The Secrets of Midwives

by Sally Hepworth

  Lil didn’t usually weigh in on my relationship with my daughter, but I knew she found it curious. She wasn’t familiar with the relentless worry that went along with having a daughter. I got the sense she found Grace a little codependent and over the top. Perhaps she was. But Lil didn’t understand Grace the way I did. More important, she didn’t understand the circumstances that had made her that way.

  “No.” I lifted my legs onto the ottoman and sank into the cushions. “Well, not directly.”

  Lil set down her book: an invitation to talk. But I was hesitant. I’d told her Neva was pregnant, of course, and that her baby didn’t appear to have a father. But I hadn’t told her of the wound it had reopened for me. I’d never told Lil anything about Grace’s father—she’d caught on to the fact that he was dead and left it at that. Now, part of me wanted to talk, but after all my years alone, I found the concept of talking through my troubles foreign at best, and at worst, frightening.

  “I’m not saying I can do anything,” she said, reading my mind. “But I can listen.”

  “You’re a love,” I said. “But it’s nothing I haven’t been dealing with all my life. Daughters, granddaughters—”

  Lil reopened her book. “Yes. So you say.”

  I hesitated. “You all right, dear?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  Lil’s downturned face appeared calm, unflustered. Mine, I was certain, was not. Though she never said so, I knew Lil thought I needed to take a step back from my family. Under normal circumstances, she may have been right. But this particular drama wasn’t over the PTA or the Board of Nursing or a fight with Robert. This was something I’d set in motion, all those years ago, when Bill McGrady strolled into my life, and changed it forever.

  Watford, England, 1953

  In the smoke-filled front room of the Heathcote Arms, I tried not to let my boredom show. There’d been a wedding in town, which to all the single women in Watford meant one thing: eligible men. I was with Elizabeth and Evie, two fellow midwives who, like me, had moved from London for their midwifery training in Watford. We all lived at the nurses’ home (or virgins’ retreat, as it was nicknamed) in town. Sister Eileen had told us to be home by ten thirty sharp, but as we knew she was always in bed by nine thirty, we didn’t worry.

  Evie and Elizabeth were dressed to the nines, but while they’d turned several heads, no one had bought us a drink so far. It must have been my fault. Elizabeth and Evie were both widely accepted as magnificent, but with enough imperfections to make young lads think they were in with a chance. I, on the other hand, had a face my mother had once described as “handsome.” My bottom was wide rather than curvy and my hair was so determinedly straight that any attempt to curl it always ended in hot, frustrated tears. As such, I was forced to accept that our lack of success in the drinks department was something to do with me.

  The room continued to fill and I was beginning to feel a little light-headed when the door opened and a gush of fresh air poured in, along with a pair of young men. All heads in the room turned to look. Through the smoke I could see that one of the men was tall and lean, with a large forehead and dark brown hair teased into a peak. Together with his mate, he did a rotation of the room then rambled over to our table.

  “Can we buy you ladies a drink?”

  The tall, handsome one was looking directly at me.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “I’m being rude. This is my mate, Robbie. And I’m Bill McGrady.”

  Evie and Elizabeth stared up at him from our bench seat, marveling as if Jesus Christ himself were standing before us. And, indeed, Bill McGrady was something rather special.

  “I’m Floss,” I said, clearing my throat. “This is Evie and this is Elizabeth.”

  Bill tipped his nonexistent hat. “Pleasure to meet you ladies.”

  His gaze remained fixed on me. I knew I should look away, but somehow, I couldn’t. I cursed the gods. In the past few months, I’d virtually accepted that men, on the whole, didn’t interest me. I had a niggling feeling that perhaps women did. As if I wasn’t confused enough—now this.

  “I’d like a drink,” Elizabeth said. “A shandy, please. Same for you, Evie?”

  Evie nodded.

  “And for you, Floss?” Elizabeth asked. Sometimes, when she leaned in close like she was doing, I had the urge to scoot forward and kiss her perfect, pink mouth. But today, I was thinking about another set of lips. “Nothing for me. I’m fine.”

  “Go on, Floss,” Bill said. I didn’t want to be flattered or swept up, but looking at his cheeky, half-cocked grin it was difficult.

