by Jenny Holmes
Hazel stared in disbelief at her mother, who sat with hands folded in her lap, still wearing her flowered work overall, her shoes kicked off onto the hearthrug but still wearing her hat.
‘Don’t look at me like that. Didn’t Ivy Garrison from Ghyll Road just start at your clinic?’
‘Last Thursday – yes.’ Hazel matched a face to the name – Ivy was a raw-boned, fidgety sort without an ounce of spare flesh – typical of many of the women she saw. ‘It’s early days – she’s still in her first trimester.’
‘Well, it was Mabel who sent her.’
‘Get away! Ivy didn’t mention it.’
‘No, but that’s how it came about. As soon as Ivy found out she was expecting again, she did some forward planning by knocking on Mabel’s door like she did for her other three. That’s when Mabel told her that she was shutting up shop, so to speak.’
‘What do you mean, shutting up shop?’
‘Mabel swears that, come spring, she’ll be officially retired.’
‘Never.’ Hazel hadn’t seen Mabel in weeks – not since the disastrous day when she and Norman had tracked her down in the church porch. ‘That’s the last thing I expected.’
‘Well, as soon as Ivy heard that you and Dr Bell didn’t charge any more than Mabel and her sort did, her mind was made up.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s a sign of the times,’ Jinny concluded. ‘New brooms. What’s the matter, Hazel? I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I am,’ she said as she washed up the tea things and took in the latest development. ‘I’m surprised, that’s all.’
‘Surprised? You could have blown me down with a feather,’ her mother insisted. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Mabel Jackson admitted defeat.’
Hazel stacked cups and saucers on a shelf by the sink. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we? Knowing Mabel, she’ll have second thoughts and be back in harness before we know it.’
The snow lasted a week then melted over two days into dirty grey mounds by the side of the road. Happy to retrieve her bike from her parents’ shed, Hazel resumed her rounds out as far as Linton Park and Ada Street, and on occasions over to Hadley. By the beginning of March crocuses on the Common opened their purple and yellow petals and basked in a pale spring sun. Four weeks later, soon after the clocks went forward, green sprigs appeared in the hawthorn hedges. Daffodils grew everywhere during the lengthening days – in ditches, dappled copses and on the grass verges of the steep hill down from the moor top.
‘These are for you.’ Hazel took a bunch to Sylvia.
Sylvia’s eyes were listless and red-rimmed as she viewed the flowers.
‘Don’t worry – I’ve brought a vase with me.’ Hazel put the daffodils in water and set them on the window sill. ‘Have you had any more thoughts on where you’d like to have the baby?’
‘Don’t start,’ Sylvia warned edgily.
Ever since the close call on Bridge Lane, Hazel had kept her promise not to leave Sylvia to deal with things alone. She’d dropped in on her cousin almost daily and bit by bit she’d sowed the seeds. There were maternity homes out of town where women could receive good care and afterwards arrange for the baby to be adopted, she’d told her. Sylvia could stay there to give birth in peace and quiet, no questions asked.
At first Sylvia had displayed predictable petulance. ‘Ah, so now you’re ashamed of me and want to hide me away – is that it? Ta very much!’
But Hazel had persisted. She’d given Sylvia the name of a place near Bridlington, hoping that, in time, Sylvia would see it as a reasonable way forward. ‘It means that no one need find out about Earl Ray and what he did to you. I know that’s what bothers you the most.’
‘It is,’ Sylvia said with a shudder.
‘It’s not a perfect solution, I know. There’s Norman, for a start.’ And the fact that the whole thing would remain cloaked in secrecy, which certainly wasn’t ideal.
This time Sylvia didn’t react.
‘I’m only mentioning it again because there’s not much time left to sort things out,’ Hazel reminded her carefully as she turned the vase around for the best view of the daffodils. ‘Finding a couple who will be willing to adopt isn’t something the maternity home can leave until the last minute.’
Sylvia’s haunted face – drained of colour, with dark circles under her eyes – and her slow, apathetic movements told Hazel that she was only too well aware of her predicament.
