A Child of Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Don’t push yet,’ Rose commanded, peering anxiously between her legs. ‘It’s not time. Save your breath for the hard part.’

  Kate sank back on the bed in despair. What could be worse than this? She was burning all over, streams of sweat running down her back and breasts. She could barely breathe in the fetid, stinking room. She was vaguely aware of John knocking into furniture in the kitchen, exchanging sharp words with Jack. The candle in the room burnt down slowly.

  A while later, Rose roused her from semi-consciousness.

  ‘Can you still feel the pains?’ she asked anxiously.

  Kate nodded. Her whole body felt wrapped in a red-hot blanket of pain.

  ‘When you feel it come again, give a push, hinny.’

  Kate hardly knew what she meant, or cared. She had no energy to push anything anywhere.

  ‘Haway!’ Rose ordered, shaking her out of her stupor. ‘You’ve got to shove the bairn out!’

  Kate tried to rally. She felt the next wave grip her body and gritted her teeth in a stifled roar as she jerked in response.

  ‘Again!’ Rose ordered. Kate sweated and panted and heaved.

  ‘I cannot, Mam,’ she sobbed, falling back again in defeat. The baby would not come.

  Rose went to the door and hissed for Jack. ‘Gan and fetch Dr Dyer!’

  John stirred from his reverie by the fire. ‘The doctor? We cannot afford him. You stop where you are, lad.’

  Rose lost her patience. ‘He’ll gan for him this minute unless you want a corpse on your hands by mornin’! The lass is all done in.’ She pushed Jack towards the door. ‘Gan and fetch him - Sutton Street - tell him he’ll get paid. Run!’

  ‘Paid with what?’ John slurred.

  But Jack did not wait for further argument. He clattered out of the house and ran down the lane as fast as he could.

  Kate did not know whether he was gone five minutes or fifty. She seemed trapped in a dark, timeless world of never-ending pain. No amount of repentance could save her now. She was surely dying.

  ‘Kate?’ A deep soft voice was calling her through the red mists. ‘Kate, can you hear me? It’s Dr Dyer.’

  Kate mouthed in reply, too parched to form words.

  ‘Fetch a cup of water, please, Mrs McMullen,’ he ordered. ‘Put sugar in it and a pinch of salt.’ Then he was dabbing her cracked lips with a wet rag and speaking to her in a low calm voice.

  ‘I’m going to give you something to ease the pain, Kate. Then together we’ll bring this baby into the world. It’s taking its time, that’s all.’

  ‘Must know what it’s coming to,’ Kate whispered, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want to be born to this.’

  ‘It’s a lucky baby having such a pretty and kind-hearted mother,’ Dr Dyer said gallantly. ‘It’ll all be over soon. Now drink this and stop worrying.’

  Kate felt a surge of gratitude to the young Scots doctor. No one had spoken to her so kindly for a long time. She drank the medicine he proffered and felt herself relaxing, the waves of pain subsiding a fraction. With Rose’s help, he hauled her into a sitting position.

  ‘Hold on to your mother when the pain comes. We’ll not need this,’ he said, discarding the gag. ‘You shout your head off if you feel like it.’

  Kate roared and pushed with each contraction. This time she felt swept along instead of buffeted by the waves of pain.

  ‘Good girl, again!’ Dr Dyer encouraged.

  ‘I can’t,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Yes you can. The head’s almost through. We’re nearly there!’

  Kate cried in anguish and excitement, ‘Nearly there?’

  ‘Yes. Now come on, Kate; push!’

  Using up her last ounce of energy, Kate yelled and thrust in a final effort. She felt as if a dam were bursting. There was pressure and searing pain and then she could feel the baby slithering out of her. Almost at once there was a numb relief, before the throbbing pain returned.

  ‘That’s it!’ the doctor cried. ‘Well done, Kate.’ He was wiping the sticky, purple creature she had just ejected and clearing its mouth. A sharp tremulous noise, half cough, half cry of indignation, rose out of the baby.

  ‘What is it?’ Kate rasped.

  ‘A bonny wee girl,’ Dr Dyer smiled, holding her up for Kate to see.

  ‘I knew it was,’ Rose murmured.

