Alice Alone, page 18
‘I tell you what, dearie. Why don’t you pop along with your daughter now? An ambulance is out of the question, I’m afraid – we’re having a very busy night, you see…’
‘I see all right. I see perfectly. I shall indeed come to the hospital now – with my daughter. But let me tell you, if that baby of hers appears to have suffered in any way, I shall sue the hospital and the whole lot of you.’ A particularly loud scream from next door forced her to finish quickly. ‘We’ll be there in ten minutes. Please, please make sure a midwife knows we’re coming.’ Alice slammed the phone down without waiting for a reply.
Peter, wearing just wellington boots and a mac over his pyjamas, drove them to the hospital. Robin lay groaning in the back: a very different Robin – in all respects – from the one who had lain there, giggly and tipsy, just six months previously. All the way there, Alice shouted breathing instructions at her – more for something to do than because she believed it was making any difference.
33
A QUESTION OF CONFIDENCE
‘Don’t worry darling,’ whispered Alice, ‘the doctor says it is quite normal.’
‘What is – me or the baby?’ Robin was lying with her face to the wall. She was sucking her finger – just as she had when she was a child.
‘Now don’t be silly. That it is utterly normal not to feel too euphoric at this stage. Especially when it was such a hard birth. Just stop fretting about it.’ She tipped some cherries into a bowl and began plucking out the dead flowers from an enormous bunch in a vase beside the bed. ‘You’ll be home in a couple of days and then you’ll feel better. You wait and see.’
As Robin did not seem inclined to talk, Alice dug her book out of her basket and sat down to wait for the baby to be brought back from being weighed.
She did not have to wait long. The sound of a healthy pair of indignant lungs was soon to be heard approaching their door. Quite how penetrating the yell of a hungry child could be was something Alice had forgotten. It was frightening for any first-time mum, she thought, to cope with such desperate demands. She tried to give her daughter a reassuring smile, but Robin still had her eyes shut. Her face was pale – transparent, almost, in its whiteness.
‘Here she comes – let me give you a hand.’
‘Mother, I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you. Undoing a nightie is about the one activity that causes me no pain…’
At that point the nurse marched into the room, carrying the puce-faced child in a no-nonsense sort of way.
‘All ready are we then, dear? I think someone is hungry.’ Her voice was as starchy as her uniform.
She waited until Robin had arranged herself and then handed her the baby. She got a plastic bottle out of her pocket and put it on the bedside table.
‘That’s in case you find you don’t have enough again.’ She gave a crisp smile to Alice and left the room.
‘Not exactly Florence Nightingale, is she?’ said Robin. ‘No wonder I’m feeling depressed.’ She turned her attention back to her tiny daughter who, after a few nibbles, began refusing the breast and crying loudly.
Alice watched while Robin struggled. The temptation to interfere was enormous. The problem – she saw immediately – was a simple one: the baby’s head was at the wrong angle for her to be able to suck comfortably.
‘Mum, for God’s sake give us some motherly advice, could you?’ said Robin at last. Alice, delighted to be asked, shifted the baby’s position a little and clucked soothingly. The infant, when settled, soon lost herself to the task at hand, a look of adult concentration on her tiny pink face.
‘Thanks. God, what a relief. Though I don’t know why we don’t just stick with bottles and have done with it. I never have enough anyway.’ Her voice was sulky. ‘It’s such a palaver.’
‘I can assure you preparing bottles is much more of a palaver than opening a couple of shirt buttons. I don’t know how I’d have managed to keep an eye on Kate and Simon if I hadn’t been able to breast-feed you for so many months. Besides, it’s the most natural thing in the world.’ A dreamy look came into her eyes.
