The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  Hazel thought that Betty’s bounce back from the edge of despair was remarkable under the circumstances. ‘Two cups for Betty, please, Irene,’ she insisted, escorting her from behind the screen. ‘And while you’re at it, why not pop some custard creams in a bag for Keith and Polly? No one heard me say that, did they?’

  ‘No-o-o!’ came the high, lilting chorus from the women in the room.

  ‘You’ll have them all at it,’ Irene grumbled. ‘At this rate we’ll run out of everything before the end of clinic.’ But she put six custard creams in the bag and added two rich teas for luck, making Betty a happy woman and, by rights, Dr Bell eight biscuits short. Not that her kindly employer would mind about that, Irene was sure.

  In any case, Hazel tackled the subject of refreshments when she went to David’s room at the end of clinic. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she began.

  ‘Oh dear – never a good sign.’ He welcomed her in with a gesture for her to sit down, which she ignored.

  ‘Seriously – now that we’ve settled on two clinics a week and my earnings are due to rise, why not let me buy the tea and biscuits instead of you?’

  Shaking his head and arranging papers on his desk, David was prepared to argue the case. ‘I assure you, there’s no need.’

  ‘But I’d like to. That way, I can be as generous or stingy as I like with what I offer.’

  Her earnestness amused him, making the corners of his mouth twitch. ‘I’ve no doubt it’ll be the former. And that would be fine with me. But yes – yes, by all means, if it’s what you want.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ A bright, dimpled smile concluded the business and she turned to go.

  ‘Hazel – before you go – the surgery is closed next week for Christmas. I take it you’ve cancelled your clinic?’

  ‘Yes, but everyone knows where I live in an emergency – if they can’t get hold of you, that is.’

  ‘I’m not going far over the festive season,’ he assured her, taking a small, brightly wrapped parcel from the top drawer of his desk. ‘Oh, and in case I don’t see you beforehand, let me give you this and wish you a Happy Christmas.’

  The gift flustered her. ‘You shouldn’t have …’ was all she managed as she backed towards the door.

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said at the same time.

  They both smiled. She looked awkwardly at the floor while he cleared his throat and shuffled more papers.

  He was the first to speak again. ‘They say you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure and as a rule I’d be the first to agree.’

  ‘No, honestly, ta very much.’

  ‘But I believe on this occasion a little something won’t go amiss.’ Underneath his mild words there was an ever increasing pressure of stronger feelings struggling to rise to the surface. Business and pleasure do not mix, he repeated firmly to himself as Hazel hovered by the door, a picture of loveliness. ‘It’s my way of saying thank-you,’ he continued. ‘You’ve made a big difference here, Hazel, in many ways.’

  She balanced the parcel in the palm of her hand. The paper was covered in festive sprigs of holly and the object inside was heavy. ‘Happy Christmas, then.’ She murmured the inadequate words as she looked up and registered the seriousness of his gaze.

  There he sat in shirtsleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned and stethoscope still hanging from his neck. Racing pell-mell towards Christmas, mopping up ailments and hospital appointments before the holiday, David looked tired. And yet he’d found the time to buy her a present and say a genuine thank-you. She felt a mixture of fondness and embarrassment as she made her exit.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he replied with a nod and a smile.

  ‘Hold onto this end while I fetch a drawing pin,’ Robert instructed Hazel.

  It was Thursday evening and time to put up decorations. There were paper chains to be hung from one corner of the ceiling to the other, holly for the mantelpiece and a tree awaiting baubles in its tub by the window.

  Holding the end of the fragile chain, Hazel watched her mother bring down the box of glass balls from the wardrobe shelf and set it on the table. Each was wrapped in tissue paper and was taken carefully from the box then rethreaded with black cotton ready for hanging.

  For as long as Hazel could remember this family ritual had marked the start of the festive season. Jinny would choose a tree from her market stall – exactly the right size and shape – and Robert would stop off on his way from work to collect it. He would ride home on his bike with the tree slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Turn it this way,’ Jinny would suggest after he’d anchored it in the tub with sand kept in a sack in the cellar and set it down in position. ‘A bit more – no, back again. Further – yes, that’s good.’

