Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (23 page)

I can feel arms, I hear heavy breathing. ‘Oh fucking hell!’ somebody says. But whether it’s Philip or Portia or myself, I don’t know.

And I am gone. Into the darkness. And it is heaven.

I wake up in my bed. It’s been hours, I think, since I faded out. I am in clean pyjamas. It is dark outside. I can smell coffee, cat food, toasting bread. I am not alone. I sit up, fragility keeping my movements slow and pained.

‘Hello?’ I call. I can hear Radio Four murmuring from my kitchen.

Philip appears in my bedroom doorway. ‘Hello,’ he says, his head on one side, smiling. He is eating toast.

‘I don’t really know what’s going on,’ I say.

‘You’re ill. You’ve been ill for days, I suspect. Sophie was worried when she couldn’t get a reply on either of your phones. She rang me at home this morning. I came to see if I could help. You fainted on me in your hallway. Nutshell.’

‘What day is this?’

‘Sunday.’

‘What time?’

Philip examines his watch. ‘It’s twenty-six minutes past seven.’

‘At night?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time did you get here?’

‘Around two this afternoon.’

‘I passed out for five and a half hours?’

‘No, you were out for a minute or so. Don’t you remember? I carried you in here, we changed you into your pyjamas. I tucked you into bed.’

‘I don’t remember.’

Was I wearing knickers? Unwashed for days? Had Philip removed them? Did Philip see me naked?

I blush.

‘Don’t worry, Roberta,’ he says. ‘Your dignity is more than intact. Besides, we’ve known each other for quite a while now, haven’t we? So if I happened upon your underwear while helping you into bed, it’s of no great consequence. Is it?’

‘No.’

There is a strange silence in the room. Philip stands in the doorway, looking at me. I have not seen this expression before. He looks like he feels sorry for me. I don’t like it much. I am relieved when Portia glides into the room and jumps up on to my bed. She purrs as I stroke her and hold her to my face, feeling her soft fur, reacquainting myself with her familiar cat smell.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Philip, burying my face in Portia.

‘For what?’ he says.

‘For everything. Thank you. For being such a good friend,’ and here I am now, crying, tears rolling down my cheeks, the cat leaping away because she has never liked crying. I notice she is no longer speaking to me.

Philip sits on my bed, puts down his toast and takes my hand in both of his. His hands are warm and buttery.

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he says.

‘I didn’t tell you about him.’

‘No. But everyone else did. It’s a small town, Roberta. You should have told me. Why on earth didn’t you ring? I could have helped. And I would have liked to have gone to the funeral. As it was … it was difficult. You and I parted on bad terms, I felt.’

‘I couldn’t … I don’t expect anything from you.’

‘I’d do anything for you, Roberta. Any time you ask. You may have worked that out by now.’ He smiles kindly at me.

‘No, I haven’t worked that out.’

‘Then you must be extremely dim.’

I have no reply to this. Philip is sitting on my bed, holding my hand, making what sounds like a declaration of loyalty, if not devotion. And I am scared and sad and feeling rotten and I can’t imagine how I must look and smell. I wonder if he has emptied Portia’s litter tray. I rather think I was sick in the bathroom at some point in recent days. I don’t recall cleaning it up.

‘Roberta. Look. We’ve been beating around the bush for so long now. It’s all becoming such a bore. We’ve already wasted too many years in the sense that we have not been honest with each other. Whether from simple shyness or fear or even compunction, I don’t know. What I mean is, I love you like a sister. But that doesn’t make me your brother, does it?’

I think Philip just uttered the words ‘I love you’. Ambiguously, of course. Typically. But he’s right, too many years have been wasted, too much time has passed, and if I were to die now – and, believe me, I feel close to that state – I know what my one overwhelming regret would be. I know this, I have admitted it to myself. I just need to find the guts to admit it to him, and now.

‘I don’t have a brother,’ I say. It’s not, of course, quite what I meant to say or wanted to say, but it will have to do. At least it’s true.

‘Would you have liked one?’

‘Yes. Oh yes.’

‘Me too. I have a sister. But she doesn’t approve of me.’

‘Philip?’

‘Yes?’

‘I love you too,’ I mean to say. I am breathing hard and fast, and my heart is thumping like it has to be free of my body. And I’m sweating – but that doesn’t matter, because I’ve been sweating for days. I have to say these words to this man, who is still sitting on my bed holding my hand. I have been quiet for too long, quiet and stupid. I deserve this chance. I’m going to take it.

But all I can manage is, ‘Can I come back to work?’ It’s pathetic.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ says Philip. ‘Of course. But only when you’re up to it.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. Nothing more.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Philip, does she make you happy? Jenna?’ I feel breathless and charmed. Slowly, slowly I’m building up to it.

‘Sometimes. It’s … difficult.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m awfully stupid, Roberta. I’m a man, after all.’

‘You’re not stupid in the least,’ I say.

‘I don’t find relationships easy.’

