Bay of Secrets (19 page)

She thought back to when she’d married Tom. Her father in his unfamiliar dark blue suit and stiffly starched white shirt and navy tie; his firm and dutiful hand on hers, as they linked arms and he led her down the aisle between the rows of seats in Bridport Register Office. Her mother in blue and cream standing at the front, smiling nervously.
Why couldn’t you get married in a church?
That’s what they’d said. But what had they really been thinking that day?

It was strange, she supposed, that now she saw her parents so rarely. Since they’d moved to their Scottish island, they had become reclusive – Vivien suspected that they’d always had this tendency, had never really wanted to be part of a sociable, interacting world. Perhaps that was why she had often felt lonely as a child. She had yearned for the type of house always full with chatter and laughter; longed for neighbours or friends to just drop in for a cup of tea. But instead, the house was invariably quiet. And so Vivien was quiet too – her world became the world of the books she read and the friends of her imagination.

Her parents had a telephone in their remote island home, but hardly ever contacted her. Vivien phoned them from time to time, but within every stilted conversation was the sense of something missing, something that made her not want to call again for a while. It was as if the geographical
distance they’d put between themselves and their only daughter was so much more than that – it was a personal distance, a spiritual distance. It was as if she had lost them.

Vivien thought of Tom. She was lucky to have him. What she had with Tom … Well, she couldn’t even contemplate the loss of that. With her parents so far away, he was all she had.

A child ran past her – a girl of about ten, in a flowery pink dress and plastic beach shoes. She stuck her arms up in the air as she ran down the mound of pebbles on the other side shouting with delight. Vivien smiled. She could see the girl’s parents up by the café. They were laughing, and there was a little boy with them too, tugging at his mother’s hand. A perfectly formed family. She sighed.

Goodness, what was up with her this afternoon? What had brought this on? Vivien turned her gaze from the sea and the child and continued walking down the sandy path towards the old chapel. She knew though.

‘Vivien!’

She swung around. Put her hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun. And then she saw it. Parked by Chesil Beach, a brightly painted camper van – in psychedelic colours, swirled with fluorescent pink, lime green, dark purple, dotted with silver moons and stars. And standing by the open door was Laura – waving. ‘Hey, Vivien!’

‘Hello, Laura.’ She waved back, left the bucket of flowers on the worn step of the old chapel and made her way over. So this was the famous VW camper van – in which Laura and
Julio lived with little Ruby. In which Laura had given birth, and in which she’d travelled back to England from Spain. Vivien looked at the intrepid and luridly painted machine. She was surprised they’d made it.

Laura seemed more cheerful than the last time she’d seen her. ‘This is Julio,’ she said, indicating a surly-faced individual with dark curly hair who was stretched out on a bench seat inside the van at the back.

‘Hello,’ said Vivien. She noted the stickers on the windows –
Love and Peace
,
Ban the Bomb.
A rainbow. And the scent of patchouli joss sticks drifting out and away with the breeze. She could quite see why they’d been stopped by the police more than once on their journey home. But actually, the inside of the van was rather lovely. It had a pop-up roof so there was room to stand upright and an up and over door at the back. Opposite the sliding door was a compact little cooker and a sink with cupboards underneath. There was a gas kettle on the hob and a loaf of bread and a knife on the counter. The windows had gay, jazzily printed curtains and there were cushions on the bench seat where Julio was sitting and a guitar propped by the open door. But where was Ruby? Ah. Vivien spied her asleep in her basket on the front passenger seat.

‘We were wondering about what you said, Vivien.’ Laura was wearing a long blue dress today, with a string of multicoloured love beads hanging around her neck. In her long blonde hair she had pinned a daisy chain. She looked as if she had just come from Woodstock, a real sixties flower child. Vivien smiled indulgently.

‘Oh, yes?’ Vivien looked back towards the passenger seat. It was difficult not to stare at Ruby. She looked so peaceful, so contented.

‘About looking after the baby.’

‘Oh.’ Vivien hadn’t mentioned her offer to Tom, hadn’t honestly thought Laura would ask her. She’d told him about her visit, but as soon as she’d mentioned the child, he hadn’t wanted to know any more. And there had been a warning light in his eyes. Since then she hadn’t seen Laura anyway, although she’d told herself that if she did, she would invite them round for dinner. Pearl had been a lovely woman and a good neighbour. It was the least Vivien could do. She’d wondered about them though, how long Laura would stay now the house was up for sale. She seemed the type who wouldn’t stay anywhere for very long. A free spirit. A wanderer.

