The Umbrella Man and Other Stories (21 page)

The light from the landing behind him cast a faint glow over the bed and he could see her dimly now, lying on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow and her arms up over her head. She was crying again.

“Mabel,” he said, going over to her, touching her shoulder. “Please come down a moment. This may be important.”

“Go away,” she said “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t you want to hear about my idea?”

“Oh, Albert, I’m
tired
,” she sobbed. “I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t think I can go on. I don’t think I can stand it.”

There was a pause. Albert Taylor turned away from her and walked slowly over to the cradle where the baby was lying, and peered in. It was too dark for him to see the child’s face, but when he bent down close he could hear the sound of breathing, very faint and quick. “What time is the next feed?” he asked.

“Two o’clock, I suppose.”

“And the one after that?”

“Six in the morning.”

“I’ll do them both,” he said. “You go to sleep.”

She didn’t answer.

“You get properly into bed, Mabel, and go straight to sleep, you understand? And stop worrying. I’m taking over completely for the next twelve hours. You’ll give yourself a nervous breakdown going on like this.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

“I’m taking the nipper and myself
and
the alarm clock into the spare room this very moment, so you just lie down and relax and forget all about us. Right?” Already he was pushing the cradle out through the door.

“Oh, Albert,” she sobbed.

“Don’t you worry about a thing. Leave it to me.”

“Albert . . . ”

“Yes?”

“I love you, Albert.”

“I love you too, Mabel. Now go to sleep.”

Albert Taylor didn’t see his wife again until nearly eleven o’clock the next morning.

“Good
gracious
me!” she cried, rushing down the stairs in dressing gown and slippers. “Albert! Just look at the time! I must have slept twelve hours at least! Is everything all right? What happened?”

He was sitting quietly in his armchair, smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper. The baby was in a sort of carry-cot on the floor at his feet, sleeping.

“Hallo, dear,” he said, smiling.

She ran over to the cot and looked in. “Did she take anything, Albert? How many times have you fed her? She was due for another one at ten o’clock, did you know that?”

Albert Taylor folded the newspaper neatly into a square and put it away on the side table. “I fed her at two in the morning,” he said, “and she took about half an ounce, no more. I fed her again at six and she did a bit better that time, two ounces . . . ”

“
Two ounces
! Oh, Albert, that’s marvellous!”

“And we just finished the last feed ten minutes ago. There’s the bottle on the mantelpiece. Only one ounce left. She drank three. How’s that?” He was grinning proudly, delighted with his achievement.

The woman quickly got down on her knees and peered at the baby.

“Don’t she look better?” he asked eagerly. “Don’t she look fatter in the face?”

“It may sound silly,” the wife said, “but I actually think she does. Oh, Albert, you’re a marvel! How did you do it?”

“She’s turning the corner,” he said. “That’s all it is. Just like the doctor prophesied, she’s turning the corner.”

“I pray to God you’re right, Albert.”

“Of course I’m right. From now on, you watch her go.”

The woman was gazing lovingly at the baby.

“You look a lot better yourself too, Mabel.”

“I feel wonderful. I’m sorry about last night.”

“Let’s keep it this way,” he said. “I’ll do all the night feeds in future. You do the day ones.”

She looked up at him across the cot, frowning. “No,” she said.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t allow you to do that.”

“I don’t want you to have a breakdown, Mabel.”

“I won’t, not now I’ve had some sleep.”

“Much better we share it.”

“No, Albert. This is my job and I intend to do it. Last night won’t happen again.”

There was a pause. Albert Taylor took the pipe out of his mouth and examined the grain on the bowl. “All right,” he said. “In that case I’ll just relieve you of the donkey work, I’ll do all the sterilizing and the mixing of the food and getting everything ready. That’ll help you a bit, anyway.”

She looked at him carefully, wondering what could have come over him all of a sudden.

“You see, Mabel, I’ve been thinking . . . ”

“Yes, dear.”

“I’ve been thinking that up until last night I’ve never even raised a finger to help you with this baby.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Oh yes it is. So I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to do
my
share of the work. I’m going to be the feed-mixer and the bottle-sterilizer. Right?”