‘Does anybody?’

‘My parents did. I never heard a cross word between them all through my childhood. Mind you, I was away at school much of the time.’

‘Boarding school?’

This is the first time he’s told me anything about his childhood.

‘Boarding school, indeed.’

‘I see. You were … quite well off, then?’

‘I still am, my dear, I still am.’ Philip winks at me. He’s not done that to me before. ‘When one is fortunate enough to go through life with sufficient money … it should make life so easy, shouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, I … I suppose so,’ I stammer, blushing.

He seems amused. ‘Yes, well. Enough of this bullshit. I’m going to get you some toast, you can’t have eaten properly for days. Then I’m going to leave you to get more sleep, but I’ll bed down on the sofa tonight, if that’s okay?’

I nod weakly.

And he carries on. ‘I phoned Jenna earlier to fill her in. She’s being very understanding, actually, and hopes you feel better soon. And don’t worry about anything, I’ve fed the cat and cleaned up. I’ll be here in the morning, and we’ll talk properly. You’re still feverish, but I need to know you mean what you say about coming back, and I want you to understand that I mean what I say. All you have to do is eat, then sleep. Do you mind if I open that bottle of Pinot Grigio in your fridge?’

I eat two slices of hot buttery toast, then two more. Then I sleep. I dream, drifting in and out of sleep. He loves me, he loves me not. Finally, I lie still, I close my eyes, I go over all that Philip and I have spoken about.

And he’s here all night, watching over me, my friend.

D
orothy and her boy. He was dark-haired, skinny, alive, and together they were sitting on a riverbank at nearly twilight. The river moved softly, a water vole scurried from the water into his hole in the bank. She heard a noise like a thousand angel wings beating, but it was starlings, a huge flock of them, a murmuration swarming over the treetops, black, moving as one, this way, that, evening sunlight reflecting from a myriad of wings like shimmers of pure gold. Dorothy reached for her son’s hand and he smiled as, together, they watched the birds, the mother and her son, hand in hand, contented and joyous. But there were no more starlings. Instead, there were crows, and they were angry. And in front of them, fleeing for its life, was an owl, its wings beating furiously, a fear in its eyes that Dorothy and her son could clearly see. Dorothy clutched her boy to her, cradled his head in her arms and rocked him until the terrible spectacle was over. And like all dreams it was soon over, half remembered.

But that day in 1939, the day of Sidney’s birth, was never just half remembered, although she tried hard to forget. The pains did not abate.

She couldn’t finish her laundry, and had to leave Albert’s Sunday trousers in the mangle, her undies floating in the copper, the soapsuds forming a scum on top. She sent Albert on his bicycle for Mrs Compton, who followed him back on her own bicycle, both arriving red-faced and tired. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, a warm, fresh day in May with a softening breeze. Mrs Compton bustled into the kitchen with a heavy-looking carpet bag, black and worn, which she placed on the table. Dorothy, sitting by the range, looked up at Mrs Compton.

‘What do we have here, then?’ Mrs Compton asked, hands on hips, looking down on Dorothy malevolently, or so it seemed to the labouring woman.

For surely this
was
labour, the pains coming and fading rhythmically, each one harder and longer than the last? It had been going on for six hours now, more or less, by Dorothy’s reckoning. But she couldn’t say exactly when they started, those first faint tremors, gradually turning to pain.

‘You’re quiet enough,’ said Mrs Compton. ‘The baby isn’t on his way just yet. Get a nice cup of tea.’ She looked at Albert, indicating the kettle on the range.

Surprised, he shook it to make sure there was water inside. There was.

‘And then relax, eat, get to bed early, both of you. I’ll come back in the morning. I’ll leave my things here.’ She indicated her bag with a tap.

Dorothy did, and did not, want Mrs Compton to leave. Fear of what was to come, the task before her, and dismay that the baby wouldn’t be born in the next hour or two fuelled her anxiety. ‘What if the baby comes in the night and you’re not here?’ she said.

‘He won’t, love, trust me, I’ve seen hundreds of women like you. And it’s your first, he’ll be a while yet. I’ll come back nice and early, I’ll come at six. How’s that? Try to sleep.’

She left. Albert and Dorothy sipped tea, Dorothy catching her breath with each pain as it surged through her body, stinging the tops of her legs, crashing through her belly like a newly sharpened knife. After a while, they ate and talked a little, Albert eyeing her anxiously. They went to bed at nine o’clock, and he tentatively rubbed her belly until he slept. Dorothy stayed awake and wished forth her baby. The idea of the pains getting any worse was becoming inconceivable.

Dorothy listened to Albert snore for a while, until she got out of bed and walked around the house. She decided to be useful, so she returned to her wash house. In between pains, she finished off the laundry and hung everything out on the line to dry overnight. The night was warm, the breeze still present, it was a perfect night for drying. That task completed, she returned to the house, quietly retrieved the suitcase from under the bed and carried it down to the parlour. She took out all the things she had made for this baby, for Sidney. She was convinced the baby was a boy, so much so that she had not even considered any girls’ names this time. She smelled Sidney’s clothes, shook them, smoothed them and laid them out on the settee, trying to decide which outfit she would dress her baby in first. Then she packed them all away again and napped on the settee.

