Fourpenny Flyer (37 page)

‘Now come on, Tom,' Bessie said. ‘There's no harm in ol' Rosie. She's jest a bit simple, that's all. She's a good gel.'

‘Gel, Ma!' Tom said, eyebrows raised. ‘She's no gel. Why she's thirty if she's a day. Thirty an' enough ter drive a saint wild the way she will keep on repeatin' every word you say. I can't see what they wants 'er for.'

‘She won't be no trouble, son,' Thiss said. ‘Pick up yer bag. It's time you was off, as the guillotine said ter the of king's 'ead.'

‘Oh Thiss,' Bessie rebuked, ‘the things you say!' Now that the time had come to say goodbye to this tall son of hers she was very close to tears, so her husband's awful joke was something of a relief to her. Letting Pollyanna go to service had been bad enough, and she'd only travelled a few miles up the road to Miss Annie's, but letting Tom go was worse. Oh much, much worse. London was such a very long way away, that was the trouble, and Mr John rarely
came up to Bury these days, and besides, now that her Tom was twelve and nearly fully grown, he reminded her so much of Thiss when he was young, because he was skinny and slender-necked and quick-moving, and his dark hair was never tidy, and his brown eyes were full of devilment, and his grin was like a slice of melon, and he was always so gentle and kind and full of jokes. It made parting with him uncommon painful. ‘The things you say!'

‘I was there,' Thiss said, brown eyes glinting at the memory. ‘I seen it.'

‘You never!' his son said, thrilled at the idea.

‘Straight up! Me an' Mrs Easter, we both seen it. That ol' guillotine come a-whistlin' down, an' whosh! That was the end a' the king. Pick up yer bag, son, an' you shall 'ave all the gory details on the way across the square.'

‘What a picture ter leave in a boy's mind!' Bessie scolded mildly. ‘Shame on yer, Thiss.'

‘None better, Goosie,' her husband said. ‘They were great days. Liberty, Equality an' Fraternity, they was, which the Prince Regent would do well ter remember when 'e's a-feedin' 'is fat face at our expense. Him an' them great fat overpaid brothers of 'is. Oh yes, they was great days! If they 'adn't gone a-killin' one another afterwards. Come on, Tom, an' I'll tell you all about it.'

Rosie was waiting in the coach yard of the Angel Inn, sitting in a plump sagging heap on top of her bundle, with all four laundry maids standing about her ready to give her ‘a good send off'. When she saw Tom she began to grin.

‘Ready fer the off?' Tom asked, grinning back, for he could see that it wouldn't be long before the coach was ready to start.

‘Ready fer the off,' she echoed happily, wriggling until her little stumpy legs were touching the ground. ‘Fer the off. Yes. I'm a-goin' to look after the babba, Tom. Look after the babba. Yes.'

And all the laundry maids kissed her and bounced her and told her to be sure to be a good gel, and Miss Pettie, who was walking past the Angel Inn on her way to visit her dear friends, the two Miss Callbecks in Whiting Street,
ducked her head in at the entrance to wish her Godspeed. Oh it
was
exciting!

And Mr Easter welcomed them both so warmly when they finally got to Fitzroy Square. ‘This is the life, Ma,' Tom wrote to Bessie two days later. ‘A capital job in a Capital place. Rosie ain't so dusty, even if she do poll-parrot. She's uncommon fond of Mrs Harriet, who is in the pink, as you said I was to tell you.'

Pregnancy suited Harriet Easter, and with Rosie to wait upon her and John to dote upon her the months passed pleasantly enough. And the few worries that surfaced from time to time could be written away into her diary.

In April she recorded the safe arrival of Matilda's infant, which, despite the services of two midwives and an accoucheur, turned out to be a girl, and a very odd-looking one, as Harriet reported secretly, ‘with such a big head, such an odd shape, and such a deal of scruffy-looking hair, neither fair nor dark, and little piggy eyes quite sunk into her face, poor child. I do hope my baby is prettier than that. Matilda says she is the dearest baby alive and positively dotes upon her and John says beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The most important thing is that she is safely delivered. Praise God.'

