A Mother's Love (16 page)

‘Naughty,’ said Sara, round eyes innocent. ‘Fall on der floor.’

‘And what do you say to her when she’s naughty, Sara?’

Sara executed a harassed-mother frown and pursed her rosebud lips the way Harriet was wont to do at times; for a moment she looked exactly like her. Then the illusion was gone.

‘Dilly cow,’ she repeated. The pretend frown deepened dramatically. ‘Awd dod!’

Matthew sat back, staring down at the child. ‘She’s saying silly cow, old sod.’ He’d heard it said many times by the Hardys, careless of who heard them – usually as a term of endearment between them: You silly old sod, you silly old cow …

He looked up at Harriet’s impassive face. ‘She doesn’t pick up that language from us. It comes from the Hardys. Even the accent.’

‘She picks anything up, that one,’ Harriet shrugged.

‘But we can’t have this! It’s bad enough bringing up a child in this place without her learning such things from the people who have charge of her. I think it’s about time we paid off Mrs Hardy. I don’t think I care to have that woman taking charge of her any more.’

Harriet’s stare had become alarmed. ‘But that’s the only way we’re able to go out together on our own.’

‘Then we’ll employ a children’s nurse. Or take her with us.’

‘Do you know how much that would cost? I know you were brought up with a nurse, but we can’t do that on what you’re bringing in. And she’d have to live in. We don’t have the room.’

‘We’ll have to find a larger place. Sooner or later.’

Harriet’s laugh had a hollow sound. ‘And if this good patch we’re going through turns out to be a flash in the pan – what then? Do we come back here? You can’t afford to pay a nurse and move to bigger premises.’

She got up suddenly, threw her darning on to the chair seat, and went to poke the fire, wielding the poker with vicious stabs at the glowing coals.

‘I thought we’d have money. But everything that journal makes you plough back to buy even more paper. I can’t see any profit yet, not to go renting bigger places and hiring nurses. Emma costs us hardly anything. And Sara doesn’t talk that badly.’

‘And those swear words?’

‘She’ll grow out of it. Kids do.’

He looked steadily at her, a stab of irritation catching him. ‘Not that you even notice what she says!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘That you hardly ever notice her. Sometimes, Harriet, I just do not understand you, this coolness of yours, this fear of showing your feelings. You must have feelings – towards Sara, towards me. But you act as though … Night after night we go to bed and even after two years, you still shrink back when I go to kiss you goodnight. I don’t know why. I suppose I’ve come to accept it, but you’re the same with Sara. You never cuddle her – not as a mother would.’

He paused, remembering his own childhood. Did his own mother ever cuddle him? He couldn’t recall. He remembered being led by the hand by Nanny Edwards, into the dining room, to have his cheek pecked by his mother, his head patted by his father, then being led out and up the stairs to the nursery and bed. He had a picture of the nursery where he and Richard and Evelyn used to play for hours on end: warm, cosy and golden, and of the rooms downstairs: cold, formal, unfriendly. He had loved his nursery, but had felt only awe of his parents …

Harriet’s voice, sharp and accusing, wrenched him back to the present. ‘Are you saying I neglect her?’

‘Of course not,’ he said hastily. ‘You’ve never let her want for anything. Except … Harriet, can’t you hold her close to you once in a while? I know you love her, but you seem frightened of giving love, of being loved. You only ever pick her up to take her to bed. It’s I who tuck her in, tell her stories, play little games with her before she goes to sleep.’

‘That doesn’t hurt you, does it?’

‘I’ve never seen you kiss her. Can you be that cold, Harriet? I know you’re cold with me and I understand. I know how it must be for you. But with Sara … Don’t you feel any warmth for anyone?’

Harriet’s eyes had begun to blaze and to moisten. ‘I’m sorry if I can’t oblige in bed. Yes, Matthew, fling that in my face, but you’re nothing but an animal. You said once that you weren’t. But you are … All you think of is trying to use me. Like … Like he …’

Breaking off, she flung the poker into the hearth. Startled by the loud clang, Sara began to cry.

‘And you can shut up!’ her mother yelled and like a small hunted creature dashed from the room.