Around three o’clock in the morning, she awoke with a strong wave of pain, suddenly stronger, harder, and she doubled over, crying out. She feared something was wrong, some indescribable tragedy was surely unfolding inside her. The pain was unnatural. She woke Albert, sending him for Mrs Compton. Yes, she knew she’d said she would come back early, but she was needed now. It was only just gone three, yes, she knew that, but please, Albert. I’m scared. Albert thought her melodramatic, but Dorothy didn’t care. It was happening only to her and so only she knew.

When she was alone again, the pains grew stronger, harder, more frequent and urgent. It seemed that Mrs Compton and Albert would never return, she would have to give birth on her own, it would be bloody, the baby would wail and she wouldn’t know what to do. She struggled upstairs between pains, got on to the bed, and rocked on all fours, trying to keep up her breathing. She tried to focus on something else, the day ahead, whether it would be warm and dry. It seemed likely. She got off the bed, as the rocking motion and squeak of the castors were making her feel sick and reminded her of this baby’s conception. She knelt on the floor, trying to concentrate, trying to remain alive and sane.

They arrived. Dorothy could hear Mrs Compton heaving up the narrow stairs, calling over her shoulder for Albert to boil the kettle.

‘Hush now, Dorothy, all’s well!’ said Mrs Compton as she entered the room.

Dorothy did not realise she had been making any noise. ‘It hurts. I’m scared.’

‘I know, it will hurt, you’re giving birth. It’s all normal, and you will survive.’

‘There’s something wrong. Wrong here.’ Dorothy pointed between her legs and gasped, she grappled for air, a pain sweeping over and through her. Was she being squeezed through her own mangle?

‘Nonsense! There’s nothing wrong here, nothing at all,’ said Mrs Compton. She whisked open the curtains and lit candles, and she told Albert to light the fire.

And he did, glancing anxiously at his labouring wife, worried for her but also wanting to escape the confines of the birthing room as soon as he decently could. It was no place for a man.

Mrs Compton bustled and busied and prepared Dorothy, removing her knickers and making her lie down so she could examine her. Her hand felt huge and rough, without finesse. It wouldn’t be long, she announced, washing her hands at the washstand. It was nearly time to push.

‘I can’t.’

‘You can and you will. You want this baby born soon, don’t you? Don’t you want to hold him?’

Dorothy did. Of course. So when the time finally came, an hour or so later, Dorothy pushed.

She strained she sweated and screamed and cried out that she couldn’t go on that it was impossible that something was wrong very badly wrong she knew it the pain was too much she couldn’t bear it any more when was this going to end why was she in pain and deep in her mind Dorothy thought of her mother probably asleep now but she would be up later and dressed prim and proper sipping tea from what was left of the rosebud teacups that Dorothy smashed when she fainted and fell on them as a young girl in her stiff starched frock she would never forget that day she thought of Albert downstairs in the kitchen was he pacing was he listening she didn’t want him to hear these animal noises she knew now she was making these screams and cries and grunts these desperate noises of a woman who is struggling to enter motherhood while outside her window the swifts were swooping and screeching who knows that despite what she is being told by the woman before her something is wrong very badly wrong and she wanted to kiss Albert suddenly kiss him hard on his mouth on his strong hard stomach because she hadn’t done this nearly enough even though it pleased him beyond measure she wanted the pain to stop stop stop stop please stop stop then burning tearing ripping bursting burning burning the worst pain yet everything inside her was being propelled out of her she was on fire burning burning to death and then a gush an outpouring a slither and a small strangled cry that was not the baby and Mrs Compton in her haste knocked her bag and a candle on to the floor and she swore and grabbed the baby who was in fact born and purple and wet and she grabbed him and smacked him hard and a voice screeching No! and the baby blue blue not purple after all but blue and small so small and black hair and slippery skin and Dorothy reached out for him and blood spurted from somewhere Dorothy thought the cord which was coiled around the darling boy’s neck a serpent and Mrs Compton white-faced clutching at the cord, pulling it over the baby’s head but it was tight too tight too constricted blowing into his mouth and gasping panicked crying for Albert to fetch Dr Soames immediately now hurry Albert something is wrong with the baby hurry Albert and not a noise from downstairs save the banging of a door and Dorothy lying back exhausted on her pillows all sense of pain all sense gone all hope gone because she knew yes she knew that this would happen it was written in her blood her guts she would not be a mother for long if at all and darling Sidney destined not to live in this world it was in his colour and his stillness the quietness of the baby unnatural and horrible and dead he was dead Dorothy cried out loud she thought and Mrs Compton sitting on the end of the bed holding the bundle blood-soaked and empty of life.