Mary and Jack were there to buy a dinner service with the money Father Flynn had given them for a wedding gift. The one Mary liked was set out in a washing basket, but Jack warned her to bide her time, guessing the price would be reduced later in the afternoon. He had been right. Not only did they get the lovely rose-patterned set for half the starting price but the washing basket to carry it home in was thrown in, and a chamber pot at half price if required. Mary had stated indignantly that she would never use another chamber pot as long as she lived; she’d had enough of emptying the things at Mrs Brown’s back in Newcastle.
Now, bursting for relief at three in the morning and with Jack on nights, she realised her mistake. It wasn’t the walk round the corner in the dark she was afraid of, but the old washhouses she had to pass on the way. She didn’t much like them in daylight but at night there was something really weird about them. She would have to use the bucket – there was nothing else for it. Then she realised it was catching the rain in the back bedroom fireplace, so she made her way downstairs for a saucepan to put in its place, vowing to let Jack buy a chamber pot at the first opportunity.
Back in bed she suddenly wondered what she had let herself in for, leaving Moorland House with all its modern conveniences for Barker’s Row. Eager to find a place to settle down in as Jack’s wife, she had closed her eyes to the fact that smoke from the kitchen fire bellowed down the front-room chimney; that the back wall was so damp that a mushroomlike fungus was growing on the skirting board; and that water for the tin bath had to be ladled from the fireside boiler. She stopped thinking about the house’s drawbacks, and thought about Jack and his ability to make the best of everything; he even joked that she should have brought the bike from Moorland House to travel on to the lavatory.
She peered in the darkness to the alcoves, trying to make out the dressing table and wardrobe which Jack had presented her with a few days before. Though they had been reclaimed by the furniture shop from a non-paying customer, Jack had been unable to find so much as a blemish on them, and was proud to have found such an immaculate bargain. Mary had polished them inside and out before hanging Jack’s clothing in a quarter of the space, and cramming her own including her wedding dress into the remainder. Without Gladys’s expert tuition in dressmaking she would never have accumulated such an extensive wardrobe. Oh, she was lucky. She relived the past few weeks, and knew that much as she missed the Robertses and the luxury of Moorland House she wouldn’t swap Jack and this little two up two down for anything. This was her home now, and Jack was her life.
She looked at the alarm clock in the lightening dawn. He would be home soon, ridding himself of the coal dust with a quick scrub down, and forgoing breakfast in his eagerness to join her in the warmth of their bed, and she couldn’t wait to welcome him into her arms.
Chapter Fourteen
Jacqueline Mary Holmes decided to enter the world two weeks early, a few days before Christmas. Mary was in the fish and chip shop when her waters broke, and as she was fourth from the front and had already waited a full twenty minutes, she decided to stick it out and make sure Jack had a decent supper on returning from afternoon shift.
It never entered her head that the birth was imminent and she thought it was a weakness of the bladder which caused the flow of liquid to wet her stockings and fill her shoes. Luckily the tiled floor was already a wet slippery mess from the customers’ rain-soaked boots and Wellingtons, so that no one was aware of her predicament.
‘You shouldn’t be standing in your condition, Mrs Holmes,’ said Mrs Palmer as she came out from the back with a pile of clean newspapers. ‘If you’d come to the front we would’ve served you before the others.’
‘That’s all right,’ Mary said. ‘Jack won’t be in just yet and I timed it so they’d be nice and hot when he came home.’
‘Yes well, think on and come to the front next time,’ the kindly shopkeeper insisted.
Mary thanked her and paid for her fish and twopennyworth of chips twice, and had just left the shop when the pain gripped her. The climb up to Barker’s Row seemed never-ending, and Mary had to pause twice when the pains almost brought her to her knees. Nevertheless, she managed to reach Marjory’s house two doors away from her own, relieved that Bill was in and could go on his bike for the midwife, whilst Marjory took Mary home.
