When the Dawn Breaks

by Emma Fraser

  ‘Now, little man, what’s your name?’ Maud asked.

  ‘Johnny,’ the girl answered for him.

  ‘And your name is…?’

  ‘Patricia.’

  ‘How old is Johnny, Patricia?’

  ‘Not sure, Miss. Five, I think.’

  Five! The child looked no more than three.

  ‘Could you open your mouth, Johnny, so the doctor can have a look inside?’

  Johnny clamped his lips together and shook his head. It was the first deliberate movement he’d made since Isabel had entered and she was heartened. If he’d been completely unresponsive it would have indicated that they were probably too late.

  But Isabel didn’t need to look in his mouth to know that the child was suffering from starvation. The textbooks advised wholesome food and fresh vegetables, but how was this child to have them?

  Isabel turned to the sister. ‘Where are your mother and father?’

  Patricia seemed frightened.

  Isabel tried a smile. ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I need to admit your brother to hospital for a few days so we can make him strong. But, first, I need your father’s permission.’

  ‘I can look after Johnny, Miss. Just tell me what I need to do.’

  Isabel straightened. ‘You can’t look after him. It seems to me that you can both do with some nourishing food. When did either of you last eat?’

  ‘Don’t know, Miss,’ Patricia mumbled.

  Isabel was at a loss.

  Maud crouched in front of the girl. ‘Are they gone, love?’

  A tear ran down the girl’s cheek and she nodded.

  ‘When?’ Maud persisted.

  ‘A month ago. It was the typhus. Please, Miss, don’t tell the parish. They’ll make us go to the poorhouse. Then me and Johnny will be separated.’

  ‘But if you can’t get enough food, you can’t stay on your own,’ Isabel said.

  Maud took Patricia’s hand. ‘I know it’s frightening, but it’s the best place for you and Johnny. You’ll get enough to eat and a bed to sleep in.’

  ‘They’ll take Johnny away from me, Miss, and give him to someone else. Please, Miss, he’s all I got now.’

  Maud and Isabel shared a look. The child was right. Even in his emaciated state, Johnny was an angelic-looking child. The workhouse routinely fostered out children under eight and there would be no shortage of people willing to take the boy. Isabel also knew that, once the novelty of having a sweet-faced child had worn off, the children were often unceremoniously returned to the poorhouse. It wasn’t a good system, but it was the best they had.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that for the moment,’ Maud said. ‘Why don’t we take you and your brother in here for a few days and get your strength up? Then we’ll see what’s to be done. In the meantime, I’m going to give Johnny some milk and ask one of the nurses to give you both a bath.’

  The girl looked doubtful.

  ‘Johnny needs to be looked after,’ Isabel said firmly. ‘You’ve done the best you can, but he needs more than you can give him. You see that, don’t you?’

  One of the nurses came to fetch Isabel and she had to leave the children in Maud’s care. When she’d decided to be a doctor, she’d thought she would be curing people and sending them home. Of course, there had been many times when she had done just that, but more often she was fighting an enemy that wouldn’t respond to her medical skill: poverty. The people she’d seen on Skye with her father had been poor, but they had always had enough to eat. And there was always an adult willing to look after a child, even if it meant stretching what little they had to the barest minimum. On days like today, she missed Skye terribly, although she knew she would never return. The island was spoiled for her.

  She was kept occupied for the next few hours, setting bones, dressing wounds and ordering patients’ treatments. Often she’d have to retire to the small room to do her tests or mix a bottle of medicine.

  Eventually the patients had all been seen and the porter had closed the gates.

  Maud came to find Isabel in the doctors’ room where she was writing up her notes. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d love one. How’s Johnny?’

  ‘In the children’s ward with his sister. Don’t know how long they’ll stay, though. Someone from the workhouse is coming to see them tomorrow.’

  Maud must be tired, Isabel thought. The nurse had started her day at five thirty that morning and now it was eight in the evening. She knew the nurses got very little time off, but she looked almost as fresh as when Isabel had first seen her this morning. ‘How do you do it, Nurse Tully, seeing children like Johnny and his sister day after day and then that girl with the incomplete abortion? She’ll die, you know, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.’

