Never Such Innocence, page 34
Whenever she thought of all the implications of her condition panic threatened to overwhelm her and so she did her best to concentrate on her instinctive, unthinking happiness that the splendidly fulfilling night she had spent with David should have resulted in the conception of a child. There were occasions when that happiness banished all her anxieties, but only for a few moments. For most of the time the appalling practical problems that would be caused by the child’s existence took up all her mental energy.
Julia tried to think of only a few at a time: what Anthony would do when she told him, as inevitably she must; what would happen to David’s promising political career if the scandal ever leaked out into the press; what prospects she could possibly have of continuing at the Bar if that happened; what would happen to the child if she were to die and it survive the birth; what the knowledge of its paternity would do to her friendship with Comfort; what David would do if he knew that she was pregnant.
There was no doubt in her mind about the last. If Anthony were to divorce her and David knew why, he would insist on marrying her, whatever he actually wanted and whatever the marriage did to his career. Julia knew that she could not let that happen. David was the kindest and most unselfish person she knew and she loved him. She was not prepared to risk damaging him by involving him in her predicament.
There was of course one way out of all the problems, but Julia did not think she could take it. She had come across one or two women during the war who had conceived children while their husbands were abroad and had found doctors to rid themselves of the partly grown foetuses. She had even prosecuted a retired midwife who had gone about the task with a crochet-hook, severely damaging several of her patients as well as destroying the children.
Thinking about them, Julia felt suddenly cold, despite the easy warmth of the June morning. She wanted the child too much to do anything so desperate. She wanted David, too, but had to face the fact that she could not have him. He had made it abundantly clear that he could not marry her and she had nevertheless asked him to make love to her. The child was therefore her responsibility. She could not run to David and lay the burden of it on him, even though she knew that he would take it up instantly.
There were three courses she could take, she decided at last, trying to treat her dilemma as dispassionately as though it had nothing to do with her personally. She could disappear into the country to have the child and pay someone else to bring it up, perhaps acting the part of a distant relation; she could leave Anthony and live independently and publicly alone with her child; or she could do as countless other faithless wives had done during and after the war and send the child to an orphanage.
The last option she discounted immediately. The cruelty of allowing her own child to be brought up in an institution, however reputable, was more than she could bear. Before she went to Venice, Julia had met a woman whose returning husband had insisted that she send her illegitimate child to an orphanage, although by then the boy was three years old. Thinking of what that child must have felt always made Julia sick with rage.
The second option was the one that seemed most sensible, although Julia knew that it would be a drastic step to take. She was not certain that she could carry it off successfully enough to ensure that the child was not penalised, but thought that if she could do it, he or she would have a better chance of a happy life.
During the war Julia had bought her Kensington house and accumulated what seemed like a small fortune, but it was too small to support her and the child for the rest of her life if she had to stop working. Without her career, she would not be able to keep the child. Keeping the child might destroy the career.
The telephone on Julia’s mahogany desk gleamed seductively, promising advice and help and friendship, and yet she could not think of anyone in whom she could confide, until she remembered Felicity Suvarov. Felicity was pregnant; she had seemed intelligent and full of common sense; even more important, she had said enough about her own unconventional life for Julia to be sure that Felicity would neither criticise nor betray her.
Julia rustled through the pages of the telephone directory until she found the number for Peter Suvarov and dialled it. After three rings the telephone was answered:
‘Suvarov.’
‘Hello; this is Julia Gillingham. You may not remember …’
‘Venice,’ he said. ‘How could I forget? I did not realise you were back. How long have been in London?’
‘Oh, since about the middle of April,’ said Julia, feeling limp in contrast to the energy implicit in his vigorous voice. ‘I … I was wondering whether I could come and see your wife some time soon.’
‘How splendid!’ said Suvarov down the telephone. Julia thought from the sound of his voice that he must be smiling, but she could not quite imagine why. ‘This morning?’ he suggested.