Mary had disliked the midwife from the first visit to the clinic. The woman not only looked like a man, she also sported a man’s short back and sides haircut and had a deep gruff voice, which she delighted in using to scare the living daylights out of her already nervous patients. On Mary’s first visit the woman had clumsily stumbled over a little boy, quietly playing on the floor whilst his mother was being examined, and the poor little mite had sobbed uncontrollably when the nurse had boomed out, ‘Who the devil does that kid belong to?’
Mary had picked up the little boy and angrily pointed out that he was a child not a kid, and that the midwife should look where she was going in future. After that Mary had dreaded her monthly visits to the clinic, and the nurse had made her life a misery in any way she could think of.
Even so it was a relief when the woman bustled through the door and up the stairs, grumbling as she entered the bedroom.
‘What the devil do you mean by fetching me out on a wild-goose chase? The bairn isn’t due for another two weeks.’
‘I know,’ said Mary, ‘but something’s happening. It feels as if the baby’s coming.’
‘Rubbish. You’ll go the clock round with a first baby, they always do.’
Mary was too agonised to answer back as another pain gripped her loins. She felt the woman lift her nightdress and then her legs.
‘Good God,’ she exclaimed, and hurried out to the top of the stairs calling loudly, ‘Get me some hot water and Dettol, and don’t be all night about it.’
Mary vaguely heard Marjory’s reply before experiencing the need to bear down.
‘Hold on to the bed rail,’ the midwife ordered and Mary thought momentarily what a perfect sergeant major she would have made.
Jack took the stairs two at a time to be stopped short on the small landing by the glowering nurse.
‘She won’t be long now,’ the woman roared, and pressed a bucket of hideous-looking afterbirth into Jack’s arms. The sight sent the contents of his stomach shooting upwards, so that he almost vomited on the narrow Jacobean carpet he had laid only two mornings previously. He turned and staggered weakly down to the kitchen before realising that his child must already be delivered. Then he thrust the bucket at his sister and raced back up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Mary looking flushed and beautiful cradled the tiny form in her arms. He approached the bed slowly, ignoring the large restraining hand of the midwife, and gently kissed his wife, before lifting aside the white towel in which the infant had been wrapped, so tightly that only her nose and eyes could be seen. He looked questioningly at Mary.
‘We’ve got a daughter,’ she said. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
Jack thought the baby resembled one of the rabbits that young Cyril Downing caught on the moors for Gladys to skin and hang in one of the outhouses at Moorland House, but he thought he’d better agree with Mary.
‘Oh aye, she’s beautiful. A bit on the small side, but beautiful.’ He grinned, then looked concerned. ‘How are you feeling, love?’
‘Never better. There was nothing to it.’ Mary smiled, staring defiantly at the midwife, who had repeatedly warned her that she was too small round the pelvis to have a baby, and could expect the worst.
‘Is she all right, the baby?’ asked Jack. ‘Being premature, I mean.’
‘Only four and a quarter pounds, but she’ll grow,’ said the nurse, eager now to get home to bed. ‘Keep a good fire day and night; you can’t be too careful with a premature child.’
She stared at the empty fireplace, and Jack, taking the hint, raced out of the room and downstairs, coming back with a shovelful of glowing coals which he placed carefully in the grate.
‘I’ll be back to bath her in the morning, so see there’s plenty of hot water ready.’ The woman glanced at Mary. ‘Oh, and get plenty of milk down you. Your breasts might be a while filling, but I’ll take a look in the morning. Meanwhile a good cup of gruel won’t go amiss. The little mite will need looking after and no mistake.’
For the first time Mary noticed a look of tenderness flit across the face of the nurse, only to be replaced by her usual frown as she gathered up her bag and coat, and made her way noisily downstairs.
Jack sat on the bed and Mary placed the tiny bundle in his long awkward arms.
‘What shall we call her?’ He touched the red wrinkled face gently.
‘Jacqueline Mary.’
He grinned. ‘After us both.’
‘Well it’s got to be Mary seeing as it’s almost Christmas.’ Mary couldn’t help thinking that all the important events in her life seemed to happen at Christmas.