‘Why don’t you come clean?’ she murmured. ‘You never know – there might be no need for adoption. Norman might stick by you.’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Norman mustn’t know. You’re right – I need to go to one of your places.’
They were inching forward at last. ‘Good. I’ll find out the telephone number of the place on the coast,’ Hazel promised.
Sitting at the table, Sylvia fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘Will you come to Bridlington with me?’
The simple appeal, plaintive and unexpected, affected Hazel. ‘I suppose I could arrange it with David,’ she said slowly. ‘It would be the first time I’ve had to take time off but he could probably find someone to step in and cover my clinics.’
‘Will you, please?’ Glimpsing light at the end of the tunnel had energized Sylvia and she immediately regained some of her old spirit. ‘We could tell Norman I had complications and you needed to get me to a special hospital where they could take care of me. He trusts you more than anyone.’
‘And then what?’ Hazel felt her stomach twist into knots at the enormity of the lie that she would become part of. ‘What happens when we come back without a baby?’
‘It’s simple. We’ll fib. We’ll say the complications were worse than we thought and I lost it.’
Hazel’s heart thudded. ‘No, Sylvia. I can come with you if you want me to, but I can’t lie for you.’
‘Then say nothing. If they ask you what happened in the maternity home, say your lips are sealed. You’re my midwife so you can’t discuss it. That would soon shut people up.’
‘Sylvia, don’t you know you’re putting me on the spot?’ Hazel wondered what David’s advice would be and decided that it would be to separate personal considerations from the professional. As a midwife pure and simple, what should she do? My duty is to make sure the baby is delivered safely without the mother coming to any harm, she thought. The rest is beyond my control.
‘Well?’ Sylvia said with impatience that edged towards hysteria.
‘Leave everything to me.’ Hazel swallowed her qualms. ‘In the meantime, try not to worry. Get as much rest as you can.’
Hazel’s independent new life on Canal Road had one major drawback in the shape of Earl Ray. He and his band came and went without any regular pattern and Gladys’s high spirits when they were in residence were hard for Hazel to bear.
So it was on a Sunday morning at the end of March that she made her escape.
‘Count me out. I’m off for a walk,’ she told Gladys, who had chatted with Earl in the kitchen and eagerly accepted an invitation for them to join the band in a rehearsal session above a pub in the centre of town.
‘You and your walks!’ Gladys couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Earl doesn’t invite just any-old-body to hear them rehearse.’
‘Oh, we’re special, are we?’ Undeterred, a sceptical Hazel buttoned her coat and put on her hat.
Gladys ignored the jibe and declared that she would go anyway. ‘Why are you such a crosspatch all of a sudden?’
‘I just don’t like the man. There, I’ve said it.’ It was as close as she dare get to the real reason and she hammered the point home to Gladys before she left. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d think twice before I went there on my own if I was you.’
Gladys frowned. ‘You’re just an old fuddy-duddy.’
‘I mean it, Gladys.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s broad daylight. What could possibly go wron
g?’
‘Why not take someone with you? I’m sure Mary would jump at the chance.’
The advice gave Gladys pause for thought. ‘Maybe you’re right. Her lodgings are above the hat shop next to the Central Library. I’ll call in there and see if she’s free.’
‘Good idea.’ Hazel left the house and planned ahead. She would take a brisk walk along Canal Road then up Chapel Street onto the Common where, if the weather was sunny enough, she might sit on a bench and watch the world go by. After that, she would catch up with her mum and dad then her nana and Aunty Rose before crossing Nelson Yard to check in on Sylvia, who, by her own reckoning, had less than two weeks to go before her due date.
Lost in thought about the ins and outs of taking Sylvia to the Bridlington home, Hazel crossed Overcliffe Road and took the footpath leading towards the bandstand. The spring sunshine felt pleasantly warm after a long winter of grey skies so she unbuttoned her coat and prepared to acknowledge a woman pushing a pram towards her – Evelyn Jagger, as it turned out.
