by Nancy Carson
‘I’ve started,’ Lizzie mouthed, soundlessly.
Eve cupped her right hand alongside her ear and leaned towards Lizzie with an apprehensive look.
‘I’ve started.’ She gave a visual sign by gently prodding her belly, grimacing and nodding.
Eve understood perfectly. ‘Has your water broke?’ she croaked, folding her newspaper. She’d been anticipating this moment for days.
Lizzie shook her head.
‘Get yourself to bed, my flower.’ Eve eased her own unsteady bulk out of the creaky chair, unflustered. ‘I’ll just pop to our Joe’s and ask him to fetch Ben and Annie Soap.’
Lizzie leaned forward and flicked a speck of ash off the polished, brass fender with her apron, then stood. She turned and shook her head emphatically, and Eve cupped her hand to her ear again.
‘Annie Soap’s coming nowhere near me and my child, Mother. Remember Phyllis Fat? I’m having Donald. I want my child to live through this after I’ve carried it all this while. Our Joe’ll fetch him.’
Lizzie believed that breaking with convention and having a man supervise the birth, albeit the doctor and long-time friend of the family, would not sit well with her mother, which was the reason she had not mentioned it before. There would have been unending dissension. But Eve nodded her consent, even though the ritual of childbirth had conditioned her to believe it was women’s business. Women could cope well enough. Men should not intervene; not even the doctor, except in a dire emergency. In any case, she thought, it was too degrading to have a young man who was not your husband seeing everything. But if that’s what Lizzie wanted she had no intention of trying to persuade her otherwise, especially at the eleventh hour.
Lizzie lifted the stairs door latch, and apprehensively went upstairs. The stories she’d heard about the horrors of giving birth made her more than nervous. So far she’d only imagined what it might be like, though the contractions were giving broad hints. Now she was about to find out.
Meanwhile, Eve lit the candle which she kept in a jar in the cupboard to light her way outside in the darkness. It had a length of string tied tight around the neck, with a loop that formed a long handle, and she hung it around her neck like a pendant. She filled the kettle and put it to boil over the fire before she tottered down the entry to the dimly lit street. It was windy, wet, and the shiny cobbles and puddles of Cromwell Street reflected the lights from the terraced houses. Suddenly, before her, the inky sky, heavy with low, racing clouds, took on a phosphorescent glow – another twenty tons of white hot slag were being tipped at the Round Oak ironworks in Brierley Hill. Its intense bloom silhouetted the rows of chimneys and the writhing smoke from household fires made from anything that would burn. Eve slowly made her way up the next entry, clutching her shawl to her throat with her left hand, feeling her way along the wall with her right. Before she even reached the end Joe was there to meet her.
‘I thought I heard you coming up the entry, Mother,’ he said loudly as Eve put her hand to her ear. ‘You’m out late. What’s up? Been courting?’
‘Our Lizzie’s started, Joe,’ she answered, as though she’d caught every word. ‘Will you fetch Ben from the foundry, and let the doctor know? She says the doctor’s got to come and see to her. She don’t want Annie Soap.’
‘I know all about it, Mother. Get back home, and I’ll fetch ’em both. May’ll be round quicker than you can change your bloomers when she knows our Lizzie’s started.’
Eve turned for home. She lifted her skirt a little to prevent the hem dragging on the wet stones, and the prospect of a new-born baby in the family brought a lump to her throat. She offered a silent prayer that her daughter and the child would enjoy a safe delivery, recalling the daughter she’d lost to childbirth a few years earlier.
As she entered the tiny, back room Eve stirred the coals again. The brown, enamelled kettle swung slightly on its gale hook and gasped like an old biddy as the hot water inside lapped against the sides. Coal was scarce due to another miners’ strike, but she reached into the coal-scuttle and lifted out two lumps, broke them into smaller pieces with the hammer, and placed them on the fire. Smoke billowed back into the room from a down draught, and its smell filled her nostrils making her eyes run. She tried to ignore it, but it always vexed her, even though she was used to it. She went to the cellar and fetched more coal to light a fire under the copper in the brewhouse. That done, she filled the boiler with water. Before she went upstairs to settle Lizzie, now abed, she took a clean apron from the chest of drawers that stood against the entry wall, and put it on.
