The Silent Tide (35 page)

‘Hugh, it’s my work – I wanted to do it.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, hands raised in a mock gesture of surrender. Then: ‘Listen to me. You are in no fit state to work,’ he told her quietly. ‘And as your husband I have decided you need to rest. Stephen was perfectly reasonable. He sees the sense of it. When the baby comes you won’t have time, anyway.’

‘What did you tell Stephen?’ she said angrily.

‘We simply agreed that it was sensible for them not to send you any more work. My dear, you must take care of yourself and rest, like the doctor says. It’s only another month to wait.’ He came and put his arms round her. ‘Our own little baby, just think.’

Emily

When she was swimming, Emily felt ecstatically free. The pool was streaked with light from the curved glass roof and she, too, felt made of light as she slipped with ease through the dazzling water. Lost in the rhythm of her stroke, she only registered the other swimmers as passing shapes. She forged on, length after length, turning as she needed to with a slow twist of her body. Her thoughts no longer raced anxiously, but quietly drifted.

She needed this brief respite. The next day, according to the rumour machine, a restructuring of the company was to be announced. The atmosphere in the office was horrible. All the talking and worrying wouldn’t make much difference, Emily believed. She coped best by staying away. Swimming was blissful.

She pondered with pleasure the coming evening – a party with Joel Richards after work. He was always doing something interesting – going to a talk or a launch event or the latest movie – and she found his company stimulating. He had a great many friends, and a whole black book of media contacts, so she told herself it probably meant nothing special when he asked her to go with him. He was always relaxed on social occasions, good at the small talk, but she sensed a more intense side that intrigued and excited her. He watched people as though he was measuring himself against them. It was ambition, she supposed, but a quite different sort of ambition to Matthew’s. No, it was pointless to think about Matthew, she told herself fiercely as, her forty lengths done, she ducked under the ropes and swam to the steps. Matthew had not been in touch and she must try to forget him.

‘You’re my plus one,’ Joel told her, smiling, when he presented his invitation at the Guildhall that evening. They were ushered down yards of marbled corridor into a vast, high-ceilinged hall already packed with people, talking, drinking champagne and eating canapés. The occasion was a big anniversary for a magazine Joel wrote for, and this had to be the most glamorous party of the summer.
Everyone
was here, Emily thought, spotting George, who waved back cheerily before continuing to chat up a slim blonde woman h to meet you as she b. It hade had virtually pinned to a wall. Not that she was acting as though she wanted rescuing.

The speeches started up and went on and on. Emily didn’t know any of the names from the past that were mentioned or the magazine’s in-jokes, and it wasn’t getting any cooler, so she slipped through the crowd to the back, where there was more room and chatted quietly with a young woman trying to soothe a tiny baby in a sling. As she jiggled him up and down, there was a strange, desperate look in her eyes.

It was here that Joel found Emily after the speeches finished in a smattering of exhausted applause and people started to drift off.

He smiled vaguely at the young mother when Emily introduced him to her. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked, and Emily told her goodbye.

‘Why on earth would someone bring a baby here?’ Joel remarked as they headed for the cloakroom. ‘It’s too hot for the poor thing.’

‘She didn’t think it would be that bad,’ Emily said. ‘She told me she’d just gone freelance from the magazine, but didn’t want to miss the party. I felt sorry for her.’

‘They certainly didn’t look like they were enjoying it.’

‘No,’ Emily agreed, ‘but I’d feel the same as her. I’d go bananas at home on my own. I don’t know how my sister does it.’ She glanced sideways at him, wondering whether he was interested, but he didn’t respond.

Outside in the cool night air, Joel said, ‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘I’d love that,’ Emily replied. ‘It’ll take my mind off tomorrow. It’s likely to be a bit nerve-wracking.’

As they sipped wine and waited for pasta and salad, she explained about the expected redundancies. All the time she was aware of his warm gaze as he listened.

‘You’ll be all right, I’m sure, ’ he said, touching her arm. ‘I don’t suppose it would help if I rang up your boss.'

