A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Grace was about to lower her weight onto a chair when she uttered a groan and sucked in her breath, leaning on the table, one hand on her distended abdomen. This baby was not going to be the considerate type. ‘Madeleine, go fetch Nurse.’

  Six-year-old Madeleine gawped at her mother.

  ‘Now!’ urged Grace. ‘And the rest of you go out and play until Gussie comes with the chips.’ To still their objections she added, ‘You can take some bread with you – and don’t come back till you’re bidden!’ She chivvied them from the house, then went to the cupboard, grabbed an old sheet and took it upstairs to protect the mattress, calling anxiously over her shoulder, ‘Ooh, don’t be long, Maddie!’

  Whilst Madeleine pelted along the terraced street to fetch the midwife, Clem slouched off in the opposite direction, lighting up a cigarette as he went, glad to be removed from the source of his embarrassment. The rest of his siblings, Joseph Fitzroy, seven, Beata Honoria, almost five, and the youngest, Marmaduke James, were left on the front doorstep to nibble at their pieces of bread.

  Within seconds Madeleine was coming back along the sunlit street with midwife Fanny Gentle, a dark-haired, handsome woman, though bony, with a chest as flat as a board and a stance that warned she would take no nonsense. The knot of neighbours who gathered around the barrel organ nudged each other and smiled in recognition that there was to be another Kilmaster birth.

  As the two arrived, Beata tried to get back into the house with them but was shoved none too gently away by her elder sister. ‘You have to wait outside till Mother’s got t’new baby.’

  ‘And so do thee!’ came the nurse’s rude instruction as she shut the door in Madeleine’s face.

  Madeleine collapsed in a sulky heap on the doorstep to chew on the remnant of her crust. The others had already devoured theirs and now their eyes were fixed hypnotically on Marmaduke, like cat upon mouse, wondering how to coax him into parting with his. In the event they did not have to.

  ‘No want it.’ The infant threw his bread-and-butter down.

  Instantly the others fought to peel it from the stone flag, Beata quickly being pushed out of the way by her elder siblings, Joe emerging the winner.

  Disappointed, Beata stood beside her sister on the step, feeling its coolness invade the paper-thin soles of her footwear. ‘Has Nurse fetched the baby in her bag?’

  ‘Greedy pig!’ Madeleine was still concentrating on the bread that was fast disappearing down her brother’s throat. Then she gave Beata a shove. ‘And you get your mucky booits off my step.’ It had been her turn to donkey-stone it that morning.

  Her question unanswered, Beata left the others to squabble and watched the people dancing to the tingalary man. But then the memory of being held in her father’s arms jiggling about to this same music caused her eyes to stray wistfully along the street, hoping for a sight of him.

  He had gone away to somewhere called The War. Born towards the end of Probyn’s military career, unlike her elder siblings Beata could never remember a time when he was not there, and she yearned to see him now. Instead, she glimpsed a man in a black cassock weaving an unsteady passage across the end of the street and, hoping Father Flanagan might be on his way to the sweet shop, she set off at an excited gallop, little legs working like pistons, affecting not to notice the priest as she overtook him but continuing to race towards the main road.

  The priest stalled as the little figure dashed past him, putting him off his stride and causing him to totter. Then, noting her identity he grinned to himself and redirected his shabby boots along their way, knowing what he would find when he got to his destination.

  Sure enough, when he came within sight of the confectioner’s there she was, nose pressed up against the window, acting for all the world as if she was unaware of his existence until he spoke to her.

  ‘Hello to you, Beat!’

  She beamed up at him, before turning back to the window and staring pointedly at that which had caught her attention.

  Father Flanagan bent his tall thin figure and leaned on his knees to peer into the window alongside the little girl. Between the fine strands of white hair slicked back with grease were sections of pink scalp. ‘What’s that you’re looking at?’

  Beata willingly inhaled the fumes that emanated from beneath his long Irish upper lip. Father Flanagan had a lovely smell about him. The smell of Christmas she called it, because she had only ever experienced it in her own house when her mother mixed the Christmas pudding. A warm, fruity and intoxicating smell.

  ‘A chocolate doll in a bed.’ She pointed a grimy finger.

