The flowers. Such a bouquet of them. What were they? Honeysuckle? Sweet pea? No, it was lilies. She wanted to see them, but when she opened her eyes, she saw instead a glass cupboard of vials, a scale. Where was she?
There was the scrape and clatter of utensils, too, and a woman’s voice. Was it speaking to her?
“Cold,” Miriam whispered.
“Here you go, love.” A blanket draped over her. “We’re done now. Just rest for a bit.”
The flowers. Where had they gone? She reached for her face, remembering the inhaler, still feeling the pressure of it against the bridge of her nose, but it had been removed. The smell of flowers gone. Chloroform. Her body floating into a different sort of garden.
They were talking now, the two women, but their low murmurs were out of reach, and her mind drifted, out to the wildflower meadow near Audrey’s. There was a forest along the edge, and she knew there to be a path there. The path would lead to the river, and from there she would find Audrey’s caravan. She was pleased with how clever she was, finding her way on this new route. Then her perspective shifted and she was over the trees, seeing the path through the forest from above, and she wished she’d brought her pencils so she could sketch it because the world was so much larger from up there. And if you could not see the magic of a robin’s egg nest from this vantage, you could see the glory of an irregularly shaped building, and this gave you a different sort of vision of the world, gave you an unusual sort of outlook. She felt this as a warmth that seeped through her, her feet now covered, the light touch of someone tucking her in, and the gentle patting prompted her eyelids open and she saw Audrey.
“Hello,” she said, but Audrey didn’t hear her, went on adjusting the blanket. This, too, gave her comfort, to have Audrey here, and she wanted to tell her that she was glad that she’d taken her inside.
The procedure.
Eyes open again, this time with Mrs Whittaker, Edith, in view, and the tinge of discomfort in her abdomen was a clear reminder of where she was and why.
“You’re doing fine, Miriam.” Edith’s voice clear now. “You just need to rest a while.”
The clutch in her chest. What was it? Pain? Sorrow? Relief? It was over. That’s what she knew. Five weeks. That’s how long it had taken her to discover that she was pregnant and to become unpregnant.
“Tea and toast. That’s what she needs.” Edith again.
She closed her eyes, tried to imagine that she was flying, but the presence of the women, the shifting of feet, cupboard doors opening and closing, drawers slid shut as they put the examining room back in order, kept her solidly on the ground.
She needed to get up, get dressed. Edmund would be expecting her.
“Easy, Miriam.” Audrey quick at her side. “You’ll feel dizzy if you rush it.”
“Rush what?”
Audrey and Edith each at her side, helping her up.
“Tea and toast,” Edith said, easing her arm around Miriam’s back. “It will make you right as rain.”