‘Well, that would be lovely. Would about twelve suit her, d’you think?’ Julia asked, looking at her watch. Suvarov thought that would be perfectly all right and told her he would see her then.
Julia took a taxi to the Suvarovs’small Chelsea house and rang the bell only a few minutes after midday. The door was opened by Peter Suvarov himself, looking extraordinarily relaxed. He shook her hand briskly and then took her upstairs, saying:
‘Come on up. Flixe was delighted when I told her you’d be dropping in. Darling,’ he said, raising his voice as he pushed open a door on the first floor, ‘here she is.’ He held open the door for Julia and she walked past him into a white room filled with flowers and sunlight.
The first thing she saw was the broad, competent figure of a nurse dressed in a grey uniform with terrifyingly starched white collar, cuffs and apron. A steel watch hung on one massive breast, and her formidable front was bisected by a straining elasticated belt, buckled in what looked like antique silver.
Impressed as well as taken aback by the sight of the nurse, Julia allowed herself to look round the rest of the pretty room. As she took in the significance of the massed pink, white and green flowers, the child’s cradle in the window and Peter Suvarov’s obvious delight, Julia could have kicked herself for being so obtuse.
‘Julia,’ said Felicity from the banked up pillows of her enormous bed. ‘How sweet of you to come and see us. Wonderful as it all is, the hours spent in bed do get a bit dull and they say I have to stay here for another two weeks!’
She looked even more ravishing than Julia had remembered her. In Venice Felicity had looked gloriously – and happily – pregnant, but tired too, and suffering from swollen ankles and a bad back. Now, lying at ease, her golden hair loose about her face, her deep blue eyes sparkling under her lashes, and a creamy lace bedjacket covering her shoulders, she looked superb. As a bizarre touch of eccentricity, which only seemed to underline the happy normality of the picture she presented, pinned in the lace at her throat was the most enormous diamond and sapphire brooch that Julia had ever seen.
‘How are you?’ asked Julia, approaching the bed and trying not to stare at the jewel. She shook the hand Felicity held out to her and then went on: ‘I hadn’t realised that it was so recent. I’d never have imposed myself on you this soon.’
Flixe shook her golden head and smiled.
‘It’s lovely. Really. Peter has to go out any minute now and Nurse won’t allow me to disturb the infant when he’s supposed to be asleep and so – as I said – I get very bored. Ah, this seems to be authorised cuddling time,’ said Flixe as the nurse bent over the white-painted, wickerwork cradle that stood in the sunny bay at the front of the room. ‘Would you like to hold him, Julia?’
‘I?’ she said, surprised. ‘Oh, well … if you’re sure. I’d love to.’ Julia felt her arms arranging themselves in a cradle even before she had thought about it. With an expression of disapproving obedience on her strong face, the nurse lowered the child on to Julia’s lap. The baby was tightly wrapped in a Shetland lace shawl, and Julia could see very little except for a crumpled red face and a little straight black hair; but she recognised the warm weight from the dreams that had tormented her in Venice. She looked up from her examination of the dark eyes, minute nose and peaceful mouth to see Flixe smiling with a slightly quizzical expression in her large eyes.
Julia smiled back, unaware that her eyelashes were damp.
‘Thank you, Nurse,’ said Flixe suddenly. ‘We’ll be all right now. Why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of tea?’
‘Very well, Mrs Suvarov,’ she said after a moment, during which Julia felt that she might well protest. ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes to …’
‘Put him down again. Yes, Nurse, I know,’ said Flixe. As soon as the white-panelled door had been shut behind the stout woman, Flixe let out the breath she had been holding.
‘She’s said to be wonderful with first-time mothers, but golly she does cluck,’ said Flixe, laughing.
‘I can see that it must be tiresome,’ said Julia. The child kicked suddenly and the carefully arranged shawl was dislodged. Julia saw that it was dressed in a cream-coloured flannel nightgown. Its heels drummed into her thigh and its fists clenched as its mouth opened and its face reddened. It was clear that there was about to be a bellow of rage or hunger. Without even thinking about it, Julia took one of the angry fists in her hand. The small fingers unclenched and the baby’s eyes opened again. Julia smiled down and felt the child’s hand cling to one of her fingers.
