The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  Leithy had a plump matronly air, a face framed with salt and peppery sandy hair scraped back off her freckles into a loose Victory roll at the nape of her neck. A woman in her late forties perhaps. She always wore a bottle green nursing uniform and a white starched apron which crackled, a watch pinned to her ample bosom.

  Netta followed meekly as if stepping inside a warm cocoon away from all the troubles of the outside world into a special place never to be forgotten. When she left Braeside there would be a baby in her arms. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Rae! I wish you were here, holding the case, fussing over me, trying not to look frightened,’ she whispered to herself. Why did talking to Rae feel like talking to thin air sometimes?

  The pains were coming tighter and harder and it was a struggle to get on to the examination couch in the front parlour. The bustle of everyday business was going on around her in other rooms; Katy Beattie from Stratharvar village was carrying trays up to the first floor, there was the distant cry of infants, the ringing of bells, a smell of Izal and polish, a whiff of steamy washing somewhere.

  Leithy turned her on to her side to examine her carefully, tugging a little. ‘Two fingers dilated, my girl, we’re on the way.’ Then the inevitable happened all over the sheet as the latest dosings took their foul effect.

  ‘Who told you to take castor oil? What a mess, you mucky pup! You could have done quite nicely without it. Netta Nichol, how much have you swallowed?’

  ‘A full bottle,’ she confessed, pink with embarrassment.

  ‘You must be a masochist to get all that down your throat. Go and have a bath now and clean yourself up. Your innards must be red raw. Away with you while I fumigate the room. Silly chump!’

  *

  Not a good start to a long gruelling day. At each stage Netta was prodded and examined and told to relax, but every contraction brought another smelly explosion until she feared plastering the walls with her foolishness. Leithy could see the funny side of it all but the victim was mortified. If only someone had warned her! As for using the pains, that only made matters worse. At regular intervals Leithy would put her cold funnel on the bump and smile confidently. Later she brought in some instruments. ‘I’m going to give the bag a wee snip to break your waters. That’ll hurry it along a bit more.’

  What a splashy, watery business this birthing was. There seemed to be someone else in the next room, giving it great licks, shouting the odds for her ‘mammy’. Leithy patted her hand. ‘You just get on with it in your own way, a good yell never did any harm. It’s funny how men shout for their mammies when they’re injured and lassies when they’re giving birth. Don’t look so anxious, it’s all going splendidly.’

  But Bump was proving stubborn and refused to budge much. Why did no one tell her about this pain? Netta moaned and groaned and tried to get comfortable. Never would she put herself through this torture again. Later in the evening Dr Begg popped his head round the door, his ‘kent’ face familiar and comforting.

  ‘Going to give you another wee snip and put the forceps on the bairn’s head, Netta. You’re both getting tired now. I’ll give you a jag to ease it up a bit.’

  The rest was a blur of pain and pulling, of red hot pokers and strange shapes looming in and out of view. She struggled against the pain. Nothing seemed to be happening and she no longer cared but Leithy stayed close at hand. ‘Come on, Netta, help us one more time – give us all you’ve got. I promise you, not long now… Use your pains!’ At least Peg had got that bit right.

  *

  It was getting light when Leithy drew back the heavy drapes to show a cornflower blue sky. ‘You’ve got a “wee scoot”. Look at him! A healthy boy. He weighs eight pounds and nine ounces, no wonder you had a struggle to push him out!’

  The midwife placed a warm towel-wrapped bundle in her arms and Netta peered down at the wrinkled pink face, the screwed up eyes and shock of thick dark hair. It felt like silk, an old man’s face on a black satin pillow. The odours of warm towels and baby powder would always remind her of that precious time.

  ‘Is he real?’ She smiled with disbelief.

  ‘Aye, a perfect specimen, a real bobby dazzler. Well done!’

  ‘He’s dark like his father… was.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly not a Nichol. I sent a message to Angus and Peg to let them know. No visitors for you the day until you’ve had a good long rest. We’ll just put him to the breast, shall we?’

