A Dark Dividing (12 page)

‘Yes.’ Mel had been half-watching the television in the corner of her room, and half-reading. ‘Everything’s so gloomy. Wars and famines and things.’

‘They put out an item about the twins on the lunch-time news,’ said Roz, pausing at the foot of the bed, her eyes on the screen. ‘I saw it in the canteen. Didn’t anyone tell you? I expect your husband would have OK’d it with our press office, wouldn’t he?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Mel dryly, and Roz looked a bit shocked.

‘I’m sure he would, Mrs Anderson, I mean, Mel. He’s so thoughtful always.’

‘What did the news item say?’

‘Only a brief announcement. And no names were mentioned, but somebody said the media were camping on the doorstep almost within minutes.’

‘Oh, no.’ Mel had not thought about this aspect.

‘Well, it’s news, isn’t it? People are interested. They’re concerned for you.’

‘I’ll bet the reporters aren’t interested or concerned for me,’ said Mel caustically. ‘In fact—’ She broke off as the newscaster said, ‘The Siamese twins, born two days ago at St Luke’s Hospital, are reported to be doing well and are breathing unaided. The twin girls are joined at the side of the chest, near the top of the ribcage, and although Martin Brannan, consultant gynaecologist in charge of the case, issued a statement that an operation to separate them would be reasonably straightforward, it seems as if a row could already be brewing. Over now to St Luke’s and our reporter there.’

Mel started to say, ‘What do they mean, a row—’ and stopped as Joe’s head and shoulders appeared on the screen, a microphone held up for him by the TV reporter. Joe had assumed his chin-tucked-into-neck look, that made him look jowly and righteous. Like a bullfrog, thought Mel. And he shouldn’t have worn that terrible checked overcoat; it makes him look like a bookie’s tout. But her heart was starting to race with apprehension because Joe seldom did anything these days without a calculating eye to its effect.

The interviewer said, ‘We’ve heard, Mr Anderson, that you’re unhappy with the prospect of the operation to separate your daughters.’

Joe took a minute to answer, and then said, in a frowning voice that implied that he was a man at war with himself, ‘Yes, that’s quite correct. Yes, indeed I am unhappy about it.’

‘Can we ask why? Mr Brannan has already made a statement saying that the likelihood of the operation succeeding is high—’

‘Mr Brannan is an admirable doctor, but he’s not the twins’ father,’ said Joe quite sharply. And then, switching personas almost visibly, he said, confidingly, ‘You see, I am a man of deep religious convictions, and one of those convictions is that we must accept the hand that God has dealt us.’

There was an awkward pause. Mel thought: that’s thrown the interviewer. They’ll edit that pause out if they run it on later news bulletins. Then the interviewer said, cautiously, ‘Are you against medical intervention, then?’

‘I’m not a Christian Scientist, if that’s what you mean. I’m not against medical intervention
per se
. I was quite happy for my wife to be given a Caesarean procedure for the birth, for instance: I understood that it was necessary if she was to survive and that was the most important thing of all.’ This was said with an air of what was very nearly complacency. ‘But,’ said Joe, ‘there are medical statistics suggesting that in the severer cases—where it’s necessary to sacrifice one twin—the survivor frequently dies as well, or cannot live free of a ventilator.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘How can I submit my daughters to that kind of risk?’

‘You referred to statistics just now?’ The interviewer was clearly on firmer ground here.

‘Yes, I have read several recent case-studies,’ said Joe, and named his sources. One was a professor of gynaecology in the Seychelles; the other was a medical historian in Michigan. This was disconcerting; Mel had not expected him to be quite so well provided with information.

‘But—forgive me, Mr Anderson,’ said the interviewer, ‘we understood that there was no suggestion of having to sacrifice one of the babies in this case. A joining at the chest—’

‘Thoracopagus,’ said Joe. ‘Yes, that can be one of the less serious joinings. But there is some fusion of bone and tendon around the shoulders, so the risks are still high, you see. And the outcome could be a quite severe disability to one of them.’ A pause. ‘I wonder how many of your viewers would be able to face inflicting permanent disability on their own children?’ he said.

