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by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  The doctor had ordered bed rest. A further repercussion was their continued avoidance of sex. They had not made love since their short honeymoon in London. Their abstinence had not been deliberate. Tom had come down with a heavy bout of flu after their visit to his family in Essex. The packing up and moving to St Albans had left them both too tired. Her frequent bleeding and increasing nausea had so concerned Tom that he treated her like a china doll, not daring to touch her or press her into lovemaking. This suited Catherine, yet she felt guilty at their lack of intimacy for Tom’s sake. If only she could explain about her trauma as a child, he would see that the fault was not theirs. But she was too ashamed to speak of it.

  Somewhere, far off, a siren wailed. Tom took her hand and led her to the fireside.

  ‘I’ll make us a pot of tea. You just sit there. Tomorrow,’ he gave her a stern look, ‘you’re going back to see the doctor.’

  Catherine protested. ‘I don’t need a doctor - I need something to do.’

  He studied her. ‘What about your writing? You’ve got some great stories - they just need a bit of polishing up.’

  Catherine considered the suggestion. She had not felt the need to write since their marriage. Her pile of exercise books languished in the airing cupboard and only Tom had been allowed to read them.

  ‘Or education,’ he persisted. ‘Now’s your chance to read all the books you ever wanted. You can treat it like a job. There’s a library two streets away. Why don’t you join it?’

  Catherine felt a quick flare of interest. To read for improvement and not mere enjoyment would give her a purpose. She would rekindle her old thirst for learning that had been smothered by years of overwork and coping with Kate and Bridie.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed excitedly. ‘What a good idea.’ She imagined herself holding forth at table, with Mr Forbes nodding in admiration.

  When Tom came back with the tea, she said, ‘You can draw up a list of books I should be reading. I want to be able to talk about books you’ve read. I’ve so much catching-up to do.’

  He gave her a tender smile and poured the tea.

  The next day Catherine came back from the library with a full quota of books. She set herself a target of a book a day, starting with Socrates and Chaucer. She would work her way through Shakespeare, the Enlightenment, Romantics and up to modern writers. Sitting at the upstairs window of their flat and opening a new book gave her a thrill of expectation, like a child opening a Christmas present. She could lose herself for hours in the pages of these books, only realising the time when Tom came tramping up the stairs for tea.

  The evenings were spent questioning Tom about what she had read, demanding explanations of passages she had not understood. She was drawn to the teachings of the ancient Greek philosophers that held great store by truth and love. How much easier to follow such teachings than the guilt-ridden, judgemental faith to which she was harnessed.

  On their arrival in St Albans she had persuaded Tom to go with her to the Catholic church, secretly hoping it might encourage him to convert. But the visiting missionary priest had railed against those not in the true faith, promising them Hell and Damnation. Catherine had squirmed in her seat, ashamed and embarrassed, wondering if Tom would walk out. He hadn’t, but the next week went quietly to early communion at the local Anglican church.

  Despite Catherine’s new absorption in books, her fragile health continued to worry Tom. She was too thin, too tired, too often sick, he fretted. Finally, to keep him happy she made an appointment at the local surgery. A young woman doctor examined her. She diagnosed anaemia.

  ‘And you’re also pregnant,’ she smiled.

  Catherine stared at her. Pregnant? She shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘I-I can’t be. I’m not.’

  ‘You’ve missed your periods, you’re being sick every morning,’ the doctor said breezily. ‘You’re going to have a baby.’

  ‘But I haven’t. . .’ Catherine stopped, reddening in confusion. She could not tell this stranger that she had not made love with her husband for over three months - and then only the once.

  The doctor gave her a keen look. ‘Is there a problem? You are married, aren’t you?’

  Catherine jumped to her feet, offended. ‘Of course I’m married,’ she glared. ‘But I’m not expecting.’

  As she made for the door, the doctor said, ‘Come back next month and we’ll see which one of us is right.’

  Catherine went home quite flustered. Tom coaxed out of her what the doctor had said.

