The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘I wish I’d never started this,’ Gladys complained. ‘I only meant it as a joke.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Gladys. Dorothy has set out to make it look as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Egged on by Mabel,’ Jinny surmised.

  ‘I see.’ Slowly Gladys began to get the point. ‘Mabel has a grudge against you because of the work you do – you’ve set up in competition. And Dorothy – well, she still has it in for you because of what happened to Myra.’

  ‘Which she has no right to do,’ Jinny reminded them sharply. She jammed the lid on the biscuit tin and put it back in the cupboard. ‘And it’s not as if Hazel had anything to do with John before his poor wife died.’

  Myra again! Her ghostly presence loomed everywhere – in Hazel and John’s minds and now in the hateful rumours flying around the neighbourhood. To Hazel it seemed as if there was no escape. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ she asked Gladys with a sinking heart.

  ‘Not really. Mum swears she stuck up for you. She bought her loaf of bread and told the whole shop that you had every right to walk out with whoever you liked. It was none of their business.’

  ‘There is more,’ Jinny insisted reluctantly as she took the teacups and rinsed them under the tap. ‘I was keeping quiet, but now Gladys has had her say, I’d better have mine.’

  Hazel braced herself, her knowledge of the kiss and its aftermath weighing heavily. If only life were simple and she could hold her head high and truthfully rebut the charge.

  ‘As luck would have it, I ran into Dorothy myself earlier today,’ Jinny explained as she finished at the sink and dried her hands. ‘I was serving on the stall so there was no avoiding her. She bought her pound of carrots and as I reached out to take her money, she grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go. “Tell your Hazel she should have more sense,” she said, and she gave me one of her looks.’

  ‘I knew she didn’t like it,’ Hazel admitted. ‘I saw that same look yesterday, when I got out of the car.’

  ‘There was more. She said: “And tell her she’ll keep her wits about her if she knows what’s good for her.”’

  ‘Whatever did she mean?’ Aghast at what sounded like a threat, still Gladys thrilled to the drama of the occasion. ‘Surely Dorothy doesn’t intend to do Hazel actual bodily harm?’

  Jinny shook her head. ‘No, I got the feeling it was more to do with her not being sucked into something she couldn’t easily get out of.’

  ‘Sucked in by John?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? What does Dorothy know about him that we don’t?’ Gladys urged.

  ‘Plenty, I should think.’ Jinny’s restless activity ceased and she looked thoughtfully at Hazel. ‘Whatever daughters tell their mothers about their new husbands – that’s what Dorothy is holding in reserve.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  How could a single kiss send Hazel reeling?

  The question went round and round in her head as she got up next morning and planned the day ahead. She had three post-natal visits on her list, plus a visit to Barlow’s to pick up rubber gloves and a carbolic spray.

  There I was, going along nicely in my midwifery work, slowly building up numbers. The same in my private life – sailing on without a care.

  And now that one kiss has undone all that.

  She relived the moment – the sound of the rushing stream at their feet, the barrier of brambles, rooks rising from the bare trees. Most of all, the tingle in her spine as John’s lips touched hers, the darkness at the centre of his glistening, light brown eyes.

  Had it been a moment of madness with someone she hardly knew – a moment that she would live to regret?

  ‘Have you told your dad yet?’ Jinny’s question as she came downstairs and into the kitchen broke Hazel’s train of thought. ‘Hazel, did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  Her hair still trapped beneath an unflattering hair net, Jinny was yet to put on her public face. She was pale and there were worry lines between her brows. ‘Have you told your father that you’re moving out?’

  ‘Not yet. He was in a rush this morning. I will, though.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I get the chance.’ Hazel reached for her coat. ‘Don’t go on at me, please.’

  ‘Make it sooner rather than later.’ Jinny’s tone was stern. ‘I could break the news to him myself, only you’re the one who’s moving out so you ought to be the one to tell him.’