“It’s very sweet of you, dear, but I really don’t think it’s necessary . . . ”

“Come on!” he cried. “Don’t change the luck! I done it the last three times and just
look
what happened! When’s the next one? Two o’clock, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s all mixed,” he said. “Everything’s all mixed and ready and all you’ve got to do when the time comes is to go out there to the larder and take it off the shelf and warm it up. That’s
some
help, isn’t it?”

The woman got up off her knees and went over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a nice man,” she said. “I love you more and more every day I know you.”

Later, in the middle of the afternoon, when Albert was outside in the sunshine working among the hives, he heard her calling to him from the house.

“Albert!” she shouted. “Albert, come here!” She was running through the buttercups towards him.

He started forward to meet her, wondering what was wrong.

“Oh, Albert! Guess what!”

“What?”

“I’ve just finished giving her the two-o’clock feed and she’s taken the whole lot!”

“No!”

“Every drop of it! Oh, Albert, I’m so happy! She’s going to be all right! She’s turned the corner just like you said!” She came up to him and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, and he clapped her on the back and laughed and said what a marvellous little mother she was.

“Will you come in and watch the next one and see if she does it again, Albert?”

He told her he wouldn’t miss it for anything, and she hugged him again, then turned and ran back to the house, skipping over the grass and singing all the way.

Naturally, there was a certain amount of suspense in the air as the time approached for the six-o’clock feed. By five thirty both parents were already seated in the living room waiting for the moment to arrive. The bottle with the milk formula in it was standing in a saucepan of warm water on the mantelpiece. The baby was asleep in its carry-cot on the sofa.

At twenty minutes to six it woke up and started screaming its head off.

“There you are!” Mrs. Taylor cried. “She’s asking for the bottle. Pick her up quick, Albert, and hand her to me here. Give me the bottle first.”

He gave her the bottle, then placed the baby on the woman’s lap. Cautiously, she touched the baby’s lips with the end of the nipple. The baby seized the nipple between its gums and began to suck ravenously with a rapid powerful action.

“Oh, Albert, isn’t it wonderful?” she said, laughing.

“It’s terrific, Mabel.”

In seven or eight minutes, the entire contents of the bottle had disappeared down the baby’s throat.

“You clever girl,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Four ounces again.”

Albert Taylor was leaning forward in his chair, peering intently into the baby’s face. “You know what?” he said. “She even seems
as though she’s put on a touch of weight already. What do you think?”

The mother looked down at the child.

“Don’t she seem bigger and fatter to you, Mabel, than she was yesterday?”

“Maybe she does, Albert. I’m not sure. Although actually there couldn’t be any
real
gain in such a short time as this. The important thing is that she’s eating normally.”

“She’s turned the corner,” Albert said. “I don’t think you need worry about her any more.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“You want me to go up and fetch the cradle back into our own bedroom, Mabel?”

“Yes, please,” she said.

Albert went upstairs and moved the cradle. The woman followed with the baby, and after changing its nappy, she laid it gently down on its bed. Then she covered it with sheet and blanket.

“Doesn’t she look lovely, Albert?” she whispered. “Isn’t that the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen in your
entire
life?”

“Leave her be now, Mabel,” he said. “Come on downstairs and cook us a bit of supper. We both deserve it.”

After they had finished eating, the parents settled themselves in armchairs in the living room, Albert with his magazine and his pipe, Mrs. Taylor with her knitting. But this was a very different scene from the one of the night before. Suddenly, all tensions had vanished. Mrs. Taylor’s handsome oval face was glowing with pleasure, her cheeks were pink, her eyes were
sparkling bright, and her mouth was fixed in a little dreamy smile of pure content. Every now and again she would glance up from her knitting and gaze affectionately at her husband. Occasionally, she would stop the clicking of her needles altogether for a few seconds and sit quite still, looking at the ceiling, listening for a cry or a whimper from upstairs. But all was quiet.

“Albert,” she said after a while.

“Yes, dear?”

“What was it you were going to tell me last night when you came rushing up to the bedroom? You said you had an idea for the baby.”

