The Keepsake

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘And the baby needs a father! You’ll perish before he even draws breath. I order you to get that coat.’ His wife took a half-sovereign from the mantelpiece and thrust it at him.

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’ Marty jokingly adopted a servile pose, tugging his forelock and cringing before her. ‘Anyt’ing ye say, ma’am.’

  But when the teasing and laughter was done he mulled her words over as they prepared for bed. The retrieval period was almost up. If he didn’t get it back now it would be sold and he would have to pay more for a new one.

  So, equipped with the pawn ticket, the next day he went to recover his coat and was thankful for the warmth it provided. It came in handy during the night too, as an extra cover for the bed.

  If only the chill were skin deep. Christmas was an especially bad time to be estranged from one’s kin. His little brothers and sisters, uninformed of the dispute, called out to him and Etta gaily upon seeing them in the street – ‘Marty, we haven’t see you for ages! Will you be round for Christmas dinner?’

  What could he tell them? Etta seemed content enough with only her man for company, with his help cooking them a reasonable dinner, enjoying silly games afterwards and singing carols in front of a roaring fire – indeed she was to make much of the fact that they were similarly placed now in that both had been abandoned by their families, and was not that a reason to feel even closer to each other? Whilst taking delight in her too, for she could teach him many things and was a great conversationalist and much fun as a companion, a small part of him longed to go round to his parents, who would have a full house. But he had sworn his loyalty to Etta and would not leave her for any reason…though he could not resist a wistful fantasy over what the other Lanegans would be having to eat.

  The feelings of abandonment were to increase. In summertime, with sunrise at half past four, it had not been such hardship to be first out of bed, to light the fire and attend to other chores that should rightly have been done by his wife. Now, in the pitch-black, teeth-chattering chill of those long winter months as he stumbled off to work through fog and rain, snow and ice, returning to a stack of things that Etta had left undone, he could not avoid feeling slightly vexed at times. It was not that he resented helping his wife – he still adored her – but the marked lack of contribution from Etta proved very wearing.

  From her words and behaviour he was confident she loved him equally, but, oh, if only she would pay as much attention to the food as to the furnishings, would try to ensure that, under their fancy little cosies, the boiled eggs were not as hard as rocks, would bake him a competent pie from time to time, it would make everything so much easier to bear. Marty had always loved pies – apple pies, mince pies, but particularly rabbit. In times of strife a well-made pie could be such a comfort. His mother had always provided them regularly. Now there was only the memory.

  Perhaps it was his imagination but this winter seemed to be an exceptionally long one, January, February and March crawling by, the pall of smoke from iron foundries and thousands of household chimneys obliterating what little sunlight there was.

  But at last the bleakness gradually began to lift, and it seemed as if Marty’s situation might improve too with the bursting of spring when a friend was to share the benefits of a poaching excursion. Alas, his hints to Etta that she might like to make a pie with the rabbit did not go down as hoped, in fact she balked just watching him skin and gut it. When she refused even to touch the wretched thing he was compelled to have a bash at a rabbit stew himself, but this only extended to dropping the puny carcass into a pan with some water and vegetables, and the result what not exactly what he had hoped for.

  Whilst his spirits slowly deflated, his wife swelled riper by the day, signalling that the time was nigh to find a midwife.

  ‘You said you’d do it,’ an anxious Etta reminded him.

  Marooned in foreign territory, Marty suggested tentatively, ‘Couldn’t you ask one of the neighbours?’

  ‘They’ll have nothing to do with me,’ stated his wife, who, even after several months of living there, had not formed any kind of intimacy with the other women and only greeted them in passing. She shrugged. ‘I’ve tried to be friendly, but…’

  Marty nodded, acknowledging that this was more their fault than Etta’s, for they mistakenly surmised that because of her well-bred mannerisms she was a snob too – and if only they bothered to get to know her they would see that this was not so, she was quite a commoner at heart. But, as ever, it was left to him to remedy matters. ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘I’ll find someone to help you.’ Though he was still unsure how.

