Women Are Bloody Marvellous! And Other Stories

by Betty Burton

'Anyway,' Shalina says, 'I don't want to spoil it, I want to keep it so that when you've gone back to India I shall have something to remind me of you and Mum's family.' She laughs again. 'To hear her talk you'd think there wasn't another family in the world like the Zulfikars.'

  As Anna nods, the girasol, the exotic fire-opal, and silver earrings flash. She takes the jewels from her ears. Shalina is tall, she stoops as her grandmother hooks them into the pink earlobes.

  'These will be better for remembering. Battachari, Fletcher, Zulfikar and soon perhaps Harrison?'

  Shalina pretends a coy look, and shakes her head from side to side, feeling the long jewels flicking her cheeks.

  The sun that shines across Portsmouth Harbour glitters the mica particles of the D-Day memorial and sets the girasol stones afire.

  THE COFFEE BABY

  THE COFFEE BABY

  'That's it, dear. Up on the bed. Just want to have a look at your blood-pressure. Have a little see how you're coming along.'

  For the sixth time that afternoon Sister Hanna Collins, fifty-nine, twelve stone and hard on her feet, flexed her fingers inside the surgical gloves before sliding them into the unyielding girl.

  'Come on, love — relax. Just like at the clinic. Have a good deep breath. Out sl-ow-ly. That's the ticket. Just want to feel its little head.'

  Han cocked her head, listening with her fingers.

  'Oh yes, very nice. Not much happening at the moment, though. We'll have another little try later.'

  The girl eased herself awkwardly from the hard mattress and gave a forced smile.

  'All right then, love? You'll be all right. No problem. It'll be a piece of cake, you'll see.'

  As Han removed the gloves they made a loud snap, and the girl gave a start.

  'Goodness! Not nervous are you? Can't have my mothers being nervous.'

  Han patted the girl with professional kindliness. She had uttered these phrases a thousand times to a thousand mothers. Rhetorical questions. 'Not nervous are you?', a denial that there was anything to be nervous about. Birth! It's only birth! Same way we all come into the world! A few challenges to her almost forty years of midwifery skill. But for all the groaning and thrashing about, all the head tossing, the calling for mothers and cursing of lovers, for the majority of Han's mothers, it was routine — a piece of cake. Within twenty-four hours they were sitting up pretty and perky and full of themselves with the experience of the labour-ward packed away in the subconscious.

  The girl fingered the buttons of her pretty, print dressing-gown.

  'It really doesn't hurt, does it.'

  It wasn't a question and Han paused in her disposal of a paper sheet to look into the girl's face. She was just a kid. Eighteen? Nineteen. Not much more than a schoolgirl when you came to look at her. Long, brown hair, well-cut and shiny; smooth, fine skin and square, good teeth. She had always been fed the right foods this one. Strong as an ox! She was hunching her shoulders and clutched her right elbow with her left hand.

  'I mean, really ... not going to hurt. They said at the clinic...'

  It was kind of pathetic really, the way she stood there, like a kid at school asking if a polio test hurt, not believing what she had been told at home.

  'Well, not really. Depends on what you mean by hurt. You ever had a bad accident? Break a bone?'

  The girl pushed back her sleeve and held out a scarred forearm.

  'I went through a glass door when I was little.'

  'Oh, nasty. Well, it's nothing like that. Makes your back ache. They never seem to tell you that at the clinic. Bad backache and hard work.'

  Han held the girl's hand for an unprofessionally long moment.

  'It's why it's called "labour" you know.'

  Han relaxed her hold on the girl's hand, and the girl resumed her elbow-holding pose. Han glanced down at her watch. It had dangled from her uniform ever since her Dad had given it to her thirty-eight years ago.

  'How's that for timing? Quarter past three. Just in time for the tea-trolley. Now you just slip off back down the ward and I'll look in on you later.'

