‘Yes, well, her mother should have been here,’ said Tom. ‘She was coming for the week.’
‘Maybe, but the baby wasn’t to know that. It decided to come early. Determined little creatures, babies. And the next-door neighbours both out, and most of her friends round here not on the telephone. Tom, you must have realised it could happen any minute. You should have kept properly in touch. Where were you, for God’s sake? It’s hours since we first phoned your office.’
‘Oh, it was political stuff,’ said Tom. ‘Not always easy to get away. Look, Jillie, can I come in?’ For in her rage she was still occupying the whole of the doorway. ‘I’d like to phone the hospital.’
‘Yes, I expect you would,’ said Jillie, turning and walking into the house, Tom behind her.
‘And go and see her. If it’s allowed this late. If I can, would you – that is, can you –’
‘Look after the children? Yes, of course. For Alice’s sake, rather than yours. God, Tom, I just cannot get over your behaviour. It honestly makes me wonder if you weren’t engaged on something rather more personal than political business.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tom. He turned away from her to the telephone.
‘I think you do know what I mean,’ said Jillie, but he could tell it was a wild bluff, just from her expression.
‘Well, you’re –’ he started and with a merciful intervention from fate he got through to the hospital, and then to the ward.
‘Ah, Mr Knelston. Well, your little one’s going to spend his life in a hurry and no mistake. All’s well though, a big boy, eight and a half pounds. He spent the first hour telling us he didn’t like it here, cried non-stop, but he’s quiet now.’
‘And – how is my wife?’
‘She’s well. Very well under the circumstances. Glad it’s over . . .’
‘Could I – could I come and see her?’
‘You most certainly may not,’ said the nurse. ‘Visiting hours end at seven, as you should know.’
‘Yes, but if I’d been in the hospital when she had the baby, I’d still be there now,’ said Tom, in a desperate attempt to call logic into play.
‘Ah, but you weren’t,’ said the nurse. ‘Mrs Knelston was hoping until the very last minute for a message, but . . .’ Her silence was a reproach, stronger than any words.
‘Well, could I speak to her? On the phone?’
‘Now how do you think I’m going to manage that? Cut the phone free of its wires or something? So you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. Afternoon visiting, three to four.’
‘Oh, yes, I see,’ said Tom miserably. ‘It seems a bit hard.’
‘Yes, well, it was quite hard for Mrs Knelston to go through labour not knowing where you were.’
‘It seems a terribly long time for me to wait.’
‘I daresay you’ll get over it,’ said the nurse. ‘But I can give her a message from you, if you like.’
‘Oh – yes, that would be very kind. Could you give her my love and say how sorry I am?’
‘I will. And that you’ll be in tomorrow at three?’
‘Yes, please.’
Tom put the phone down and turned to Jillie.
‘No chance of visiting her, as you probably gathered. Or even speaking to her.’
She was looking almost sympathetic.
‘That’s hospitals for you. I should know.’
Tom thought briefly and treacherously of what a private hospital would offer: a private room, a phone, probably husbands allowed to visit any time. Well, if he got in next time he’d argue for the right of any husband to be with his wife, any time, including while she was in labour, the early stages anyway.
He sat down; Jillie poured him a cup of tea.
‘If I had my way,’ she said, her hostility apparently forgotten in the face of his obvious distress, ‘husbands could be with their wives in labour. If they wanted to be, of course. And for the first twenty-four hours after the birth, he could visit any time at all.’
‘I was just thinking that very thing,’ said Tom, sipping gratefully at the tea.
‘Perhaps you should talk to Josh about it.’
‘Josh? He’s a political writer, surely,’ said Tom, a vivid re-enaction of his discussion with Josh two hours earlier sweeping into view. ‘He wouldn’t be interested in maternity wards.’
‘He might. His paper’s always looking for good causes. And if you were an MP, it would become quite political. Worth a try.’
‘It’s certainly an idea,’ said Tom. ‘Although that’s looking less and less likely, I’m afraid.’
‘What, you becoming an MP? I thought it was more or less a dead cert.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Why not? What’s happened?’
‘Oh – complicated. You don’t want to hear about it now.’
‘I might. I’ve got nothing else to do this evening.’
But at that moment Lucy woke up from a bad dream, screaming, and just as she was settled Kit woke up and was not to be silenced except by the promise of a story; Jillie, having helped with Lucy, had no stomach for reading and left.
It was going to be great fun having a third child to add to what increasingly resembled a mob, Tom thought; none of them would ever get any sleep at all.
Alice had been, as always, transformed by the actual birth of her baby. Tom arrived next afternoon, to find her not even in bed, but sitting in the chair next to it, rosy, smiling, a silent, sleeping infant in her arms.
‘Hello,’ she said to Tom and raised her face to be kissed.
‘Hello, Alice. How are you?’
‘I’m absolutely fine, thank you.’
‘I am so sorry about yesterday.’
‘What, your going AWOL? Oh, it’s all right. Really. I mean, it was a bit alarming at one stage, but Jillie kept me calm, and called the ambulance and honestly, by the time I got here, everything was happening so fast, I forgot about you. Well, you know . . .’
‘Jillie hauled me very thoroughly over the coals. She was furious and so she should have been.’
‘Well, maybe. But today – who cares? I just assumed it was political stuff.’
She did not mention – and indeed they were half forgotten, lost in her new happiness – her increasing doubts about Tom’s fidelity, as every attempt to find him was frustrated, every plea for a return phone call fruitless, and how even the pain of childbirth faded in comparison with the savage rage consuming her. But Jillie had sent a message to say that Josh had confirmed that he and Tom had been together for hours in The Cheshire Cheese, discussing election matters, and that then Tom had said he simply must get home.
‘Alice, you’re a saint.’
‘Not really,’ she said and smiled at him again. ‘Make the most of it, it won’t last. Best not let my father hear about it, though. Anyway, this is your new son. Quite a whopper.’
Tom looked at the baby: sleeping determinedly as only newborn babies can, a mass of dark hair on his small head, the tiny snub-nosed face utterly peaceful. Once he opened his eyes, deep dark blue, and then closed them again and drifted off once more.