Robin turned her head away. It was precisely the ‘natural’ aspect of things that was getting her down so much. None of it felt natural. It felt messy, uncomfortable, difficult – but never natural. This had taken her by surprise. There had been unpleasant things about being pregnant – piles, toothaches, swollen ankles, sore back (Robin had had the lot) – but since she was having everything done for her, none of it had bothered her too much. Now, her problem was not really being so sore, but that she felt all wrong. She had presumed that giving birth would bring with it an immediate, instinctive sense of what to do next. That was how everyone had talked about it. As if becoming a mother automatically made you into one. What she was finding instead was that her screwed-up little pink parcel of a daughter was a baffling, alien creature, whom she could hardly believe had come from her own insides. She had no idea what to do from one moment to the next. Nothing came naturally at all – except the desire to sleep and forget all about it.
As if following her thoughts, Alice said, ‘it’s all a question of confidence you know, darling… there, there, my sweetie… why not move on to the bottle now? She’s getting angry again. We are a hungry girl, aren’t we? My, my, my, we’re going to grow big and strong… feel that grip, Robbie! Little iron fists we’ve got here…’
‘Mum, would you mind giving her the bottle? I feel so tired.’
Alice took the child. She had been dying to, anyway. After alternately feeding and winding her for a while, she noticed that Robin had not gone to sleep after all.
‘Don’t you think it would help to settle on a name for her, darling?’ She kissed the baby, now sleeping in her arms, on the tip of her miniature nose. ‘She looks so like you did when you were born… what about your middle name…?’
‘Mother, you have already told me several hundred times what you think my child should be called. And I have already told you that I loathe – loathe – the name Clarissa. I have suffered enough putting it as a middle name on forms all my life – I am not going to subject my daughter to a life of even worse torture.’ The trouble was, Robin could not think of a single name that she really did like. There were lots that were passable; but none that she could imagine saying over and over again for the rest of her days without getting tired of it. The name problem sums it all up, she thought. I don’t even have the confidence or know-how to get that right.
‘Henrietta. I have decided. Henrietta. So now she has a name.’
‘Oh darling, are you sure? The poor lamb will get called Henny, or Henry, or…’
‘Honestly, Mum. You’ve been going on at me to make up my mind, and when at last I do, you try and talk me out of it. Henrietta is a lovely name,’ Robin said, aware that her voice lacked conviction.
There was a knock at the door and Peter came in. After the standard round of inquiries as to the health of mother and child, Robin told him the name she had chosen.
Peter bent down over his tiny granddaughter, still cradled in Alice’s arms. ‘Henrietta, is it? My little Henny? Henny Penny? How sweet. What a pretty little girl we’ve got…’ Alice looked at Robin; but she only sighed and turned her face to the wall.
34
SOME KINDLY ADVICE
When Alice came to the hospital to take Robin and Henrietta home, the starchy nurse ambushed her before she got to the room and informed her that Dr Winthrop would like a quick word. Alice did not like the doctor very much. Not that she doubted her abilities. It was just that Dr Winthrop was an assertive breed of woman with whom she simply could not feel at ease.
Two large eyes, brimming with sincerity, now watched Alice over the top of small round gold spectacle-frames.
‘I’ve spoken to Robin, of course – I believe in being absolutely frank with everybody. I’ve explained to her, as far as one can, why she is experiencing these low spirits and how she should fight them.’
‘And how should she fight them, Doctor?’
‘By relaxing, not forcing anything – by giving her mind and body time to come to terms with the shock of the birth. That was why I particularly wanted to have a quick chat with you, Mrs Hatton, because you can help her enormously.’
Alice leaned forward expectantly, both hands clasping the handle of her handbag on her lap. ‘I do so want to help,’ she said.
‘I am sure you do and that is just what we need.’ The doctor’s voice was warm, but brisk. ‘The point is this, Mrs Hatton: coming to terms with the baby – Henrietta, isn’t it? Lovely name – is something that Robin can only do on her own. She will need your help, of course – especially at the beginning. But the best way to provide that help,’ she looked penetratingly into Alice’s eyes, ‘is by instilling confidence in her, Mrs Hatton. Belief in her own abilities, that is what every new mother needs. Your daughter – Robin – is somewhat insecure, and that is very common…’ She lowered her voice. ‘The father having run off has not helped, of course…’
‘He didn’t run off, he… well, never mind, it’s a long story.’
