Authors: Pamela Evans
‘It takes two to make a baby,’ added Dick.
‘Shush,’ said Flo as a customer approached the counter.
‘In that case, can I have a toffee apple and a
Daily Mirror
please,’ said George.
‘You big kid,’ said Dick, handing him a toffee apple.
‘Autumn wouldn’t be the same without one of your specials, Mrs Stubbs.’
‘Mr Stubbs made these as it happens,’ Flo told him.
George nodded approvingly towards the older man, then went to a table on the veranda with the newspaper and the fruity confection. He was glad to have made his peace with the Stubbses. They meant a lot him.
As he sat there in the sunshine, the smoky chill of autumn in the air, he felt as though May was everywhere here, in the breeze that rustled through the trees and in every creak and squeak of the swings in the playground. Even before the Pavilion had opened, they had spent a lot of their time here as children. Happy days.
But all that was well and truly over, and he felt overwhelmed by adulthood. Oh well, enough of nostalgia; onwards and upwards, he said to himself. Glancing through the newspaper, he noticed a face that was becoming increasingly familiar. It was a picture of Adolf Hitler at some demonstration or other in Berlin. That bloke was always in the papers lately spouting his politics, thought George casually, turning to the sports page.
It took May quite a while to get over the shock of George’s news, but as soon as she felt able she decided it was time she snapped out of it. She wrote to both George and Betty individually wishing them well. Then she immersed herself in life at Ashburn. Some days she felt reasonably well; others she was tired and listless.
With perseverance she did improve a little at the art class. While knowing that she would never excel at drawing because she wasn’t gifted that way, she did seem to have an eye for colour, and Doug encouraged her to use it to interpret her own thoughts and the things she saw around her. The other patients teased her about her efforts.
‘What’s that supposed to be?’ asked Connie one day in late October when May had produced a colourful piece. ‘It looks like nothing on earth.’
‘It’s Guy Fawkes night,’ explained May. ‘Can’t you see the bonfire and the guy?’
‘Not really. It looks more like an accident with a few pots of paint to me,’ laughed Connie, who was very outspoken but never in a malicious way.
‘It’s surreal art,’ Doug explained. ‘Not everyone expresses what they see in the same way.’
‘It’s kind of you to make it seem significant, Doug, but I wouldn’t know surreal art if it jumped out of the paint pot and landed on my nose,’ said May. ‘It’s just me doing the best I can and having fun with a few colours. I haven’t got a clue.’
‘At least you’re enjoying it,’ he said. ‘That’s the whole idea.’
‘You need sunglasses to look at that,’ joked Connie, because May had used a lot of red and yellow.
‘Let’s see what you’ve done then, clever clogs,’ said May. She had to admit that her friend’s picture of the view from the window was recognisable.
‘I was always pretty good at drawing at school,’ Connie said breezily.
‘Didn’t anyone ever suggest that you take it up?’ May enquired.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said. ‘I’m one of six kids and I needed to be earning. I went straight into domestic service, cleaning up other people’s mess. Being in here is like a holiday for me.’
‘Anyway, that’s it for this week, ladies, so if you could start clearing up please,’ asked Doug.
They did as he said and May was about to follow the others back to the ward when Doug came over to her.
‘I hope you’ll still come to class despite your friend’s derogatory attitude towards your work,’ he said.
‘Take no notice of Connie. She’s only joking, even though I know I’m rubbish at drawing. But of course I’ll still come to your class,’ she assured him casually. ‘I enjoy it. It’s better than embroidery or basket-making and the nurses will make me go to one of those if I don’t come to your class. They like us to do something.’
‘So I’m the lesser of the evils then, am I?’ he said with a half smile.
She gave him a look. ‘In the nicest possible way, yes you are,’ she replied.
Having spotted what could be construed as fraternisation, a nurse swept on to the scene. ‘Come along, Mr Sands, back to your own neck of the woods, if you please.’
‘Righto, nurse,’ he said, giving her a salute.
‘Enough of your cheek,’ she came back at him.
Although the discipline here was very strict, the nurses weren’t without humour and long-term patients like May got to know them quite well. She thought they did a magnificent job for little pay and she respected every one of them, even the few who overdid the authority of their position. It wasn’t an easy job and it took dedication as well as a lot of hard work. She took her hat off to them all.