In June, when the roses were in full bloom and the weather was unseasonably cold, Mr Hopkins wrote to tell them that Annie had been safely delivered, too, of a little girl who was to be called Margaret and was every bit as pretty as her brothers. Although she was now heavily pregnant and John was anxious about her travelling at such a time, Harriet insisted on driving to Rattlesden to see the baby for herself. And she was a delicious little creature, with a fluff of fair hair and big blue eyes.

‘If I could have one even half as pretty,' Harriet confided, ‘I should be the happiest woman alive.'

‘You will, my dear,' Annie promised, smiling at her from the pillows. ‘You will see.'

But Harriet's pregnancy was growing at an alarming rate, and now that Annie and Matilda were safely through their's and into the contentment of motherhood, she felt alone and vulnerable. She wrote in her diary every day, of
her present aches and discomforts, of the agony to come, and of the terrifying thought that she might not be alive in another six weeks' time. ‘How shall I support the anguish,' she wrote, ‘when I am such a coward? Oh dear, oh dear.'

She was rather surprised when her labour began just after dawn one morning right at the end of July, which was earlier than she'd estimated, and with pains no worse than those she'd endured without comment every month. John had already left the house to go to the Post Office for the stamping, so she was all on her own. She got up and put on the loose gown which was all that would fit her, and began to pace up and down the room. If I am quick, she thought, I could have this baby born before dinner this evening. I will make an excuse that I cannot come down to breakfast because I am fatigued or sleeping or somesuch, and I will wait until he has returned to the Strand before I send for Mrs Young, and then he need know nothing about it. If this is all there is to the pain I may endure it easily. She was quite light-headed with relief.

‘I do believe I shall have this baby safely after all,' she said to the midwife, as the bells of nearby Holy Trinity struck midday.

‘I should hope so,' that lady said trenchantly, ‘with a good breakfast inside 'ee and me to attend to 'ee. Come let's have 'ee in this bed now 'tis all ready.'

And even when the pains took hold and gripped her most cruelly, Harriet was still sustained by her odd, unexpected euphoria. ‘I am nearly there, am I not?' she asked, over and over again.

And Mrs Young said, yes, she was, very, very nearly, and a fine good girl she was being.

And the afternoon was squeezed away, minute by heaving minute. ‘I am nearly there, am I not? I am a good girl?'

Four o'clock sounded, half-past, three-quarters. But the child wasn't born. ‘Oh!' Harriet grieved between the massive pressure of these long, long pains. ‘Why – is it – so – slow?' And Mrs Young's rosy face loomed into her line of vision, ‘Nearly there! What a good girl! Nearly there!'

At five o'clock she heard the bells as though they were a
long way away, somewhere behind the pain, and she had a moment's panic at the thought that John would return home and find her with the child unborn and the house uncared for. And what would she say to him then? ‘I must –' she tried to say, struggling to sit up, ‘I must –' But she was beyond speech now, and sitting up was impossible. The very next pain gave her such an uncontrollable urge to push that it simply had to be obeyed, and from then on she was out of touch with everything and everybody.

John came home and knocked timidly on the door to beg for information, which was given in urgent whispers, but she didn't hear him; Mrs Toxteth brought tea in an invalid cup, but she could barely pause to moisten her lips with it. It was true that when Mrs Young gave her instructions she obeyed them instinctively, but her senses were concentrated on the great effort she had to make and her eyes were shut tight against all distractions.

And at long long last the child's head was born. On the very next push she could feel its slippery body sliding between her legs and its little hands scrabbling against her thighs, and she opened her eyes to see what it was. And fell in love.

Mrs Young had lifted the baby up between her hands so that he was dangling just above Harriet's belly, trailing his long dark grey cord, with his little fists tucked beneath his chin and his little legs curved towards his chest, pink and entire and perfect and male. And as Harriet gazed at him, spellbound, he opened his eyes and looked at her, a long, profound intelligent look, for all the world as if he'd known her all his life.

‘Oh!' she cried. ‘Give him to me, do! I must hold him. I must.' And Mrs Young flung a hand towel about the baby's shoulders and lowered him into Harriet's arms. It was a moment of total bliss. A timeless moment. Afterwards she had no idea how long she held her baby, examining those miniature fingers with their fragile shell-pink nails, and kissing the soft skin of his face, very very gently, and ruffling the soft fair down on his tender head, very very gently, breathing in the delicious new scent of him, watching the pulse that throbbed just beneath the skin on
that little vulnerable skull, and loving him so very much and so very responsibly.

