The Silent Tide (31 page)

Isabel resisted. She took to walking across the marshes to the estuary, where she’d contemplate the wild landscape and listen to the cries of the birds. It reflected her melancholy mood.

One Wednesday morning, she finished editing a manuscript for Trudy and packed it up, eager to make the short walk to the Post Office before half-day closing. When she arrived, she was annoyed to find a queue. The postmaster, whose bad temper everyone put up with because he hadn’t been the same since having a metal plate put in his skull after being blown up in Normandy, had a habit of closing the counter at twelve-thirty on the dot on Wednesdays, and anyone he’d still not served could lump it.

Fortunately, the people in front of her were familiar with this and conducted their business efficiently. The morose postmaster had just dropped Isabel’s parcel in the sack, and she turned to go, when a woman further back in the queue said, ‘Hello.’ She looked up to see a familiar pair of wide-spaced blue eyes.

‘Jacqueline,’ she said in surprise, then hushed her voice because the whole queue was now listening eagerly. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

‘Next,’ barked the postmaster, stabbing his bell with the rubber thimble he wore on his forefinger to count banknotes, and everybody shuffled forward.

‘Buying stamps, of course,’ Jacqueline replied, showing the envelope in her gloved hand. She was overdressed for a country Post Office, in a suit with a narrow skirt that emphasised her generous hips, a small hat that clung to her perfect curls and a toffee-coloured bag and shoes. Isabel, conscious of her dusty walking shoes, felt dowdy in comparison.

‘I meant I didn’t know you were in Suffolk,’ she said gently.

‘Twelve-thirteee,’ the postmaster called as the person in front of Jacqueline moved away. He started packing everything into the drawer behind the counter.

‘I say, can’t you sell me . . . ?’ Jacqueline bent forward, waving her envelope in a manner that Isabel knew would annoy the man.

‘Sorry madam,’ he said, pointing to an officious little notice about opening hours on the wall behind. He came out from his seat, pushed past several people still waiting and held open the door. Everyone filed out obediently. The door shut firmly behind them and the lock clicked into place. As Isabel and Jacqueline watched, a hand, still wearing a thimble, flipped over the sign to read closed.

‘Well, he really is the limit,’ Jacqueline sighed. ‘I say, I don’t suppose you can sell me a stamp?’

‘There are some at home,’ Isabel said, remembering a strip of them in the writing bureau. ‘Is that yours?’ she asked, seeing a smart little open-top car. ‘If you drop me back, I’ll find you one.’

She wanted the lift. It was one of those warm and drowsy days of late summer, and the walk down had been a little tiring. Her centre of gravity had changed and a nagging pain had started up in her lower back.

‘You didn’t walk, did you?’ Jacqueline said, with an alarmed glance at Isabel’s swelling girth. ‘I don’t know how you can. But let me take you home. If I miss Aunt Hilda’s birthday, I’ll never hear the last of it.’

‘I wish Hugh would teach me to drive,’ Isabel told Jacqueline as they got into the car, ‘but he refuses.’

‘Very sensible of him,’ Jacqueline said as they pulled away. ‘You have to think of Baby.’

Isabel smiled grimly in reply. She closed her eyes, enjoying the breeze on her face, the scent of cut grass.

Jacqueline was the sort who gave women drivers a bad name. She drove along the middle of the road, and swung the car almost too wide when she turned up the drive. As she raised one arm from the wheel to shield her eyes against the dazzling sun, the car swerved alarmingly and Isabel had to clutch the door. Inside, she felt the baby leap in alarm.

As they drew up safely outside the stables, Isabel asked, ‘Are you in Suffolk for long?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Jacqueline replied. ‘I hate it in London when Michael is away. I wish we could settle down here, but he says he has to be in Town.’ She smiled at Isabel wistfully. ‘I do think you’re lucky. This place is paradise to raise a family.’

‘I suppose so,’ Isabel said, pushing the car door open and heaving herself out. ‘But I still prefer London.’ She laughed. ‘Perhaps we should change places.’

Jacqueline bit her lip. ‘Don’t say things like that.’ She lifted her handbag from the back seat. As she shut the car door she stared up at the house. Her expression could only be described as yearning.

Inside, the house was shadowy and cool. From the kitchen came the tranquil sounds of lunch being prepared.

‘Mother-in-law?’ Isabel called out. There was no answer. ‘Perhaps she’s in the garden,’ she told Jacqueline, who was adjusting her hat in the hallstand mirror. ‘Wait, I’ll fetch you that stamp before I forget.’