'Don’t sack my editor or I’ll leave with the book I haven’t finished yet!” Shall I say that?’ ‘Don’t you dare ring anyone,’ she told him, laughing. ‘I’d be so embarrassed.’

‘They won’t let you go, Emily ,’ he said, ‘you’re too good at your job.’

‘That’s sweet of you. I’m not sure they take account of that in the boardroom. We’re just worker ants, statistics.’

In her heart of hearts she didn’t believe the decisionmaking was that basic, but these days she found herself veering from optimism to worst scenario in the space of a minute.

‘Anyway, there’s no point dwelling on it. How is the book you haven’t yet finished?’

‘Ah, the great oeuvre. I’ve cleared some time over the next month to get to the end. Then there’ll be revision and a bit of fiddly fact checking. After that, Jacqueline will have to read it.’ From the face he made, she saw he wasn’t looking forward to that bit.

‘Have you shown her Isabel’s memoir yet?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ he sighed. ‘That’s one item on my very long list.’

‘Quite a big item, though.’

‘You are a very demanding editor,’ he said, waving a finger at her.

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ she smiled.

‘Probably. Hey, that looks like our food coming. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

Later he walked her to the bus stop where there was a long queue of people waiting. The bus came almost immediately and everyone surged forward.

‘I’d better go. Thanks for a lovely evening,’ she said, looking up at him. He was standing very close, and when she leaned to brush her lips against his cheek he pulled her towards him and kissed her firmly on the lips.

‘Ring me tomorrow when you know what’s happening,’ he murmured, narrowing his eyes, and she smiled and nodded, a pleasant burning feeling spreading up inside . ‘Don’t spend the night worrying. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

'Thanks,’ she said, making a face. ‘I hope you’re right.’

When she climbed onto the bus she hardly noticed where she sat as the doors shut and the bus moved off and she caught a last glimpse of Joel walking away. Tonight was the start of something, she thought. She leaned her forehead on the cold window and remembered the touch of his lips, warm and deliberate; no hesitation there – he knew exactly what he wanted, judged the moment and took it. And she wanted it too; there was no denying that she found him immensely attractive . But she couldn’t help remembering when Matthew first kissed her, a shy, clumsy affair on the evening they’d first met, after he walked her to the Tube station.

Isabel

There was nothing to slow down time like waiting for a baby. Christmas, the doctor had said, but 1951 turned to 1952 and each day dragged. The child had dropped in the womb, and now Isabel felt like an overripe fruit waiting to burst. Outside it rained perpetually and the dark sky and the dankness of the garden through the window compounded the feeling that her world had boiled down to this little existence.

There came a day when she awoke feeling not herself. The baby wasn’t moving again and this, combined with the frequent tightenings of her belly, made her peevish. There was a stickiness between her thighs, which she was too embarrassed to mention to Hugh, although it worried her.

After breakfast, her husband shut himself in the study as usual. His mother sent word downstairs that she had a cold and was staying in bed. All morning, Mrs Catchpole was out of breath from going up and downstairs to answer her commands. Restless, uneasy, Isabel prowled the gloomy house. Once she went to look at the nursery where everything lay ready now, the bassinet on its stand, three soft blankets folded inside. The room was gloomy. Even when she switched on the ceiling light the weak bulb made little difference to the feeling of oppression. She switched it off and withdrew. As she raised her arm to close the door, her belly tightened again, more sharply this time, and she gasped with the discomfort, then cried out as the discomfort intensified to pain. Finally the contraction faded and she managed to get herself downstairs before the tightening began again.

‘Hugh,’ she gasped, falling against the study door. He opened the door to find his wife on all fours, crying out like an animal.

‘Bloody hell, what do I do?’ he cried. ‘Mrs Catchpole, Mrs Catchpole. Get out here, will you?’

Mrs Catchpole had been quartering a freshly killed chicken, and later Isabel was to remember her running from the kitchen wiping blood from her hands. Under the woman’s instructions, Hugh somehow scooped up his wife and hauled her upstairs to her bedroom, where she had to stand waiting whilst Mrs Catchpole spread old sheets and towels across the bed. Hugh was dispatched to fetch the midwife. It was the last time she was to see him for many hours.

