The Burden

Laura knew that to be asked to tea with Mr Baldock was an honour, and preened herself accordingly. She turned up neatly dressed, brushed, and washed, but nevertheless with an underlying apprehension, for Mr Baldock was an alarming man.

Mr Baldock’s housekeeper showed her into the library, where Mr Baldock raised his head, and stared at her.

‘Hallo,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You asked me to tea,’ said Laura.

Mr Baldock looked at her in a considering manner. Laura looked back at him. It was a grave, polite look that successfully concealed her inner uncertainty.

‘So I did,’ said Mr Baldock, rubbing his nose. ‘Hm … yes, so I did. Can’t think why. Well, you’d better sit down.’

‘Where?’ said Laura.

The question was highly pertinent. The library into which Laura had been shown was a room lined with bookshelves to the ceiling. All the shelves were wedged tight with books, but there still existed large numbers of books which could find no places in the shelves, and these were piled in great heaps on the floor and on tables, and also occupied the chairs.

Mr Baldock looked vexed.

‘I suppose we’ll have to do something about it,’ he said grudgingly.

He selected an arm-chair that was slightly less encumbered than the others and, with many grunts and puffs, lowered two armfuls of dusty tomes to the floor.

‘There you are,’ he said, beating his hands together to rid them of dust. As a result, he sneezed violently.

‘Doesn’t anyone ever dust in here?’ Laura asked, as she sat down sedately.

‘Not if they value their lives!’ said Mr Baldock. ‘But mind you, it’s a hard fight. Nothing a woman likes better than to come barging in flicking a great yellow duster, and armed with tins of greasy stuff smelling of turpentine or worse. Picking up all my books, and arranging them in piles, by size as likely as not, no concern for the subject matter! Then she starts an evil-looking machine, that wheezes and hums, and out she goes finally, as pleased as Punch, having left the place in such a state that you can’t put your hand on a thing you want for at least a month. Women! What the Lord God thought He was doing when He created woman, I can’t imagine. I dare say He thought Adam was looking a little too cocky and pleased with himself; Lord of the Universe, and naming the animals and all that. Thought he needed taking down a peg or two. Daresay that was true enough. But creating woman was going a bit far. Look where it landed the poor chap! Slap in the middle of Original Sin.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Laura apologetically.

‘What do you mean, sorry?’

‘That you feel like that about women, because I suppose I’m a woman.’

‘Not yet you’re not, thank goodness,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Not for a long while yet. It’s got to come, of course, but no point in looking ahead towards unpleasant things. And by the way, I hadn’t forgotten that you were coming to tea today. Not for a moment! I just pretended that I had for a reason of my own.’

‘What reason?’

‘Well—’ Mr Baldock rubbed his nose again. ‘For one thing I wanted to see what you’d say.’ He nodded his head. ‘You came through that one very well. Very well indeed …’

Laura stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘I had another reason. If you and I are going to be friends, and it rather looks as though things are tending that way, then you’ve got to accept me as I am—a rude, ungracious old curmudgeon. See? No good expecting pretty speeches. “Dear child—so pleased to see you—been looking forward to your coming.”’

Mr Baldock repeated these last phrases in a high falsetto tone of unmitigated contempt. A ripple passed over Laura’s grave face. She laughed.

‘That would be funny,’ she said.

‘It would indeed. Very funny.’

Laura’s gravity returned. She looked at him speculatively.

‘Do you think we are going to be friends?’ she inquired.

‘It’s a matter for mutual agreement. Do you care for the idea?’

Laura considered.

‘It seems—a little odd,’ she said dubiously. ‘I mean, friends are usually children who come and play games with you.’

‘You won’t find me playing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”, and don’t you think it!’

‘That’s only for babies,’ said Laura reprovingly.

‘Our friendship would be definitely on an intellectual plane,’ said Mr Baldock.

Laura looked pleased.

‘I don’t really know quite what that means,’ she said, ‘but I think I like the sound of it.’

‘It means,’ said Mr Baldock, ‘that when we meet we discuss subjects which are of interest to both of us.’

‘What kind of subjects?’

‘Well—food, for instance. I’m fond of food. I expect you are, too. But as I’m sixty-odd, and you’re—what is it, ten? I’ve no doubt that our ideas on the matter will differ. That’s interesting. Then there will be other things—colours—flowers—animals—English history.’

