The Silent Tide (28 page)

When they reached her parents’ house, she helped her mother in the kitchen to cut sandwiches and arrange buns on a plate. Pamela kept shooting her concerned glances.

‘Are you all right? You’re not sickening, are you?’

Isabel stared down at the fishpaste she was spreading, grey and awful-smelling, and her stomach gave a lurch.

‘You can guess what it is,’ she said.

Her mother put down her knife and came to her, took her by the shoulders and looked into her face. ‘My dear girl,’ she said. She started to smile, but Isabel’s miserable expression stopped her. She pressed her daughter to her as the tears flooded forth.

‘I don’t want it,’ Isabel sobbed on her mother’s shoulder. ‘It’s spoiling everything. I’ll have to give up my job to look after it. I’m too young. I haven’t lived yet.’

Her mother lightly rubbed her back. ‘Don’t be silly now, it’ll be all right. I was caught out with Lydia, as you know, but she arrived and it was wonderful. It hasn’t been easy having a young one so long after the rest of you – I thought I’d finished with all that after the twins – but she’s a sweet child and very loving. Yours will be a splendid little person, you’ll see.’

Isabel had tried that line of thought already.
It’s a baby in there, a person,
she’d said to herself as she lay sleepless during those early mornings of the Dome of Discovery., e McKinnon, her fingers pressing her abdomen, trying to feel where it might be but sensing nothing very different at all. She couldn’t picture what was growing there as a baby. The doctor had said it was still very small and had shown her a diagram. It didn’t look like a baby in the book, more like a shrimp. There was a shrimp growing inside her, with staring lidless eyes, and her mind refused to connect it to the plump pink-skinned babies with wide blue eyes on the posters in the surgery waiting room.

For a week or two she sleepwalked through life, exhausted because of her anxious nights, trying to deny the truth of what was happening to her.

‘Ridiculous,’ she said aloud when she put down the phone to a printer she’d been arguing with for the past half-hour. ‘Utterly ridiculous.’

‘What is?’ enquired a familiar female voice, and she glanced up to see her aunt, looking very soignée in a soft, dove-coloured jacket and matching felt hat. A brooch of pink gems, in the shape of a flower, sparkled on one lapel.

‘What a lovely surprise,’ Isabel said, standing up to greet her. When she kissed her, she caught a whiff of that scent that always made her think longingly of glamorous nights out.

‘I’m having lunch with Stephen,’ Penelope said, and Isabel immediately wondered why.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Tyler,’ Cat piped up, ‘but that’s in his diary for tomorrow.’

‘I’m sure it was today,’ Penelope told her, frowning. ‘I have another long-standing appointment for tomorrow.’

Cat appealed to the rest of the room. ‘I wrote it down for tomorrow. I’m sure that’s what we agreed.’

Isabel bit her lip and said nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time that Cat had made such a mistake.

‘Never mind,’ she told Penelope. ‘Stephen’s out all day today, but I’m free. Shall we? We could try the café opposite.’

‘So gorgeous to have some sun at last,’ Penelope said as they stepped outside. ‘You haven’t told me who it was you were calling ridiculous?’

‘Oh, that,’ Isabel replied with a laugh. ‘Dear old Harold Chisholm wanted to use, shall we say, an
impolite
word in his novel and the printer was refusing to set it. Chisholm’s stubborn and wouldn’t offer a suitable substitute so I took matters into my own hands and told them to put in a blank. At least it’ll get the book printed.’

She held open the door of the café and Penelope followed her inside. The waitress was glad to seat two beautifully dressed women at a table in a patch of sunlight right by the window.

‘Dear me. What happens if your Mr Chisholm complains?’

‘Then Stephen will tell him we can’t publish and I expect he’ll throw one of his spectacular rages about being censored.’ Isabel sighed. ‘Frankly, I think Stephen would be relieved if Chisholm jumped ship, but since no one else is likely to take him on, as he’s such a nuisance, I imagine that we’re stuck with him.’

Penelope laughed. ‘My goodness,’ she said, laying her gloves in her handbag, ‘the things you have to deal with. I can hardly believe you were once that innocent little thing I found on my doorstep.’

They ordered toasted sandwiches, but Isabel could do no more than nibble at the crusts. When she fussed that her tea should be poured without milk, Penelope studied her thoughtfully.