‘Yes, they always are.’ Dr Winthrop sighed. ‘Anyway, I’m sure Robin, rightly, is impatient to see the back of us. Lots of love and lots of rest, that’s the answer. That way she’ll gradually start managing – and wanting to manage – on her own. Soon she won’t need you at all, you’ll see.’ She stood up and shook Alice energetically by the hand. ‘Goodbye and good luck.
‘Thank you for everything, Doctor,’ said Alice and hurried out.
35
ALICE HELPS OUT
Robin ate so little that Alice got quite alarmed.
‘You’ll gradually lose the weight anyway, darling – there’s no need to starve yourself,’ she said, on several occasions. Every time, she met with the same sullen answer: ‘but I’m not hungry.’
Indeed, Robin seemed to have lost the will or desire to do anything but sleep. The motions of looking after the baby were gone through – but always with Alice prompting, helping, and ending up doing it all herself. Such was Robin’s apathy and lack of interest, that Alice seriously believed that if she had not been there, Henrietta would have spent most of her days half-starved and dirty. She tried to follow the doctor’s advice, to find ways of getting Robin interested and motivated, but the impenetrable, dream-like state of her daughter affected everything. In fact, at times Alice found it hard not to get angry, so difficult was it to provoke any sort of reaction from Robin’s dazed, sleepy state. Meanwhile, it was Alice’s tread that Henrietta waited for, Alice’s rubbing that soothed the indigestion, and Alice’s arms that rocked her to sleep when some unknown terror or discomfort had set her crying. It always began with Robin trying, giving up, and handing her over with a sigh, apparently too lethargic even to feel envious of her mother’s abilities.
Perhaps it was the weather that finally did it. For one fresh, burnished autumn day, when Henrietta was five months old, Robin astounded both her parents by coming downstairs for breakfast. Alice, as usual, was in charge of the baby, who had long since had her morning bottle and was fast asleep in a wicker baby-cot that lived in the kitchen. More astonishing than Robin’s first voluntary early appearance for months, was how she looked. Instead of the usual big baggy shirt over a pair of scruffy, loose jeans, she had on a pair of skin-tight, blue corduroys and a soft, blue and grey jumper with leg-of-mutton sleeves. So much time spent picking at her food had reproduced the slim, trim lines of the old Robin. A few touches of make-up – not bothered with since the revelation of the pregnancy – completed the transformation.
‘Well, well!’ exclaimed Peter and gave her a kiss.
Alice too, was dumbfounded: ‘But Robbie, look how thin you’ve got.’
‘I know. Isn’t it fabulous?’ she said, smiling and doing a small twirl. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am. It just suddenly came to me this morning that I was probably the right shape for some of my old clothes. They feel good too.’
Over the next few months, Robin’s transformation continued. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, she began showing all the colours of her old self: smiles, energy, confidence – all the components that had made up the character of the Hattons’ youngest daughter before her disastrous sortie to Birmingham.
These changes appeared to bear no relation to the baby at all. Robin was assembling her own armour against the world. It left no room or strength for coping with anyone else. Besides, there was always Alice to deal with Henrietta for her. The only one who said anything on the subject was Peter – and then only to Alice. He did not dare to upset Robin now that she was so obviously on the road to recovery.
‘It’s not right, Alice,’ he said, on more than one occasion. ‘I know I never got that involved with the baby side of things, but anyone can see she ought to be taking more interest in Henrietta.’
Alice was sitting in the middle of the sofa, knitting. Strewn all around her were different coloured balls of wool, funny-shaped needles, tape-measures and pattern books. She had just embarked on a delightful, but very complicated, all-in-one suit for her granddaughter. The background colour was blue and dotted all over it were going to be tiny farmyard animals. Little pom-poms were supposed to go round the ankles and wrists, but she wasn’t sure she would bother with those. In the last few months she had become rounder and rosier. As she sat on the sofa, peering over her glasses at her knitting and brushing away the small wisps of grey hair that kept falling over her face, she looked the very picture of grandmotherly contentment. Anyone suggesting that just eighteen months ago this lady had been dying of love and unrequited passion would have been laughed out of town.
