The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [192]
Phoebe Methley had said little. She said suddenly, with passion, “It is a terrible thing to separate a mother from her children—from her child. We are fighting the injustices of the law on this—we should be careful not simply to grasp at a young woman’s child and take it away.” She paused. “Love,” she said. “Love. Romantic sweeping-away, and loss of self. The trouble with the sex instinct is its power. It deranges you and makes you mad. But true love—true steady love—is what a woman feels for the child in her arms, for the sight of its head, bobbing on the lawn outside the window. You can’t take that from her, without being very sure you’re doing the right thing.”
Miss Dace put her head on one side, and smiled, dryly, but with friendship. Marian Oakeshott said
“Of course I agree. Of course I know—”
She looked at Phoebe Methley. Both women thought they knew who was the father of Elsie’s child.
“We are all friends here,” said Phoebe. “It must be clear that I feel this personally. I have three children in Yorkshire whom I had to leave because—because of my great love for Herbert. There is not a day—not an hour—when I do not feel their absence and distance as a perpetual pain. I may never see them again. I envy you your Robin,” she said to Marian, “whenever I see him. I admire you so greatly for what you have been able to do—to have your son, and to work, and to be independent.”
“It occurs to me,” said Marian, “that I myself may be the solution. Elsie Warren may wish never to see this unborn child again. I do not know her state of mind. But I employ a young woman to mind Robin, who could easily undertake the care of another child, whilst its mother worked—and then the child could return to its mother for weekends and holidays—”
“Someone,” said Frank, “would need to talk to the people at Purchase House. They cannot do without either Philip or Elsie. They should, in my view, be paying both of them good wages for everything they do. They could be talked into seeing their own best interests, as well as their charitable duty—”
“If—if the father of the child is not in that family,” said Miss Dace, blushing.
“He is not,” said Phoebe Methley. “I am certain of that.” She too was blushing. Frank handed round a plate of shortbread. He said
“First, we must put this—this very satisfactory and generous plan—to Elsie. Then, one of us must talk to Mrs. Fludd. I am never quite sure that she really hears what I say, or remembers it. Who shall we send?”
The three good fairies looked at each other. Which of them could be most calm, most reasonable, most pragmatic?
• • •
In the end they decided they would all three speak to Elsie, and deputed Frank to ask Philip to bring her to Miss Dace’s little house. They were enjoying each other’s company—each felt—in the discussion of this intimate problem, that they had discovered new, real, friends.
Elsie came into Miss Dace’s drawing-room and stood to attention, looking angry. She was wearing her hat, and one of Imogen’s loose mediaeval gowns, neatly darned and patched. Miss Dace begged her to sit down, and gave her a cup of tea, some cubes of sugar, a slice of fruitcake. They had agreed that they must not frighten the young woman with moral lectures. She sipped her tea, and drew her head back, like, Marian Oakeshott thought, a frightened snake ready to strike. Miss Dace spoke. It was her drawing-room.
“We know about your problem, Elsie, your predicament, and we haven’t asked you here to lecture you, but to tell you how we intend to help you. I myself know a respectable—and kindly, very kindly—lady who will help with—with the birth of the child.”
“We don’t know,” said Marian Oakeshott, “what you will want to do when the child is born. I should like to say that—if you so wish, if you want to… if you like… I would be happy to ask Tabitha