Free The Fruit of the Tree by Jacquelynn Luben Page A

satisfied—possibly even as enthusiastic as the viewers of the early movies.
    But for now, the escape was to the warmer climes of our parents’ homes. I had packaged the children’s presents and I had sent Christmas cards to all my non-Jewish friends, including one to the Colonel, which I inscribed ‘With many thanks for your kind gesture.’ This was hardly a kind gesture of my own—rather I had some feeling of rubbing salt into the wound of his shame, if indeed it did exist.
    With a clear conscience and with a feeling of relief, we abandoned our house and our problems to enjoy the family holiday, but at the end of four days, we reluctantly prepared to return.
    I noticed that there was a musical on the television which I wanted to see, and tried to convince myself that that was a genuine inducement to return home early in the evening.
    ‘Let’s hurry,’ I told Michael, ‘so that we can get home in time to watch “Carousel”’.
    So hurry we did; the car zoomed up and down the South and North Downs (on this occasion there was no snow) and swerved round the bends. I didn’t really mind Michael driving fast, but by the time we arrived home, I felt slightly travel sick. There was also an ominous ache at the pit of my stomach.
    I tried to ignore it, as I sat a foot or so away from the electric fire, failing to absorb any warmth from it at all, watching the fluttering screen with no real enthusiasm.
    But the dull ache did not go and eventually, although it was nearing ten o’clock, I was forced to telephone the doctor.
    The answer was predictable. ‘Go to bed; rest. Ring the doctor in the morning if there are still problems.’
    For nearly a week I lay in bed.
    One of the local team of doctors, a pleasant Scottish woman called to see me.
    ‘How many times is this going to happen?’ I asked, unreasonably angry. ‘Must I just lie and wait for a miscarriage to happen?’
    She assured me that if I were to miscarry this time, something would be done to help me next time. One miscarriage could be Nature’s method of removing a malformed child. Two suggested a pattern where the mother might have a weakness.
    My mother, after all, had had five miscarriages before I was born, and it was probably the fear of following in her footsteps that had caused me to want our first child so early in our marriage.
    But in spite of the doctor’s reassurance about the future, I was filled with indignation and disbelief that such a thing could be allowed to happen to me twice, and that those around me were apparently powerless to do anything positive to prevent it, other than to recommend that I should stay in bed and rest. Never before had I considered what a spirit of optimism my mother must have had to have weathered this demoralising experience five times.
    Endeavouring to help on a practical level, the doctor asked if there was somewhere Robert could stay, so that I could rest. Michael and I, who had not previously considered sending Robert away, mulled over the problem and agreed that it would be a good idea. We decided that he would be happiest with my sister-in-law Sonia. Sonia adored children, and her own boy Stephen was old enough at eight to allow her to devote a little extra time to Robert.
    ‘You won’t mind going to Auntie Sonia?’ I asked him, and solemnly he replied that he would not. I tried to explain the situation to him in simple terms. I hoped that this time he would be better prepared for his parting from me.
    Luckily, Sonia was entirely happy to take Robert and, without much delay, Michael transported him to her home in Epsom.
    On the second day, there was an office panic—a pressing call. Michael had to leave me alone; we rang my mother and asked if she could stay with me. She could stay for one day, she said, and arrived by train, bearing food—as mothers do; a rosy-cheeked, brown-haired capable woman in her late sixties, her looks belying her age. How could she stay any longer, she said, there was Daddy to