  “Fine,” I said. I felt the blush, so I could only imagine how it looked. I’d probably broken out in a heat rash. “A sweet sherry would be lovely.”

  When Bill turned to talk to Robbie, Elizabeth leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “Go on, love,” she said. “He’s a doll. Go for it.”

  “No, no,” I said. “You go for it.”

  “He was staring at you, Floss.”

  “He wasn’t. Anyway, he’s not my cup of tea.”

  “He’s not your cup of tea? Mr. Marlon Brando?”

  I insisted that no, he wasn’t. And after a few seconds of assurance, Elizabeth sighed. “Well, if you’re sure.” She waited until I confirmed yet again, and then leapt to Bill’s side. “How ’bout I give you a hand with those drinks?” she asked him.

  I watched as Bill guided Elizabeth to the bar, his hand near, but not touching, the small of her back. Most men I knew would use a crowded bar to their advantage, but Bill appeared to be the perfect gentleman.

  When they arrived at the bar, Bill cast a glance over his shoulder and I quickly joined a stilted conversation between Evie and Robbie. By the time I looked back, Bill was looking at Elizabeth. In an emerald green belted dress, she was looking particularly pretty, and from the look on Bill’s face, he’d noticed. Her long auburn hair was out and curled, and she somehow looked demure but risqué at the same time. She was beaming and making theatrical hand gestures, perhaps telling the story about the young virgin who’d turned up at their prenatal clinic, convinced she was carrying the Lord’s next child. Whatever she was saying, Bill was clearly enamored. And the brief moment we’d shared was clearly forgotten.

  Bill and Elizabeth were married six months later.

  It was a small wedding. Money was hard to come by then—the war had taken it from those who had it, and taken the lives of those who didn’t. Bill’s family never had money to begin with and Elizabeth’s parents, who fancied themselves as society people, had married four daughters before her and now had little left other than their good name. As maid of honor, I’d been the first one to walk down the aisle. I’d smiled at the guests, the floor, the flowers—everywhere but at Bill. But when I reached the altar, I had to steal a look. His stance was relaxed, his smile traveled all the way to his eyes, and there wasn’t a trace of nerves. This wasn’t a man having second thoughts.

  It was Elizabeth who’d spent the morning in a state of pre-wedding jitters: tense, teary, quiet. But when she appeared in the church’s double doorway, her nerves were nowhere to be seen. Everything sparkled—her eyes, her smile, the antique jeweled comb in her hair. She’d decided to wear her hair out, a last-minute decision that her mother had fought, calling it “common,” but Elizabeth had stuck to her guns, and no one could argue with her now. With it flowing over the capped sleeves of her A-line gown, she was as whimsical and delicate as the peonies she carried.

  Elizabeth and Bill were to spend the wedding night in the town’s hotel, before moving to Bill’s house in Kings Langley. According to Elizabeth, it was nothing but a humble cottage, but she didn’t mind. What Bill lacked in money, he made up for in charm. And charm, we all agreed, was something he had in spades.

  “I want to thank you all for coming tonight,” he’d said when he opened his speech. “It’s humbling for a man such as myself to be in the presence of you fine folk, and even more so to have married into a family such as th
e O’Hallorans. Most humbling of all”—he smiled at Elizabeth—“is to be standing here as the husband of this beautiful creature. I won’t pretend to be anything more than I am—the son of a farmer who spent a few years in the service. A lot less than Elizabeth deserves. But I promise that I will work hard every day of the rest of my life to make myself worthy.”

  The room came apart at the seams. What a delightful young man! Isn’t Elizabeth lucky? Many of the guests were in tears. I also shed a tear, though perhaps for different reasons.

  The bridal waltz followed, then all the dances after that. Father–daughter, mother–son, in-laws, bridesmaids. Bill and Elizabeth swept around the floor, gazing at each other, as indeed they should have been. Evie and her new beau, Jack, pressed up against each other like a pair of magnets. Meanwhile, I took my maid of honor duties seriously, powdering Elizabeth’s nose, keeping her quarrelling aunts apart, dancing with the best man. As the event drew to a close, I helped Elizabeth’s parents pack up the hall. As I bundled the last of the gifts into Elizabeth’s father’s car, two fingers tapped impatiently against my shoulder.