  ‘I will!’ Hazel insisted as she fled the house and rushed into the back yard for her bike. Barlow’s wouldn’t be open until nine o’clock so she had half an hour to kill – enough time to cycle up to the Common and try to clear her head. Deliberately avoiding Pennington’s at the top of Raglan Road, she cycled up Albion Lane instead, going against a tide of schoolchildren and shop workers who crowded the pavements and spilled over onto the road.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ a young wag in a green school cap cried as he pretended to fall sideways across Hazel’s path then leaped out of her way. ‘Ouch, that was my foot!’

  His pals, filled with pre-Christmas high spirits, copied the pantomime.

  It was no good – the street was so crowded that Hazel had to get off her bike and walk. When she reached the junction with Overcliffe Road, the sight of a yellow and brown tram whining to a halt at a nearby stop gave her an idea and she changed her mind about where she would go. Instead of crossing the road onto the Common, she turned right and followed the tram towards its depot on Westgate Road, in the hope that she might run into Dan there.

  He’s the person to talk to if I’m serious about clearing my head, she decided on a sudden impulse. I need to know what lies behind Dorothy’s warning and I’m sure Dan knows more about John than the rest of us. He won’t mince his words, I can bank on that.

  Soon the tram depot hove into sight. It occupied a large, flat area of land at the far end of the Common. There was a smooth, tarmacadam approach to several large, high sheds made out of corrugated iron. The windswept area was criss-crossed by steel tram lines, with electric wires overhead – a busy, humming centre of activity dedicated to maintaining the town’s main system of public transport.

  Hazel arrived just as the men and women from the early morning shift began their tea break. As they came off duty and sauntered towards the small, brick-built canteen, others took their place on board the trams – one regiment of uniformed drivers and conductors replacing another. This made it difficult for Hazel to pick out her cousin and she was on the point of giving up when Dan himself spotted her and strode across.

  ‘Hello, Hazel. I take it it’s me you’re looking for,’ he began as he rolled himself a cigarette. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’ Dressed in his brown tram driver’s jacket but without his cap and with his tie loosely knotted, he looked considerably less dapper than when Hazel saw him out and about in town on a Friday night. What’s more, he was in need of a shave and a short back and sides.

  ‘Have you got time for a chat?’ Propping her bike against the side of the nearest shed, Hazel began to wonder if she was making a wise move. What Dan knew about John might turn out to be the very things that she didn’t want to hear.

  ‘For you, Hazel, any time.’ With a gallant flourish, Dan invited her to step into a stationary tram inside one of the sheds. They sat down in seats close to the rear platform, ignoring used tickets on the floor and the smell of stale tobacco smoke given off by the leather upholstery. ‘Don’t tell me – this is about the best batsman England never had!’

  Hazel stiffened. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Why else would you be here?’

  ‘So what if it is? Have you spoken to John lately?’

  ‘Last night, down at the Green Cross, as it happens.’

  ‘Did he say anything about me?’ Hazel knew the question gave too much away but she couldn’t help herself.

  Dan blew out a plume of cigarette smoke then threw his head
back and laughed. ‘You girls – you always suppose that blokes spend all their time yakking about you.’

  ‘But did he?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. There, now I’ve put you down in the dumps.’

  Dan’s manner raised the fighting spirit in Hazel, recalling the times when he’d tormented her as a child. In those days there’d been jibes about her neat clothes (little Miss Prim and Proper), her long fair plaits (Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair) and her bookishness (Miss Clever Clogs) and she had learned not to take them lying down. ‘You’ll be sorry you didn’t knuckle down,’ she used to retort, fulfilling her prim and proper tag. ‘One day you’ll wish you had.’

  ‘I’m not down in the dumps, Dan. You know me better than that, I hope. Yes, I’ve come to talk to you about John. Why not, since the whole neighbourhood is gossiping about us?’

  ‘Fire away,’ he said and grinned.

  ‘I have to keep my wits about me,’ she told him. ‘That’s what Dorothy Pennington recommended as far as John is concerned. So this is me asking you to tell me honestly – why would I need to do that?’

