A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  ‘Just one o’ them things,’ said Clive.

  ‘What about Queenie?’ I asked Sarah tearfully. Had the birth done irreparable damage to her?

  ‘I can’t see any reason why she won’t recover from this,’ Sarah replied. ‘I’m going to give her a big injection of antibiotics to ward off any infection.’

  Queenie stayed lying down while Sarah injected the penicillin. I looked across towards the house where the children were now all lined up on the top of the wall, some still in pyjamas, some in school uniform. I didn’t wave, just looked back down at Queenie. Sarah was now gathering up her equipment, and washing her hands in the bucket of warm water.

  ‘I just wish that I’d done summat sooner,’ I said.

  ‘You couldn’t have known,’ said Sarah. ‘And the chances are that the outcome would’ve been the same, anyway.’

  It didn’t lessen the pain, and all the ‘what ifs’ still raced through my mind.

  ‘What shall we do wi’ t’foal?’ I said, directing my question to stoical Clive. I could hardly bear to look at the body: it seemed so unfair, such a waste.

  ‘We’ll leave ’er t’foal for a while,’ he said. ‘That’d be t’best thing, then she’ll understand.’

  I was convinced that Queenie knew full well that her foal had died. Something in her demeanour, her quiet acceptance of our help, made me think that she knew before we intervened. But I was in absolute agreement that she should be able to say goodbye.

  Clive and Sarah walked back to the farm while I took Queenie’s halter off. Raising her head from the ground, she looked back to where the foal lay, her bottom lip quivering. But not once did she call for her foal.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to her gently, tears streaming down my face. Then I, too, walked away.

  The older children were getting in the school taxi by the time I returned, puffy-eyed, to the farmyard. They knew what had happened and they were understandably upset. As I’ve said, children are extraordinarily resilient and we’ve never glossed over the truth or minced our words, so I gave them the details.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ said Raven. ‘Was it a bonny foal?’

  ‘Aye, certainly was,’ I said sadly, trying to keep my composure.

  Reuben and Miles were quiet.

  ‘Do yer need me to dig a . . .’ Reuben began, but the taxi door shut and they were off to school.

  The day dragged. We’d missed breakfast, had no appetite at dinner-time, we seemed to have lost all momentum. The smaller children played in the sunshine in the yard, their happy laughter a direct contrast to the sad scene at the other side of the wall. I watched Queenie all day. Shortly after I took her a bucket of water, she lumbered to her feet and turned around to inspect her foal’s lifeless body. She sniffed the corpse a couple of times, but never licked it. In the past I’ve watched yows desperately pawing at a dead lamb with a front hoof, willing it to get to its feet. But Queenie seemed to understand that it was hopeless. By mid-afternoon she had moved away from the body and was standing in the relative shade of a mountain ash tree that stood in the corner of the field.

  ‘We need to move t’foal,’ I said. ‘Queenie’s not botherin’ wi’ it now and there’s a few flies around.’

  ‘I’ll ga an’ put it in’t’bike trailer,’ Clive said. He laid her to rest in an unmarked grave at the moor bottom.

  Queenie staged a remarkable recovery over the next few days: she regained her composure and began grazing again. A week later and we decided that she should be allowed out of the Low Bobby Dale and back to the moor, as only Josie was there and we thought a bit of friendly company might do her good, revive her spirits.

  I gave birth to my eighth child, Clementine, on my own in front of the hearth by the fire one June night, with Clive and the children sound asleep upstairs. The powers that be had dictated that, as usual, I should call for an ambulance as soon as I felt the birth was imminent. I don’t have long, arduous labours, for which I am thankful, but it means that I don’t get much warning.

  Of my other seven children, only two were born in hospital. One was born prematurely at home, and the remaining four were all born en route to hospital. Realistically, the chances of me getting to hospital this time were slim, but I was forbidden from having a home birth because I was too far from medical help should something go wrong: the midwives would not be allowed to attend me during the birth, their insurance would not cover it, nor were they permitted to leave any basic birthing equipment with me in case it appeared they had given me the tacit go-ahead for a home delivery. If I went into labour at Ravenseat then I’d be on my own . . . literally.

