‘She told me to tell you not to worry. She’s all right but her waters have broken and would you get there as soon as you can.’
‘When was this phone call?’ asked Mrs Cleaver-Canning angrily, pushing her way through people to where I was standing with the theatre manager.
‘About half an hour ago,’ he told her casually.
‘What!’ she hissed.
The man seemed to quail in front of her vast presence. ‘I… I… would have said s… s… something but I didn’t want to interfere with the p… p… performance.’
‘You silly man!’ snapped Mrs Cleaver-Canning. ‘Did it not enter your tiny little head that it was important? His wife’s having a baby!’
‘I must go at once,’ I said, feeling all hot and flustered. Mrs Cleaver-Canning, resting a chubby hand on my arm, said calmly, ‘Now, calma, Gervase, deep breaths, deep breaths. Women have had babies before. Your wife will be fine. Now, you are in no fit state to drive. Winco will take you to the hospital in the Mercedes. Winco!’ she bellowed. Her husband appeared, as if on cue, from behind a piece of mountain scenery.
‘Here,’ he shouted back.
‘Bring the car around. We are taking Mr Phinn to the hospital.’
‘Oh dear, is he unwell?’
Mrs Cleaver-Canning sighed. ‘Just fetch the car, Winco.’
‘Righto,’ he replied. ‘I had better change out of this costume. I can’t very well –’
‘There’s not enough time,’ his wife interrupted. ‘We leave at once. Come along Winco. Get a move on.’
We had hardly crawled out of the theatre car park, held up by people going home after the performance, when Mrs Cleaver-Canning prodded Winco in the back.
‘Put your foot down, for goodness sake, Winco,’ she commanded. ‘Chop chop!’
‘But you’re always telling me to slow down,’ he growled.
‘Well, this time I’m telling you to get a move on and don’t spare the horses.’
‘Righto,’ he replied, slamming his foot down on the accelerator and screeching away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
Anyone sharp-eyed enough to have caught sight of the occupants of the Mercedes that evening as it sped through the centre of Fettlesham in the direction of Fettlesham Royal Infirmary would have thought they were hallucinating: an ageing German admiral with a handlebar moustache was at the wheel of the car, a heavily bemedalled SS officer was in the passenger seat, and an overweight nun with crimson lips and sky-blue eye-shadow was sitting in the back gesticulating.
We hadn’t long been on Infirmary Road before we heard the siren and saw the flashing blue light.
‘Pull over, Winco,’ ordered Mrs Cleaver-Canning. ‘And let me do the talking.’
‘Righto.’
Moments later, a police patrolman was at the driver’s window.
‘Good evening, officer,’ said Mrs Cleaver-Canning from the back seat.
‘Ah! Good evening, Sister,’ replied the policeman, transferring his official gaze into the back of the car. If he was surprised to see such an extraordinary trio in the car, he certainly didn’t show it and maintained a perfectly straight face. He must, I supposed, have come across some pretty bizarre situations in his time.
‘Mother Abbess, in fact. But we are in rather a hurry,’ Mrs Cleaver-Canning explained.
‘You are indeed, Mother,’ said the policeman, with just a trace of a smirk on his face. He looked at Winco. ‘Worried that you might miss the boat, Admiral?’
‘Officer,’ said Mrs Cleaver-Canning, a wide smile on her crimson lips, ‘this gentleman in the front is about to become a father.’
‘Congratulations,’ said the policeman, taking a notebook from his pocket.
‘Have you children, officer?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry, Mother?’ Each time he used the word, he accentuated it a trifle.
‘I said, have you any children?’
‘I have, yes. I have a little girl.’
‘And were you present when she was born?’
‘I was indeed, Mother, and a very happy occasion it was, too,’ he replied good-humouredly.
‘Well, the wife of the gentleman in the black uniform is about to give birth, imminently, in fact, and he would very much like to be there for the happy event.’
I was getting agitated by the time that was being wasted. Yet I dared not interrupt for fear of turning the policeman against us.
‘I see,’ said the policeman. He turned his attention to Winco. ‘Are you aware, sir, that the speed limit in this area of the town –’
‘And that is why we were travelling at speed,’ continued Mrs Cleaver-Canning, ‘in order for him to get to the hospital on time. His wife has already gone into labour. The birth might be moments away. We were aware of the speed limit but, as a father yourself, I am sure you can understand, officer, the urgency of getting to the hospital.’
‘I appreciate that, Mother, but –’ he began.
‘Actually, I’m not really a nun.’
‘You don’t say,’ said the policeman.
‘We are members of the cast of The Sound of Music which is being performed at the Civic Theatre all this week. We are in costume because we hadn’t the time to change when the call came from the hospital.’
The policeman’s face lit up. ‘That’s my favourite musical, The Sound of Music,’ he said. ‘I was a von Trapp when we did it at school.’
