I draped myself on the thick crimson rug in front of the fireplace, lying on my side, my legs tucked slightly, somewhat modest and yet magnificently naked. It was such a freedom, lying there without a jot on, his eyes flickering over me every few moments, focusing on my body in a way that I’ve never encountered. Parts of my body normally clothed felt the softness of the rug, the freshness of the breeze from the window, the exposure. It was Heaven.
Yet as he painted, I felt his attention floating away, as if he were in a different world, listening to the news on the wireless, an intent frown over his face. For an artist and a pacifist, he takes an unhealthy interest in the war. His ears seem on continual alert for news, especially now that the Nazis are pushing us out of Norway.
Am I mad, Angie? Is this all too absurd of me, to go falling in love with an unknown stranger? Having my portrait painted nude? I laugh when I think of what Daddy would say if he ever found out, which of course he won’t. I wish you were here and you could see for yourself what an incredible man Alastair is. I know this started out as a little bet, but I never expected it would turn into—well, one never knows how these things end, does one? All I know is that he’s done something to me, Angie. It’s as if he’s reached deep inside me and grabbed hold of my heart.
Write again soon and give me more advice, Angie darling. Oh, I almost forgot to say! Mama has given birth to a very scrawny and highly vocal baby boy. Everyone’s ecstatic, as you would imagine, especially Daddy, who needed his male heir, and Mama, who needed to keep Daddy happy. But as a matter of fact, the little baby is a godsend for me, too—keeping everyone so busy that no one knows where I am and what I’m doing. From now on, Angie, I’m free to live my life to the full.
Much love,
Venetia
3 CHURCH ROW,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Saturday, 4th May, 1940
Dear Clara,
I’m as flustered as a bluebottle in a jam jar. I can’t believe it has all led to such a catastrophe! There I was late last night, settling in for the evening after an exhausting day, when there was a sharp knock at the door.
“Tell me how it happened.” It was the Tilling woman, storming over from Hattie’s house to accost me. “Why did the baby stop breathing?”
Reluctant to bring her into my house, where she might want to see the mechanical ventilator that wasn’t there, I insisted that we go round to Hattie’s to go over the details. She seemed to want to discuss it in private—accuse me, more like it!
“It’s only right that Hattie’s present if we’re speaking about her,” I said, shoving her back down the path. There’s no arguing with that, and I knew it.
Hattie was in a fresh pink nightgown, dividing her time between our conversation and the baby, whose name is Rose, I was informed.
“I’m rather tired, you know,” I said in a huffy manner, hovering close to the door of Hattie’s little sitting room so I could make a clean getaway. “Two births in one day, you see. Although the Winthrop baby was easier, it being her fourth.”
Mrs. Tilling was watching me in rapt interest, seeping up every gesture, scrutinizing it for any slip-ups. “Yes, and all on the day I was in Litchfield,” she snipped. Then she turned to Hattie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been here to help you through it all.” I could see that she felt genuinely guilty for taking the day off to go to the WVS meeting. “I shouldn’t have left you.” She looked back over to me, a storm cloud coming over her face. “Although I thought Hattie might have gone on another week or more.”
I felt a stab of panic that Hattie had told her about the brown bottle, the smell of the grimy green mulch lurking inside. “You can’t blame yourself. The WVS needs you, too. You do such marvelous work for us all.”
“But when I was gone there was an emergency,” she stammered. “And I couldn’t be here in your hour of need, Hattie.” I thought she might burst into tears, which would round off my day like a thwack around the ankles with a dead rat. “Tell me how it happened, Miss Paltry. Tell us how you got the baby breathing.”
“Well, when babies are born I usually give them a little smack and off they go, crying and all. But this little one—” I leaned across and stroked the soft little cheek in the crook of Hattie’s arm. “This little one didn’t cry at all. It really was incredibly fortunate that I was there and knew what to do. And of course I had the right equipment.” I swept my hands together, as if concluding that my experience was worth a hundred times Mrs. Tilling’s.
Silence hung in the air for a few moments, and then Hattie began weeping. I know that pregnancy and motherhood make women prone to tears, but Hattie has no thought for others. I wanted to give her a good hard slap and tell her to pull herself together. The baby’s fine now. She should be happy she got the pretty one.
Mrs. Tilling then insisted that I give her a blow-by-blow account of the long, laborious birth. She was new to the midwife game and appeared enthusiastic to learn, and I decided it was education that was driving her rather than gathering details against me.