Marking Time by Elizabeth Jane Howard Read Free Book Online Page A

that little, alien creature would grow and grow, and become more and more like Philip, whom by then
she had begun to hate, and the thought that only its death would have released her had horribly occurred. Or mine, she had thought: it had felt slightly better to wish for one’s own death
rather than someone else’s. And then, in less than a week the baby
was
dead. It had always been sickly, had never thrived, either would not feed from her abundance of milk, or if it
did, threw up, hardly slept because it was always crying weakly – from colic, they said – but afterwards the midwife had said something about a twisted intestine, and that it had never
had a chance. It had been Rupert who had told her that it had died (she had refused to think of a name for it); his distress for her had been the last piercing thing before a great bleak calm
descended upon her. It was over. A terrible thirst and pain for days until the milk went, leaving her with stripes all over the beautiful breasts she had once prized so much. She had not even cared
about that; she had not cared about anything at all. Her relief was too dangerous for her to accept it – had she not wished it to die? – and so she remained in the isolation of
withholding the only things that she wanted to say to the only person who loved her. She took a long time to recover – was tired all the time, slept long nights and heavily in the afternoons,
waking exhausted by her stupor. She was surrounded by kindness from the whole family, but curiously it had only been Clary who had reached her. She had woken from a sleep on the sofa one afternoon
in their drawing room to find Clary carefully setting a tray of tea on the table beside her. She had made some scones, she said, her first scones actually; she wasn’t sure that they were much
good. They hadn’t been: rock hard and surprisingly heavy. ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ she had said mechanically.
    The atmosphere had been full of rather watery goodwill, but Clary had answered, ‘Yes, but it only counts for the person who thinks it, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s a good thing
other people don’t know a lot of one’s thoughts. I used to wish you were dead, for instance. It’s quite all right, I don’t any more. It was pretty bad for me thinking that
– just sometimes, of course – but it would have been worse for you if you’d known. I hated you for not being my mother, you see. But now I’m awfully glad you never tried to
be her. I can think of you as a friend.’
    Her eyes had filled with tears – and she hadn’t cried for weeks – and Clary had sat quite still on the stool by the low table, and the silent warmth and steadiness of her gaze
were a wonderful relief. There was no need to try to stop crying, nor to explain or apologise or lie about it. When she had finished, she couldn’t find a handkerchief, and Clary slid the tray
cloth from under the tea things, spilling the milk a bit, and handed it to her. Then she said, ‘The thing is that with mothers and babies, they can go on having them, but with children and
mothers they only get one.’ She put a finger on one of the beads of milk on the table and licked it. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m trying to minimise your bereavement. All I
mean really is that one can get better from almost anything. It’s just one of those amazing things. That’s why people like Hamlet were so frightened of hell. It not stopping, and
personally, that’s why I don’t believe in it. I think everything changes while you’re alive, and simply stops when you’re dead. Of course I may change my mind in the years
to come, but there’s plenty of time. Even
you
have quite a lot of time, because if you really
are
only twenty-four, you’re only ten years older than me.’
    She got called by Ellen soon after that, who told her to come and clear up the mess she’d made in the kitchen.
    ‘Sorry about the scones,’ she said, as she collected the tray.