The Fruit of the Tree (21 page)

Towards the end of January 1972, Jill asked if we would like to buy her mother’s car, which was due to go on the market, as her parents were introducing a new car into the family. I didn’t think we could afford to become a two-car family, but Michael was all for the idea. It was sometimes very inconvenient for him to be without the car for two days a week, as he often carried heavy materials with him.

Sometimes our pre-arranged telephone signals meaning, ‘I’ll be home in twenty minutes,’ had been misinterpreted as ‘Meet me at the station,’ and vice versa, and had involved us in misunderstandings and arguments.

So the purchase of the car was arranged, and, in due course, I picked up a dark green Cortina, which although around six years old, was certainly the smartest and cleanest car we had possessed since we were engaged. The seat adjusted forward easily, and the steering was light after the heavy Vauxhall.

The following morning I took the car out twice, first to deliver and later to collect Robert from nursery school. On the second journey, whilst driving up the lane towards the main road, I glanced down at the petrol gauge—I had been caught out without petrol twice before, and was not going to let that happen again. As I took my eyes off the road, the car drifted over to the left, and to my horror I heard a dreadful grating sound as the side of the Cortina scraped against a short, distorted tree on the very edge of the lane. The noise was so awful, I didn’t dare look, until I had arrived at school, and when I did look, the moment of truth had not been improved by the delay.

The whole of the rounded, solid nearside wing was horribly concertinaed into twisted tin. I slunk home with it and, biting my fingernails, pacing the floor, I eventually plucked up the courage to ring Michael to confess, only to find that he was out of the office.

It was impossible to stay on my own in such a state. Instead, I sought the company of my local friend, Susan, (who by now had her own petite daughter). She stayed with me, and was there when Michael arrived home to hear the news.

Michael angry was Michael at his coldest and most sarcastic. He examined the damage and, turning from the awful sight, said in frigid tones, ‘It’s up to you, if you want to spoil your little toys.’

For the next few days, until a repair was carried out and the physical reminders of my misdemeanour removed, he could only speak of the incident with such chilly and biting comments.

I was surprised that, after all we had been through, we could both still get so upset about an inanimate object like a car. I felt almost relieved that we could. Nevertheless, I got very attached to the Cortina after that and was grateful for its permanent availability. Thereafter, I was eminently careful with it for some time.

* * *

It was not until the end of February that I began to take my pregnancy seriously. Of course, I had taken my hormone tablets and other necessary pills as a matter of course, and I had managed to maintain my average of two cigarettes a day. But I didn’t feel pregnant, for, in fact, in all my five pregnancies I was one of those lucky people who experiences no nausea or other unpleasant side effects during the first three months. Since there was no ‘bump’ nor any movement at that stage, it was easy to forget I was pregnant until the fourth month.

At the crucial three-month point, however, I did one day get rather panicky and upset.

Michael was unsympathetic, and asked aggressively, ‘Are you going to go on like this for the whole of this pregnancy?’

I was indignant at his lack of understanding, particularly as I felt I had done rather well, all things considered. Nevertheless, mustering my dignity and trying to control my sobs— for he really couldn’t bear me to be in an emotional state and was quite likely to walk out until I’d calmed down—I tried to express my feelings in the sort of practical terms he would understand.

‘Imagine you were building a house,’ I said, remembering the time when we were constructing the bungalow, ‘and you got to window height, and vandals came along and knocked it down; then the same thing happened a second time; finally, you succeeded in completing the whole house, right up to the top, and it was destroyed again—how would you feel, when you came to trying it again.’

I think he understood, but in fact I think he’d really understood all along; he just didn’t want to see me in a permanently tense state about the pregnancy. But his concern was unnecessary, for once I had passed the three-month hurdle, I was able to become more relaxed. I had not experienced problems in the latter part of pregnancy and there was no cause for me to think I would start now. No, there was no reason to feel uneasy until a new baby was in my arms; and then I would face a new set of worries.

The baby was due at the end of August and we might have expected to hold the consecration of Amanda’s tombstone (an occasion which tends to represent the end of the mourning period) not long after that—a year after her death. But with a new baby making its own demands on me, how would I give Amanda my full attention? I decided instead that we should have the ceremony when I was seven months pregnant; any later than that, I should be reluctant to travel from Surrey to Hertfordshire where Amanda was buried. So although it was now only March, I went to London to select the tombstone and the wording, and arrange the date of the consecration in June.

I also made a trip to the maternity home to book up my stay there. As I had anticipated, there were no difficulties in doing this, although there were some painful moments as a young nurse took notes of my gynaecological history:

1967—Son born

1969—Miscarriage

1970—Miscarriage

1971—Daughter born—died at seven weeks

When she reached the end of this section of the notes, she breathed a sigh of relief, as if to say, ‘That’s got rid of that unpleasant part.’

I thought she might have made some small sympathetic comment. I was quite surprised that a nurse trained to deal so specifically with the bringing about of life, could not also have some knowledge of how to deal with misfortune or death.

I had not forgotten my decision to try to write about the subject of ‘cot death’. Things might be different after this baby was born, so I had to begin without delay. It seemed logical, initially, to get something into the local church Newsletter, for here in the village, I was immediately available to anyone in the same distress that I had experienced. Then I hoped to put something in our synagogue Newsletter, which was always interested in contributions. After that I could attempt the much harder task of letters to the press and newspaper or magazine articles, and ultimately, perhaps even a book.

Cautiously I started at the bottom rung of my own stepladder, by composing a letter to the people of the village, and the tapping of the typewriter in the spare room became a common sound as I amended my work. Since the parish Newsletter was a single sheet of paper folded to form four sides of writing, it was perhaps a little optimistic of me to hope that the vicar would include it.

