The Carpenter's Children (27 page)

‘Why can’t she go ’ome to ’er parents, that’s what I’d like to know,’ said a woman standing in the queue for rationed mutton, and the next rumour that passed round was that Mrs Storey’s wayward younger sister had been thrown out by her father, and that was why she’d come back to poor Mrs Storey. This particular tale was the one that brought tears to Grace’s eyes in the privacy of her room: as if her dear old dad would ever do such a thing, however badly she behaved – though regarding her mother she was less sure. She was learning about the intolerance, the shame heaped upon girls like her, getting bigger every week. Her back ached and her legs were swollen from standing at the counter and till all day; yet no matter how tired she felt, or how uncomfortable, she was resolved never to complain or reply to personal criticisms, though she was touched when two weary expectant mothers commiserated with her in the butcher’s shop. Even when Mrs Prebble, examining her at five and a half months, told her she should try to rest more, Grace was determined to carry on working for Mr Clark right up to the day of her delivery; she’d go on serving the customers until she dropped – and in fact she almost did. She woke up on a grey, foggy November day when her back ached so badly that she couldn’t get out of bed. As she tried to sit up a sudden warm gush between her legs made her
think that she had wet the bed, but Isabel came and reassured her that it was her waters breaking, a sure sign that she was in labour. Sally was sent to fetch Mrs Prebble who came and felt for the baby’s head, which she said was not down yet.

‘Does that mean it’s the wrong way round, Mrs Prebble?’ asked Grace, gasping as another pain seized her back.

‘No, just that the head’s got a long way to go down before you can start pushin’,’ the midwife replied. ‘You ought to get up and walk around a bit if you can, ’cause this is goin’ to be a long wait. I’ll leave a couple o’ doses o’ “mother’s mixture” to take when the pains really get started, and I’ll come back about noon.’

Grace passed a wretched morning of growing discomfort. Isabel helped her to sit out of bed on the commode chair, and gave her the ‘mother’s mixture’ that tasted so foul that she brought it up again immediately.

‘Oh, poor Grace, that’s the stuff I had, potassium bromide with a few drops of opium,’ said Isabel. ‘Look, dear, lay down on your side and I’ll rub your back for you. That helps a bit.’

‘Mrs Storey, Paul’s cryin’, so can yer come to ’im?’ called Sally, and Grace was left alone again to cope with pain after endless pain. By now they were coming round to the front of her belly, which tightened up to a board-like hardness with each
contraction, and her back felt as if it was about to break in two.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, ‘help me, please! Forgive my sins and help me, O Lord – have mercy on me!’

‘All right, Grace, all right, I’m here,’ said Isabel, bringing a cup of weak tea and a boiled sweet for her to suck after swallowing the second dose of ‘mother’s mixture’.

‘Am I going to die, Izzy?’ asked Grace in her agony.

‘No, dear, you’re not going to die – I’m here to help you see it through. Put your trust in God. Pa’s praying for you downstairs.’

Mrs Prebble returned as dusk was falling, and announced that the head was going down, but it would be several hours before the delivery. Grace groaned, and the midwife drank a cup of tea and shook her head over the news from the front.

‘The British and French’ve recaptured that place called Passchendaele in Belgium,’ she told Isabel. ‘Terrible casualties, though.’ She finished her tea, and put on her coat. ‘Gettin’ dark already, and it’s only just gone four. I’ll nip home to feed the cat and see if there are any new messages. Carry on as you’re doin’, and I’ll be back around seven. Wouldn’t surprise me if this goes on till the early hours.’

But Mrs Prebble had underestimated the strength of the contractions, and at half past five Grace cried
out that she was having her bowels opened.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Izzy, but I can’t get out o’ bed – I can’t stop it coming, I’m sorry – oh, my
God
!’ She screamed and rolled on to her back. ‘Help me!’

Isabel pulled back the sheet and saw a baby’s head emerging between Grace’s thighs.

‘Sally! Sally, come at once!’ she called, and as she and Sally watched, the head was born, the face upwards.

‘Oh, look at its little face – oh, bless it!’ Isabel was hardly able to control her voice. ‘All right, Grace dear, your baby’s nearly here, don’t worry.’

She took the head gently between her hands, and as Grace gave another involuntary push, the child’s body slithered out followed by a gush of blood.

‘It’s a girl, Grace! Oh, Grace, you’ve got a little girl!’

‘Five minutes to six,’ said Sally, glancing at Grace’s alarm clock on the bedside table. ‘Look, it’s breathin’ an’ movin’ its arms an’ legs.’