‘Could you have her this afternoon?’

‘This afternoon?’ So soon?

‘Well, yeah.’ Laura looked across at Julio, who just shrugged. But it wasn’t as if Ruby was his child. It couldn’t be easy for any of them – living in a camper van.

‘I’d love to,’ Vivien murmured. How could she refuse? And anyway … She would love to.

‘Great.’ Laura opened the passenger door and picked up the basket. Without further ado, she handed it to Vivien.

‘Oh, you mean now?’ Vivien had somehow imagined that one had to prepare for leaving one’s baby with someone. That Laura would have to get some spare clothes ready, make
up some milk formula, locate nappies and creams and what have you. Apparently not. She blinked.

Julio said something in Spanish.

Laura didn’t acknowledge him. ‘The stuff’s all in the basket,’ she said.

‘Oh. All right.’ Vivien held the basket close to her. ‘Er, what time will you collect her? Or shall I bring her back here?’ She looked down at little Ruby as she stirred in her sleep.

Laura shrugged as if this was immaterial to all of them. ‘We’ll come and get her,’ she said. ‘Sometime later. OK?’

‘Well, OK.’ It all seemed very vague.

And then there she was, walking towards the old chapel carrying a baby in a basket. When five minutes earlier she had been alone. Once again, Vivien looked down at the baby. And Ruby was still sleeping – unaware that responsibility for her welfare had just been passed to a stranger. When was her next feed due? Vivien had forgotten to ask. But then again she suspected that if she had Laura probably would have had no idea. No doubt she simply fed her when the baby was hungry. No matter – Vivien would do the same.

But she’d also have to do the flowers before she took her home.

Inside the chapel, the interior was cool and calming, the musty wax scent of candles intermingling with wood, incense and damp stone. Vivien walked carefully over the old flagstone floor, towards the simple altar decorated with the cross. Silence. She breathed deeply.

Did the baby feel it too? Vivien smiled and placed the basket tenderly down on the front pew. ‘Stay here for a minute, little one,’ she whispered to the sleeping child. ‘I won’t be long.’

She returned for the bucket of flowers she’d left on the doorstep, came back in and looked around for the vases Frances had said she’d bring. The chapel was bare, apart from the faded tapestry on the wall, the embroidered cushions on the wooden pews and the cream church candles in brass candelabra. For a moment she paused to imagine the atmosphere on Saturday, when it would be filled with people and smiles and spring bridal flowers. She glanced at the basket as she passed. The baby stirred again. Opened her mouth as if she was rooting for food. Bless her.

Just as she was going into the tiny kitchenette behind the curtain with the bucket of blooms, Vivien heard Ruby begin to cry.
Oh-oh.
You didn’t get much warning then.

She put the bucket down on the stone floor and hurried back towards the pew. The baby’s eyes were now open wide. ‘Hello, Ruby,’ Vivien murmured.

Ruby looked at her and yelled. She did have a voice on her. And from the sound of her she needed to be seen to. Straight away.

‘Now, now. What’s all this noise?’ Vivien bent down, gathered the little one up in her arms. Ah, but she felt good, even though she was already writhing around as if she hadn’t been fed for days. ‘Less of the racket, now. You’re in a chapel, you know, lovey.’

Another deep breath and off she went again.

Vivien rocked her. ‘Ssh, ssh,’ she told the screwed-up red face. Gently, she rubbed a thumb across the puckered brow.

The baby didn’t stop screaming. She was getting hot with it; well and truly het up.

‘All right then, we’ll soon sort you out.’ Vivien scrabbled through the contents of the basket with her spare hand. There was a bottle of milk already made up. Thank goodness for that. Though it wasn’t warm, of course.

She took bottle and baby through to the kitchenette, still shushing and rocking. It was just a sink really but there was a boiler for hot water.