‘Really,’ said Winco suddenly. ‘Who did you play?’
‘Never mind that now, Winco,’ his wife said. ‘With this officer’s permission, we really do need to be on our way to the hospital without further delay.’
‘If you would like to follow me, sir,’ said the policeman, ‘I’ll give you an escort.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Mrs Cleaver-Canning. ‘I am a personal friend of the Chief Constable, you know, and I shall most certainly mention to him how very helpful you have been.’
The maternity wing of Fettlesham Royal Infirmary appeared particularly busy when we arrived. There were men with flowers, women with fruit, over-excited children who should have been in bed ages before, porters wheeling trolleys, doctors with clipboards, nurses scurrying hither and thither. It seemed that the whole county was giving birth that night.
Mrs Cleaver-Canning had swept through the doors and into the mêlée in a queenly manner and headed for the reception desk, with me following closely behind, Winco bringing up the rear. It was clear she was in charge. All conversation ceased when the majestic figure in a nun’s habit strode to the front of a small queue and announced, ‘If you would be so kind, this is an emergency.’
‘You go ahead, Sister,’ said the elderly woman at the front of the queue. ‘I think you do a marvellous job. I was taught by nuns.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Mrs Cleaver-Canning. Then, facing the startled man behind the reception desk she asked, ‘Could you tell us where Mrs Phinn is, please? She was brought in earlier this evening in labour.’
The receptionist ran his finger down a list of names. ‘No Thinnis here,’ he said shaking his head.
‘No, no! Phinn. The name is Phinn!’
‘There’s no Phinn here either.’
‘There’s no “f” in Phinn,’ Mrs Cleaver-Canning told him.
‘I beg your pardon, Sister!’ he spluttered. ‘There’s really no need for that sort of language.’
‘When I said there is no letter “f” in Phinn,’ she told him, ‘I meant the name begins with a “ph” as in Philip. P-H-I-N-N.’
‘Oh, oh, I see,’ he said, looking greatly relieved. ‘Phinn with a “ph”. Yes, here it is. First name Christine. Christine Patricia Phinn. She came in earlier this evening. She’s in Ward 6.’
‘Has the baby arrived yet?’ I asked, my heart in my mouth.
The man stared for a moment at the uniform.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘The baby, has the baby arrived yet?’
‘This is the worried father,’ Mrs Cleaver-Canning informed him.
&n
bsp; ‘I can’t say,’ the receptionist told me, still eyeing the uniform. ‘You’d better go straight down there now. Ward 6.’
‘You’ve been marvellous,’ I told Mrs Cleaver-Canning and Winco. ‘Thank you so much. You really don’t need to wait.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mrs Cleaver-Canning. ‘We would like to have a progress report first. You hurry off to see your wife. Winco and I will wait.’
‘Little Sisters of the Poor,’ I heard the elderly woman inform Mrs Cleaver-Canning as I headed in the direction of the wards. ‘I was taught by Little Sisters of the Poor.’
I just had time to hear the reply. ‘My dear, I am not a nun but if I were to contemplate entering the religious life it would not be as a Little Sister of the Poor. I am neither little nor, thank God, poor.’
I was just in time. Christine was being wheeled to the delivery room when I rushed down the corridor in search of Ward 6. I was in such a panic, hot, flustered, out of breath, that I ran straight past her and only when I heard her voice did I stop and retrace my steps.
‘I’m here!’ she cried.
‘Thank God!’ I said, bending down and giving her a hug. ‘Are you all right, darling?’
‘She’s fine,’ said the nurse who was by the side of the trolley. ‘This is the husband, I presume?’
‘This is the husband,’ Christine said.
My panic fled as I looked down at the smiling mother-to-be. She looked calm and serene. Her blue eyes shone, her blonde hair fell about her shoulders like a golden curtain. She looked rosy-cheeked and so beautiful. I squeezed her hand.
‘Are you ready?’ I asked.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she replied softly.
‘Typical man,’ said the nurse. ‘Leaves it to the last minute, when it’s all over, bar the shouting. If only men had to have babies. I suppose you want to be in at the birth.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Well, if you faint, nobody will bother with you. I’ve got a far more important person to deal with.’
‘I won’t faint,’ I said confidently.
‘Aye, bigger men than you have said that.’ She caught sight of the uniform. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you the war is over? What on earth are you wearing? No, don’t tell me. I probably wouldn’t believe you, anyway. Just cover yourself up or you’ll frighten the nurses. You need to get a gown and mask before you come into the delivery room, and get those boots covered up. I’ll show you where they are in a moment. And keep out of my way.’
‘Yes nurse,’ I said meekly.
At ten-thirty, Richard Leslie Phinn was born, weighing in at 7 lbs 1 oz. As I cradled him in the crook of my arm and stroked his little head, my eyes began to fill. He was so tiny and delicate, red as a radish, with a small round face, soft wisps of golden hair and great blue eyes. He was his mother’s son all right.
