Twelve
Taking her new position seriously, Fiona dragged herself out of bed early each morning and got dressed to make Finn’s breakfast and prepare his crib box of sandwiches and her home-made cake. Neither spoke much over the kitchen table, both glumly polite, like strangers. Over a single cup of tea Fiona would plan her day’s cleaning and cooking. Finn would eat quickly and go up to his room to give Eloise her first bottle and nappy change and dress her for the day. Fiona would hear him talking and laughing to Eloise, amusing her with toys and rattles, but Fiona was too raw inside to be warmed by it, to feel the pride in her son that others constantly remarked she must have in him. All she was glad about was that the baby, secure in Finn’s devotion, always drifted off to sleep and stayed down for the next two to three hours so she could get on. She and Finn were talking now. If he went to the hall building-works she would ask him how he’d got on and he’d tell her. He would ask her how Eloise was throughout the day and how Fiona’s day had been. They were talking, politely, warily, and just about giving each other a smile.
Finn would bid her a quick goodbye, his tin crib box tucked inside a long-handled cloth bag Dorrie had made for him, reminding Fiona if anyone happened to be calling there that day, usually Dorrie or Belle. Then Fiona put all her energies into her duties. Keeping Merrivale pristine, without a thing out of place, and tending the burgeoning gardens was her means of keeping sane. It had turned into an obsession, she knew that; she cleaned in corners and reached up to high places she had done only the day before, but it was how she coped, how she kept hysteria at bay, how she got through the days and more importantly the gnawingly lonely nights. It was all she could do for Finn and Eloise for her emotions were shut down, dead. Learning so brutally that Aidan no longer wanted her, and because she still loved him despite of it, she didn’t really want to be alive at all. If she didn’t have to consider Finn and the baby . . .
If Eloise woke before her next feed was due then Fiona would take her to the room she was working in, prop her up with cushions and surround her with toys leaving Eloise to amuse herself, or be distracted by watching Fiona’s movements. Fiona never spoke to Eloise, hardly looked at her. If downstairs, she would switch on the wireless and that was the way Eloise heard human voices when they were alone. When Eloise needed a feed, although she knew it wasn’t a good thing to do, she would lay the baby on her side and prop her bottle up on the cushions and Eloise would suck at the teat until she was finished. Fiona then winded her and changed her nappy and once Eloise was sleepy she’d take her up to Finn’s room for the afternoon, or better still, sometimes Dorrie or Belle would take her out in the pram. Unless he had business to see to, Guy turned up every weekend. Fiona cooked for him and it was nice for a while to chat to him, and smoke with him outside: she couldn’t bear ash in the house and there was Eloise to consider. Guy didn’t mind her rules. Thoughtfully, he never stayed overnight to prevent scandalous gossip.
Fiona took muted pleasure in the things she had chosen for Merrivale. The floral, brocaded sitting-room suite was new and wonderfully comfortable. A lot of the things were new and some were carefully selected from auction rooms, all in warm, light-coloured wood. Some of the furnishings had come from Guy’s house, treasures of his grandmother, small porcelain pieces, a Georgian wall clock, a whatnot, platters for the kitchen dresser. New glass replaced the boards at the broken windows. The kitchen and bathroom plumbing were fully modernized. The fourth bedroom had been prettily designed as a nursery, but Finn, protective of Eloise, wanted her in with him until she was a little older. ‘I don’t want her feeling unwanted and lonely,’ he said. Fiona knew this was a barb at her lack of bonding with Eloise, something he was fervent to compensate for himself.
She was dusting and polishing the fully furnished guest bedroom even though neither Guy nor any one else was ever likely to sleep there, and she sighed, irritated to hear Eloise begin to fret. ‘Wait. Go back to sleep. It’s not time yet.’ She ran the feather duster over the top of the wardrobe, the curtain rail, the pair of wild herb paintings and her baby’s low cries became increasingly pitiful wails. ‘Must be wind,’ she thought impatiently. ‘I’ll see to it then get on in the bathroom.’
Pushing back Finn’s bedroom door, which he kept ajar so Fiona wouldn’t miss Eloise’s cries, she marched up to the cradle, picked up her baby without glancing at her face, put her loosely against her shoulder and rubbed and patted her back. While doing so Fiona looked out the window to the side of the cottage and down on the newly turned earth, planted by Hector Evans with late cabbages, onions and potatoes. They would need watering again this evening, she ruminated. Guy had placed a water butt for this purpose, filled by the rain that had intermittently spoiled all or part of the last few days. Eloise gave a couple of loud burps and her crying eased away. Eloise smelled sweet but Fiona checked her nappy for wetness. It was slightly damp. It could wait a bit longer to be changed. Laying Eloise back down Fiona put a little soft lamb on her chest and put her tiny warm hands over it. ‘Play with that then go back to sleep.’ Again she did this without looking at her daughter’s face. She felt nothing for Eloise. All she wanted for her was to stay safe.