  ‘We can’t think like that,’ Maud said cheerfully. ‘We can only do our best. Patch them up and send them on their way. Anyway, I won’t be doing it for much longer. I’ve joined the Scottish Women’s Hospital. I’ll be on my way soon enough to France or Serbia or wherever they decide to send me.’

  Isabel had heard the rumours. When war had first broken out, Dr Elsie Inglis had approached the British Army and offered her services. Apparently she’d been turned away but, undaunted, had immediately sought out the French and Serbian governments and offered herself and her unit – to be staffed entirely by women. They had both, it was reported, accepted immediately. Now she was touring the country, recruiting.

  ‘Do they still need doctors?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d say so. Look, Dr Inglis is speaking in Edinburgh tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come with me and hear what she has to say?’

  Isabel was intrigued. Going to war would give her so many opportunities to advance her surgical knowledge, opportunities that simply weren’t available here. She’d be in Europe, helping the wounded soldiers, and in the same continent as Maximilian, doing the same as he was. And maybe she would see Andrew.

  A thrill ran down her spine. She knew she had to go.

  ‘Count me in,’ she said. ‘I only hope that they haven’t filled all the positions already.’

  Chapter 23

  Isabel had to push her way through the throngs lining the Royal Mile. If she hadn’t been expected at the hospital, she would have joined the crowd as they cheered the regiment, which, with pipers in front, was marching towards Waverley station. Even the drizzle and cold autumn wind didn’t dampen their enthusiasm. Most of the women were laughing as they tossed flowers into the path of the soldiers. But some were running alongside, crying and reaching out for a last touch of a loved one’s hand.

  It was incredible how excited everyone was by this war. Didn’t they know that many of the men marching down the road with embarrassed smiles on their faces would never return? Hadn’t they read the papers? The fighting was worse than anyone had expected.

  But the truth was, she was excited too. In a month she would be joining a unit of the Scottish Women’s Hospital in Serbia. Dr Inglis had agreed to take her. There would be no pay for junior doctors and Isabel was expected to finance her own journey but, if she could fund herself, Dr Inglis had said she would be glad to have her.

  The money wasn’t a problem. It might have been if she’d had to rely on George, but Isabel still had some of what her father had left her. Would he be proud of her for going to war? Or would he be sorry that she was following in his footsteps? She remembered only too well how his face had darkened when he’d talked of his time in the Boer War.

  An officer picked up a child in his arms and tossed it into the air. The crowd roared its approval. Another soldier wrapped his arm around the waist of a young woman, who giggled and looked at her friends in triumph.

  The sound of boots on cobbles added their beat to the wail of the bagpipes. As the men disappeared down George IV Bridge, they were followed by the crowd. For a few minutes the street was quiet. Then the carriages and carts trickled back onto the road, and shopkeepers brought out their stalls. Business
as usual. There might be a war but, as everyone kept saying, life had to go on.

  Chapter 24

  Jessie was roused by banging on her door. Although only half awake, she knew it would be someone looking for the howdie. Inevitably word had spread that she was a nurse with midwifery experience and, decent midwives being in short supply on this side of town, the women called her whenever they needed help. With Seamus gone, the work kept her from drowning in grief, although every time she held a newborn her heart would break all over again. At least every baby she saved made up, just a little, for losing Seamus.

  Quickly, so that the banging wouldn’t wake Tommy, Jessie jumped out of bed, shivering as her bare feet hit the cold floor. Her home suffered from chronic damp that no amount of heat from the stove could banish. Picking up her shawl and wrapping it around her shoulders, she opened the door to find a barefoot lad there, wearing a cap and breeches. He was hopping from foot to foot and blowing on fisted fingers in a futile attempt to keep warm. ‘Are you the baby woman?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Is it your mam?’