‘Yes, is the answer. Don’t say
anything
,’ Isabel murmured, seeing this scrutiny.

‘My dear girl,’ Penelope said, putting her hand over Isabel’s.

Isabel was touched by the sympathy in her aunt’s face. She noticed that beneath the perfect mask of Penelope’s make-up, the signs of ageing were clearly visible. Her aunt was fighting a battle she’d eventually lose.

‘How is Reginald?’ Isabel asked, to change the subject. Penelope withdrew her hand.

‘He is very well, thank you,’ she said, sipping her tea.

‘Stephen is very grateful for his investment in the business. It must be thanks to you, for persuading him.’

Her aunt gave a little smile. ‘Reginald likes to please me, but I assure you he would only place his resources where he saw a good return.’

Something about this made Isabel feel uncomfortable. Did Penelope also cast herself in this category? What return did her aunt give her lover?

‘Well then, I hope McKinnon and Holt do well enough,’ Isabel said smoothly. ‘May I ask why you were having lunch with Stephen?’

Penelope shrugged. ‘We are old friends. Why shouldn’t we have lunch?’

‘No reason.’ She was thinking about what Stephen had said once, hinting that Penelope had been involved in her recruitment. What did that matter now? It was so long ago.

‘Does your mother know about – you know?’ Penelope said, her tone unusually urgent.

Isabel nodded and looked down at the ravaged sandwich on her plate. Tears welled unbidden, as they often did these days. More evidence of her treacherous body.

‘My dear.’ Penelope tipped Isabel’s chin up with her finger. ‘Look at me. How far along?’

‘It’ll be Christmas,’ Isabel managed to say. The tears spilled out like dew from a flower.

Penelope read her mind in her face. ‘Mmm,’ she said, releasing her. She looked round quickly to check that no one was listening, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘You don’t have to have it, you know.’

Isabel stared at her, at first in incomprehension, then astonishment.

‘There are ways. I know a doctor who’s very discreet.’

Still, Isabel could not speak.

‘I suppose Hugh knows?’

‘Yes.’

‘That needn’t be a problem, of course. Things sometimes do go wrong with babies.’

‘Aunt . . .’ The shock was fading, to be replaced by a horrifying sense of possibility.

‘If you need me to help, you only have to ask,’ Penelope said, sitting back. ‘Think about it, but don’t leave it too long.’

Isabel was left stupefied by this conversation, which she could hardly believe she’d had. She was partly shocked that she’d listened to it at all. As she went mechanically through her tasks that afternoon, part of her mind dwelled on that sense of possibility. Freedom. She could return everything to how it had been. But as she lay awake that night it came to her that she couldn’t do it. Things could never return to how they’d been. She had already been changed, changed for ever. She knew she could not deliberately destroy what was growing inside her. She was a happily married woman with the resources to bring up a child. Everywhere, as the doctor said, women were having babies and devoting their lives to them. That’s what one did and it was selfish and unnatural to think otherwise.
She was hazy about what she expected out of life, but she had imagined children would come along for her sooner or later. It was unfortunate that she was still so young, only twenty-two, and there was so much else she wanted to do. But get rid of it? No, she couldn’t. And as for doing it and telling Hugh that she’d ‘lost’ the baby, that was out of the question. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the face. It would destroy all integrity between them, ruin their marriage.
Her thoughts drifted on to Penelope. The fact that her aunt knew all about what to do made her consider her in a new light. Perhaps Penelope had done it herself, visited this doctor, while she was married or . . . perhaps since. Maybe it had been the reason for the failure of her marriage . Isabel’s mind ran on uselessly. There was so much she didn’t know.
Eventually, resolving to keep the baby, she was able to fall into a deep slumber.
In the morning , when she visited the bathroom, she was shocked to find she was bleeding. Hugh sent her back to bed and telephoned the doctor, who arrived shortly after lunch and examined her.
‘It might be nothing at all,’ he said as he packed his stethoscope away , ‘but only time will tell. You must stay in bed and rest, Mrs Morton. Your husband tells me you go out to work.’ His tone was disapproving. ‘I think they’ll have to do without you for the present.’
‘I have tried arguing that before,’ Hugh said from the doorway. Seeing his wife’s annoyed expression, he shrugged.
‘Please don’t worry,’ she told them both. ‘I will rest.’ She was surprised to find that now she might be losing the baby, she desperately wanted it . She’d had no power in determining its beginning, but she’d do everything she could to help it survive.
As it turned out , there was no more bleeding and, after a week in bed, the doctor reluctantly agreed that she could get up. A few days after that, she was back doing half-days in the office . Her colleagues gave no indication that they knew what was going on, and for this she was grateful. She realised, though, that it was impossible now that they hadn’t guessed.