She ran the tap, putting the little one on her shoulder where she arched and wailed, but at least Vivien could move around more easily, keeping a firm one-handed grip on the contorting little body, which proved surprisingly strong. On the drainer were the vases Frances must have brought over. Vivien found one which would do as a container for the water, filled it, and stood the bottle in it upright, shaking it every so often to warm the milk through evenly. Every action was confident; she knew instinctively what to do. Laura must have known, surely, that Ruby would be wanting something soon though? She should at least have warned her she’d need feeding. It wasn’t, well, very responsible, was it?

After a few minutes of murmuring and rocking and warming and shaking, Vivien tested the milk on her hand. It would do. She cradled Ruby in the crook of one arm and offered the bottle. The breathless baby rooted for it desperately,
drank, spluttered, coughed and at last began to suck and was silent. Bliss. Vivien exhaled a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. This was what it was like then, she thought. Motherhood. This was what it was like.

Still feeding her, she made her way back into the chapel, sat gingerly down in the front pew, smoothed the wrinkles of the baby’s brow with her forefinger, just as she had before. The redness in her face was already fading; she felt relaxed now and soft in Vivien’s arms.

‘There,’ she said.

There was a click as the chapel door opened.

Oh my heavens, thought Vivien. Were you allowed to feed babies in here?

‘Vivien?’ But it was only Frances. ‘Goodness,’ she said. She came closer. ‘Who’s this then?’

‘This is Ruby,’ she said. She explained about Laura. ‘I think she needed a break,’ she said, ‘so I’m looking after her for a bit.’

‘Oh, lovely.’ Frances sat down next to them, clucked her tongue at the baby. ‘Isn’t she a sweetheart?’

‘Yes. She is.’ Vivien held her slightly closer than before. She would have liked a few precious moments when it was just her and the baby, but that was foolishness, nothing more.

Vivien put the baby on her shoulder and gently patted her back. She should have invited them to stay at the house – Laura, Julio and little Ruby. They probably wouldn’t have. But … Truth was, when she’d seen the little one she’d been almost frightened to.

‘Do you mind if I leave you to it?’ she asked Frances. ‘It was all a bit last minute. Laura—’

‘Of course not.’ Frances nodded. But her kind eyes seemed to take it all in – Vivien, the baby, the way she was feeling.

‘The flowers are in the kitchen.’

Frances nodded. ‘I’ll do them.’ She got to her feet. And was that a tear in her eye? ‘You see to that baby.’

Barcelona, 1945

And so the years went on. Sister Julia continued to work at the clinic. It was a half-in, half-out kind of life. Perhaps she was fortunate. She had the security of Santa Ana – its peace and tranquillity which was restful to her soul – and a position in the outside world. But what a world. It was said that Spain was heading towards even greater economic disaster than they had ever known before. Towards bankruptcy even. But how could this be? Spain had not even been involved in the Second World War. She had remained neutral. So how come her people were still suffering?

*

One spring day Sister Julia made her way to the clinic as usual. She had much to think about. Yesterday evening her family had visited her again – the first time for more than a year – just her mother and Paloma this time. Indeed, she had not seen her elder sister since her marriage and still her father never came. She knew there must be news to impart.

‘How is Matilde?’ she asked them as they sat stiffly and uncomfortably in the foyer once again.

‘Well,’ their mother replied.

‘Is there a child?’ Sister Julia thought of the women she cared for at the clinic. She hoped to God her sister’s experience would be more fulfilling.

‘Not yet,’ their mother said.

Paloma stifled a giggle.

‘What, sister?’

Paloma shot an exaggerated look around the foyer of the convent as if to check that no one was listening. ‘They say he cannot,’ she whispered. ‘They say he is far too old.’ And she rolled her eyes.

‘Indeed?’ Sister Julia tried not to be shocked. She saw so much in her life at the clinic. But she had forgotten the looseness of her sister’s tongue.

‘Hush, child,’ their mother scolded.

‘And Papa? How is Papa?’ Though Sister Julia would no longer ask if he had given them a message for her. She knew that he had not.

‘He is not as well as he could be,’ her mother said.

Sister Julia sat up straighter. ‘What—’

‘Nothing to worry over,’ her mother added. ‘We all have our aches and pains, you know. We are none of us getting any younger.’ She smiled. ‘But how are you, my child? How are you finding your life here at the convent? Have you learnt to be content?’