  ‘But you might be, Kitty,’ he smiled shyly. ‘It is just possible.’

  Catherine flushed. ‘She’s too young to be a doctor. I don’t trust her judgement. I’ll go and see someone else.’

  Tom’s puzzled look made her feel ashamed. Why should it unnerve her so much to think she might be carrying a baby? Wasn’t it what all newly married couples wanted to hear? The priests would approve. Tom’s kindly mother and boisterous family would be pleased. Even Kate might fuss over a new baby.

  Catherine could not name her fear. Perhaps it was because it proved to the world that she had had sex. Perhaps it was the dangers of labour and the horror of giving birth that frightened her most. Whichever, she was not ready to be a mother. She wanted to go on having Tom to herself, having time for her reading, being in charge of her own life, not that of some terrifying, squalling infant.

  The second doctor she saw was a naval doctor newly out of retirement. Of course she wasn’t pregnant. She had bowel trouble, acute constipation. He gave her a strong emetic to flush through her problems.

  ‘French stuff, you know. Can’t get it now the war’s on. Clear you out in a jiffy.’

  Catherine went home in relief and drank the medicine. For three days she suffered vomiting and diarrhoea, so severe that she could hardly crawl between the bed and the bathroom. Tom stayed off work to nurse her, beside himself with worry.

  ‘What on earth did that man give you?’ he demanded.

  Catherine, too ill to care, thought she was dying. At the end of the week, when she was well enough again to sit up in bed and eat a little soup, the doctor reappeared. He examined her briefly and gruffly admitted, ‘Sorry, Mrs Cookson. We both got it wrong. You’re going to have a baby. I’d say you’re about four months into the pregnancy.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t take any more of that medicine I gave you.’

  By the look on Tom’s face, Catherine thought he would throw the bottle of medicine after the retreating doctor. He came back and took her hand.

  ‘I’m wrapping you up in cotton wool for the next five months, Mrs Cookson,’ he declared.

  She felt weak and tearful. Now that she had to face the truth of her pregnancy, Catherine was suddenly seized with worry about taking the emetic.

  ‘Do you think I’ve damaged the baby?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never been so sick in all my life. What if I’ve harmed it?’

  Tom squeezed her hand. ‘No, don’t think like that. The baby’ll be fine. You just need feeding up and plenty of rest.’

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said, a wave of affection flooding through her.

  He leant over and tenderly brushed her lips.

  ‘Our first baby,’ he smiled. ‘I’m so happy I could dance down the street.’

  Catherine laughed at the thought of her shy husband doing anything so extrovert. His enthusiasm gave her courage. There was nothing to fear in having this baby. If Tom was so keen on having a family, then she would be too. She would do anything to make him as happy as he made her.

  ‘Go and get your dancing shoes on, then,’ she teased. ‘This I have to see.’

  He laughed and kissed her again.

  ***

  Once Catherine got used to the idea, she began to relax and enjoy the thought of their baby growing inside her. She delighted in the fuss that Tom made o
f her and his attempts to get hold of extra rationed meat to build up her strength. The sickness passed, but she continued to feel tired. Anything mildly strenuous, such as carrying books from the library, could bring on haemorrhaging from the nose and mouth.

  Tom insisted on fetching her reading and much of the shopping. Catherine spent the autumn cocooned in the flat, being pampered and loved. Her optimism for the future grew with the baby. The imminent threat of invasion that had hung over the country for months receded a little. The heroics of the RAF had decimated Hitler’s air force and the bravery of the navy to keep supply lines open had helped thwart a Nazi overthrow - at least for the winter.

  Catherine dared to hope for a less dangerous future into which her baby could be born. She began to write short stories and verse for her unborn child, imagining the day when she could read them aloud to a child snuggled in her lap. By the end of October, her ‘bump’ was still small but she could feel the baby kicking strongly inside her, turning restlessly. If Tom was there, she would quickly put his hand over the movement and watch the look of awe spread across his face. They laughed with nervous excitement. She and Tom played endless make-believe games.