‘What was all that about with Doug just now?’ Connie wanted to know when May got back to the ward, a long, sparsely furnished room containing thirty closely spaced beds with a locker beside each one.
‘He was asking me if I would be going to his class again,’ May told her.
‘Well well,’ said Connie. ‘He didn’t ask me or anyone else for that matter. Do I detect a spark?’
‘Of course not,’ denied May. ‘He’s too old for me. He only wondered if I would be going again because I’m so hopeless at drawing.’
‘What was all that about you being a genius with colour?’ asked Connie.
‘To make me feel better at being so bad at art, I should think.’
‘That isn’t what they call it where I come from,’ said Connie. ‘We call it lust.’
‘You would,’ said one of the other women, whose name was Vi. ‘He was just being nice to make May feel better. She’s only sixteen. He must be well into his twenties.’
‘Just right for me, then,’ said Connie.
‘You’re only sixteen too.’
‘Yes, but I’m very mature for my age.’
‘You’re man-mad.’
‘Of course I am. We all are, being shut away from them like this,’ said Connie. ‘It isn’t natural.’
‘Some people don’t let the rules stop them,’ said Vi. ‘Maybe you should arrange to meet our art teacher after dark.’
‘I would do if it was me he was interested in,’ she said, turning her gaze on May. ‘But it isn’t.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ May objected mildly. ‘I haven’t even had a proper boyfriend yet. Don’t start trying to pair me off with an older man.’
‘Older man my foot, he can’t be more than about twenty-four or-five,’ said Connie.
‘And I’m only sixteen. Anyway, he’s a different type to us altogether,’ said May. ‘He seems quite classy.’
‘And we’re rough, I suppose.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said May. ‘He’s got a posh accent and he seems sort of, er . . . cultured.’
‘Mm, he does,’ Connie agreed, ‘but I find that really attractive in a man.’
‘He’s an interesting type, I agree,’ said May.
‘He’s different to run-of-the-mill blokes, that’s for sure,’ stated Connie. ‘But he can’t be rich or he’d be in a sanatorium in Switzerland, not a council-funded one in Surrey.’
‘Yeah, there is that,’ May agreed. ‘He’s obviously well educated, though, even if he isn’t rolling in dough.’
‘We’ll have to try to find out some more about him,’ suggested Connie.
‘If you like,’ agreed May. ‘But now it’s time for dinner, so let’s head for the canteen.’ She looked at Connie. ‘And don’t embarrass us by making eyes at him all through the meal. If too much of that sort of thing goes on, they might start making men and women eat at different times.’
‘And we can’t have that, can we,’ laughed Connie.
‘Come on, Betty, get off your fat arse and help Mum with the washing-up,’ demanded Sheila of her sister-in-law one evening in late November when they had finished their evening meal.
‘I’m tired,’ said Betty.
‘God knows why, since you do nothing all day except sit around,’ said Sheila.
‘I’m pregnant,’ said Betty.
‘I don’t think any of us is in any doubt about that since you remind us every time you might be in danger of lifting a finger,’ said Sheila. ‘It isn’t an illness, so you ought to do your share around here.’
‘Why can’t you do it?’ asked Betty.
‘Because I’m going to the pictures and I do it every night as well as being at work all day,’ said Sheila. ‘But that isn’t the point. You’re living here so you must start to pull your weight.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Dot nervously. ‘I can manage all right on my own.’
‘Don’t be such a doormat, Mum,’ Sheila admonished. ‘We need some ground rules around here.’ She turned to Betty. ‘Look, if you start to muck in, I’m sure we’ll all get along famously, but you’re not a visitor in this house; you’re part of the family now, so act like it.’
Enraged, Betty turned to her husband. ‘Are you going to let her speak to me like that?’
‘Go easy on her, sis,’ George said dutifully.
Sheila gave him a scathing look. ‘Come on, George, I know she’s your wife but surely you don’t want her to treat us all like slaves.’
‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Betty objected.
‘Stop quarrelling, all of you,’ said Dot, becoming tearful. ‘You know how it upsets me.’
‘Oh no,’ said Sheila. ‘Don’t start blubbing again, Mum, for Gawd’s sake.’
‘Leave Mum alone,’ admonished George instinctively, protective of his mother.
‘Oh, so you can stick up for your mother but not your wife,’ Betty complained.
