“I say, well done.” Douglas sat gingerly on the edge of bed. They’d cleaned her up – the bits that could be seen, anyway. The bits that couldn’t bled and seeped and shot arrows of pain every time she moved. The baby was already pink; he’d lost the translucent blue-grey of birth when the universe still lay upon him, when he could be anything. He had a bonnet on, and slept. They’d timed it so he’d had a feed, she’d put her agonising nipples away, he’d burped and they could all look pretty, none of the blood and gore in sight.

He must think it’s as easy as that, she thought, and said, “He’s very sweet.”

“What shall we call him? I was thinking Henry.”

Henry was Douglas’ father’s name. She remembered how Douglas’ face had fallen on first hearing Fagus’ name; chosen while he was away. How he’d said, oh, I was rather hoping, and then tickled his cheek anyway.

“I’d like to call him Ian.”

“Not Henry, then?”

“He’s a Campbell.”

“He’s an Anstruther too.”

“He’s going to be a Campbell.”

“He ought to have some Anstruther in there somewhere, you know.”

“What about Fife?” She didn’t mind the county Douglas’ family came from. “Anyway, his surname’s Anstruther.” How could she forget that? Every time she looked at her married name she still felt a wave of humiliation.

“Well, jolly well done in any case. He’s absolutely dear.”

A silence dropped between them. She shifted the weight of their son in her arms, hoping he might wake up, but he carried on sleeping, his little face upturned, his mouth slightly open, while Douglas carried on sitting on the edge of the bed as if the moment was precious, a shared intimacy that they may not have again. Yet her his feelings weren’t shared. That intimacy she saw written on Douglas’ face, the way his hand lay on the cover almost touching her leg, the way his body leant an inch toward her, needing only a nudge to come closer, these were false patterns that described what he wanted: a passive wife made happy by childbirth, a raging woman made quiet, a female, lain on the pillows unable to fight, holding the hopes of all of them. Perhaps he thought everything would be better now. He made another stab at leaning closer, his chin up, his eyes down to see over the wraps, on his face an idiotic smile that Enid wanted to smash.

She moved away, further into the headboard, the pillows that propped her back. “Get Mary, will you?”

“Of course.” Douglas got up quickly. “You must be tired.”

“A little.” She gave him a small smile.

Mary came in and took the bundle from her. Enid turned onto her side.

Joan, 1922

14

Joan, 1922

Joan squashed beside her mother in the rich, leather interior of the Rolls.