38
RUBY
July
It was high summer. Above Barton Hall, the sky was filled once more with the screams of the swooping swifts; the roses were blooming, saturating the air with their heavy scent as the weather alternated between sunshine and thunderstorms. Despite the fighting still going on in Asia, the atmosphere in town was one of celebration, flags and bunting fluttering from the buildings and across the streets. But at the little cottage at the edge of the grounds, it felt as if life had plunged permanently into winter.
Grandmother, who was still with us – there had still been no word from the British Army about when Tyneham’s residents might be able to return – was smug and sharp-tongued; Father barely acknowledged my existence. Our Monopoly nights were a thing of the past, and he no longer asked me to help type up his notes. I felt like a ghost in my own home.
Unsurprisingly, Alfie wouldn’t speak to me at all. I couldn’t avoid him because he still brought the post to the Herald offices every day, but he would hand me the pile of envelopes in silence, turn and walk straight back out again. His father was furious too, snubbing me if I passed him in the street, and although Mrs Blythe was a little more understanding I could tell she was disappointed. Perhaps I deserved it. I should never have agreed to marry Alfie in the first place. But how was I supposed to know Sam was still alive?
Sam. I clung to the memory of his promise to send for me – the one thread of hope I still had left. But even that began to fade as I waited and waited for him to write, telling me he’d found a job and somewhere to live. Every day, when Alfie brought the post, I prayed that this time, one of the letters would be from Sam. But aside from a cable to say he’d arrived in New York back in June, I’d not heard from him.
I didn’t feel well at the moment either. It was nothing I could put my finger on, just a general feeling of not-rightness. I was tired all the time, no matter how early I went to bed, and the smell of food had started to turn my stomach, especially in the evenings. I tried to hide it, but Grandmother noticed of course. ‘The war might be over, but that’s no reason to go wasting good food,’ she snapped one night as I pushed a pile of cabbage around on my plate, unable to stomach eating it. ‘We’re still being rationed, in case you hadn’t realised.’
The following evening I was cycling up the hospital drive after work when a sudden, fierce wave of nausea gripped me. I broke out into a cold sweat. I leapt off my bike, flinging it to the ground, and broke into a run, but I knew I wasn’t going to make it back to the cottage in time. I darted behind a hedge where I vomited into a flower bed, the contents of my stomach coming up in a hot, disgusting rush. Thankfully, there was no one around.
I felt a little better afterwards, but only briefly. As soon as I got back to the cottage my stomach began churning again. I dropped my bike again and ran for the outhouse. As I huddled over the toilet bowl, retching, I thought miserably of Sam. Oh, why, why, why didn’t he write?
‘What on earth’s wrong with you?’ Grandmother snapped when I told her I didn’t want any dinner.
‘I’ve been sick,’ I said shakily. ‘I think something I’ve eaten hasn’t agreed with me.’
‘Well, you needn’t go blaming my cooking,’ Grandmother said sourly. ‘We’re all right.’
Feeling washed out and dizzy, I took myself up to bed, where I fell into an exhausted slumber.
The next morning, I still felt rotten, and couldn’t even face drinking a cup of tea. I made it through the day on aspirin and sips of water, and called in at the doctor’s surgery on the way home.
Doctor Williams had been our family doctor ever since taking over his father’s practice ten years ago. Although old Doctor Williams had always had something of a fierce reputation, his son was a kind-faced, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties with long, piano player’s fingers and a mass of light brown hair, which he wore swept back off his forehead. He had been called up at the start of the war and had returned from the army just a few months ago. Now, like so many others, there were lines etched in his forehead that hadn’t been there before.
‘Good afternoon, Ruby. How can I help?’ he said as I sat down in front of his desk, smiling kindly at me.
I smiled back rather wanly. ‘I was awfully sick last night. I think I must have eaten something I shouldn’t, and I still feel dreadful.’
‘Hop up on the table and let’s have a look at you.’
Feeling like a small child, I let him examine me. He prodded my stomach gently. ‘Does it hurt anywhere?’
I shook my head.
‘Hm. Can’t be your appendix, because you had that out when you were a nipper.’ He frowned. ‘Any other symptoms? How long has this been going on?’
I tried to think back. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been feeling off colour for a while, but last night was the first time I was actually sick.’
He frowned again. ‘You’re engaged to that Blythe lad, aren’t you?’
A fresh jolt of guilt went through me. ‘I was, but… it didn’t work out. We broke up in May.’
‘Hm. Excuse me if this is rather an indelicate question, but I must ask… Before then, did either of you take any – ahem – precautions?’
‘Precautions?’ Now it was my turn to frown. Then, faintly, an alarm bell began to ring in the back of my mind. A freezing cold wave of horror crashed over me and I sat up abruptly.
Because we hadn’t, had we? That night in the boarding house in Southampton, the thought hadn’t even entered my head.
‘When did you last menstruate?’
‘I – I don’t know. I – I’ve never been all that regular – not like some women—’ Meanwhile, in my head, I was frantically counting back. How long had it been?
The lines in Doctor Williams’ forehead deepened. ‘Ruby, I’m very much afraid to tell you that you’re pregnant.’
‘No,’ I said faintly. ‘I can’t be. I can’t.’
‘I’m afraid you are. The lack of periods – the sickness – it all adds up. In every other way you’re the picture of health.’
‘It could just be worry, couldn’t it? I have been under rather a lot of strain lately.’
‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t think that’s it. There’s a test I’ll do to make sure, but if I were a betting man…’
‘Oh, God.’ I pressed my hands against my eyes, as if by shutting him out I could make him go away – could make all of this go away.
‘I’ll prescribe you something to help with the sickness.’ Doctor Williams patted me clumsily on the shoulder. ‘Chin up. Women have babies all the time – nothing to it!’
But when I opened my eyes again his expression was grim.
I cycled slowly home, too shocked even to cry. I was having a baby. Sam’s baby. And there was no way of letting him know.
Perhaps it’s a punishment, I thought. For lying to everyone – for going out with Alfie when my heart belonged to Sam – forhurting Alfie like that. Oh, Vera, I wish you were here! You’d know what to do!
My mind was whirling. What was I going to tell everyone? How would Father and Grandmother react to this bombshell? I could conceal the pregnancy for a little while, but eventually people would start to notice.
But the answers didn’t come; I had no idea what to do.