  ‘Am I doing right? Peg doesn’t hold with the breast…’

  The new mother struggled to raise herself and open the buttons of her nightdress. Leithy manoeuvred the bundle to the nipple. The baby struggled, sniffing blindly for the teat, latched on and began to suck away. ‘Ouch! Oh, my stomach – it’s collapsing! My insides hurt.’

  ‘There’s not much for him yet but what there is will keep him strong. Colostrum is full of goodness,’ urged Leithy. ‘Keep going. It’s nature’s way of closing the womb too.’

  ‘I’m not sure nature took its own course,’ Netta whispered suddenly exhausted by the effort and the tenderness of her whole body.

  ‘With a little help from Begg. You’re a slender lassie and he was a big bull calf. You were lucky we didn’t have to open you. We’ve stitched you up nicely but bed rest for you now, my lady. We want everything ship-shape down below for the next time.’

  ‘Next time? Never! Now I know why no one tells you anything – you wouldn ’t believe it if they did.’ Yet a few minutes later mother and son were lying together, looking out over the Bay, safe and well. As she looked down on that black hair there was a strange feeling of excitement surging through her body. Bump was real at last. Nothing had prepared Netta for this moment.

  Oh, Rae! He’s perfect. I’ll never be lonely again, she thought.

  On The Tenth Day, 1945

  The lemon-coloured dawn radiated across the sea as Netta sat on watch from the safe haven of the bedroom window at Braeside. She had sat all night, the babe sleeping and suckling at her breast, trying to compose a letter to her sewing friend, Vida Bloom, who was living with relatives near to Leeds.

  ‘I have to be strong for both of us now, being just the two of us, we happy breed, we orphans of the night.’ How could she sleep when there so many choices and plans dancing round her mind? Besides it was easier to think when the rest of house was silent. It must all be written down to clear the head of the ideas buzzing round like bluebottles keeping her awake.

  We may take a room and kitchen somewhere in the village. I don’t want Peg fussing over my son. One look at him and they’ll be slaves forever! I suppose a child needs grandparents when he’s fatherless but perhaps we will stay in Dumfries and Wee Alec will find me a job at Kerr’s Gowns and Drapery, but who will mind the baby all day? I suppose we could stay at Stratharvar but I’m not sure about that. Why did I not think of all this before the Bump arrived, when he was tucked up safe and warm inside me? Sometimes I wish I could put him back there or carry him around like an Eskimo all day. He won’t be any bother.

  I wish my own mother was here to guide me, to care for Bump. She would know what to do to keep him safe. I must stop calling him Bump. He is Raeburn Angus Hunter – I shall call him, Ray – born March 20th, 1945 when our victorious army is capturing Germany and this war is almost over. I wish Rae was coming home to help us but he can’t come now. I sometimes hear his voice in my ear whispering, ‘Set the heather on fire, Netta!’ But how can I set heather on fire with a child to support?

  How do you tell your son that he’s fatherless and homeless, that his grandparents don’t approve of his mother? I have to be strong for both of us, you see. I think we should stay right here in this room at Braeside where Leithy can look after us both and I’ll earn my keep carrying trays to the invalids. Another pair of hands would be appreciated here. I can’t sleep for thinking it all over. It’s so wonderful to be a mother, to hold my own flesh tight to my breast all night in case he gets cold. Leithy says I should rest and put him d
own in his canvas cot by my side. But the cot is cold and damp, he might catch a chill. What does she know about babies? She has never married. My ‘Ray of sunshine’ is not like the other babies in the house, he is fatherless and homeless and I must be strong for both of us.

  I wish you could see us here, in the pink, in a room overlooking the bay. It’s like being on holiday: meals brought to my bed. There is colour everywhere, blues, golds and wonderful red curtains, shiny brocade faded to rose pink at the edges where the sunshine has burned through. I sit by the firelight imagining us in our own place. The red is so warm, it fires me with plans. I have to be strong for both of us so, you see, Mrs Bloom, how can I go back to Brigg Farm when there’s so much to organise for little Ray? His bedding, a pram and canopy, a go-chair. I have no time to work. Isn’t it exciting? It takes up all my time just thinking what to do next. I am drinking gallons of milk like a good girl, my breasts need to be full night and day. They are huge and sore and weep for baby so I try and sneak him into my nightie when they’re not looking.

