She was only halfway down the room when the pain struck her again, and once more she was kneeling, but on the stone floor now. After a moment, she told herself it was no use, she must go back and lie down on the bed. As Kate said, if it came it came. But oh dear Lord, she wished there was somebody here who could help her.
How many times she had cried out she didn’t know; what time of the day or night it was she didn’t know. The room was in darkness and it was cold and silent. Whenever she broke the silence with an agonised groan or open-mouthed cry, Kate at times would mutter, ‘That’s it. That’s it. ’Tis comin’ strong.’ But most of the time Kate slept as if she was already dead.
At times, she felt that she herself was already dead, for her mind was playing strange tricks on her. She imagined that the house was floating in snow and she opened the door and swam into it, and she swam as well as the boys had done in the dam. Then again she knew she wasn’t quite dead when the pain screwed her inside into knots and brought her knees upwards.
When she heard the scraping on the door she thought it, too, part of her imagination, and even when it grew louder and the noise turned into bangs, she did not fully comprehend what was happening. Not until she saw the weird snow-clad figure bending over her did she realise that help had come. But then once more pain gripped her and she was yelling aloud.
Hal tore off the muffler that was holding his cap in place and threw off an outer coat before at the same time looking wildly round the room. Then running to the fireplace, he got onto his knees and blew the dying embers into a small flame. Within minutes he had piled on wood and had a blaze going. He was about to rise from his knees when he heard her scream again, and he screwed up his face against the sound. He had left the door open to let a little light in, but all it showed of the outside world was a narrow way cut through a six-foot drift of snow.
Before closing the door, he lit a candle; then, hurrying to the bed, he caught hold of her hands, saying, ‘How long have you been like this?’
She made no answer, only tossed her head from side to side. Her stockinged feet were sticking out from the bottom of the coverlet, but when he felt them they were cold. Yet her face was running with sweat.
He looked around him for a moment in bewilderment. This end of the room was dim. There was no table on which to stand the candlestick and he couldn’t get round the other side of the bed because it was against the wall and Kate was lying there. He did not enquire after her, because he had guessed she had drugged herself to sleep to get rid of her pain.
Springing now towards the ladder, he went up it and under the eaves, and there he pulled the clothes off the pallet bed and dropped them through the hatchway. Then he tugged the biscuit mattress from the wooden base and did the same with this.
When once again he was in the kitchen he dragged the pallet to the fireplace and laid it lengthwise to the side of the fire, and he put the bedclothes on it, but before returning to Mary Ellen he thrust the porridge pan into one side of the fire and the water pan into the other. Then going to her, he said gently, ‘Do…do you think you can get to your feet?’
All she could reply was, ‘Oh, Hal!’ and these two words came out on a groan.
‘You’ve got to get to the fire, Mary Ellen. Do you hear me? Look, swing your legs over.’
When again all she answered was, ‘Oh, Hal!’ he pulled the rumpled cover from her and threw it over Kate. Then, thrusting one arm underneath her shoulder and the other below her bent legs, he heaved her upwards and staggered drunkenly to the hearth. There in an effort, he went down on one knee before letting her slide onto the pallet.
He now brought two pillows from the bed and put them under her. She was lying with her feet towards the flames and he pulled off her stockings and chafed the soles of her feet between his rough hands for a moment before looking at her again and saying softly, ‘’Tis gona be all right. ’Tis gona be all right. Can you undo your skirt?’
Her mouth was open, her eyes wide as she muttered now, ‘The pain, Hal. Oh, the pain.’
‘It’ll soon be over, Mary Ellen. It’ll soon be over. Can you undo your skirt?’
