Rock a Bye Baby (35 page)

Sally grumbled a reluctant agreement. ‘Stupid though,’ she added with ill-disguised envy. ‘Fancy getting herself knocked up and sent here.’

‘Yes. Stupid,’ said Marcie, throwing Sally a knowing look. ‘Just like us.’

Their eyes met. There was no denying that they were of the same opinion. Although as roundly pregnant as they were, Allegra was beautiful. Her eyes
were a greenish-grey, odd in such a dusky skin, and her hair was glossy and black. Her clothes were out of this world.

‘Did you see the stuff she’s got? Clothes like hers cost a packet,’ Sally said suddenly.

Marcie agreed and hid her smile. Sally did not dislike Allegra; she was jealous of her.

She left the magazine lying open on the bed and looked out of the window. An oak tree with a very stout trunk held her gaze. A wrought-iron seat circled its base. She found herself wondering at the skill needed to make such a thing. A stupid thought really. What did it matter?

Sally slid off the bed. ‘How about we take a look at what she’s got in there?’

There was a hint of schoolgirl wickedness in Sally’s eyes.

‘You can’t go prying!’

Sally shrugged. ‘I won’t take anything. But I’m curious. I bet I’m right. She’s got such lovely things. Her family must be worth a fortune. Did you see the car she came in? Chauffeur driven. No bumping along on a bloody bus like us. Doesn’t it make you wonder though? I mean, why is she here? Why didn’t her parents pay for her to get rid of it?’

‘Perhaps she’s Catholic,’ said Marcie. Just like me, she wanted to add. But she didn’t. Sally was right. It did seem a bit strange that Allegra was here at all.

‘You can nosy if you like, but count me out,’ she said.

Sally sniffed, got back onto the bed and dabbed the last morsel of varnish onto her little finger. ‘Wouldn’t hurt to ask if she’s got anything spare, though, would it?’

The object of their conversation chose that moment to re-enter the room. She glanced at them over her shoulder as she reached with long, graceful arms into one of the pigskin suitcases. After some careful delving she extricated a green silk kimono-style dressing gown.

Sally opened her mouth to make a comment, but someone knocked at the door, then pushed it open. A head appeared.

‘You’re wanted downstairs in the surgery for examination. Bring your dressing gowns.’ The woman’s gaze dropped to Allegra’s dressing gown. ‘You might as well go first seeing as you’ve got yours ready. Follow me.’

Allegra’s astonishing eyes were like twin moons as she glanced over her shoulder.

Marcie glimpsed the look in her eyes: a resigned compliance mixed with apprehension.

The dressing gown rustled as she folded it over her arm. Sally eyed it enviously before Allegra swept out of the room.

‘Marilyn Monroe was wearing one just like it in a film I saw,’ she whispered to Marcie.

Marcie didn’t answer. Her gaze had shifted back to the oak tree. She wished she was home, the house noisy with the shouts of her half-brothers, the smell of thick stew filling the tiny kitchen.

It was Saturday morning and as usual Rosa Brooks was sitting at the kitchen table contemplating the job in hand. The framed photographs had been taken down from the mantelpiece and were lined up in front of her along with the silver polish and two dusters.

She eyed each of them one by one – the sepia print of her parents, stiffly posed as though to move or smile might bring rebuke from the Almighty Himself. Her gaze went to her husband, young and handsome in his naval uniform, her son and present daughter-in-law on their wedding day, and her grandchildren. The sight of them pained her. She had not managed to hold the family together and she wished she had someone to confide in. There was only one other person she had truly ever confided in.

Her eyes went back to her husband’s photo. A part of her had died with him. Did she really talk with him or was she deluding herself?

Since living in an empty house of late, she’d asked herself that question on a number of occasions. Did she really have a gift for seeing and hearing what
others did not, or was it merely the fancy of an old and increasingly lonely woman?

She feared the latter most of all. The house echoed without her family to rattle its old walls and she wouldn’t be the first old woman to be considered mad because she continually talked to herself.

Her son, Antonio, had been transferred from the London hospital to the one in Dales Road close to the Abbey. She’d visited him almost every day, trying to convince him to move back in with her.