  ‘What a marvellous creation to be sure.’ Father Flanagan breathed more alcoholic fumes upon the child before coming upright and rolling up the sleeves of his darned cassock, a look of purpose on his face. ‘Away in then, we shall have her!’ And cupping his hand to Beata’s wavy auburn bob he steered her into the shop.

  When they emerged the priest carried a bag of mints, one of which was rattling around his false teeth, and the child clutched the tiny chocolate doll in its bed.

  ‘Aren’t ye going to eat it?’ asked her benefactor, walking alongside.

  Beata shook her head. It was much too precious to devour. However, by the time they had reached the street where she lived, her resolution to keep it intact had caved in and she began to nibble along the edge of its arm, though she still cradled it with reverence. Weaving an unsteady passage, Father Flanagan smiled down at her and the smile was reflected in her blue-grey eyes.

  The hurdy-gurdy had moved on, though its faint strains could still be heard along with the trilling of canaries through the open windows.

  ‘We’re not allowed in,’ the little girl informed the priest on arrival at her front door, the chocolate doll now decapitated. ‘Mother’s getting a new baby.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Father Flanagan paused for a second, then cocked his ear at the open bedroom window from where came the mew of a new-born. ‘Sounds like it’s arrived.’ And with a tap at the door he opened it, calling, ‘Are we right to come in?’

  An aroma of fish and warm newspaper filled the kitchen. The family’s meal temporarily installed in the oven to keep hot, Augusta was entertaining the smallest child by giving him horse rides on her back. Dislodging Marmaduke, she scrambled to her feet and granted immediate permission to the priest, a look of respect on her face.

  ‘Yes, of course, Father! Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Haven’t you enough to do looking after this lot, Gussie?’ Swaying, Father Flanagan grabbed a chair for support and observed the other more boisterous youngsters to whom he proffered the bag of mints.

  ‘It’s no trouble. Please, sit down.’ Recognizing the smell of whisky beneath the whiff of mint, Augusta thought she had better invite him to sit before he fell down. In a fussy, adult manner she proceeded to serve the guest with tea from the pot that she had just brewed.

  ‘My, you deserve a medal,’ slurred the priest and, rummaging in his cassock, he brought forth a silver oval disc bearing the head of the Virgin Mary, which he handed to the eleven-year-old.

  Radiating pleasure, Augusta thanked him and with lustrous gaze studied the religious medallion for a moment whilst the priest flopped onto a chair to drink his tea, but then the midwife came downstairs carrying a bundle, asking if the bath was ready.

  Clutching the medal in her fist, Augusta indicated the zinc bath by the fire.

  ‘And this would be the new arrival, would it?’ Father Flanagan’s glazed blue eyes peered at the newcomer’s face. ‘Is it a man or a woman?’

  ‘A little lass, Father.’ With great dexterity Fanny Gentle unwrapped the crumpled new-born and placed it in the water, proceeding to sluice away the detritus of birth.

  The priest asked what she was going to be called. Augusta did not know.

  ‘Your mother says Millicent Mary,’ revealed the nurse.

  Two-year-old Marmaduke tried to repeat the name. ‘Mims.’

  Father Flanagan guffawed along with th
e rest. ‘Ah well, there you have it! Mims, it is.’

  The other children soon lost interest in their new sister and asked, ‘When are we going to get us teas?’

  Fanny relayed a message to Augusta. ‘Your mother says for you to feed these gannets, and you’re to take her a plate up.’ She herself dried and dressed the baby and took it back upstairs.

  In her usual capable manner, Augusta had doled out the children’s tea, had given the priest a chip sandwich and was taking a plate up to her mother when her elder brother poked his hawkish nose tentatively round the door.

  ‘Hello there, young Clem,’ said Father Flanagan, munching. ‘Away in, ’tis safe now.’

  Clem was subdued. ‘Mebbe not for me, Father.’ He turned to Augusta. ‘Is Mother all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just taking this up to her.’

  ‘I’ll save your legs.’ Clem reached for the plate, sucking in his breath at the heat of it and using his shirt cuff as protection.

  ‘Frog’s sake,’ laughed his two-year-old brother.

  Clem cast a humorous eye at him, warning, ‘Eh, don’t start that again, me laddo.’

