“I tried not to get it wet but it just came off,” she said, holding out the towel to Jean to reveal a jellied smear of dead skin—the mortal remains of Gretchen’s rejected graft.
* * *
Good uses for sour milk. Linoleum or cloth washed with sour milk comes up brighter than with water. Sour milk also makes a good bleach for discolored white fabrics. Wring out articles in water, place in a bowl and cover with sour milk. Leave for forty-eight hours. Wash thoroughly and the articles will be snow-white.
* * *
30
The coal fire in the grate was banked up and glowing a volcanic orange; the discussion in the room was no less heated.
Enthroned behind his massive desk sat Dr. Lloyd-Jones. On the other side of the room—and the argument—were his colleague Dr. Bamber and Hilary Endicott, whose article quoted in the Echo had prompted Gretchen Tilbury’s original letter. Jean sat quietly, listening to the debate and taking notes.
“I think we can at least say that given the results of the serological tests, it has not been possible to disprove the claim by Mother A. Is that fair?”
Dr. Lloyd-Jones alone persisted with this naming convention, though all in the room knew her identity.
“No, it most certainly isn’t. You asked me what criterion would satisfy me that parthenogenesis had taken place and I told you—a successful skin graft from child to mother. This hasn’t been fulfilled and therefore the mother’s claim is disproved. It’s quite simple.”
This was Hilary Endicott, formidable in tweed suiting and brown brogues. She looked as though she would be more at home on a highland grouse moor than in a laboratory, but she had in fact come up that morning from her mock-Tudor mansion in Surrey. Jean, who was both taller and older, nevertheless felt dwarfed in her presence.
“I think the significance of the skin graft is less decisive than you allow,” said Dr. Lloyd-Jones. “It is regrettable, for instance, that we didn’t perform an autograft as a control.”
“Well, indeed,” said Dr. Endicott.
“Another possibility,” Dr. Lloyd-Jones went on, ignoring this barb, “is that one of the antigens that gave rise to the incompatibility might be recessive and only present in the daughter.”
“The skin graft test was not equivocal. It failed in both directions.”
“But all the evidence from the blood and serum tests is consistent with parthenogenesis.”
“Among other possibilities,” put in Dr. Bamber. It was his first contribution to the debate so far.
“Such as?” asked Jean.
If she had to be the one to break the news to Gretchen she wanted to be able to understand as much as possible of the detail. She had na?vely assumed that the tests would provide irrefutable proof one way or another, that science would drive out all ambiguity, but it seemed that even the three most closely involved could not agree.
“Well, consanguineous mating, for instance.”
“You mean incest,” Jean protested, offended by both the idea and the jargon. “There’s never been any suggestion . . .”
“It’s just a for instance,” he replied, holding out his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “I know nothing of the personal background. I am talking as a scientist.”
“This would need to be excluded as a possibility even if the blood types of mother and daughter were very rare,” added Dr. Endicott. “But they are not, which makes the probability of—let’s call it coincidental—consanguinity the greater.”
“Surely”—Dr. Lloyd-Jones’ face was red, the broken capillaries on his cheeks and nose blossoming in the heat—“where the mother presents herself as an example of a virgin birth without any foreknowledge of the confirming blood test results, the validity of her claim is greatly increased?”
“It is persuasive, certainly, but it is not proven,” said Dr. Bamber. “It would be useful to know, for example, how many—if any—cases there are of wholly segregated women—in prisons or asylums, say—reporting the phenomenon. None, as far as we know.”
“If we had data for the number of recorded women-lifetimes without any instances of parthenogenesis that would give us some basis for an estimate of probability,” Dr. Endicott added.
“All this is very fascinating,” said Jean, raking a hand through her hair in frustration. “But where does it leave Mrs. Tilbury? I feel she’s been led up the garden path with all these tests and now even you so-called experts can’t look at the results and come to a consensus. What am I to tell her?”