‘You mean things like Henry the Eighth’s wives?’

‘Exactly. Mention Henry the Eighth to nine people out of ten, and they’ll come back at you with his wives. It’s an insult to a man who was called the Fairest Prince in Christendom, and who was a statesman of the first order of craftiness, to remember him only by his matrimonial efforts to get a legitimate male heir. His wretched wives are of no importance whatever historically.’

‘Well, I think his wives were very important.’

‘There you are!’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Discussion.’

‘I should like to have been Jane Seymour.’

‘Now why her?’

‘She died,’ said Laura ecstatically.

‘So did Nan Bullen and Katherine Howard.’

‘They were executed. Jane was only married to him for a year, and she had a baby and died, and everyone must have been terribly sorry.’

‘Well—that’s a point of view. Come in the other room and see if we’ve got anything for tea.’

‘It’s a wonderful tea,’ said Laura ecstatically.

Her eyes roamed over currant buns, jam roll, éclairs, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate biscuits and a large indigestible-looking rich black plum cake.

She gave a sudden little giggle.

‘You did expect me,’ she said. ‘Unless—do you have a tea like this every day?’

‘God forbid,’ said Mr Baldock.

They sat down companionably. Mr Baldock had six cucumber sandwiches, and Laura had four éclairs, and a selection of everything else.

‘Got a good appetite, I’m glad to see, young Laura,’ said Mr Baldock appreciatively as they finished.

‘I’m always hungry,’ said Laura, ‘and I’m hardly ever sick. Charles used to be sick.’

‘Hm … Charles. I suppose you miss Charles a lot?’

‘Oh yes, I do. I do, really.’

Mr Baldock’s bushy grey eyebrows rose.

‘All right. All right. Who says you don’t miss him?’

‘Nobody. And I do—I really do.’

He nodded gravely in answer to her earnestness, and watched her. He was wondering.

‘It was terribly sad, his dying like that.’ Laura’s voice unconsciously reproduced the tones of another voice, some adult voice, which had originally uttered the phrase.

‘Yes, very sad.’

‘Terribly sad for Mummy and Daddy. Now—I’m all they’ve got in the world.’

‘So that’s it?’

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

She had gone into her private dream world. ‘Laura, my darling. You’re all I have—my only child—my treasure …’

‘Bad butter,’ said Mr Baldock. It was one of his expressions of perturbation. ‘Bad butter! Bad butter!’ He shook his head vexedly.

‘Come out in the garden, Laura,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a look at the roses. Tell me what you do with yourself all day.’

‘Well, in the morning Miss Weekes comes and we do lessons.’

‘That old Tabby!’

‘Don’t you like her?’

‘She’s got Girton written all over her. Mind you never go to Girton, Laura!’

‘What’s Girton?’

‘It’s a woman’s college. At Cambridge. Makes my flesh creep when I think about it!’

‘I’m going to boarding school when I’m twelve.’

‘Sinks of iniquity, boarding schools!’

‘Don’t you think I’ll like it?’

‘I dare say you’ll like it all right. That’s just the danger! Hacking other girls’ ankles with a hockey stick, coming home with a crush on the music mistress, going on to Girton or Somerville as likely as not. Oh well, we’ve got a couple of years still, before the worst happens. Let’s make the most of it. What are you going to do when you grow up? I suppose you’ve got some notions about it?’

‘I did think that I might go and nurse lepers—’

‘Well, that’s harmless enough. Don’t bring one home and put him in your husband’s bed, though. St Elizabeth of Hungary did that. Most misguided zeal. A Saint of God, no doubt, but a very inconsiderate wife.’

‘I shall never marry,’ said Laura in a voice of renunciation.

‘No? Oh, I think I should marry if I were you. Old maids are worse than married women in my opinion. Hard luck on some man, of course, but I dare say you’d make a better wife than many.’

‘It wouldn’t be right. I must look after Mummy and Daddy in their old age. They’ve got nobody but me.’

‘They’ve got a cook and a house-parlourmaid and a gardener, and a good income, and plenty of friends. They’ll be all right. Parents have to put up with their children leaving them when the time comes. Great relief sometimes.’ He stopped abruptly by a bed of roses. ‘Here are my roses. Like ’em?’

