A Child's Voice Calling (2 page)

Mimi advised her to take note of the work that the maids had to do: sweeping and scrubbing, raking out ashes and laying fires, emptying chamber pots and boiling up water for the washing that had to be pushed through a mangle and hung out on the line or draped over the wooden beams of the ‘airer’ with its rope on a pulley. ‘Ye’ll ’ave that to do an’ all, when yer get yer own home,’ Mimi told her.

Her own home with Jack! Anna-Maria could hardly wait, but as yet there was no sign of it.

As autumn advanced, chill easterly winds blew across the sprawl of south London suburbs where marshes and market gardens had been rapidly swept away and replaced by bricks and mortar. Jack remained away on his business trip, though he promised to be home for Christmas and ready to start house-hunting.

One night in early October Anna-Maria was awakened by a series of agonised screams and sat up in
terror: it sounded as if somebody was being murdered in their bed. She heard footsteps running along the passage and Mimi’s voice calling out, ‘Stop that bloody racket, ye’ll ’ave the ’ole neighbour’ood up!’

Anna-Maria got out of bed and opened the door to peer into the passage. The screams were coming from Elsie’s room and a great clamour was going on behind the closed door, which suddenly opened to reveal Mimi with an apron tied round her black house gown. ‘Go back to yer bed, Annie, an’ stay out o’ what don’t concern yer!’

Trembling, Anna-Maria obeyed, though she lay rigid in her bed as the noise went on. Mimi’s voice could be heard giving orders and telling Elsie to fetch this and that. Then there was a last, long, blood-curdling shriek, followed almost immediately by a high-pitched squealing.

The explanation dawned. The young woman called Ivy had been giving birth to a baby. Anna-Maria knew the basic facts about childbirth, but had not realised that it was so painful. In fact, there were a lot of things she did not know . . .

Next morning there were bloodstained sheets soaking in the galvanised iron tub and for ten days Ivy stayed in her room with her baby girl who could sometimes be heard crying. Then one morning she left quietly, leaving the baby with Mimi for a further two days until a man and a woman came and took it away, handing over a large envelope in exchange. Nobody talked about it and Anna-Maria hoped she would be well away from Macaulay Road when her own baby was born. She did not want Mimi as her midwife.

Yet here she was enduring pain the like of which she
had never known was possible. At some time near to midday she was lying on her back and Mimi was bending over her, pushing her legs apart and probing with her hard fingers, and saying something about breaking the waters; Anna-Maria thought she would faint clean away with the agony of it. Somewhere there was a sound like an animal in pain, an agonised howling – and she realised it was herself making the noise.

Mimi straightened up and covered her with the sheet. ‘The pain’s goin’ off now, Annie, so stop ’ollering an’ make the most o’ the rest before the next one comes on. Let yerself go loose an’ floppy like a rag doll.’

Anna-Maria sighed, closed her eyes and at once fell into a doze. She thought Jack was beside her, his eyes looking deep into hers – ah, those bold black eyes of his that had stolen her heart and swept her to dizzy heights of joy! It had been love at first sight between the young photographer and the fair-haired, blue-eyed girl whom he called his English rose; and it had all happened so quickly, their meetings in the summer woods and fields, his avowal of love and her passionate response; everything else was forgotten in this all-absorbing obsession – her father and sisters, her home, Eric Drummond the vicar’s son – all the life she had known in her eighteen years was nothing compared with what she felt for Jack Court.

Another pain began with a twinge, a hardening of muscle, a knife thrust in her back, a mounting crescendo of agony, tearing her body apart, or so it felt – again the animal in pain, no room in her head for anything else until the slow, merciful descent into another interval between contractions.

Again she drifted into a short, sweet oblivion, but
this time her memories were more recent. During the past winter she had shed some of her illusions about her adored husband who spent such a lot of time away. As Christmas approached she longed for him to return, to cuddle up to him in bed, to feel his hand gently stroking the round bulge of their child while they discussed names for a boy and a girl.

But when Jack came home he was preoccupied and unsettled. Sales had not been so good, it seemed, and when she asked him about the photography he snapped at her impatiently, ‘What’s the use o’ takin’ pictures when I got to pay another damned photographer to develop ’em? Yet need a studio to make it a payin’ game.’

