All that was best in her complex nature, compassion and a hitherto undreamed-of capacity for organization, would find an outlet three years later in the war, but she wasn’t to know this then. All she knew now was that she couldn’t go on like this. And nor could Roger. Sometimes when he came to see her he wouldn’t even go into the babies’ room to look at them. He was sick to death of babies and pregnancies.
Among Muriel’s advisers – who were they? – someone must surely have pointed out that if she didn’t make herself more available to Roger and stop drowning herself in nappies and motherhood she might well lose him altogether – and then where would she and her children be?
The strain of living in a manner that was totally against her deepest nature must finally have forced the issue. The instinct for survival, which was to save her so many times in later years, came to her rescue now. Their big decision, the most serious decision that Muriel had ever had to face, must have been made before the birth of their third child. It was carried out soon after. The three children would be brought up apart from Muriel, with Roger as their legal guardian. Everything would be done for their care and happiness, but Muriel would make her life elsewhere. The separation would be absolute. There would be no visiting.
During her third pregnancy Muriel moved, with the twins and the nursemaid, into a flat near Sloane Square, a surprisingly long way from Bow Street. She suffered tortures of shame at her condition and was so fearful of being seen that she only went out for exercise after dark. She used to say that her third child never had a chance because during the whole of the nine months of pregnancy she was lifting the heavy twins in and out of the bath.
I don’t think she ever considered adoption. She was too loyal for that, and too possessive, and it may be that something in her own history made it particularly unacceptable. We were her children, and would remain so, brought up by somebody else.
During the waiting months an old Scottish crony of Roger’s, a Dr Coutts, died rather suddenly. He left a spinster sister aged sixty-six who’d kept house for him for many years, first in Glasgow and then in London. He’d left her penniless except for his effects, furniture and the like.
When Roger mentioned Miss Coutts and her furniture it seemed providential. Muriel had absolute faith in Roger’s judgement; after all, he’d had years of experience in employing people. And he knew how to get things done. As the sister of a doctor Miss Coutts was obviously a suitable person to entrust with children. Roger must now arrange for someone to find a house for Miss Coutts and her furniture and make all the other arrangements. In a little while Muriel would be well again and better able to cope with her life. Lately everything had somehow got out of hand; the problems had snowballed and made her ill. She hadn’t meant things to work out like this. The children wouldn’t suffer, she’d see to that, but for herself there must be a stop. At least for a while.
A house was found near Barnes Common, Miss Coutts’s furniture moved into it, and a household set up to look after the children. This was made up of Miss Coutts herself as housekeeper and cook, responsible to Roger, a trained children’s nurse called Frances, Ellen, an under-nurse, and a cleaning woman.
I was born in the Sloane Square flat on 7 April 1912, around midnight. It was a Saturday night and Muriel’s doctor had confidently gone to the country for the weekend. The baby was not due for at least another week, and the monthly nurse who had been engaged had not yet come. Roger was away on a business trip.
When labour started the nursemaid ran all the way to the doctor’s house for help, leaving Muriel alone in the flat with the twins, and eventually returned, in the nick of time, with a stranger, a young locum on weekend duty. Once again Muriel gave birth with the greatest difficulty. All her confinements were terrible ordeals; she was so ill after the birth of the twins that a fortnight went by before she saw them. This time it was much the same but, unlike the twins who had been so good, I cried and cried from the start.
The monthly nurse moved in and Roger came back from abroad, but it can hardly have been a time for rejoicing; indeed, the distress and confusion in the flat was such that my birth was never registered. Muriel was torn in a hundred ways: she was proud of her beautiful twins and loved them; she loved Roger; she loved all new-born creatures. She wanted to do the right thing, the best thing for everyone. And she had to save herself.
As soon as she was well enough to move, the twins and I were taken away to start a new life in our new home and Muriel left the Sloane Square flat. But before these two events took place the twins and I were photographed with our nurse, all seated in a studio boat. On the back of this photograph Muriel wrote: ‘Nurse had this taken – thought you’d like to see.’
Extract from The Secret Orchard of Roger Ackerley, Chapter 3 © The Estate of Diana Petre, 1975
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