Clever, thought Mel, her eyes never leaving the screen. Oh God, that one’s going to be difficult to fight.

‘However,’ said Joe drawing his brows down, ‘I should like to say this. Quite apart from statistics and medical history, when it comes to this dangerous and complex operation on two such tiny scraps of humanity—well, I have searched my conscience, and—’ Here he broke off, and Mel could see that he was considering whether he might safely say, And I am not ashamed to say I have prayed. The interviewer would probably shrivel up if he did say it. But Joe appeared to decide that he had gone far enough in that direction, and he said, ‘I don’t wish to embarrass anyone with my faith. I’m aware that it isn’t considered good etiquette to talk about religion. But I’m an old-fashioned man—’ And now, thought Mel, he’ll go into the simple, God-fearing-man routine.

He did go into the simple, God-fearing-man routine. He told the interviewer, who was clearly torn between wanting to nail down a really newsworthy interview and indecision as to whether his masters would approve of a religious slant, that life was a precious thing. You did not tamper with life or with nature, said Joe solemnly. If it was God’s will that his daughters should face life with a handicap then he, Joe Anderson, did not believe he could set himself up against God.

‘You won’t give permission for the operation?’

Again the pause. Then Joe said, ‘No. No, after a great deal of soul-searching, very regretfully I have decided to withhold my consent.’

‘What about your wife? She can give her consent on her own, can’t she?’

The question was sharp and incisive, but Joe said, at once, ‘My wife and I are at one over this.’

Mel discovered that she was clutching a fold of the sheet between clenched hands. I must stop feeling like this, she thought. I’ve got to keep my temper, and I’ve got to appear perfectly calm. If anyone even half-suspects what I’m thinking—

There was a quick shot of the front of St Luke’s, and then an item about the current stability of the pound started. Mel reached for the remote switch and turned the set off, her mind working. Joe had been far cleverer and far more adroit than she would have thought possible.

She turned to look at Roz, who had been staring at the screen. ‘Did your husband mean all that?’ said Roz slowly. ‘About not tampering with nature, and about withholding permission for the separation?’

‘It sounds like it.’ Mel was thankful to hear that her voice sounded reasonably normal.

‘But I don’t think there is that much of a risk. Mr Brannan definitely said there wasn’t, and he’s so clever.’ Mel heard a touch of hero-worship in Roz’s voice and smiled inwardly. Roz was so earnest and also just a bit old-fashioned, so that Mel kept forgetting how young she was.

But she only said, ‘Yes, I know he is. And I’m all for taking the risk anyway. The twins can’t live like this.’

‘No, of course not.’ But there was some doubt in Roz’s voice, and Mel looked up. Roz coloured, and said, ‘I was only thinking that in a way they’ve been lucky. In the timing, I mean. Eighty or a hundred years ago they’d have been smuggled discreetly away to an institution and forgotten.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘They’re going to be so pretty, aren’t they?’ said Roz unexpectedly. ‘I go along to see them when I come off duty each night.’

‘Do you really?’ This was rather touching.

‘I feel sort of proprietary about them. With being in at the birth and everything. When they’re older they’ll have lovely colouring, won’t they?’

‘They’ve got my mother’s hair.’ Mel found herself liking Roz for saying this, and for seeing the vagrant glint of auburn in the little, soft heads.

Roz said, a bit hesitantly, ‘Mr Anderson won’t really try to block the operation when it comes to it, will he?’

‘I don’t know.’ Liar, said her mind. You know damn well he will.

‘I’m sure he won’t when it comes to it,’ said Roz. ‘But if you ever had to—well, take some kind of action—’ She looked at Mel without speaking and Mel felt a jab of apprehension.

But she said lightly, ‘What on earth do you mean, Roz? What kind of action?’

