by Betty Neels
‘Trouble?’ asked Lucy. ‘Sit down and get your breath.’ She poured a cup of tea from the pot she hadn’t yet emptied and handed it to him, and when he had gulped a mouthful:
‘I’d say, Miss Lucy—the wife’s expecting and the baby’s started. I thought as ’ow I’d telephone from ’ere, but nothin’ will get through—the snow’s already drifting down the lane and the road’s not much better.’
‘And Nurse Atkins is in Yeovil—it’s her day off.’ Lucy started for the door. ‘I’ll see what Father says, Ted—finish your tea; I won’t be a minute.’
She was back in a very short time, her parents with her. ‘Lucy will get to your wife,’ declared the Rector. ‘She knows her way—you stay here, Ted, and I’ll telephone and see what’s to be done—you’ll have to act as guide when the ambulance or whatever can be sent arrives.’ He turned to Lucy, already struggling into her wellingtons. ‘And you’ll stay with Shirley until someone gets through to you, my dear...and wrap yourself up well.’
Mrs Prendergast hadn’t said a word. She was stuffing a haversack with the things she thought might be useful to Lucy and then went to fetch an old anorak into which she zipped her daughter with strict instructions to take care. ‘And I’ll get the spare-room bed made up just in case it’s needed.’ She added worriedly: ‘I wish one of your brothers were home.’
They exchanged glances. Lucy, very well aware that her mother disliked the idea of her going out into the blizzard on her own, grinned cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry, Mother, it’s not far and I know the way like the back of my hand.’
An over-optimistic view, as it turned out, for once outside in the tearing wind and the soft, feathery snow, she knew that she could get lost very easily in no time at all. And once she had started valiantly on her way, she knew too that it was going to be a lot further than she had supposed. True, in fine weather it was barely twenty minutes’ walk, now it was going to take a good deal longer. But thoughts of poor Shirley, left on her own and probably in quite a state by now, spurred her on. She followed the country road, fortunately hedged, and came at last to the turning which led to the Stevenses’ cottage. It wasn’t so easy here; several times she found herself going off its barely discernible track, but at length she saw the glimmer of a light ahead. It was plain sailing after that, if she discounted sprawling flat on her face a couple of times and almost losing a boot in a hidden ditch. She stopped to fetch her breath at the cottage door and then opened it, calling to Shirley as she went in.
The wind and snow swept in with her so that once in the tiny lobby she had to exert all her strength to get the door closed again. ‘Just in time,’ she told herself as she shook the snow off herself, and repeated that, only silently, when she opened the living room door and saw Shirley.
Her patient was a large, buxom girl, rendered even more so by the bulky woollen garments she was wearing. Her hair, quite a nice blonde, was hanging round her puffy, red-eyed face and the moment she set eyes on Lucy she burst into noisy sobs.
‘I’m dying,’ she shrieked, ‘and there’s no one here!’
‘Me—I’m here,’ Lucy assured her, and wished with all her heart that she wasn’t. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea and while we’re drinking it you can tell me how things are.’
She walked through the cluttered little room to the kitchen and put on the kettle, then went back again to ask one or two pertinent questions.
The answers weren’t entirely satisfactory, but she didn’t say so; only suggested in a placid voice that Shirley might like to get undressed. ‘I’ll help you,’ went on Lucy, ‘and then if you would lie on the bed—how sensible to have had it brought downstairs—we’ll work out just how long you’ve been in labour and that might just give us the idea as to how much longer the baby will be.’
Having delivered this heartening speech she made the tea, assisted the girl to get out of her clothes and into a nightgown and dressing gown and turned back the bedcovers. And it had to be admitted that in bed, with her hair combed and her poor tear-stained face mopped, Shirley looked more able to cope with whatever lay before her. They drank their tea with a good many interruptions while she clutched at Lucy’s hand and declared that she would die.