‘Richard Leslie?’ said the nurse, giving me a wry smile. ‘Is that what you’re calling him?’
‘That’s right,’ I told her. ‘Richard after my father and Leslie after my wife’s.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I thought you would call him Adolf.’
Because little Richard Leslie had arrived prematurely, Christine stayed in hospital for the next few days. I visited her and my son every day that week, usually in the early evening before I went down to the theatre for the evening performance. Harold had immediately told me to take some time off, but I was happy to work during the day while Christine was still in the Royal Infirmary, planning to be at home the week they returned. On the Friday, we sat together with our child between us, marvelling at his tiny fingers and toes, his head of soft silky blond hair and his great blue eyes. Although a little tired, Christine looked radiant. We were both so happy.
‘Motherhood really suits you,’ I told her. ‘I’d like another five, please.’
‘We’ll talk about that when we get home,’ she said. The baby stirred. ‘He’s a little tinker, this one,’ she said, stroking the baby’s cheek. ‘He cries for his milk and then takes ages getting started. The nurses are being very kind, and helping as much as possible, but it is hard work.’
‘I’ll have a strong word with him,’ I said. ‘We should start as we mean to go on.’ I stroked the baby’s head gently. ‘Are you listening to me, young man,’ I said. ‘You must drink plenty of milk. Then you’ll grow to be big and strong.’ The baby screwed up his little face and gave a great burp.
‘There’s your answer,’ laughed Christine.
‘I’ve already bought him a book,’ I told her.
‘A book!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well, we’ll have to get him reading soon. Then he’ll need some building blocks and a colouring book and a paintbox and a sand pit in the garden and –’
‘So speaks the school inspector,’ said Christine, smiling.
‘I want our son to have the very best start in life,’ I said. ‘The very best.’ As I looked down at our baby, snuggling up to his mother, I thought of little Matty and the other sad, fragile children whom I had come across on my travels as a school inspector; children who were neglected, disparaged, damaged and sometimes abused, children who would never know the warmth, encouragement and love of a good home.
‘Penny for them,’ said Christine.
‘I’m just thinking how very lucky I am,’ I said, and kissed her most tenderly.
‘I see you’ve been demobbed,’ said the ward sister, coming in at that moment.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Out of uniform.’
‘Oh, that. I’m in a play. I’m not really an SS officer, you know.’
‘You do surprise me,’ she said, examining the chart at the foot of the bed.
‘I’m a school inspector actually.’
‘Oh, is there a difference?’ she said.
‘I shan’t respond to that,’ I told her.
‘The doctor’s been and everything is fine,’ said the sister. ‘Mother and baby are doing very well, so you can take them home when you’re ready. Now, do try and persevere with the breast-feeding, Mrs Phinn. Tricky Dickie will soon get a taste for it and then there’ll be no stopping him.’
As Christine was packing the few things she had in her bedside cabinet, I picked the clipboard off the bottom of the bed. The sheet of paper attached to it read ‘Fettlesham Royal Infirmary/Maternity Unit’. Below was ‘BABY: Richard Leslie Phinn. WEIGHT: 7lbs 10z.’ Then, at the bottom was space for ‘DOCTOR’S COMMENT’. I was removing the sheet of paper when the ward sister came in and caught me red-handed.
‘What are you up to?’ she asked.
‘May I have this, please?’
‘No, you may not. It’s hospital property.’
‘Oh please,’ I begged.
‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’
‘Please.’
‘Why do you want it, anyway?’
‘I want to keep it until my son is twenty-one,’ I told her seriously, ‘and on that birthday I want to present it to him in a gilt frame, saying: “When I am dead and gone, Richard, perhaps you might sometimes look upon that scrap of paper in the golden frame and remember this very special day, your coming of age, and I hope you might remember a father and a mother who were so very proud of you and loved you more than any other parents loved a son. You see, it’s the first thing anybody wrote about you.” I shall tell him, “It is the doctor’s comment written during your first week of life.” You see, sister, that is why I want to keep this sheet of paper.’
‘Oh,’ said the nurse, who had listened open-mouthed to my commentary. ‘How lovely. You’re making me cry. And what does the doctor say?’
Smiling, I passed over the piece of paper so she could read what the doctor had written: ‘Poor sucker.’
A Parent’s Prayer
Always believe in yourself.
Promise always to be compassionate.
Appreciate that you make mistakes.
Recognise that I do too.
Entrust me with your worries.
Neve
r doubt that I will support you when you need me.
Talk to me about the things you find difficult.
Share your dreams.
Please understand that I can have moods just like you.
Receive a little advice now and again.
Accept that I sometimes get things wrong.
You need to help me to get things right.
Enjoy your life.
Realise that I love you without reservation.
Up and Down in the Dales Page 36