  The lad nodded. ‘She says can you come. But you have to be quick.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Jessie asked, without much hope that she’d recognise it. She was always trying to get the women to tell her as soon as they knew they were pregnant, but for many reasons, mainly money, or lack of it, few did.

  ‘Mrs Morrison.’ The boy stopped hopping for a few minutes. ‘We’re on Water’s Close. Number sixteen. The top flat. Could you hurry, Miss? Mam’s making an awful noise.’

  ‘I know where it is. You run back. Make sure there’s a big pan of water on the stove. Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I’m dressed. Off you go, now.’ She gave him a gentle push and closed the door. Water’s Close, on Water Street, was one of the poorest tenements in Leith and was often referred to with cynical humour as Rotten Row.

  Jessie lit a candle and Tommy stirred in his sleep. Over the last months he’d become used to her being called out at all hours. At first he’d protested that he didn’t want his wife to work, but when she’d turned on him, telling him she had to do something to stop herself thinking about Seamus, he’d relented.

  When she’d first started attending births, Tommy would wake up and watch her as she got dressed. Sometimes, wanting to make sure she was safe, he’d walk her to the house. But since Seamus’s death something had changed between them. They had become awkward with one another, afraid to speak of Seamus, too careful not to talk about the things that mattered, and eventually he’d stopped coming with her. It was just as well. There was nothing he could do and he needed all the sleep he could get before his twelve-hour shift down at Leith docks.

  He rolled over and she pulled the blanket over his lean, work-hardened body.

  Once she had enjoyed making love to Tommy. She had never felt closer to him than when they were in their bed wrapped in each other’s arms. On a Saturday night, when they were first wed, she would fill the tin bath with hot water from the stove. He would strip off his clothes, his white skin a startling contrast to the dirt on his arms and face, and she’d soap his back and neck. Although she liked the smell of grease on him, she always insisted that he bathed to be ready for church the next morning. Sometimes, when she was washing him, he would reach out for her and pull her on top of him. She would protest, but he would carry on removing her wet clothes, item by item, while kissing her and touching her body in the way he knew she liked most and found impossible to resist. When they were both naked he would take her to bed and afterwards they would lie together and talk for a while. Then he would get dressed again, in clean clothes although not his Sunday best, and go out to join the other men at the public house, leaving her to her cleaning and baking, or whatever else she had to do in preparation for the Sabbath.

  Not that there had been much love-making since Seamus had died. She kept pushing him away, protesting that she was too tired, but the truth was she couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another child into the world only for it to die. She couldn’t rely on the methods her mother had told her stopped babies coming. If they were any use, women wouldn’t keep having babies when there wasn’t space or food for the ones they had. No, the only way to stop having babies was not to make love. But that was part of being married.

  She still loved Tommy, of course she did, but the distance between them had only grown when, a week ago, he’d told her he’d volunteered for the army. How could he even think of leaving her when she was still grieving for their dead child?

  It took her only a few minutes to pull on her heavy dress and stockings. She always kept her bag ready so there was no need to check it. She tucked her hair into a cap, shrugged into her coat and kissed Tommy’s unshaven cheek. Then she let herself out of the room and stumbled downstairs.

  Outside, the gas lamps gave off a ghostly light. The smoke from the coal fires of thousands of homes shrouded what little light the lamps gave off in a dense fog that rarely lifted on this side of Edinburgh. It made Jessie long for the blue mountains and clear, sharp air of Skye. Maybe if they’d lived there Seamus wouldn’t have died. But there was no point in thinking like that. All the wishing in the world wouldn’t bring her baby back. She pulled her coat tighter and peered into the smog. She knew these streets well, having attended dozens of births over the last few months.

  As her heavy brogues beat a rhythm on the cobbles in the silent street, she wondered what would face her when she got to Water’s Close. Mrs Morrison clearly had one child already, the lad who had come to rouse her, and he was at least seven, which meant there would likely be another three, possibly four children. That was good. First babies were the worst. You never knew with them. But if a woman had successfully delivered once, there was no reason to think she wouldn’t do so again.