When she made no effort to do so his hand went to the band of her skirt. The buttons were at the side and they were undone, but there was no way he could get the skirt off her, and the top of it was taut across the big mound of her stomach, as were her petticoats beneath. He paused for only a moment before running up the room and taking a clasp knife from the pocket of his outer coat, and in a minute he had split the skirt down. But there were the petticoats. One of the tapes was undone, but the bottom one was still fastened and, to his mind, was no doubt restricting her breathing. So he slit the two of them, and when they fell aside there was the mound of her body as he never expected to see it. And when her legs jerked upwards and she let out another piercing scream, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment. Then gripping her hands again, he entreated, ‘Press down all you can. Press down…’
If he said these words once, he said them fifty times during the next hour. He wrung out hot cloths from the boiling water and laid them across her stomach, and she didn’t flinch at the heat because now she was only semi-conscious and growing weaker. Once she looked at him and muttered, ‘Mrs Patterson.’
And he said, ‘She could never get through. But don’t worry, I know what to do.’ He nodded at her; and then he smiled as he said, ‘I’ve had practice. I must have known what was goin’ to happen. I brought a calf into the world yesterday, at least the mother did.’ He kept talking to her now; ‘You should see her, she’s beautiful. Just try to let go, don’t be stiff. Come on now, come on. Mary Ellen’—he moved her face from side to side—‘listen. Listen. You’re gona be all right. Yes, you are, you’re gona be all right. I’ll see to it. D’you hear? D’you hear? You know me, don’t you? Stiff neck, that’s me. Whatever I say I don’t budge from and so you’re gona be all right. D’you hear? I’ve said it, you’re gona be all right.’
Yet when another hour passed he began to have doubts, grave doubts, and once or twice he let them escape, saying, ‘Oh, my God! Mary Ellen, no! Don’t give up. Come on. Come on, lass. You’ve got to live. Even if it doesn’t, you’ve got to live. D’you hear me?’
When an even greater yell than usual rent the room, he saw the child coming into life; but it was himself who groaned when, not the head, but the feet appeared. He talked rapidly now as the nails of her two hands pierced the flesh of one of his, and with the other he reached out and held the little feet, crying excitedly, ‘That’s it! That’s it! Another heave. Come on, another heave.’
She seemed to answer his bidding and the child slid out up to its shoulders, and there it stopped. And now, ‘Oh no!’ he muttered aloud, ‘God Almighty! No!’ He knew what he might have to do and the thought of it was terrifying him. He had seen Farmer Gordon do it to a cow. But this was no cow.
She was gasping now but not crying out. He put his hands between her breasts. Her heart was racing like a millstream. ‘Can you push a little more, Mary Ellen,’ he pleaded, ‘just a little more?’
When she made no response he looked around him as if for help. Then pulling his hand from hers, he let go of the child and, picking up the knife, he plunged it into the boiling water.
Then it was done, but on a scream that tore at his ear drums. And the next instant, there, on both his hands, lay a child, and it, too, screamed.
The sweat was pouring down his face. He bowed his head over the child and his blood-covered hands; then swinging round on his knees, he placed it in the clothes basket that had stood ready to the side of the fireplace before turning back to Mary Ellen.
Gripping her face in his hands and in a voice that was shaking, he said, ‘It’s all right, lass. It’s all right, she’s here. You’ve got a daughter. Listen to her! Listen to her! D’you hear, Mary Ellen?’
She opened her eyes and looked at him, yet didn’t seem to recognise him for a moment, then she said, as she had said often during the last ho
urs, ‘Oh, Hal.’ And he answered, ‘’Tis all over. ’Tis all over. We’ll get you cleaned up. She’ll need a wash an’ all.’ He swallowed deeply. ‘Soon you’ll have some gruel and you’ll be yourself again in no time.’
An hour later the child was washed and wrapped in a blanket and sleeping peacefully. He thought it should be put to her breast but she seemed in no state as yet to feed it. Well, there was plenty of time for that: another hour or so and she’d be ready for it…
Three hours later she still wasn’t ready for it. Her heart was racing, the sweat was pouring from her and she was wandering in her mind. And he was in a state of fear that he had never experienced before. The child had to be fed, and Mary Ellen needed medicine of some kind. But what? There was old Kate over there who had never moved an inch during all this screaming and yelling. For a moment he felt like shaking her awake. Yet he knew that such was her state that she might have already awakened on that distant shore that preachers were always yapping about, from where, once you landed, there was no return.
