The Fruit of the Tree (17 page)

The uniformed officer who had interviewed us telephoned to say that the examination had shown that the death was from natural causes.

‘Inhalation of vomit, coupled with acute respiratory infection,’ he told Michael.

‘So it was the cold,’ I said, surprised, but relieved at the ‘natural causes’ verdict. Now at least, my fears of the further ordeal of an inquest could be put from my mind. But almost immediately it was replaced by a new guilt. Had I been negligent? Should I have taken the baby to the doctor? I was tortured by that particular thought for many months.

But in the meantime, I was aware that we had crossed a barrier; behind us the trauma of sudden, shocking, unexpected death, but now in front of us the normal trappings of death, which were not entirely unfamiliar to us; the arrangements and formalities in connection with the funeral. Michael had been told to call at the Coroner’s office for the death certificate now the postmortem result was known, and when he had obtained this, the next stage of the arrangements could be commenced.

While he was out, Robert’s good friends, the Goldsmiths, called to see me. The Goldsmiths were an elderly couple whom Robert had adopted as a spare local set of grandparents when Michael had put central heating in their house a year before. Some immediately recognised affinity had drawn Robert to them and vice versa, and the friendship had continued.

Now, as members of our family, albeit adopted, they came to commiserate, and Mrs. Goldsmith revealed for the first time that she too had lost a baby not more than a few days old. So here was yet another person who had survived—and whose joy in life radiated from her all the time, showing no signs of a past tragedy.

It would be dishonest to pretend that I could remember in detail the events of those few days. I remember ringing Ruth to tell her the news. I remember writing to Susan in Ireland, garishly in red ball-point, because there was no other pen handy at that moment, and breaking the news in a bald statement of no more than two or three lines. I recall too ringing another friend, Susan (our dentist’s wife), and asking her husband to break the news to her because she was expecting her own baby soon. I remember falling asleep on the floor, curled up in a patch of warm sunlight, when Michael left me alone in the house once, and I remember going with deliberate effort to make our bed, as if it were a mammoth task like climbing a mountain.

The day of fasting passed, and I hardly noticed it, and had little inclination to eat when it was over.

Michael’s mother was telephoned in Majorca, after much family discussion as to whether or not to tell her the news, and she returned home from a holiday that we already knew was giving her no pleasure.

The funeral was arranged for Friday, 1st October. Sonia rang me beforehand, weeping on the telephone.

‘Oh, please don’t cry, Sonia,’ I begged, feeling my own tears start.

‘You’re crying,’ she replied, accusingly.

‘Yes, I know, but that’s different,’ I said, and somehow, tears mixed with laughter, and we both found ourselves laughing and crying at the same time.

For the moment I was taken aback by Sonia’s next request—‘Please don’t go to the grounds, Jackie.’ She could not know that there were no horrors for me at the burial ground. I needed no protection from this. Nothing could be worse than what had already passed.

‘Oh, but I must Sonia.’

‘Please don’t,’ she asked again.

However much I wanted to please her there was no way I could accede to her request. I, only I, had known my baby Amanda nearly a year ago, felt her growing inside me, nurtured her, even then, in the womb. I had borne her and cared for her, all the days of her short life. And not for her sake, but for my own sake, I needed to be there with her at the end of her last journey.

‘Why not Sonia?’ I asked, still puzzled.

‘Because I ought to be with you, and I don’t want to go.’

So there was no real problem. I was relieved.

‘There’ll be plenty of women at the grounds, Sonia,’ I said. ‘There’s no need for you to be there. Anyway, someone has got to help Philippa, and look after the children.’

And this was no pretence, for Philippa, six months’ pregnant herself, had willingly undertaken to receive the family back at her house after the funeral, and Robert would remain with her. Selfishly, perhaps, I had imposed this burden on her, but I didn’t want her to suffer physically because of it.

Sonia, also relieved, was anxious to offer help in any way. A part of my brain that one might have imagined would have stopped functioning temporarily reminded me that Robert, growing fast, had practically no clothes to wear, neither for going away, nor for the day of the funeral, when he would be seen by friends and relations.

‘There is something you can do,’ I said, for I had no inclination now, to go shopping for clothes. ‘Buy a couple of pairs of shorts and shirts for Robert,’ and Sonia, given such a task, immediately became her usual self, practical and efficient, as we discussed sizes and colours.

Our neighbours Doug. and Beryl came over, and we wandered round the garden.

‘You’ve got the photographs,’ Beryl said. ‘I hope they help a little.’

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Yes, I had these few permanent reminders of Amanda’s tiny perfect features.

We examined the tomato plants whose blushing fruit we had been picking with excitement for several weeks. The leaves were faintly scorched by the first of the autumn frosts.

‘We’re going away,’ Michael told Doug. and Beryl. ‘Do take anything that’s any use, before the frosts ruin everything.’

‘We’ll keep an eye on things while you’re away,’ they promised.

‘We don’t seem to get any fruit on the trees,’ we said, pausing at the plum trees. Douglas seemed to think it might be our pruning. He clipped back the two plum trees to show us how it might be done. I watched with a feeling of unreality.

Friday, the day of the funeral dawned, and it was mild and sunny. Thank goodness, for Michael possessed no dark overcoat, and I was relieved that he would not have to wear his dreadful old suedette jacket.

Driving in the sunshine to the Jewish cemetery, in the now repaired car, it felt once again as if we were going for a day out. The Indian summer of the last few days had been out of accord with my black emotions. Yet when we arrived at the cemetery, I was grateful for the bright sky and brilliant sunshine, transforming that solemn place into a pleasant garden.