‘Hello, this is a nice surprise. How are you both?’ Hazel asked, peering at baby Sally sitting up under the shelter of the pram hood with a dummy in her mouth and bouncing with rosy-cheeked health.
‘We’re champion, thank you.’ Evelyn had put on weight and lost the round-shouldered stoop that had characterized her when she first attended clinic. ‘We walked this way to call on Betty – Betty Hollings – to see how she’s keeping, but it turns out she and Leonard have taken the family out to Brimstone Rocks for the day.’
Passing the time of day with Evelyn, Hazel failed to notice the figure on a bike speeding up from behind. At the last minute he put on his brakes and rode onto the rough grass to avoid them. She saw him sideways on, recognized the strong-jawed profile and felt her heart lurch.
‘Sorry, Hazel – I’m an idiot. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ John’s back tyre skidded in the mud and he struggled to keep his balance.
Evelyn picked up the atmosphere between them immediately. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ Minding her own business, she went quickly on her way.
‘It’s all right. No harm done.’ Hazel took a deep breath.
‘I’m late,’ he explained. ‘I’m due in Hadley in half an hour. This is a short cut.’
‘Grand. Don’t let me keep you.’
‘I’ve started coaching the junior cricket team there.’ He made no move to head off. ‘Reggie knows the chap who’s in charge of the Hadley first eleven.’
She nodded and waited.
‘There are some handy little players coming up through the ranks – two who will soon be good enough to send over to Headingley for trials. But listen to me going on. I’m holding you up.’
‘No, I’m interested. It’s good to see you.’ Even if he only wanted to talk about everyday things, she thought. It gladdened her to hear his voice and see him smartened up and looking more like his old self than the last time they’d met, even though his smile lacked its old teasing confidence.
‘You haven’t given up on me, then?’
‘Not altogether.’ Arching her eyebrows, she smiled back.
‘Right, I’d better get on.’ Unsure of his ground, John pulled his cap well down and framed a final sentence. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I saw you.’
‘Me too. I mean it.’ This wasn’t quite true – the sight of him had raised mixed feelings: she was happy yet saddened by the distance that had grown between them.
He nodded, then, without more ado, he was off, pedalling hard past the bandstand, over the brow of the hill and quickly out of sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A few days later, on the Friday morning, Hazel received a letter.
‘First-class stamp,’ Gladys remarked with interest, handing it over before she left for work. ‘At least it’s not a bill.’
Hazel took the envelope, recognized the forward-sloping writing and slipped it in her pocket for later.
‘More like a billet-doux, eh?’ Gladys guessed.
Retreating into her room, Hazel waited until Gladys’s footsteps had faded and the coast was clear before, with her heart in her mouth, she opened John’s letter. There were two sheets of pale blue paper, with writing on both sides, this time signed at the end with ‘Love from’ followed by an initial – ‘J’. Slowly she turned the pages over, holding them at arm’s length, as if afraid the words would bite.
‘Dear Hazel,’ she read. ‘I hope you don’t mind me writing to you again.’ Her heart leaped and she scanned down the first two pages, picking out odd words – ‘cricket coaching’, ‘bike repairs’, ‘don’t look back’.
Slow down, she told herself. Read it properly. Take it all in.
Dear Hazel, I hope you don’t mind me writing to you again. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I saw you on the Common on Sunday and in the end I decided to write my thoughts in a letter. You can always throw it in the bin once you’ve read it. There’d be no hard feelings.
Hazel drew the paper closer to bring the words into focus. She felt that at this rate her pounding heart would burst with anticipation so she forced herself to take deep breaths before she carried on.
So anyway, here goes. You already know that I’ve been having a rough time of it lately, trying to cope with life after I lost Myra and the baby. Anyway, I’ve finally decided it’s high time I pulled my socks up, starting with the cricket coaching, which you already know about. On top of that, I’ve set up in a small way doing bike repairs and tinkering with car engines off my own bat instead of working for Philip Baxter. I don’t have premises to work from as yet – just my own back yard. If things go the way I hope, I should eventually save up enough money to rent somewhere proper.
