by Nancy Carson
By the dog cart’s dim lights he discerned the house in Silver End that he was seeking. He stepped down and rapped on the front door. Eventually, Ada Hackett, awakened from her slumbers and indignant, raised the sash and poked her head out of her bedroom window.
‘Gimme five minutes to get me stays on,’ Mrs Hackett responded to Clarence’s appeals.
The midwife eventually appeared from the obscure innards of a side entry carrying a bag. Clarence assisted her up onto the dog cart and whisked her off into the night’s blackness. As they set off, the low cloud bloomed with an orange radiance as a locomotive at the Earl’s ironworks, its solitary wagon awash with molten slag, tipped its white-hot load, rendering the glow visible way beyond the town.
Eventually they turned into the drive of The Larches after a sparse and stilted conversation.
‘By Jiminy,’ Mrs Hackett exclaimed. ‘This looks a fine house and no mistek. ’An yer lived ’ere long, yer say?’
‘We moved in earlier today – or, rather, yesterday.’
‘Well, talk about cuttin’ it fine.’
‘I think the trauma and hard work of moving house has brought my wife on early,’ Clarence replied. ‘I’ll take you straight to her.’ He led her into the house. ‘The maid has been told to light fires and heat up plenty of water,’ he declared as Ada Hackett followed him up the stairs.
He opened the bedroom door and allowed Mrs Hackett to enter before him.
‘Hello, Mrs Hackett,’ Harriet groaned. ‘I’m so sorry to drag you out of your warm bed at this time of night. But thank you for coming so promptly.’
‘Oh, I’m used to it,’ the midwife replied and put down her bag. ‘Pains a-comin’ reg’lar?’
‘About every twenty minutes.’
‘’As thy water broke?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Right. Let’s have a look at thee.’ The midwife pulled back the bedclothes. She turned to Clarence. ‘Thee can be off now, young masher. This is women’s business.’ She waved him away abruptly. ‘Now then…’ She turned to Harriet when Clarence had gone and closed the door behind him. ‘Let’s ’ave yer shift up, eh?’
Harriet raised her bottom and pulled up her nightgown unceremoniously.
Ada kneaded and prodded Harriet’s naked belly, looking pensive. ‘This babby ain’t turned or I’m on a monkey parade. When did thee last see the doctor?’
‘I haven’t actually seen a doctor,’ Harriet replied. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she said, ‘No, that’s not strictly true. My father-in-law is a doctor – Dr Froggatt – you might know him. It was he who suggested we engage you for my laying-in.’
‘Oh, I know Dr Froggatt all right.’
‘He’s been aware of my pregnancy, of course, and he’s given me lots of good advice, etcetera. He knows I’ve felt well all along. There seemed no need for any examination. Besides, I’m not due for about another fortnight 0-yet.’
‘Well, prepare theeself for an ’ard night tonight and an ’ard day tomorrer, my flower. We’n got weselves a breeched birth here, unless I can turn the poor little soul. Still, you’m a fit-looking young madam by the looks o’ thee. I daresay you’ll be all right.’
* * *
The next day proved to be just as hard as Ada Hackett promised. All day, Clarence alternated between chairs in various downstairs rooms listening to Harriet’s agonised yells and groans. There were times when he clasped his hands over his ears but he could not help but hear. Mrs Hackett and Sadie between them must be able to do something to relieve the excruciating spasms Harriet was enduring, he mused. Surely no woman need suffer to this extent, breeched birth or not. Sadie appeared from time to time on various missions, among which she brewed pots of tea, and generally offered him a cup, before scurrying back upstairs with a loaded tray.
The summer sun shifted slowly round to the other side of the house as the day dragged on. Harriet’s anguished cries were becoming noticeably weaker by the hour. By six o’clock in the late afternoon, she was still in labour – and drained of all her strength.
Ada Hackett appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair bedraggled, her face glistening with sweat, her expression grave.
‘Young masher,’ she called, and called again.
Clarence, anxious, haggard and unshaven, appeared at the bottom of the staircase and looked up expectantly at the midwife.
‘Is she all right, Mrs Hackett?’
‘No, ’er ain’t. Yo’d best fetch Dr Froggatt,’ she said. ‘This is a big child and ’er ain’t that big a woman. ’Er’s just about done for with all the pushing and a-shoving. I want Dr Froggatt here. ’E’s thy fairther, ’er says.’
‘He is, Mrs Hackett. I’ll fetch him straight away.’
