Keeping Secrets (25 page)

They looked at each other, and laughed. ‘I never thought I'd be so soppy,' said Jane, passing the envelope.

‘And here's your chap,' said Hilda. ‘Have a nice homecoming.'

‘And you.' Jane picked up Daisy, and slipped her into a travelling nest as her husband came up beside her, whistling. He was tall and thin, with cropped fair hair and an earring; Hilda waved as they made their way down to the double doors, and the nurses flocked to say goodbye to Daisy. She picked up the paper again, and tried to read.

‘And now,' said the sister, stopping by the bed at tea time. ‘I hear you're leaving us too.'

‘Yes,' said Hilda, manoeuvring Sam into position for his feed.

‘And who is going to be with you? Who's going to see you home?'

‘Um – I'm not quite sure at the moment.'

‘Someone,' said the sister firmly, ‘has got to take you out of here and look after you when you get home.'

‘Yes,' said Hilda.

‘Move forward a bit,' said Tony, from the bottom of the steps. ‘I seem to be cutting off your head. That's it, right, now turn him so we can see his face … Okay, smile!' Hilda smiled, and the camera clicked; behind her, she was conscious of Anya, holding open the door, discreetly keeping out of the way. ‘And one with Anya,' she said to Tony.

‘Of course. Come on, Anya, stop hiding in the shadows.'

‘And one with us in,' said Hettie, who was stroking the marmalade cat. ‘And the cat.'

‘The whole caboodle,' said Tony, stepping back and bumping into Alice, who was holding Annie's hand. ‘Sorry, Alice. Okay – one with Anya, one with all of you, and that's it.'

‘Then there isn't one with you,' said Annie.

‘Never mind. Right – Hilda and Anya. Here we go.'

‘I am not at all photogenic,' said Anya, squinting into the sun.

‘Do you want to hold him?' Hilda asked. ‘Go on – take him.'

‘You don't mind?'

‘Of course not.'

Anya carefully took the sleeping baby, and at once relaxed, smiling down at him. ‘You are home, now, Sam.' She straightened the striped cotton vest which had once belonged to Annie. Hilda shook her arms, hot and sticky from holding him all the way home in the car, watching Hettie, who was bending to pick up the cat.

‘Hilda – look at me, okay, hold it!' And Tony snapped again. ‘Right, now, everyone up the steps!'

A week or so later, Hilda pinned these photographs up on the board in her kitchen, reflecting on how a stranger might see them: Sam and his mother, lovingly cradling him; Sam being held by his grandmother, while his mother stood apart; Sam and his mother and grandmother, aunt and cousins, a united, happy family. And where was Sam's father? Ah, yes – the tall, balding man in glasses, standing close to Hilda, who was holding the baby again, smiling at the camera, the photo taken this time by Alice, at the girls' insistence. ‘We must have one with Daddy in!'

There isn't one which tells the truth, she thought, pinning up this last, and then went to Sam, who was fretful.

Months afterwards, when everyone's lives had changed – utterly, irrevocably – she was to look at them again, finding it then all the more painful that it should have been Tony, not Stephen, who had been there to bring her and Sam home, and make it a proper event.

The afternoon sun beat down on the square; even in the shade of the portico the girls were too hot, and the marmalade cat, uncomfortable in Hettie's arms, leapt down and into the cool of the hall.

‘Come inside,' said Hilda, trying to manage Sam and her suitcase.

‘Here,' said Alice, ‘I'll take it. Or shall I take Sam?'

‘You take Sam and I'll take the case,' said Tony, behind them all. ‘Go on, Annie, move, please, never mind about the cat.'

‘Perhaps,' said Anya, as they all trooped inside, ‘the children would like to play in the garden. They can have a drink out there.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Hettie, and Annie turned to Alice.

‘You come, too.'

‘All right, just for a minute. Then I'm sure Hilda will want Sam upstairs.' They all followed Anya through the door to her sitting room, where the french windows at the far end stood open, on to the terrace. Hilda and Tony, left in the hall with her camera and suitcase, looked at each other.

‘Well,' said Hilda, ‘come on up. I'll put the kettle on.'

They slowly climbed the stairs to the top of the house, Hilda leading the way, up the old flower-patterned carpet, past the fading brown photographs in dark frames. She looked at it all again with pleasure, feeding, now she was back, on the thought that there was, in reality, a world outside the hospital which did have meaning, and interest, and nothing to do with babies.

