Winter of the World

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Well, curl up with a good murder mystery and enjoy your evening.’

‘I had a slight tummy pain earlier.’

‘Probably indigestion.’

‘I expect you’re right.’

‘Give my regards to that slob Lowthie.’

‘Don’t drink too much port at your dinner.’

Just as Daisy hung up she got the tummy cramp again. This time it lasted longer. Maisie came in, saw her face, and said: ‘Are you all right, my lady?’

‘Just a twinge.’

‘I have came to ask if you are ready for your supper.’

‘I don’t feel hungry. I think I’ll skip supper tonight.’

‘I done you a lovely cottage pie,’ Maisie said reproachfully.

‘Cover it and put it in the larder. I’ll eat it tomorrow.’

‘Shall I make you a nice cup of tea?’

Just to get rid of her Daisy said: ‘Yes, please.’ Even after four years she had not grown to like strong British tea with milk and sugar in it.

The pain went away, and she sat down and opened The Mill on the Floss. She forced herself to drink Maisie’s tea and felt a little better. When she had finished the drink, and Maisie had washed the cup and saucer, she sent Maisie home. The girl had to walk a mile in the dark, but she carried a flashlight, and said she did not mind.

An hour later the pain returned, and this time it did not go away. Daisy went to the toilet, vaguely hoping to relieve pressure in her abdomen. She was surprised and worried to see spots of dark-red blood in her underwear.

She put on clean panties and, seriously worried now, she went to the phone. She got the number of RAF St Athan and called the base. ‘I need to speak to Flight Lieutenant the Viscount Aberowen,’ she said.

‘We can’t connect personal calls to officers,’ said a pedantic Welshman.

‘This is an emergency. I must speak to my husband.’

‘There are no phones in the rooms, this isn’t the Dorchester Hotel.’ Perhaps it was her imagination, but he sounded quite pleased that he could not help her.

‘My husband will be at the ceremonial banquet. Please send an orderly to bring him to the phone.’

‘I haven’t got any orderlies, and anyway there’s no banquet.’

‘No banquet?’ Daisy was momentarily at a loss.

‘Just the usual dinner in the mess,’ the operator said. ‘And that was finished an hour ago.’

Daisy slammed the phone down. No banquet? Boy had distinctly said he had to attend a ceremonial dinner at the base. He must have lied. She wanted to cry. He had chosen not to see her, preferring to go drinking with his comrades, or perhaps to visit some woman. The reason did not matter. Daisy was not his priority.

She took a deep breath. She needed help. She did not know the phone number of the Aberowen doctor, if there was one. What was she to do?

Last time Boy had left he had said: ‘You’ll have a hundred or more army officers to look after you if necessary.’ But she could not tell the Marquis of Lowther that she was bleeding from her vagina.

The pain was getting worse, and she could feel something warm and sticky between her legs. She went to the bathroom again and washed herself. There were clots in the blood, she saw. She did not have any sanitary towels – pregnant women did not need them, she had thought. She cut a length off a hand towel and stuffed it in her panties.

Then she thought of Lloyd Williams.

He was kind. He had been brought up by a strong-minded feminist woman. He adored Daisy. He would help her.

She went up to the hall. Where was he? The trainees would have finished their dinner by now. He might be upstairs. Her stomach hurt so much that she did not think she could make it all the way to the attic.

Perhaps he was in the library. The trainees used the room for quiet study. She went in. A sergeant was poring over an atlas. ‘Would you be very kind,’ she said to him, ‘and find Lieutenant Lloyd Williams for me?’

‘Of course, my lady,’ said the man, closing the book. ‘What’s the message?’

‘Ask him if he would come down to the basement for a moment.’

‘Are you all right, ma’am? You look a bit pale.’

‘I’ll be fine. Just fetch Williams as quickly as you can.’

‘Right away.’

Daisy returned to her rooms. The effort of seeming normal had exhausted her, and she lay on the bed. Before long she felt the blood soaking through her dress, but she hurt too much to care. She looked at her watch. Why had Lloyd not come? Perhaps the sergeant could not find him. It was such a big house. Perhaps she would just die here.

There was a tap at the door, and then to her immense relief she heard his voice. ‘It’s Lloyd Williams.’

‘Come in,’ she called. He was going to see her in a dreadful state. Perhaps it would put him off her for good.

She heard him enter the next room. ‘It took me a while to find your quarters,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Through here.’

He stepped into the bedroom. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What on earth has happened?’

‘Get help,’ she said. ‘Is there a doctor in this town?’

‘Of course. Dr Mortimer. He’s been here for centuries. But there may not be time. Let me . . .’ He hesitated. ‘You may be haemorrhaging, but I can’t tell unless I look.’