Sue Phillips was chatting with Anne Grainger and Jo Hunter about her plans for the summer holiday, while Ruby was telling Vera about the party she had arranged for tomorrow afternoon to celebrate the first birthday of her granddaughter. In cross-stitch class Ruby had made a beautiful canvas place mat with the name ‘Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle’ neatly embroidered across the centre.
‘It’s beautiful, Ruby,’ said Vera.
‘An’ ah made this f’you, Mrs F,’ said Ruby, who had finally adopted a shortened version of Vera’s married name. For Ruby, the progression from Miss E to Mrs F had a certain alphabetical consistency. ‘Jus’ t’say thank you for everything you’ve done f’me since t’accident. It’s almost a year to t’day.’ Ruby handed over a small piece of white cloth set in a small white picture frame. In neat stitches was the single word ‘FRIENDSHIP’.
Vera looked close to tears and gave Ruby a hug. ‘My dear Ruby, I’ll treasure it for the rest of my life’ … and, of course, she did.
The squeaking wheels of the kitchen trolley and the rattle of cups and saucers announced the arrival of Shirley and Doreen with the Baby Burco boiler steaming away merrily. Sally and Jo had arranged a wonderful buffet on two of the dining tables and, as usual, the centrepiece was a large plateful of Vera’s incomparable scones, competing for attention alongside another of Doreen Critchley’s formidable apple tarts.
It was a happy occasion, relaxed and carefree. Another year had gone by and we had all moved on with our lives. Eventually everyone drifted off in twos and threes, and Beth went out to the car to wait for me there. Finally, Anne and I did our usual routine of checking windows and doors and I locked away the school logbook in my desk for another year. I turned the key in the giant entrance door and Anne and I looked at each other. ‘Well, Jack, we’ve survived another year,’ she said with a tired smile.
‘Thanks for everything, Anne,’ I said.
‘I do enjoy working with you, Jack,’ she said pensively, ‘but for the first time I’m beginning to feel tired … really tired.’ She sighed. ‘And when this new curriculum starts, as it surely must now, I’m not sure I’ll cope. Education is changing.’
‘That’s for another day,’ I said. ‘Go and enjoy a well-earned break and we’ll all come back refreshed in September.’
Anne looked across the car park and waved at Beth. ‘In the meantime, Jack, you need to get Beth home. She needs a rest more than I do … and good luck,’ and she kissed me on the cheek. Moments later we both drove out of school and left the academic year 1982/83 behind us.
Saturday morning dawned heavy and oppressive. A dull purple haze etched the unfocused line where the sky met the distant hills. Beneath the iron-grey clouds lay the troubled land and the fields shimmered in the haze.
Beth’s spirits seemed to lift as the day wore on and we both did a little more work in the newly decorated nursery. There was a little cot, a present from Beth’s parents, a freshly painted bookcase and a bright new sofa. ‘Let’s go into York,’ said Beth after lunch. ‘We need a few more baby things.’
I smiled. Our home had been transformed into a warehouse of nappies, vests and tiny white bootees, but I guessed there was always room for a few more. In the hallway we skirted round a shiny new pram, a gift from my mother, picked up a shopping basket and drove into York, where we parked in Goodramgate.
We were in Marks & Spencer’s in Parliament Street when Beth suddenly said, ‘Jack, I need the loo.’ The sign at the foot of the escalator indicated there was one on the first floor. By the time we got there, Beth was panting heavily. The notice on the door read: ‘toilet out of order, please use floor below’. ‘Oh dear,’ said Beth with a taut smile. ‘I may have to take that literally, Jack, if we don’t get a move on,’ but I could see she was in discomfort.
It was as we came down the stairs that it all happened.
‘Oh, Jack … Jack!’ Beth suddenly leant forward and I thought she was going to topple over. I grabbed her round the waist and we hurried through a staring crowd.
A helpful lady appeared at our side. ‘Let me help,’ she said and led us towards a chair next to the information desk.
Beth gripped my hand. ‘Jack, I think we ought to go to Fulton … now.’
The young woman behind the counter summed up the situation quickly as we hurried out.
‘I’ll ring them to say you’re on your way,’ she shouted after us.
As I drove out towards Fulton Hospital, the skies darkened and there was a rumble of thunder. It was the sound of the oncoming storm and, over the distant hills, dark heavy cumulus clouds had spread dragons’ wings over the horizon. Heaven’s marching forces were coming and we were its battlefield. I put my foot down and coaxed my Morris Minor Traveller to go a little faster. The weather was closing in like a mighty maelstrom and we raced ahead of the raging clouds. The hospital gates appeared and I breathed a sigh of relief. As we pulled up outside the entrance the first splashes of rain hit the windscreen, large droplets, precursors of the fury to come. Beth was strangely quiet as we stepped out into the humid vortex of the gathering darkness, into the stillness before the storm.
She squeezed my hand and whispered, ‘Oh, Jack … stay with me.’ It worried me to see her so pale; gone was the vitality I knew so well. She was poised on the edge of change, between excitement and sheer exhaustion. Her green eyes were bright with expectation and she breathed deeply, summoning inner strength.