‘They’re beautiful,’ said Laura politely.

‘On the whole,’ said Mr Baldock, ‘I prefer them to human beings. They don’t last as long for one thing.’

Then he took Laura firmly by the hand.

‘Goodbye, Laura,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be going now. Friendship should never be strained too far. I’ve enjoyed having you to tea.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Baldock. Thank you for having me. I’ve enjoyed myself very much.’

The polite slogan slipped from her lips in a glib fashion. Laura was a well-brought-up child.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Baldock, patting her amicably on the shoulder. ‘Always say your piece. It’s courtesy and knowing the right passwords that makes the wheels go round. When you come to my age, you can say what you like.’

Laura smiled at him and passed through the iron gate he was holding open for her. Then she turned and hesitated.

‘Well, what is it?’

‘Is it really settled now? About our being friends, I mean?’

Mr Baldock rubbed his nose.

‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘I hope you don’t mind very much?’ Laura asked anxiously.

‘Not too much … I’ve got to get used to the idea, mind.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve got to get used to it, too. But I think—I think—it’s going to be nice. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Mr Baldock looked after her retreating figure, and muttered to himself fiercely: ‘Now look what you’ve let yourself in for, you old fool!’

He retraced his steps to the house, and was met by his housekeeper Mrs Rouse.

‘Has the little girl gone?’

‘Yes, she’s gone.’

‘Oh dear, she didn’t stay very long, did she?’

‘Quite long enough,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Children and one’s social inferiors never know when to say goodbye. One has to say it for them.’

‘Well!’ said Mrs Rouse, gazing after him indignantly as he walked past her.

‘Good night,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘I’m going into my library, and I don’t want to be disturbed again.’

‘About supper—’

‘Anything you please.’ Mr Baldock waved an arm. ‘And take away all that sweet stuff, and finish it up, or give it to the cat.’

‘Oh, thank you, sir. My little niece—’

‘Your niece, or the cat, or anyone.’

He went into the library and shut the door.

‘Well!’ said Mrs Rouse again. ‘Of all the crusty old bachelors! But there, I understand his ways! It’s not everyone that would.’

Laura went home with a pleasing feeling of importance.

She popped her head through the kitchen window where Ethel, the house-parlourmaid, was struggling with the intricacies of a crochet pattern.

‘Ethel,’ said Laura. ‘I’ve got a Friend.’

‘Yes, dearie,’ said Ethel, murmuring to herself under her breath. ‘Five chain, twice into the next stitch, eight chain—’

‘I have got a Friend.’ Laura stressed the information.

Ethel was still murmuring:

‘Five double crochet, and then three times into the next—but that makes it come out wrong at the end—now where have I slipped up?’

‘I’ve got a Friend,’ shouted Laura, maddened by the lack of comprehension displayed by her confidante.

Ethel looked up, startled.

‘Well, rub it, dearie, rub it,’ she said vaguely.

Laura turned away in disgust.

CHAPTER 3

Angela Franklin had dreaded returning home but, when the time came, she found it not half so bad as she had feared.

As they drove up to the door, she said to her husband:

‘There’s Laura waiting for us on the steps. She looks quite excited.’

And, jumping out as the car drew up, she folded her arms affectionately round her daughter and cried:

‘Laura darling. It’s lovely to see you. Have you missed us a lot?’

Laura said conscientiously:

‘Not very much. I’ve been very busy. But I’ve made you a raffia mat.’

Swiftly there swept over Angela’s mind a sudden remembrance of Charles—of the way he would tear across the grass, flinging himself upon her, hugging her. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!’

How horribly it hurt—remembering.

She pushed aside memories, smiled at Laura and said:

‘A raffia mat? How nice, darling.’

Arthur Franklin tweaked his daughter’s hair.

‘I believe you’ve grown, Puss.’

They all went into the house.

What it was Laura had expected, she did not know. Here were Mummy and Daddy home, and pleased to see her, making a fuss of her, asking her questions. It wasn’t they who were wrong, it was herself. She wasn’t—she wasn’t—what wasn’t she?

She herself hadn’t said the things or looked or even felt as she had thought she would.

It wasn’t the way she had planned it. She hadn’t—really—taken Charles’s place. There was something missing with her, Laura. But it would be different tomorrow, she told herself, or if not tomorrow, then the next day, or the day after. The heart of the house, Laura said to herself, suddenly recalling a phrase that had taken her fancy from an old-fashioned children’s book she had come across in the attic.

