‘Well, I tried all the others I can think of, and it’d be just like her to call him something different. So my money’s on Ned.’
When Mae had sent the boy back to work, she realized how quiet it was — too quiet. She had not heard either the baby or Harriet, and it was after seven.
‘Harry? You all right, my love? Only I got breakfast near done. That was the boy from Barrow’s Lane, you’ve got ‘em all guessing — he says you’ll be calling him after the old carthorse... Harry?’
Mae listened at Harriet’s door. The silence worried her. She lifted the latch and peeked in.
Harriet was standing in the centre of the room, wearing a long, white nightdress. The buttons were undone, her breast bared ready for feeding. The baby was cradled in her arms.
‘Oh, why didn’t you answer me? You gave me such a fright.’
Slowly, Harriet turned her stricken face to her aunt. She tried to speak, but couldn’t.
‘What is it, lovey? Harry? Dear God, child, what is it?’
Aunt Mae moved closer, peered at the baby. His eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping. She reached out to touch him, but Harriet stepped back.
‘Now, love, just let me take a look at him... Harry?’
She stepped forward again, and this time Harriet allowed her to touch the baby. He was cold, his tiny hand was ice cold.
‘Will you let me hold him a while? There’s a good girl.’
Mae took the baby from her, and knew he was dead. She wrapped a shawl around him.
Harriet’s voice was barely audible. ‘He was cold when I went to give him his feed in the night. I’ve had him close by me, I’ve kept him warm, but he won’t wake up.’
Aunt Mae took the baby downstairs and called for one of the farm boys to get the doctor, fast, although she knew it was too late, nothing could be done for the child. She covered his face and hurried back to Harriet.
She was still standing in exactly the same position, her arms half lifted as though she still held her son.
The doctor came immediately. He could find no reason for the baby’s death. He said, sadly, it was a tragedy. No one was to blame, no one could ever have predicted it. He spent a long time sitting with Harriet, trying to make her understand that it was not her fault. He was very perturbed that Harriet did not cry, and more worried when he realized she did not accept that the child was gone. He gave her sedatives to make her sleep, and Mae sat with her for two days and nights while she lay, dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling. Deep, shuddering sighs shook her body, and she clasped her aunt’s hand tightly, but no tears ever came.
The baby was buried in the Simpsons’ family chapel, a cloak of secrecy over the proceedings. Harriet had not given the child his name, and he had never been christened. She played no part in the funeral arrangements, and refused to name the father on the birth certificate.
Mrs Simpson sighed with relief. The baby’s death saddened her, but at the same time it did save the family any embarrassment. She expected Harriet to pick up her life as if it had never happened, unaware of how deeply the loss had affected her daughter.
Mae took Harriet back to London, and her heart broke when they said goodbye. She even offered to stay in town to take care of her, but Mrs Simpson dismissed the offer, insisting that all Harriet needed was time. Mae left a changed girl behind her in the Kensington house.
It was accepted that Harriet would not ‘be herself’ for a while, and the Simpsons were not unduly worried by her quietness. She withdrew from the family, preferring to eat alone in her room. Mrs Simpson put up with Harriet’s moody idleness for as long as she thought she should mourn. But when she remained locked in her room months after the funeral, she began to wonder if Harriet should see a doctor. Her room was untidy, dirty, with plates of rotting food pushed under the bed. She refused to wash or dress, but lay on her bed, staring into space. She had a habit of picking at bread, making it into small hard balls, and odd piles of her endeavours littered the room. She began raving against her mother, accusing her of spying, and would put a chair under her door handle in addition to turning the key in the lock. She grew very thin and refused food, until Mrs Simpson was at her wits’ end.
The Judge tried to talk to his daughter and was spat at. He was astounded at her filthy language. She became abusive if any of them tried to make her eat. Allard tried, but was told he was a nasty old poofter. He beat a hasty retreat in case the Judge should hear her.
The family doctor gave Harriet another supply of sedatives. He discussed her symptoms with her parents, and put it down to severe depression after the loss of her baby. He did, however, say that if her ‘illness’ persisted she should see a psychiatrist.
Harriet’s condition not only persisted, it grew steadily worse. The climax came when the Judge found her in the kitchen. She was setting two places at the table, and talking in a hideous, high-pitched voice to someone she accused of trying to kill her. The Judge was mortified.
‘Harry, old gel, there’s no one else here but me. It’s four in the morning, why don’t you let Daddy take you back to bed?’
She lunged at her father with the kitchen knife, narrowly missing him. He shouted for his wife, and together they managed to get Harriet back to her room. For what remained of the night they could hear her, crying and shouting jumbled words. She was obviously putting herself through hell.
The next morning she was laughing, cooking eggs and bacon. On the surface it appeared she was suddenly all right again. She ate ravenously, and chattered non-stop about things she wanted to do and places she would like to go to. When Allard came downstairs she teased him and laughed so much the tears rolled down her cheeks. They watched her dancing around, then she thudded back up the stairs to get dressed for a ‘mammoth shopping spree’.
An hour later they found her lying on her bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Judge Simpson arranged an appointment for her in Harley Street with Mr Montague Flynn, a kindly psychiatrist, who diagnosed schizophrenia. He had a long discussion with the Judge, who refused to believe there was anything of that nature wrong with his daughter, insisting it was just depression. Mr Flynn assured him, quietly but firmly, that Harriet’s condition was a little more than that.
‘You see, sir, schizophrenia symptoms are fluid. It’s a changing process, rather than static. Your daughter may demonstrate different signs of her illness from day to day, even hour to hour. She may show different symptoms in different situations. Often diagnosis is difficult, but she has all the classic signs of disordered perceptions — she hears voices that blame her for the death of her child. Her logic is overborne by the strength of her delusions. She has changed radically in the past few months from a happy, outgoing girl to a recluse. She is very self-critical, and exceptionally anxious. Your daughter, sir, needs help, she is crying out for it in the only way she can...’
The Judge blamed everything on his wife and her sister. ‘I have never had any of this kind of trouble in my family, but your sister went off her head when her boys were killed. Runs in the family — your family.’