Fulton Maternity Hospital had seen better days. It was an old Victorian building dominated by a large chimney and had once been an army camp. It was about to be replaced by a new maternity wing at York Hospital, but, in spite of its crumbling walls, the doctors and nurses brought life and hope and high professionalism to their caring role. Two nurses in starched white aprons met us on the steps and spoke quickly to Beth in hushed tones: they were calm and efficient, no wasted words. A minute later, Beth, on a trolley bed, was being whisked through the entrance hall, down a corridor with cream-and-green walls and past a large sign that read delivery rooms. I hurried along behind, feeling helpless.
An experienced midwife in a turquoise-blue uniform with a wide, dark-blue belt ushered me outside into the corridor. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said quietly, ‘there’s nothing you can do here for the present. Your wife is asking for her overnight bag, so why don’t you go home for that and we’ll talk again when you return. Nothing will happen for a good while yet.’ She sounded reassuring and my heartbeat began to slow again. An auxiliary nurse was standing beside us hanging on every word. ‘Jean here will take you back to the entrance.’
I nodded, although I didn’t want to leave Beth. ‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Outside the heavens had opened and rained lashed down. The return journey to Kirkby Steepleton was both difficult and dangerous and I was relieved that Beth was safe in hospital. When I returned later I was offered tea and sandwiches and asked to sit in a small waiting room off the main corridor. I wanted to be with Beth, but for some reason they were keeping me at arm’s length. I telephoned Beth’s parents and they asked if I could ring the moment I had any news.
Time ticked by and in the early hours of Sunday morning I peered through the window. On this stormy night the secret land was bound in shadow; only the creatures of the woodland moved with effortless ease. Eventually the rain stopped and the pre-dawn touched the fields with ghostly fingers of grey light. I looked up, attracted by a sound. A metronomic click of heels on the polished tiled floor echoed down the corridor.
A doctor arrived, smart in a collar and tie and casual brown cord trousers. His white coat flapped carelessly as he strode towards me and his stethoscope bounced against his chest. It was a purposeful walk and, to my surprise, he paused and took my arm. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘perhaps we can have a word.’ He was about my age, tall with a square jaw and grey eyes. He beckoned me towards one of the chairs. ‘Please,’ he said quietly, ‘do sit down. I’m here to tell you not to wo
rry but, for the time being, we would like you to wait here.’
‘Is everything … all right?’ I asked.
His gaze was steady and unwavering and there was a deafening silence as he appeared to search for the right words. ‘Just a few complications,’ he said quietly, ‘but nothing to worry about.’
‘Complications?’ I said.
‘Yes, but nothing we can’t handle.’
I looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. He appeared fond of the double negative, but he also seemed perfectly calm and utterly competent.
‘I’d like to be with my wife,’ I said.
‘I understand, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘but that might not be helpful right now.’ The knot in my stomach tightened. He stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘The baby was in the breech position and we’re concerned about foetal distress, so Mrs Sheffield is now in theatre. We need to do a Caesarean section,’ he said. ‘So please wait here and we’ll let you know very soon.’
Back in the operating theatre the midwife, plus a student midwife along with an obstetrician and the duty anaesthetist, had moved smoothly into action. It felt like the longest night of my life, but finally the midwife arrived. She smiled and sat down next to me. ‘Congratulations, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘your wife is in recovery and you have a son. We think the baby will be OK, but we need to monitor his progress very carefully and he will be in an incubator for the next few hours.’
I could barely breathe, never mind reply. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, ‘thank you … can I see my wife?’
‘Yes, if you’ll come with me and then we’ll arrange for both of you to see the baby later.’
Beth was in bed looking tired but happy.
‘I love you,’ I whispered in her ear.
‘Jack … I love you … and we have a son.’
I held her hand and kissed her gently. ‘He’ll be fine,’ I said, ‘the midwife explained … apparently this is normal procedure after a difficult birth.’
Time passed by and we talked quietly about our hopes and fears, but at last the midwife and a smiling student nurse helped Beth into a wheelchair and we were taken into another room. Our baby was in an incubator, lying on his back on a cellular blanket. He had been washed clean and wore a little nappy, and the tag on his wrist showed he weighed 8lb 2oz.
Beth looked at our son with the pride of a mother. He had big, innocent eyes, fair hair, little fingers and toes … a tiny scrap of humanity … he was perfect.
Then Beth put her hand through the sleeve fixed in the side of the incubator and gently touched his face and stroked each tiny hand. I fixed the scene in my mind, never to be forgotten. The past year had changed us all; this was the end of one journey and the start of a new one.
It felt like an age, but eventually Beth looked at me and said, ‘Your turn.’
I reached in and pushed my arm through the sleeve.
Then came the moment: my son reached out and gripped my finger. It was the birth of an unbreakable bond, the beginning of a life shared.
Life really was an education.
And in a heartbeat, my world seemed complete.
About the Author
Jack Sheffield was born in 1945 and grew up in the tough environment of Gipton Estate, in North East Leeds. After a job as a ‘pitch boy’, repairing roofs, he became a Corona Pop Man before going to St John’s College, York, and training to be a teacher. In the late 70s and 80s, he was a headteacher of two schools in North Yorkshire before becoming Senior Lecturer in primary education at Bretton Hall near Wakefield. It was at this time he began to record his many amusing stories of village life. He lives in York and Hampshire.
Visit his website at www.jacksheffield.com
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First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Jack Sheffield 2012
Jack Sheffield has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781409030126
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