1973 – aged 18
The bus pulled up and Lilly jumped off the back, staring at the dirty London brick exterior of the hospital where fumes and grime had licked the surface for centuries. Not half an hour since, she’d left her dad at the kitchen table with The Teddy Bears’ ‘To Know Him Is to Love Him’ playing loudly.
‘This is such a beautiful song, Lilly! A classic!’ He had tapped his fingers in time to the music.
‘’Tis,’ she’d managed, strangling the sob in her throat. Her dad was right, the words and melody were so very beautiful.
‘And you’re off on your field trip! That’s exciting!’ He’d taken a drag on his cigarette.
‘Yep, I’m meeting Glenda at Victoria and we’re going to travel together.’
How easily these words had slipped from her mouth and how hard it was to reconcile them in her mind.
Every lie she threw in his direction was weighted with guilt and remorse, aware as she was of the disservice she did him every time she believed him na?ve enough to swallow it, which he did.
Her lovely dad. A couple of days at the seaside with her friend, what could be nicer . . .
He’d then sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, moving his head in time with the music.
She wondered when it reminded him of, and who.
Her mum was the most likely candidate. It was that melody that went round and round in her head now.
She wished it would stop, not needing her emotions to run any higher today.
The foyer was busy, people coming and going, some coughing into white cotton handkerchiefs, others crying.
A woman winced as she hobbled on an obviously damaged ankle.
And a small child with a cut head and a splat of dried blood on his little forehead cried with gusto as his mother cooed, ‘There, there,’ and dabbed at the injury with a damp paper towel.
Trolleys and wheelchairs pushed by brown-coated porters moving the old or infirm formed a two-lane highway, while those of a less than tolerant nature leapfrogged between them, trying to beat them to the lifts.
Lilly hung back and looked at the confusion of signs before spotting the department she needed and making her way slowly along the wall, her fingers trailing it as she walked.
This was for two reasons. First, because nothing felt real, and this wall, this solid thing beneath her fingertips, reminded her that it was no dream.
And second, if the pain rose again, hitting the peak it had yesterday, there was a risk she might fall down or crumple, and this wall would be what saved her, enabling her to slither down it rather than tumble forward.
The lift was a little crowded, and she felt faint, wishing the juddering metal cage would hurry.
Two women with distended stomachs, empire-line smocks and wide smiles stood in the corners, both with their husbands in close proximity.
One of the women took a long drag on her cigarette before treading it underfoot on the lift floor.
Each man carried the jumpy air of one who was two parts excited and one part petrified.
The one with a droopy moustache and stacked heels gave her a wide-eyed look of acknowledgement, as if they were in the same club.
She looked away. They were not in the same club, not even close.
The lift doors opened. The two couples and Lilly got out.
The waiting room of the maternity ward was a thick fog of cigarette smoke, as men, mainly, and other relatives paced, smoked and chuckled nervously in the room with the incredible view over the London rooftops.
A stunning vista, no doubt, but hers, from their lounge window of Waide House, was better.
She wished she were there right now, just a little way along the river, wished she wasn’t in this situation, wished she could wind back the clock to the day Wilkie had wandered along the towpath.
What are you painting?
Oh, I’m painting ‘Piss off back to your wife and two small children . . .’
Yes, this was how she wished she had responded on that day when it all started and her life began to unravel.
She queued at the reception desk until a ward sister in a starched white pinny and hat greeted her with a stern tone that suggested efficiency and instilled confidence.
‘How can I help you?’
‘My name is Elizabeth-Roberta Cooper and I called yesterday because I was bleeding. The nurse said if I was no better to’ – she paused as the breath caught in her throat, the pain sharp and unexpected, requiring all of her attention – ‘to . . . to come in. It’s . . . it’s got worse, and so—’
The sister stood and walked quickly around to the front of the desk. ‘Nurse Maddox?’ she called out.
A younger nurse came quickly.
‘Wheelchair, please. Take Mrs Cooper to room twelve.’
Lilly concentrated on breathing, beyond relieved that she was here and that someone was taking control, because for the last few weeks she had been in freefall.
At first it had been hard to accept she was pregnant, and she’d spent the time in an altered state of disbelief.
This had been quickly followed by the white-hot, paralysing fear of indecision.