  Leithy doesn’t like me any more and keeps taking him away. She makes me lie in bed on my stomach to flatten the bump. I do not sleep. How can a mother sleep when she has to make plans? There are problems with my widow’s pension. I can’t explain: a matter of a small piece of paper, that’s all. What if my precious milk dries up and he starves? I can’t bear to think that I might neglect him and he might die like Mother and Rae. Please help me and tell me what to do? I am not leaving here until there is somewhere safe to go. Can I come to you? Father doesn’t want us. He never wanted me, only my mother. My head is aching with all the plans hammering away in it. I cannot close my mind. I’m on sentry duty, on guard in case she comes in to harm little Ray. I have to search the room just in case, behind the curtains, under the bed. You never know where the enemy might strike.

  I wish that Peg and Father could love us. They show no delight in him, no tenderness in the holding of him. I cannot bear for them to pick him up in case they soil him. Farms are dirty places, dangerous places for babies to live. Look what the place did to Mother. I do not want to go back there with him just in case. Jean, Jeanette. Raeburn, Rae. See how I copy their names for comfort: the only good and certain things in my life, there’s magic in the very names. I am Jeanette, part of that magic. They’re here beside me, watching us, waiting. Perhaps it would be better if we joined them in heaven. We’d be safe then, what do you think?

  Give my regards to Arnold.

  Yours cheerfully,

  Jeanette and Ray Hunter

  Netta’s head was drooping with exhaustion but she had to stay awake and keep the letters flowing while schemes for her future danced over the clean paper waiting to be pinned down. She would send the Blooms a lock of Ray’s hair and demand a gift for her son; write to the Minister, Reverend Mackay, to get him to baptize the babe quickly in case harm should come; a letter must be sent to Claire McArdell congratulating her on the designs in Harper’s Bazaar – in fact, she would write to all the London designers, to Hartnell and Molyneux and Victor Stiebel, to tell them all about herself and how she wanted to work with beautiful clothes if only as a pin-picker in their sewing department. Then they could go south and find work perhaps or emigrate to New York and join Miss McArdell’s team.

  Somewhere over the rainbow ‘I’ll save up our fares, Ray. The Minister will help us when he calls but not Leithy.’ Netta no longer trusted the nurse any more, why did she keep taking the baby away? Was there something wrong with him? Leithy kept putting him in the kitchen with the other newborns in cribs, among the smoke and the fumes to catch germs from dirty washing, and Hector in the garden. Ray must not leave their room.

  *

  They were whispering as if she wasn’t there in the room. ‘I don’t like to worry you both but Netta’s not quite herself today. Come away into the parlour, Peg, take a pew. I’ll get Katy to bring you some tea. No visitors today, dear, you’re too much on edge.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Angus pulled his pipe from his lips and made for his baccy pouch.

  ‘She was fine yesterday, her milk’s flowing well, but she’s too chippy and excitable for my liking. I would expect the tears and doldrums by now. Mothers always have a good greet when the milk comes in, but Mrs Hunter just chatters away to herself and the baby as if he understands every word she’s saying – never leaves him alone. She’s spoiling him already. I tell you, Angus, I’ve seen this once before and I’ll have to get in Dr Begg to calm her down with something. See if she can sleep it off.’

  ‘Can we see the wee lad then?’ asked Peg, who was enjoying her visits to the maternity home and the sight of the tiny creatures in their cots. ‘I did notice Netta seemed awful clingy with him.’

  ‘What’s more worrying is she’s no sleeping when I take him away, but sits writing letters to all hours of the night which Katy has to post – writing letters all over the country. I just don’t like the look in her eye. Call it intuition if you will. She had a hard birth and recovered well. We were pleased with how she’d taken to the baby at first – not all mothers do. Now her temperature’s up and her pulse is racing. Complete bed rest and sleep is what I’ve ordered but we find her coming downstairs hunting for the baby, naughty girl, disturbing the other patients and pacing the floor at night, don’t we?’ She glared in Netta’s direction.