Matthew heard the bedroom door slam behind her. No – this was too much. This time, he wasn’t having it. Months ago David Symonds had told him a stronger hand was needed with her. After the shock of hearing this had passed, he had thought more carefully about the advice; but always that apparently innate fear, the way she would stiffen in readiness for his onslaught, would override David’s advice. But after all his gentle understanding of her condition, to then be called an animal when he’d done nothing to merit it – his anger boiled.

Briskly he picked Sara up off the floor and brushed away her tears. Hurriedly he undressed her before the warm fire, then took her to her tiny bedroom. With a flannel dipped in the water from the washbasin and wrung out, he wiped her hands and face. She had already had her warm milk, so he laid her gently in bed.

‘No story tonight, little one. Papa’s busy,’ he said as he tucked her doll beside her under the covers and lit the tiny nightlight in its shallow saucer. He kissed her goodnight and crept out. After closing the door, he made for their room. The door was locked, but he had expected that. He kept his voice low.

‘Harriet, let me in.’

‘Go and sleep on the couch,’ came the choked retort. ‘You’re not coming in here to molest me.’

God, it was a nightmare. He wasn’t going to reply to that sort of attitude. Instead, he lifted a foot and crashed his heel against the door. The thin wood gave at the first blow, burst open. He stood at the foot of the bed, panting from his exertion.

‘Molest?’ he enquired of the terrified face peeping out above the cover. He forced his voice to gentleness. She needed to be soothed. ‘When have I ever molested you, Harriet? Come on, my dear, when?’

She snivelled plaintively. ‘Never. But you know what I mean.’

‘Then I shall not molest you, if you promise not to molest me.’

What sort of joke that was intended to be, he wasn’t sure; he only knew that it was the first thing that came into his head. He was surprised when she laughed suddenly, a nervous high-pitched sound, not a giggle, but the sort of titter that escapes involuntarily from one deathly afraid. Even so, it heartened him. Aggression, even gentle aggression, did work; it had taken him two years to realise it. Quickly he undressed.

Yet as he slipped in beside her and reached out, there came the old reaction, the flinch, the tensing. Again he was to be rejected. Unable to take her against her will, it was he who found himself breaking down, the accruing misery of too many rejections welling up inside him.

He heard himself saying he could no longer go on; she was driving him from her; and did she know how close she had come to losing him? In Manchester he had almost allowed himself to be seduced by a designing woman. Only the thought of Harriet had stopped him.

He was only vaguely aware of this untruth. Had he been stronger minded then, it would now have been truth. But to admit the lie now would lose him her love, if indeed there was love, had ever been love.

He was stunned to find her throwing herself into his arms, her words tumbling out, filled with fear. ‘Matthew! Don’t go away! Don’t leave me – I’m so sorry – I don’t know what I’d do if you went away.’

Ashamed of himself, he tried to calm her, smoothing his hands along her neck, wanting only to ease the pain he’d caused her. In tears, she seemed not to notice the caress or how his arms embraced her, how close they lay together, that his hands had forsaken her neck to find her body, her thigh. Clinging desperately, sobbing as she mouthed frantic words of love, she was crying still as he found her, seemed not to know that he had entered her. She must tense now, pull away, he was sure of it. But she didn’t. Her lips were eating him, smothering his face, her body had arched towards him. Her clasp had become even more urgent, her breath almost pain-racked in her need not to lose him. When they finally both lay still and spent, she was still crying quietly like a child. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘How could I ever leave you?’ he whispered, drawing her close.

Never had he felt so wondrously protective, so joyously happy, so content. Here was his marriage, his wife, truly his wife. Here lay his future, his life, his all. Nothing else mattered …

He awoke to a cold, clear dawn filled with the rumble of passing traffic, noting that neither of them had moved one inch in the night, sleeping the sleep of the content.

Harriet rose as shy as a young bride, cheeks glowing, eyes full of her new role. Matthew felt new and strong as he washed and shaved, trimmed his moustache, dressed, and carefully combed his hair while she prepared breakfast and got Sara up. Nothing now could ever tear this marriage apart. Then came the image of Constance Milne-Pitford and the joy vanished out of him as though a hand had smashed against a blown-up paper bag. Could fate be so cruel as to bring his past mistake back to haunt him? Oh God, he prayed, don’t let it come to spoil this.