When the child’s cry turned to a whimper, he tore some linen into strips, rolled one piece round his finger, then tied the end of it into a blob and after dipping it into warm milk pushed it gently into the child’s mouth. And when it sucked hungrily at it he knew some measure of relief. After repeating the process a number of times, it lay quiet again.
He turned to Mary Ellen, saying, ‘Well, I’ve got over that difficulty…Mary Ellen!’ He shook her gently. ‘Mary Ellen! Come on, Come on. Open your eyes. Come on, open your eyes.’
When obediently she opened her eyes, there was a faint recognition in them and she tried to speak, and he whispered, ‘What is it? What is it?’
‘Look…look after her. Look after her, will you? Look after her?’
‘Mary Ellen. Listen.’ He put his arms about her now, holding her up from the pillows. ‘You’re goin’ to be all right. Listen. Don’t let go. D’you hear? For God’s sake, don’t let go! Mary Ellen, look at me! You haven’t got to go. D’you hear me? Because I can’t go on without you. There it is, I can’t go on without you. I’ve said it, Mary Ellen, you’re all I have, or ever wanted. Listen. Listen. You’ve got to hang on. D’you hear? Oh, my God! Don’t go. Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen.’
He put his lips on hers now; then moved them round her face, in desperation muttering all the while, ‘Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen. I’ll stand anything, even you marrying him, only you’ve got to be there. I’ve got to see you. D’you hear? I’ve got to see you. Oh, love, love. Come on, come on, you’ve got this far.’
When a hand came on his shoulder he himself let out a cry now and, his head dropping back he gazed up at the weird figure of Kate tottering above him. Her straggling white hair was loose about her face; her eyes were bleared; her lips looked cracked and her voice was a mere croak as she said, ‘Afterbirth.’
‘What?’ He moved to the side.
‘Afterbirth. Has it come?’
He shook his head in answer but more to himself than to her. That was it. The afterbirth hadn’t come, He had thought he knew all about these things.
He watched the old woman now crumple up on to the settle, then point towards the far wall, saying, ‘Bring the tin box.’
Scrambling from his knees, he did as she had bidden him, and when he placed the box at her feet, she indicated that he should open it. And her hand went straight to a brown bag. Lifting it out, she extracted some leaves, saying, ‘Burn them on the shovel.’
‘Burn them?’
She moved her head and he did what she bade him. Once he had put a light to the leaves, the room became filled with the smell that was like an evil stink. Kate herself now slid onto her knees, and when she was kneeling by Mary Ellen’s head she reached up and took the shovel from him and placed it as close to Mary Ellen’s chin as it would go. Then jerking her head around, she said, ‘Dip your arm up to the elbow in the hot water there, then you know what you’ve got to do.’
He felt stunned for a moment. To bring the bairn was one thing, but that. Well!
As he thrust his arm into the hot water he knew that whatever happened in the future, whether she be alive or dead, or whoever she took, she would be his.
Nineteen
For five days Mary Ellen hovered on the brink of death. On the third day Mrs Patterson had got through from the village, and her pronouncement made Hal yell at her, ‘Don’t say that, woman! She’s got this far.’
Kate kept doping her with her potions, having to drop them drip by drip down her throat. It seemed that the emergency had enabled Kate to throw off her own illness and weakness, for when Hal wasn’t there she scurried backwards and forwards attending to the child. But Hal seemed to be always there. He would disappear for an hour or two, but back he would come, his face rimmed with frost or snow.
When the thaw set in on the fourth day he made his way into Haydon Bridge, and brought back the doctor, not the old doctor, but a new one who, after staring at Mary Ellen, said to her, ‘Why, we have met before haven’t we?’ And from the great blackness she had been swimming in, she seemed to come to the surface for a moment and, peering at the face hanging over her, she recognised the man who had sat to one side of her on the top of the coach, the same that had paved her way to see Roddy. And the strange face kept her on the surface of the blackness for a time, until he said, ‘That’s it. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.’