‘But as soon as we’ve got our own home, Jack, you can have a room to yourself in it.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake stop goin’ on about a house, Annie! A man gets tired after workin’ the hours I put in every day. ’S’all right for you, layin’ around on a sofa.’

Tears sprung to her eyes at such unkindness – and it was so unfair, too. She turned from him, biting her lip and putting his crossness down to tiredness, though she was deeply hurt.

On Christmas morning he refused to go to church, so she went with Miss Lawton who dressed all in black and carried a worn prayer book. After Mimi’s enormous dinner of roast goose and plum pudding Jack spent the afternoon smoking cigars and drinking port wine with Bill, the friend with whom he’d lodged before the wedding. With their heads together over a newspaper, they studied form, whatever that was, and talked of Kempton Park where something important was due to take place on Boxing Day. When the two young men left the house
together Anna-Maria got out her embroidery and sat with Miss Lawton, a nervous, fidgety woman who flushed and stammered when spoken to; she was the sort of boring spinster that Anna-Maria would previously have shunned.

At the end of the evening, weary and dispirited, and needing to empty her bladder again, she heaved herself up out of her chair and lit her candle to go to bed, there being no gaslight above the ground floor.

She was fast asleep when Mimi woke her to help get Jack up the stairs to his room, where his mother expertly pulled off his boots, coat, jacket and trousers, and put him to bed. ‘There y’are,’ she panted, ‘he’ll lay like a log till mornin’. Get in an’ turn yer back to ’im, ’e won’t be no trouble to yer, ’e’s too far gone.’ She spoke with a certain spiteful relish at Anna-Maria’s horrified expression. ‘Ain’t yer never seen a chap bottled before?’

Lying awake and staring into the darkness while the bed vibrated to his tumultuous snores, Anna-Maria felt utterly alone; this was her
husband
, mindless and shameless in her presence. She was trapped and there was no way out.

The baby kicked inside her as if to remind her that it was there and she was comforted by it. Placing her hands on her abdomen, she told herself that everything would be different when she held her child in her arms.

In February there had been that strange encounter on the train.

From time to time Mimi would send her daughter-in-law out shopping for her in Tooting or Balham when she wanted her out of the way. On this particular day Anna-Maria decided to take a bus to
Battersea and go from Clapham Junction on the train to Waterloo. It was fine and clear, with a hint of spring in the air, and Anna-Maria enjoyed looking again at the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey where she spent a few minutes sitting and remembering her first sight of it with Jack. Arriving back at Waterloo, she got on the train and found an empty compartment where she sat in a corner seat and covered her bulge with the evening newspaper she had bought.

The door opened and a man looked in. He was wearing clerical black and carried his hat in his hand. ‘Er, I beg your pardon, madam, is there room for—?’ he began and then stared blankly. She looked up and froze at the sight of Mr Eric Drummond. What would he say? Surely he’d retreat at the sight of the girl who had thrown him aside so heartlessly: but he came into the compartment, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Anna-Maria! Is it really you? May I sit down?’

She nodded and he sat on the edge of the seat opposite her. ‘Forgive me, I’ve heard nothing about you since—’

She did not want this conversation. ‘I’m married, Mr Drummond. I am Mrs Court. There’s nothing to say now.’

His pale features flushed. ‘No, of course.’ There was a long pause and then, not knowing what else to say, Anna-Maria turned to face the window. As she did so the newspaper fell from her lap.

He saw. ‘A child,’ he whispered. Still she neither spoke nor looked at him as he sat crushing his black hat between his hands.

What he said next took her breath away. ‘I’d have married you, Anna-Maria. I’d have married you and called it mine.’

She flinched and closed her eyes, such was the impact of the words. A conflict of emotions raged within her, regret for all that she had so heedlessly thrown away, the harm that had been done. But now there were her marriage vows, the promises she had made to the man she had chosen. And he was not this man. There could be no going back, nor was there anything more to be said. Anna-Maria sat absolutely still and silent, gazing out of the window until the train slowed at the approach to Clapham Junction.

When it stopped she stood up awkwardly and Drummond rose to help her. She shook off his arm and got down from the carriage without assistance, walking away without a backward glance. He never saw her tears.