  ‘Keep your wits about you?’ Dan threw his cigarette butt to the floor and ground it with his toe. He laughed again. ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘But why would she say it?’

  ‘Again – I haven’t a clue. Except that Dorothy never held a high opinion of her son-in-law.’

  ‘Oh!’ This was news to Hazel. ‘I would’ve thought the Penningtons would welcome John with open arms.’

  ‘John told me they thought Myra was too young …’ Dan explained. ‘And they didn’t know much about his family. You know how Mum and Dad were with poor Norman – it’s what people are like around here.’

  ‘Can we please stop calling Norman “poor Norman”? He’s a decent young man, if only you take the trouble to get to know him.’

  ‘All right, I take it back. But it doesn’t alter the fact that Mum and Dad took a while to come round to the idea of him marrying Sylvia. Things only changed when a shotgun entered the affair, if you get my meaning.’

  Hazel frowned. ‘But there was nothing forcing John to marry Myra, was there? She didn’t fall pregnant until after they got married.’

  Dan reply was cagey. ‘I don’t know. I never asked.’

  Hazel sighed. ‘Thanks anyway, Dan. I didn’t realize Dorothy was against the wedding. It’s given me food for thought.’ Guessing that his tea break was coming to an end, she got ready to say goodbye. ‘I was dreading the worst,’ she confessed.

  ‘Why was that? Oh, you’re on about us being part of the gambling syndicate … and the women?’ Winking then grabbing the pole to swing from the platform onto the concrete floor of the hangar, Dan turned to help Hazel alight.

  She gasped then did a double-take. ‘Dan!’

  ‘I’m joking,’ he said, deadpan.

  Women and gambling. Dan’s flippant remark threw Hazel into a fresh turmoil. He’d teased her with unanswerable questions – which women and how much gambling was he talking about? Then he’d acted as if he’d plucked the words out of thin air as a joke. In which case, there were no women in John’s life, Hazel decided – except for Mary Fenning from the King Edward’s, who, according to Gladys, had left the jazz club with him one Friday night. And did it also mean there were no bets placed and lost on horses, except for the time Dan and John had run up debts to Reggie Bates the day of the trip to Blackpool?

  Cycling from the tram depot down to Canal Road, Hazel couldn’t disentangle truth from lies or concentrate on the task in hand. She stopped at Barlow’s to buy two dozen pairs of surgical gloves but forgot the carbolic spray and had to backtrack, which made her ten minutes late for her first post-natal visit to Cynthia Houghton on Chapel Street.

  Luckily, Cynthia proved to be as easy going about the business of caring for her infant son as she had been about her pregnancy – Bertie was the perfect baby, she insisted, as Hazel apologized and proceeded to weigh him. A touch of wind after feeding, maybe, but that was to be expected. And good as gold during the night – only waking twice at the most. ‘Tilly is green with envy,’ Cynthia announced. ‘She’s two years older than me, but still no chap in sight, and I’m not surprised, with her stuck behind the counter in that dusty library. I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare one tucked away somewhere?’

  ‘A spare chap?’ Hazel laughed and self-consciously told her no.

  ‘Pity. Tilly’s grown broody ever since she clapped eyes on Bertie.’ Cynthia pinned the baby’s nappy back in place then hoisted him over her shoulder to show Hazel to the door. ‘What’s holding you back anyway?’ she chipped in cheekily as they said goodbye. ‘A good-looking girl like you – surely they’re queuing up at the door?’

  ‘If only!’

  ‘Don’t tell me – you’re wedded to your work.’ Cynthia’s parting shot was accompanied by a sly wink. ‘So if you do happen to come across a chap going spare, be sure to let Tilly know.’

  Laughing to herself, Hazel promised she would then made her next two visits and was finished in good time to call in at home before she set off again for clinic. She found the house empty and a small white envelope on the door mat. There was no stamp or address – simply her first name in a cramped, forward-sloping handwriting she didn’t recognize – and when she opened it her eyes went straight to the signature: John.

