The changeling

That was how I learned that Jenny Stubbs was in fact expecting a child. It was a nine days’ wonder in the Poldoreys. How could it have come about? Everyone was thinking back to harvest time. September or October ... to June. It was remembered that Peggotys had had labor in to help with the harvest. Last time with Jenny people guessed the father had been one of the itinerant workers. And Jenny, of course, half dazed as she was, wanted so much to have a child that it had been one of her fantasies to believe she was to have one. According to wiseacres like Mrs. Polhenny, this sort of dreaming made conception more likely.

The news was about and it reached my alert ears. Jenny Stubbs, who had dreamed for years of having a baby, was about to have one, according to Mrs. Polhenny, whose word could not be doubted in such matters.

She had taken on the task of looking after the girl. She wanted no help, no payment. She had presumably had a private conversation with God who had led her to discover that Jenny was really about to give birth and she knew it was her duty to look after the girl.

My mother was pleased when she heard the news.

“I know how wonderful it is to bring a child into the world,” she said. “It’s the most exciting adventure.”

My grandmother commented that when Jenny had previously had her own child she had been so happy that she had improved in every way. This could be the making of a new life for her. She might be quite normal again.

“Well,” said Mrs. Polhenny, “I shall have my hands full. Two babies about to appear... and at the same time. God will give me strength.”

“How gratifying it must be for Mrs. Polhenny to feel that I God is working with her ... a sort of auxiliary midwife, on this I occasion it seems,” said my grandmother. My mother laughed. “You are quite irreverent, Mama,” she said.

I treasured those moments with her. I should never forget them.

The day came. There was expectation in the house. Soon the ordeal would be over.

My mother would be exultant and there would be a new member of the family. Mrs. Polhenny had arrived. She said: “I delivered Jenny Stubbs’ baby last night ... a lovely little girl. Jenny’s beside herself with glee.”

“Who is looking after her?” asked my grandmother.

“I’ve taken her over to my place ... I did just before the birth was about to take place. I thought it best as I had Mrs. Lansdon’s coming. Leah’s home. She’s helping.”

“That’s good of you, Mrs. Polhenny.”

Mrs. Polhenny preened herself and looked more virtuous than ever.

“Well ... she’s through. Now it’s Mrs. Lansdon’s turn.”

Later my grandmother said to me: “Her heart’s in the right place in spite of all that self-congratulation. It was good of her to take Jenny in.” All seemed normal at the time. Jenny’s delivery had been an easy matter. We thought my mother’s would be the same.

Mrs. Polhenny arrived at eleven in the morning and by mid afternoon we knew that all was not well. Dr. Wilmingham was lent for. Benedict arrived. No one had met him at the station, but we were not surprised to see him for we guessed he would come to Cador for the birth. He wanted to go to my mother at once, but that was not allowed.

“But she will know that you are here,” said my grandmother, “and that should comfort her.”

Then began one of the most terrible periods of my life. I cannot remember it clearly.

I have tried to shut it out of my mind because it brings so much anguish to recall it. I have succeeded to some extent, for now it is just like a blurred memory.

I do recall vividly though how terrible the waiting was, so I sat with my grandparents ... and him. He could not sit still and kept pacing about the room, firing questions at us. How had she seemed? Why had he not been sent for earlier? Something ought to have been done.

My grandfather said: “For God’s sake, be calm, Benedict. She’ll be all right. She has the best attention.”

He said angrily: “She should have stayed in London.”

“Who knows?” said my grandmother. “We thought it was for the best.”

“Some petty country doctor! An old woman ...”

I felt angry with him. He was blaming my grandparents. But I knew, as they did, that it was his excessive anxiety which made him as he was, and that it was an outlet for his fears and misery to blame someone.

The hours dragged on. I felt the clocks had all stopped. Waiting ... waiting ... and with every passing moment growing more afraid.

I cannot dwell on it. Cold fear had taken possession of me. And I knew it was an emotion I shared with them all. I was aware of my grandmother beside me. We looked at each other and neither of us attempted to hide what we felt. She took my hand and gripped it hard.

Then the doctor came. Mrs. Polhenny was with him. They did not have to speak. We knew. And the greatest desolation I had ever felt swept over me.

A Christmas tragedy