That was what she was now, surely, the heart of the house.

Unfortunate that she should feel herself, with a deep inner misgiving, to be just Laura as usual.

Just Laura …

‘Baldy seems to have taken quite a fancy to Laura,’ said Angela. ‘Fancy, he asked her to tea with him while we were away.’

Arthur said he’d like very much to know what they had talked about.

‘I think,’ said Angela after a moment or two, ‘that we ought to tell Laura. I mean, if we don’t, she’ll hear something—the servants or someone. After all, she’s too old for gooseberry bushes and all that kind of thing.’

She was lying in a long basket chair under the cedar tree. She turned her head now towards her husband in his deck chair.

The lines of suffering still showed in her face. The life she was carrying had not yet succeeded in blurring the sense of loss.

‘It’s going to be a boy,’ said Arthur Franklin. ‘I know it’s going to be a boy.’

Angela smiled, and shook her head.

‘No use building on it,’ she said.

‘I tell you, Angela, I know.’

He was positive—quite positive.

A boy like Charles, another Charles, laughing, blue-eyed, mischievous, affectionate.

Angela thought: ‘It may be another boy—but it won’t be Charles.’

‘I expect we shall be just as pleased with a girl, however,’ said Arthur, not very convincingly.

‘Arthur, you know you want a son!’

‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I’d like a son.’

A man wanted a son—needed a son. Daughters—it wasn’t the same thing.

Obscurely moved by some consciousness of guilt, he said:

‘Laura’s really a dear little thing.’

Angela agreed sincerely.

‘I know. So good and quiet and helpful. We shall miss her when she goes to school.’

She added: ‘That’s partly why I hope it won’t be a girl. Laura might be a teeny bit jealous of a baby sister—not that she’d have any need to be.’

‘Of course not.’

‘But children are sometimes—it’s quite natural; that’s why I think we ought to tell her, prepare her.’

And so it was that Angela Franklin said to her daughter:

‘How would you like a little baby brother?

‘Or sister?’ she added rather belatedly.

Laura stared at her. The words did not seem to make sense. She was puzzled. She did not understand.

Angela said gently: ‘You see, darling, I’m going to have a baby … next September. It will be nice, won’t it?’

She was a little disturbed when Laura, murmuring something incoherent, backed away, her face crimsoning with an emotion that her mother did not understand.

Angela Franklin felt worried.

‘I wonder,’ she said to her husband. ‘Perhaps we’ve been wrong? I’ve never actually told her anything—about—about things, I mean. Perhaps she hadn’t any idea …’

Arthur Franklin said that considering that the production of kittens that went on in the house was something astronomical, it was hardly likely that Laura was completely unacquainted with the facts of life.

‘Yes, but perhaps she thinks people are different. It may have been a shock to her.’

It had been a shock to Laura, though not in any biological sense. It was simply that the idea that her mother would have another child had never occurred to Laura. She had seen the whole pattern as simple and straightforward. Charles was dead, and she was her parents’ only child. She was, as she had phrased it to herself, ‘all they had in the world’.

And now—now—there was to be another Charles.

She never doubted, any more than Arthur and Angela secretly doubted, that the baby would be a boy.

Desolation struck through to her.

For a long time Laura sat huddled upon the edge of a cucumber frame, while she wrestled with disaster.

Then she made up her mind. She got up, walked down the drive and along the road to Mr Baldock’s house.

Mr Baldock, grinding his teeth and snorting with venom, was penning a really vitriolic review for a learned journal of a fellow historian’s life work.

He turned a ferocious face to the door, as Mrs Rouse, giving a perfunctory knock and pushing it open, announced:

‘Here’s little Miss Laura for you.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Baldock, checked on the verge of a tremendous flood of invective. ‘So it’s you.’

He was disconcerted. A fine thing it would be if the child was going to trot along here at any odd moment. He hadn’t bargained for that. Drat all children! Give them an inch and they took an ell. He didn’t like children, anyway. He never had.

His disconcerted gaze met Laura’s. There was no apology in Laura’s look. It was grave, deeply troubled, but quite confident in a divine right to be where she was. She made no polite remarks of an introductory nature.