  The sight of it made her hand tremble so much that she had to sit at the table and flatten the letter onto it. ‘Dear Hazel,’ she read, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too pushy in writing to you. I’ve had a lot on my mind since we drove out to Shawcross at the weekend. On top of which I’ve had Dorothy coming down on me like a ton of bricks. To cut a long story short, she’s against us having any more to do with one another.’

  Lacking the courage to read on, Hazel laid her hand over the rest of the letter. In that moment she was sure that the next paragraph would put an end to her own dilemma by telling her that it was best for them not to see each other again. The flame that had been lit by the kiss on the riverbank would flicker and die.

  Better get it over with, she thought with dread, lifting her hand and reading on.

  ‘I put her right on that score, don’t you worry. I told Myra’s mother a few home truths and sent her away with her tail between her legs.’

  ‘Oh!’ Hazel gasped. Now her whole body was shaking as she imagined John’s deep, sincere voice speaking the words that he’d written.

  ‘The point is, Hazel, no matter what Dorothy and everyone else thinks, do you [this word was underlined three times] want to have any more to do with me [more underlining]?’

  She paused again to let the question sink in.

  ‘If the answer is yes, would you like to come to the pictures with me this Friday? If not, just drop me a note anyway to let me know.’

  The letter was signed ‘John’ – no ‘Love from’, no kisses after the name.

  ‘Yes!’ she said out loud, instantly casting aside her worries. Her heart soared. She scribbled her reply and posted it through John’s letter box on her way to clinic. She would knock on his door at six o’clock on Friday night and she didn’t care who was looking or what they said.

  If Hazel imagined that John’s invitation was the only surprise of the day, her arrival at Westgate Road proved her wrong.

  ‘Betty, what are you doing here?’ she asked when she spotted her neighbour from Nelson Yard at the head of the queue. As usual, Eleanor had directed Hazel’s ladies upstairs and they’d settled into the row of chairs to await her arrival.

  With a wry smile and a wink, Betty patted her stomach. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Come in.’ Inviting her behind the screen, Hazel got to work. ‘I take it breastfeeding Daisy proved too much for you?’

  ‘My milk dried up, that was the truth of it. So I had to turn to the bottle. And now – hey presto – here I am again!’

  ‘Who’s looking after the little ones?’ Hazel asked. Examining Betty, she found there was
no doubt about it – all the signs of early pregnancy were there.

  ‘Doreen. Say what you like about her, she’ll always step in and lend a hand.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s good to you,’ Hazel agreed. ‘Now this time, Betty, I want you to start the pregnancy as you mean to go on. You know what I’m going to say – that includes regular meals and plenty of rest.’

  ‘By what miracle is that going to happen, pray?’ Behind Betty’s usual chirpy words, Hazel detected a weariness. In fact, she looked more worn down than ever – her hands were rough and red, her thin features pale and peaky. ‘You know how it is. Keith’s five now and not much trouble, touch wood. But Polly is still under my feet and Daisy – well, what can you expect with a baby that age?’

  Hazel thought hard about how Betty could improve her lot. ‘Is Leonard there to lend a hand some of the time?’

  Betty’s eyebrows shot up. ‘We’re between the devil and the deep blue sea in that regard. If he’s at home to help me, there’s no money coming in. So he joins the queue outside Kingsley’s for every extra shift he can get.’

  ‘I see.’ Hazel’s smile was sympathetic.

  Betty swung her legs over the side of the examination table and put on a pair of thick stockings, hitching them onto elastic suspenders that had seen better days. ‘Leonard has his faults,’ she confided, ‘but he works hard for his family and you can’t say that about every man on the Yard.’

  ‘No, you can’t. What about your mother over in Welby? Can’t you patch things up with her?’

  ‘Hah!’ Betty’s reply conveyed deep scorn. ‘She hasn’t even bothered to come and see Daisy yet, has she? Not once.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to rely on Doreen all you can,’ Hazel concluded. ‘And take one of these leaflets. It shows you which foods are best for you while you’re pregnant, and all the other dos and don’ts.’

  ‘Starting with a cup of tea and biscuits, I hope!’