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1895–1898

Edward Handford’s diary, April 1895

The day draws near for Lily’s confinement, and we are both very anxious now. She is so afraid that this baby will not survive, and I cannot comfort her, because she may be right. What if it does not live? And how will Lily bear it if this baby dies? I try to cheer her up by spending time in the garden with her, to keep her mind from morbid thoughts. It is so beautiful here at this time of year, with the spring bulbs bursting with life, and the newborn lambs baaing in Mr Carruthers’ farm. I cannot let myself believe that we will be unlucky again, not at this time of year, not when the whole world is bursting forth with new life …

‘Congratulations, Mr Handford, you have a beautiful baby daughter.’ Doctor Blake came out from Edward and Lily’s bedroom looking tired but triumphant. ‘I’m pleased to report that both mother and baby are doing well.’

It was a hot, sultry evening in April, and Edward felt exhausted from the tumultuous events of the last twenty-four hours when Lily had informed him that the baby was coming. He had wanted to stay with her, to help give her the strength to go on, but convention and the doctor forbade it. Though Edward had been inclined for once to hang convention, when Lily asked him to leave, he could not resist her. He had spent an anxious afternoon pacing up and down, first in the garden, and then outside the bedroom door. The ear-piercing screams that she’d emitted had been harrowing, and it had taken all his resolve not to rush into the room to be by her side. But thank God, it was over.

Finally a child. A baby. Please God, she survived. He didn’t know what it would do to Lily – to them – if they lost this one too. He had longed and longed to take the sadness from her eyes. Now, maybe this baby would finally do it.

‘May I see them?’ Edward said.

‘Of course, but Lily is very tired. She needs rest.’

Edward entered their bedroom. Lily lay in their bed, her black hair straggled behind her, her face pale and pinched. She looked exhausted, but a brief smile crossed her face when she saw Edward. He went to embrace her, and then turned to the midwife, who was wrapping the baby in a shawl, before presenting her to them.

‘Lily, she’s beautiful.’ Edward felt an unfamiliar spasm in his heart as he held the crumpled bundle in his arms. The baby gurgled contentedly, before reaching out and grabbing his finger. He marvelled at the size of that finger next to his own. He felt clumsy, awkward; like a giant holding a beautiful porcelain doll. He knew he would never forget this day, this moment, this meeting, for the first time of the child their love had created.

‘What shall we call her?’ Edward said.

‘I don’t know,’ Lily turned away, as if she couldn’t bear to look at her, ‘but I want her christened quickly, just in case.’

‘Lily, the baby is fine,’ said Edward. ‘Look at her. She’s a beautiful, healthy baby.’

‘But what if she isn’t?’ whispered Lily. ‘What if she dies like the others?’

‘Lily, please don’t talk like that,’ said Edward in distress. ‘You’re tired, overwrought. You need some rest.’

‘But first, the baby needs feeding,’ the midwife said.

Lily looked at her daughter properly for the first time.

‘I’m not sure I can,’ she whispered.

‘Nonsense, every mother can feed her child,’ said the midwife. ‘There’s nothing to it, you’ll see.’

Edward got up to go.

‘I’ll leave you for now,’ he said, ‘and I’ll come back later, I promise.’

At Lily’s insistence, her father was called and Constance Mary Handford was christened within three hours of her birth. But that didn’t seem to satisfy Lily, who was anxious and peevish, and despite her best efforts, totally unable to feed Constance, or Connie as Edward had affectionately named her. Edward sat with them through several long nights, when the baby mewled for lack of food. She was growing weaker daily, and Lily had a set look on her face, sure she was right, and the baby would fail to thrive.

On the third day an exhausted Edward sent out for a wet-nurse, and took over the organization of the care of his daughter; Lily was clearly unable to. He had lost his wife. She had retreated somewhere into a haze of unhappiness and seemed unable to comprehend that she had a living child who needed her attention.

Edward, though, was enchanted with their daughter. As she grew stronger daily, she learnt to smile and laugh and she brought much needed joy back into the house. He was filled with a fierce, protective love that surprised him with its ferocity. But Lily he couldn’t reach. She was so frightened of losing her daughter it appeared she couldn’t learn to love her. All Edward could wish for was time to heal her wounded soul.

As time passed, Connie grew into a lively little girl, who smiled and played and ran everywhere. True to his promise to Lily to plant flowers to mark the births of their children, he’d planted snowdrops in the four corners of the knot garden, for Connie, as a symbol of hope. Lily slowly recovered from her post-birth torpor, and began to engage with the world again. She was often to be found in the garden, picking the heartsease that grew there abundantly and filling in the gaps when plants were lost. But to Edward’s regret, she rarely played with their daughter.

It’s as if she cannot bring herself to love Connie, he recorded in his diary. She is afraid to love her for fear of losing her. So I must love our daughter for both of us.

It was Edward to whom Connie came running when he returned home, when he’d been working away on one of the many gardens he’d been commissioned to landscape. To Edward, that she went crying or calling with her troubles. It was Edward who helped her take her first tottering steps, and listened to her lisp her first words.

Connie rarely bothers her mother, instinctively knowing she is unlikely to look up from the flowers she often draws in the garden and take notice of her. I know that Lily cares for Connie, of course she does, but somehow she cannot manage her in the way that I can. It is as if Lily regards Connie as an exotic creature, somewhat different and distant from herself. I pray in time that will change. But gradually, slowly, my Lily is returning to me. She comes with me regularly into the garden now, and draws plants again, as she once did. Every now and again she laughs at my foibles, and I am reminded of the joy we shared when first we were married, and I am grateful for that at least …

Lily’s diary, May 1898

At last. We have a son. A beautiful, healthy, baby boy. I feel so different this time. When Connie was born, I looked at her little, scrumpled, red face, and my heart was torn in two, so sure was I that she was not long for this world. But despite my fears, she has thrived, is thriving now, and God has seen fit to bless us with a brother for her. A gift that I had not dared hope for. I shall call him Harry after his grandfather. Now I feel my life is complete. After the years of pain and heartache, at last Edward and I have our family, and I can sit in the sunken garden Edward made for me and not feel the need to weep. The sun is shining, summer is here, and my future has been restored to me.