Australia with a theatre company, and Tempy out at the farm, where she had married a fellow who didn’t mind keeping Patience. Joyful whooped when she heard of Aurora’s baby—and now Clover’s, to come! After three or four glasses of sloe gin, Bella confided that she was quite afraid of being caught that way herself, especially now Clover was expecting too, and Joyful taught her about counting days.
‘Have you had your womanly time since?’
Bella nodded, not shy with Joyful. ‘Last week.’
Joyful nodded too. ‘You’re likely good, then. You take from then, from the first day, and count nine. Then you stay away from men—well, or give them only a French—for ten days, then you’re mostly good for eleven days. Doesn’t always work, but you can find a woman to help you. Mercy has special tea if you get a scare, if your visitor don’t come.’
Nine, ten, eleven. She could do that. Bella started to mark off the days, using a carmine stick to smudge the day she started and counting nine, ten and eleven from there each month. She crossed her fingers that Pantages would not come at a bad time. He did not like it when she was on her monthlies; she could pretend to be, as long as she was reasonable about it, and get away with a French job or only canoodling.
So really she was hardly bothered by him. It was all right. When he gave her an extra present she sent the money to Aurora and asked her to send half to Clover, for the baby.
A Blanket from the Fire
In late December Clover ran out of work, the pantomimes taking over every variety stage. It was time, anyway; she was already much bigger than Aurora had been with Avery, and could only do Mrs. O’Hara and Madame Scrappati, whose costumes were loose round the middle.
Felix Quirk sent tickets to his panto. Madame sang along with the words on the screen let down from the flies, ‘Keep the home fires burning …’ Clover sat hard as stone while the cheery patriots sang. Patriotism had burned out of her when Victor was gassed.
The last month went very slowly. Madame never seemed to worry about things but held that providence or the stars or Gali would provide—indeed, just before Christmas a large bank draft came from Qu’Appelle, so they had both heat and light, with plenty over for food. Although Clover had debated going to a lying-in hospital, wounded men were flooding all the wards, and she felt so well that she delayed making any arrangement. In the end, well into January, the baby was born at Galichen’s atelier—choosing to come in the middle of the night. Clover woke in a pool of water, hit by a wave of pain so shocking that she cried out for Madame, who came with spritely haste and gentle shrieks. Not daring to take time to fetch help, she wrapped Clover up and took the mountain to Mahomet the instant the wave had passed, hurrying her out to the street and down the area steps to the atelier’s kitchen.
The little girl was born on the well-scrubbed kitchen table, Madame exclaiming and Heather Jakes doing the work. Heather was a closed-faced woman. They had often met in the atelier kitchen, or crossed on the stairs, but during the long violence of the birth pains Clover came to love her. Not a talker, but her hands were sure and strong and she held Clover’s knees, from time to time giving some useful direction: ‘Hold off now, no pushing—a bit longer, but it won’t be more than you can stand.’ And because Heather Jakes had said so, it was not. But bad enough.
When the baby was born finally and Clover was lying still, holding the miraculous creature and not in pain any more, Galichen came to the kitchen to look her over, and the child. After close scrutiny he pronounced his satisfaction, gave permission for it to live, and dedicated it to the moon. Clover would have laughed, if she’d had the wind. His one magnified eye glared at her, and winked, and then he left.
Heather Jakes brought her a blanket warm from the fire, the kindliest thing Clover had ever felt. She was so tired. In case she died, she said to the women, ‘Her name is Harriet, Harriet Avery—tell Victor.’
Luna
Snow heaped up around the stone house to the windowsills, a succession of blizzards keeping Qu’Appelle people more or less housebound in the first months