  Inside the box there were glass decorations in the shape of icicles as well as the brightly coloured balls. And this year they were joined by an innovation seized upon by Jinny when she saw it on a neighbouring stall: a perfect miniature replica of a flying swan with Father Christmas perched astride, which she put in pride of place at the front of the tree.

  ‘All right, Hazel, now give me that other end,’ Robert told her. With the stepladder in place, he finished pinning the paper chain to the ceiling.

  ‘How does it look so far?’ Midway through the hanging process and enjoying every minute, Jinny stood back from the tree.

  ‘Lovely,’ Hazel said with a sad sigh.

  ‘Try to sound a bit more enthusiastic.’ Her mother laughed then thought better of it. ‘What’s wrong? Are you worried about something?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. David gave me a present, that’s all.’ She pointed to the small parcel on the window sill. ‘I didn’t buy one for him.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t expect one,’ Jinny said, hesitating slightly.

  Robert clattered the two sides of the stepladder together then rested it against the cellar door. Then he stood back to admire the festoons strung across the ceiling. ‘This looks more like it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Dad,’ Hazel began in a serious tone that alerted her mother, ‘there’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Gladys and I – well, we – we’re both twenty-two now …’ She ground to a halt and looked to Jinny for help.

  ‘Don’t tell me – you want to move out into a place of your own,’ Robert said, quick as a flash. He stood with his arms folded, looking steadily at her. Whatever he was feeling beneath the surface, he was determined not to let it show.

  Hazel stared at him wide-eyed. ‘How did …? Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To a flat on Canal Road. It’s at the nice end near the town centre. Miss Bennett is the name of the landlady. She seems very respectable.’

  ‘You’ve made up your mind, then?’ He glanced at Jinny to see how she was reacting. ‘I gather you know all about it?’

  ‘Don’t blame Mum, blame me,’ Hazel begged. ‘I’ve been dreading telling you and we’ve all been so busy. Besides, it’s not the end of the world, me moving out. I’ll still be visiting and getting under your feet as usual, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Well?’ Jinny prompted, accidentally knocking the tree and making the glass baubles quiver.

  Robert took a deep breath. ‘It’s the end of an era,’ he murmured. There was no need to remind them how he’d poured his hopes and dreams into Hazel. He called to mind the musty smell of the library books that they brought home each Saturday and the diminutive size of the shoes that he’d polished to get her ready for primary school. ‘Come here, love.’ He opened his arms to her and she rushed into his embrace. ‘Promise me one thing.’

  ‘Anything,’ Hazel murmured, feeling a flood of relief.

  He tipped her chin up and waited for her slow smile. ‘You’ll let this old-timer help to move you into your new flat when the time comes.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  If anyone had asked Hazel the name of the film John took her to see that Friday before Christmas, she could
scarcely have told them.

  The evening was a blur from the moment she’d knocked on his door, through the smooth car journey into town and all the time they’d spent holding hands in the plush red seats of the new Odeon cinema. She only knew for certain that they sat in aisle seats to watch a musical extravaganza starring two Hollywood actresses at their glamorous best. It also had the charming William Powell as a theatre impresario. None of the razzmatazz – not the dancing beauties in their sequined costumes nor the trained lions and prancing ponies – mattered to Hazel; she only had eyes and ears for John.

  ‘Would you like an ice cream?’ he asked her during the interval, when the lights went on and usherettes carried their illuminated trays down the aisles.

  She shook her head. ‘No, ta.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, thanks.’

  He smiled and rested his arm along the back of her seat, listening to Hazel’s chatter about the build-up to Christmas. ‘I won’t be ordering a turkey this year,’ he commented.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ She could have kicked herself for forgetting that John would be spending this Christmas alone.

  The lights dimmed and the film started again. The words of the song ‘A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody’ made them look at each other and smile, then Hazel felt John’s arm shift from the back of her seat to her shoulder. But soon the overblown, on-screen spectacle palled and he grew fidgety. He leaned across to whisper in her ear, ‘Shall we get out of here while the going’s good?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s fine by me.’

