Keeping Secrets (24 page)

From the kitchen there came the comforting sound of the tea trolley being manoeuvred into the ward by a tiny Filipino woman in green. And there, overtaking it, was Tony, hurrying in his ungainly way towards her, smiling and waving like everyone else – but, unlike everyone else, someone whom Hilda felt, with a wave of relief, that she could trust unaffectedly, unreservedly, with whom there was no need, or reason, to put on any kind of act.

‘Hilda.' He kissed her, and sat down beside her. ‘How are you?' he asked kindly. ‘How was it?'

‘Terrible,' said Hilda, and began to cry.

‘Oh, dear.' Tony put his arm round her, comforting and understanding, and Alice, leading Annie, came out of the doorway to the bathroom, saw them, and stopped, and stood watching.

Hilda, not seeing her, went on crying, but couldn't explain, not even to Tony, that it wasn't simply because Stephen had gone and she was tired, and uncomfortable, but because, while everyone else was exclaiming over her baby and his perfection; she herself felt nothing for him at all.

‘The only thing that's wrong,' said the night sister calmly, ‘is a little bit of postnatal depression.'

‘I don't feel depressed,' said Hilda. ‘I don't feel anything. That's what's so awful.'

The ward was dark and quiet; apart from her own overhead lamp, beyond the curtains pulled around her bed was only the dim light of the nurses'desk, and most of the mothers were sleeping. Up at the far end, the nursery was brightly lit by neon: Sam had been wheeled up there in his crib, to join the other babies, so that Hilda could rest. She couldn't rest. She had been found sitting in her bedside chair looking blankly at the spot on the opposite wall.

‘It's not unusual, you know,' said the sister, who had got her into bed, given her a pill and drawn the curtains. ‘You had a difficult labour, didn't you – sometimes it does take a while to love the baby after that.' She was a tall, capable-looking woman, who stood at the end of the bed saying all the right things, but it seemed to Hilda as though she were doing only that – reciting the symptoms of a condition to reassure her patient, because that was what you did, not because she was telling the truth. The truth, Hilda felt, was that she would never love her baby, and that the sister knew this, and inwardly condemned her.

‘Were you able to talk to your husband about it?'

She wanted to say: ‘I haven't got a bloody husband. How many times do I have to tell you all?' But it felt like another enormous effort, to have to explain all that again, and anyway, she knew they knew. It was easier to fall into line.

‘No,' she said tiredly, ‘I wasn't.'

‘Well, perhaps tomorrow … Now you try and get some sleep, and don't worry.'

Hilda took off her glasses, and laid them on the bedside cabinet, next to the plastic water jug and a worn copy of
Baby Child
which Alice had left for her. She herself had brought no baby books, packing in her suitcase
Oscar and Lucinda:
she had imagined lying in her hospital bed and reading, while her beautiful daughter slept beside her.

‘When am I going home?'

‘We'll see how you get on. Probably another couple of days. Now – sleep! Switch that light off!' The sister went out, leaving the curtains drawn, and Hilda lay listening to her rubber-soled footsteps, walking back to the desk, and the soft rustle of pages in a file of notes. A baby in the nursery began to cry, a door was opened and closed, a lavatory flushed. Then it went quiet again, and Hilda, with her lamp still on, began to feel soothed and safe, cocooned in her little square of curtained room. I am a ship far out at sea, she thought, yawning, a single light in the darkness; I am making a voyage in calm waters. With a tiny part of herself she was aware that this new, unworried state of drowsy contentment had been brought about by the pill the sister had given her; she registered it but did not let it trouble her – it was enough to begin to drift peacefully at last, out across this dark and welcoming sea, leaving on a distant shore the figure of Stephen, walking away, and the baby, who had forgiven her.

‘Mrs King? Mrs King? Sorry to wake you, dear …'

Beside the bed the small Mauritian night nurse was shaking Hilda's shoulder, gentle but insistent. ‘Your baby's crying, he needs a feed. Shall I bring him to you, or do you want to come up to the nursery?'

‘I …' Hilda turned away, craving to be left alone, to drown in sleep.

‘Come on, dear. He has to be fed.'

‘Okay. Bring him here.'

The little nurse walked away, and Hilda fell instantly asleep again.

