‘Here – drink some tea,’ she said to Lily, ‘and then try to get some sleep. You must be exhausted.’ She helped Lily to sit up against the pillows, and then watched as she took up her cup and drank. ‘I’ll write to your parents now, and tell them of the birth,’ she added, ‘and at some time I’ll have to get in touch with the Society. Let them know the baby’s here. They’re not expecting to be notified yet. Not for several weeks.’
Lily nodded. ‘How soon after – do they come and take the baby?’ she asked.
‘In three or four weeks or so. Providing of course, that the baby’s well enough to go.’
‘So soon.’
‘Oh, as soon as possible. It’s the best way.’
‘But what about feeding them? Don’t they miss their mother’s milk?’
‘Oh, usually they’ve gone on to a bottle by then – and if not, the folks at the Society will often have a wet nurse on hand.’
Mrs Toomley came back later, and while she was there Dr Hanbury called. He murmured satisfaction over Lily’s condition, but said she must not over-exert herself. As for the infant, he said, ‘He’s a poor little thing, but once he puts on a bit of weight he’ll be fine.’
Lily tried to sleep after they had gone, but she was disturbed by the plaintive crying of the baby, which continued on and off during the night. Sitting on the side of her bed, she held him to her breast. He wanted none of it, however, and continued his miserable weeping, his toothless mouth opening wide. It was not until the small hours of the morning that at last his crying ceased and he slept.
Throughout the days and nights that followed, Lily cared for the baby and tried her best to get him to feed. He awoke and cried so often she got no rest. At such times she held him in her arms and put her nipple to his mouth, but then groaned and sighed when he turned his face away. Weary and exhausted, she whispered to him, ‘Please – you must be hungry. You’ve got to have food.’
As she watched the days and nights drag by, her every moment was governed by the baby’s moods and needs. Then, slowly, to her great relief, she began to discern a change in him. He began to take his milk more regularly, and to put on weight. She could feel him heavier in the cradle of her arms. He was getting stronger, there was no doubt of it. His breathing too sounded healthier, and he slept more deeply, and for longer periods.
Lily began to relax a little more and to worry a little less, and as the baby continued to make progress, Dr Hanbury
suggested that the breast-milk feed might soon be supplemented with a prepared bottle. This, she knew, would pave the way for the infant’s eventual departure, which could not now be very far off.
Almost six weeks after the birth, on a bright, warm June afternoon, Lily took the baby out in the perambulator for a walk in the fresh air, the hood of the carriage lifted to shield him from the sun. It was good to be out of the house for a while. The last time was when she had gone to the prison to see Tom.
She had thought of her brother many times as she lay in her room with the baby at her side, and she thought of him now as she pushed the perambulator along the hard, rutted road. She had no idea where he was. She had heard nothing from him, though he would have been free to write, for he would have been released from prison two weeks ago. She could only wait, and hope that he would get in touch.
As for her father and stepmother, she had had only the merest contact with them since the baby’s birth. Miss Elsie had written to inform them of it, and some days afterwards Lily had received a brief letter from her father. With no mention of the baby beyond vaguely acknowledging its existence, he had simply expressed the wish that Lily was recovering well. From her stepmother there was no word.
Her stroll took her along the road and onto a lane, on either side of which lay fields where the young wheat and barley were reaching up in the warm sun. Walking on, she came to a spot where a little copse grew beside the road, and here in the shade of oaks and silver birches she came to a halt. There was the trunk of a fallen tree close to the roadside, and she brushed the dust from it and sat down, turning the perambulator so that she could see into its interior. The faintest breeze stirred the leaves around her, and the sound of birdsong filled the air. Sunlight streamed
through the branches, dappling the foliage. The grass around the tree boles was starred with vetch, buttercups, dandelions and daises. She could smell the scent of all the sweet growing things. Leaning forward, she peered into the perambulator. The baby was awake and his eyes at once latched onto her gaze. ‘Hello, little baby,’ she murmured.