  Kate sank back in disappointment and closed her eyes. The throbbing pain returned. All she wanted to do was fall asleep and never wake up.

  Rose and the doctor exchanged looks.

  ‘You should get her cleaned up,’ he said quietly, ‘both of them.’

  ‘Leave her be,’ Rose answered, holding out her arms for the baby. ‘Let me see the lass.’

  Dr Dyer handed her over. ‘She should try and feed her as soon as she wakes.’

  Rose nodded, peering at the crinkled face. The warmth of the baby in her arms gave her an unexpected surge of delight. Her eyes were open wide, dark and soulful, as if they already held knowledge and experience. They gazed at each other for a long moment and Rose felt a stirring of possessiveness for her granddaughter that she had not anticipated.

  ‘She’s been here before, this ‘un,’ she murmured, cuddling her closer.

  Dr Dyer went out to the scullery to wash his hands and tell the men that Kate had a daughter.

  John struggled to his feet and said belligerently, ‘It’s my lass now - mine and the missus’s. That whore’s having nowt to do with it from now on. So don’t you breathe a word about Kate having a bairn, d’you hear?’

  Dr Dyer looked at him in dislike, but said nothing. He turned to Rose, who was standing in the doorway, clasping the small mewling bundle.

  ‘Remember what I said about feeding. And keep an eye on Kate - she’s very weak and possibly feverish. Give her boiled water to drink - and maybe a touch of whisky and sugar in it.’

  ‘Whisky? Can’t afford that,’ John growled.

  Dr Dyer ignored him. ‘Call me if she gets worse, Mrs McMullen.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I won’t charge for it.’

  ‘Ta, Dr Dyer,’ Rose said gratefully.

  With a tired smile, he said good night and left.

  ‘Call him back? Over my dead body!’ John snarled. ‘You’ll see to her from now on, Rose. We’ll not waste a penny more on that slut.’

  ‘He didn’t charge owt,’ Rose said tiredly.

  John looked at her blearily and snorted. ‘I’ll not be beholden to that Protestant Scotchman. Comes in here lording it over us.’ He kicked a stool in bad temper.

  Rose gave Jack a quick nod. ‘You sleep on the settle the night,’ she murmured. ‘Haway, John, let’s to bed with the bairn.’

  Within ten minutes of coaxing John into bed, he was snoring loudly. Rose stared in the guttering candlelight at Kate’s shadowed, exhausted face. The stench of childbirth still hung about her, but Rose was too tired to do anything more. Instead she lay down with the baby and made a nest in the crook of her arm, her back protecting her from John’s bulk. The troubles of tomorrow would come soon enough; tonight she would think no further than falling asleep with her new granddaughter - her new daughter.

  She was certain that here, at last, was the angel child that the gypsy had promised her so long ago. The consolation for the years of struggle and heartache and disappointment. She and John would bring this one up right. She would not be allowed to make the mistake Kate had. This child would bring her joy in her old age.

  Comforted, Rose fell asleep.

  Chapter 33

  Kate was woken by a strange sound. She lay for a moment in the pearly dawn light, wondering where she was. She ached badly. Then she heard the snuffling, whimpering sound again and remembered. The baby. The noise was coming from the large bed, muffled by her stepfather’s heavy
snoring.

  Kate pulled herself up, wincing at the effort, and gingerly got to her feet. For a moment all the blood seemed to drain from her and she nearly passed out. Gripping the top of the desk bed, she steadied herself, then inched forward.

  Peering in the half-dark, Kate could make out the blanketed creature, half smothered by her mother’s thick arm. Her tiny face was creased and whimpering. At the same moment Kate became aware of a strange sensation, her breasts beginning to tingle. She hesitated, then leant forward and lifted the baby from her mother’s hold. Although she was tiny, Kate feared she would drop her, she felt so weak. Moving back to her bed, she lay down with the infant nuzzling and grizzling at her bodice.

  Kate did what she had seen her aunts do with their young. She untied her bodice and held the baby close to her breast. She pecked at her like a young bird, mouth open and searching. Kate shifted more on to her side and guided the snuffling creature to her nipple. Suddenly there was a sharp nipping sensation as the baby latched on, then she was sucking.