Finn always threw the covers over his bed and Fiona waited each morning until Eloise needed attention before she made the bed properly. Fiona planned to slip away hoping the baby would drift back to sleep. On top of the bed Finn had left his sketchbook. It had been months since she had taken interest in Finn’s favourite pastime, his skill that he had hoped would become his livelihood after further study. She froze on the spot, and for the first time acknowledged that Aidan’s rejection of her was also a rejection of Finn, who had subsequently lost his future, his dream. Fiona accepted his resentment for her slapping him; she had put her own feelings before his whereas mothers were supposed to be sacrificial and put themselves last in the family. While Eloise fidgeted in the cot she took Finn’s sketchbook to her own room, gleaming and heavy with polish, and sat down on the bed. She wanted to see if Finn’s drawings gave a clue as to what was on his mind. She dreaded to find a page with her appearing hangdog or mean, or a caricature (Finn excelled at those) of her cleaning in a whirlwind or as a witch perhaps. However, the pictures seemed to be all of Eloise. Eloise kicking her legs and grabbing her tiny feet. There was Eloise with her rattle in her pram. Lying on a blanket in a field surrounded by buttercups and butterflies. Being held by Dorrie at Sunny Corner, and Jean Vercoe at By The Way. Fiona gasped in wonder at an amazing ethereal study of Eloise being held by Belle Lawry, with Belle’s hair encircling them both and Belle gazing lovingly at Eloise as if she was her mother. Fiona felt pangs of jealousy. She had carried Eloise inside her body and given birth to her. There were the gorgeous details of Eloise’s first smiles. Jealousy again, for Fiona had not noticed her baby smiling into her eyes. At the last drawing Fiona felt as if an icy hand had clenched her heart. It depicted Eloise with her little face puckered up about to cry.
It hurt Fiona. Her baby was about to cry with discomfort, pain or fear and before now she had not cared a jot. Slamming into her mind came a rhyme from a skipping game Fiona had taken part in as a child:
Poor little baby, no wonder you cry
Your daddy doesn’t love you and your mother’s going to die.
But God will send an angel
With wings long and fair
To take you up to heaven
To join your mummy there.
Fiona jumped to her feet. ‘My poor baby, I promise I won’t leave you.’ She paced the floor, wringing her hands, striding from the paisley rug to the polished floorboards and back again and again. ‘Your daddy doesn’t love you . . .’ Suddenly she was the angriest she had been in her life. Fury and offence frothed up inside her and spilled out into a strangled scream of pure rage. She clenched her fists, made movements like shredding a cushion, then as if throttling someone’s neck. Aidan’s damned neck! ‘That’s right,’ she seethed at the ripped and mangled image in her mind. ‘Your daddy doesn’t love you, Eloise. He doesn’t love Finn and he doesn’t love me. He probably never did. I was just the sort of pretty, adoring, compliant wife he wanted, a good hostess, willing in the bedroom, grateful for my good fortune in life and living for his approval and compliments. Yet all the while he was laughing at me, making a fool of me, squirming because I couldn’t let him go. He’ll make a new life with this tart he’s got and won’t give us another thought. Well, he’ll squirm all right if he ever gets down on his luck and tries to wheedle his way back into our lives. His beastly rotten charm won’t work on me again.’
She punched at that image and could almost see her wrath for real. ‘I hate you, do you hear? Rot in hell.’
Her energy whooshing out of her she flopped down flat on the bed, the back of her hand over her brow, sweating and panting. ‘Why did I spend so much time moping for that worthless man? Finn was right about him all along. I should have listened to Finn. I’ve caused him so much worry. No wonder he’d rather spend time with Dorrie and Sam Lawry and the Vercoes. I’ve got a lot to make up to him.’
Poor little baby . . . ‘My darling little girl,’ she whispered in remorse, sitting up. ‘You don’t need an angel from heaven, you’ve got one here on earth. Dorrie Resterick.’
Standing up and straightening her dress and half apron and pushing back the locks of hair that had fallen lose from the pins during her frenzy, without caring about her rumpled bedcovers, she went straight to Finn’s room. ‘I’m coming, Eloise, my precious little girl. I’m going to hold you and play with you all morning and then I’m going to move your things into my room to catch up on the time I’ve stupidly lost with you.’