He knew her voice, and he lifted his tiny right arm and stretched out his hand, fingers moving, as if reaching for her. She gave a breathless little laugh. ‘Oh, baby,’ she cooed. ‘Little Georgie.’ Where the name had come from she did not know, but she spoke it again. ‘Georgie,’ she said. ‘Little Georgie.’ As she smiled down at him his mouth opened into a wide grin, while his steady eyes remained fixed on her own. The sight made her catch at her breath, and her own smile grew broader. She studied his face as he lay there – something she was wont to do. It was not always for the simple pleasure that came from looking on his small, handsome features, but to see – with some touch of fear – if she could detect in him any sign of his father. However, to her saturating relief it had never happened. Each time she gazed into the wide eyes with their thick lashes, or took in the neat, perfect nose and the pink little flower of his mouth, she saw only some faint trace of her own father.
Now, bending closer, she cooed to him again, making foolish mother’s sounds, then said, her voice soft and caressing, ‘Are you a darlin’? Are you the most beautiful boy in the whole world?’ And at once, as if she had shared a joke with him, and he had understood it, he gave a little laugh. It was a brief sound, a little breathless chortle, but it seemed to hang in the summer air, so that she felt she could have held it in her hand and kept it always.
She was aware of a kind of peace coming over her, and she sat back on the log and briefly closed her eyes. In the perambulator the baby lay, smiling, his tiny hands moving
on the coverlet. She did not know what was to become of her, but for this moment she knew no unhappiness. Perhaps, after all, everything would be all right . . . but then, suddenly, like a dark cloud coming over the sun, the knowing came to her that it could not last. This little sense of peace and happiness that she had felt so briefly, it could not continue – not in the face of what was real. She got up from her seat. ‘Come on, Georgie,’ she whispered, ‘it’s time to start back.’
On her return to Rowanleigh, she laid the baby in his cradle and then rocked him as he drifted off to sleep. Not that his sleep would last for long, she knew; he would soon need feeding again. With this in mind, she went downstairs, heading for the kitchen, to prepare his bottle.
As she went through the hall, Miss Elsie, glimpsing her as she passed by, called out her name, and Lily went into the sitting room.
Miss Elsie, holding a piece of paper in her hand, smiled at Lily as she entered. ‘I wanted to have a word with you. Did you enjoy your walk?’
‘Yes, thank you, it was very pleasant,’ Lily replied. ‘Georgie enjoyed it too.’
In the silence that fell, Lily was at once aware of what she had said. It was too late, though, the words were out. She felt herself flush slightly. ‘Oh, ma’am,’ she said, ‘I – I can’t always just think of him as
the baby
. It doesn’t seem right. I can’t leave him just nameless.’
Miss Elsie’s expression was one of sympathy. She was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘You’ve spent many weeks with your baby, Lily, and it’s not something that can be overlooked. He has been so weak, and so dependent on you. You haven’t had it easy – not by any means. None of the young women who came here in the past cared for her child for such a long period, but even so, it was still a
wrench for them, to part with their babes. I do understand what you’re going through.’
Lily said nothing. The past weeks since the baby’s birth had left her increasingly confused and unsure of her role. Now, with her life on the verge of being returned to her, she realised that it would not be the life that she had known.
Suddenly, into the quiet came the distant sound of the baby crying in Lily’s room on the floor above. Immediately she turned and started away. ‘I must get his feed,’ she said. ‘I was on my way to the kitchen to prepare his bottle.’
‘Leave it. I’ll get Mary to do it,’ Miss Elsie said at once. ‘You don’t let her do enough. She’s a very capable girl.’ As she spoke she moved across the room and disappeared into the hallway. From up above the sound of the baby’s crying drifted down.
Miss Elsie was back in a couple of minutes. ‘Mary will see to him,’ she said. She raised the paper that she still held in her hand, and Lily saw that it was a letter. ‘I just today heard from the Society,’ Miss Elsie said.
‘The Society? Oh. Oh, yes.’
‘St Paul’s Society of Friends. I wrote to them a few days ago – and told them the baby is now strong and thriving.’ Her tone was quite matter-of-fact, and she did not meet Lily’s eyes. ‘So – I’m glad to say that it’s all now arranged. They’re coming tomorrow. The Reverend Iliffe and his assistant, Miss Cannon.’
Lily frowned. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘In the afternoon, some time after two.’
‘To – to see the baby . . .’
‘Well – yes . . . They’re coming to – to take him away.’