She lay down the bed, tensed against the next pain to grip her, her breathing shallow with panic. She’d known it would hurt, but was it supposed to be as bad as this? As the pain gripped her once more, she tried to roll over on her front, but Mrs Catchpole held her on her back and pushed a wad of towelling between her teeth. ‘Here, bite down on that, it’ll help.’

At last, one of the midwives – a short portly woman in uniform and with a battered Gladstone bag – arrived and took charge. Her orders, delivered in a soft country accent, brooked no argument and Isabel gave into her gladly.

The contractions were coming with increasing speed and intensity, and now she entered a long tunnel of pain from which she could sense no way out. The midwife’s commanding voice became something to cling to in the nightmare. She breathed when she was told to, dumbly spread her legs to be poked and prodded in her most tender parts. Daylight faded and she sank into a kind of delirium as exhaustion took hold. Worse was to come.

‘She’s pushing,’ came the midwife’s voice. Who was she talking to? ‘Maybe it won’t be long now.’ But it was. The electric light flickered. The contractions went on uselessly. The midwife inspected her again, then went to the door.

‘Best telephone the doctor, tell him to hurry,’ she heard her say to someone outside. She was dimly aware that the door kept opening and the bedroom seemed to fill with staring faces. She didn’t care, just wanted the pain to stop. The youngish doctor arrived, pushed her knees apart and jabbed her painfully. Shreds of conversation flew about with increasing urgency. She heard the click of the doctor’s bag, the splash of water, and the scrape of metal passing over metal, then the doctor laid hands on her once more. There followed a sharp, hot sensation, then she shrieked aloud at the most unimaginable agony as the forceps entered her. ‘Push, my dear,’ the midwife insisted, squeezing her hand. ‘Hard as you can.’ Isabel took a great breath and pushed.

She must have passed out briefly, because the next thing she knew was a sharp smell searing her nostrils. ‘Mrs Morton, dear,’ the midwife was saying, ‘the head’s out but you must push again when I tell you – not before, there’s a good girl,’ and she tried to obey though she had no more strength.
Again. Ah.
There was a twisting feeling as the baby passed out of her.

She lay too exhausted to speak, hearing murmured conversation, and finally the thin wail of a baby. Time passed. She was wondering vaguely what was happening when her belly was gripped by another contraction. And now the midwife’s anxious face appeared and her warm hand pressed down on her abdomen. Someone kept calling her name, but she felt so relaxed and woozy that she couldn’t answer. All she wanted to do was sleep.

When she came back into consciousness it was dark and the air smelled different. There were voices murmuring in the distance, but she couldn’t hear what they said. She moved her lips to call out but no sound came. Once more she slipped back into darkness.

The next time, she woke to a pain throbbing low in her body. She opened her eyes. Daylight filtered through a grey curtain. A high white ceiling. Was she awake or dreaming? Awake, she decided finally, realising she was in a hospital bed. And now she started to remember. The baby . . . She wanted to move, but something was holding her left hand down. She tried to lift her other arm, but it was a moment before the limb obeyed. She felt clumsily for her belly through the sheet. The familiar hard roundness had gone; there was only a mound of her own soft flesh, and the throbbing pain. She groaned and tried shifting to get more comfortable.

The curtain twitched open and a young woman’s face appeared. ‘Mrs Morton? Oh good, you’re awake. I’ll get Sister.’ She withdrew and the curtain fell back into place.

An older nurse appeared now and gave orders to the younger one. Isabel was fussed over, her temperature taken and, to her embarrassment, the sheet pulled back and her gown lifted briefly. The sheet was tucked back in, pinning her down.

‘Is my baby all right?’ she asked, her voice hoarse.

‘Doctor will be along later,’ was all the young nurse said. ‘Now swallow this down, there’s a good girl. It’ll help with the pain.’

‘Is my husband here?’

‘He was, but Sister sent him home. The poor man was exhausted.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, feeling guilty that she’d caused his tiredness.

‘There now. Try not to move at all. I’ll be back shortly.’