‘I thought I’d come and tell you,’ she said, ‘that I’m going to have a baby brother.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Baldock, taken aback.

‘We-ell …’ he said, playing for time. Laura’s face was white and expressionless. ‘That’s news, isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘Are you pleased?’

‘No,’ said Laura. ‘I don’t think I am.’

‘Beastly things, babies,’ agreed Mr Baldock sympathetically. ‘No teeth and no hair, and yell their heads off. Their mothers like them, of course, have to—or the poor little brutes would never get looked after, or grow up. But you won’t find it so bad when it’s three or four,’ he added encouragingly. ‘Almost as good as a kitten or a puppy by then.’

‘Charles died,’ said Laura. ‘Do you think it’s likely that my new baby brother may die too?’

He shot her a keen glance, then said firmly:

‘Shouldn’t think so for a moment,’ and added: ‘Lightning never strikes twice.’

‘Cook says that,’ said Laura. ‘It means the same thing doesn’t happen twice?’

‘Quite right.’

‘Charles—’ began Laura, and stopped.

Again Mr Baldock’s glance swept over her quickly.

‘No reason it should be a baby brother,’ he said. ‘Just as likely to be a baby sister.’

‘Mummy seems to think it will be a brother.’

‘Shouldn’t go by that if I were you. She wouldn’t be the first woman to think wrong.’

Laura’s face brightened suddenly.

‘There was Jehoshaphat,’ she said. ‘Dulcibella’s last kitten. He’s turned out to be a girl after all. Cook calls him Josephine now,’ she added.

‘There you are,’ said Mr Baldock encouragingly. ‘I’m not a betting man, but I’d put my money on its being a girl myself.’

‘Would you?’ said Laura fervently.

She smiled at him, a grateful and unexpectedly lovely smile that gave Mr Baldock quite a shock.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll go now.’ She added politely: ‘I hope I haven’t interrupted your work?’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘I’m always glad to see you if it’s about something important. I know you wouldn’t barge in here just to chatter.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ said Laura earnestly.

She withdrew, closing the door carefully behind her.

The conversation had cheered her considerably. Mr Baldock, she knew, was a very clever man.

‘He’s much more likely to be right than Mummy,’ she thought to herself.

A baby sister? Yes, she could face the thought of a sister. A sister would only be another Laura—an inferior Laura. A Laura lacking teeth and hair, and any kind of sense.

As she emerged from the kindly haze of the anaesthetic, Angela’s cornflower-blue eyes asked the eager question that her lips were almost afraid to form.

‘Is it—all right—is it—?’

The nurse spoke glibly and briskly after the manner of nurses.

‘You’ve got a lovely daughter, Mrs Franklin.’

‘A daughter—a daughter …’ The blue eyes closed again.

Disappointment surged through her. She had been so sure—so sure … Only a second Laura …

The old tearing pain of her loss reawakened. Charles, her handsome laughing Charles. Her boy, her son …

Downstairs, Cook was saying briskly:

‘Well, Miss Laura. You’ve got a little sister, what do you think of that?’

Laura replied sedately to Cook:

‘I knew I’d have a sister. Mr Baldock said so.’

‘An old bachelor like him, what should he know?’

‘He’s a very clever man,’ said Laura.

Angela was rather slow to regain her full strength. Arthur Franklin was worried about his wife. The baby was a month old when he spoke to Angela rather hesitatingly.

‘Does it matter so much? That it’s a girl, I mean, and not a boy?’

‘No, of course not. Not really. Only—I’d felt so sure.’

‘Even if it had been a boy, it wouldn’t have been Charles, you know?’

‘No. No, of course not.’

The nurse entered the room, carrying the baby.

‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Such a lovely girl now. Going to your Mumsie-wumsie, aren’t you?’

Angela held the baby slackly and eyed the nurse with dislike as the latter went out of the room.

‘What idiotic things these women say,’ she muttered crossly.

Arthur laughed.

‘Laura darling, get me that cushion,’ said Angela.

Laura brought it to her, and stood by as Angela arranged the baby more comfortably. Laura felt comfortably mature and important. The baby was only a silly little thing. It was she, Laura, on whom her mother relied.

It was chilly this evening. The fire that burned in the grate was pleasant. The baby crowed and gurgled happily.