Laura had nodded, too wretched to argue, but later she began to question this cosy, bland philosophy. In the first place, how did they know? How could they look at the mess that was a miscarriage and say, oh, yes, look, definitely something wrong there. It was ridiculous, and she began to feel angry, that she was being fobbed off with something.
A few days later, still miserable and vengeful but recovering, she made an appointment to see the doctor. He looked at her warily as she told her story, then with scarcely disguised impatience as she made her request for further information, perhaps some treatment for repeated miscarriage.
‘Mrs Knelston –’ Dr Andrews looked at her over his spectacles – ‘miscarriage is a perfectly natural process, nature’s way of ridding the body of an imperfect foetus – that is, a baby.’
‘I am perfectly aware of what a foetus is, thank you,’ said Laura firmly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe that is the only explanation for what I have had to endure. It seems to me that there may be other reasons, some failure in my reproductive system that could be addressed.’
‘Well, the person to talk to is a midwife,’ said the doctor. ‘She will know everything there is to know about these things . . .’
‘I’m afraid I disagree with you,’ said Laura firmly. ‘She seems to know very little, apart from the progress of an absolutely normal pregnancy. So I want to see a specialist in this field, and I would be grateful if you would recommend one to me.’
‘That would involve either a very long wait, or your paying rather a large fee,’ said Dr Andrews, in tones that made it clear the latter route was not remotely within Laura’s reach. ‘These men are highly qualified.’
‘I would hope they are,’ snapped Laura. ‘Are they all men? Could I not see a female gynaecologist? I would greatly prefer that anyway.’
The doctor glared at her, looked at his watch and then told her that there was a hospital, the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson in Bloomsbury, which specialised in enabling poor women – he put a stress on the word ‘poor’ – to obtain medical help from gynaecologists.
‘You would need a letter of referral. And then you would have to make an appointment.’
‘I am quite capable of that,’ said Laura. ‘How and from whom would I obtain this letter of referral?’
‘I am too busy to do it now, if that is what you want – you will have to call back for it in a week or ten days.’ Dr Andrews sighed.
‘Really? So long? To write a letter?’ Laura was beginning to feel quite cheered up by this battle with the medical hierarchy, which baffled her greatly at the same time. What was she meant to do? Go home quietly and continue having miscarriages, being told it was nature’s way? Was there some reason women were not allowed to seek further help with this miserable problem? She wondered if it would have made a difference if Tom had come with her; she suspected it would. She was fairly sure the doctor would then have belittled her further, would have addressed all his remarks to him.
‘Mrs Knelston, I have a great many patients. Yours will not be the only letter I will have to write. Now, a few details quickly, if you please? This is your second miscarriage?’
‘Third,’ said Laura.
‘And had you reached the end of the first trimester?’
Laura knew what he was doing, trying to make her feel stupid because she didn’t know what trimester meant. He had clearly taken a great dislike to her.
‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘I had missed two of my monthly periods, and was about halfway through the third month.’
He nodded, looked up at her and said, ‘You can come and see if the letter is ready in a week.’
‘How kind. Good afternoon,’ said Laura. ‘And thank you for your help.’
When Tom got home that evening, expecting to find the wretchedly depressed wife he had left that morning, and hoping he had sufficient emotional resilience to meet her needs, he found her quite changed. She made him a cup of tea and said she felt all was not quite lost and that she had been making enquiries and she was hopeful there might be another way out of this unhappiness than simply accepting what had happened to her so far. ‘If there isn’t, well, at least I shall have tried. What a disgusting creature Dr Andrews is,’ she added, sitting down with her own cup of tea.
‘Really?’ said Tom. ‘I’ve always found him very nice and helpful. And he has a large panel. He’s not all bad.’
‘You might ask him, next time you have to go and see him, if he’s joining your Mr Bevan’s National Health Service,’ said Laura. ‘He might be a bit less nice and helpful after that.’
‘Of course I will,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sure we shall be able to have a very interesting conversation about it.’
‘Now, let me tell you about the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Hospital in London. It’s where I plan to go as soon as your nice and helpful Dr Andrews will give me a letter. Oh, and I can make an appointment, of course. There’s quite a long waiting list. Don’t look so suspicious – it’s specifically for poor women to get help. I’m sure your Mr Bevan would approve.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep calling him that,’ said Tom and then, because she seemed so much more cheerful, he told Laura he had been invited to give his speech about the lack of medical provision for ex-servicemen at a big meeting in Winchester. It had seemed wrong to think hopeful thoughts of his own, when Laura’s situation was beginning to seem so fruitless, but he was beginning to feel he really had something to contribute to not just this but many other causes.
‘Ned, darling, hello, how lovely to see you. It’s been much too long. How are you, and what are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I daresay,’ said Ned, smiling with genuine pleasure at Wendelien, as she approached him at a fast trot across the marbled, art deco foyer of Claridge’s Hotel. ‘Having a jolly evening. You look marvellous, Wendelien.’
‘Thank you. I so love these clothes. You know they put dreary old Stafford Cripps into a frightful rage, said there should be a law against them. Such a relief after those skimpy short skirts we’ve been wearing for ever.’
She was dressed, like all fashionable women of the time, in Christian Dior’s New Look, a full-skirted, almost-ankle-length dress: this one in dark red taffeta, with long tight sleeves, and a swathe of black lace round her shoulders, her gleaming dark hair pulled back in a chignon.
‘Thank you. If we can’t have a jolly evening here, there’s not much hope for us at all. So lovely, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed. And I so loved them giving the penthouse to poor Mr Churchill after he lost the election, to stay as long as he wanted.’
‘My favourite story is him making it Yugoslavian territory, so that Crown Prince Alexander could be born on his own country’s soil.’
‘I know, wonderful. Anyway, how are you, Ned? Who are you meeting?’
‘I’m very well, thank you. I’m meeting Ludo and Cecily Manners. And—’
‘Love him, so bored by her,’ said Wendelien, interrupting him. ‘Every baby’s made her duller. And as he’s now got four . . .’