  “Does the groom get a dance with the maid of honor?”

  I slammed the trunk and turned around. Bill was glassy eyed, his top three buttons undone and his bow tie hanging open. He gave me a cheeky grin.

  I consulted an imaginary piece of paper that I pulled from an imaginary pocket. “I don’t see it on the run sheet, I’m afraid.”

  He moved in closer beside me and I caught a whiff of the carnation in his pocket. He looked at my pretend run sheet. “Are you sure? I think I see it—” He pointed a finger in the air. “—right here.”

  “I think you’re seeing things. Elizabeth is about to throw the bouquet. We’d best get inside.”

  “Are you hoping to catch it?” he asked.

  “No. Evie should be the one tonight.”

  “And why, may I ask, not you?”

  I looked at my feet. I worried that if I looked directly at Bill, I might not be able to look away. Ever. “Well … she and Jack have been dating for months, and I—I don’t have a lad.”

  “Well, then…,” Bill said, “how about that dance?”

  I scanned the space around us. A few guests hovered by their cars, saying good-byes. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Bill opened his arms in a waltz stance. He grasped my right hand in his left and pointed them at the sky. “Bill,” I said. “We really should get back to Elizabeth.”

  I heard a car engine, then watched as the small group who’d been hovering outside drove away. Bill looked from the car to me and waggled his eyebrows. “All alone.”

  He pulled me a little closer. Our bellies pressed together. My heart started to race, and I had no idea if that was good, or bad.

  “Elizabeth has had my attention all day,” he said into my ear. At the same time, he moved his right hand a fraction lower. “And you, not having a lad and all, are in need of a bit of attention, I’d say.”

  7

  Neva

  I decided to become a midwife on a Wednesday. I was fourteen. After school, my teacher had passed me a note with the address where Grace was delivering. This happened from time to time, when the client’s house was within walking distance from school. This day it took me about twenty minutes to get there and when I did, a piece of lined paper was wedged between the wrought iron and the mesh of the screen door. The handwriting was Grace’s.

  Door is open. We’re in the back.

  “I’m here,” I called as I let myself in. I stood in the hallway, waiting for Grace to shout out a greeting. After a few minutes, she’d come and update me on how it was going, and either give me cab money or tell me Dad would pick me up on the way home. Not this day. Instead, the bedroom door peeled open. Her face was pale.

  “Neva—thank God. Quick. Come in.”

  I froze; a deer in the headlights. “What?”

  “My birth assistant is sick, she’s had to go home. Agnes is nine centimeters dilated—I need someone now.”

  When I was younger I was often in the room while Grace’s clients delivered. On those days, she jokingly called me her assistant. I may have passed her a towel or held a client’s hand for a while. I may even have whispered a few motivating words. But she’d also had an actual assistant. Someone experienced with childbirth. “I can’t.”

  “Course you can.”

  She ducked back into the room. Despite my reservations, I dropped my bag onto the floor and slowly followed her.

  The woman—Agnes—sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a cream waffle-cotton robe. Her elbows were pressed against her knees and she rocked back and forth, moaning softly. Her husband sat beside her, rubbing her back.

  “This is my daughter,” Grace said. “She’s attended more births than you’ve had hot dinners.”

  I wasn’t so sure. The man was at least thirty. I’d attended about twenty births—fifty, if you included those I’d heard from my bedroom but didn’t see. Unless he’d eaten a lot of cold dinners, Grace’s stats were off.

  “How old is she?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth.

  “Sixteen,” Grace cut in. “And we don’t have a lot of choice, Jeremy. My birth assistant had to leave. We’re just lucky we have an experienced person here to help us. Unless you’d like to transfer Agnes to a hospital?”

  “No,” Agnes said.

  Her husband, Jeremy, turned to her. “Honey—”

  “No hospital! I’m not sick and neither is my baby. Why should we go to the hospital? I want my baby to be born right here in its home, not in some stark, sterile hospital room surrounded by strangers in surgical masks.”