*
Joe Bishop strode hurriedly through the streets of red brick terraced houses, his collar up to keep out the blustery March wind. In no time he was tugging the bell-pull at Hawthorn Villa on Dixons Green. The door opened tentatively and a maid put her head nervously round the jamb to peer out into the darkness.
‘I’ve come for the doctor, my flower,’ Joe panted.
‘You’d better come in.’ The maid opened the door wide. ‘He’s asleep, though.’
Joe doffed his cap. ‘A-bed, sozzled, or what?’
She shrugged non-committally. ‘Well he ain’t a-bed.’
Joe smiled knowingly. The maid led him across the quarry tiled floor of the hallway and into a well-furnished drawing room at the rear of the house. Donald was snoring in a comfortable armchair, unresponsive to the respectful tapping of the young girl.
‘You’ll never wake him like that, my flower.’
He tossed his cap on to the polished table and shook the doctor vigorously, but without effect. Again he tried, but still Donald did not stir. Joe’s eyes scanned the room. On a narrow whatnot he spied a heavy cut-glass vase containing a neat arrangement of daffodils. He picked it up and tipped the contents unceremoniously over Donald’s head. Donald screwed his face up, licked his lips wearily and opened his eyes, grunting with irritation. As he sat upright, the maid stifled a chuckle.
‘Doctor Clark, this man’s called to see you.’ The incredulous maid was finding it difficult to muffle her amusement.
The doctor looked up at Joe, then flopped back down in his armchair again as if greatly relieved. ‘Oh, it’s you. It’s all right, Florrie. It’s Joe Bishop. Get me a towel, please.’
‘Our Lizzie’s started, Donald. I’m off now to fetch her husband. He’s on the night turn. Mother’s looking after Lizzie till you get there.’
‘Lizzie? Right. I’ll be on my way in a minute or two.’ He stood up and turned to the maid who handed him a towel to dry his face and hair. ‘Make certain my father’s all right before you turn in, Florrie. And don’t wait up for me.’
Joe left the doctor to rally himself and make his own way, then hurried on, smiling at the thought that he’d drenched Donald. At the bottom of the hill past St. John’s church he climbed over a stile and picked his way down the muddy footpath through the fields. In a few minutes he reached the main road from Dudley to Birmingham. It was deserted, but for a distant tram he could hear. Joe turned to look. The rails of the tramway, picked out by the gas streetlights, glistened like burnished needles against the duller sheen of the damp cobbles. The tram was coming his way. He ran to the stop.
‘We’m on’y gooin’ as far as the Tividale sheds,’ the conductor called as he reached his passenger. ‘We’m finished then for the night. Any good to yer, my mon?’
‘God bless yer.’
There were no other passengers on board. The driver turned off the brake and pulled the control lever towards him while Joe watched the routine. The tram gathered pace, then drew to a halt again for the conductor to get off and change the points.
‘It’s a stroke of luck you coming when you did,’ Joe said when the man resumed his place by the driver. ‘I only want to go as far as Holcrofts.’
‘Late startin’ your shift, eh? They’n bin at it hours a’ready. I bet they’m tryin’ to mek as much pig-iron as they can afore the coke runs out.’ The conductor laughed at his own weak joke. ‘Bloody miners. Wha
’n yo’ say, ’Orice?’
‘Bloody right. Bloody miners,’ Horace concurred.
Joe felt in his pocket. ‘What’s the fare, mate?’
‘Aw, nothin’. We’ve finished the reckonin’ up for the night.’
When the tram eventually drew to a halt Joe stepped down and gave a grateful wave as he caught his first familiar whiff of scorching sand and acrid foundry fumes. As he turned into the gate the night watchman challenged him. He explained that he wanted Ben Kite.
‘All right. Watch the gate for me a minute while I fetch him.’
Joe lit a Wild Woodbine while he waited, and savoured the smoke as it filled his lungs. He envied Ben; married not two years yet and already about to become a father. What the hell was wrong that May hadn’t carried after five years? Or was it six? Two minutes later he saw the silhouetted figure of Ben, tall and lean, pulling his jacket on as he walked towards him, accompanied by the watchman. They disappeared into the time office, then Ben came out alone, fetched his bicycle from the shed and wheeled it towards Joe with a nervous grin on his handsome face.
