It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife!

by Jane Yeadon

  ‘She’ll not be going back there herself. I’ll guarantee that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Seonaid. ‘That postcard must have had you curious.’

  His gold tooth brightened the rear-view mirror as he chuckled. ‘Well at least hers was satisfied because she now knows about pipers because, what she meant was, she’d Found Out! ’

  As if in glee, he accelerated, but in an engine roar, cloud of black smoke and smell of burning rubber, the car ground to a halt.

  Raymond and his car had plainly made Seonaid confident in all manner of mechanical problems. ‘That’s a flat tyre.’ Getting out, she’d pointed to a rear wheel.

  Heaving himself out after her, the old farmer inspected it then went to the front. ‘No. Look! It’s this one.’ He kicked a tyre, which by comparison was only marginally flatter.

  He was philosophical as, tightening the string round his old raincoat , he readied for action. ‘It’s a good thing I’ve a spare and we’re near town. See!’ He waved in the direction of a collection of lights. ‘That’s Monaghan. It’s an easy enough walk to the centre.’

  Despite Colette putting away her powder puff, joining in our combined wish to help and producing a nail file, he was clear that was as surplus as we’d all become. ‘Your relations will be looking for you. You can catch up with them at a phone box near Kelly’s Bar. It’s in the middle of town. And may the saints look after ye.’

  With a last twinkle of gold he turned to more important matters.

  From a slow traipse into town lightly interspersed with Irish drizzle and sisterly skirmishes we were about to be jerked into a world of music and laughter. It might be getting late but, judging by the light and noise spilling from Kelly’s Bar, time was irrelevant. We must be over the border.

  Despite Southern Ireland’s reputed leisurely approach to time I glanced at my watch. ‘I doubt we’ll get much further tonight. Galway will have to wait until tomorrow. I wonder if they’ve rooms here. Let’s ask.’

  Colette was scandalised. ‘Are you mad? Don’t even think about it. You must’ve forgotten me saying we’ve relatives near here. We’ll just stay with them.’

  Seonaid looked dubious. ‘I know, but we haven’t seen them for over five years. And then there’s Benny …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Colette’s confidence was awesome – maybe it was her blonde hair or top job in the typing pool. ‘All the more reason they’ll be pleased to see us. Now, have you change for the phone? I haven’t any loose Irish money.’

  ‘Ach! Colette – d’you ever spend money of your own?’ Seonaid asked, banging coins into her sister’s hand and opening the pub’s door. ‘We’ll be where the action is. Look, there’s your man’s telephone kiosk,’ she said, pointing to a booth nearby. Even in the dark, it was visibly a startling green. ‘Use that. Say we’re just passing but we’d love to catch up with them and is there any chance of a lift, we’ve forgotten where they actually stay.’

  I figured it might be as hard for them to find us. Kelly’s was so smokefilled and crowded it made visibility eye-stingingly poor. Still, there was no problem locating the music. The place was alive and throbbing with sound.

  There was a small stage with a group of young men in leather waistcoats on it. Accompanied by flutes, whistles and fiddles they were giving soul and heart to ‘The Rocky Road To Dublin’. Unable to keep up with the words, the audience foot-stamped and handclapped with a sound so exuberant, had there been room, we should all have been dancing. As it was, Seonaid did her best. The floor rocked, lamps swung in the swirling smoke and flying barmen crashed full glasses over the bar counter. Guinness contents foamed, brown and creamy, their colours matching the walls.

  ‘Whack follol de rahl!’ The group ended the song with a flourish – a pity since a shout of ‘Three orange juices’ was heard clearly in the lull following the performance.

  ‘A Scot! Can ye sing as well?’

  ‘No. Not unless you want your bar emptied,’ I said, carefully reversing from the counter.

  ‘If she won’t I will. I know the words of “I Belong to Glasgow”,’ an old woman cried and, jutting a formidable chin and patting her curls in place, stood up.

  ‘No! Molly—’

  Her partner caught at her raincoat, but too late – Molly had escaped. Using finely-honed elbows she cut through the crowd, climbed onto the stage, grabbed the microphone and after a few sepulchral coughs, was off.

  She was certainly confident. Then, after delivering a few massacred notes, she meandered towards a higher octave. As if to help her reach it a waggish barman stole behind her and made a cranking gesture.