While in the drawing room, lowering the hinged lid of the old writing bureau, she heard Hugh’s voice in the hall. ‘Jacqueline, my dear girl. What a wonderful surprise.’

She heard Jacqueline answer, but not what she said. She tore off a stamp from the strip and went to join them.

‘Oh, I say, that’s marvellous,’ Jacqueline said, counting out coins despite Isabel’s protest.

‘It’s clever of you to find Jacqueline,’ Hugh told Isabel. He stood behind his wife and placed his hands on her shoulders in a possessive gesture. Jacqueline concentrated on licking the stamp and pressing it down on the envelope.

‘I’m sure you’d like something to drink,’ Isabel said, then they all turned as they were interrupted.

‘Jacqueline, how splendid. I’ll tell Mrs Catchpole to put back lunch.’ Hugh’s mother, a little out of breath, had entered the hall from the garden. ‘How are you, dear?’ she asked with a warmth Isabel hadn’t seen before.

‘Mrs Morton, you do look well.’ Jacqueline stepped forward, and the two women clasped hands. ‘I was so concerned when I heard about your illness.’

‘How kind of you to write that sweet little note,’ Hugh’s mother replied. ‘And Hugh said you telephoned. I felt so fussed over.’

‘The least I could do,’ Jacqueline said. ‘And Hugh has been so reassuring.’

‘Mother must have the constitution of an ox,’ Hugh said. ‘The doctor was very worried at first. I could tell he thought we’d have a funeral on our hands.’

‘Oh, Hugh,’ his mother said, ‘don’t joke about such things.’

Still, everyone laughed.

Isabel didn’t recall Jacqueline ringing up, but she did remember Hugh’s mother exclaiming over a card with flowers on it.

‘Isabel, do take Jacqueline into the garden. It’s so beautiful out there. I’ll just have a word with Mrs Catchpole. Have you had luncheon yet, dear?’

‘Not yet, Mrs Morton,’ said Jacqueline, ‘but there’s some waiting for me at home. If a glass of water wouldn’t put you out . . .’

‘Oh, I think we can manage something a little stronger than that,’ Hugh broke in and went off to mix cocktails.

A table and chairs lay in the shadow of the cherry tree, and here they sat. Isabel always became ravenously hungry by this time, and the unaccustomed Martini went straight to her head. Bees buzzed around the wild flowers in the grass and the sun slanted through the dark-green leaves. Ice clinked against glass and she let the conversation drift around her, wondering when she’d ever get lunch.

‘He’s still in Korea,’ Jacqueline replied to Lavinia Morton’s question about her husband. ‘The fighting’s terribly fierce, they say, but I don’t listen to the news and try my best not to worry. Do you think he’ll be all right, Hugh?’

‘Military Intelligence operates behind the lines, doesn’t it? I’m sure he knows how to look after himself.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said. ‘He’s not allowed to say anything in his letters, of course.’

‘You’re being very brave,’ Hugh said, placing his hand over hers.

Isabel closed her eyes against this picture and saw two tiny suns swirl on the inside of her eyelids. She opened them again. Hugh had removed his hand.

‘I met your father at the Brigadier’s the other evening,’ Mrs Morton told Jacqueline. ‘I’m glad he still plays bridge.’

‘Yes,’ Jacqueline said, a little sadly. ‘Poor Daddy. It’s been two years now, but he still misses Mummy like mad.’

‘I’m sure you do too,’ Mrs Morton said gently. ‘Dear Dorothy, she was always such a good friend. Especially when I lost Hugh’s father.’

‘I do remember,’ Jacqueline said, her voice quivery. ‘It was while Hugh was away, wasn’t it, Hugh? We were so sad for you, Mrs Morton, coping with it on your own.’

‘You all rallied round marvellously for Mother,’ Hugh said, taking out a pipe and a wallet of tobacco.

Isabel frowned. The pipe was a recent affectation and when he lit it indoors she hated how the smoke burned the back of her throat. It didn’t matter so much out here, though it spoiled all the other smells, the flowers and the earth itself, that she experienced so intensely.

‘. . . in her condition.’ Hugh was talking about her now.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘You’re wool-gathering, darling. I was saying how glad I am that Jacqueline is down here for a while. She’ll be able to keep you company.’

‘Are you?’ She turned to Jacqueline. ‘How nice.’

‘I’m sure Jacqueline will help you with a layette for the baby,’ Hugh’s mother said. ‘Of course, I have a few things left over from when Hughie was small. You remember that dear little sailor suit, Hugh?’