  They stood up and heard their seats snap upright with a loud clunk.

  ‘Ssshh!’ voices tutted at the disturbance.

  Bowing their heads, they crept up the dark aisle and through the swing doors, across the foyer and out into the street.

  ‘I’m sorry – there’re only so many ostrich feathers a chap like me can take.’ John’s apology came with a wink.

  ‘Even when pretty girls are wearing them?’ Hazel hummed a few bars of the famous Irving Berlin tune. ‘Perhaps you’d have been happier with cowboys and Indians?’

  ‘Yes – six-shooters are more my style.’ John laughed with a distracted air. ‘Never mind, the night is still young.’ Steering her down the hill past the gleaming windows of Merton and Groves, then glancing quickly up and down the broad street, he stopped outside the jazz club and jerked his thumb towards the entrance. ‘What do you say we pop in here?’

  Hazel’s smile of agreement was the signal for him to lead her down the steps into the low-lit room where they went straight to the bar.

  ‘Cinzano, if I remember rightly?’ he said before ordering and paying.

  Hazel nodded. ‘I’ve spotted two empty seats at the back,’ she said, pointing them out.

  ‘Lead on,’ he told her, a glass in either hand. However, as soon as they reached the seats and he’d put down the drinks on the nearest table, he was off again – to see a man about a dog, as he put it. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he added. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

  ‘I’m fine here, thanks.’ Assuming John had caught sight of someone he knew, Hazel tried to get herself in the mood by watching the couples on the dance floor and listening to the music. She started to tap her foot to Earl Ray’s version of Duke Ellington’s ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing’ and sipped her drink until Gladys suddenly emerged from the crush with Bernard in tow.

  ‘Save me!’ Gladys muttered under her breath, the corners of her mouth turned down in a comical grimace.

  Cottoning on, Hazel sprang up from her seat. ‘I need to go to the little girls’ room!’ she declared. ‘Come along, Gladys, time to powder our noses.’

  ‘Excuse us,’ Gladys told her unwelcome suitor, following close on Hazel’s heels.

  They left Bernard high and dry and made their way out into the foyer.

  ‘That man is a limpet,’ Gladys complained. ‘He had his paws all over me during that last dance.’

  ‘Limpets don’t have paws,’ Hazel observed. She was keeping an eye out for John and was taken aback to see him standing on the stairs having a heated conversation with Reggie Bates and her cousin Dan. Backed against the wall, Dan seemed the most animated, while Reggie listened with a dour, unreadable expression until John chipped in with a comment that seemed to enrage Dan. With two hands he took hold of John’s lapels and shoved him roughly down the stairs. John lost his balance then regained it and sprang back at Dan but Reggie intervened, stepping forward and easily pulling the much slighter Dan away from John.

  Unaware of the altercation, Gladys sailed on into the ladies’ cloakroom, still giving Hazel the low-down on the wretched Bernard. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being mauled by a man on the dance floor,’ she complained as she stood in front of the mirror and patted her hair. ‘I made it clear to Bernard that it wasn’t on. I even dropped the name Vera into his shell-like ear to put him off his stride but it made no difference.’

  Hazel laughed uneasily, unable to rid herself of the image of Dan squaring up to John. ‘What’s Dan been up to lately?’ she asked Gladys, hoping for enlightenment.

  ‘In hot water as usual.’ Gladys took a lipstick from her handbag. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just saw him out there. He was in an argument with John and I wondered why.’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’ Gladys ran the red lipstick over her mouth. ‘Right now Dan would argue with his own shadow.’

  ‘Could it be about money? Are they still in that betting syndicate with Reggie?’

  Into the handbag went the lipstick, out came the powder compact. ‘Not any more. As far as I know that all fell through a while back.’

  Hazel was thoughtful. Despite Gladys’s answer, it seemed to her that money was probably the reason behind the fracas on the stairs.

