Chapter 13
After the wedding, Clementine packed up her things and moved into Alfie’s flat in Pimlico – they’d agreed to spend the rest of the year in London while Alfie and Freddie found someone to replace him at Coupe before they moved down to Foxwood in the New Year.
And by the end of August, Clementine had been startled to find she was expecting.
‘A honeymoon baby,’ she told Alfie, looking a little abashed, although they hadn’t technically been on a honeymoon yet.
‘It is what you want, isn’t it?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘It’s just a little bit sooner than I expected. Let’s not say anything to anyone just yet. I want a little bit of time to get used to the idea and I don’t want fuss.’
‘I agree. Let’s keep the news to ourselves while we still can, and enjoy it.
’ Alfie was over the moon, and it was all Clementine could do to stop him rushing off to Harrods to buy a Silver Cross pram.
Everyone knew you didn’t bring a pram into the house until after the baby was born. It was bad luck.
The only thing they couldn’t agree on was her continuing to work. Clementine was adamant that she didn’t want having a baby to affect her work at the gallery.
‘I’ll just have to avoid carrying anything heavy. Which is fine, because we don’t have another exhibition until the end of October.’
Alfie frowned.
‘I don’t think you should work at all. I think you should go down to Foxwood and let everyone look after you.’
‘Alfie, I’m not ill. I’m pregnant. I’d go mad with boredom. If I get tired, I’ll ask Ben if I can go home early. I promise.’
‘It doesn’t seem right.’
‘Don’t be so old-fashioned.’
‘I’m not old-fashioned,’ he bristled. ‘I’m just worried. About you and the baby.’
‘We are absolutely fine. I promise you. Honestly, I’m starting to wish I hadn’t told you.’
‘Don’t say that. That’s awful.’
‘And I’m warning you now, I’ll be going back to work after the baby is born.’
Alfie looked horrified. ‘How?’
‘I shall just lug it with me. They’re very portable, babies, and Ben won’t mind. He’s very modern about that sort of thing.’
Alfie felt a little stung, as if he was being compared unfavourably to his brother-in-law.
‘Wouldn’t you leave the baby with the nanny?’
‘Nanny?’ Clementine stared at him. ‘I’m not having a nanny. That’s not the kind of mother I want to be.’
Alfie had no idea how to carry on arguing with her. With a bit of luck, she would change her mind once the baby arrived. So he went along with it all for the time being.
By the beginning of October, they had told everyone, and Clementine agreed to give up work at Christmas, which actually tied in rather nicely, as Alfie was due to start at the factory in the New Year.
And she was starting to feel rather tired.
Ben had agreed to the exhibition for the Scottish artist she had spotted, and so she had a particular interest in its success.
She had underestimated how much it would take out of her, the organising, the entertaining, the late nights.
But she couldn’t admit to feeling under par, so she battled on. It wasn’t too long until Christmas.
The day after the private view, which had been a huge success, red dots spattered all over the paintings, she was feeling drained.
She hadn’t got home until half past one the night before, and Alfie had been quite cross.
Not with her, but with Ben. Alfie thought Ben took advantage of her better nature, but she had assured him he had put her under no pressure.
‘Let me get you a taxi,’ Ben said now, concerned that she looked rather drawn.
‘Don’t be daft. The Underground will be much quicker.’ Clementine picked up her coat. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Ben frowned. ‘You should take the day off. You’ve been doing long days.’
‘We’ll see.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll perk up after an early night.’
Outside, the cold air woke her up a bit.
It had been a long day, following up on all the sales, double-checking the paperwork, sending out letters confirming delivery once the exhibition was over, banking all the cheques.
She felt whey-faced and gritty-eyed. All she wanted was a bath, a buttered crumpet and bed.
She was pushing her way through the afternoon crowds at Oxford Circus, when she felt a tug in her belly.
She told herself there were bound to be things going on that would feel unfamiliar as the months went on.
You couldn’t have all that going on inside you without feeling some of it.
Perhaps it was a growth spurt or something?
Or a little leg giving an experimental kick – how big was it now?
No bigger than a ping pong ball, probably.
It wasn’t a pain, as such, just a dull little ache.
She tried to push her concern away as she sat on the journey to Pimlico.
There, however, she started to feel a bit shivery and not herself at all.
Flu, she decided. That made you ache everywhere. What a nuisance.