How was she to navigate this disaster without coming clean to her dad, without admitting that she had messed up spectacularly, the lying to him almost as soul-destroying as getting pregnant by a married man, words that still sounded as surreal as they did implausible. How could this be her life?
She told no one, not wanting to be judged, not wanting her friends to see how far she had fallen, not wanting to admit it to anyone, which would make it real, not knowing how to phrase it, not willing to face the fact that her future, however she tried to picture it, looked entirely bleak.
Harder still were the moments in the wee small hours when her palm lay on her stomach and she felt the ripple of wonder at the fact that this was a life she and Wilkie had created.
Wilkie, the man she was trying so very hard not to love because he belonged to someone else.
But this seed that had taken root, this baby – was it not a sign, a gift?
Lying on her narrow bed, she allowed excitement to fuse with daydream and pictured Wilkie holding their newborn, beaming at her, his girl .
. . Daylight peeking through the curtains shed light on the reality that it was not a gift, but was in fact a fearful situation, with only two outcomes – to raise the baby alone, to give the baby away – and right now, as she waited at the reception desk, it seemed that the probable outcome was entirely beyond her control.
This realisation brought her both immeasurable sadness and immeasurable relief, a most confusing combination.
There was no doubt that to lose this baby would mean the problem had disappeared, but oh, to hold her baby, to meet her baby . . .
Be still, I’ve got you, whatever comes next, I’ve got you. She spoke the words of comfort in her mind, hoping they would travel down to her womb.
She closed her eyes and leaned on the arm the sister offered. Almost immediately, Nurse Maddox returned with the wheelchair, and carefully they lowered her into it.
Room twelve was small and nondescript. The walls were half covered in cream tiles that curved over the sill of a frosted tilting metal window. A large chrome light was positioned over a bed, where a white sheet and pale blue blanket were pulled taut.
‘Can you hop up?’ the younger nurse asked kindly.
‘I can, but’ – she felt the swell of embarrassment in this strange, grown-up environment – ‘but I’m bleeding.’ Her eyes darted to the pristine bedlinen, aware of the warm, damp feeling that spoke of nothing good.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that.’ Nurse Maddox’s eyes crinkled in understanding as she helped Lilly up on to the bed, where she immediately drew her knees up towards her chest, which offered some relief.
The sister removed a clipboard from the end of the bed and began asking questions.
‘Name?’
‘Elizabeth-Roberta Cooper.’
‘Your date of birth, Mrs Cooper?’
She blinked at the assumption and wondered how to handle the delicate situation, as the sister jotted down her answers with a ballpoint pen.
‘Twelfth of August 1955.’
‘Weight?’
‘Nine stone two.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘Here, St Thomas’s.’
‘Ah, one of ours!’ The woman paused in her writing and smiled at her broadly.
Lilly felt the rush of tears, trying to imagine her mum in this very building, her dad no doubt smoking in the waiting room, as her life had begun by the side of the river.
It made her incredibly sad to be here alone, opposite Grand Benjamin, the landmark she only had to find so that she could follow the river along its path, knowing it would take her all the way home . . .
‘Now, now. Let’s not cry. We shan’t have tears!’ The sister nodded, her voice stern, as Lilly did her best to comply. ‘They don’t help in any way at all. How far along are you, Mrs Cooper?’
There it was again.
‘Erm, ten weeks, twelve weeks.’
‘You haven’t had an antenatal check?’
She shook her head. Hadn’t seen a doctor, hadn’t told a soul, hadn’t wanted it to be true while simultaneously fighting secret feelings of ridiculous excitement at the prospect.
Oh, if only, if only we could both hang on a little longer, how long? A day . . . a month . . . a year . . . a decade . . . it’s rotten timing is what it is. How I would have loved you! And how I will always love the idea of you . . .
‘Now, I’m sure the last thing you want to do is disturb your husband at his place of work, my dear, but it really is advisable that we contact him. Do you have a telephone number for him?’
Nurse Maddox lifted Lilly’s limp wrist and with her other hand held the little upside-down watch that dangled from the apron of her starched blue uniform, taking Lilly’s pulse.
She knew it was time to come clean, to admit the thing that she had been dreading.
‘I don’t have one, actually.’
‘Don’t have a telephone number?’ the sister asked softly. ‘That’s okay, we can find it, I’m sure—’