Lily’s mind was spinning. She had known it was inevitable, but it was hard to take in the words. They were coming tomorrow. ‘But – it’s so soon,’ she said. ‘Surely – it’s
too
soon. Isn’t it?’
‘No, my dear, the time is good.’ Miss Elsie’s tone was soft. ‘It’s the right time.’
Lily stood in silence, dimly aware that the baby’s crying had ceased.
‘He’s fine, Lily, believe me,’ Miss Elsie said. ‘You heard what Dr Hanbury said when he came to see him the other day. He’s very pleased with his progress. He says he’s strong now and doing really well.’ She smiled. ‘And all due to you, of course. The wonderful care you’ve given him.’
Lily gave a worried little shake of her head. ‘He – he’s not used to strangers,’ she said.
‘Lily – he’ll be all right, I assure you. He’s going to be loved and well cared for. You know that. My dear, we only want the best for him.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know.’
‘Of course you do, and the Society will find him a good home. He’ll have loving parents, and he’ll have a good life. Isn’t that the best thing for him?’
Lily nodded. Earlier, sitting in the sunshine with the baby, she had felt for a few moments something like a real sense of peace, a feeling that she had not known in a long time, but hardly had the feeling touched her than there had come that swift realisation that it could not last. And of course it could not.
Miss Elsie said, breaking into her thoughts, ‘I know what you’re going through. But you knew it would happen, Lily. Sooner or later it had to happen.’
‘Yes.’
There was silence in the room, and then came the renewed sound of the baby’s crying. Lily turned. ‘I must go to him.’
‘Mary’s getting his milk,’ Miss Elsie said. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘I know – but
I
must go to him.’ With her words, Lily started to the door.
*
That night she lay awake in her room. The sky was not yet dark, and in the faint light that crept in she looked into the baby’s cradle just two feet away. He was sleeping. For a few moments she held her own breath in an effort to hear the sound of his breathing, something she did so many times in the night. And in the quiet the thought came to her, again, like a new realisation, shocking her, that she would lie like this no more. Tomorrow night when she lay down to sleep, she would be alone.
The Reverend Iliffe and Miss Cannon arrived just after two-thirty the following day. Lily, watching from a window in the drawing room, saw the carriage come to a stop and observed the pair as they got out. She saw the clergyman exchange some words with the fly-driver who at once relaxed in his seat and took out his pipe. Obviously, Lily thought, he had been asked to wait while their business was conducted, so clearly the visitors saw no protracted business ahead of them.
Miss Elsie herself answered the door to the reverend’s knock, took his hat and ushered them into the room where Lily still stood near the window. Lily was introduced to the couple, and they shook her hand and smiled at her benevolently. Reverend Iliffe, in his late fifties, was a man of medium height with fine bones that had not a lot of flesh on them. He had smooth, pink skin that looked as if it had rarely seen strong sunlight, and a small, thin-lipped mouth. His pale, watery eyes looked at Lily through the thick lenses of steel-rimmed spectacles. He was carrying a black leather briefcase, wore a dark grey suit, and his scrawny neck disappeared into his cleric’s collar. He had a kind air about him, however, and when he smiled the severity of his expression was transformed.
Miss Cannon, standing at his side, was a short, stout
woman in her forties, and wore a grey cape and a dark brown bombazine dress. The hat on her grey hair was a no-nonsense affair of black straw. When she smiled at Lily she showed small teeth with an expanse of pink gum.
Following the introductions, Miss Elsie asked the visitors if they would care for some tea. Reverend Iliffe gave a shake of his head, and said no, thank you; it was a kind offer, but they would have to start back again before too long.
He turned then to Lily. ‘And this young lady . . . is the mother?’ he enquired, putting the question both to Lily and Miss Elsie.
‘Yes,’ Lily said, ‘I’m the baby’s mother.’
The clergyman nodded and smiled, Miss Cannon nodding and smiling along with him. ‘And is everything ready?’ he asked.
Lily, who had been ready for hours, flicked a glance at Miss Elsie and picked up a coarse, straw basket. ‘These are his things,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t have very much. His clothes, his bottle, his rattle – a few other bits and pieces . . .’
‘Good, that’s splendid,’ the reverend said. ‘Is the baby here?’
Lily put the basket down. ‘I’ll go and get him,’ she said.