  Agnes’s tone left no room for doubt. I could tell Grace was trying not to look smug. She failed. “Right, then,” she said. “It’s decided. Neva, I have to prepare. Can you stay here with Agnes?”

  She was gone before I could respond.

  Another contraction was upon Agnes, and she curved in on herself again. She was in the advanced stages of labor, clearly, but I’d heard worse. I let her finish the contraction, then spoke.

  “I’m Neva,” I started, feeling self-conscious. I squatted down, bending to see her face. It struck me that she might not be in the best position for this stage of labor. “Are you feeling comfortable there?”

  She sat upright. I didn’t expect, after the strength of her no-hospital declaration, to see anguish on her face. “I’m just … exhausted.”

  “I know,” I said, though I didn’t. I was a fourteen-year-old girl—what did I know about labor? I tried to think of what Grace would say to this woman, but all the options were too airy-fairy for my liking. You are a warrior was one of her catchphrases. Think of your precious little angel, ready to grow its wings. Neither of those things felt like me.

  “Would you like to try standing?” I said. That was one thing my mother had taught me that was based on science, rather than fairy dust and sunshine. Good old gravity. “Your husband and I can take your weight, and you can hug one of us through contractions.”

  I must have got her at the right time, because she seemed happy to get up, and reported that it helped a lot. Strangely, Agnes chose to hug me during contractions, rather than her husband, but I attributed it to height. Her head rested on my shoulder and we got into a good rhythm, pacing and adopting the slow-dance position when the pains came on. With each contraction, her face locked up—but she remained purposeful. She listened to all my suggestions and followed them.

  “Shhh, you’re okay,” I told her, rocking back and forth, working through a contraction with her. “You’re okay.”

  In fact, she was better than okay. I was impressed. Though I didn’t share my mother’s disdain of doctors and hospitals, there was something to admire about a woman’s determination to stick to her guns to have a natural home birth. She was certainly being tested. As I rocked back and forth with her, an unexpected feeling came over me. A feeling that I was an integral part of something.
Something greater than myself.

  “You’re amazing, Agnes.” Even as I spoke, the words sounded like they had come from someone else. “You’re doing it. Soon, the pain will be over, but you’ll have done something extraordinary. I’m very proud of you.”

  It was an odd thing for a teenager to say to a woman in her twenties or thirties. But it just came out. Odder was the fact that she responded to it. She nodded. She believed me.

  By the time Grace returned to the room, Agnes was feeling pressure in her pelvis.

  “Looks like you’re ready to push your baby out, Agnes,” Grace said. “Let’s get you into position.”

  To my surprise, Agnes looked at me. “Is it best to stand while I deliver too?”

  “It’s best to be in whatever position feels right to you,” I said, not missing a beat. I felt Grace staring, but I didn’t break Agnes’s gaze. “So you tell us.”

  She frowned as she thought. “I’d like to squat.”

  When Agnes was in position, squatting over the end of the bed with her husband and me at each side, Grace raised her eyebrows at me. “Go ahead.”

  “Really?” I mouthed.

  Grace nodded. If she had any concerns, she kept them well hidden. It bolstered my confidence. Maybe, just maybe, I could do this. I paused, trying to think what to say. But when Agnes whimpered, the words just came.

  “Try to blow while you push,” I said, kneeling by Grace’s side at Agnes’s feet. “We don’t want the baby to come too fast or it can cause a tear.”

  Agnes did as I said. Grace moved to the side as the baby emerged, and I continued to guide Agnes, drawing on words of support that had obviously been buried deep in my subconscious. By the time the baby boy spilled into my arms, I knew. Women were warriors. And I wanted to be part of it.

  * * *

  Erin lay on the operating table, gripping her husband’s hand. She blinked up at me tearily. “What’s happening?”

  I peeked over the curtain. Sean’s forehead was gently pinched in concentration. Beside him, Marion, a gossipy middle-aged nurse who for some reason I’d taken an instant disliking to upon meeting, stood, suction at the ready. Patrick was in the corner, whispering to Leila, a pediatric nurse, who was chuckling. Everyone was going about their business, and the atmosphere told me everything was well. Still, I knew the patients liked to hear it from the doctor’s mouth.