‘Is it – is it all right?’ asked the new mother.

‘Yes, she’s fine, she’s crying – listen to her!’ said Isabel shakily. ‘Sally, dear, can you run over to Mrs Clements and ask her to fetch Mrs Prebble? She’ll have to come and cut the cord and whatever else she has to do. There’s the afterbirth still to come – oh, thanks be to God!’

Carefully she wrapped the baby in a clean towel,
and as Grace sat up to look, her sister placed the baby, still attached to the umbilical cord, in her mother’s arms.

‘She’s perfect, Grace – a sweet little darling.’

On her way out, Sally called to Mr Storey that a baby girl had been born, and his eyes filled with tears as he prayed that the child would go to a good home where she would be loved.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right here, Grace, if I go to see Mum and Dad at Christmas?’ asked Isabel anxiously. ‘You’ll have Pa here, of course, and Sally to cook and clean – and do the washing. I won’t be away long, just the two nights of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth, only I really want to show them how well Paul’s doing.’

‘Oh, you go and give them my love, Izzy, I’ll be all right here,’ answered Grace, gazing down at baby Becky, eagerly sucking at her breast. Isabel felt a stab of pity as she looked on the rosy, innocent child soon to be taken from her mother and placed in a new home by a Church of England agency, never to know her real mother or the grandparents who were unaware of her existence. It seemed wrong to take part in the deception, thought Isabel, but it would
surely be worse to tell Tom and Violet the truth, especially as her mother’s health was not improving. She sighed; it would be a sad Christmas, except for the fact of her precious son, hers and Mark’s. May it please God to send her husband home to them, safe and well!

Isabel left with Paul on Christmas Eve, a Monday, travelling down to North Camp by train. Less than two hours after her departure, a telegram from the War Office arrived at St Barnabas’ vicarage. Sally Tanner received it from the telegraph boy, her hands shaking as she took it to Mr Richard Storey in his study. He too gasped at the sight of it, as if it were a poisonous snake. It was addressed to Mrs Isabel Storey, and would certainly contain no good news, he knew; it would say that his son was dead, or that he was missing, which usually came to the same thing; or it might bring news that he was wounded, and lying in some base hospital.

‘What am I to do, Mrs Tanner?’ he asked in distress. ‘It’s not addressed to me, and if…if I opened it and saw that my…my son has been killed, I could telephone the Reverend Mr Saville at North Camp, and he could let Isabel know while she’s there with her parents. Or should I keep it for her to open, and let her enjoy this short time with her family and friends? It might be the last…’ The old man’s voice faltered, and Sally laid a hand on his arm.

‘Open it an’ see what it says, Mr Storey. If it’s bad
news, it can wait till she’s ’ome, and yer can tell ’er then, or we both can. Don’t spoil their Christmas.’

‘That’s exactly what I think, Mrs Tanner – thank you. Where’s Miss, er, Grace? Perhaps we should ask her opinion, too.’

‘She’s busy with ’er baby, and wouldn’t know any better ’n us. Yer should open it now, Mr Storey.’

‘All right, my dear. Please stay with me while I do so.’

She watched as he slit the envelope in fear, and took out the fatal piece of paper it contained. He stared at the message as if he could scarcely understand it, but eventually looked up and stared at Sally, his face transformed.

‘Praise be to God, M-Mrs Tanner, he’s been wounded, it doesn’t say how or where, but he’s in hospital at a…a place called, er, Chateau Mondicourt, it says. Oh, Mrs Tanner, he’s alive!’

‘An’ ’e’ll be comin’ ’ome, an’ won’t ’ave to go back again – comin’ ’
ome
!’ cried Sally, clapping her hands together.

‘Thanks be to God, Mrs Tanner, my son is saved – we’ll all see him again!’

They hugged each other, the elderly clergyman and the reformed drinker, weeping and laughing in their relief.

A good congregation filled St Peter’s Church on Christmas morning, though the festive season was
shadowed by the sorrows occasioned by the war. One of the happier sights was of little Paul Storey, now seven months old, with his mother and his proud grandparents, for Mrs Munday had made the effort to come to church, and stood between her husband and Isabel. Neighbours who had not seen her for a while were shocked at her gaunt appearance, for she had lost weight and her face had a yellowish pallor, in spite of her smiles for her little grandson.