‘I'm swinging like a yo-yo,' she said aloud. ‘I don't know what I think about anything any more.'

They reached the broad landing, both panting a little. ‘Glad to be back though?' asked Tony.

‘Very.' But when they climbed the narrower stairs to the attic, and she took out her key to unlock the door, she had a flash of recollection: of doing this the first time Stephen had come here, and she was pierced by a longing for him so powerful that she almost wept.

‘Okay?'

‘Yes.' She turned the key with difficulty, and pushed open the door.

Inside, the flat was hot and stuffy, and looked like a different place from the one she had left in the middle of the night, barely a week ago. She opened the sitting room windows; she filled the kettle.

‘Mind if I help myself?' asked Tony, opening the fridge. ‘Is there any juice or anything?'

‘I don't know,' she said, lighting the gas. ‘Is there?'

‘No. Never mind.' He straightened up again, and ran a glass of water. ‘Ye gods, it's hot.'

Hilda looked round the little kitchen, wondering what she was going to give everyone for tea; what she was going to have for supper. She supposed she should have taken up Anya's offer to shop, but in the confines of the ward she hadn't been able to think about shopping, and Anya was too tactful to do it without a list. I'll have Weetabix, she thought, if someone will get some milk. God, is there any milk for tea?

Tony drained his glass, and put it down on the worktop. ‘You look worried.'

‘You couldn't organise a pint of milk, could you? Sorry – I'm just not together yet …'

‘Of course you're not. It's all right, I'll go and get some. Anything else you want?'

‘Probably. I can't think what, that's the trouble.' She wandered out, into the bedroom where Sam's white crib – Hettie and Annie's crib – stood beside the double bed, made up with a clean cotton mattress cover and quilt. That, at least, was ready. She went to the window, and opened it wide, looking down to where the girls stood, somewhat at a loss in this grown-up swingless patch of garden; Alice and Anya were sitting at the table, sipping drinks, admiring Sam. Hilda had seen Alice with a baby so often, and she looked now with Sam so at home that for a weird moment she lost all sense of him as her own child. Perhaps everything that had happened in the past week had happened to someone else, and now she could forget about it, and go back to work.

‘Hello, you lot,' she called down, casually, as if all were just as it should be, on an ordinary summer afternoon, with the family visiting. They all looked up, and then Sam began to cry. At once, Hilda felt both the familiar tingling in her breasts and a sensation in the pit of her stomach as if a wire ran between them and he was tugging at it, urgent and desperate.

‘Okay,' she called, ‘I'm coming,' and found herself running to the door.

‘What about nappies?' Tony asked, stepping out of her way. ‘Do you want –'

‘Oh, God, yes,' she said, stopping. ‘I hadn't thought of that, I must be mad.' She could hear Sam's cries, louder and closer, rising to a pitch: Alice must be bringing him into the house.

‘Calm down,' he said firmly. ‘It's all right, you can't think of everything, you've got enough on your plate.'

Hilda opened the flat door. She could hear Hettie's footsteps, steady and slow, climbing the stairs. ‘It's all right,' she called up, sounding just like her father, ‘Mummy's bringing Sam.' She came round the corner at the bottom. ‘I think he wants some tea.'

‘I think we could all do with that,' said Tony, as Sam's cries turned to screams. ‘Go on,' he said to Hilda, ‘you sort Sam out, and I'll sort out everything else.'

‘Thanks,' said Hilda again, unbuttoning her shirt as Alice came up the stairs to the door, making soothing noises. Hilda took Sam from her and went to the chair by the window, where she sat feeding him for what felt like the rest of the afternoon, while around her other people did things.

‘You are
still
feeding him?' said Anya, passing round slices of sponge cake.

‘He seems to want it,' said Hilda.

‘Of course he does,' said Alice. ‘He's thirsty, isn't he, in this heat?'

‘But perhaps some boiled water,' Anya said. ‘Otherwise he will get fat.'

‘I haven't got a bottle,' said Hilda. ‘Anyway, I'm feeding on demand, now I'm home.'

‘On demand,' Anya repeated weightily, and unspoken words about spoiling, and starting as you mean to go on hung in the air.