  Confiding his woes to a chum that same day, he was finally provided with the name of one who might help, and, thus equipped, went to visit the elderly woman on his way home from work. She seemed nice enough, if a little untidy, her robust proportions emanating selfassurance which lent Marty confidence in her aptitude too, though her request for five shillings met with dismay. It seemed an awful lot of money.

  Catching the look of doubt upon his face, Nancy Dowd said quickly, ‘I’m not asking that you give it me now, my dear. I never charge till the babby’s born, and from what you say you’ll have a week or so to save it up.’

  Searching her softly wrinkled features for signs of duplicity, Marty saw none, but even if he had there would have been no choice for one so desperate, and he agreed to hire her services. At least that was one thing out of the way.

  If only his desperation was restricted to fiscal concerns. With Etta so large it had been impossible to make love to her for weeks and, this being the very foundation of their rapport, Marty had lately begun to feel that the withdrawal of it would drive him mad. Any excitement over the imminent arrival of his son or daughter was tempered by a greater apprehension. Would things ever be the same again?

  Thoughts of pleasures lost were to consume him as he made his way home from work along a back lane that Monday noon. It was unusual for him to be home at this time of day – even though everyone else might be enjoying an Easter holiday it was a busy time for those at the railway station – but as the birth loomed he had taken to checking on the mother-to-be at dinnertime. Not that there would be anything much on offer for him, he thought miserably. Passing an open gateway he glanced in and was about to walk on, but what he saw there drew him back immediately to look and to lust after. Every scruple demolished, he gazed longingly inside, almost drooling as the voluptuous woman went about her business. Making himself less obtrusive he peeped around the gatepost and watched her for a moment. It was as if she had known he would be passing at that very minute and extended open invitation. His heart thudded as she made for the privy, that wonderful, beneficent angel…In his mind he went through the moves that would take place behind that door, imagined her occupied in lifting her skirt, drawers round ankles…Now was his chance…in those few seconds he tried to resist, truly he did, but the desire was just too overwhelming. He must have it.

  Bracing himself, he dashed on tiptoe into the yard, at the same time pulling his cuffs down over his hands as a means of protection, and in an instant had reached through the open window and had snatched the steaming pie from where she had displayed it, and was in the lane running before the woman could even cry out. Fleeing to a derelict shed, he kicked the door shut behind him and, heart soaring in triumph, lifted the hot plate to his nostrils in an effort to distinguish the contents of the pie. Steak, he thought…or some sort of meat anyway. A fresh stream of saliva gushed into his mouth. It didn’t matter what variety it was, the surprise of biting into it would be equally thrilling. Wasting no more time he used his penknife to forge a way in and awkwardly scooped a portion into his mouth – immediately cursing and wafting as scalding gravy dribbled down his chin. Oh, but it was glorious!

  Again and again he attacked it in the manner of a dog, drawing in quick gulps of air to cool his mouth between bites, gorging and licking and slurping, eating every bit of it himself, and, finally replate, delivering a long ecstatic
belch.

  Then he took a deep breath and looked down at the empty plate – and all at once felt sick. Sick with pie, sick with guilt. Whilst seeing no wrong in pilfering from the masters who could afford it, he had never stooped so low as to rob his neighbours. What kind of charlatan stole another’s dinner? And he hadn’t even saved any for Etta.

  If the guilt was bad then it was to be exacerbated upon reaching home, for whilst he had been stuffing his face with pie his wife was in the throes of labour.

  Pacing the floor, clutching her back, Etta wheeled at his entry, her expression a mixture of relief and annoyance. ‘Where have you been? You said you’d be here at –’ Her criticism was displaced by a long drawn-out groan and she held on to a chair to steady herself.

  Immediately he came to her, hovering ineffectually, trying to support her huge belly. ‘Ett, how long have you been like this?’

  ‘Hours!’ She had been plagued by a nagging backache since last night, but had not recognised it for what it was until, just after her husband had left for work, an unstoppable waterfall had occurred.

  He stared helplessly into her contorted face. ‘What shall I do?’

