Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
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down her cheeks. Her arms felt empty, desolate; she ached with loneliness. It was as if part of her had been removed. The baby, with his downy hair, his tiny fringed eyelids, the fragments of caul still clinging behind his ears, the pale blue swaddling bands which had imprisoned his little fists as he lay in her arms, staring up at her with so much love and trust. ‘Oh God!’ She turned over and buried her face in the pillows. ‘It was a dream. A stupid, bloody dream!’ She groped on the bedside table for a box of tissues, then she pulled her clock to face her. It was half past four.
She had begun to shiver violently. For a moment she lay back, huddled beneath the covers, trying to get warm, then miserably she sat up again. It was no good. She would not sleep again and she was getting colder by the minute. She wished fervently she had allowed Nick to stay now. She wanted someone to talk to. Her head was splitting and her breasts ached. She crossed her arms, trying to ease the discomfort, and suddenly felt a cold wetness on the front of her nightdress. She stared down at herself in horror, then she shot out of bed. Running into the bathroom, she turned on the light and slipped down the ribbon straps, letting the thin cotton slip to the floor, leaving her standing naked in front of the mirror. Her breasts were full and tight, laced with blue veins and even as she stared in fascinated horror at her reflection she saw a drop of watery blue liquid forming on her left nipple.
Her heart was pounding violently. Desperately she tried to control her tears as she reached for her bathrobe from the back of the door and folded it around her. Knotting the belt she groped her way into the living room and reached for the phone.
Her hand was shaking so much she could scarcely dial, but at last she could hear the tone. It was several seconds before the receiver was lifted.
‘Nick. Oh Nick, please come. Please.’ She struggled to keep her voice steady.
‘Jo? Is that you?’ The voice the other end was so quiet it was almost a whisper. It was Sam. ‘What’s wrong?’
Jo took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, Sam. Can I speak to Nick please?’
There was a slight pause, then his voice, very gentle, came again. ‘He’s not here, Jo. Is something wrong?’
‘Not there?’ she echoed bleakly.
‘I’m afraid not. What is it? You sound frightened. Has something happened? Tell me, Jo.’
Jo swallowed hard. For a moment she could not speak, then she managed to whisper, ‘Sam, can you come over?’
He asked no more questions. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ he said at once, then he hung up.
After she had rung off Jo didn’t move. Slowly the milk was soaking into her robe. Her teeth were chattering in spite of the warmth of the room and she huddled on the edge of her chair, rocking herself gently back and forth, only dragging herself upright at last when she heard the sound of a taxi in the quiet street outside. She reached the entryphone at the same moment that it buzzed.
Sam came up the stairs two at a time.
‘What is it, Jo? Are you ill?’ He closed the door behind him and stood staring at her. She saw with a quick pang of misery that he was wearing one of Nick’s jackets over his dark roll-neck shirt.
She was looking, he thought irrelevantly, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, her long dishevelled hair dark against the stark white of her robe, her face pale, her huge eyes accentuated by the shadows beneath them.
‘Nick said he’d go back to the flat,’ she stammered. ‘He said I could phone.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ Sam steered her into the living room and towards a chair. ‘Now, tell me about it slowly.’
Hestitatingly she told him about her latest visit to Bennet. She glanced at his face, expecting an outburst of anger, but he said nothing and she forced herself to go on. ‘Perhaps he knew what would happen. He prescribed sleeping pills for me before I came home, but I never take them. Nick wanted to stay, but I wouldn’t let him, so I suppose he went back to Judy after all.’ She glanced down at her hands.
Sam said nothing. He was watching her face closely.
‘I woke up,’ she went on with a heavy sigh. ‘The baby woke me with his crying – William, he was to be called, like his father and his father’s father – but he wasn’t there.’ Her voice shook. ‘And then I found –’ She stopped. ‘I found that I’m …’ She hesitated again, suddenly embarrassed. Mutely her hands went to her breasts.
Sam had seated himself near her on the arm of another chair. ‘I am a doctor, Jo,’ he said softly. ‘You’re producing a bit of milk, right?’
She nodded, blushing. He smiled. Getting up, he knelt before her. ‘May I see?’ Softly he pulled her robe open and looked at her breasts. He touched one lightly. Then he closed the robe again. He smiled. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jo. Spontaneous lactation is unusual but not unheard of. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable for a day or two but it will ease off. Stick some tissues in your bra.’ Standing up, he crossed over to the table and picked up the whisky bottle. ‘I’ll get some glasses, shall I?’
She followed him into the kitchen, pulling the knot of her belt tighter. ‘But how is it possible?’ she asked huskily. ‘Is this another of your physiological reactions, like my hands?’ She took the glass from him and sipped the neat whisky.
‘I suppose so, in a way. You obviously went through all the emotional trauma of childbirth yesterday and in some women that would be enough to stimulate the glands. The breast is far more of a machine than people realise. It doesn’t necessarily always need a pregnancy and a birth to start it working. Adoptive mothers have been known to produce milk for their babies, you know. Anyway, you mustn’t worry about it. It’s perfectly natural. Just leave things well alone and it will calm down on its own in a day or two.’ He leaned forward and tipped some more whisky into her glass. His hand was shaking slightly.
‘Our dog had a phantom pregnancy once, when I was a child. Is that what I’ve had?’ She managed a grin.
He laughed. ‘Something like that. But I don’t expect you to produce any puppies.’
‘You are sure Nick wasn’t there?’ Her smile had vanished already as she turned away from him. ‘You checked in his room?’ She paced up the small kitchen and then back, her arms wrapped around herself to stop herself shaking, the glass still clutched in one hand. ‘I still love him, Sam. That’s the stupid thing. I love the bastard.’ She stopped in front of the sink, staring at the pink geranium in its pot on the draining board. Absently she leaned forward to pick off a dead leaf and so she did not see Sam’s face. The cords in his neck stood out violently as he stared at Jo’s back.
With a little laugh she went on without turning. ‘You won’t tell him I said that, will you?’
‘No, Jo.’ Shaking his head, he recovered himself with an effort. ‘I won’t tell him. That I promise you.’
Sam was whistling softly to himself as he nodded to the porter at Lynwood House, where Nick had his flat, and let himself into the lift. It was still not quite eight o’clock. He pushed open the flat door and stood for a moment, listening.
‘You’ve been out early.’ Nick appeared at the bathroom door, razor in hand. ‘Make some coffee, will you? I’ll be there in a minute.’
Sam smiled. ‘Whatever you say, little brother. I trust you slept well?’ He pulled Nick’s jacket off and hung it up.
Nick was looking at his watch. ‘I’m going to give Jo a ring to see if she is OK. I half expected her to phone last night, the state she was in –’
‘No!’ Sam said sharply. He withdrew the copy of the Daily Telegraph he had under his arm and held it up to scan the headlines. ‘Leave her in peace, Nicholas, for God’s sake. If everything you told me last night about her session with Bennet is true, the last thing she will want is to be wakened at this hour of the morning by the telephone.’
Nick