‘Making them wards of court or anything like that—’

‘Oh, I see. I don’t think it’ll come to that,’ said Mel. ‘I’m almost certain they can operate just on my authority.’

‘Can they? Yes, I expect so. But I’d be on your side whatever happened, Mel. I’d do anything to help. I really would.’

It was said with slightly embarrassing intensity, and Mel was not quite sure how to respond. In the end she just said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and left it at that.

She could not tell Roz about the idea that was starting to form within her mind, and she could not tell anyone. If she had to go through with it, this quarter-formed plan, and if she succeeded, it could make her the loneliest person in the world.

But she would have the twins and that was all that mattered.

Roz Raffan was moderately satisfied at the way in which the friendship with Melissa Anderson was developing. You had to be careful about that kind of thing in this job, because when people were in hospital their values often altered and they sometimes formed emotional ties with nurses and doctors. It was all to do with dependency and with the lowering of barriers, of course; Roz had been told that during her training, and warned about getting too close to patients. But she did not think anyone could say the friendship between herself and Melissa fell into that category. She thought she was pitching it about right.

The aunt who had brought her up had always said that good fortune seldom went to the people who appreciated it, and Roz knew that this was perfectly true. Look at Melissa Anderson. You would have thought she would have been more than satisfied, more than happy with what life had given her, but you had only to talk to her for two minutes to see she was not very happy at all. And yet she had a husband who was quite well-off by a lot of people’s standards, and a nice house to live in, and very likely an extremely interesting life ahead if Joseph Anderson became a Member of Parliament. Roz thought he was almost certain to do that: for one thing he had such very fine standards. Roz had been brought up on very similar standards herself, so it was gratifying to meet them in somebody else. Respect God and people will respect you. Always do what you know to be right, regardless of the consequences.

You had only to listen to Mr Anderson to know that he followed the same principles. You did not find many people these days who were prepared to stand up for their religious beliefs, but Joseph Anderson was prepared to and Roz admired him for that, although she knew he was wrong about blocking the twins’ operation.

The twins. It was to be hoped that Melissa appreciated her good fortune at having them. Roz was not too sure about that. She had thought several times that Melissa had absolutely no idea how lucky she was.

She also thought Melissa might not realize how lucky she was to have such a good, reliable, God-fearing man for a husband.

Charlotte Quinton’s diaries:
30th January 1900

Still cannot believe I have successfully deceived Edward, that good, reliable, God-fearing husband—also the rest of the household (including Edward’s mother!), and that Maisie-the-daisie and I are actually on our way to Weston Fferna.

Am writing this in the train (not in the least bumpy except when we go over the points, so a good opportunity to bring diary up-to-date). Maisie has never been in a railway train before, and is sitting bolt upright, clutching the edges of the seat, and staring wide-eyed and fearful through the window. She wanted to bolt for home when we got to Paddington Station, and had to be sat down and talked to calmly. I explained about power of steam (not sure I got that absolutely right), but in the daisie’s defence, have to admit that place a seething hive of people and machines and huge sudden spurts of steam from trains, and all a bit daunting. Floy would have seen all kinds of images in the sight: he would have talked glowingly about iron and steel engines, breathing fire like modern-day dragons, and drawn analogies with some kind of Dante-like inferno, and then gone away to incorporate it all into a book. But I only saw the trains and the people and smelt the hot iron, and God alone knows what Maisie saw, poor little creature.

Mrs Tigg made us take a luncheon basket—‘Because you can’t go all that way without proper sustenance, madam,’ as if the Welsh Marches were the end of all civilization—and Edward has arranged for a first-class compartment, since not fitting that his wife travel any other way.

Later
The lunch basket contains cold chicken and ham, brown bread and butter, egg-and-cress sandwiches, and some of Mrs Tigg’s plum cake. Also two small bottles of Mrs Tigg’s delicious lemonade, so we have had quite a feast.