John arrived in the room and kissed her most lovingly and admired his son, and said he hoped they would call him William after his grandfather. Being shut outside the door while this inexorable process continued, listening to the sobs and groans of his poor dear Harriet and knowing that
he
had been the cause of all her pain had upset him terribly. But he was too weak with relief to share her happiness just yet. ‘Was it as bad as you feared, my love?' he asked, dreading the answer.

She had quite forgotten har fear. ‘Why no,' she said, ‘it wasn't bad. No, indeed. I would not call it bad.' Oh no, bad was quite the wrong word; Giving birth was the most natural thing in the world. A good thing. Almost entirely good. ‘Isn't he the prettiest baby you ever saw? Have you told your mother?'

‘She is waiting below,' he said. ‘Perhaps she could see him?'

‘In the morning,' the midwife said firmly. ‘There's been enough excitement for one night, I'm thinking. Mrs Easter should sleep now.'

And she is right, Harriet thought, I am very sleepy. ‘Should I tell
my
parents?' she asked, half closing her eyes. She felt quite amazingly benevolent towards them.

How could he answer? At a time like this? He didn't want to tell them anything at all, but he could hardly admit that. Not now.

‘I ought to let them know,' she said, resting her cheek against the baby's soft head. Contentment was lapping her into sleep, easily, easily, a long slow pulse of satisfied endeavour. ‘He
is
their grandchild, John. I ought to write.'

‘You must do as you think fit, my love,' he said, adjusting the blankets so that she and the baby were hooded with wool. ‘But not now. Not tonight. Now you must do as Mrs Young says and sleep.'

‘Um,' she said. Her eyes were closed now, their lids blue-shadowed. ‘I will write tomorrow.'

I do hope you won't, John thought. And as he watched her sleeping he tried to think of a gentle way to dissuade her.

But he needn't have worried, for he had a powerful ally in his newborn son.

Young Will was a very pretty baby and a very demanding one. He kept his newly enraptured mother so busy that for the next two months she barely had time to think of anything or anybody else, even if she'd wanted to, which she most certainly did not. John himself was frequently ignored, but he endured it happily because it was natural and because his dreadful in-laws seemed to have been forgotten altogether. The promised letter wasn't sent, the child was christened and they weren't invited, he grew and smiled and learned to clap his hands and crow with pleasure and they weren't even mentioned.

And as an additional delight during those long warm days, London society was entertained by the unedifying spectacle of three elderly royal dukes a-courting. The Easter family enjoyed that very much.

The death of the Princess Charlotte and her newborn son had caused something of a constitutional crisis, for the Prince Regent had no other children and, what was worse, no likelihood of any, since he had long ago banned his lawful wife from bed, palace and kingdom, in that order, and now spent his time with a succession of elderly grandmothers long past childbearing. His royal brothers hadn't done much better either for, although they'd produced plenty of illegitimate children, none of them had married. But, fortunately, they were all head-over-ears in debt, so when Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, offered to pay off their creditors on condition that they married some suitable German princess or other and managed to father a child to continue the royal line, they began wife-hunting at once.

The royal stud was much derided. The cartoonists were scathing, depicting the fat dukes leaping and cavorting with their possible fiancées, vast bellies well to the fore. And, of course, reports of these elderly courtships sold newspapers in their thousands, as did the accounts of the two royal weddings which took place soon after, when the Duke of Clarence, aged fifty-three, left his ten illegitimate children to fend for themselves and married Princess
Adelaide of Saxe-Meiningen, and the Duke of Kent, aged fifty-two, left his elderly mistress, Madame St Laurent, to marry Victoria Mary Louisa of Leiningen.

‘Scandalous!' Matilda said when she and Billy were dining with John and Harriet. ‘Just think of the hideous babies they'll have. Not like our pretty dears.'

‘But then our pretty dears are Easters,' John said, giving her his lopsided grin, ‘and Easters are beautiful by definition.'