  ‘What’s that he said about frogs?’ quizzed the priest, but received only titters.

  ‘Me come.’ Unrestricted, the toddler followed him upstairs, ignoring calls from their sister to return and eat his tea.

  Using a knee to prevent the little one from worming past him, Clem tapped at his parents’ bedroom door and, given authorization, entered. ‘Is it all right if Babby comes in, Mother?’

  Cradling the new arrival in her arms, Grace’s heart went out to the toddler, who had suddenly been displaced in her affections and whose alarm now caused him to try to scramble up onto her bed. ‘He’s not Baby any more, are you, dear? He’ll have to learn his proper name now.’ She passed her new-born to the midwife. ‘But that doesn’t stop us having a little cuddle before I eat my chips.’ And leaning over she dragged him into her arms where he clung possessively, glaring at the one who had usurped him.

  ‘I’ll be off now and let thee get tha tea.’ Fanny Gentle planted the baby in the top drawer that served as its crib. ‘See you tomorrow, Grace.’

  ‘Thank you, Nurse. Your money’s in an envelope on the mantel.’ Grace watched her go, then, after giving Marmaduke a last squeeze, told him he would have to get down. He didn’t want to go but Clem grabbed a handful of the infant’s red plaid dress and dragged him off the bed, holding him like a carpetbag whilst presenting Grace with her meal and a humble apology. ‘Sorry about before, Mam.’

  ‘I should think so!’ For a second Grace’s hooded blue eyes looked stern; but she couldn’t maintain this for long and, in the flush of relief that followed her travail, was able to bestow her warm happy smile. ‘Oh, I suppose I’ll forgive you! I always do, don’t I?’ She reached out to cuff him gently. ‘But you’ll have to learn to curb that impetuous streak, Clem. It’ll get you nowhere.’

  Glad to be forgiven, Clem impishly stole a chip from her plate, then, laughing at her pretend outrage, he threw Marmaduke over his shoulder and went down to eat his own.

  * * *

  When the midwife came on Saturday she brought with her a bag of jam and coconut buns, which were happily devoured by the children, who sat round whilst Nurse Gentle bathed and dressed the baby by the fire. At the same time, out of the blue, came another visitor. Jam around their mouths, the children jumped up to greet Aunt Charlotte, all frantically happy to see her big square face with its tiny gleaming emerald eyes, each vying for her attention whilst their eldest sister fought to keep their sticky fingers away from the visitor’s nice clothes. Whilst the house saw frequent visits from neighbours and local clergy, for their mother was very popular, it was rare for them to see an outsider, and the extent of their excitement testified to this. Charlotte was not a relative at all, but their mother’s lifelong friend.

  After paying court to the new addition, Charlotte removed the small feathered hat and primped her dark blonde curls, speaking to Fanny Gentle, her tone aghast. ‘Have you seen the dreadful news?’

  ‘That ship you mean?’ Bony legs apart under the apron, the baby splayed on her lap, Fanny issued a grave nod. ‘I don’t know all the facts yet but the summary said it was torpedoed yesterday afternoon just before this little lass were born.’

  Charlotte was eager to provide details, her face projecting horror. ‘Nearly two thousand souls on board and most of them feared dead, little babies and all.’

  The midwife’s reply lacked emotion as she fitted a last article of clothing on the infant and bound it tightly in a shawl. ‘Nay, it doesn’t surprise me in the least. They can’t beat our lads by fair fighting so they descend to this poisonous gas, so I wouldn’t put anything past them, even drowning bairns.’

  Charlotte gave a theatrical shudder.

  Clem tapped the newspaper he had been reading before her arrival. ‘There’s a letter from a soldier who reckons the war’s almost won. June by the latest.’ There was no enthusiasm in his remark for he lamented the fact that he was too young to fight and only if this war were to persist for years would he have a chance of achieving his ambition.

  ‘Let’s pray he’s right.’ Charlotte studied her engagement ring for an anxious moment, thinking of her sweetheart, George, who was already in France, then made as if to go upstairs.

  ‘Here, take this article with you if you’re off up.’ Fanny Gentle extended a bundle.