Back at Macaulay Road she found Mimi occupied with a visitor who had been put in the back bedroom, so Elsie dourly warned Anna-Maria. Which meant keep away.

On the following day a silent, white-faced young woman departed in a hansom cab, all alone, and watching her go, Anna-Maria realised that Mimi Court not only delivered babies, but she also got rid of them. And would have done the same for Anna-Maria if Jack had wished it. Ah, but he hadn’t, she thought with satisfaction. Jack had chosen to marry her and for all his imperfections she knew that he loved her in his way. And she loved him – far, far more than she could ever have loved Eric Drummond.

At last an upturn in Jack’s business deals allowed him to secure a house to rent furnished, a small,
narrow-fronted terrace ready for occupation from the first of April. After waiting so long it was difficult to believe that finally they were to have their own home. Sorrel Street was in north Battersea, one of a maze of residential thoroughfares between Queenstown and the Wandsworth Road, and theirs was number 12. Jack took his wife to see it and told her that it would be an ideal first home. She was overjoyed.

But his mother insisted, and Jack of course agreed, that they should stay at Macaulay Road until after the confinement, so that Mimi would be on hand to deliver the child.

It happened on 30 March 1894.

‘Jack, are you awake?’

‘Huh – mm-mm – what?’

‘What time is it?’

‘What? Dunno. It’s pitch-dark still. What’s up?’

‘I’ve been lying awake. Oh! There it is again, another pain.’ She moaned and buried her face in the pillow.

He slowly surfaced from sleep. ‘Is it the baby, d’ye reckon?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure, but it’s hurting a lot.
Oh
!’

‘I’ll call Mimi.’

Anna-Maria was in labour and the next twelve hours were remembered only as a blur of pain, with Mimi bustling around the room and Elsie’s raw-boned features appearing at intervals as Mimi demanded fresh water and towels. Morning passed into afternoon and at about two o’clock Mimi told her to start pushing down when she got the pain. ‘
Push,
Annie, come on,
push,
an’ again,
push
!’

And push again. And again for countless more times, until she thought she would die before giving birth. The agony was indescribable.

‘An’ once more, Annie, one more big push down – come on, take a big breath an’
hold
it, grit yer teeth an’
push
–
an
’
push
–
push
–
push
–
push
–
push
!’

She heard herself screaming as she stretched and split, and something burst forth from between her splayed legs. There was a gasp, a choking sound and then the room was filled with the piercing cry of a newborn child.

‘Oh, it’s a girl, would yer believe. Well, time enough for a boy.’ Mimi sounded rather flat and out of breath. ‘Elsie, go down an’ tell Mr Jack it’s a girl at . . . er . . . a quarter past three.’

When the baby was wrapped in a towel and placed in her arms, Anna-Maria was filled with wonder and something she had never known before. A great sturge of love welled up like a fountain within her, directed towards this new being who had so changed her life, right from the moment of its conception.
It
had become
she
and was hers to hold, to keep, to cherish for the rest of her life. She thought of her own mother, the loving mamma who had died ten years earlier: her name had been Mabel and this child would be called after her.

‘You’re my little girl,’ she whispered, gazing at the sweet round head covered with golden down, the clear blue eyes, the rosebud mouth. And those tiny hands, each finger so perfect, tipped with its delicate nail. Anna-Maria touched the baby’s hand with her forefinger, which was at once encircled by the little clinging fist. ‘My daughter,’ she whispered. ‘My own beautiful little Mabel. You’ll make such a difference, my darling. All the difference in the world.’

‘
COME
ALONG
, ALBERT,
never mind about dilly-dallying with them Paddys,’ Mabel called to her brother outside their school. ‘It’s my piano lesson today and Mum’ll give it to me if I’m not home when Miss Lawton comes. Why’re yer shuffling along like that? Oh, just look at yer bootlaces, ye’ll trip and fall for sure – here, let me do ’em up!’

She stooped down at the kerbstone and quickly laced up his boots while he fidgeted, conscious of the grins of the Irish boys. ‘
I
ain’t got no lesson,’ he muttered.

‘You mean you
have not got a lesson
,’ Mabel corrected him, straightening herself up and taking him firmly by the hand.