  The crowd erupted but, oblivious, Molly ground on, ‘Glasgow’ getting further away by the minute and Harry Lauder probably turning in his grave.

  Seonaid said, ‘You can tell her heart’s in it.’

  ‘If not her voice.’ Colette had joined us. ‘Bet you could do better than that, Jane. She’s terrible. Go on! I dare you.’

  I saw the conspiratorial look exchanged between the sisters and felt uneasy.

  ‘Not likely and I mean not likely.’

  At last, Molly ground to a halt and to tumultuous applause was helped off and back to her chair.

  One of the barmen looked around. ‘Now where’s the Scots lass? I’m sure she’s something to sing about too. Her friends tell me she’s a great wee voice.’

  Suddenly made aware that the loneliest place in the world can be somewhere crowded, I cast around for an escape route.

  ‘Come on, Scotty!’

  The only place worse was the spot so recently vacated by Molly and which the expectant crowd was now bent on my filling.

  24

  A HOMER!

  Benny might have looked like a shy, middle-aged farmer, but actually he was a hero with impeccable timing. He’d arrived just as I’d crumbled under the pressure of the crowd’s good-natured insistence.

  ‘Come on, girl! Just a wee tune now! Sure you can do it. Don’t tell us you’ve come all the way from Scotland not to sing a wee tune?’ The stamping of feet and genuine enthusiasm was overwhelming.

  I only knew the words of ‘The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen’. Had my city’s abortion centre, typhoid-harbouring image crossed the border? Certainly its song, produced in a voice that would have given Molly diva status, made an impending disaster inevitable. Yet the crowd persisted. Slowly I headed towards centre stage.

  Then came Benny’s voice. Even if it was as soft and gentle as the west wind, it carried. ‘I’ve come to collect three girls, but I’m in a hurry. One of my pigs is farrowing.’ He advanced towards the bar counter then drummed enormous fingers on it. ‘And I’ll take some beer home with me. Seven cans please.’

  With the urgency a midwifery team would have accorded a prolapsed cord, the crowd backed off. Maybe the rich aroma coming from Benny’s farm boots played a part, but nobody stopped us leaving.

  We hurried after the enormous can-clinking figure heading towards a ramshackle pickup van.

  ‘You keep Benny company in the front and we’ll just pile in the back,’ urged Colette, shoving Seonaid before her. A wind had risen, chasing away the rain and, as the door slammed behind her, causing us to lose what might have been an animated reply. The hat’s pigtails went into the blur you get when something’s shaken vigorously enough.

  ‘At least she can see out,’ I said, cut off from the front by a metal partition and climbing into a space resembling a sardine tin. ‘Have we far to go?’

  ‘No. I don’t think it’s far from here.’ Colette was breezy. ‘But it’ll give Seonaid a chance to catch up with Benny.’

  ‘You seem anxious she should,’ I said. ‘You’re not trying to hook her up with him are you? Even if he’s a saviour with great timing, look at that beer he’s bought. He might be a bit of a drinker and anyway, he must be your cousin.’

  But Colette just laughed and wouldn’t say anything until we arrived at the farm and then it was just to make the introductions to Cou
sin Bridgit whose bright welcome chased away all our tiredness.

  ‘And you’ll be staying the night, of course. I’ve made up beds for you.’ She’d the kindly way of a bossy big sister. ‘Now you just make yourselves at home.’

  She’d hardly finished speaking before Colette and Seonaid were sitting, already slippered, before a peat fire Bridgit had coaxed into action. Confronted by flames flickering gentle shadows on the quiet walls and a sofa’s sagging comfort I was tempted to join them.

  Instead, intrigued by the old farmhouse with its long mysteriouslooking corridor, pitch pine-panelled walls and plain furniture sitting sturdy on stone floors, I followed Bridgit and offered help.

  She bustled about the kitchen, clattering dishes with a chef’s expertise. Benny was lucky. Bridgit, with her bright eyes and managing way, must be a great asset to any place, not to mention this one. I said so.

  ‘If only Benny’d find a wife,’ she sighed, ‘then I could find out. But where in the wide world’s he going to find one?’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘I’d go to England.’ Her eyes shone as if she were talking about the end of a rainbow. ‘I’d join the rest of the family. They’ve all done well over there.’