‘Oh really, Mother, you haven’t kept that, have you?’ Hugh puffed out smoke as he laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s only any good if it’s a boy.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be a boy,’ Lavinia said, clasping her hands together. ‘Mortons always have boys. Your father, your grandfather, your great-grandfather. Not a single daughter amongst them. A son and heir, that’s what it’ll be.’

‘There’s that trick you can do with a wedding ring,’ Jacqueline said, opening her eyes very wide. ‘It might be a lot of rubbish, but it worked for a friend of mine. Anyway, it’s fun to try.’

‘No point,’ Isabel said. ‘My mother-in-law is always right. It’ll be a boy. It certainly kicks like one.’ She shifted slightly to get comfortable.

‘I am not always right, Isabel,’ came the response. ‘Jacqueline, Isabel is still working herself much too hard. It would be marvellous if you came to see us often. It would take her out of herself, and you know how I always love our little chats.’ She smiled.

Isabel tried not to snap. ‘I am perfectly happy, I assure you both. Not that it wouldn’t be delightful to see you, Jacqueline.’ Whether it was hunger or hormones, or a sense of injustice, a terrible rage was surging up in her that she struggled to contain. Because she was having a baby, the world was treating her differently. Not as a competent editor, but as an infirm imbecile.

'Once Baby comes, you'll wish you'd rested more, dear,' Hugh's mother said to her, swatting at a wasp.

The figure of Mrs Catchpole could be seen at the door to the garden.

'What I need most,' Isabel said, pushing herself up, 'is lunch. I'm simply sying of starvation.'

Towards the end of September, a letter finally arrived from Vivienne. It contained the news that Isabel half-expected-- that her courtship with Theo had ended, not just because of opposition by Vivienne's family, but by Theo's, too.

Vivienne's story was heartbreaking, but she was obviously trying to be very brave.

I knew I'd have difficulties with Mummy and Daddy, but I was sure that once they'd met Theo and got to know him as I did, they'd see how wonderful he really was, but the meeting did not go well and Theo wasn't at all at ease. They're always telling me how they want me to be happy, but when I chose someone I know I can be happy with, they wouldn't accept him. I suppose I do understand. So many of our kind of people are quite narrow-minded and, of course, there's been so much awfulness with Mummy's family in the concentration camps that I don't want to upset them even more, but I still hoped that with time they'd come round. But we weren't given that time.

Theo wrote to his family about me, you see. We had such plans-- that now I've finished studying I would accompany him to India to meet them, but I know now that this was naive. Two weeks ago, Theo came to see me, very sweet and shamefaced, and confessed that he was forced to break things off. He loved me, he said, he'd always love me, and I believed him, but his father had issues all kinds of threats about cutting him off and not sending him the money for his studies. I could see that there was no alternative, so I let him go. But now, my dear Isabel, I feel dreadfully hurt and sorry for myself.

Mummy's sent me away to stay with Aunt Rosa in Bath which is so beautiful and restoring that I'm sure I shall be back to my old self soon. And then I must decide what to do with my life. Well now, That's all far too much about me, and I should be after you and hoping that you're getting plenty of rest and fresh air. Suffolk must be marvellous at this time of year . .
.

She folded the letter and put it with some others she must answer. Poor, poor Vivienne. It seemed so unfair that she, Isabel, should be settled here, when Vivienne's life was so fraught with difficulty. It made her own troubles momentarily fade in comparison.

Isabel

‘Are you sure this won’t hurt the baby?’ Hugh said.

‘Never mind the baby,’ Isabel gasped. ‘It feels marvellous. Go on doing that. Oh . . .’

Afterwards, they lay spooned together in the darkness of the bedroom, his hand cupped around her belly.

‘I must say, I can hardly keep my hands off you at the moment,’ he growled, nuzzling her neck. ‘There’s something so gorgeous about all this, this
fecundity.’

‘I’m sure it is all right,’ Isabel wondered. ‘It’s not exactly something one likes to ask Doctor Bridges. He might be rather shocked.’

The local doctor was youngish and unmarried. He had pale freckled skin, which coloured up easily, and any appointment with him about her pregnancy rendered him permanently red-faced. Fortunately, she mostly saw the midwives.

She disliked the fact that she and her mother-in-law had the same family doctor. She didn’t really believe that he’d discuss her health with Hugh’s mother, but just the idea that he had seen intimate parts of both their bodies, and knew their weaknesses, was a distasteful one.