‘What time did she start?’
‘I don’t know for sure. Mother fetched me about half past ten. I’ve let Donald know. He should be there by now. He was the worse for drink, though … Here, have a fag.’
They had reached the main road, and Ben shifted the bicycle to his other side so that he could wheel it along the gutter. He stopped, took the cigarette, and lit it off Joe’s. ‘I hope she’ll be all right, Joe. First child and all that. And Donald three sheets to the wind. God! Trust him.’
‘Lizzie’ll be all right, Ben.’ He realised he’d alarmed Ben unnecessarily. ‘There’ll be Mother and May looking after her besides. They know what to do. Anyway, Donald wasn’t really that bad. I’ve known him a sight worse. At least he could stand. Come on, let’s get a move on. It’s a tidy walk. If only that bike of yours could whisk us up these hills without pedalling, eh?’
They walked briskly but, by the time they reached 48 Cromwell Street, it was practically all over. As soon as they walked in the back door they heard the muted cry of a new born baby, and several sympathetic oohs and admiring ahs from May and from Eve. Ben looked at Joe, his work-dirty face alight with anticipation.
‘Jesus! Already?’ His first instinct was to run upstairs, but it occurred to him that maybe the child had only been delivered at that very moment. Maybe they didn’t want him yet. So he called up the stairs. ‘It’s me … Ben. Can I come up?’
‘No. Not yet, Ben.’ It was May. ‘There’s still a bit to do.’
‘But I can hear the baby crying. Is everything all right?’
Donald answered. ‘Everything’s fine, Ben. We’ll give you a shout. Give us five minutes.’
‘Is Lizzie all right?’
There was laughter. ‘Lizzie’s fine, Ben.’
He lit another cigarette, made some comment to Joe and instantly lost all recollection of it in his preoccupation. He poked the fire, then decided it needed making up, so went to the cellar to fetch a bucketful of coal. There was about a hundredweight left and little prospect of any more till the miners had been back at work a while. He broke a lump into smaller pieces with the coal hammer, took it up the brick steps in a bucket. As he banked the fire up, May came downstairs carrying a parcel wrapped in newspaper, and an enamelled bowl. She went outside. Ben followed her to the brewhouse and washed his hands. As he dried them, May threw the parcel into the glowing coals under the copper and began swilling out the bowl.
‘Is Lizzie all right, May?’ This was the longest five minutes of his life.
May smiled. ‘Lizzie’s fine, Ben, my lad. Stop werriting.’ She turned off the tap, and drained the bowl before wiping it. ‘If ever I’m blessed with babbies I hope and pray as I have as good a time as Lizzie.’ She half filled the bowl with cold water and went indoors again, then topped it up with hot water from the kettle and checked the temperature with her elbow. She smiled again at Ben and climbed the stairs. ‘Only a few more minutes,’ she called over her shoulder.
Ben handed Joe a cigarette and lit one himself. Joe sat convincing him that everything was fine. Then he heard Lizzie call him. At once he sprang up the steep, bent staircase. May had just finished cleaning up his child and, as she sat on the bed, she was gently patting it dry with a towel. Lizzie peered contentedly over the bedclothes from her pillow, smiling at Ben, a gleam in her eyes. He could see for himself now that all was well.
‘God bless you, Lizzie. What is it? What’ve we had?’
They all looked at Lizzie, waiting for her to tell him.
‘A daughter. And she’s a beauty. Look at her hair, Ben. There’s lots of it, and see how dark it is. Just like yours. She’s got beautiful, blue eyes as well, just like you.’
Ben peered at the child again, then leaned over and kissed his young wife. ‘God bless you, my darling,’ he said softly, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘God bless you … and thank you. Are you all right yourself?’
‘I am now. But I’m glad it took no longer than it did.’
They all laughed with her. Eve sat on the new ottoman and looked on with a proud smile, relieved it was all over, relieved it had been so easy for her daughter.
Donald offered his hand and they shook. ‘Congratulations, Ben lad. They’re both fine and dandy. You’ve got a beautiful daughter. And Lizzie was superb.’
Ben leaned over to inspect his new daughter, still in May’s arms, and to rub the back of his forefinger over her soft cheek.