  A lot depended on how the mother had looked after her health. The money she was given at the end of the week, after her man had been to the public house, was little enough and most used what was left to feed and clothe their children. A large number of the women had rickets from their own undernourished childhood. Rickets was bad. A twisted, malformed pelvis made it difficult – sometimes impossible – for them to give birth.

  Mrs Morrison’s son was waiting for her on the step of the close. He’d been joined by three other children. A girl, no more than five, held a baby in her arms, while a grizzling toddler huddled into the crook of the boy’s arm.

  ‘Have you not asked one of your neighbours to take you in?’ Jessie asked. It was far too late for the children to be out on the street. One of the few advantages for families living squashed together in the tenements was the camaraderie that existed among the women.

  ‘My da said not to,’ the boy answered. ‘He had to go to work, but he told us to wait here until you came.’

  Jessie crouched by his side. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Billy. And that’s Annie holding Baby.’ He nodded towards the little boy at his side. ‘This one’s called Charlie – you know, after the prince.’

  ‘You can’t stay out here, Billy,’ Jessie said. ‘It’s not safe. Come on, let’s go and knock up one of the neighbours.’

  Billy looked frightened. ‘I told you, Da said not to. He says they’re nothing but a load of nosy bitches.’

  Jessie knew what that meant. No doubt Da was used to giving his wife a few slaps to stop her asking for money. Mostly the other women kept their noses out of family squabbles but occasionally one or two would have a go at the husband. But Jessie wasn’t going to let Da get in the way of making sure the children were looked after for the night. Depending on how the birth went, it could be hours before they were allowed back inside. However, with barely enough room in the one-roomed flats for a bed and a couple of chairs, it would be impossible for Jessie to work with four children under her feet. And it wasn’t good for children as young as this to hear their mother scream with the pain of pushing a baby out.

  Jessie knocked on the first door at the top of the steps leading into t
he close. After a few minutes it was answered by a large woman with a disgruntled expression. ‘Whit is it?’ she asked. ‘Do ye not know it’s the middle of the night?’ She peered at Jessie, then gave a resigned sigh. ‘You’re the midwife? You’ve come for Agnes. Is it her time?’ She glanced over Jessie’s shoulder and noticed the children. ‘Yous better come away in, then. It could be a while before your mammy can let you back.’

  As the silent children trooped inside, Jessie picked up her bag again.

  ‘Are you needing help?’ the neighbour asked.

  ‘I’ll call down if I do,’ Jessie said, with a smile. Behind the grumpiness, it seemed there was a soft heart. ‘Thanks for taking the children.’

  ‘Aye, well. She’d do the same for me. It’s him I cannae stand.’

  None of this reassured Jessie. With a bit of luck the baby would come long before Agnes’s husband was back from work.

  Jessie knocked on the door and let herself in. The room, lit by a single lamp, was in almost complete darkness. Only when she moved closer to the bed could she make out a woman with dark hair and resigned eyes. ‘Thank Christ you’re here,’ Agnes Morrison said. ‘I don’t think it’ll be long now, but it hurts like buggery.’

  Judging by her red face and the drops of sweat on her top lip, the contractions had to be strong and she wasn’t far from delivering.

  As Jessie unpacked her bag she took in the surroundings. The room where Agnes lived with her husband and four children was no bigger than Jessie’s, and hers was cramped enough with only the two of them.

  But Jessie knew that Agnes would cope as most women did, some with considerably more children – up to ten in some families. As many as five would share the only bed and the others would make do with pull-out beds in the space that served as sitting room and kitchen. In the morning, the beds would be put away and the children sent out to play while the women got on with the endless chores of washing, cooking and cleaning. It was likely that this newest baby would sleep in a drawer until it got too big. After that it would join the parents in the bed, while the older infant was allocated the floor, most often in an empty orange-crate. These women were used to making do. If only they didn’t have so many children perhaps they’d have a chance at a better life, but the men would never stop demanding their rights, and as long as they did, the women would carry on getting pregnant.