So I was pleased and surprised to receive a visit from him, not long after I had forwarded my letter to him.

He was a very tall man, and had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the chandelier, and I sat uncomfortably aware of his height and the dignity of his position in the church, as we discussed the possibility of printing the letter in the next two or three months. It is difficult to know whether I would have been more or less embarrassed had he been a rabbi instead.

I began working then on an article for the synagogue Newsletter. The tears would flow as I sat at the typewriter recalling that sad time and it took weeks of typing and retyping to achieve the finished product I desired. But the tears were not destructive. I would reach a point where I was emotionally drained and I would wipe my eyes and walk from the room. And yet at the same time, I felt satisfied, and I was able to recover my composure quite quickly.

By the time I was four months pregnant, I was smoking less than two cigarettes a day, sometimes none at all. I have heard of revulsion therapy—and in my own case, I became increasingly disgusted by the habit until finally even the taste of a cigarette became unpleasant to me. I did not invite this feeling, even though at the time it was not suggested that smoking was directly implicated in cot death.
However I could not put out of my mind the accusing voice that said, ‘How can you bear to endanger
this
baby in any way?’ And so finally, at the beginning of April, I smoked my last cigarette.
(Note: Current guidelines recommend that, to help lower the risk of cot death, smoking is totally avoided both during and after pregnancy.)

As Easter and the Jewish Passover approached, I made up my mind to hold the family Passover meal and service in my home for the first time.

A table was prepared, upon which certain foods were placed—the unleavened bread, salt water for tears, the lamb bone representing the sacrificial offering, the bitter herb to remind us of the hardship undergone by our forefathers, the egg symbolising the continuity of life itself. During the service, the father would point to each item and explain its significance to the children.

And when the story was told, there was the family dinner, a meal traditionally to be enjoyed in the knowledge that we were free men and women.

There was quite a lot of work to do, and the family may well have wondered why I chose that particular year to do it. To a certain extent, the reason for my decision to take this on was similar to that which pushed me into holding Robert’s belated birthday party—a desire to show everyone that life was going on in our house. But additionally, I wanted to demonstrate that I had not become so embittered as to wish to forget the traditions of my religion. Indeed, as I sought to create something good out of Amanda’s death, I became less bitter, and even began to think that, far from being punished, I had been chosen to carry out the task of helping other young women like me, either through direct contact with them or through writing about cot death and bringing the support groups to their notice.

However, it was not until May that the first of my efforts bore fruit, and my letter, slightly edited by the Vicar, in order to fit into the slim parish Newsletter, was printed.

Within a day or so another letter of mine, written quite spontaneously following a programme on cot death, was broadcast on the radio. Cot death was beginning to be a better publicised subject by then and yet the Foundation and the Guild had only been conceived in 1970. Before that time, the mothers of a thousand or more dead babies a year had been quite alone, not only unsupported, but often accused of negligence or worse. I thanked heaven that Amanda, if she had to die, had died in 1971.

And now, almost nine months later, on the 25th June, 1972, the memorial stone to Amanda was consecrated in a traditional Jewish ceremony. Shaken with tears, I said my last ‘Goodbye’ to her. ‘Goodbye’, for when I next visited the tombstone, it was just a quiet, empty place with no presence there any longer; and I shed no tears. But by that time I had written Amanda’s name in many letters and spoken it in many places, and the inscribed piece of stone was not her only memorial.

After the ceremony, once again Philippa and Colin received us all at their home. Once again, I had asked a great deal of them, but they had willingly opened their house and provided refreshments for many of our friends and relations. Later, when all but our own family had gone, we ate a hearty meal, and the day developed into a normal family occasion. The little boys, with the exception of six-month-old baby Mark, played happily while the adults gossiped. At the end of the day when we left, Michael’s brother Geoffrey said to Philippa: ‘It’s been a lovely day,’ and for the moment, I was hurt, for it seemed they had all forgotten how the day had started. But he was right. It had been a happy day, after all. The family had radiated its usual warmth, and I could not help but be relaxed and happy amongst them. Spring had come and the ice around my heart had melted.

19. Delivery

It is difficult to say quite when the change had taken place in me. The daffodils had bloomed, but my heart had remained heavy; then the red dogwood had been dotted with new shoots, the dry, deciduous sticks of hawthorn became fringed with green, the apple trees and the plum trees had borne blossom and the garden had burst into life. Even the tiny fuchsia, lost in the frosts of winter, had reappeared. And suddenly I knew that I had come through a long dark tunnel and I had survived. Even though my child was yet unborn, and there was a new set of fears ahead of me, I knew my ordeal of pain was past; I had thought I would be bitter and scarred for life, and I had been wrong. I had thought I would never laugh again, and I was wrong. I had not been destroyed, I had been strengthened; my life had not been ruined, it had been rerouted.

But even this awareness could not prevent the fairly normal feelings of irritation at the moderate discomfort I experienced. Now in August, I waddled around feeling plump, heavy and resentful near the end of another summer pregnancy. I was plagued with heartburn, an affliction particularly reserved for short, pregnant women, I feel sure, and tired after what seemed like an eternity, and what was, after all, nearly two years of pregnancy with only a short break in the middle.

It was a year since that summer when I had been so full of happiness awaiting the birth of my child, yet fearful of the effect of her arrival on our relationships with each other. I looked back to my ecstatic pleasure in carrying out the preparations for the baby’s arrival with some cynicism, and had little energy or enthusiasm to prepare the layette and nappies this time.