‘Babs won’t come back to me if I do,’ he’d told her. ‘But don’t worry. I’ll be over to cut the lawns and do any odd jobs you want, don’t you worry your head about that.’

She hadn’t been worrying her head about the lawns at all. She got up from the table and looked out to where her cockerels used to live. Her son had filled it with tools and things he assured her were of use to him.

She eyed the shed with misgivings. Getting rid of the chickens and tearing it down had been a whim that had come to her in the middle of the night. She’d presumed it was Cyril telling her to get rid of them. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.

Brooding on thoughts of the past, she went to a locked drawer in the old bureau she kept under the stairs. Layers of tissue paper protected small family mementos such as a baptismal bonnet, baby’s bootees, a pressed flower from Mary’s wedding bouquet, and a
photograph of Mary and her son on their wedding day.

Her first inclination had been to tear it up when she learned that Mary had run away with another man. But something, perhaps Cyril’s voice, had bid her stay her hand, even though she’d stressed how angry she was that her son had had to sue for desertion and become divorced. They were Catholics for goodness’ sake!

Not too sure of what the truth was, she’d relegated the grainy photograph to the drawer.

Her old fingers traced Mary’s lovely features that so resembled those of her granddaughter, Marcie.

‘Where are you now?’ she whispered.

She wasn’t just talking about Mary. Marcie too had run away.

Her reverie was interrupted by a loud knocking at the back door. In her hurry to answer it, she placed everything back into the drawer but left it unlocked.

Garth was standing there with his mouth open. He looked expectant but also nervous, not unusual for a poor soul used to being rejected. A roll of creamy creased paper was tucked beneath his arm.

‘What is it, Garth?’

Pleased that he hadn’t been turned away, his face burst into instant animation.

‘I’ve brought you some of my drawings – new drawings,’ he corrected himself.

Rosa opened the door wide. ‘Come on in. Sit down.’

She made tea as he made himself comfortable, glad to have someone visit even if it was only Garth.

She set the tea in front of him along with a plateful of digestive biscuits.

‘So what have you got to show me?’

His latest portfolio of pictures was still rolled up on the table. The family photographs in their silver frames had caught his attention.

‘Who’s that?’

He was pointing to the photograph of her parents.

‘My parents.’

‘Who’s that?’

This time he was pointing to one of her grandsons.

‘Archie,’ she said after a close squint to make sure she had the right one. ‘I think he was just nine months in that photo.’

Garth went through the whole series of photographs with the exception of her husband.

Rosa began to get impatient. ‘What have you been drawing, Garth?’

Beaming with delight, Garth unrolled the sheath of paper.

Rosa noticed the smell of ox liver and saw the smear of blood on one corner.

‘Marcie and the man,’ said Garth.

Rosa looked at the drawing. Marcie appeared to be walking along the pavement and a pale-green car appeared to be following her.

Garth’s other drawings – the one of her own chicken coup and the one of Marcie alone in the house – had unnerved her. This drawing unnerved her even more.

‘Do you know this man?’ she asked Garth.

Garth nodded vigorously. Biscuit crumbs fell from his shirt collar and onto his moth-eaten pullover.

‘The man who took us to the pictures. It wasn’t a cowboy,’ he added disappointedly.

Rosa felt a cold chill overcome her. She didn’t really need to know who this man was. She was also beginning to piece things together regarding the night when Mary, her son’s first wife, had run away.

There’d been an argument. Alan Taylor had come round and persuaded her son to be calm.

She hadn’t been party to all that was said and done. Less than five years old, Marcie had been ill in bed with suspected scarlet fever. That fact alone had made her turn her face against Mary. How could a mother run off when her daughter was so sick?

She sighed. ‘Garth. Have another cup of tea. Would you like more biscuits?’

Garth said that he would.

As he gobbled down her whole stock of digestives, he went through sheet after sheet of drawings.

Rosa wasn’t really seeing them – she was seeing instead the events of that night in a clearer perspective. Why now, she asked herself?