Isabel

A few weeks later, halfway through June, Hugh asked if they should start telling people their news.

‘No,’ Isabel said, panicking. ‘Surely it’s too early.’ She’d been a little brighter recently. The nausea had begun to recede and her skin had lost its blotchy porridge look.

‘You’re blooming,’ he told her as he watched her dress, ‘all round and soft, my precious. Can’t we at least tell Mother?’

Least of all your mother, Isabel thought but did not say. ‘Perhaps our having a baby would make her like me better,’ she said cautiously, and seeing his exasperated expression, ‘No, honestly, Hugh, I’m sure she feels I’ve stolen you.’ She’d lately decided that Lavinia Morton didn’t only disapprove of her, but that she’d disapprove of any woman Hugh might have decided to marry.

‘That’s nonsense. The two of you need to get to know one another better. This will be the opportunity.’ He said this with an air of finality, and reached for the notebook he always kept by his bed and scribbled something in it.

‘What are you putting down now?’ Isabel said, examining a tiny hole in one of the stockings she’d just put on. ‘Oh, blow,’ she muttered.

‘Nothing to worry you,’ he said absently.

She got soap from the washstand and rubbed it on the hole to stop it running. ‘If you’re writing down something I’ve said, then don’t, it’s disconcerting.’

‘It’s not about you, my sweet. It’s about life. Everything in the world around is a writer’s raw material.’

‘I don’t like being your research.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I can’t help it if something you say gives me an idea. That’s how the creative process works.’

She glared at him as she tugged at the zip of her skirt, which was getting tight, but decided to say no more. Hugh seemed in a very happy mood these days. He was delighted about the baby and his writing was going well. It would be a mistake to spoil that. Besides, she was in danger of being late for work.

A week later, she stammered out her news at the office and was pleasantly surprised by the reaction.

‘Congratulations!’ Stephen gently kissed her, and stood back to look at her. ‘You are positively glowing, I must say.’

She laughed, feeling very tenderly towards him. It must be so difficult when he and his wife couldn’t have children, to rejoice for other people, but there genuinely seemed to be nothing but happiness for her in his eyes.

There was, however, an assumption.

‘We’ll be sorry to lose you,’ Trudy said.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Philip said, coming forward to solemnly shake Isabel’s hand.

‘At least you’ll look after Hugh for us,’ Stephen said. ‘We shall have to be thankful for that.’

‘Who said I was going anywhere?’ Isabel asked them, drawing herself up to her full five feet two.

Trudy raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

Only Cat did not congratulate her, though she looked thoughtful. Later, when Isabel came across her alone, making a muddle of the filing, Cat said shyly, ‘I’m really pleased for you about the baby.’

‘Thank you,’ Isabel replied.

‘Do you feel different? I mean, when you get married and start having babies, do you stop wanting other things?’ Some pages of the file she was handling slipped out and floated down to the floor.

‘What things do you mean?’ Isabel asked, troubled by the girl’s perception. She bent too quickly to pick up the papers and felt dizzy.

‘Thanks. It’s just I can’t ever imagine wanting to do anything but work with books,’ Cat said. ‘I know I make mistakes, and Audrey used to be so efficient, but it is what I want to do – you know, be a success. How can you bear to leave?’

‘You won’t know until it happens to you,’ Isabel said, and turned away.

She wanted to tell Berec herself, before somebody else did, but nobody had seen him for several weeks, which was not only unusual but unprecedented.

‘Did he say he was going anywhere?’ Isabel asked Trudy, who had been the last one to speak to him.

He had drifted in from the street one afternoon the previous month and asked Mr Greenford for a small advance on his next poetry collection, Trudy said, but had been forced to leave empty-handed.