  ‘Ready?’ Finishing at the mirror and pleased with the result, Gladys held the door open for Hazel. ‘Hopefully Bernard will have given up by now. Come along, Miss Head-in-the-clouds – back into the fray.’

  There was no sign of Reggie, Dan or John out in the foyer, so Hazel and Gladys made their way back into the club to reclaim the two empty seats and listen to the band, now swinging along, Louis Armstrong style, with ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’.

  ‘Don’t you love this tune?’ Gladys sighed as she took a sip from Hazel’s glass. ‘However down in the dumps you are, it takes you out of yourself. Uh-oh, here comes trouble!’ Intent on giving the persistent Bernard the cold shoulder, she jumped up and made a beeline for the stage, adopting Sylvia’s trick of standing in the band leader’s eye-line until the number came to an end.

  Hazel had to admire Gladys’s front – the way she smiled up at Earl Ray through a haze of cigarette smoke, no doubt re-introducing herself as his soon-to-be neighbour on Canal Road, then putting in a request for a favourite song.

  Earl stooped towards her, said a few words, smiled then nodded and backed away from the edge of the stage.

  He led the band in two more numbers and still there was no sign of John. Sitting alone at the table, Hazel felt her mood plummet. Gone was the feeling of floating on air when she and John had entered the Odeon; now she felt only jittery uncertainty about why she was here at all. The longer she sat wondering what had been going on between John, Dan and Reggie, the larger her doubts loomed.

  She stared morosely at the crowd of dancers, waving briefly at Gladys who was by now dancing with a stranger whose hands didn’t roam and then at David Bell, on his way to the bar.

  Seeing her sitting by herself, he made a deliberate detour.

  ‘All on your ownio?’ he enquired with his usual warm smile, raising his voice to be heard over the saxophone and drums.

  ‘No, I’m with … someone.’ She pulled back from naming John then grew embarrassed and quickly set the record straight. ‘With John Moxon, as a matter of fact. We went to the pictures then came here.’

  ‘Oh.’ David’s smile faltered and he glanced around the room. ‘What’s happened to ou
r famous cricketer? Has he got lost?’

  ‘No. He’s here somewhere.’ But where? she wondered. John seeing a man about a dog was one thing, but having an argument with Dan and then clean vanishing was quite another.

  ‘So now’s my chance.’ On an impulse David offered Hazel his hand. ‘Would you like this dance?’

  ‘Why not?’ Equally impulsively she took it and followed him onto the floor. Before she knew it, he was holding her tight and leading her in one of the band’s slower, earthier numbers – a song by Cole Porter called ‘Love for Sale’.

  ‘Old love, new love, every love but true love’ – the words of the street girl’s lament insinuated themselves into Hazel’s mind and raised the questions she would rather not face about the feelings she’d had for John ever since they’d kissed on the riverbank.

  Where did she really stand with him? True, he’d written her the note and asked her out, but things were not straightforward – not with Dorothy leading the gossipmongers and Myra’s name still writ large in all their minds.

  Was it rash to have said yes to him – for her heart to have lifted and soared the way it did? And what did John have in mind for the future? Where, if anywhere, was all this leading?

  ‘A penny for them?’ David said with a sympathetic smile as the music ended and the band put down their instruments.

  She made the effort to smile back. ‘They’re not worth it.’

  He noticed John in the doorway, taller than most, surveying the room. ‘The wanderer returns,’ David said with a nod in the other man’s direction.

  Hazel smiled again, wishing David a happy Christmas as she slipped away.

  Ridiculous! Swallowing a dose of stone-cold reality, David was left to measure himself up against the darkly handsome John Moxon. Face it – you’re an average-looking, over-the-hill GP up to your ears in diphtheria, measles and chicken pox. And widowed to boot. ‘Hmm,’ he grunted as he straightened his tie and made his way to the bar. The race was over before it had even begun – a foregone conclusion. Better let it go.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ John’s apology to Hazel was brief and without explanation. Retrieving his drink and resuming their seats during the musicians’ break, he didn’t mention his recent spat with her cousin.