‘Lovely,’ she said, looking up at Flixe. ‘Have you decided on a name yet?’
‘Andrew,’ said Flixe. ‘Andrew Peter Felix in all, but I think we’ll call him Andrew. Apparently it was Peter’s father’s name; they didn’t get on, I gather, but the arrival of this Andrew seems to have made Peter feel some nostalgia for his family.’ She touched the enormous brooch at her throat and smiled: ‘This belonged to his mother and was brought out of Russia after the Revolution by one of his sisters. Peter went specially over to Paris to ask if he could have it for me. Embarrassing, isn’t it?’
‘Touching, too,’ said Julia, no longer surprised that Felicity should be wearing jewellery in bed. ‘But I expect you want Andrew now,’ she went on, standing up and walking carefully across the strip of moss-green carpet between her chair and the bed to deposit the child in his mother’s arms.
Flixe took him, rearranged the shawl and stroked her son’s face with a gentle finger.
‘I must say I quite like him,’ she said, looking back at Julia. ‘But you didn’t come here to admire my effort, did you? Tell me what’s up.’
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Julia, smiling her lopsided smile. ‘I had completely forgotten the fact that your baby was due to arrive about now. I really came for some advice.’
‘From me?’ said Flixe, looking and sounding startled. ‘What could a professional woman like you possibly need to ask me?’
‘A great many things, I suspect,’ said Julia, actually laughing at that, despite her troubles. ‘But my specific problem is that I’ve discovered that I am pregnant.’
Felicity looked so fulfilled and happy as she lay against the linen-covered pillows with her child in her arms that Julia found herself unable to go on with any of the details of her predicament. Instead, she said:
‘You look like some painting of motherhood.’ The words were said in admiration rather than bitterness, but the tone gave Julia away. Flixe’s eyes narrowed.
‘And there’s some difficulty? Does your husband not want children? Or is it you? I can see that they would make your work very difficult.’
‘Neither – or rather both. But neither of those is what makes the situation so peculiarly difficult.’ Julia stopped there, partly to order her thoughts, but partly because she could not bear the thought that the child she and David had conceived could be thought of as the result of some shabby affair that she wanted to conceal. Reminding herself that there was no point in saying anything to Flixe if she did not tell her the whole truth, she gritted her teeth and then went on.
‘I want the child very much indeed. My husband does not want children and therefore made quite certain that we could never have one. This child,’ she said, laying a hand protectively just below her breasts, ‘is not my husband’s. There is no possibility that it could be – which I suppose protects me from one particular dilemma.’
‘Ah,’ said Flixe on a long breath. ‘David Wallington?’ Julia nodded. ‘And does he know?’
‘No,’ said Julia. ‘And he mustn’t. He’d rush to my support if he knew and that would ruin his career.’ She laid both her hands palm upwards in her lap and stared at them. For one moment she uncharacteristically wondered whether the lines on her faintly glistening hands meant anything, whether her predicament could have been foretold from the pattern of creases, triangles, stars and diamonds marked there. There was a faint, wholly illegitimate comfort in the thought.
‘Felicity, what on earth should I do now?’ she asked.
‘You must tell David,’ she said simply. ‘After all, the child is his too.’
‘I know,’ said Julia. ‘But he made it clear in Venice that what was happening to us – what we did – was not for ever. He has plans for his future that do not include marrying a woman five years older than himself who would already have a child. If I tell him now it would look as though I were trying to blackmail him into changing his mind and marrying me.’
‘From what I saw of you both in Venice, I cannot imagine that David Wallington would want to pursue his career at the cost of your happiness,’ said Flixe seriously. ‘Besides, he must have inherited that place in Scotland. He could live up there and run it all.’
‘Do you mean that you knew – even then …’ Julia began, not listening to what Felicity was saying, and then broke off.