George heaved a sigh. The tension in this house had been terrible since Betty had moved in, and he was still trying to get to grips with his new circumstances. He knew that, as his wife, Betty should be his first consideration, but it didn’t come naturally; he had to constantly remind himself.
‘Sheila, will you stop picking on Betty,’ he said with a sigh. ‘She is my wife, remember.’
‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this,’ declared Sheila. ‘You do what you like, Betty, but don’t expect us to like you, you lazy cow.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Come on, Mum, let’s get these dishes done pronto and leave her to rot.’
She proceeded to clear the table, the loud clatter of the crockery and cutlery indicative of the heat of her temper.
Later that night, George decided to have a quiet word with Betty in the privacy of their bedroom.
‘It might not be a bad idea for you to give a bit of a hand around the house,’ he suggested warily. ‘At least it would keep everybody happy.’
‘Oh, so you
are
taking their side over me,’ she scowled.
‘I’m just trying to keep the peace,’ he sighed.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Yes, I know you are, but I don’t think it means that you can’t do anything at all, does it? I don’t know much about it, but I think most women carry on as normal, at the beginning anyway.’
‘How would you like it if you felt sick all the time?’ she asked.
‘I would hate it,’ he admitted frankly. ‘But I thought it was just in the mornings. They do call it morning sickness.’
‘It’s worse in the mornings but I feel queasy all day,’ she informed him, her voice rising. ‘I don’t know if that is the normal thing but that’s how it is for me.’
‘I can see how miserable that must be for you.’ He really was at a loss to know the right thing to do. ‘Perhaps it will ease off later in the pregnancy and when you’re feeling better you can muck in with the others.’
Her face fell and he noticed suddenly how young and insecure she looked. She was very pale and her mid-brown hair was straight, lank and falling greasily around her face, making her look rather plain. The radiant glow of pregnancy he’d heard about was nowhere to be seen on Betty. For all her bolshie talk she was probably feeing just as trapped as he was.
‘Look, Bet,’ he began in a warmer tone, ‘we are a couple of kids in an unexpected situation that we aren’t ready for. Neither of us knows how best to cope with it. But we have a nipper on the way, so somehow we have to make it work. And seeing as we live here, it would make life easier for us both if you could get along with my family, because they are your family too now.’
‘Your sister is so bossy.’
‘She is a bit, but it’s just her way,’ he said. ‘She speaks her mind but at least she does it to your face. I can promise you she won’t go behind your back.’
‘The truth is, I don’t really like living here,’ she said forlornly. ‘I miss my own people.’
Reminded of her youth and immaturity he said, ‘That’s only natural, I suppose, you being a girl. But we can’t live with your folks because they’ve turned their backs on you, so we’ll have to stay here, for the time being anyway.’
‘I know,’ she said, starting to weep.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said awkwardly, handing her his handkerchief.
‘I don’t really like being pregnant either,’ she confessed.
‘It doesn’t sound like much fun, I must admit,’ he said sympathetically, ‘but at least it doesn’t last for ever.’
‘S’pose not,’ she said thickly.
‘Look, Bet, let’s give this marriage thing our best shot, for the sake of our child when it comes,’ he suggested. ‘There will have to be give and take on both sides, and I’ll try to be more supportive of you, but you’ll have to do your part too.’
‘By helping in the house you mean, I suppose,’ she said grumpily.
‘By entering into the family spirit generally and trying to get to know Mum and Sheila,’ he said. ‘Apart from anything else you will be happier if they are your friends. We don’t want our baby being born into a home full of arguments, do we?’
‘I suppose not,’ she finally agreed. ‘I will try and get along with them.’
‘Good girl,’ he said, putting an affectionate arm around her and trying to crush his longing for escape. He’d made a commitment when he’d got Betty pregnant and he couldn’t back out now.
The staff at Ashburn did their very best to give the patients a happy time at Christmas. For just one day of the year the segregation rule was waived and male and female patients were allowed to socialise at the party that was held in the canteen straight after lunch on Christmas Day.
One of the nurses brought in a wind-up gramophone and they listened to the new American swing music. The favourite song of the day was ‘The Lambeth Walk’ from the hit musical of the year,
Me and My Girl
. They played it over and over again. May wasn’t feeling on top form today but she joined in with the dance that accompanied the song and enjoyed it as much as she could while feeling so horribly off colour. Bad days were part and parcel of this illness. She’d learned to accept that.