  I saw the midwife the previous Thursday, we talked about the proposed birth plan, and I was typically evasive. Never a big lover of plans, I reluctantly agreed that if the baby didn’t turn within the next couple of weeks (it was lying transverse) I’d have to be admitted into hospital, because babies cannot come out sideways. I left the surgery on that gloriously hot morning feeling fat, full of baby, slightly perturbed about the prospect of going into hospital, but otherwise happy. There was little point worrying; things always sort themselves out. The beautiful weather brought with it a stream of visitors to Ravenseat. I signed copies of my first book and ran back and forth with cream teas, my bump serving as a platform to rest tea trays on.

  On Saturday, midway through the afternoon, I began to feel slightly unwell, so Clive and Raven took over serving the teas while I went upstairs to lie down. I had some paperwork to attend to, so I didn’t feel I was entirely skiving off.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Clive, poking his head round the corner of the bedroom door when he had a quiet moment. ‘Are yer gonna ’ave t’babby?’

  ‘Nooooo,’ I said. ‘I’m fine, just a bit knackered.’

  I wasn’t lying. I didn’t think that I was going to have the baby, although unbeknown to Clive I did shove a few essential bits and pieces into a bag just in case: nappies, babygro, another stretchy dress, lipstick, bar of chocolate.

  ‘Well, you just keep yerself quiet then, ’cos I got us a babysitter for tonight,’ he said. ‘I reckon that yer should book us a table at t’Black Bull.’

  Babysitters are pretty thin on the ground around here, so this was not an opportunity that I was going to miss. It perked me up no end, the prospect of a night out with friends, and by the time Steven arrived to babysit I was feeling as fit as a flea. The downside of having Steven babysit was that in return we would have to dogsit Parsley, his canine sidekick, for a few weeks whilst he went to Ibiza to promote the Hard Times club brand.

  Clive and I got ourselves tidied up. I squeezed myself into a long black dress and stood sideways, looking in the mirror. I was very round, there was no disputing that, but I thought that the bump looked different. I didn’t analyse the reflection for too long: I’d spent the last few months being told that my bump was either high or low, that I was either enormous or neat, that I was clearly having a boy . . . or possibly a girl. I slipped a voluminous coat on, we said goodbye to the children, and headed off out.

  I ate like a pig that night: starter, main course, dessert and anything that was left over. I hadn’t been that hungry for weeks.

  ‘Jeez, yer sure it’s not just pies you’ve got in there?’ said one of our less tactful friends.

  We had a good evening and were soon heading back home: me in the driving seat, wedged behind the wheel, a tipsy Clive talking some rot about times past with me half listening. We slept well that night, and the next morning Steven departed, leaving Parsley behind. A typical Jack Russell, smooth-coated tan and white with pricked lugs, she had always been quite a territorial little dog, acting as Steven’s car alarm. Nobody would dare to go near his motor if Parsley was in there. She’d furl back her lips, bare her teeth and growl and snap. What we hadn’t realized was that old age had crept up on Parsley, and she was now partially deaf and not as agile as she had once been. It wasn’t fair to put her in the kennels with the sheepdogs. She was fine just mooching around the far
myard during the day with our terriers Chalky and Pippen, but at night they slept outside in the barn, on alert for any intruding rodents, and we didn’t reckon that the geriatric Parsley would care for sleeping under the stars. So she made her bed in our pickup. The front bit!

  We were busy with guests staying in the shepherd’s hut. Parsley soon learned from the other terriers that hanging around the picnic benches when cream teas were being served could be extremely rewarding.

  We spent Monday morning moving yows and lambs about to different pastures, and trying to get some order among the flock. In the afternoon I nipped over to Hawes to pick up a prescription for iron pills, as I was slightly anaemic; then Clive took Miles and Reuben to Muker Reading Room for band practice. They were back by nine, and not long afterwards Clive and I went to bed.