The young doctor straightened his back and looked at the old crone standing to his side. She was a weird apparition, like a skeleton hung round with old clothes. And she was as strange as was this room, for there, along one wall, were shelves filled with bottles and jars, and bunches of herbs were hanging from every beam in the ceiling. He had heard about people like her, country crones, but she was the first one he had himself come across. Not so many years ago, she would have been one of those that were burnt. He had never seen anyone who looked so old. Yet her voice was strong and her words sensible. ‘She’s been worse, much worse. She’s over it,’ she had said as a consequence of his remarks.
Perhaps she was right, but the girl had a long way to go, she was still very ill.
When she had told him earlier what had happened at the birth, he had thought he had better examine the girl in case she was festering. And having done so and found the cuts clean and healthy, he had thought he couldn’t have done a better job himself. Perhaps he mightn’t have made the incisions so big, but nevertheless, they had evidently been done in time, and had certainly helped to save the girl’s life, as had the removal of the afterbirth.
It was amazing the things that happened in the country. He had thought when he came here a few months ago that he would be bored with the sameness of the life, but hardly a day passed without something unusual happening. Funny incidents, tragic incidents. All around he felt there was tragedy, especially in the coughs of the men working in the lead and smelt mills and coal mines. Some of them would never see middle years. Yet, the poor here were different to the poor in the town, for they were better housed. Oh, yes, indeed, especially around the mill. And they had their good plots of land with animals and vegetables. They wouldn’t go hungry, as did so many in the cities.
One thing he was learning: most of these people were born into a set pattern of life, but those of a strong mind and will could alter it. And in here, in this strange room, there must have certainly been a battle of will a few days ago, for this girl should surely have died if a stronger will than hers hadn’t taken over. And it belonged to that fellow who had asked him to call. No, not asked him, demanded him. He had left him at the door here, saying he had to go and see to his beasts but he would be back. There was one thing certain, if that man had been responsible for the girl’s condition, she would have been married by now. What had happened to the other man, the one who created all that fuss when there were graves opened and a rich farmer was accused of murder?
He said to the old woman, ‘Where is the other young man, the one she came to see in prison?’
The reply
was brief: ‘Away, in London.’
‘London?’
‘Aye, that’s what I said, London.’
He wanted to say: Is he responsible, does he know about the child? But the look in the bleared eyes told him he had asked enough questions, for the present at any rate. And so he left, saying he would call the next day and bring some medicine. And the answer he was given was, ‘Bring some medicine? She has all the medicine she needs.’ But he countered her words and tone with those of authority, saying, ‘Nevertheless, I shall bring her medicine, and you will see that she takes it.’ And her last words to him as he made towards the door were, ‘How d’you think she’s got this far?’ Then she added, ‘Pull the door shut, there’s a wind…’
When Hal returned, she told him what had transpired with the young doctor, and he said, ‘I hear he’s good and knows what he’s about. If he brings her medicine, she’ll have to take it. Understand, Kate?’
And Kate’s voice had the same implication in it as she had given to the young doctor. ‘I’ll do as I think fit an’ best for her,’ she said. Then pointing to an animal that had followed on Hal’s heels, she said, ‘Whose is that?’
Hal turned, a half smile on his face as he looked down on the dog, saying, ‘’Tis mine.’
‘Since when did you have a dog?’
‘Since yesterday. I bought him from an Irish tinker. He was camped out near the old barn. He had his horse in there and three dogs. He’d asked me the previous day if I had any turnips, so I dropped him a few by. And there was Boyo.’ He nodded towards the dog. ‘He looked at me, and if ever a dog spoke, he did. “Take me,” he said, because, as you can see, like the tinker’s horse he had been fed on gypsies’ hay, which, as you know, is the whip. He was the smallest of the three dogs and likely, if there was anything going at all, he came out the worst. So I did a deal, I bought him. Sixpence I paid for him.’
A Dinner of Herbs (The Bannaman Legacy) Page 27