Jack opened the towel and took a tiny hand into his own coal-encrusted one. ‘She hasn’t any nails,’ he said, alarmed.
‘Well, what do you expect? She shouldn’t be here for another two weeks.’ Mary looked concerned.
Jack covered the baby gently. ‘She’ll need a lot of looking after but we’ll rear her,’ he said. ‘And nothing will be too good for Jacqueline Mary Holmes, I’ll be buggered if it will.’ He started suddenly and placed the baby at Mary’s side. ‘I’d better go and let my mother know,’ he said, ‘and I’d better get a message over to Gladys and a telegram to Newcastle first thing in the morning.’
‘And don’t you think you’d better have a wash?’ Mary laughed. ‘The bedding won’t be fit to be seen.’
Jack moved from the bed quickly. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘only one thing’s bothering me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The thought of that bloody nurse taking a look at your breasts.’
Mary giggled, then sobered again as Jack left the room. She wasn’t much looking forward to that herself. She sighed and wished her mother was here, then looked down at her daughter, like a little doll beside her. She was worth all the worrying, was Jacqueline Mary Holmes.
A few yards from Mary’s house Barker’s Row ended with double wrought-iron gates leading into a driveway at the end of which stood a garage. One side of the drive was dense with conifers and laurel bushes; on the other stood the large red brick Belvedere House. The only way in was through a wooden door built into the high wall which completely surrounded the house and garden. No one could see in, and the inhabitants could not see the washhouses and lavatories which stood between the secluded residence and lowly Barker’s Row.
Mr and Mrs James Davenport were rarely seen by the residents of the row. An ex-schoolmistress, the lady was rich enough to have a cleaning lady, a hairdresser and a grocer, all of whom visited the house at regular intervals. On rare occasions Mary had seen her, dressed in an expensive-looking grey coat and hat, with grey leather accessories, making her way carefully down the stony unadopted row, probably on an afternoon visit to friends, or on the way to some kind of meeting. Sometimes if Mary was outside Mrs Davenport would nod, smile and wish her a good afternoon, but that was all. Mary always felt in awe of the woman, probably because she reminded her of Mrs Brown back in Newcastle.
Jack, on the other hand, pointed out that they were probably no more wealthy than Gladys and Rowland, and had certainly no reason to think themselves superior to everyone else. Mr Davenport, according to Marjory, was a managing director somewhere in the city, and he could be seen every weekday leaving the house in his immaculately kept saloon car at exactly half past eight. He looked and dressed like Winston Churchill, even sporting a large cigar, but always doffed his hat and commented on the weather to anyone he saw when he opened the creaky gates.
A few weeks before, when a sudden snowstorm had caused drifting during the night, Jack had left his task of clearing a path round to the lavs and helped Mr Davenport clear his drive, enabling him to leave for work not much later than usual. Now Jack was wondering if the man would repay his kindness by letting him use his telephone.
‘Oh, you can’t ask them,’ said Mary. ‘What would they think?’
‘Who cares?’ said Jack. ‘They’ll either say yes or no. It isn’t as though I’m going to make a habit of it. After all, it isn’t every day we have a baby.’
‘But it’ll cost a fortune to ring Newcastle.’
‘I don’t intend ringing Father Flynn – Gladys will do that. All I want is to let her know. Surely they won’t object if I offer to pay for the call.’
‘You could go to the gatehouse at the works. The works bobby would let Lucy know.’
‘But that would mean it will be teatime before Gladys hears the news. I can but ask, Mary – there’s no harm in asking.’ Jack looked at the clock on the dressing table. ‘If I go about quarter past eight I won’t be disturbing them.’
Mary snuggled the tiny babe into her warm body, opening her nightdress and offering her erect nipple to the tiny mouth. It opened wide, reminding Mary of a newly hatched bird she had once found in a grouse’s nest amongst the heather. She squeezed her breast and a squirt of fluid covered the baby’s face. The child found the source of its nourishment and began to suck, choking on the first mouthful, then settling down for her first feed.