  In the small staff-room, furnished with the kind of furniture that is requisitioned rather than bought, where staff on duty could go for a cup of tea and a quick cigarette, Han sat for a while and chatted to the others about the retirement party they were arranging for her. It was odd how little she was affected, after nearly forty years on the wards she had expected to feel ... well, she didn't know what, but something more than 'Ah well, only one more day to go'.

  Back on the labour-wards the six beds were still in the possession of the same six women as earlier. First one, in for her sixth, thirty-eight, had the curtains drawn round her bed. Han poked her head round. Nothing happening. One other bed was occupied, the monitor blipping and the sound of the baby's heart both irritating and reassuring.

  Women wandered about holding their arms like pegs, dragging and scuffing their feet. It was funny really, how one day they were out shopping, cooking, hoovering, then, as soon as they came in they walked about as though their bodies would shatter.

  She reached the end of the ward and saw the young girl standing alone in the partitioned-off area where there was a television and a few armchairs.

  'Anything happening?'

  The girl shook her head.

  'Ah well, that's how it goes. Often happens like that. Get a few niggly pains, you think it's all happening, soon as you see the hospital it all goes quiet again. Happens all the time.'

  The girl was at the window looking down. Han went and stood by her. This was the old wing. It had survived the face-lift and massive extensions of some of the other buildings. Han had first looked down from this window, oh what ... twenty years ago. The day after tomorrow she would probably never look down from it again. People always said they'd come back, pop in on the wards, but they never did. Nurses and patients alike, they never did.

  Suddenly her reverie was disturbed by a small sound from the girl.

  'Started up again?' Han asked.

  The girl turned, flung herself upon Han and burst into tears. Han was used to tears — trickles, floods, streams, tears of joy, tears of depression. The girl sobbed once or twice as Han held her.

  'Now, then, this won't do. You don't want to be all red-eyed at visiting time.' She offered a paper tissue and the girl wiped her face.

  'Nobody's coming.'

  'Well, never mind. You can come and sit with me if you like. Anyway, who knows, you might be busy by then.'

  Han felt sorry for the little thing. It often happened in this town. Half the fathers were sailors. Off to sea when they were most needed. Why couldn't somebody in some department somewhere understand that it was more important for a man to be in at his child's birth than off firing some dummy rockets or guns or whatever it was sailors did these days?

  'Your man in the navy?'

  A few years ago Han would have asked 'Your husband in the navy?' but times had changed and there were a good number of her mothers now who came in without a wedding ring. Back when Han did her training, you never saw a woman without some sort of a ring on her marriage finger. On the whole, Han thought, these times were better. No more of that dreadful pretence about a husband who didn't really exist. Much better.

  The girl ran a forefinger along her bottom lid and looked at the tear she collected.

  'No, he's a student — we both are. He got knocked down last Saturday. He's in hospital, the other one.'

  'Dear, oh dear. Not badly hurt?'

  'Some bones broken, but not too bad.'

  'That's good then. He'll be up and about in no time at all. Don't keep broken bones in bed long these days.'

  'He was looking forward to it so much. We both were. He's been to all the classes with me. He does breathing exercises with me, read all the books ... he said he would like to help deliver the baby ... to be the first one to touch it ... to start it off breathing. I would have liked that too but it isn't allowed, is it? But he was going to be in the delivery ro
om ... we had arranged that.'

  'Well love, don't cry, don't upset yourself. Anyway, when you do start labour properly, it's just as likely you might be glad he's not there. It quite often happens, you'd be surprised. Lots of my mothers like to get on with it without any men about. Some of the dads chicken out at the last minute.'

  'Jim wouldn't — he was so thrilled about the baby. He said it would probably be the most beautiful moment in our lives.'

  'Anybody else coming to visit?'

  'No. Well, maybe afterwards some of our friends from the university. But nobody of mine, or Jim's. They all live abroad.' She hesitated. 'Actually they don't know about the baby yet. We decided we would take the baby to them and then they would see it and...' She pleated a piece of dressing-gown again and again, running it between her thumb and forefinger nails. 'When they see the baby they will just love it.'

  A buzzer sounded. Han patted the girl and turned to go.