  I couldn’t get to sleep, which was not unusual. My mind sometimes goes into overdrive at bedtime, thinking about the next day, working out what needs to be done, what I mustn’t forget: the list is endless. The house finally fell silent and I lay there, folding my arms across my tummy. I wasn’t uncomfortable, but sleep eluded me. I decided to get up and make myself a hot drink. I crept downstairs, made tea and sat down on the sofa to read a weekend newspaper. Usually this would send me to sleep, but not this time. The fire burned down to dying embers and needed reviving, but I didn’t want to wake everyone with the crash of the coal scuttle being emptied onto it. I knelt on the rag rug in front of the hearth, leaned over the fender and picked small lumps of coal out of the scuttle with my hands, piling them carefully on the grate. I washed the soot off my hands, then on a whim decided that, as it had been such a beautiful day, I would go outside to see whether the sky was clear. I’m not a dedicated stargazer, but up here we have no light pollution and I often look at the heavens when it’s dark. As I opened the door Pippen slipped into the kitchen; the wily old thing had heard me stirring – she’d been lying in wait to claim her place in front of the hearth.

  It was a bonny night, very still, not a murmur of wind, and I was tempted to take a stroll down the farmyard. I thought better of it when I remembered that we had guests in the shepherd’s hut who might find it unsettling to see a skimpily dressed person complete with wellies wandering about in the dark. I shut the door and went back to the fire, which was now crackling as the coal took light. I looked at the clock and sighed to myself. It was just after midnight, and I was going to be really tired in the morning if I didn’t get some sleep. Back upstairs I sneaked into bed, dozed a little, but hadn’t been there long when Annas tumbled out of her cot bed. Her shriek woke me, and after scooping her up and tucking her back into bed, I decided that I might as well go down to the sofa again and read more of the newspaper. Annoyingly I now seemed to have indigestion.

  Only when I got back downstairs and went into the living room, sitting barefoot in the dim light, shadows being cast by the flickering flames of the fire, did I sense what was actually happening.

  I’m in labour, I thought, feeling my tummy through my nightdress with my hands. I’m going to have the baby tonight.

  I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to one. All was quiet in the house, nothing stirred. Pippen had moved from in front of the fire to under the settle, and was now fast asleep. It was time to make a decision. I could wake Clive, which would inevitably lead to the children waking up, ensuring a general panic as the ambulance was summoned and the hospital alerted, everyone rushing and hurrying. I knew I would spend my labour on the phone to ambulance control, where some poor operator would try to talk me through a normal delivery, with all the questions about timing my contractions (I don’t have them), and instructions to lie down and wait for the paramedic. It would all be very predictable. I’d done it before.

  Or there was an alternative. I could do what I had talked to the midwives about. I could do nothing, put my trust in nature and give birth alone, unaided. Freebirth, as is the modern expression.

  ‘I were tupped at Ravenseat an’ I’ll lamb at Ravenseat’ seemed to be the way to go. All I had to hope was that the baby had turned, and was coming right. I cast my mind back to Saturday, how I’d felt ill in the afternoon, how I’d thought that my bump had changed shape and how I’d wolfed down all that food after weeks of not being able to eat much. By my estimation, it all pointed to one thing: the baby HAD turned.

  That was it – my mind was made up. It was time to make some preparations. I got the scatter cushions off the sofa and arranged them on the floor in front of the fire. As usual there was a pile of clean washing on the window seat waiting to be put away, and in and amongst it were some clean towels. I draped these over the cushions and then perched on the fender. A few minutes later I had an overwhelming urge to go to the toilet, but thought better of it.

  Squatting over my makeshift mattress I pushed hard. Gravity perhaps helped, but that was all it took: one push and I felt the baby emerging. The moment of truth had arrived: I hoped and prayed that it was a head. My prayers were answered – in my hand I could feel the very top of the baby’s head. I pushed once more, and this time I had both hands at the ready to catch the baby as I delivered her. I looked down to see my newborn’s face looking right back at me, illuminated in the glow of the fire. I cradled the vernix-coated body with one hand whilst my other cupped the back of the tiny head, and then I brought the baby up to my chest. I rose, perched back on the fender and just held the snuffling baby tightly. Time seemed to stand still, a few precious private moments together before I had to think of the practicalities of the situation.

  The baby was still attached to the cord and I hadn’t yet delivered the placenta. I had once been warned by the midwife that there was a real danger of bleeding to death if I didn’t get on with it, but it came easily. I put it onto a towel and then wrapped it up. It was only at this stage that I realized that I didn’t know whether my baby was a boy or a girl, so, carefully moving the still-attached cord aside, I looked. A girl.