  Kate was exhilarated. She had managed to feed her own child without any help from her mother. It was easy. She held herself as still as possible, gazing at her new daughter. She had a small, sweet nose and a covering of brown hair that was as soft as down to the touch. She stroked her pink face, still creased and sticky from birth, and determined she would bathe her and put her in a cotton gown as soon as it was light.

  Kate closed her eyes in sudden contentment. She had dreaded the baby’s coming, had thought she would die of the pain of giving birth. But now it was over and she had a suckling baby in her arms. It felt good and natural to be lying there with her daughter. Snuggled together, she felt the first stirrings of love towards her new-born.

  ***

  When Kate woke again, the baby was gone. It was broad daylight and the big brass bed next to her was empty. Judging by the sun hitting the back wall of the yard, it must already be midday. She could hear her mother moving breathlessly around the kitchen, humming. Rose had not sung in years. Kate struggled up, feeling instantly sick and faint.

  ‘Mam,’ she croaked, ‘Mam! Where’s the bairn?’

  She shuffled to the bedroom door and peered beyond. The baby was lying in an orange box on the kitchen table, washed and swaddled in a clean sheet, sleeping. Rose hobbled in with an armful of washing.

  ‘I wanted to bath her,’ Kate said hoarsely.

  ‘Well, you can wash yoursel’ down instead,’ Rose said brusquely. ‘And clean up Jack’s bed.’

  Kate gripped the back of the settle. ‘I fed her, Mam,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Aye, that’s grand,’ Rose said, ‘ ‘cos we cannot afford to buy milk.’

  ‘Shall I feed her now?’

  ‘No, she’s sleeping, leave her be. You get those underclothes off before they walk out the room on their own.’

  Kate flushed. With a great effort she inched her way towards the scullery where her mother helped peel off her soiled clothing. Rose doused her in cold water from a jug. Kate gasped as it splashed on her clammy limbs. Congealed blood washed on to the brick floor. She began to shake at the enormity of what had happened.

  She, Kate Fawcett, fallen woman, had given birth to Alexander’s bastard. The smell of her disgrace filled her nostrils, the shameful blood washed around her feet. They would have to scrub all trace of it away before her stepfather returned. Kate clutched her body self-consciously and started to shiver uncontrollably.

  She was an unmarried mother, passing on her shame to her small innocent daughter. She could give her no father, no name, no cause to hold her head high among the pious and the gossips. Her eyes filled with tears to think of the kind, overworked Dr Dyer, who had not judged her. She could not expect such treatment from her own kind; they would shrink from her as if her sin could taint them.

  ‘What you ganin’ to call the bairn?’ Rose asked suddenly.

  Kate hung her head in resignation. ‘I don’t care. You can call her what you like.’

  They did not speak again while they stripped Jack’s bed and threw the soiled newspaper on to the fire. Kate felt unsteady on her feet and was thankful when her mother packed her off to bed.

  ‘I’ll bring the bairn to you when it’s time for a feed,’ Rose said, closing the door on her.

  Later Rose woke her with hot sweet tea and a slice of bread and jam. But the food made her sick. She heard the men return and John’s voice grunt with interest at the new member of the family. Kate felt jealous anger at the thought of her boorish stepfather prodding her baby with his dirty shovel-like hands. It made her nauseous to think he would be playing the role of father to her sweet girl, when her real father was so much more handsome and loving . . .

  What stupid thoughts! Kate mocked herself. The lass had no father - or not one that wished to acknowledge her. John McMullen, coarse though he was, would be better than no father at all. He stood between her and the workhouse and an upbringing of orphaned shame for her daughter. What right had she to judge him?

  For the next three days, Rose brought the unnamed baby into Kate to be fed. But as soon as she finished suckling and had dropped off to sleep, Rose came and took her away again and placed her by the hearth in the orange box that was her crib. She seemed contented and sleepy during the day, but at night became fretful and plucked at her mother’s breasts until they were raw.

  John complained that he could not sleep with the noise, so Kate would get up and sit in the kitchen, half-dozing and exhausted. Jack lay still in the shadows and she did not know if he saw her attempting to feed and placate the demanding baby, but he never complained.

  After five days, Kate could bear it no longer.