Albert Taylor lowered the magazine on to his lap and gave her a long sly look.

“Did I?” he said.

“Yes.” She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

“What’s the big joke?” she asked. “Why are you grinning like that?”

“It’s a joke all right,” he said.

“Tell it to me, dear.”

“I’m not sure I ought to,” he said. “You might call me a liar.”

She had seldom seen him looking so pleased with himself as he was now, and she smiled back at him, egging him on.

“I’d just like to see your face when you hear it, Mabel, that’s all.”

“Albert, what is all this?”

He paused, refusing to be hurried.

“You do think the baby’s better, don’t you?” he asked.

“Of course I do.”

“You agree with me that all of a sudden she’s feeding marvellously and looking one-hundred-per-cent different?”

“I do, Albert, yes.”

“That’s good,” he said, the grin widening. “You see, it’s me that did it.”

“Did what?”

“I cured the baby.”

“Yes, dear, I’m sure you did.” Mrs. Taylor went right on with her knitting.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Of course I believe you, I give you all the credit, every bit of it.”

“Then how did I do it?”

“Well,” she said, pausing a moment to think. “I suppose it’s simply that you’re a brilliant feed-mixer. Ever since you started mixing the feeds she’s got better and better.”

“You mean there’s some sort of an art in mixing the feeds?”

“Apparently there is.” She was knitting away and smiling quietly to herself, thinking how funny men were.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. Although, mind you, it isn’t so much
how
you mix it that counts. It’s what you put in. You realize that, don’t you, Mabel?”

Mrs. Taylor stopped knitting and looked up sharply at her husband.

“Albert,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve been putting things into that child’s milk?”

He sat there grinning.

“Well, have you or haven’t you?”

“It’s possible,” he said.

“I don’t believe it.”

He had a strange fierce way of grinning that showed his teeth.

“Albert,” she said. “Stop playing with me like this.”

“Yes, dear, all right.”

“You haven’t
really
put anything into her milk, have you? Answer me properly, Albert. This could be serious with such a tiny baby.”

“The answer is yes, Mabel.”

“
Albert Taylor
! How could you?”

“Now don’t get excited,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it if you really want me to, but for heaven’s sake keep your hair on.”

“It was beer!” she cried. “I just know it was beer!”

“Don’t be so daft, Mabel, please.”

“Then what was it?”

Albert laid his pipe down carefully on the table beside him and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me,” he said, “did you ever by any chance happen to hear me mentioning something called royal jelly?”

“I did not.”

“It’s magic,” he said. “Pure magic. And last night I suddenly got the idea that if I was to put some of this into the baby’s milk . . . ”

“How
dare
you!”

“Now, Mabel, you don’t even know what it is yet.”

“I don’t care what it is,” she said. “You can’t go putting foreign bodies like that into a tiny baby’s milk. You must be mad.”

“It’s perfectly harmless, Mabel, otherwise I wouldn’t have done it. It comes from bees.”

“I might have guessed that.”

“And it’s so precious that practically no one can afford to take it. When they do, it’s only one little drop at a time.”

“And how much did you give to our baby, might I ask?”

“Ah,” he said, “that’s the whole point. That’s where the difference lies. I reckon that our baby, just in the last four feeds, has already swallowed about fifty times as much royal jelly as anyone else in the world has ever swallowed before. How about that?”

“Albert, stop pulling my leg.”

“I swear it,” he said proudly.

She sat there staring at him, her brow wrinkled, her mouth slightly open.

“You know what this stuff actually costs, Mabel, if you want to buy it? There’s a place in America advertising it for sale at this very moment for something like five hundred dollars a pound jar!
Five hundred dollars
! That’s more than gold, you know!”

She hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“I’ll prove it,” he said, and he jumped up and went across to the large bookcase where he kept all his literature about bees. On the top shelf, the back numbers of the
American Bee Journal
were neatly stacked alongside those of the
British Bee Journal, Beecraft
, and other magazines. He took down the last issue of the
American Bee Journal
and turned to a page of small classified advertisements at the back.