‘You know, Ben, Lizzie had been in labour quite a while before she told anybody. I’ve told her off for that. It was an easy birth, though. Just the way I like ’em.’
‘I’m that relieved,’ Ben exclaimed. ‘Lizzie, have you thought what to call her?’
‘Henzey – after my grandmother. I think it’s a lovely name.’
Chapter 11
Although Annie Soap did not attend the birth of little Henzey, Ben engaged her for ten days afterwards to tend to Lizzie. He considered it well worth the seven and six she charged. Annie was noted for her discipline and was particularly strict with Lizzie; perhaps vindictive for not being called in to supervise this birth which, she discovered, had been straightforward enough. Annie strapped a breadboard to Lizzie’s stomach to flatten it, using swathes of old sheets, and told her to keep it in place for the whole ten days. After that she could do as she pleased. But Lizzie deemed it all a waste of time and ridiculously uncomfortable. So whenever Annie left she took off the strips and removed the breadboard, wallowing in unrestrained freedom. Eve laughed when Lizzie asked her to replace the whole device just before Annie was due to call again. This went on for about four days, until Lizzie saw no point in keeping up the pretence and told Annie bluntly that she was not prepared to be subjected to such archaic practices. When Donald Clark visited he agreed, and laughed.
From the outset it was evident that Henzey would be an easy child. She took her feeds well, when they were due, and slept. Eve claimed she’d never known such a contented baby. Ben watched in wonder and admiration as Lizzie fed her. Those first few days were the beginning of another wholly different routine, another completely different way of life, and he’d never been so happy. That this child was his, the fruit of his loins, had still hardly registered.
Besides rejecting Annie Soap’s stomach-flattening treatment, Lizzie also refused to remain in bed for the requisite ten days. She felt fine, and because she could get up to answer nature’s calls, she saw no reason to go back to bed.
On the morning of the first Sunday in April she and Ben took Henzey to Matins at St. John’s so that she could be churched. After the service, the three of them stayed in their pew until everyone else had left, Henzey asleep in Lizzie’s arms. Ben fell on his knees and prayed quietly in his own words, giving his heartfelt thanks to the Almighty for this gift of a child, and for His watchfulness over Lizzie. As he resumed sitting, Lizzie looked at him, and the sight of tears streaming down his face moved her to
weep too.
Neither felt the need to speak. Their tears abated in their own time and, when Ben wiped his eyes, he looked at Lizzie and smiled, and she smiled back lovingly. Then he stroked Henzey’s round cheek gently with the back of his forefinger.
‘Only God knows how much I love you, Lizzie Bishop, and this little child of ours.’
Tears welled up in her hazel eyes again and trickled down her cheeks. She wanted to thank him for his love and devotion, but she knew it was unnecessary. Thanks were hardly appropriate.
He put his handkerchief to her face, and caught her tears, tenderly dabbing her cheeks dry. ‘I can scarcely believe as I should be this lucky,’ he said, almost choking on his emotion. ‘I can scarcely believe I should be lucky enough to have you, Lizzie, and this lovely child.’
These were moments to savour, Lizzie knew. Moments they would remember always. Brief moments, insignificant and sentimental to an onlooker, but monumental in their lives. Whatever else befell them, good or bad, they would be able to recall this time and draw strength from it; for it was uncontrived, spontaneous, pure in sincerity.
Lizzie took to motherhood like woodland takes to bluebells. She had plenty of help and advice from her mother, and sometimes some interference, but it all came naturally anyway. She felt everything that a first time mother should feel for her child and, when she fed Henzey, she savoured a delightful ache inside her breast, followed by a great feeling of satisfaction as the baby settled to a steady, rhythmic sucking. The days and weeks seemed to fly, and Lizzie’s joy was undiminished as she gave the child every attention. Her whole life was transformed. Little Henzey generated feelings and emotions she’d never experienced before as she looked into her deep, clear blue eyes. It was all so new, a million miles from anything she’d ever known, and it gave her the utmost contentment. She loved Ben no less, but her love for her child was different: it was fierce, obsessive; and yet it was tender, caring, and utterly selfless. At first she worried ceaselessly, going out of her way to make sure her baby was breathing while she slept. During the night, Henzey only had to sigh and Lizzie would be wide awake, ready to get up and do whatever was necessary to make her comfortable.