In Pursuit of the English - Doris Lessing [73]
‘Don’t tell me she’s pregnant.’
‘Ah, my Lord, yes, poor thing. And now we must all be good to her.’
‘But she keeps herself to herself so much.’
‘She’ll be different now she’s in trouble.’
‘How far has she gone?’
‘Three months.’
‘Why did she leave it so long?’
‘I expect she was hoping the Lord would provide, but He doesn’t, does He? And Rosemary was a mistake, too. She says she can’t have children, not with her husband still supporting his first wife and her kids.’
I knew Rosemary was a mistake because I had heard Mrs Skeffington say so, in front of the child herself, not once, but again and again, and with each repetition Rosemary appeared more fragile, more hesitant, her eyes growing wide and anxious, as if she doubted her own right to live.
That night we heard Mrs Skeffington and her husband:
‘What the hell are you complaining about? You send Rosemary to a crèche, don’t you?’
‘Oh, but I’m that way, how can you, now?’
‘Why not, you did before?’
‘But I’m so tired, and those pills I took. And I was awake all night with Rosemary.’
‘She keeps me awake as well as you, doesn’t she?’
‘Who gets out of bed to her? You’ve never got out of bed to Rosemary once in your whole life.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Yes, Rosemary starts crying and then you wake up and you can only think of one thing.’
‘Don’t you love me, then? Well, if it’s like that I know where to go.’
Silence. Then the woman’s tired anxious voice: ‘I didn’t say I didn’t love you. But I get so tired. Surely you can see that.’
‘Then show me you love me.’
Next day Mr Skeffington went on a business trip and we never saw him again. One morning I heard a crash outside my door. Mrs Skeffington had thrown herself down one flight of stairs, was on the point of flinging herself down a second. ‘Leave me atone,’ she muttered, and before I could stop her, she launched herself into space again. On the landing below she picked herself up, slowly, slowly, gasping and pale. ‘That ought to shift it,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile, and dragged herself, breathing heavily, up the stairs to Rosemary.
Flo and I went on a delegation to insist she should try a doctor.
‘Goodness gracious me,’ said Mrs Skeffington, ‘those doctors don’t care at all for us.’
‘Not all doctors are silly,’ said Flo. ‘Some are nice and kind.’
‘Show me one, then. I tried before, over Rosemary. He didn’t care. Besides, it’s too late for doctors. And I think I’m all right, because I’ve got a bad pain.’
She went to bed, and Rose and I took Rosemary for the night. That was the one time Mrs Skeffington permitted anyone to help her. Before and after that day, when we offered to take the child, she would say: ‘Goodness gracious, whatever for. I can manage quite well.’
Next day she looked very ill, but she went to work as usual. She was sent back at midday by her employer. I fetched Rosemary from the nursery, and when her mother saw her she opened her arms, and the two lay cuddled together on the pillow. They both looked extraordinarily frail, defenceless, pathetic. ‘And now how about a doctor?’ I asked.
‘You’re very kind,’ she said formally, ‘but Rosemary and I’ll manage.’
Flo said: ‘My God, what if she’s still sick for the case?’
‘That’s all you think of,’ said Rose.
‘But it’ll be to her advantage, too, to get rid of those filthy old people.’
‘Yes? They don’t bother nobody but you and Dan. I never hear them.’
‘Oh, my Lord, you’re not going to say that at the case?’
‘I’I! say the truth. I always told you. I’ll tell the truth and that’s all.’
‘The truth is bad enough, sweetheart, darling, isn’t it?’
‘And that’s a fact.’
‘I’ll tell you, darling,’ said Flo to me ‘I’ll tell you all about it. I swear.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Rose. ‘But just now I’ve got something she must do for me.’
‘But, sweetheart, the case, and time’s so short, and poor Mrs Skeffington so ill.’
‘Yes? Time enough. Come along,’ said Rose to me. ‘We’ll