She couldn’t face the short walk to the flat – she was burning hot now – so she made her way up into the open air and hailed a taxi, wishing she’d taken Ben up on his offer.
In the peace of the back seat, without the hustle and bustle distracting her, the dull ache became sharper and more insistent.
Somehow, she managed to get herself out of the taxi, pay the driver, open the front door and pull herself up the stairs by the hand rail. Once inside the flat, she grabbed the telephone and dialled Alfie’s office with shaking fingers.
‘Are you on your way home?’ she asked in a very small voice. ‘Only I think something’s terribly wrong.’
She lay on the floor, holding her tummy, until he burst through the door just as the clock struck six.
Two days later, she lay in her hospital bed, pinned under a very tightly tucked sheet and two blankets, staring at the sickly green of the ward wall that she thought probably matched her own complexion, for she felt dreadful.
Scooped out and hollow and tender and desolate and bewildered.
She’d had such a clear vision of their baby, a chubby, jolly little thing that she spoke to in her head on a daily basis, so to discover that it was no longer had come as a shock.
‘It’s just one of those things,’ Sister Milner told her. ‘You’re not to blame yourself and you’re not to worry, because it doesn’t mean you can’t have another.’
‘I don’t want another,’ said Clementine sadly. ‘I wanted that one.’
‘I know, duck.’ The nurse patted her hand. ‘But it’s nature’s way.’
‘Nature’s way of what?’
‘Making sure everything’s just as it should be. If there’s something wrong, it’s for the best.’
Clementine shuddered. Who decided what was for the best? If she was the baby’s mother, didn’t she get to make the decision?
‘Just take a little time to rest and then … press on.’ Sister Milner gave her a knowing look.
Press on.
If she was devastated, then Alfie was distraught. He sat by her bedside, gripping her hand, raging through his tears.
‘I shouldn’t have let you carry on working. Bloody Ben.’
‘How is it his fault? He wasn’t to know.’ Clementine’s loyalty was staunch.
‘Yes, but he’s so useless and you convinced me he needed you and if he wasn’t so incompetent, he could have managed without you. You shouldn’t have been up so late for a start …’
His eyes were red and his skin had come out in blotches. Clementine felt overwhelmed by his grief. She supposed for him it was an emotion that was close to the surface, something that was ready to well up at any moment. Her sadness was small and quiet in comparison. She wanted to curl up and sleep.
Sister Milner saw the situation, whisking back the curtain.
‘Mr Arbutus, it’s time for everyone to rest now, I’m afraid. We keep very strict visiting hours on the ward, as I’m sure you’ll understand. You can come back at six o’clock.’
When he’d gone, Sister Milner came to sit with her, bringing her a cup of tea so strong Clementine thought her teeth would melt away.
‘It’s often the men who can’t manage,’ Sister Milner told her. ‘We women are born to suffer. We cope.’
For some reason, it made Clementine think of Elizabeth, and how she coped.
Was what she was doing the best way through her grief?
Everyone found their own way, she supposed.
She put her teacup back on the bedside table and burrowed down under the sheets, but she couldn’t sleep.
For all the nurse’s insistence that everyone on the ward needed to rest, there was far too much going on.
New arrivals, departures, weeping, arguing, trolleys rattling, emergencies, patients calling out for help, someone falling out of bed, all topped up with the nurses discussing everything and everyone at full volume.
‘I want to go home,’ she told Alfie when he came back at six.
‘But who will look after you?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ The baby was gone. What more could go wrong? ‘I can lie in bed at home.’
‘I’ll take you to Foxwood,’ he said. ‘My mother is surprisingly good in a crisis. And there’s Daisy.’
This time, Clementine didn’t protest. The thought of a comfortable bed, Daisy’s cooking, the fresh air, the peace … Foxwood would be the perfect place to convalesce.
Three duck-down pillows. An open window with sharp, fresh autumn air.
A view over the rolling countryside, fringed with trees turning to flame.
A satin eiderdown. Earl Grey tea in a bone china cup covered in green dragons.
A hot-water bottle to hug. A freshly laundered Liberty lawn nightdress. A battered Georgette Heyer.
Clementine had never known such comfort and luxury. And the kindness. Perhaps that came from understanding loss, but Alfie’s parents had been so openly comforting.
‘You poor darling.’ Elizabeth had embraced her with a warmth Clementine could feel right in her bones. And even Michael, implacable, reserved Michael, had patted her shoulder and looked her square in the eye as he offered his condolences.