  ‘We’ve crofter bachelors at home,’ I said, ‘and they seem to manage fine, and if they don’t, they buy help.’ Bridgit looked thoughtful, as if it was a radical concept. I reckoned Benny would think so too, but he’d sped off into the night saying Verity needed his help.

  ‘Ah, sure but she’s not doin’ too well.’ Bridgit sighed and flapped her hands by her sides in frustration. ‘That pig’s an overfat, lazy, ungrateful oulde sow. I’m thinkin’ she’s forgotten she’s havin’ anything but a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Could I go and see? I’m from a farm myself.’

  ‘And here training in midwifery.’ Colette’s voice came floating through. ‘Two midwives! How’s that for timing? And hey, Seonaid! You should go too. You might pick up some tips.’

  Verity’s sty had a cosy feel conspicuously lacking in the Royal’s labour ward. I don’t suppose labouring women would have appreciated a straw bed, but there was a simple, uncomplicated feel to the place they might have preferred. An overhead-heating lamp gave it such a rosy glow it made you want to nestle up with the patient. She, however, merely gave us a measured look and grunted.

  Plainly Benny felt we were surplus to requirement. He addressed his remarks to Verity, but she ignored him in much same way as he disregarded us. ‘Come on now, Ver. You told me you were ready. And now you’re just lying there. It’s time you were moving.’ He stroked her ear as if to encourage her listening skills. Verity shifted restlessly. If she’d been a woman she’d have slapped his hand.

  ‘I think she’s getting bothered.’ Bridgit had arrived with a bottle of Fairy Liquid. She thrust it at her brother. ‘Here! You’ll need this.’

  Benny looked doubtfully at us then consulted Verity. ‘I’m hoping you don’t mind an audience. The ladies might be thinking I’m a bit bold, but I’ll need to find out what’s happening inside.’

  Throwing herself into the spirit of the dialogue, Seonaid bent down. ‘Don’t you be worrying about us. You’d never imagine what us girls have seen already.’ She sounded competitive.

  Benny went as pink as Verity. ‘Oh well, here we go. Steady, girl!’ Soaped from his hand to the armpit and all but disappearing, he reached up the pig’s rear.

  A couple of barn cats, drawn by the activity, arrived, took a ringside seat, pulling their tails about their feet as if cold, but giving Verity and her warming lamp a respectful space.

  Colette would be far more comfortable. Since farrowing knowledge wasn’t a clerical requisite it meant she could stay inside toasting her feet by a fire and putting night cream on a flawless complexion instead.

  She was spared a dead pig.

  ‘Cord round the neck!’ Seonaid was shocked. ‘Ah God!’ She was on her knees and spoke with such pity, for a moment I thought she might perform the last rites.

  ‘Don’t!’ Maybe so did Benny.

  But Seonaid was scrambling back. This was very sensible given that Verity’s maternal instincts might at last be galvanised into action as, following the corpse, lots of healthy little squealers emerged. As if desperate to escape the first one’s fate, leave their confines and gain the attention of a previously moribund mother, they came quickly.

  ‘Twelve! Now isn’t that grand. A celebration it is then.’ Benny, positively loquacious, was wreathed in smiles as, holding onto one beer, he poured the rest into a handy pail.

  Seonaid and I exchanged glances, worried we were going to be offered a swig. But Bennie was catering for Verity. ‘You’ll be thirsty after all that hard work and,’ he surveyed the piglets plugging into their mother with gusto, ‘you’ll be needing it and …’ he popped open the remaining can and went to sit amongst the new family, ‘if I may, I’ll join you. Keep you company for a bit. Come on, cats.’ He patted his lap.

  ‘He’s just checking Verity doesn’t get hungry in the night and start eating her pigs. He’ll be there for the rest of the night,’ explained Bridgit as she showed us to our bedroom. ‘But you should sleep well and there’ll be a good Irish breakfast ready for you in the morning. How many sausages?’