‘No, you won’t, love,’ said Lucy soothingly, busy calculating silently. It didn’t make sense; from what she could remember of her three months on the maternity ward, Shirley should be a lot further on than she was. She cleared away the tea things and assuming her most professional manner, examined her patient; there wasn’t a great deal to go by, but unless she was very much at fault, the baby was going to be a breech. She had seen only one such birth and she wasn’t sure if she would know what to do. She suppressed a perfectly natural urge to rush out of the cottage into the appalling weather outside, assured Shirley that everything was fine and set about laying out the few quite inadequate bits and pieces she had brought with her, telling herself as she did so that things could have been worse; that at any moment now help could arrive. She gave a sigh at the thought and then gulped it down when someone outside gave the door knocker a resounding thump.
‘We’re in the sitting room,’ she shouted. ‘How quick you’ve been...’ she looked over her shoulder as she spoke and let out a great breath, then: ‘I didn’t expect you!’
‘I can see that,’ agreed Fraam affably. He towered in the narrow doorway, covered in snow, which he began to shake off in a careless fashion before he divested himself of the rucksack on his back. ‘And leave the questions until later, dear girl. Sufficient to say that I happened to be hereabouts and it seemed a good idea for me to—er—act as advance guard.’
He looked very much the consultant now, in a beautifully cut tweed suit and a silk shirt. It was a pity, Lucy thought wildly, that he had had to stuff his exquisitely cut trousers into wellingtons; she was on the point of mentioning it when he asked blandly: ‘This is the lady...?’
She made haste to introduce him and then listened to him putting Shirley at her ease; he did it beautifully, extracting information effortlessly while he gently examined her. When he had finished he said: ‘Well, I’m not your regular doctor, Mrs Stevens, but I don’t think he would object if I gave you something to help the pains; you may even get a little sleep. It will be an hour or two yet and unless an ambulance can get through very shortly you will have to have the baby here. You will be quite safe. Nurse Prendergast is excellent and I won’t leave you at all.’
‘You’re foreign.’ There was a spark of interest in Shirley’s eyes.
‘Er—yes, but I do work over here quite a bit.’ His smile was so kind and reassuring that she smiled back quite cheerfully. ‘And now will you take this? It will help you considerably.’
Shirley tossed off the contents of the small glass he was holding out and Lucy tucked her in cosily while Fraam made up the fire and then went to shrug on his coat once more. ‘I’ll fetch in more wood,’ he said.
‘He’s a bit of all right, Miss Lucy,’ whispered Shirley, ‘even if he is foreign.’ She managed a grin. ‘Between the two of you it’ll be O.K., won’t it?’
‘Of course,’ said Lucy stoutly. ‘You’re going to have a little doze, just as the doctor said, and everything’s going to be fine.’ And as Shirley grimaced and groaned, ‘Here, let me rub your back.’
She had Shirley nicely settled by the time Fraam got back. He stacked the wood carefully, had another look at his patient and said casually: ‘We’re going to leave you for a few minutes, Mrs Stevens—just to discuss the routine, you know. Will you mind if we go into the kitchen and almost close the door? No awful secrets, you understand.’ He sounded so relaxed that Shirley agreed without a murmur and Lucy, obedient to his nod, slid past him into the tiny kitchen, shivering a little at its chill, made even chillier by the wind tearing at its door and window.
She said in an urgent whisper: ‘It’s a breech, isn’t it? I don’t know a great deal about it,
but it looked...’
‘You are perfectly right, Lucy—it is a breech, at least the first one is.’
Her eyes grew round and so did her mouth. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed in a whispered squeak. ‘You must be mistaken,’ and then at his bland look: ‘Well, no—I’m sorry, of course you aren’t.’
He inclined his head gravely. ‘Good of you to say so, Lucilla.’
‘And don’t call me that,’ she whispered fiercely.
His formidable eyebrows arched. ‘Why not? Is it not your name?’
‘You know it is—only—only you make it sound different...’
