Helen Forrester - Yes, Mama

When she had told him of the coming child, he had immediately and fearfully repudiated any idea that he was the father. It had hurt her immeasurably.

‘Humphrey will know it is not his,’ she had replied dully.

‘You’re married to him, so the child will be born in wedlock.’

‘Not if he denies it.’

They had been sitting, arms around each other on the big sofa facing her now, and he had drawn away from her. He had walked stiffly up and down the room, while she stared at him aghast. He had finally turned towards her and said through lips that quivered slightly, ‘Come on, Liz. It can’t be mine.’

‘It can be and it is.’

‘I simply don’t believe it. I’ve never fathered a child before.’ He came to sit down beside her, and added in a wheedling tone, ‘Anyway, you can manage Humphrey, I’m sure.’

Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘You don’t know him. He’s got a a murderous temper.’

She had wept and had implored him to take her away – to Italy, to anywhere they could live together. But the irresolute boy had grown into a vacillating man, and gradually she had realized that, if she pressed him, he would abandon her entirely.

She had bravely dried her tears and said that, somehow, she would brazen it out with Humphrey. In an almost motherly fashion she had decided that he probably needed protection against a scandal more than she did.

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ she whispered, as he thankfully said his farewells. ‘Just find a place where we can meet more safely than this. I love you, remember.’

He had replied, somewhat woodenly, that he loved her, too, and that he would find a trysting place.

His visits had grown rarer, however; he did not attempt to make love to her and she began to despair. Through the last months of her pregnancy, she had reassured herself again and again that he was merely being careful for the sake of the child, but, in more realistic moments, black hopelessness had almost overwhelmed her.

‘Well, you slut. What have you to say?’ Her husband had come into the room so quickly and so quietly that she had not heard him. Without warning, he clouted her across the back of her head.

Determined to feign innocence, she cried out indignantly, ‘Humphrey, what did you do that for?’

‘I suppose you think you’re going to fob off Crossing’s brat on me? Thought you’d get away with it?’

The blow had made her reel in her chair. Now she tried to rally herself. ‘Humphrey, how could you say such a thing?’ She angrily pushed some hairpins back into her bun. ‘And to strike me, when I’ve only just got up from childbed. You must be drunk.’

He stood facing her, head thrust forward, his lips drawn back from tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Don’t try that on me. I know what’s been going on – and now we’ve got a bastard in the house.’ His hand shot forward and slapped her a stinging blow across the mouth, followed by another one with his left hand. ‘And you, milady, are going to pay for it. This brat isn’t mine and you know it.’

Shocked and terrified, she stared back at him, in too much pain to speak.

He pushed his face close to hers. ‘You know, don’t you?’

She edged to the side of her armless chair and slid out of it with what dignity she could muster. ‘You must be mad!’ she muttered, from between her swelling lips. ‘You’re my husband – it’s normal to have babies.’

‘I’ve not been with you for over a year – and you must know it. And I know about your happy afternoon hours with Crossing.’

Her eyes shot wider open, but she answered as steadily as she could, ‘Andrew’s my lawyer. He has to manage father’s Trust for Clara and me, so, of course, he comes to consult me. Anyway, we’ve known him for years.’ She held her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes with pain. Then she said, half-crying, ‘If my brother were in England, you wouldn’t dare to say such dreadful things – or hit me! And for no reason!’

‘That jigger rabbit is three thousand miles away, in Ceylon. He’d be ashamed of you, anyway.’ He advanced towards her and she hastily put the width of the chair between them and began to back towards the door. As she fumbled with the handle, he caught her by the shoulder and spun her back into the room, her full skirts splaying out round her. She stumbled and fell, face down.

He whipped his razor strop out of his pocket. Raising his arm, he brought it down across her shoulders with all the force he could muster. She screamed and covered her head with her arms as the wicked leather strap whistled down on her again. Four months of suppressed outrage were vented on her, as she sought to crawl away from him and reach the door.

‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he yelled at her. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’ The strop came down again across the back of her head.

Her screams stopped. She lay immobile.

He paused, scarlet-faced, panting over her, the desire to rape her urgent in him. He heaved up her heavily gathered skirt, but she was tightly entangled in her three petticoats. He tore at his trousers and emptied himself over her.

‘You damned Jezebel,’ he snarled and kicked her in the stomach. She did not move.

‘Go to hell,’ he shrieked. ‘Look at another man, and I’ll make sure you do.’

He flung open the door, and ran down into the hall, buttoning up his trousers as he went. He seized his hat and stick from the rack and went out of the front door muttering like a madman. Five minutes later, he was sitting primly on the horse-bus on his way to visit Mrs Jakes.

Fanny found her when she came to rake the cinders out of the fireplace before going to bed.

With a frightened squeak, she dropped her coal hod and knelt down to turn her mistress over. When she saw the swollen lips and tear-stained cheeks, she knew what had happened; she had seen the same thing so often in her aunt’s home.

‘Oh, Missus! Can you sit up, Missus? Look, I’ll turn yez on your back and give you a heave up.’

Elizabeth moaned as she managed to turn and raise herself sufficiently to lean her head against the little skivvy’s shoulder. Fanny swallowed, and looked desperately around. ‘Is anythin’ broke, d’yer think?’ she asked.

Elizabeth shuddered, then whispered, ‘I don’t think so.’ She began to cry.

Well, let’s try and get you on that low chair there, and then I’ll run and get Maisie to help you up to your bed.’

‘Not Maisie,’ Elizabeth murmured. ‘Or the others.’ She paused, her breath coming slowly and heavily. ‘Ask Polly – she’ll mind her own business.’

She cried out in pain as Fanny slowly sat her upright while she brought the small chair closer, and moaned again as she was eased up on to it.

‘There, Ma’am. Lean your head against the high back, and I’ll be back with Polly in half a mo’.’

As she flew to the door, Elizabeth halted her by saying hoarsely, ‘Not a word of this – from either Polly or you – to the other servants.’

Fanny had been thrilled at the idea of telling everyone about the drama on which she had stumbled. But, as Elizabeth spoke, she realized that to her mistress it was a terrible humiliation. She warmed with pity and said reassuringly, as she went out, ‘Of course, Missus. Don’t worry, Missus.’

Once Elizabeth had been laid gently on her bed, Polly sent Fanny back to the kitchen, where Mrs Tibbs promptly scolded her for being so long in doing her raking out, and sent her off to bed.

Elizabeth said stiffly, ‘I shall be all right now, Polly.’ She lay on her side, legs curled up, arms crossed over her injured face.

‘I’ll help you undress, Ma’am. Fanny said she thought your back was hurt. Let me have a look, Ma’am. If you’ve got any arnica, I could paint it on the bruises. First, will I get some brandy from the Master’s study?’