  The contraction was beginning to recede. Etta released her breath and told him, ‘Fetch the midwife.’

  ‘But will you be all right on your own?’

  ‘I’ll have to be, shan’t I? Now hurry!’ Irritated and terrified, Etta gave him a shove, desperate to have someone here who knew what they were doing, to have this ordeal over.

  Marty rushed back outside, along the alley and into the street, dithering there for a second over which direction to take, for the midwife’s address had completely evaporated in panic. Thankfully, after a moment’s swearing it came to him and, running full pelt for almost a mile, he was to find the woman at home. Mrs Dowd being halfway through lunch, the return journey was to be delayed. Hovering whilst his elderly companion finished off her bread and dripping, anxious to assuage his wife’s concern, he told the midwife, ‘I’ll run on ahead if you like!’

  She did not share his haste, chewing leisurely. ‘Carry my bag for me, would you, dear? I’ll follow on when I’m done.’

  He belched, apologised, grabbed the satchel and fled back along Walmgate, leaving the old woman to sup her tea.

  When he got back, Etta’s pacing had become even more agitated. Marty remained by her side, feeling helpless at being unable to alleviate her pain. Mrs Dowd took an age. On finally arriving she seemed no less casual as she waddled in, took a brief, authoritative look at Etta, packed her off to bed, then said to Marty, ‘Shall we have the kettle on and have a cup of tea? In all the haste I never got to finish mine.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Aren’t you going up with her?’

  She tried to calm him with a laugh. ‘She’ll be ages yet. Might as well sort out my fee whilst we’re at it.’

  ‘You want it now?’ He was amazed that she could be so mercenary whilst Etta’s groans could still be heard downstairs.

  ‘Are you telling me you haven’t got it?’ Mrs Dowd looked suspicious.

  ‘No! Of course I have.’ Fortunately he had kept five shillings in a pot on the mantel and delved into it now, for there seemed in her attitude a threat to leave if he didn’t cough up.

  Pocketing the coins, she instructed him again to make the tea, which he did. Far too restless to join her in a cup, and becoming aware that she smelt like overripe cheese, he headed for the stairs.

  ‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ she boomed.

  ‘To see my wife.’ Under her eagle eye he was made to feel an intruder in his own house, and his gaze dropped to the greasy stain on the bosom of her serge dress. ‘If that’s all right,’ came his mumbled addition.

  ‘And what use will you be?’ asked the big woman airily.

  Marty bristled yet felt powerless. If he argued with her she might leave, and then where would he be?

  But then she seemed to undergo a change of heart and flicked her hand at him. ‘Oh, go if you must – but I don’t want you under my feet when I do come.’

  Granted permission, he bounded upstairs and held his wife’s hand, though he was forced to acknowledge that the midwife was right, Etta didn’t even seem to want him there.

  After an unhurried cup of tea, Mrs Dowd finally made an appearance, huffing slowly up the staircase with her greasy old satchel and proceeding to lay its contents out on the bare floorboards.

  Gripping Etta’s hand, Marty’s worried eyes examined the midwife’s accoutrements: a ball of string, a pot of what looked like lard, and other unrecognisable objects.

  ‘Off you pop now, young fellamelad,’ ordered Mrs Dowd.

  Thankful to be released, Marty bent to murmur in Etta’s ear as she writhed in agony. ‘You’ll be all right now, love, Mrs Dowd’ll take care of you.’ And with an anxious backwards glance he left the women to their business.

  But instead of the midwife making the situation better, it grew steadily noisier. Downstairs, trying and failing to occupy himself by repairing his boots, he was alarmed at the crescendo – his mother hadn’t made such a din when giving birth to his younger siblings. The volume became so bloodcurdling that he slapped his hands over his ears in an effort to block it out, though this was futile. Etta’s yells would have pierced armour. Unable to bear it, he strode into the yard but the screams were to follow. Whilst he walked back and forth, a neighbour came out to the privy, glanced at him sympathetically, but was too wary to offer help. Embarrassed and upset at the thought of Etta in such torment, Marty quickly went back indoors – sweet Jesus, how much longer could this go on?