Hazel stopped reading, able to tell from the erratic slope of the handwriting that John had made many stops and starts as he worked out what to put in and what to leave out. The result was an earnest and factual account that kept his feelings carefully to one side.
Hazel, if you’re still reading this, what I’m trying to tell you is that, yes, I did reach rock bottom for a while but now things are hopefully on the up. For a start, I’ve stopped looking for answers in the bottom of a beer glass. If you don’t believe me, ask Dan. He’ll tell you what a boring old codger I’ve turned into.
The truth is, I’m following Dad’s example when Mum passed away. ‘Son, don’t look back,’ he said whenever he found me moping in a corner. ‘There’s a lot in life still to look forward to if only you know where to find it.’ I was a little lad at the time but I took it to heart. ‘Look forward’ – that’s the key.
Mind you, it’s taken me a while to remember it.
About the car – I handed it over to Reggie to cancel out my debts. That might sound like a funny thing to put in this letter, when I’m concentrating on the reasons why you should think better of me. But what it means is that Reggie promised to take good care of the old girl and he says I’m welcome to borrow it any time I like.
Coming to the last page, Hazel stopped again to draw breath. Behind the written words she imagined the look of concentration on John’s face as he’d filled his fountain pen from the bottle of dark blue ink, the to and fro in his mind before he decided to sign off with love and then sealed the envelope.
The thing is, I can borrow the car this weekend if you would like to come out to Shawcross with me after all.
If not, I’ll understand.
I’ll sign off now. The rest of what I want to say wouldn’t look right written down – it’ll have to wait until we meet.
Let me know what you decide. I hope the answer is yes and that I’ll see you at the weekend. Love from J.
Unable to stop herself from acting on impulse, Hazel wrote her answer in an impetuous rush. Yes. Yes, of course she would love to come to Shawcross. Saturday would be best because she’d already promised to have tea with her nana and Aunty Rose on the Sunday.
‘Love from J’. Before signing her note, she read John’s final phrase over and over. ‘Love fr
om H’, she wrote back.
It was marvellous, truly magical how a lifetime’s habit learned at her mother’s knee, of keeping feelings in careful check, melted away in seconds and left Hazel’s hopes free to soar. Fully admitting the love she felt for John was like breaking out of chains as prison doors opened and a blue sky beckoned, like basking in the golden brilliance of the sun.
John had signed his letter with love and she had done the same.
She didn’t hesitate. Flinging on her coat, she took the note and ran downstairs onto the street. It was busy with early-morning traffic. A man driving a yellow van pulled up at the kerb and threw a bundle of newspapers tied with string towards the doorway of a newsagent’s shop. A noisy gaggle of schoolchildren waited with their teacher at the bus stop; car horns hooted at a man driving a motor bike and sidecar the wrong way down a one-way street.
Wondering which would be quickest – to wait for a bus or to walk to Raglan Road – Hazel was surprised to see Norman push his way through the queue at the bus stop, without jacket or cap and with his face set in determined lines.
Immediately her stomach churned. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ she began as he drew near.
‘Come quick,’ he gasped. ‘It’s Sylvia.’
‘Wait here.’ In a split second Hazel had turned around and run back into the house for her bag. Norman waited for her at the bottom of the steps.
‘That’s right – baby’s on its way,’ he gabbled, taking hold of Hazel’s bag and running ahead. ‘I wanted to fetch you right away but Sylvia said no, it’s too early. She’s wrong, though. I’ve seen it half a dozen times with my mother. This is definitely it.’
Hearing only snatches of what he said, Hazel suppressed a groan. She followed as best she could, avoiding workmen digging up cobbles on Ghyll Road. For a moment she blamed Sylvia – it was typical of her devil-may-care nature to get her dates wrong. But then she remembered what Sylvia had suffered. And the fact that she was just seventeen and frightened out of her wits. Who in the world would be able to think clearly at a time like that?