‘It’s early days yet, Peter darling. Don’t be such a fusspot,’ she said, still absorbed in her knitting. ‘You know what Dr Winthrop said. That it will all take time.’
‘But that was eons ago. And look at her.’
‘Look at who, darling?’ Alice was not really listening.
‘Alice, for God’s sake don’t be so infuriating. Look at Robin, of course. There’s nothing wrong with her at all now and yet she gives that poor little blighter about two seconds of her attention per day.’
‘You don’t know that, Peter. You’re not here during the day.’ Alice put down her knitting and began studying the pattern again. It really was extremely complicated.
‘It’s obvious. All those aerobics and things she’s now going to. Acting classes – I thought she’d done with all those years ago.’
‘She’s getting back into the swing of things. You have to if you want to keep up in that world, she says. And I can believe it.’
They were sitting having this conversation after a quiet dinner together. Robin was out for the evening – another practice which she had taken to recently – although exactly where, or with whom, they were not sure. It was so difficult to ask without sounding nagging or prudish, or triggering a fight – and neither of them wanted that.
‘Well, she’s going to have to recognise that she’s got a child to look after sometime,’ Peter went on huffily.
‘But I don’t see what there is to worry about.’ Alice now put down the pattern book and looked at her husband properly. ‘She’s got us to help with the baby.’
‘You, you mean.’
‘Me, then. We’re a joint baby-sitting team though, aren’t we?’ She smiled at him.
‘Alice…’ He knew he was about to enter dangerous waters. ‘Are you sure that we’re not making it too easy for her? I mean, you don’t think that perhaps you help her so much that she feels there’s nothing left for her to do?’ His apprehension was well-founded.
‘I don’t know how you can say such a thing, Peter. You know what the doctor said – to help her as much as I can, to let her relax and find herself again. As far as I can tell, that is exactly what is happening. Anyway, you don’t see what goes on during the day. I give Robin every opportunity I can to do things for Henrietta. I really do.’ She picked up her knitting again. The clicking needles sounded angry.
In fact, Alice was not being totally truthful. For a long while, she had indeed tried to get Robin to do things for the baby. Inevitably, however, a routine had slowly established itself. A routine that was now very firmly fixed, and which basically involved Alice doing everything. ‘What the doctor said’ had actually become, ‘what Alice wanted to remember of what the doctor said.’
36
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE
Being good or evil is often something that happens accidentally, rather than being a premeditated, heart-tussling decision. That Peter, for instance, had become an altogether ‘better’ person and certainly a more zealous husband had been almost totally the result of coincidental circumstances. He had been in the right place and the right frame of mind at the right time. Outside events beyond his control had jerked his life into a new rhythm that he could never have foreseen or consciously brought into being himself.
So it was with Alice. She never sat down and decided to be unfaithful to her husband. Just as she never planned, actively, to try and keep Henrietta for herself. Such a notion would have appalled her by its wickedness. The idea simply grew on its own, forced out of circumstances.
After an early trip to the supermarket one morning – having left Robin and the baby asleep – Alice let herself into the house by the back door. She was lugging several bags of shopping and wanted to dump everything straight onto the kitchen table. Before unpacking, she decided to go upstairs and check on Henrietta. The child was showing signs of a nasty cough and had woken up several times during the night. It was only when she passed out of the kitchen and into the hall that she heard sounds of merriment coming from the sitting room. Curious, she opened the door slightly and peered in. Mother and child were too absorbed to notice. Robin was kneeling on the floor, over a squealing, delighted Henrietta, who was kicking her chunky legs in appreciation of the game. The two were bathed in the shafts of sunlight that poured in through the French windows leading on to the back garden. Any natural pangs of jealousy that Alice might have had, were magnified into something far more serious by what Robin was actually saying to her daughter – or rather half-saying, half-singing, as she tickled the round little tummy between phrases, ‘And Mummy’s got a joooob… and it’s in New Yoooooork… and Henny’s coming toooooo… just me and yoooooo…’