  'Hundred to one that's our twins on their way. Now you go and wash your face and do some breathing exercises and I'll be along later.'

  When Han came back on the ward, curtains were drawn round the girl's bed and a nurse was with her.

  'It's all happening,' said the nurse. 'Mrs Patterson here is giving us some surprise, Sister. I'm just taking her in. She's coming along nicely.'

  The girl's face was eager and alive. Quite different from the sad little face earlier.

  'Sister ... could you be there?'

  'Oh, I'll be there all right, don't you worry.'

  The nurse had gone on into the harshly-lit delivery-room. The girl said quietly, 'I know you're busy and all that, but could you be the one to deliver me? Be the first one to touch the baby?'

  What was it about this bit of a girl? Han wagged her head indulgently.

  'All right, then. Come on.'

  'I've got a...' she went to her locker, 'tape-recorder. Would it be allowed if I took it in? It won't be the same, but at least Jim ... if I kept it switched on when the baby comes.'

  'You'll get me shot. Go on, bring it.'

  Han went through the preparation routine, then sat down and took up the tape-recorder. Contractions punctuated their conversation.

  'How much tape is there on?'

  'It's a one-twenty. I thought two hours would be enough.'

  'Hm, not a video, though, is it? Two hours of grunting and puffing won't tell your Jim much — except that you know a few more Anglo-Saxon words than he expected. Will you mind that?'

  'He'd have heard them if he was here. I want it to be as near to him being here as I can.'

  'I know what, how about me doing a commentary? Yes, that'd be really something for him to hear.' Han's face was alive with enthusiasm. 'I've always said I'd write a book when I retired. Never thought about this kind of thing. Hey, I could make features, radio, TV. Now, if we hang the mike here on the drip-hook ... and ... let me see, the recorder here ... can you reach the switch?'

  As the evening wore on, Han became totally absorbed in the coming baby, more than she had been with any delivery for years. There used to be times when she thrilled at the sight of a baby's head appearing, but that sight had become 'a head presenting' or sometimes 'anterior presentation' (which was interesting), occasionally a foot 'presented', when Han's skill and expertise were admired by anybody who worked with her.

  Han was always pleased for her mothers when it was over. 'There you are,' she would say, 'that's what it was all about.' She liked the calm and restfulness for the few minutes when she and the mother drank sweet tea together, but for most of the time it had become routine — her job, one that she was good at, but still just her job. Yet, here, on almost the last shift of her career, with this little bit of a girl, Han had become animated and excited. If she could put some of that on record ... well, it would be really good.

  'Sister.' It was very near now but the girl lay restfully for a few moments. Han's hand went automatically to the switch. 'No, don't record this bit, but well ... I just wanted you to know ... because ... you're West Indian aren't you?'

  'Jamaican. I was. Long time ago now.'

  'That's why I wanted you to be ... Jim's from Grenada. That's why he wanted to be here. He called the baby the Coffee Baby. He said Coffee Babies need a real welcome into the world ... to make up for some of the things later on.' She halted, closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing.

  'I wanted you to know.'

  'Thank you,' said Han and squeezed the girl's hand not knowing what she could say that would sound adequate. This little family, one she had met for the first time a few hours ago, one in another hospital three miles away and the third — the secret still beneath her hand — touched a part of her she had forgotten existed.

  She felt a great movement under her hand and saw the contraction rise on the monitor.

  'Here we go.'

  She reached over and switched the recorder on, and with more eloquence than anyone who knew Han could have believed her capable of, she spoke to the boy with the broken bones. She looked at the crown of the head as he would have done, saw the face emerge, saw the perfect hands and feet showing the only sign as yet of the boy's race, the purple-tinged nails, and heard the first round vowel of its cry.

  SEEING THE VALLEY

  SEEING THE VALLEY

  As they reached the brow of the hill, the boy stretched his arm behind him and the girl clasped his outstretched fingers. The hill was not steep and she was used to climbing, so the gesture was an expression of his masculinity and a chance to touch again, if only chastely.

