SUNDAY LUNCH AT the manse was no longer lavish. Of course, rationing meant large joints of beef were no longer available, but Hamish had also lost his appetite. ‘Just don’t feel like eating these days,’ he said. ‘Haven’t been feeling quite myself for weeks.’
He toyed with the small slices of brisket on his plate. Joan told him he should keep his strength up. Then, she said, ‘That was a lovely service this morning.’
He’d spoken, with passion, about the evils of gossip. He’d told his parishioners to cast rumours aside. ‘Listen to your heart,’ he’d said. ‘Judge the man, the person you see before you, by what you know and not what others say about him.’ There had been coughs and the sound of people shifting in their seats, tweed sliding over old wood.
Joan fetched the pudding, apple crumble and custard, and put it on the table.
‘I noticed you biting your tongue when you were at the door saying your goodbyes and thanks for coming. That was good. You didn’t boom.’
After the service, several people who’d been avoiding Hamish had shaken his hand, but didn’t look him in the eye. He’d been tempted to boom, ‘You were all wrong. Gossiping is wrong.’ But hadn’t. Joan had shot him a scathing look.
‘I’m prone to booming,’ Hamish said. ‘Must stop.’
Joan served two portions and handed Hamish the jug of custard. He gazed into it.
‘Custard makes me sad. Reminds me of Izzy. How is she, do you know?’
Joan said she’d tried to get in touch last week. ‘She wasn’t answering the phone. It rang and rang. I phoned the local cottage hospital to find out if she was there. She wasn’t. I have no idea where she is. She hasn’t written, either. I haven’t had a letter for a few weeks.’
‘Izzy,’ said Hamish. ‘I should’ve let her come home. I should’ve welcomed her and her baby. I should’ve been more understanding.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve, my life is full of should’ves – things I ought to have done.’ He got up, said he was going for a walk. ‘It was all about me. I didn’t let Izzy come home because I was worried about me, my reputation.’ He jabbed himself in the chest.
Izzy was back in her cottage. The move had been a grand affair. Lacking a car, and not wanting to see the new mother walk for several miles, William had borrowed a horse and cart.
Mrs Brent, holding the baby, sat up front with William. Izzy was in the cart with the crib and a box of baby clothes. It had been an enjoyable trip that had involved a lot of waving as they trundled through the village. As a means of transport, Izzy rated horse and cart second to flying. For a few days, she’d toyed with the idea of trading in her motorbike for a pony and trap.
Mrs Brent had scoffed at the notion. ‘Where would you keep a pony? And how would you feed it and groom it when you’ve a baby to look after. You’ve no sense, girl.’
‘It was just a thought,’ said Izzy. ‘That ride on the horse and cart was the most fun I’ve had since . . . since . . .’
‘Since you got yourself in the family way.’
Izzy thought that might be true, but didn’t admit it.
Mrs Brent said, ‘The fun’s over for you, my lass. You’ve a baby to look after, responsibilities. Mark my words, once you’ve had a baby, it’s downhill all the way.’
The child had been crying at the time and Izzy was walking up and down the kitchen, making soothing sounds, trying to calm him. ‘I think he’s bored,’ she said. ‘It must be boring being a baby. All they do is sleep and eat. It’ll be easier for him once he can read and chat.’
‘It gets worse as children get older,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘First, they’re not where you put them down. They crawl away. I don’t know about reading, mine never did that. But talking. You’ll rue the day you taught your boy to speak. First, it’s questions, questions, questions. Then they start to answer you back. Like I said it’s downhill all the way from now on.’
With Julia and Claire gone, Izzy had told Mrs Brent she no longer needed to come and clean the cottage. ‘I don’t think I can afford you. Not with having to pay all the rent on my own.’
Mrs Brent understood. But she still visited everyday. If there were dishes to do, she did them. If the floor needed swept, she swept it. She bustled. It was a habit. She brought food, couldn’t help it. She was sure Izzy would neglect herself.
‘Just a bit of pie I had left over, couldn’t see it go to waste,’ she’d say, laying a large portion of rabbit and mushroom pie on the table. ‘I expect you don’t have time to cook, what with the baby and all.’
Izzy was grateful. Cooking bewildered her.
Her life had changed. Izzy had thought she’d miss flying, but she hadn’t the time. She lived in a whirl of washing clothes, feeding the baby, picking the baby up, walking about with him, beseeching him to sleep. She had imagined a quiet, contemplative life – reading, sitting by the fire listening to the wireless, writing long letters to Elspeth. But none of this happened. She was too busy.
She had visitors. As well as Mrs Brent, Eddie Hicks and his wife sometimes stopped by, and Dolores was a regular.
‘Left the ATA,’ she said. ‘Soon they’ll close the whole thing down.’
‘Pity,’ said Izzy. She sighed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. The time will come when I need to earn some money. I’ve got a bit saved. But it won’t last.’
‘Well,’ said Dolores. ‘Alfie and me are going to get busy on the house. If we don’t do some repairs soon, the goddam place will fall down. Then we’ve got to get the estate going. I fancy cattle, I know something about that.’
‘Won’t all that take a lot of money? I thought . . .’ She stopped. It didn’t do to discuss money.
‘Oh, you thought Alfie didn’t have any. You’re right, he doesn’t. But I do. My family own half of Texas. I think that had something to do with him marrying me.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ said Izzy.