She vowed that once Antonio was out of hospital
she would tackle him about the happenings of that night. In the meantime she forced her attention back to Garth and his vividly coloured artwork.

‘And this is Marcie coming home.’

Rosa made no comment. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Garth, this dearly imperfect soul, was telling her that her granddaughter would be coming home. She believed that too.

‘Are you staying to help with the polishing, Garth? I am also having mutton stew for lunch. Would you like to stay and help me with that too?’

A fresh trail of saliva poured from the side of Garth’s sagging mouth. There was no need for a verbal response. He began polishing, his tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth, aiding his concentration.

Picking up Cyril’s photograph, Rosa frowned as a sudden thought came to her. ‘Garth, you did not ask me who this was?’

Garth’s face was a picture of concentration. His eyes slid briefly sidelong before going back to his polishing.

‘Him. The man who comes with you when you visit my mum.’

Rosa sat stunned.

She finally found her voice.

‘Is he here? Now?’

‘No. He’s with Marcie.’

Pilemarsh Abbey bore more than a passing resemblance to a workhouse or prison. Gothic carvings snaked around doorways, dark panelling cloaked the walls and there was no electricity on the upper floor. Ugly suits of armour hammered into shape by nineteenth-century industrialists rather than medieval blacksmiths stood in alcoves or stairwells, giving the place a malignant, brooding atmosphere. The windows were their eyes on the world outside the sombre walls, rattling when the wind whistled through the gaps.

It was Marcie’s turn to be examined. The heavy oak staircase led down to the brown pool of lino that was the reception hall. Immediately opposite, an arrow on a black and white sign pointed to the surgery, matron’s office and doctor’s office. To the right, fixed to a double doorway beside an oil painting of a woman wearing an old-fashioned riding habit, was another sign saying ‘Delivery Rooms’.

She shivered at the prospect of what was to come. She so wanted it over, for the months to whiz past and resume her normal life – whatever that meant.

She swept off to the left, found the right door and entered.

The surgery’s walls were painted in the most putrid shade of eau de nil; enamel-framed screens were folded loosely in one corner and a metal-framed trolley squeaked when a nurse wheeled it close to the examination couch. Staff, surroundings and furniture all smelled of carbolic.

She was ordered to take off her clothes behind the screen and to put on her dressing gown.

‘Lay down, please.’

She heaved herself onto the accommodation couch.

The doctor had a baby face and pale hair. The merest hint of a moustache shadowed his top lip and she fancied he’d purposely deepened his voice in a bid to be taken more seriously.

His hands trembled slightly as he approached her. Eyeing him sidelong, she tried to deduce what his problem was.

Drink?

Stress?

She couldn’t believe that examining the bellies of young girls could lead to the latter, though there might be a case to answer for the former.

She shivered, and not just because her dressing gown was rolled up and a sheet placed across her stomach was pulled down.

‘Have you given Nurse a water sample?’

The doctor was addressing the nurse as he said it …
as though I’ve lost my voice.

The nurse, her headgear as stiff and broad as a starched tablecloth, answered that she had and that the sugar test was negative.

The doctor made a humphing sound – something halfway between approval and ‘What have we here?’

The hands that pressed around the perimeter of her swollen belly were cold as ice. She grimaced. He hadn’t attempted to warm them beforehand, and neither had he apologised.

His voice slid an octave higher as he looked into her face. ‘A few days and it will be all over. A fortnight after that you can leave here and forget it ever happened.’

Forget it? How could she forget it?

But you will, she told herself. You have to.

Turning her face to the wall she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed it was all a dream. When she opened them again, nothing had changed. What had she expected?

At last the prodding finished.

‘Be sure to see the receptionist on the way out,’ said the doctor, his pink cheeks glowing in his round, chubby face as he smiled. ‘She will pass you a set of rules and information.’

It was the first time a smile had lifted his baby boy
features before he resumed scribbling copious notes. The smile was tight and not really for her, merely the satisfaction of a man with too many patients and not enough time to deal with them all properly.

Sally was sitting outside the door.

‘So what is it? A baby or just fresh-baked bread making you a bit bloated?’ said Sally.