  He waved his free hand theatrically, sweeping it across the skyline and down towards the valley.

  'Well, there's my valley.'

  The girl's eyes followed where he indicated.

  Sixteen symmetrical avenues.

  In every avenue twenty-four houses. Back-to-back, side-to-side.

  Three hundred and eighty-four slate roofs, blackened by forty years in a wind, dust-laden from the pit-tip.

  Three hundred and eighty-four chimneys, expelling trails of smoke into the July sunshine.

  The avenues were built on a slope, giving the village the appearance of collapsed rows of dominoes. A squat church tower, sticking its finger into people's lives, intruded upon the regularity of the plan.

  The sun, an interrogator's lamp, glared upon the village. Examined spoil heaps. Cross-examined ashy ringworm scars of the fierce combustion within, and illuminated the work-worn fabric of it all.

  An alien place.

  In her native county there were streams running clean from chalk hills, mellow houses, smoke in wisps, suitable church spires, and sheep, unobtrusive, on the downs.

  His valley, his village, was inelegant and coarse. There was nothing to like, nothing to love.

  A cloud lugged its shadow over the valley. The village softened.

  Greys and browns of the slate and bricks became muted, and blended with the ling-covered hills and the spoil from the pits. In the more sombre light it had character, was alive. A place of work where people didn't go in for affectation, status and rank, or the order of peck that ruled her village.

  The boy was watching her closely. She knew that he would be. His eyes moved quickly, searching every part of her face. She wanted to say something that would please him, but did not know what.

  'Real Lawrence country, isn't it?'

  The boy lifted her fingers to his lips, moving his head from side to side. She could not decide whether he was shaking his head in disagreement or enjoying the contact of lips and fingers.

  'This could be the...' she faltered, confused by his smile, 'you know, the place that Lawrence wrote about. The story about the place with a secret white hawthorn bush, and he took her there to make love to her, and couldn't make it.'

  The fascination of opposites. She by his directness, he by her reserve. When light-heartedly mocking he emphasized his broad accent.

  'D'st like the village, then?'

  She smiled, slightly. 'It's ... quit
e romantic.'

  He turned her face towards him holding her chin. 'There's none like you there.' He clasped an arm about her shoulder. 'See there?' He pointed to the nearest pit-tip where tubs spewed shale on to the irregular top of the heap.

  'If it hadn't been for my dad, that tip would have been a pound or two heavier. He brought a bit home with him every day, him in his lungs. And see there?' He pointed to a heap streaked and green-tinged with age.

  'Somewhere in there is Old Man Merrit. Used to live next me grandma. He was picking coal in the General Strike — the crust collapsed. Cremated free and for nothing. It's burnt out long since. And just under here's the Salla Kenna seam. Ton after ton of best coal, and twenty-four men nobody could get out when it flooded. I was fourteen. I told my mam I'd not go down — ever. And she said not to worry she wasn't going to let me. She said I should try for the grammar school. D'you know I was the first lad from the village ever went into the pit offices. Nobody liked it much.'

  He laughed. 'When I started there my dad took me on one side, said he wanted to talk to me. I thought he was going to say to me, now I was a man with a pay packet, to be careful not to catch anything from Catty-Ann who lived on bottom road, handy for men coming up from work. But what he said to me was, if I ever let on to Mam what he earned, he'd belt the daylights out of me.'

  Her eyes did not leave his face while he spoke. Her cheeks were flushed, she felt awkward, embarrassed.

  'I'm sorry,' she said.

  He laughed and brushed her ear with his lips. 'Why sorry?'

  'So stupid going on about Lawrence ... and being romantic...'

  He interrupted. 'But it is! It is! Down there are people baking apple pies, learning to read, making love, some dying, some idiots frittering away their lives, some people, like my mam, saying "get out of it" to their kids. They aren't any better or worse or less romantic than the ones Lawrence wrote about.'

  He took her by the waist and pulled her running down the hill.

  At the bottom they stopped, breathless and laughing. The boy lifted a strand of hair from her forehead.