  ‘Is everything all right up there?’ he called aloft.

  Receiving no answer, he took a few steps up the staircase, not daring to go further, watching Mrs Dowd’s black-stockinged ankles below the old serge dress, the huge tattered slippers galumphing around the bed.

  ‘Let’s slap some grease on, dear, and make its passage easier!’

  Her mind and body overtaken by another fearsome contraction, Etta was barely conscious of the jolly voice, the dirty old fingernails dipping into lard that was coated in dust, her only response to squeal long and loud.

  Creeping higher, Marty blanched at the horrible indignities perpetrated upon his wife and promptly ducked away, though out of fear he demanded again, ‘Is everything all right?’

  This time Mrs Dowd answered cheerily, ‘Fine enough, lovey!’

  ‘Are you sure? She sounds in terrible pain.’

  The midwife shuffled over to look down at him, the revolting cheesy smell wafting from her and her manner infuriatingly calm and somewhat belittling. ‘Everything’s normal. Eh, you young chaps – you’re nobbut a bairn yourself – stop worriting.’

  Annoyance flared at her derogatory tone but he tried not to let it show. ‘I can’t help it! My mother didn’t scream so loud.’

  In a moment of respite, Etta overheard and misinterpreted his words, and before her body was seized by another contraction she vented her fury: ‘Oh, I suppose she laughed! I suppose she gave birth between washing the sheets and mangling and stirring the bloody stew at the same time – aagh!’ Her face was riven with venom and agony and a long drawn-out groan overtook the oaths.

  Afraid to see those pale and intelligent features so contorted, Marty shrank inside himself, not recognising his wife at all.

  The agony went on all afternoon.

  Outside, the rest of the world carried on as normal, many of the inhabitants of Walmgate gone to the local stray to perform an Easter custom. Children who had spent hours diligently painting patterns onto hard-boiled eggs now hurled them down the grassy incline and raced excitedly after them, the idea being that the shells should smash at the bottom and so complete this ancient fertility rite; but the slopes of Low Moor were too gentle, the eggs’ journey constantly interrupted by hummocks of grass or, even worse, a cowpat, and in the end the shells had to be broken by hand. After a rare visit to church for the parents, the Lanegan children had also taken pa
rt in this festivity, then had seated themselves beneath a budding chestnut tree where they picked off the shells bit by bit, and, despite the whites being stained with red and green paint, had enjoyed their eggs as a picnic tea before continuing their stroll to the nearby village of Heslington, from where they were now making their way home.

  It was incredibly warm for the time of year; the sun still as bright now as it had been all day, the sky as blindingly blue, the fields a-skitter with lambs. Amidst such enjoyable milieu, Aggie was in benevolent mood and, spurred on by watching the frolicking little creatures, murmured to her husband who shambled alongside, ‘She’ll be about due by now I should think.’

  Not needing to ask who she was, Redmond tilted his delicate face and breathed a sigh of regret over the rift. ‘Aye…’

  ‘It’ll be difficult for her, giving birth without her mother there.’ Over the months, Aggie had seen her daughter-in-law occasionally, noted the progressive increase of her girth as they passed without speaking in the street, and at such points had asked herself: wasn’t it easy for her to condemn the Ibbetsons, but was she not behaving in exactly the same manner by cutting off her son? But the answer was always no, because this feud was not of her doing, it was Marty who was avoiding her, not the other way round. Had she seen him face to face she would have broken her silence, despite the hurt he had inflicted on her in his stubborn defence of his wife, just as she might have smiled at Etta had the latter deigned to look at her, but the other’s eyes were always averted as she crossed the road to avoid any unpleasantness. Still, she could voice pity for a girl approaching labour. ‘’Tis a lonely time at best.’

  Redmond sensed that his wife might be weakening and, detesting this current state of affairs, sought to take advantage by confirming, ‘It’ll certainly be a fierce struggle for them both. I wonder how himself has been.’