Flixe, thinking that clever women could be unbelievably stupid about ordinary things, smiled.
‘It was the most obvious thing I’ve ever seen,’ she said. ‘The two of you showed what you felt about each other by almost everything you said and did.’
‘But we hadn’t even … I mean, neither of us had said anything at that stage,’ said Julia, faced for the first time with the possibility that if her feelings for David had been so obvious then Anthony, too, might have noticed them. Perhaps that was why he had changed so much in Venice and become colder and colder towards her. Only when she was leaving both Venice and David had Anthony turned kind again.
There was a knock at the door and the formidable nurse came bustling in.
‘I’ll take little Andrew now, Mrs Suvarov,’ she said officiously. Flixe handed her child over without protest, but she did say:
‘Mrs Gillingham and I have some things to discuss. Could you take Andrew to your room for a while, please?’
Looking outraged, the nurse scooped the wicker basket off its stand and carried it out of the door, which she shut behind her with a distinct snap.
‘I’m sorry, Julia,’ said Flixe. ‘She can’t understand that one can be wholly and completely besotted by one’s son and yet occasionally want to be in only adult company sometimes. Never mind. They’re out of the way now and we won’t be disturbed until lunch.’ She looked at Julia through her blonde eyelashes. ‘You must tell David,’ she said again.
‘But I can hardly write to him with this news while he’s living in the same house as my husband,’ said Julia.
‘But surely he isn’t still there?’ said Flixe. ‘The Kesselring trial is long over. I thought David was to be demobbed as soon as it finished. Unless he’s been waiting for the appeal and even that’s been settled now.’
Julia put a hand to her forehead.
‘I can’t think what’s happened to my brain,’ she said. ‘It seems to have gone all mushy. Of course you’re right. I read about it last week: the sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment.’
Julia got up from the deep-cushioned chair in which she had been sitting and walked quickly across to the bay window. She noticed irrelevantly that it was curtained in ivory chintz printed with coral-pink roses and moss-green ribbons. She stood with her back to the room, staring out at the narrow sunlit street below. Watching her tense back, Felicity said softly:
‘It would be absurdly quixotic to ruin your own life and live in miserable loneliness just to protect a political career that might never happen anyway.’
Turning back at last, Julia leaned against the wall.
‘You may be right, but I don’t think I could bear it if David hated us both for ruining him,’ she said with transparent honesty.
Felicity was silenced by that. Both of them were too adult and too experienced not to know that of all things in the world someone else’s feelings were the most difficult to assess or predict accurately.
‘Come and sit down again, Julia,’ said Flixe eventually. ‘I remember so well how ghastly it feels in the early stages. I’m not surprised that everything seems so tragic. Take the weight off your feet. I think you have to take that risk. There is no alternative.’
‘Except not telling him,’ said Julia drearily. ‘I suppose I’d arrived at that myself. I’m sorry to have come and laid it all on to you when I’ve really decided what to do anyway.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you came,’ said Flixe, smiling and holding out a hand. Julia took it in both of hers.
‘You have been very kind – and very rational,’ she said. To Julia those were the two most important characteristics in anyone. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well I’m not sure that I’ve been all that helpful,’ said Flixe, squeezing Julia’s hands affectionately. ‘But I do believe that secrets are bad, dangerous and wickedly destructive things.’
‘I’ll let you rest now,’ said Julia, whose professional life necessarily contained innumerable secrets. Unlike Felicity, she positively valued the ability to keep them. She released Flixe’s hands.
‘Can I rely on you not to tell anyone?’ Julia asked urgently enough to make Flixe blush.
‘Of course you can,’ said Flixe. ‘Come again soon, and tell me if you need any practical help – a place to stay in the country perhaps until the child is born. One of Peter’s cousins lives near where I was brought up and last time I saw her she told me that she was thinking of having a paying guest or two to help with the expenses of keeping the place up. I know that she would have you if you needed sanctuary.’
