello, Hilda.' She bent and kissed her with warmth. ‘Well done.'

‘Thanks.' Hilda smiled wanly up at her, and stretched out a hand to the girls. ‘Hello, you two.'

‘Hello.' Hettie and Annie, in cotton shorts and sandals, stood like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, awkward and shy, enormous. Beside them, Alice and Stephen were introducing themselves; then Alice bent down to the baby. ‘Oh, isn't he beautiful?' She touched a small red ear, and drew the girls towards her. ‘Look, here's your new cousin.'

‘What's his name?' Hettie gingerly touched his hand and then, like Alice, softened. ‘Oh, isn't he sweet? Look at his little
nails.
'

Hilda shifted as the baby, suddenly full, dropped away from her, head lolling, cheeks flushed. ‘He hasn't got a name yet,' she said. ‘We've got to choose one. What do you think he should be called?' And as soon as she'd said it, knew that was a mistake – the baby's name seemed, suddenly, far too important to entrust to a six-year-old, even Hettie.

From behind the children, Stephen said helpfully: ‘I think he looks like a Sam.'

‘Do you?' asked Hilda. ‘Yes – that's a good strong name.'

Annie turned and looked up at him. ‘Are you the Daddy?'

‘I am,' said Stephen. ‘And you must be Annie.'

‘Yes,' said Annie, and turned away, reaching for Alice's hand.

There was a general silence.

Then Alice said: ‘Tony's going to join us here, he's coming on straight from work.'

‘Oh,' said Hilda. ‘That's nice.' She was hot and thirsty, longing for a cool shower; she moved the baby a little away from her, and reached for the jug of water.

‘Here,' said Stephen. ‘Let me …' He came round the bed, and poured her a drink. ‘And now I'd better be off.'

‘What?' Hilda, barely beginning to rediscover her feeling for him, felt desolate, cut adrift. ‘You've only just got here.'

‘I know, but you're tired.'

‘Perhaps we're in the way,' Alice said quickly, and Hilda wanted to say: ‘Well, actually, perhaps today …' but Stephen was already, once again, taking charge of the situation.

‘It's all right, I have to go anyway.' He touched Hilda's shoulder. ‘I'll be back tomorrow, all right?'

‘Oh, Good. Yes, all right, then. See you tomorrow.'

‘Get some rest tonight, won't you?'

She smiled wryly. ‘I'll try. Thanks for coming.'

‘My pleasure.' He patted the baby lightly. ‘Bye, Sam, look after Mum.' Then he was gone, nodding to Alice and the girls, and walking away down the ward.

Alice and Hilda looked at each other. ‘He's nice,' said Alice.

‘I know,' said Hilda shakily, feeling as if she were never going to see him again.

Alice touched the bunch of flowers on the bed. ‘Did he bring these? Shall I put them in water?'

‘You could. I haven't even looked at them, what are they?'

‘Chrysanths.' Alice drew the paper aside, revealing tight heads of bronze and yellow. She looked again at the baby, and her face was filled with longing. ‘He does look like a Sam. Can I hold him for a minute?'

‘Of course.' But as Hilda made to pass him over Annie said loudly: ‘I want a pee.'

‘Oh. Oh, all right.' Alice picked up the flowers. ‘Come on, we'll go to the loo, and we can find a vase at the same time.'

‘I think they're at opposite ends of the ward,' said Hilda wearily, as if it were she who were going to have to make the monumental effort of finding both.

‘I'll do the flowers,' said Hettie, picking them up. ‘Please – can I?' ‘Of course.'

Hilda lay watching them all go off, Alice and Annie hand-in-hand towards the lavatories, and Hettie, bearing the flowers, up towards the sluice at the far end. In her arms the baby stirred again, screwing up his face. And now I suppose he wants changing, she thought; when they've gone I'll take him along to the nursery. The nursery, too, felt an unbreachable distance away; she felt as if she would never get off the bed and walk again.