Dolores flapped her hand. ‘Get real.’ She looked down at the baby, smiled. ‘Cute,’ she said. ‘Can I pick him up?’
‘Of course,’ said Izzy.
Dolores reached into the crib, took Sam up in her arms, rocked him, kissed his head. ‘I love babies. That’s the next job I’ve got lined up for Alfie. I want one of them.’
After Dolores left, Izzy went upstairs to check her savings. She had a plan. She had enough to put down a deposit on a house. She’d take in lodgers to pay her mortgage. Then, when Sam was old enough to attend school, she’d get a job – any job.
At first, she couldn’t believe what she saw. She stood holding a small bundle of notes. I had more than that, she thought. She raked in the drawer, pulled out her knickers and found Jacob’s note: ‘You owed me.’
‘Bastard!’ she cried.
She sat on the bed, staring across at the open drawer. ‘Bastard.’ Jacob had come into her room, rummaged through her personal things and stolen her money. ‘Bastard.’ And given her back her bloody pen. ‘Bastard.’
She imagined him striding towards Poland, smoking a cigar, laughing at her. She went downstairs, slumped into a chair, gave in to despair. Across the room, the child started to cry, then bawl, then scream. Izzy ignored him. She sat, head in hands, mourning her lost cash. ‘I should’ve put it in a bank. I should’ve taken it with me when I was having the baby.’
The baby’s shrill screaming heightened Izzy’s turmoil. She rounded furiously on him. ‘It’s your fault. You did this. It’s you made me lose my job. And it’s your fault I wasn’t here so Jacob could come in and take my money. You’re to bloody blame for everything.’
She rushed at the crib in a fury, stared down, saw her son, sweat-drenched, fists flailing, face red, lips blue, tearful and her heart turned over. The guilt. She scooped him up, pressed his rigid body against her, rocked him, hushed him. Loathed herself for her foul accusations. Then, she calmed. Comforting the infant, she momentarily comforted herself.
She couldn’t stop the rage, though. It was there when she woke every morning. Sometimes, she’d be walking back from the shops, or preparing supper, or sitting in the kitchen feeding the baby, and it would come to her. That bastard has stolen my money. She imagined herself destitute, living on the streets, clutching a hungry child – homeless.
It was Thursday, rent day. Izzy had just returned from the landlord’s office when the phone rang.
‘Izzy?’ A voice shrill with anxiety. It was her mother. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch.’
‘Having a baby,’ said Izzy. ‘A boy.’
‘But I phoned and there was no reply.’
‘I went to Mrs Brent’s,’ said Izzy. ‘So there would be somebody to tend me, as they say.’
‘You should’ve been here. I should’ve looked after you.’
‘Dad didn’t want me there,’ said Izzy.
‘That’s why I’m phoning. Your father’s dead. He had a heart attack a week ago.’
‘Last week, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, I tried, but nobody answered the phone. He went out for a walk and didn’t come back. So, I went looking for him. He was in the garden. Sitting on the bench out there. He’d just died.’
Izzy said nothing.
‘I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, but I thought you should know. We buried him on Tuesday,’ said Joan.
‘You should’ve told me. I would have come for the funeral. I should’ve been there.’
‘It would have been a long journey. And you with a baby.’
‘You didn’t know about the baby. I would have come.’
‘I know.’
Another long silence. Then Izzy said, ‘I should have come to see him. I should have told him I was sorry. I should have asked him to forgive me for lying to you both.’
‘It was as much his fault as yours. I don’t think you should berate yourself too much. He did admit he’d been wrong. It was almost the last thing he said to me.’
Izzy asked her mother what she was going to do now.
‘Well, I can’t stay at the manse. They will be appointing a new minister soon enough. I’ve decided to use the money you sent us to buy a small house in the village and stay on here.’
‘I thought you were going to move to the seaside.’
‘Not now. I don’t want to go where I don’t know anybody. I have friends here.’
‘Can I come and see you?”
‘Well,’ said her mother, ‘in time, when you feel up to it.’ She hadn’t told anybody about Izzy’s baby. She was torn between seeing Izzy and the baby and facing up to a bout of scandal – her unmarried daughter and her child. Oh, the whisperings that would set up. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Izzy. ‘He’s beautiful. You should come and see him if you’re too ashamed to have me up there.’
‘One day, I will.’
Izzy said she’d look forward to it. The pips went and they were cut off.
Sometime, long after midnight, the baby woke her. She lifted him from his crib and took him into bed with her. Sitting, leaning on her pillows, she dropped the front of her nightgown and fed him. She stroked his head. She loved that little head, loved the smell of it.
She thought about her father. The way he’d been to her. The games they’d played, the music they’d danced to. She thought, I should have done what he wanted. I should have given up flying. I should have let him know I loved him.
And he was right, she thought. Look at me, an unmarried mother. I’ve been robbed. I’ll be broke soon. I haven’t heard from Jimmy in weeks. He’s bound to be back in America, he’s forgotten about me. And my father is dead. And I didn’t make up with him. Dead, and he probably never forgave me.
She started to cry. The infant lost his grip on her breast, grappled to find it again and started to cry. Together, in the dark, they both howled. Izzy reached over for her watch to check the time. Twenty to bloody two, mourning time. She clutched her yowling child and wept some more.