Lady Neville sat in her usual pew, accompanied by Mrs Gann, a thing unheard of before the war, but in the absence of husband, sons and daughter, her ladyship was glad of the companionship of her faithful cook-housekeeper. People craned their heads to see Philip Saville with his mother in the pew just below the pulpit. His general health was slowly improving, and though he had to use the hated crutches for walking, his mother explained that he was to be fitted with a wooden leg.

Mr Bird and Phyllis came over to speak to the Mundays after the service, for Mrs Bird had not been to church since the death of her sons; Isabel’s heart ached for the family.

Lady Neville also came to admire baby Paul, and to speak quietly to Isabel about her mother.

‘I know your father’s worried about her, Mrs Storey, and she’s obviously not responding to Dr Stringer’s treatment. In fact she’s as bad as my daughter Letitia who simply refuses to eat – but whereas my
daughter’s just being silly, as if starving herself will bring Cedric home safely, I think Mrs Munday gives real cause for concern. Do please ask your father to request a second opinion, my dear.’ She sighed, and made an effort to sound more positive. ‘It’s good news about your sister Grace, isn’t it, taking charge of your husband’s father and running the vicarage while you’re away. Whoever would have thought it at one time?
My
daughter could be of such help to me, helping to run my little convalescent home at Hassett Manor, it’s the only thing that stops
me
giving way to useless melancholy, with my husband and Arnold in India, and Cedric driving these frightening
tanks
or whatever they’re called. He says they could bring the war to an end – but forgive me, Mrs Storey, your own husband’s away, and here’s this dear little boy who’s never seen his daddy – I’m being thoroughly selfish. Tell me, do you get much news from the front?’

Concerned for her mother, Isabel told her father what Lady Neville had said about getting a second opinion. It only confirmed his own worst fears.

‘I should’ve done so before, I know, Isabel,’ he said heavily. ‘You know what she’s like, says it’s all worry over Ernest, and she’s got this idea in her head that she’s never going to see her son again, and there’s nothing Stringer can do about that, and neither can I. Still, you’ve made up my mind for me, and I’ll go
round and see Stringer first thing on Thursday.’

‘Ask him for a referral to a specialist at Everham Hospital, Dad. If there’s nothing physically wrong with Mum, at least you’ll be reassured.’

Tom nodded, thankful as ever for his good elder daughter. Doctors’ bills were mounting up, and specialists didn’t come cheap, but he would override Violet on this issue, for nothing was more important to him than her health and happiness.

When the train drew into Waterloo Station on Boxing Day, Isabel let down the window in the door, and put her head out to see if Sally was there to meet her. When she saw not only Sally but her
father-in-law
and Mrs Clements, she clutched her baby to her heart. Good God, they must be here to support me, she thought; they’ve had news – something’s happened!

When the train stopped they came to help her step down to the platform, with her baby and suitcase. Her face was ashen.

‘What’s happened? Is it Mark?’ she whispered, and then saw that all their faces were wreathed in smiles. ‘What – oh, tell me, do!’

‘My dear, he’s wounded and in a French hospital,’ said Mr Storey. ‘Which means he’ll be coming home to us.’

‘Oh, Pa…’ Holding baby Paul under her left arm, she hugged her father-in-law with her right,
as Sally and Mrs Clements both put their arms around her. She could not have asked for a happier homecoming.

When the three of them and baby Paul were settled in a horse-drawn cab, cheaper than the motor-driven taxis, Isabel asked about Grace. Mrs Clements and Sally glanced at each other, and Mrs Clements answered.

‘Very low at present, ’cause it’s nearly time for the baby to be took off ’er. The woman from the adoption says the first week in January.’

‘Oh, poor Grace! However shall we comfort her?’ asked Isabel sadly.

‘Best thing’s to keep busy, an’ she’ll be back at Mr Clark’s by this time next week,’ said Sally. ‘That’ll keep ’er occupied, as well as bringin’ in a bit o’ money.’ The last words were uttered with a significant nod, as if to indicate that Grace should pay her way instead of sponging on her sister. Isabel heard the unspoken disapproval, and was about to say that Grace had always paid for her board, including the time of her confinement and since, using up her post office savings account; but then they would have speculated on the origin of that account, which Isabel thought was entirely from Grace’s time at Dolly’s music hall (for she knew nothing of room Number Four and its traffic), and the very words
chorus girl
would be linked in their minds to baby Rebecca’s conception. So Isabel said
nothing, but dreaded the moment her sister must soon face. And furthermore, she would have to tell her sister about their mother’s deteriorating health. Poor Grace! Isabel felt almost guilty for being so happy in the midst of such trouble.