Born of Woman (88 page)

‘I'm sorry, I can't hear you. No, Newcastle, I said. You
do
? What time? Oh wonderful! Tonight, though—New Year's Eve? You're sure? It's not full, is it? You're absolutely certain? Can I book, or do I …?

She slammed the receiver down, hand shaking with relief. Was it just good luck, or had Hester somehow …? There wasn't time for speculation. She had to get to Pancras Road, where that miraculous coach departed. She picked up the phone again, dialled the first of a list of taxi firms which Jo had tacked above it.

The baby was still screaming. She rushed upstairs with him, wrapped him in a second layer of woollies, with a shawl on top of those. Her own clothes were still in the suitcase she had packed to come to Putney, Lyn's new red Christmas sweater lying on the top. She tugged it out, tucked it round the baby. Red not for danger, but for daring, love. She whipped off her nightdress, exchanged it for her warmest skirt and jersey, emptied all the useless clutter from her bag and filled it up with baby clothes and nappies. Then pounded down to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, found a Thermos flask, collected powdered milk and bottles. She scribbled a note to Jo, added an IOU for the long-distance call to Molly and her advance on salary, left her Lyn's Christmas cake as a New Year offering. She could bake him a hundred other cakes once she and he …

Only fifty minutes before the coach set off. If only it wasn't so far to Pancras Road. She pulled on her coat, switched off lights and fire, lugged bags and carry-cot into the hall. She was ready to go now—but the taxi wasn't.

‘Hurry,' she prayed. ‘
Hurry
.'

She opened the door a crack, to see if it was pulling up outside. The dark angry night rushed in through the gap, wind rasping, snowflakes clawing at her hair. She heard the cackle of a New Year's party spill from the house opposite, throb of a stereo, whoop of a trombone. A tinselled laurel swag, festooned above the window, sent strange spiky shadows across the path.

Laurel! She closed the door, dashed back to the kitchen. She had forgotten something vital. The first-foot was only lucky if he bore important gifts—she had just read that in the book—a sprig of evergreen for continuing life and fertility; bread as an ancient token of welcome and to ensure an ample supply of food for the coming year; salt to symbolise wealth; coal to promise year-long warmth and heat. She hacked a slice from Jo's staling wholemeal loaf, tipped a shake of salt into a paper bag. Coal? There wasn't any. But what did they say—‘coals to Newcastle'? Well, that shouldn't be a problem, then. She grinned to herself, felt crazily elated. Only evergreen now. There was nothing green in Jo's brick-and-concrete back yard, and she could hardly steal that neighbour's laurel wreath. But Putney was full of gardens. They must stop on the way and break off a piece of fir or yew or holly—perhaps from Matthew's house—his one offering to his child. The Winterton garden was dark with yews and laurels. When she had first visited, she had shied away from them—felt they were gloomy, poisonous, blocking out the sun. But after Hester died, the old crone up at Mepperton who had acted as both midwife and embalmer in her time, had told her that the yew tree lived to such an immense old age, it had become a symbol of immortality. All evergreens were powerful, could never fade or brown, and therefore triumphed over death and dissolution. She had followed the woman's suggestion, placed a branch of yew in Hester's coffin, laid it between her hands. She would repeat the ritual, pick a sprig from Matthew's oldest tree and take it up to Hernhope, so that Matthew's seed, his child, should bring the house new and vigorous life.

If
she ever got there. She glanced at her watch. Only forty-three minutes to go now, and still no sign of the taxi. All her preparations would be pointless unless it arrived in the next few seconds. She fretted up and down the hall, disturbing flurries of brochures, dodging the bunch of mistletoe swinging from its shaggy loop of string.

Mistletoe! She had almost forgotten it—an evergreen which promised peace as well as immortality, and was also an emblem of fertility because it flourished all year without a ground root. Hester had made potions of it for women trying to conceive. She reached up, snapped off a second sprig, a larger one this time and thick with berries.

The baby's screams were echoing through the hall. Was he hungry, wet, soiled? There wasn't time to check. She would have to feed and change him on the coach—except she would probably miss it now. She dared not look at her watch again, see those cruel hands pouncing on the seconds, stranding her in London, cutting off her luck. The baby seemed to be howling out her own frustration. She tried to soothe him, stuck the sprig of mistletoe in the hood of his carry-cot.

His screams quietened, and suddenly there were loud crunching footsteps up the path, the shadow of a man darkening the glass panel in the door. She flung it open before he had time to ring, scooped up the cot in one hand, the bags in another. The driver had already grabbed the suitcase.

‘Emergency, they told me. Is everything all right, Miss?'

‘It may be,' she panted. ‘If you can do Pancras Road in thirty-seven minutes, with one brief stop on the way.'

The baby whimpered as the first blast of freezing air shocked against his face.

‘Courage,' she whispered, as the driver helped her in and slammed the doors. ‘We're going back where we belong, so you'll have to get used to the cold.'

Hernhope shivered in the cold, the embers of a small wood fire the only dying point of light inside its blinded windows. Slowly thawing snow fell with a ghostly thud from roof and sill. Inside, a man slept fitfully, alone. Old Year's Night was over now, midnight fraying into slumped and grey-eyed morning, but no one had crossed the threshold yet.

The house waited, listened. Far away on the road from Newcastle, it could hear the muffled wheels of a taxi labouring in the clogged and treacherous slush. In the back was a new-born baby—a dark-haired boy-child, stranger to these parts—who neither slept nor cried. He was cold, frightened, bumped and winded, his nappy soiled, his stomach queasy, but he simply stared into the darkness, waiting for his time. The woman with him, tired and pale, rocked and soothed and sung him lullabies. She was hungry and nibbled at a slice of bread, sprinkled with salt from a crumpled paper bag. She had a branch of yew beside her, roughly broken off, a lump of coal wrapped in a nappy liner. A sprig of mistletoe drooped above the cot, wilting but still green.

The house waited. It would be an hour or more before the car arrived, the darkness lifted, but at least the snow was melting, the wind veering to the kinder, calmer south. The house was cold itself, and old—roof leaking, walls crumbling, damp seeping through its flagstones, its agues and ills too long neglected. It needed youth, new blood. Hester had found them, sent them here, would still watch over them. With any luck, things would be mended now, amended.

In the New Year.

First published in 1983 by Michael Joseph

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello
www.curtisbrown.co.uk

ISBN 978-1-4472-2265-1 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-2265-1 POD

Copyright © Wendy Perriam, 1983

The right of Wendy Perriam to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher will be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (‘author websites').

The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content, products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.

This book remains true to the original in every way. Some aspects may appear out-of-date to modern-day readers. Bello makes no apology for this, as to retrospectively change any content would be anachronistic and undermine the authenticity of the original.

Bello has no responsibility for the content of the material in this book. The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not constitute an endorsement by, or association with, us of the characterization and content.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Visit
www.panmacmillan.com
to read more about all our books
and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and
news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters

so that you're always first to hear about our new releases.