dishes that she serves to everyone in turn, oblivious to the atmosphere. Conversation proceeds jerkily for a time. Humphrey winks at Anna across the table. Of course she smiles back. She resolves to speak to him later about the water issue. People here seem to talk in such a roundabout way about important matters, circling the crucial point but never quite articulating it. She is sorry to have upset Humphrey. He seems to be so kindly disposed towards her. But is he? She desperately needs allies. Certainly, she does not want to disturb the newly restored calm. A murmur of conversation rises falteringly from the table.
‘Funny lot, we British, aren’t we, my dear?’ Charles is leaning over to Anna amiably again. ‘So how do you think you are going to like living in England, eh? What do you make of it?’
‘Bloody awful weather,’ she replies without hesitation.
Cutlery stilled, there follows a stunned silence. Anna understands instantly that she has committed another social sin. Charles and Humphrey exchange glances and explode into great snorts of laughter. Susan titters behind her napkin. Constance glares thunderously.
‘Where exactly have you learned such an … idiomatic phrase, Anna?’ Humphrey asks.
‘From the milkman, Humphrey. That is what he said to me this morning, when I opened the door.’ She glances round the table, hoping for some means to redeem the situation. ‘I am trying hard to speak English as it is spoken.’
‘Well done, Anna! Jolly good. You’re certainly learning to speak English as it is spoken!’
‘However,’ Constance adds, ‘it is important to learn from the right class of person, darling.’
* * *
To Anna’s relief, Sam has arranged for her to go into a small private nursing home for the birth of the child. At first she wonders whether Humphrey, as a doctor, expects to attend to her himself – how dreadful that would be. But it turns out he has simply recommended the nursing home as the best in the area. Labour pains start one Sunday afternoon. Constance times the intervals efficiently. Anna’s bag has been packed for some time. Humphrey drives her to the hospital. A receptionist greets them, explains that a room has been booked for Anna and asks if she can manage to walk there. Anna says she can.
‘Better leave you in their capable hands, my dear. Just follow instructions and you’ll be fine. Remember, it’s all been done before. Natural process, and all that. All the best to you. Constance will be in to see you tomorrow, no doubt.’ Humphrey kisses Anna uncertainly on the cheek and turns to go. For a moment Anna almost calls him back, begs him to stay with her.
She has a small private room, very plain, very white. She feels totally alone. A brisk midwife comes in to examine her. She washes her hands and returns to the bed.
‘I was led to believe this was your first child, Mrs Lawrence.’ She studies Anna’s face with a quizzical frown.
‘I’m not sure what you were told. I had … I lost a child. Some years ago.’
‘Ah, yes. I understand.’
Anna looks at her. No, you understand nothing of me. The midwife comes back to examine her again every half hour or so. She offers little further conversation and even less comfort. The pains grow in strength and frequency and Anna is moved to a delivery room next door.
After an agonising, momentous struggle, a boy is born, a beautiful, perfect boy. As Anna holds him, breathes him in, and kisses him, over and over, the tears released become a flood, and will not stop. She is convulsed with weeping. She weeps for all the years gone by, for all that has happened and all that cannot be undone. The midwife clucks disapprovingly and urges her to stop – she should control herself for baby’s sake. It might upset him. She has a fine child and should be grateful. She needs to be calm for baby.
Constance visits them the next day. She admires the baby and hugs Anna and tells her how proud and happy Sam would be. She mentions that she and Humphrey have taken some blankets and cooking utensils to the rented rooms to which Anna and the baby will be moving on leaving hospital. After she goes, Anna spends hours gazing at her sleeping son. The nurses come to show her how to change and bath him. They handle his small body with detached efficiency. The baby abandons himself to their firm hands. He stares at the ceiling light. When being bathed, his fragile limbs stiffen and then relax. Anna is told to ‘put him down’ immediately after his bath or feeding him, to establish a routine. As soon as the nurses leave the room, she picks the baby up and presses him to the hollow of her neck. She inhales his blissful smell. He nuzzles against her and roots around for her breast, his soft mouth open and urgent.
The following day Constance brings Mother to see her new grandson. Mother holds him and kisses his tiny fingers. She looks up at Anna and shakes her head, her expression anxious, as always.
‘He’s so like Samuel as a baby, dear, that same little worried face.’
She unwraps a parcel of exquisite tiny garments she has sewn and knitted. Anna leans forward and embraces her mother-in-law. Mother stiffens in her arms, looking at once alarmed and delighted. Constance says they have wondered what the baby will be called.
‘Sam and I agreed Benjamin for a boy – Ben for short,’ Anna says.
‘Benjamin,’ says Mother. ‘That’s unusual. Is it Jewish?’
Sam
The behaviour and manner of Dr John Quentin Lawrence reflected the beliefs and attitudes of the Victorian era during which he was raised. Dr Lawrence was respected and trusted, but not greatly liked. He was regarded as a stern and severe man, who believed in hard work and frugality. He married Winifred Wainwright, a parson’s daughter, not for her good looks – she was on the thin side with a long face – but for her humble and compliant demeanour. He knew he would be able to rely on her to make a good doctor’s wife, and to uphold his values.
Despite her complete ignorance of the physical side of marriage until her wedding night, Winifred was pregnant with their first child. She woke early one morning with violent pains, which she knew to be contractions. She breathed quietly, so as not to wake her husband. She bit her lip and dug her fingernails into her palm. When the clock reached quarter to seven, she allowed herself to speak aloud.
‘Good morning, John. The time for the child has come.’
Dr Lawrence opened his eyes and looked at his wife in confusion for a moment. Then he felt a brief flutter of excitement. Dear God, let it be a son. Any further child can be a daughter if it must, but let this be my son. He remembered his list of home calls and sat up.
‘I will ask Alice to fetch Mrs Roly to attend to you. Are you feeling quite well, my dear?’ He was not in the habit of calling Winifred ‘my dear’.
She gasped and doubled up, her body consumed with pain. There was something almost indecent about such a physical experience, one that was totally outside her control. After a few moments she straightened and flexed her shoulders.
‘I believe I am. The pains are quite close together.’
Dr Lawrence regarded Winifred approvingly. It was just like her not to make a fuss.
‘Good, good – then perhaps you won’t have to endure them too long, Winnie.’
Dr Lawrence dressed quickly and rang for Alice. The girl could not conceal her excitement at the task she was given.
‘Ooh, I’ll run all the way to Mrs Roly’s, sir.’
‘All in good time, Alice. Before you go, kindly lay out some breakfast for me. I’m due at my first call shortly.’
Samuel James Lawrence was born some hours later, on 24th March 1902. After the last patient had left his evening surgery, Dr Lawrence paid his wife and first-born son a visit. The small east bedroom had been prepared as a lying-in room. Dr Lawrence was relieved to find that all was clean and neat, and