  When she went away, Colette returned to her favourite theme. ‘Ach, Seonaid, would Benny not be a catch? This is a fine big farm, lovely house. You’d never be hungry and he’s only a cousin twice removed. You’d be helping Brigit too.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Eyes gleaming, Seonaid sat up in bed, exasperated, then hissed, ‘Benny’s too old and so’s this house. It’s full of ghosts. Can’t you hear them?’ Impossibly, her spiky hair was standing even more on end. Her face was shocked and white. ‘Listen!’ She cupped an ear.

  Then she lay back and disappeared into a deep sleep, leaving a host of creaks and groans to creep about, conspiring to ruin ours.

  At least we heard no more about Benny and didn’t see him the next morning either. Seonaid reckoned he was hiding but I wondered if he was still tucked up with Verity. He’d soon wake up once he knew his sister was composing a ‘housekeeper wanted’ advertisement she planned on putting in the local paper.

  It was late when we got to Salthill but we found a Bed and Breakfast easily enough with a landlady who worried neither about ghosts nor security.

  ‘The door’s never locked, you can come and go as you like,’ she said, ushering us into a bedroom where pink bedspreads screamed abuse at a wallpaper so busy with spots it was bound to give anybody, never mind a phantom, a migraine. It was hard not to switch the dazzling electric light off before our hostess left the room.

  There’d been times when I’d wondered if we’d ever get here. A combination of old lorries, battered cars and circuitous routes by kind strangers wanting to show us beauty spots had taken us far from the main route. It might have been quicker hitching a lift from the horse-drawn gypsy caravans. Loitering along the roads with a tangle of children and dogs scattering happily about the wheels gave a feeling of elegant, relaxed progress.

  We could, of course, had we time, have taken a ride on the donkeys that roamed the roads like free spirits, apparently ownerless and unchecked. Their presence lent a gentle charm to rural scenes where stone dykes stitched grey seams into a countryside, velvet-soft in every shade of green.

  Still, what was a scenic tour compared to the bright lights of Salthill and which our landlady was now keenly promoting. ‘We’re in a grand position for O’Connor’s. You should go there. You’ll enjoy it for sure. Just go out the door and follow the sound of music. It’s great craic.’

  She was right. The pub had the same vibrant charm as Kelly’s but with the additional look of a local museum. Every conceivable space was crammed with a jumbled eclectic mix of pictures, old lamps, barometers and farming utensils. There was just enough room left to dance with music provided by an accordionist group so joyful it made our fee
t itch.

  ‘Don’t leap too high or you might brain yourself.’ Colette pointed to the lamps hanging from the rafters but Seonaid was off, partnered by a thin intense-looking bloke in a shiny blue suit.

  Maybe he couldn’t keep up with the pace of her flying heels. Instead and shortly after taking the floor, he seemed keener to draw her away to engage her in vehement chat in a quiet corner. He’d a nervous way and kept pushing back a lock of hair as if to make a point. He looked really interesting and Seonaid was listening hard until he searched in his pocket to draw out a small metal object.

  Suddenly, with an abrupt shake of her head, she stood up, gesturing to us to join her in leaving.

  ‘Jasus, Seonaid! What’s all that about?’ Colette demanded as we stood in a surprised huddle outside the pub. ‘I’ve left my drink in there and it wasn’t cheap.’

  ‘Ach never mind about that. Me heart’s goin’ like a hammer and I’m tremblin’. Feel that,’ Seonaid, stretched out her wrist. ‘Take me pulse, Jane!’

  ‘Mmm, you’re alive.’

  Disappointed, she snatched back her arm. ‘It’s racing, and not surprising either. Your man back there’s just shown me a bullet. A bullet!’

  ‘Mother of God!’ Even Colette was impressed. ‘Where would he get that?’

  ‘He says he’s plenty. When he heard we worked in Belfast, he asked if I could give him contacts. Says it’s time for a United Ireland. He showed me that bullet to prove he was serious.’

  The music from O’Connor’s swirled and eddied about us. It was a happy, exuberant sound yet it couldn’t chase away a fog of unease chillingly settling about us. Salthill had seemed such a cheerful place. Seonaid’s encounter with a man who spoke of unity and bullets said something else.

  I offered, ‘Maybe he was joking and he did seem to be on his own. Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m whacked. Why don’t we just go back to the Bed and Breakfast? It’s been a long day. Things will look different in the morning.’