The train is still jolting on its way through the countryside, and now we are skirting the ugly industrialist towns of the Midlands. There’s a teary rain sliding down the grimy windows of our carriage, but I can see all the grey-roofed manufactories and the clouds of vapour that hang over them, and occasionally there are glimpses of narrow streets with huddled-together houses, where the ant-workers live, scurrying from their houses to the manufactories, and then back again. In and out and to and fro and round and round, like lemmings, like creatures on treadmills, hardly ever seeing daylight, poor souls. Perhaps one day someone—someone with vision like Floy’s—will find a way to capture the greyness and the dreariness, and the rain-blurred figures.

Told Maisie how, as children, we used to make up little songs in the train to go with the constant clackety-clack of the wheels, but she doesn’t understand because she didn’t have that kind of childhood. I would have taught Viola and Sorrel those songs—or perhaps they would have made up their own—but that won’t ever happen now. (But I have that one tiny memory—the little warm fingers curling determinedly around mine. As long as I can keep that, I won’t have lost them completely.)

Keep telling myself there will be other children—doctors say no reason not to have other, perfectly normal babies—but somehow, cannot get enthusiastic about that. Edward says, heartily, we will look forward to sons, but have a dreadful suspicion that Edward’s sons might take after him, which is v. depressing prospect.

Question: How am I to find the resolve to return to Edward after this business with Maisie has been sorted out?

Answer: I have absolutely no idea. But I know it has to be done.

We’re almost there. It’s been a long train journey and there was a tedious delay on the line a while ago that held us up for almost an hour, but the train’s slowing down now, and ahead of us is the tiny halt just outside Weston Fferna. If I lean forward and wipe the damp mistiness from the window with my glove I can just see the light of the station-master’s lantern signalling to our engine-driver. We’re nearly home.

Home. So many memories go with that word. I remember, I remember, the house where I was born… Christmases and summers and springs. Roaring log fires and berries on trees, and buttercup-splashed meadows.

And the excitement of all the journeys—I
love
journeys. Going to London for shopping, for visits, for birthday parties in people’s houses, for grown-up parties and dances later on, but always coming back to Weston Fferna. The train always used to sing its own little song when we came back, the wheels chanting,
Going
-
HOME, going
-
HOME…

I remember, I remember, the roses, red and white… And the winding lane with the stile and meadow-sweet and lilac in summer. I was kissed for the first time on that stile—Father would have had a fit, and Mother would have been aghast. I was fourteen when it happened, and the boy was—somebody local; I forget his name. What a slut I am not even to remember who gave me my first kiss.

And blackberries in autumn, and the scent of apples. And the sharp coldness of November, when the air is like spun glass so that your nose prickles with it, and cobwebs in the hedges are spangly white, like lace. I lost my virginity on an afternoon like that, beneath the trees in Beck’s Copse. It was a bit frightening and briefly painful and then it was marvellous, but I remember his name, and I remember that he was the son of one of our neighbours, and he was dreadfully upset afterwards because he said he had smirched my purity and committed a great sin against womankind, such nonsense, because I was as keen to do it as he was. (Although quite a revelation to discover later that not all men take three minutes flat from start to finish, and then sob with shame. Floy once told me that most men consider premature ejaculation something of a bêtise. And quite right, too.)

Still, that sharp cold afternoon under the beech trees—and one or two afternoons and nights afterwards (and let’s be honest, Charlotte, four or five other lovers after that, as well!)—all meant I had to pretend with Edward on the wedding night. Edward would have been scandalized to his toes to think he had married someone who was not pure.

We’re almost home, we’re in the little pony-trap now that they keep at the tiny station, and it’s jogging along the few miles to my parents’ house. We’re turning right at the crossroads—what the locals call the four crossways—and I can see the signpost pointing the way home. Across the fields I can see the church where Edward and I were married. It’s rather a gloomy church; I never liked it much.

And now it’s almost dark, but if I lean forward a bit, I can see the old trees on the hillside to the left.

I remember, I remember the fir trees dark and high… And the house that dwells behind those trees, and where Maisie and I must go very soon now.

Mortmain.