She felt completely drained, having only just reached the outside privy in time to be sick. Leaning against the jamb for support, she stood in the doorway of the kitchen, gazing towards him.

‘Matthew, I think I’m expecting,’ she said waveringly.

He was enjoying a leisurely breakfast over the morning papers. His assistant was already in the shop preparing the day’s printing, having let himself in at eight. There was no urgency. No urgency indeed. The Manchester episode last summer had long ago subsided. Since the City Council had been compelled to permit public meetings to be held in its parks, the ILP’s newsworthiness had died a natural death as attendance at its meetings diminished to just a few hundred.

At first Matthew had been concerned, but luckily, although the subscriptions to the journal no longer burgeoned, the
Freewoman
didn’t actually decline. It was now February and they were still living comfortably from its profits. Even so, Harriet felt she’d been right about cautioning him against seeking grander premises. Had they done so they might easily have been having problems by now.

He looked up at her, only half hearing. Then, as her statement sunk in, he swallowed the piece of bread he’d been chewing in one lump – she almost visualised it going down – and dropped his spoon beside his half-consumed boiled egg.

‘My God – are you certain?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve been sick a lot and my curse is overdue. You are pleased, aren’t you, Matthew?’ she added tremulously when he continued to stare as though stunned.

‘Oh, my precious darling!’ Ignoring her grey cheeks, he leapt up to hug her to him. ‘Pleased? I’m ecstatic!’

Dancing her around the tiny kitchen, he held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. ‘It’s the most wonderful news you could ever give me. A baby. Our baby!’

He stopped dancing her to hold her away from him, gaze at her, his brown eyes glowing.

‘When?’

‘I must be two months.’ She was laughing now. ‘It should be born in …’ She made a quick calculation, feeling suddenly coy. ‘September?’

She could see that it didn’t matter a hoot to him when it would be born, just that it would be, and at this very moment knew herself to be the happiest woman alive. It was still difficult accommodating him in bed, but now she was reaping the reward.

He had grown serious. ‘Now we must definitely look for somewhere bigger to live. We can’t bring up my baby in this cramped space.’

She hadn’t thought of that, so happy had she been with her news.

‘But we can’t afford it!’

She immediately had visions of being dumped somewhere in the wilds with a new baby and Sara – especially with Sara – to cope with; no Emma Hardy to turn to any more. How would she cope?

Matthew was chuckling at her. ‘Yes, we can. I know the journal has levelled out. But it’s still paying its way. I know we can manage. And we’ll not be going out so often with two children in the family, so we’ll save money on that.’

Glumly she nodded. She wanted so desperately to give Matthew a child, to prove herself a good wife and mother. She had been a good enough mother to Sara, for whom she had no feelings – so how much more a good mother she would be to this coming baby, which she would love because it was Matthew’s, her gentle, thoughtful Matthew. Now he was asking her to sacrifice herself even further to prove her love, as if what she’d already done for him still wasn’t enough.

‘I don’t want to move away,’ she said plaintively. ‘I feel settled here.’

‘We can’t stay in this place forever.’ He smiled. ‘And should the family grow even larger, or the journal becomes more successful …’

‘But we don’t have to go miles away though, do we?’ she pleaded.

He drew her close once more. ‘My darling, we’ll move to wherever you wish. I only ask that it be some better locality than here.’

‘If we moved nearer to my parents?’ she suggested hopefully into his shoulder. With Emma Hardy no longer near to look after Sara, maybe her parents would oblige on those odd occasions when she and Matthew went out together. Harriet felt herself brighten again at the thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

‘There are some nice parts around Victoria Park,’ she continued hurriedly. ‘And you can move the journal into somewhere more spacious nearby. We could do that, couldn’t we, Matthew – if we had to move?’

She felt his arms tighten confidently. ‘Of course we can. In time we might get ourselves a fine house, with staff, lots of staff. And you will want for nothing, and be able to give orders. In time, my sweetest … in time you and I and our little family will be just as comfortably off as my parents.’

And it will be without any help from them
, he thought with a small stab of bitterness as he continued to clasp Harriet’s small frame to his breast.