Another night. Two later? Three later? Hilda wasn't sure, but she thought three, and she knew it was half-past two in the morning because there was a large clock on the wall of the neon-lit nursery, where Sam, as every night, was refusing to go down, a phrase with which she had only recently become acquainted but which she felt she had been using all her life. She sat with him on her lap, face down as she jiggled her knees, patting his back and yawning.

The over-heated nursery, with its windows on to the ward, its sweetish smell of disposable nappies, had become an entire world, the only world, a place of panic and safety, crisis and resolution. Whatever happened beyond its walls, and certainly beyond the walls of the hospital, was no longer of interest: everything that mattered, or could ever matter, was played out here, where among the ‘ordinary'babies lay one waiting for adoption, and another born with a bloodstream full of heroin; another, two months premature, was in a unit downstairs on a life-support machine. His mother was Bengali, a smiling, sweet-faced, deaf-and-dumb woman, who from time to time stood outside the windows of the nursery, and tapped on the glass. She made gestures to the mothers inside: my baby is very ill; soon he will be better; soon I hope he will come up here, with your nice healthy babies. Hilda and the others nodded and smiled. As life outside was no longer important, so the lack of words did not really matter everyone knew, everyone understood.

It seemed to Hilda as if she had existed before now in a state of perfect ignorance, not realising that the whole meaning and purpose of life was to be found here and only here, this discovery made even though she still felt numb, and without warmth. She was driven by an exhausted sense of duty, all the more powerful for being without emotion: if I cannot love, I must feign love. When I long for sleep I must hold and comfort and feed, because that is what mothers do. Had she been able to love her baby she might have been able to bring her resentment at this martyrdom to the surface, to say bluntly: I've had enough, take him away, I need a break. As it was, to have said that would have felt like murder: I don't love him, and I won't look after him. Instead, she was going through the motions, and Sam, at least in the daytime, was doing all right.

She yawned again, and felt him peaceful and floppy now, no longer restless. Cautiously she bent over him, touching his cheek, tensing herself in case he woke and began to cry again. But he didn't, and she carefully put him on to her shoulder and got up, walking slowly back to his crib.

‘Gone off now?' asked the nursery night nurse, looking round from the cupboard, where she was tidying vests, and Hilda nodded, gently lowering Sam on to the mattress. There. She'd done it. She tucked the white blanket firmly round him, and straightened up, as tiny Daisy, in the crib beside him, stirred and began to cry.

‘What's the matter, flowerpot?' The night nurse closed the cupboard door and came over. She was a large, comfortable Scotswoman with wiry hair and glasses; she patted Daisy with a big red hand, and looked at her chart.

‘This little girl needs a feed. Don't you worry, petal, I'll be getting your mother in a moment.' She smiled at Hilda. ‘Isn't she a sweetheart? And look, Daisy, here she is already. What a good mum.'

Hilda turned to see the glass door being pushed open, and Jane from the next bed came in, bleary-eyed.

‘I heard her crying, I knew it was her. Hello, Daisy, it's all right, I'm here.'

She picked her up and sat on a hard grey chair, opening her nightgown. ‘Here we are, then, here we go, that's a good girl.' Jane had bare feet, and wore a man's paisley dressing gown; as Daisy settled into her feed she pushed back fine, tousled hair and smiled at Hilda, sleepily.

‘Still here?'

‘Just off,' said Hilda. ‘He's asleep now.'

‘Well done.' Jane yawned. ‘I don't think Daisy'll be long, she usually goes straight back. Don't you, Daisy?' She bent over her again, tenderly stroking a creased fist. And she means it all, thought Hilda, watching; she doesn't have to put on an act. How do I know? I just do.

‘Do either of you ladies want a cup of tea?' asked the nurse.

Hilda shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I'm going back to bed.'

Jane looked up again. ‘See you in the morning.'

Hilda nodded. ‘Goodnight.' She made her way back down the darkened ward, past the rows of sleeping mothers.

In the morning, at breakfast, Jane said: ‘I think we're going home today.'

‘Are you?' Hilda sipped her tea. ‘You must be pleased.'