‘I mean to—it’s a pretty name.’ He leaned forward and kissed her, brief and hard, on her astonished mouth and went on, just as though he hadn’t done it: ‘Of course the ambulance hasn’t a chance of getting through—I suggested to your father that he tried to contact the army and get hold of something with caterpillar tracks; they might get her doctor through—if they can’t then you will have to be my right hand, dear girl.’
She gazed at him in horror. ‘Oh, I don’t fancy that—I don’t think...’
‘You won’t need to,’ he pointed out blandly, ‘I’ll tell you what to do as we go along. Mrs Stevens should doze for another hour or so, on and off. Make a cup of tea like a good girl, will you, for once we start I don’t expect we’ll have time for anything. I’ll get the things out of my case—there’s some brandy there too. I thought Mrs Stevens might be glad of it when everything’s over.’
He went back into the sitting room and bent over the bag he had brought with him while Lucy made tea again. He joined her presently, accepted the mug she offered him and whispered on a chuckle: ‘I like the odds and ends you brought with you—practical even though not quite adequate.’
She gave him a cross look. ‘Well, I wasn’t to know it was going to be twins and a breech.’
He spooned sugar lavishly. ‘True, Lucy. You didn’t add any food to your collection, I suppose?’
‘A tin of milk—for the baby, you know,’ she pointed out kindly, ‘and there’s some chocolate in my anorak—it’s quite old, I think...’
‘We’ll save it until we’re starving, then.’
She poured tea for them both. ‘How did you get here?’
He chose to misunderstand her. ‘Through the snow—your father gave me the direction.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said impatiently, ‘but how did you get here—to the village, I mean?’
‘Ah, yes—well; there was something I wanted to ask you to do for me, but this is hardly the time. We can have a nice little chat later on.’
She let that pass. ‘Yes, but did you come by car?’
He looked surprised. ‘How else? Doctor de Groot sent his love, by the way.’
She re-filled the teapot; it wouldn’t do to waste the tea and he had said that there might not be time... ‘You’ve seen him recently?’
‘Yes—he’s ill again.’ He added infuriatingly: ‘But no more about that; let us go over the task lying ahead of us.’ He handed her his mug. ‘Now as I see it...’ He began to instruct her as to what she might expect and she listened meekly, inwardly furious because he was being deliberately tiresome.
He made her repeat all he had told her, which she did in a waspish little voice which caused a very pronounced gleam in his eyes. All the same, she had cause to be thankful towards him later on; Shirley continued to doze on and off for the next hour or so, but presently she wakened and the serious business of the evening, as Fraam matter-of-factly put it, began. Lucy, well primed as to what she must do, nonetheless had the time to see how well Fraam managed. Shirley wasn’t an easy patient, expending a great deal of useful energy on crying and railing at her two companions, but he showed no sign of annoyance, treating her with a kindly patience which finally had its reward as Shirley calmed down after he had repeatedly assured her that she wasn’t going to die, that the baby would be born very shortly and that she would feel herself in excellent spirits in no time at all.
The first baby was a breech, a small, vigorously screaming boy whom Lucy received into a warmed blanket. ‘A boy,’ Fraam told his patient, ‘a perfect baby, Mrs Stevens. You shall hold him in just a minute or two, we’ll have the other baby first.’
He had chosen the exact moment in which to tell her. Shirley, delighted with herself and no longer frightened, took the news well and except for exclaiming that they couldn’t afford two babies, she made no fuss, and Fraam, bending over her, reassured her with a comfortable assurance that she would undoubtedly get help. ‘You’ll get the child allowance, won’t you, and I’m sure your husband’s employer will be generous.’
Lucy wasn’t too sure about that; Farmer Lockett wasn’t a generous man; it looked as though her father would need to come to the rescue, as he so often did. She heard Fraam say comfortably: ‘Well, we must see what can be done, mustn’t we?’ and felt annoyance because it was easy for him to talk like that; he would be miles away as soon as he decently could and would forget the whole thing. But in the meantime at least, he behaved with exemplary calm, making tea while Lucy made the excited mother comfortable and when they had all had a cup, suggesting in a voice which expected no opposition that Shirley should have a nice sleep for an hour while they kept an eye on the babies.