  ‘She’s always crying to be fed,’ she said weepily to Rose when John and Jack had left for work. ‘I can’t give her any more.’

  ‘You can’t be feeding her right,’ Rose scolded. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  Kate blushed as her mother opened her blouse and peered at her. Rose clucked, ‘Well, they’re full o’ milk. You’ll get used to it.’ Then she went to hang out the washing.

  Kate determined to leave her bed and not be shut away all day where she could not see her baby. But increasingly she felt unwell as she struggled to help around the house. Sweat poured off her and she had to keep sitting down to stop herself fainting. Her breasts were swollen and aching and she could hardly bear the baby to touch them. That evening, as she was pulling a potato pie out of the oven, stabbing pains shot through her and she collapsed on the hearth.

  There was consternation at the kitchen table and John cursed her for being clumsy, but Rose soon realised there was something very wrong.

  ‘Help me carry her to the settle,’ she ordered Jack. She felt Kate’s head. ‘She’s hot as a furnace. Fetch some water, lad.’

  ‘Stop bossin’ him about like a girl,’ John snapped.

  Rose ignored him while she peered into Kate’s glazed unfocused eyes.

  ‘Can you hear me, lass?’ she asked anxiously, but Kate just moaned and shook. Rose undid her blouse and gasped at the swollen, engorged breasts. She knew just how much pain her daughter suffered; the same thing had happened to her when Jack had been a babe. But Kate was far more ill than she had been. She was shaking with fever and whimpering incoherently. In the corner, the baby began to wail.

  She turned to John. ‘We’ll have to send for Dr Dyer. The lass has milk fever.’

  ‘No!’ John growled, all the time staring at Kate’s prone body.

  ‘Please, John, I’m frightened,’ Rose pleaded. ‘We cannot leave the lass like this - and the bairn needs feedin’. The doctor will give her some’at to bring out the fever.’

  The baby’s fractious crying filled the room.

  ‘We don’t need the doctor,’ John said in a low rumble. ‘I can do it.’

  Rose and John stared at each oth
er. Jack looked between them, puzzled. He was disturbed by the sight of Kate’s half-undressed body on the settle. He glanced away.

  Rose swallowed. John was proposing to do for Kate what he had done so eagerly for her all those years ago - suck the milk from her breasts to relieve the swelling and allow the baby to latch on again. The thought of it made her stomach heave.

  ‘No,’ she said stubbornly.

  John glared at her. ‘Well, I’ll not have that doctor touching her again.’ He was just as adamant. He sat down and carried on eating his tea as if nothing was wrong.

  Rose turned to Kate, her heart pounding with anger, and tried to get her to take sips of water. The baby’s crying grew more distressed. The noise was relentless. Kate whimpered something that Rose could not catch.

  John scraped back his chair and stood up, unable to bear the wailing. ‘I’m ganin’ next door,’ he snapped and strode out.

  ‘Jack, fetch me the flannel and a clean teaspoon,’ his mother ordered, reaching over for her untouched cup of tea. When he came back she shovelled in extra sugar and stirred. ‘Now lift the bairn out its box and come and sit here.’

  ‘Me?’ Jack asked in astonishment.

  ‘Aye, she won’t bite ye,’ Rose said impatiently.

  She watched him pick up his tiny niece like a piece of rare china and was reminded of John holding his new-born son with the same mixture of fear and wonder. What had happened to that fiercely caring man who had stayed up all night saving the life of his precious Jack, defying them all? Too sodden in drink and his own self-pity to care about any of them any more. Rose swallowed her bitterness.

  She showed Jack how to cradle the bawling baby in the crook of his arm and give her drops of tea on the end of his finger. His frowning face broke into a smile of amazement as the baby began to suck hungrily at his little finger.

  ‘She’ll not be fooled for long,’ Rose warned him.

  She turned to Kate and began mopping her face and neck with the damp flannel. Her daughter shivered and flinched away from the touch. Rose tried to soothe her, but Kate grew more agitated, tossing her head from side to side, babbling incoherently. Rose watched in mounting alarm, paralysed with indecision. Time, on the mantelpiece clock, ticked on. The baby dropped off into a fretful sleep.