  With a fond laugh Charlotte received the new baby and went upstairs where, after an initial hug, congratulations to Grace and compliments over Mims, the subject of the Lusitania was repeated, though there was little detail to go on.

  ‘If this doesn’t bring the Americans in, nothing will,’ announced Grace. Then she became even angrier. ‘Oh, and have you read the latest? You won’t believe it! Some clot of a professor has suggested that we ought not to sing “Rule Britannia” for fear of upsetting the Germans. Have you ever heard owt so bloody daft? It’s all right for them to kill bairns—’ She broke off and hugged Mims protectively to her breast.

  Moved by her friend’s vulnerability, Charlotte sought to comfort. ‘The reports might be exaggerated; it might not be so bad as it sounds.’ Not wanting to believe that any nation could be so vile, the words were uttered as much to convince herself as Grace. ‘Perhaps most of them have been saved.’

  And, needing to share her faith, Grace nodded and quickly changed the subject, the pair going on to chat about happier topics.

  * * *

  On Sunday, though, an emergency war edition gave full report of the dastardly occurrence. The German torpedo had claimed fifteen hundred victims, many of them children.

  In the days that followed, an inquest on the tragedy found the Kaiser guilty of murder.

  ‘Kaiser?’ blurted Grace whilst Fanny Gentle made the daily examination of her nether regions. ‘They should change his name to Herod.’

  Fanny patted Grace’s bare buttock to signify that she should cover herself. ‘Everything’s healing nicely.’ She went to sluice her hands in a chipped bowl. ‘Aye, and I’ll warrant the emperor’s not the only one who should be changing his name. Did you hear they smashed up the German butcher’s shop in Mexborough?’

  Grace pulled her nightgown over her nakedness and adjusted the covers, deploring such violence. ‘Mr Kaiser didn’t fire the torpedo! He can’t help his ancestry.’

  The handsome woman showed scant sympathy. ‘No, but he can help putting up his prices and taking advantage of the fact that there’s a war on.’

  Grace did not argue for fear of incurring accusations of favouritism. Mr Kaiser had been very good to the Kilmasters. Instead she pursued the relevant matter, her anger towards the enemy being as keen as any other patriot’s as she grabbed the newspaper from the bedside table to read again. ‘It says here that the King’s going to strike him off the Roll of the Order of the Garter.’ Grace read a last line before tossing the paper aside and taking possession of her baby, addressing herself mor
e brightly to the infant. ‘He’ll have nothing to keep his socks up then, will he, cherub? And serve him right too!’

  Waiting until the midwife had gone, for Fanny could be less than gentle with patients who did not do as they were told, Grace informed her eldest daughter of her intention to get up. She shouldn’t be on her feet after only five days but felt guilty at poor Gussie missing school and having to run about after everyone. However, the excuse she voiced was, ‘It’s such a grand day and I’m sick of lying in bed. The registrar will be coming today—’ he came two afternoons a week to Denaby Main – ‘I might as well take advantage and give you children some fresh air at the same time.’

  Later, the conspirators prepared to leave the house, Augusta carrying Marmaduke and first making sure the way was clear before hurriedly summoning her mother, Grace sneaking through the doorway, babe in arms, then all fleeing with Beata in tow.

  ‘Hurry, before Nurse catches us!’ Grace’s pale cheeks were illuminated with the laughter of a naughty child as she and her offspring scuttled down the sunlit terrace.

  Once around the corner, though, they relaxed somewhat and assumed a leisurely pace, exchanging an occasional hello with others and stopping for friends to admire the new baby. Grace could not help noting that one or two of the women to whom they spoke appeared a lot happier of late, and guessed that it was not due simply to the glorious sunshine, but was because their husbands were away at the front. It made her sad that it took a war for them to escape domestic violence – sad too because she missed her own husband dreadfully.

  They proceeded to the registrar’s office.

  Leaving Gussie outside with the others Grace went in and, initially, things went smoothly, name, address and date of birth being written down without a problem.

  ‘Father’s rank or profession?’ enquired the registrar, pen at the ready.

  ‘Well, he’s normally a weighman but he’s gone to serve his country,’ replied Grace, then seeing that the man had begun to write ‘Private’ said hastily, ‘Hang on! He’s a regimental sergeant-major.’