  ‘We’ll call her Catherine after you,’ he said. ‘Catherine the Great - an empress with beauty and brains.’

  ‘It’s a boy, he’s already batting for his country,’ Catherine joked. ‘He’ll be sporty and handsome like his father. William. That would suit.’

  ‘I like John.’

  ‘No,’ Catherine cried, ‘he might be bad-tempered like my grandda.’

  Tom chuckled. ‘David then. A small man like me against an uncertain world - Goliath.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Yes, small, but with a lion’s heart - and a clever mind. He’ll go to Oxford like you, of course. David, that’s perfect.’

  Then in November a note arrived from Tyneside telling Catherine that her mother was seriously ill.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s not signed.’

  Catherine was just as perplexed. ‘It’s not Aunt Mary’s writing . . .’

  ‘Some busybody.’ Tom was suspicious.

  ‘But what if it’s true?’ Catherine fretted. ‘I’ll have to go to her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her dying alone and me not getting to see her. The last time - I was that sharp—’

  ‘Kitty, you can’t travel all that way in your condition. You’re not strong enough. Think of the baby.’

  ‘I am thinking of the baby,’ Catherine said in distress. ‘I haven’t told Kate yet. She might die and never know she had a grandbairn. She has a right to know.’ Suddenly she burst into tears.

  At once Tom was contrite, hugging her close. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Catherine tried to explain. ‘I still feel so guilty - leaving her to fend for herself after Davie died. Now I’m going to be a mother myself - I want to make it up with her before it’s too late.’

  ‘I understand,’ Tom assured her. ‘We’ll ring Mary and find out what’s going on.’

  But the lines were down and Tom failed to get through. This only heightened Catherine’s anxiety. He could do nothing to put his wife’s mind at ease or dissuade her from attempting the long journey north.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll beg two days’ compassionate leave.’

  After hours of delays on freezing station platforms, they rattled north in an overcrowded train. Because of the lateness, they travelled during the blackout, plunged in darkness all the way. Catherine felt jumpy and ill, the baby fluttering in her womb as if sensing her disquiet.

  They arrived in Gateshead in the middle of the night and dozed in a waiting room until the early morning train could take them to Tyne Dock. It was still dark when they reached Kate’s flat in Chaloner Lane and hammered on her door. Tom gripped his wife’s arm in support, as she swayed with fatigue and worry.

  A bleary-eyed Kate came down the stairs to answer the frantic knocking. Catherine threw herself at her mother and burst into tears.

  ‘You’re alive!’ she sobbed.

  ‘By all the saints! What you doing here, hinny?’

  ‘Let us in, please, Mrs McDermott,’ Tom said wearily.

  She led them up the narrow staircase and into her small living room, Catherine gabbling incoherently about the letter. Kate fetched her a glass of water and a blanket.

  ‘Just had a bad cold,’ she said in bemusement. ‘Nowt to call the undertaker for. You shouldn’t have worried.’

  Catherine’s relief turned quickly to annoyance. ‘Then why would someone write such a thing?’

  ‘Bet it’s that wife downstairs sticking her nose in. Thinks I spend too long in the drink shop with her man. Not that I do,’ Kate added hastily. ‘Maybes she thought if you were around you’d put a stop to it.’ Her mother looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, hinny. By, but it’s grand to see you!’

  Catherine sank back and closed her eyes. She felt terrible. It was Tom who broke the news about the baby.

  ‘A bairn!’ Kate gasped in delight. ‘That’s champion. I’ll come and help when your time comes,’ she said eagerly. ‘Eeh, a grandbairn! Wait till I tell our Mary.’ She brushed away a tear.

  At Tom’s insistence, they put Catherine to bed. She slept fitfully, unused to the clanking and hooting from the docks. Every time a train rumbled by, the house shook and the windows rattled. She got up at tea time, listless and out of sorts. Kate looked better than she had seen her in years. With liquor harder to come by and work to keep her occupied, her mother was as brisk and bossy as ever.

