Free The Fruit of the Tree by Jacquelynn Luben Page B

look after. I realised her role had changed; her priority now was her sick husband, not her child. Not for the first time did I regret the passing of the days when I was tucked into bed and cosseted by my warm-hearted mother. But I was a married woman now; and the apron strings should have been severed a long time ago.
    Having spent most of the day in bed, I came into the lounge and lay with my feet up on the settee, in front of the log fire, covered with blankets. Towards the end of the day, my mother left me to catch her train home, and before Michael returned that night, I watched the traditional celebrations of Hogmanay on the inadequate television. As far as I was concerned, 1970 came in, not with a bang, but with a whimper of self-pity on my lips.
    ‘And I thought it was going to be such a great year!’
    But I had not lost heart entirely, and when Ruth telephoned a day or so later, her words filled me with a ridiculous hope.
    She had hoped to call in; she and Roger were going to be in the area. I would have loved to have seen her, but I told her the present situation—then she told me her news—she was expecting a baby at the end of July. I was convinced then, quite irrationally, that I would not miscarry—that it was fated that our second children would be born at around the same time, just as Robert and Lawrence had been.
    As the week wore on, little changed. I lay in our lilac-coloured bedroom with the radio as my companion, watching squirrels, silhouetted against the matt white sky, playing on the naked branches of the trees.
    Michael was to be seen periodically with screwdriver, switch, plug or wire in his hands, reporting to me, ‘I’ve done the kitchen/hall/bedroom’ and so on.
    Without pain, and with only a small loss of blood, I began to feel adventurous. Towards the end of the week, I got up once or twice to prepare meals for us. It’s impossible to ask a woman to stay in bed indefinitely, particularly if she is unsupervised.
    The climax came one morning. I awoke to find myself haemorrhaging. And with the haemorrhage, came recognisable regular contractions, just as if I was in labour. To the layman who does not know how much blood her body is meant to lose, there is nothing so frightening as the feeling that she is going to bleed to death. The doctor, with his superior knowledge, knows that the sufferer can certainly hold on till the end of morning surgery, and no amount of panic-stricken calls will shake his faith. Despite my previous experience, I was no less fearful on this occasion.
    Eventually, however, the doctor arrived and promptly rang for an ambulance to transport me to hospital. This time, I made sure my suitcase was adequately packed.
    The houseman arrived at my bedside without his bedside manner.
    ‘Rustle me up some scrambled eggs,’ he shouted to the staff nurse. ‘I haven’t had any lunch.’ He examined me, glaring as though it was my fault. Perhaps he thought I’d done it deliberately.
    A red spot on his cuff contrasted with its otherwise immaculate whiteness.
    ‘You’ve got blood on your sleeve,’ I told him maliciously. My blood!
    I was surprised that they didn’t rush me off to the theatre, as they had done before. This time a nurse arrived with a saline drip.
    ‘What’s that for?’ I asked, surprised.
    ‘Oh, just in case we have to give you any blood. We’re going to keep you on bed rest for a little while.’
    My heart leapt at the words ‘bed rest.’ There was a chance that they were going to save the baby. A simple urine test apparently confirmed the possibility that I could still be pregnant. My hopes, which had been dashed by the explosion of blood from my body, were raised once again.
    Hitched up to the saline drip, I became a virtual prisoner. I was aware that my left arm did not contain a good vein, so I was not surprised that the drip was attached to my right arm. This was strapped to a foot long splint, which happened to be the only one they could