  I needed to juggle things a bit now, as I didn’t want to cut the cord. I’ve always believed in leaving the placenta attached for as long as possible. Grabbing another towel, I wrapped the placenta and the baby up together in one big pink bundle. I looked at my baby girl, her tiny fingers peeping over the hem of the towel, and stroked her cheek with the back of my finger. I was euphoric, but also suddenly incredibly cold. I was shivering, my teeth chattering. I couldn’t put any more coal on the fire as I had my hands full and, besides, it was probably time that I introduced the new arrival to her father.

  Up the stairs I went, carrying my precious bundle. It was less than an hour since I’d come down feeling restless. So much had happened, but in a strange way it also felt like nothing had happened: it felt so natural, normal, organic.

  ‘Clive,’ I whispered, reluctant to break the peace. He slept on.

  ‘Clive,’ I said a little louder. I didn’t want to startle him. He shuffled in the bed.

  ‘Clive,’ I spoke at normal volume now. ‘Wake up. I’ve ’ad t’baby.’

  At this he sat bolt upright, squinting in the half-light. What he said is unrepeatable, but it ended with, ‘Yer some woman, thee.’

  We went downstairs, me smiling like a Cheshire cat, Clive quiet, still shell-shocked.

  ‘I’ll get t’kettle on,’ he said, after banking up the fire. ‘Then we need to ring the ’ospital an’ tell ’em what’s ’appened.’

  I pulled the throw off the sofa around my shoulders while I got the baby latched on to my breast. Clive reappeared, carrying a cup of tea.

  ‘What is ’t?’ he said.

  ‘A girl . . . I think.’ A moment of doubt crept into my head. ‘I’m sure it’s a girl.’

  ‘Let me ’ave a look,’ he said, unravelling the towel. I was right.

  ‘Now, where’s yer notes an’ stuff? You need to ring the ’ospital.’

  I wasn’t keen and pleaded with him to wait until daylight, but my protests were ignored and he insisted. A midwife at the Friarage Hospital at Northallerton took my ca
ll. We went through the usual rigmarole. Who am I? Date of birth? Then the big one, what’s your due date?

  ‘Erm,’ I tried to evade the question, because I knew what was going to happen. ‘It’ll be on yer computer, won’t it?’ I was being vague.

  ‘Oh, 19th July. Dear me, that makes you five and a half weeks early. You can’t come to us, we do not have a special care unit – you need to go to James Cook Hospital at Middlesbrough.’

  My heart sank. I knew that they had to make sure that the baby was well, but it took nearly two hours to get to the Friarage at Northallerton, and that was far enough to go at the best of times. James Cook was even further away; you could add an extra half an hour for that journey.

  ‘Do we ’ave to go now?’ I said, flatly.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to call an ambulance,’ she said.

  In the two hours it took for the ambulance to get to Ravenseat I left Clive holding the baby while I got showered, put the towels in the washing machine, cleaned up the trail of drops of blood between the bedroom and the living room, and dug out the baby car seat.

  ‘Where yer gan?’ Clive said, as the baby and I were escorted to the ambulance.

  ‘James Cook, the hospital at Middlesbrough,’ I shouted. ‘Do yer know where that is?’

  ‘Thomas Cook? Did yer say Thomas Cook?’ he replied.

  ‘Noooo, I’m not goin’ on bloody holiday,’ I shouted again, as the door slid shut.

  It was after five in the morning and the sun was rising when we arrived at the hospital, and I was admitted onto the maternity ward. After being checked over we were declared fit, and it was time to think about how to get the sixty miles back home. I had planned for every eventuality and had cunningly brought the baby car seat with me in the ambulance, as I knew full well that I would not be allowed to leave the hospital without one.

  Outside the maternity wing there was a bus stop and from there, every hour on the hour, a bus ran to the hospital at Northallerton. Perfect. We were on the eleven o’clock bus, which got us to Northallerton in half an hour. A short walk down to the bus stop outside the Tickle Toby Inn, and we were on another bus to Richmond. From there I should have been able to get back to Keld on the little white bus that ran through the Dales, but unfortunately I missed the connection. We sat in the cobbled square on the steps to the war memorial in the sunshine, and waited for Clive to come and get us.