  Catherine felt resentful at having rushed north on false pretences. She half suspected Kate might have concocted the letter herself, just to get attention. Well, she wouldn’t do it again - not once the baby was born - and she’d resist her mother’s plans to take over her home and baby.

  ‘Tom’s going to help me at the birth,’ Catherine declared, startling both her husband and mother. ‘There’s no need for you to be there.’

  Kate was scandalised. ‘You cannot have him there! Lads don’t bring out bairns.’

  ‘Doctors do it all the time,’ Catherine pointed out.

  Kate blustered. ‘Aye, but they’re different. It’s bad luck to have a man in the house.’

  ‘I don’t believe in all that superstitious nonsense,’ Catherine said crossly.

  They left early the next day, Kate fussing over Catherine and scolding Tom for allowing her daughter to make the journey.

  ‘She looks worse than I do,’ Kate tutted. ‘You’ll need me when the time comes. Be sure to let me know. Tak care of yoursel’, hinny.’

  As usual, Tom did not complain about Kate’s brusque treatment, which made Catherine feel all the more guilty for having dragged them both to Tyneside.

  ‘You shouldn’t let her speak to you like that,’ she said, as they embarked on the slow journey home. ‘Why can’t you stand up for yourself more?’

  He looked unperturbed. ‘She’s never going to change her mind about me. I took her precious daughter away. I don’t mind what she says to me. It’s you that matters.’

  ‘Oh, stop being so bloody reasonable!’ Catherine cried.

  They travelled back in silence, Catherine feeling awful for taking out her anger on Tom when the whole situation was her fault. But she was too wretched to try to make amends.

  Back home, she retreated to bed and Tom went back to work. He brought her a small bunch of flowers as a peace offering, but they made her sneeze violently and brought on a nosebleed. Tom was mortified and Catherine’s protests that he was not to blame fell on deaf ears.

  For his sake, she tried to galvanise herself out of bed and have tea ready for him when he came home. She sat by the small fire, depressed by the shortening days and a nagging anxiety that she could not articulate.

  That late November
evening, watching Tom marking books at the table, she covered her swollen belly and knew what it was. The baby wasn’t moving. She jolted. How long had it been still? A day? Two days? Longer? She tried to think calmly. She had felt movement on the journey south - small, squeezing sensations as if the baby were curling up to hibernate for winter. But nothing much since. Not the strong kicks of before.

  Catherine pressed her hands hard on her stomach, willing her baby to move. Was she being fanciful, or did it feel smaller, a hard round ball under her trembling hands? She must have cried out, for Tom looked up startled. Without asking, he came to her at once and put his large warm hands over hers.

  She gazed at him in fear.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t feel. . .’

  Tom rushed out of the house without stopping to put on his coat. Catherine sat hunched in the chair, forbidding her mind to think of anything until his return. He came back twenty minutes later with a doctor she’d never seen before.

  He was cheerful and reassuring as they helped her to bed. He looked more troubled after an examination.

  ‘There’s still a heartbeat, though it’s not very strong. It might be best if we have you moved to hospital, Mrs Cookson.’

  ‘Hospital?’ Panic choked her. She clung to Tom’s arm. Maternity hospital to her meant long, humiliating, public rows of beds in dismal workhouse wards. Tom would not be allowed to be there. She would be all alone. Fear overwhelmed her.

  ‘What would they do?’ Tom asked, equally anxious.

  The doctor looked pitying. ‘It might be necessary to induce the baby.’

  ‘Make it come?’ Tom queried. The man nodded.

  ‘No!’ Catherine cried. ‘It’s too early. The baby’s not ready. I’m only six months gone.’

  Tom hushed her and looked to the doctor for advice.

  He tried a smile of reassurance. ‘Listen, we’ll do nothing tonight. You stay still in bed and rest. I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll make a decision then.’