On occasions in the past I had been buffeted by winds and rain at unprotected cemeteries, and at worst they had been depressing, bleak places; but now I was aware of a sense of tranquillity. Always influenced by good and bad weather, I felt that this perfect autumn day had been arranged specially; it was like a sign that my daughter was welcomed and was at peace. Her grandfather was here too—Michael’s father—whom neither she nor I had ever met; but I was glad that he was here—if there was some meeting place, he would know her; he would care for her. The three days that had passed had been traumatic. Surely, the only thing that had protected my mind after such a shock was the unreality, the numbness, the feeling of being in contact with the outside world only through layers of cotton wool. But this day was not an ordeal. Here I was soothed by the familiar ritual, the recognisable pattern and the sight of relations and friends of many years.

The Minister stepped forwards and asked, ‘Are you the parents?’

I wondered how he knew, but I suppose we had that look—the empty eyes, revealing the mind that could not think for the pain of thinking. I had seen it myself—I had seen that look on the faces of Ruth and her mother six months ago. I had seen it on the face of an ex-neighbour whose wife was killed by a motorcyclist. And now I knew how it felt.

As we assembled in the anteroom for part of the service, I was asked if I had any particular wish. Little things become important at such a time. I asked if they could use the baby’s English name, Amanda, so that, despite much of the service being in Hebrew, I could recognise her name, when it was spoken.

There are no pallbearers at a Jewish funeral; the coffin is normally wheeled to the burial ground on a special trolley; but Amanda’s tiny coffin was carried by the Minister in his arms.

As he strode ahead of us, my mother reached out to take my arm, but I could not share this moment with anyone but my husband. Together, hand in hand, we walked through the sunshine following the Minister bearing aloft the body of our daughter, and finally stood still to witness the coffin being placed in the ground to join the other children of tragedy all around. The tears streamed unceasingly from my eyes as the men stepped forward to replace the earth. When Michael asked quietly if I wished to add a spadeful of earth, I shook my head. I remembered Ruth’s mother’s spontaneous gesture—the gesture of a woman who has no man to act for her. I could not compare myself to her who had lost both husband and daughter tragically and prematurely, and who had left behind who knows how many loved ones in Nazi Germany. Any imitation of that declaration of aloneness would merely be pretentious mimicry by me, who stood surrounded by loving family.

The Minister’s voice rang out—almost sternly: ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’

I did not recognise the words as the normal part of the Jewish burial service, but they were all too appropriate in our case. Amanda, much wanted, much welcomed daughter, given so recently, only to be snatched away. Amanda, ironically named after three dead great-grandparents. Who could have imagined that so speedily, so prematurely, she would join them? I could see no reason in it.

Back in the anteroom, Michael and I sat, whilst one by one our relatives and friends filed past, to bend and kiss us and utter the familiar words to mourners. ‘I wish you long life; I wish you long life,’ and as my elderly relatives greeted me, I was filled with bitterness and a sense of incongruity that my child should die, when so many lived to a great age, and felt that the roles should have been reversed and I should have been comforting one of them.

But as the Minister and other officials stood in front of me saying, ‘I wish you long life; you should have “nuchas”’ (the joy that your children bring), I saw in their eyes that it was not wrong to yearn for another child, and for a moment, my heart held some hope and I wondered if I dared to dream that dream.

Philippa’s mother-in-law was helping at the house; as we walked in, she covered her face with her hands.

‘I can’t speak,’ she said emotionally, and turning away she fled to the kitchen.

Those good people; they all shared our grief in their different ways. They did not know our baby, would not remember her as a character, a personality, nor would they miss her from their lives.

But they were there in love, in affection for us. And though soon their conversation would turn to their own family news, to their businesses, their work, their financial problems, I was thankful and grateful for their presence, for the buzz of conversation that blotted out thought, and for the familiarity of known faces. I wished that I could stay in the embrace of that familiarity—not to return to Surrey, where I was still an outsider. For the moment, my much-loved hideaway home held no attraction for me.

I was grateful when Philippa said she would prepare a meal for us, when the last of our friends had disappeared. She made roast beef and I realised I was famished; I had hardly eaten for four days. We ate well, and as we sat and relaxed, I tried to explain how I had been helped by the funeral. Out of horror and into grief. Grief and sorrow; they were infinitely more bearable than the nightmare that had passed, even though it would return to haunt me many times.

Eventually, we took our leave; somehow I had to learn to live in that house again, at least until next week, when we would depart for Majorca. Arrangements had been made to stay with Ruth and Roger for a day or so during the week and there would be visits to my other local friends to fill the time. More than at any other time, I needed people; I could not face the vast emptiness of bereavement on my own. Even the letters, which had been pouring in, were a comfort; I had not realised how desperately one yearned for comfort and sympathy from others, and I poured over the letters, drawing strength from those words of warmth.

That night the telephone rang. It was Susan ringing all the way from Ireland. She had been trying to reach me all day, having received my letter; she longed to help us, asked if I would stay with her in Ireland, and I explained that we were going away.

Once again, I tried to convey that the funeral had made me feel better—better than two or three days ago. Later she was to write to me: ‘Have just spoken to you on the phone—you sounded as if you had really accepted Amanda’s death….’

Accepted the fact of it, yes. But for months to come, the question was repeated over and over in my mind, ‘Why did it happen to me?’

16. Limbo

In the week that followed I learned to meet people all over again.

At the local post office, I bought a birthday card, explaining that we were going away and Robert’s birthday would fall during our holiday. Impulsively, the postmistress reached for a box of chocolate figures—popular T.V. characters.

‘You give him that for his birthday,’ she said.

Her eyes were full of sympathy, but she could not put it into words.

Everyone wanted to be kind, but many could not speak easily of death. Only their eyes said, ‘We’re sorry, but we don’t know what to say.’