Thirty-Five
The Conversation
Wednesday, 9 April 1921, when Reuben talks back.
Alice sat propped up by pillows in the bed and held the baby she had given birth to three hours earlier. He began to mewl and look about for a breast, his tiny mouth trying to latch on to anything. She looked about the room, there were only women in there — herself, her mother-in-law and the nurse — so she started to unbutton her nightgown the way her mother had told her to. Her mother said it was easier to do than it seemed, that the baby would do all the work. But Lisbet jumped out of her chair and pulled her nightgown closed over her chest.
‘No, no, dear, we’ll get him a bottle. It’s far more … hygienic. And that’s why we have Nurse — she knows the percentage method.’
‘That’s right,’ said the nurse, jumping up from her chair. ‘It’s a very precise mix of orange juice, honey, evaporated milk and cod liver oil. That baby will be fat and healthy in no time.’ Lisbet looked up at the nurse, who scurried out to prepare the formula.
Lisbet leant over and whispered in Alice’s ear, ‘Only the workers breastfeed. You’re a Rosenberg now, dear.’ Alice didn’t know whether to feel scolded for doing the wrong thing or pleased to be included as a Rosenberg. Lisbet fussed over her pillows but only succeeded in making her uncomfortable. Then Lisbet took the brush from the dressing table and began to pull it through Alice’s hair. Alice was relieved when Lisbet gave up and rang the bell. The maid appeared and Lisbet said, ‘Mary, bring Alice tea and toast and a boiled egg.’
Lisbet sat on the edge of the bed and together they gazed at the brand-new life that bonded them.
‘You must be so happy, dear,’ said Lisbet.
‘Yes,’ said Alice, and she held the baby tight against her chest until Mary came back and set up the tea, egg and toast on the bedside table. She had brought enough for Lisbet as well.
‘Have my parents been called?’ Alice asked, looking at the limp toast. She didn’t think she could eat, her stomach was numb and she was extremely tired. She wanted her own mum; neither the egg, the tea nor the toast.
‘They should both be here any moment, your mother and your father,’ said Lisbet, pouring herself tea and dropping in a slice of lemon, making the tea slosh over the side of the cup. ‘Oh bother,’ she said and left the saucer with its pond of tea behind on the table.
‘Where is Reuben?’ Alice asked and she saw Mary, who was standing waiting to be dismissed, back into the corner of the room, blushing and looking at the ground.
‘Oh,’ said Alice. Everything in the room turned grey as bitterness settled inside her and dropped a seed in her belly. The seed sprouted and grew into a thorned shoot that coiled around her heart. You’re not the first, she wanted to say to Mary, and you won’t be the last, but you can never be his wife. That will only ever be me. But she said nothing and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.
‘How long have you been here?’ Alice asked Mary.
‘Just a few minutes, ma’am.’
Alice heard the tone, the you’re-no-better-than-me tone. Mary kept her eyes firmly planted on the ground, her palms pushed against the wall.
She can’t look me in the face, thought Alice. ‘No, I mean how long have you been working in this house?’
‘Just a few days, ma’am.’
‘When, exactly?’
‘I started two days ago on Monday, ma’am.’
‘That long,’ said Alice. The thorn that had been resting against her heart pierced her and she felt the blood ooze out of her heart.
The door to the bedroom flung open and Reuben paused dramatically in the entrance, his hands gripping either side of the doorframe. He let his body hang there for a moment, a cigarette resting between his lips.
‘Here I am,’ he said.
He is beautiful, thought Alice, but she saw Mary’s face lighten and saw the glance that passed between Reuben and the maid. She said, ‘Speak of the devil.’ Reuben chose to ignore the jibe; he would be the noble one and it hurt her even more.
Reuben strode into the room. ‘Let me see my new son.’
Alice held the baby up and Reuben tossed his cigarette into the soupy saucer his mother had discarded. He took his son and held him at arm’s length.
‘He’s not a bottle of wine, you can hold him close to you, Reuben,’ said Lisbet.
‘My glory,’ said Reuben, still holding the infant out in the air.
‘You don’t like him?’ Alice felt the tears building in her eyes. After all she’d been through, all the months of carrying him, all the months Reuben wouldn’t sleep with her for fear it would hurt the baby, the nights he was away and she knew he wasn’t alone because when he came home in the morning and she leant in to kiss him he would smell of strangers. Not to mention all the hours of pain delivering him, and now Reuben didn’t like him and suddenly she didn’t like the baby either — he was the cause of this nasty growth inside her, he was the reason Reuben hadn’t wanted her all these months and she rubbed her belly, which felt bloated with something that didn’t belong. She watched Reuben carefully and saw tears appear at the edges of his eyes.
He looked at her and said quietly, ‘I can see his soul, Alice.’ Reuben’s beautiful voice quavered. In barely more than a whisper he said, ‘I can see straight through to his soul.’
Alice didn’t know what he was babbling about but she saw Reuben’s eyes changing, their colour deepening, and brimming with tears. He looked down at her kindly, as though he could really see her. She felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe the baby would change everything. She rubbed her