  ‘What are you saying, Sadie, is she ill then?’ Peg was alarmed at the nurse’s serious expression.

  ‘Let’s put it this way: I’ll keep a close eye on her but she may have to go to the hospital if she doesn’t calm down. I haven’t the time to spare, we’re fully stretched as it is. I’ll speak to Dr Begg and let you know but I’m warning you now just in case…’

  ‘In case of what?’ snapped Father.

  ‘In case you and Peg have to take the bairn in for a while. If she goes into hospital, they won’t take her child. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘She wouldn’t harm the wee mite? Oh, Netta, that’s dreadful. Of course we’ll see to him, won’t we, Angus? What’s brought all this on, my girl?’ Peg rounded on Netta in the bed, who turned her face into the pillow.

  ‘We don’t know, do we… don’t get alarmed, it may be nothing that a few knock out drops won’t sort out. A big sleep and she’ll be as right as rain. No need to look on the dark side. I just wondered if there was anything in the family… er, you know, that might be useful for doctor to know?’

  ‘He’s been around long enough to know the Nichols are sound stock. As for Jeanie’s parents… they were artists, a bit vague but kindly. Are you suggesting…?’

  ‘I know Netta’s always had her head in the clouds. Now her husband’s another matter. We’ve heard strange tales of his stock. I suppose you never can tell with an artistic temperament. I hope this isn’t going to be blabbed all round Stratharvar, that our Netta’s going off her head?’ Peg stood up to check the door was closed.

  Netta hung her head, not understanding their meaning but catching the tension. She was doing something wrong but what was it?

  ‘I did not say that, Mrs Nichol. Netta’s had more than her fair share of troubles. Her mind is worn out with worry, and worry blunts the blade. All she’s needing is a good rest, that’ll do the trick, I’m sure. Now, no more worrying, young lady. I take it you’ll have the bairn?’

  ‘We’ll do our duty, though we’ve nothing prepared. We thought she would be going her own road once the bairn was born but she was a bit vague about her plans, wasn’t she, Angus?’

  The farmer was deep in thought sucking on his empty pipe. ‘What’s that you’re saying? You’ll have to do the looking after it, Peg. I’ve no time, it’s up to you.’

  ‘It’ll only be for a week or two until we get her rested. Once things have settled down she’ll take over again, I’m sure. Go and fetch their grandson, Netta, let them have a wee peek.’

  Netta went downstairs on leaden feet. Why were they taking her baby away? What was wrong with him… was he ill? She breezed into the kitchen
and took the sleeping child, sneaked outside into the garden in her dressing gown. Soon her slippers were soaked and it was starting to rain.

  Down the path she slithered and out of view of Braeside, darting across the coast road, sheltering the baby from the rain. Fire was burning in her head but the water only cooled her brow. ‘I have to be strong for both of us, Bump. We must not stay where there’s danger. I saw them all plotting with her. We have to get away while there’s still time. They think I can’t cope on my own, they want to take you from me, but we shan’t let them. They can’t catch me for a penny cup of teal’

  The overgrown path was prickly and squelching with mud, her slippers were sodden and the dressing gown clung to her sweating body. The wind felt exhilarating on her cheeks but whipped at her clothes and the baby was stirring. ‘Walk on, Netta, walk on to the sea. Bump wants to see the beach.’ There would be a rocky outcrop where they could hide to watch the tide racing in towards the fishing harbour. She loved this shore and its tangle of seaweed. So many memories to share together. She was looking for Rae. It was time he came to collect them…

  Why was there so much clutter and so many fence posts? Why were they boarding up the beach where the purple shells and cowries lay and all the Gulf Stream flotsam treasures waited for them to explore? ‘We’ll play pirates and coral islands, there’s so much I want you to see.’ Netta smiled as she lifted the baby. Why were the rain and those sheds spoiling the view? KEEP OUT, DANGER. How dare they stop our fun! We want to play sandcastles and fish in the rock pools. I don’t like this place anymore, where am I? thought Netta.