‘Tell ’im it’s Ada Hackett what’s on the job. Tell him the babby’s in a breeched position and we’m gerrin’ nowheer. Then ’e’ll know what to expect.’
‘I will, Mrs Hackett.’
Clarence hurriedly pulled on a jacket. Like a hare sprung from a trap he dashed to the stables, readied the horse hastily again and off he set. At a frantic pace, risking life and limb, he made the journey to his father’s house in a little over fifteen minutes. He burst through the door like a cyclone, to his mother’s chagrin, for they sat at the dining table, eating.
‘Oh, do come in like yourself, Clarence,’ his mother chided, putting down her knife and fork as a gesture of her disapproval.
‘Forgive me, Mother,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘Father…’ He looked earnestly at the doctor and swallowed hard. ‘Father, Harriet is in labour – has been since about one o’clock this morning. Mrs Hackett, the midwife, says the baby’s in a breeched position and they’re getting nowhere. Poor Harriet’s exhausted and suffering so much. I’m really concerned for her and the baby. Will you come – at once? Please?’
Dr Froggatt put down his cutlery, pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth on his dinner napkin. ‘Very well, Son. Exhausted and suffering, you say? Let me get my bag and the things I’m likely to need.’ He got up from his chair and hastened to his surgery.
‘Lucky you’d got the dog cart, Clarence,’ his mother commented. ‘Your dear father hasn’t been able to go on his rounds today because of it.’
‘I’m very sorry about that, Mother, and I hope nobody’s suffered too much as a result, but maybe it’s just as well in the circumstances.’
‘Well, I’m sure your father will be able to influence a successful outcome for you both. I’m sure he’s attended many difficult births. And do give Harriet my fondest wishes and hopes for a safe delivery.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’
The doctor returned to the dining room with his obstetric bag of tricks and announced that he was ready. His wife was not to wait up for him, he told her, as breeched births were often prolonged. They left, and Clarence drove the dog cart back to Kingswinford almost as heedlessly as on his way to Brierley Hill.
‘You’re putting the fear of God into me, Clarence,’ Dr Froggatt hailed grimly over the rumble of the wheels, the creaking of leather and the wind rushing past furiously.
‘And I thought you didn’t believe in God,’ Clarence riposted.
‘Whether I do or not, for God’s sake, slow down. A couple of minutes won’t make any difference.’
They arrived at The Larches. As he stepped down from the dog cart, the doctor remarked how thankful he was that they had arrived in one piece, before remarking what a fine house they’d got here.
They entered the fine house, rushed upstairs, and Clarence tapped on the bedroom door.
‘My father’s here,’ he proclaimed.
‘I’ll go straight in, Clarence.’ Dr Froggatt opened the door, turned to Clarence, and added, as he barred the way, ‘We’ll keep you posted on our progress, my boy. Now don’t worry. Meanwhile, if you have some whisky in the house…’
‘Somewhere,’ he replied.
The doctor took one look at Harriet, pale, drawn, tormented, hair bedraggled, bearing a sheen of s
weat, and manifestly suffering. He doffed his jacket, loosened his necktie and set to work.
‘How long has she been in labour, Mrs Hackett?’ he asked quietly, turning away from Harriet.
‘Too long, doctor. They fetched me about two this mornin’, and they said as the poor wench ’ad bin in labour an hour or two afore that.’
‘Well, I can appreciate your difficulties, Mrs Hackett.’ Dr Froggatt opened his bag. ‘She’s in some distress,’ he murmured.
Meanwhile, Harriet squirmed, her hands raised behind her, her knuckles white as she gripped the brass bedrail in her anguish.
‘Harriet,’ he said softly, ‘I’m going to inject you.’ He took out a hypodermic syringe and charged it. ‘This will have the effect of reducing the pain and induce what we call a twilight sleep. You’ll feel very little pain once it takes effect…’
‘Oh, I do hope so. What is it?’ Harriet asked. ‘Will it harm the baby?’
‘A concoction of morphine and scopolamine. It will ease the baby’s suffering as well a little. You’ll thank me for it tomorrow.’
They heard a hesitant tapping on the door and, while the doctor injected Harriet, Mrs Hackett scuttled over to answer it. Clarence stood there forlornly bearing two glasses of whisky, which he handed over. ‘God bless thee, young masher,’ she said, and closed the door again.
Already, Harriet’s distress seemed visibly lessened.
‘Very well, Mrs Hackett,’ the doctor said to the midwife, and took a slurp of whisky. ‘Let’s get to work.’