‘I fed Hettie and Annie on demand,' said Alice, a touch defensively.

Anya shook her head doubtfully. ‘Liba was fed every four hours; she settled down very quickly.'

‘Mummy,' said Annie, tugging at Alice's hand. ‘When can we
go?
'

‘We're going in a minute,' said Tony, finishing his tea. ‘Don't whine, there's a good chap.'

‘I'm not a chap. Sam's a chap.'

‘So he is. Nice to have another one in the family.' He got up, scratching his head. ‘All right now?' he asked Hilda. ‘Milk, nappies, bread, butter, fruit juice – that'll tide you over, won't it?'

She nodded. ‘You've been wonderful. Thanks.'

‘Annie!' snapped Alice. ‘Will you please
stop
pulling at me! Come on, Tony.'

They trooped out one by one, saying goodbye. No one kissed Hilda, as if, in feeding Sam, she were doing something so intimate that it was not quite decent to come any closer. Except for Hettie, who came over and patted the top of Sam's head. ‘Can I change him?'

‘Next time. Bye, Hettie, thanks for coming.'

‘Bye.'

‘Ring me if you need anything, won't you?' said Alice.

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Don't you worry,' said Anya, piling the tea things on to a tray. ‘I will keep an eye.'

When they had all gone, trooping down the stairs, Sam, at last, stopped sucking. His head fell away from Hilda's breast, his cheeks flushed and damp; he lay in the crook of her arm with his hands half-uncurled, absolutely still, like a doll's hands. She drew a long breath, and leaned back in the chair, feeling a great relief that everyone had gone. Outside, down in the dusty square, she could hear the car doors slam, and Tony starting the engine. Even with the windows wide open it was still stifling up here; she closed her eyes, listening to them drive away.

There were footsteps on the stairs, a tap at the door.

‘Hilda?'

‘Yes?'

‘Let me know if you want anything.'

‘I will.'

‘Can I cook you some supper?'

‘No, thanks. I'll be fine.'

‘I'll leave you in peace, then.' Reproachful footsteps down the stairs again; the sound of Anya's sitting room door being closed. Slowly Hilda opened her eyes again, and carefully got out of the chair. She carried Sam into the bedroom, and lowered him into the fresh white crib; she stood looking down at him for a moment, willing him not to wake. He didn't even twitch.

‘Good,' she said, ‘you stay there. I'm going to have a bath now, I shan't be long.'

While the water was running she undressed and unpacked, putting clean baby clothes into the airing cupboard, her nightdresses and his used vests into the washing machine. Then she went and lay in the bath, swishing the water gently up and down, rejoicing in the peace and stillness of being home again, with no one else's babies, no one waiting to use the bathroom, no more hospital meals. With Sam asleep, the taut, urgent sense of connection slackened, and with it some of the shaming numbness and the guilt. Perhaps it'll be better now we're home, she thought, and sat up, reaching for the bottle of shampoo.

Afterwards, she wandered about in her dressing gown, brushing her damp hair. She made a bowl of Weetabix and grated apple, which was somehow just what she felt like, and ate it watching the news, yawning all the way through. I'd better get some sleep, she thought, when it was finished; I'll change Sam and go to bed. But when she got up and switched off the television the flat seemed suddenly much too quiet, and what had before felt peaceful now felt only empty.

It was growing dark. Hilda crossed the room and drew the curtains; she switched on her desk lamp; she picked up the photograph of her parents and found herself kissing it, with tears in her eyes. I wanted everyone to go, she thought, as she put it down again, and now I want someone to be with me. Not someone – Stephen, that's all. I want him to be here, bringing me a drink in bed; to say that he loves us, to tell me I'll get better, that Sam's going to be all right. I want to go to sleep next to him. Surely, on this one night, he could have managed to stay.

She looked at her watch. Twenty to ten. What did Stephen and Miriam do at twenty to ten? If he's working, she thought, I could ring him, out in the studio. If Miriam answers, I'll just hang up. She reached for her address book, and checked the number; she hesitated, then picked up the telephone and began to dial, her heart beginning to race. With each turn of the dial, it felt as if the numbers were sending out little pulses of light, or like Morse, beating down the wire from an attic room in Hackney to a darkening country lane, a shadowy garden, illuminating the only places on the map which mattered. Norfolk, Woodburgh, Saxham. Stephen's house.