There was only one cot; Lucy found herself sharing the heat of the fire with Fraam, each of them cradling a very small sleeping creature, cocooned in blanket. Fraam, wedged into an armchair much too small for him, had the infant tucked under one arm and his eyes closed. How like him, thought Lucy crossly and rather unfairly, to go to sleep and leave her with two little babies and a mother who at any moment might spring a load of complications...
‘I’m not asleep,’ Mr der Linssen assured her, still with his eyes closed. ‘Both infants are in good shape and I expect no complications from their mother. I will warn you if I feel sleepy, I have shut my eyes merely as a precaution.’
He didn’t say against what, but Lucy remembering his remark—a long while ago now—that he tried not to see her, went a bright pink and went even pinker when he opened one eye to study her. ‘You look very warm,’ he observed, ‘but I think that you will have to bear it.’ His glance fell on the small bundle she was holding so carefully. ‘I’ll have another look at them later on. If all goes well, you can have them both while I get in more wood and forage round a bit. Once Mum’s awake it will ease the situation.’
The eye closed and Lucy was left to her own thoughts. Why was he here? He had said that he had something to ask her and that Doctor de Groot was ill again, but surely a letter would have done as well? Or perhaps he was on holiday? Was it something to do with Mies? Her thoughts chased themselves round and round inside her tired head and were snapped as if on a thread when the old-fashioned wall clock let out a tremendous one.
She turned her head to make sure she had heard aright and whispered: ‘Isn’t anyone coming?’
‘Well, hardly.’ He had opened both eyes again and smiled at her kindly. ‘They’ll have to wait for morning, you know.’ They sat listening to the howl of the wind encircling the little house and he added comfortably: ‘We’re fine here for the moment. Close your eyes, Lucy, I’ll catch the baby if you drop it.’
She gave him an indignant glance and he smiled again. ‘You’ll have chores later on,’ he insisted gently, ‘and you’ll be in no fit state to do them.’
It made sense; she shut her eyes meekly, secretly determined to stay awake. The clock was striking four when she opened them and Mr der Linssen was sitting exactly as he had been, only now he had a little baby tucked under each arm. Miraculously they were still asleep.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ began Lucy, to be stopped by his: ‘Feel wide-awake enough to take these two and keep an eye on Mum? She hasn’t stirred, but she will very soon. I’ll have a look round.’
He handed
her the tiny pair and stretched hugely and went soft-footed into the hall for his jacket. Lucy felt the rush of air as he let himself out and then heard no more above the sound of the wind. He would, she judged, have some difficulty in reaching the woodshed. She looked across at Shirley, who was showing signs of waking; she would want some attention and a cup of tea, but how to do that with her arms full of babies? She was still pondering her problem when Mr der Linssen came back. She could hear him in the hall, getting out of his jacket and taking off his boots, and presently he came on his enormous socked feet into the room.
He grinned across at her. ‘There’s a goat,’ he informed her softly, ‘and chickens. I’ve dug a path through the drift behind the cottage and brought down enough coal and wood to keep us going for the rest of the day.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Lucy urgently.
‘In the shed almost at the end of the garden. Can you milk a goat, Lucy?’
She said matter-of-factly: ‘Well, of course I can. I’ll go and see to the poor thing as soon as possible, but Shirley’s beginning to rouse.’
He came and took the infants from her. ‘Good, I’ll sit here—there’s nowhere else I can go with these two—while you cope with her. Let me know if there’s anything worrying you, but if everything’s as it should be she can have them while you see to the livestock and I get the tea.’
Shirley, now that she was the proud mother of twins, had assumed an assurance which was rather touching. Between them, she and Lucy managed very well, ignoring Mr der Linssen’s impersonal broad back which had, of necessity, to be there too. Washed, combed and comfortable, Shirley sat up against her pillows and delightedly took possession of her family.
Mr der Linssen, taking her pulse and temperature, congratulated her on their beauty and size while he listened to Lucy’s gentle slam of the door.