Mary could feel the warmth drawing upwards from the depths of her body, and she revelled in the experience, not caring about Jack, or the Davenports or anything else. For the time being her daughter was the most important thing in the world.
Jack knocked at the door before noticing the bell, and stood nervously waiting. The door opened to reveal Mrs Davenport in a red quilted dressing gown. Her eyes widened at the sight of Jack; then she recognised him as the man who had shovelled the snow. She had been impressed by his deft use of the shovel and the speed at which he had cleared the drive.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I might use your telephone. It wouldn’t be a long call, and I’ll pay for it.’ He paused. ‘Only my wife’s had a baby and I’d like to let her folks know the news.’
Mrs Davenport’s face seemed to take on a glow, and she stood aside, ushering Jack into the hall. ‘How exciting for you,’ she enthused. ‘What did you get, a daughter?’
‘Yes,’ said Jack, rather taken aback.
Mr Davenport gathered his coat and hat from the hall stand, smiling as Jack passed. ‘My wife considers herself something of an expert in that field,’ he said. ‘Reckons she can tell the baby’s sex by the way the mother carries it. Only said last week she thought your child would be a girl.’
Jack entered the room indicated by Mrs Davenport. The telephone stood on a highly polished occasional table alongside a box of cigars and a box of chocolates. A pink squashy three-piece suite cheerily crowded the room, and a large roaring fire filled the fireplace, casting a glow on the display of Christmas cards arranged on the mantelpiece. He tried not to stare round the room, but couldn’t help himself. Gazing down at him from a narrow shelf all round the walls were dozens of Toby jugs; a cabinet close to him was also filled with laughing, frowning and curious porcelain faces.
He found a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled Gladys’s number, and dialled it with trembling fingers. Unused to the contraption, he felt relief when it rang and Gladys’s voice answered.
On hearing the news she bombarded him with questions as to health, weight and time of the baby’s birth. As Jack answered the Toby jugs seemed to smile their congratulations, and the warmth of the cosy room filled him with a feeling of well-being.
Gladys promised to ring Father Flynn immediately and send him to give the news to Mary’s family.
‘I’ll be over the moment Rowland can bring me,’ she said, and Jack knew it would be no use telling her there was no need.
‘You’re welcome any time you need a telephone.’ Mrs Davenport was in her element. She was actually a kind woman, but probably because of her former profession she was also a
rather bossy one and tended to order people about. She pressed two paper bags into Jack’s hands. ‘Here’s a little something for the baby, and this is for your wife.’
Jack was speechless.
‘And if she needs anything you must let us know. Not that we neighbour, you understand, but we are here if we’re needed.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘Isn’t that correct, James?’
‘That’s right Mr ... ’
‘Holmes, Jack Holmes.’ Jack fumbled in his pocket for some change. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t hear of it,’ Mr Davenport said. ‘One good turn deserves another, that’s what I always say. Well, you must excuse me, Mr Holme duty calls and all that.’ He bent to kiss his wife, missing by a couple of inches, and picked up a brown leather briefcase as he made his way to the door. ‘My regards to your wife, young man.’
Jack turned to Mrs Davenport. ‘Thank you for the, er, presents,’ he said, not knowing what was inside the brown paper bags.
‘Don’t mention it. I always keep a stock of knitted garments, in case one of my husband’s employees leaves to begin a family. Besides, the knitting prevents my fingers stiffening, from the rheumatism, you understand.’
‘Oh, and thanks for the phone call. I won’t bother you again.’
‘Don’t mention it, Mr Holmes, you’re most welcome. Perhaps your wife will bring your daughter to see me, when she’s up and about again of course.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Jack said, grinning as he wondered what Mary would say when she knew how well he’d been received by the posh folks.
He hurried home, easier in his mind now the news was on its way to Mary’s family.
Mary was touched when she saw the tiny knitted matinee coat threaded with pink ribbon, and a pretty pink bed-jacket for herself.
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