Jane nodded, reaching across the Formica table for cold toast. ‘Can't wait. It'll be confirmed when they do the rounds, but I'm sure it's okay. They were worried about Daisy's weight, but she's gaining now.' She unpeeled a foil-wrapped rectangle of butter. Hilda watched, wondering about her life. I like you, she thought; you interest me.

‘What about you?' Jane asked. ‘When're you going?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I think they're keeping an eye.'

Jane looked up from her toast. ‘Why? Sam's doing fine, isn't he?'

‘Oh, yes. It's just me –' Hilda broke off, not wanting to explain. ‘Anyway,' she said, ‘Daisy's two days older, isn't she? So you're bound to be going home earlier.' She picked up the teapot, searching for distraction. ‘D'you want another cup?'

‘No, thanks.'

At the end of the table the two mothers of second babies, who had found each other early on, pushed back their chairs and went off to the dayroom. Jane said: ‘You are all right, aren't you?' She had clear skin and a high colour, always, as if she had a temperature, or had been running.

‘Oh, yes,' said Hilda, ‘fine.' She pushed back her own chair and got up. ‘I'm going to have a bath – this is the one time I know Sam'll sleep. See you later – and good luck. I hope they let you go.'

‘Thanks.'

Later, bathed and lying on her bed with the paper and a cup of coffee, Hilda realised she was feeling better. Stronger. Mornings were usually a good time, anyway, full of other people's activity. With Sam sleeping beside her, she watched the doctors come down the ward, bed by bed. She saw them stop by the one occupied by the deaf-and-dumb Bengali woman which was empty, because she was downstairs in the special unit, where her baby had grown much worse. They looked at her chart, and moved on, and when they reached Jane's bed they all smiled, seeing Daisy wide awake, sucking her fist. Everyone loved Daisy. Hilda studied the headlines, not wanting to eavesdrop. A pleasure boat had gone down on the Thames, rammed by a dredger, drowning dozens; Thatcher wondered if there were so many disasters these days because people had more money to spend on leisure. Hilda felt a quickening of anger, and thought: I must be feeling better. Two or three days ago I wouldn't even have been reading this.

The doctors were by her bed, clearing throats.

‘And how are you feeling today?'

‘Fine, thank you.' She put down the paper. ‘When am I going home?'

‘Getting restless?'

‘A bit.'

‘And how's the baby doing?'

‘All right, I think. He's very wakeful at night, but …' She spread her hands: this was her lot, no problem.

One of the doctors, a woman in her thirties, bent over the crib. ‘He's a lovely baby, you're doing very well with him.' She straightened up. ‘What about home? What about nights at home?'

No ‘Mrs King'now, Hilda noted; this was the time for straight talking. ‘I'll manage,' she said.

‘Sure?' The doctor touched her shoulder, with a hand which wore a diamond solitaire and a wedding ring. ‘It can be a little bit tough on your own. Do you really think you're ready to go?'

Hilda flushed, feeling patronised. ‘Yes.'

‘And the first few days – the rejection …'

‘I didn't reject him,' she said coldly. ‘I just didn't feel … how I thought I was going to feel.'

‘And now?'

‘Now it's all right,' she said flatly. And all at once the safe, enclosed world of the hospital felt like a prison, where she was forced to tell lies to survive, and be released.

‘Okay.' The doctor made a note, and moved away to join the others at the end of the bed. ‘You can go home on Saturday,' she said. ‘But please – don't hesitate to tell us if you're not feeling well enough, will you?'

‘No,' said Hilda, pushing her glasses up her nose. ‘Thank you.' Saturday, she thought: how is Stephen going to manage to stay down here that long?

In the afternoon she lay watching Jane, dressed for the first time in a week, packing her suitcase. She wore jeans and a loose T-shirt and gymshoes and had brushed her hair; she looked like a happy schoolgirl.

‘Where do you live?' asked Hilda.

Jane snapped shut the suitcase. ‘I was going to ask you that. Shall we keep in touch?'

‘That would be nice.' Hilda felt in her locker, and wrote the address and phone number in her notebook, tearing out the page.

‘Thanks.' Jane looked at it. ‘Oh, it's not so far, we're in Abney Road – do you know it?' She wrote the address and telephone number on the back of an envelope. ‘Ring me, or I'll ring you. Daisy'd like to play with Sam, wouldn't you, Daisy?'