* * *
Harriet’s son was born at a quarter to nine on the evening of the 8th of July. The child weighed nine pounds seven ounces but was weak and bruised from the trauma of a prolonged and complicated birth. Harriet suffered more than the child, however. The afterbirth failed to follow and, when it was artificially removed, she began to haemorrhage. Dr Froggatt, however, working diligently in failing light, believed he had eventually staunched the bleeding. Afterwards he left Harriet to the mercies of Mrs Hackett and Sadie, with instructions to change the sheets. He then descended the stairs to speak to Clarence.
‘I’ll be frank, my boy,’ he began, his expression grave. ‘I’ll be very surprised if this child, my grandson, survives.’
‘God, no,’ Clarence responded despondently. ‘Has all the suffering poor Harriet has endured been for nothing?’
‘Let us hope not. Let’s not give up hope…I know a woman who’ll do nicely as a wet nurse – Mrs Hopkins. I think you should get her. She could feed the child, just in case it does survive. We have to give the poor little mite a sporting chance.’
‘Why can’t Harriet feed the baby, Father?’
‘Because Harriet is in no fit state. She needs to rest. She needs a long rest. She has been haemorrhaging badly, but I believe I’ve stemmed it. Now I suggest you drive me home, and on the way we can tell this Mrs Hopkins your son needs her as a wet nurse. She won’t cost you a fortune. On the way back, you can collect her and bring her here. Tomorrow morning, come and let me know how Harriet and the baby are, and if you deem it advisable I’ll come back.’
As luck would have it, Mrs Hopkins was not only available but also amenable, swayed somewhat by the extravagant fee Clarence was evidently prepared to pay. So he took her to The Larches, and introduced her to his newborn son. However, when Mrs Hopkins offered her breast, the baby was uninterested.
‘Poor little soul,’ she commented with clear compassion. ‘He ain’t got the strength to suck.’
* * *
That night, after he had been to see Harriet and to speak with her, Clarence deferred to her condition and left her to sleep alone. Next morning, when he awoke in one of the other bedrooms, he immediately made his way to her. Remembering what his father had said about her haemorrhaging, he gently lifted the bedclothes to ascertain whether there was any sign that his stemming it had not succeeded. To his horror, he saw a huge stain of blood that was creeping along the sheet beneath her, and leeching into her nightgown.
He ran downstairs. Sadie was in the kitchen lighting a fire in the range.
‘Listen, Sadie, my wife is haemorrhaging again. I’m going to fetch my father just as soon as I’m dressed. When we get back we shall want to see how the baby is, so make sure Mrs Hopkins is up. I’ll be gone about a half hour.’
‘Very good, sir.’
When Dr Froggatt returned he was at first surprised to find the baby still alive. Harriet, however, was still very poorly and weak from loss of blood. He endeavoured again to curb the bleeding and for the entire day stayed with her, watching. By evening, she showed no signs of improvement. If anything, she seemed worse, and the bed, that had been given another set of clean sheets and blankets, was again a mess of blood. The amount of bleeding by this time alarmed him.
Dr Froggatt left the bedside and sought Clarence, leaving Sadie to watch over Harriet and cool her brow with a damp cloth.
‘My boy, I’m sorry to say I’m unable to stop this haemorrhaging. Ideally, Harriet should be in the Guest Hospital in Dudley, but I fear she’s too weak to move. I’ll continue to do what I can, however.’
‘So what’s the problem, Father?’ Clarence enquired. ‘Why on earth is she still bleeding?’
‘Lacerations of the uterus, my boy. However, I must try and reduce the bleeding so she might recover enough for us to get her to the hospital. There’s also a serious risk of infection, of course.’
‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘Clarence, I can’t say with any certainty,’ he answered frankly. ‘But you may rest assured that I am doing my utmost.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed, half under his breath. ‘If I’d known how having a child might affect her…The trauma…’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Son. You have no control over nature, and nor do I. Leave me with her now…’
‘And we had such grand plans of having lots of children. If this is anything to go by…’
The doctor, with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, left Clarence and returned to Harriet. Clarence was in turmoil. What if the worst happened to Harriet? What if she died through having his child? He would never be able to forgive himself for deciding to start a family so soon in their married life.
He sought Mrs Hopkins in the scullery. He simply needed to talk to somebody. Just talking might help take his mind off things.
‘How’s the baby, Mrs Hopkins?’ he enquired.
‘No different, Mr Froggatt,’ she replied. ‘He’s in his crib sleeping, look.’
‘Has he taken any milk?’
‘He took no feed when I tried him, but he vomited. All the rubbish he swallowed being born, I suppose.’
He asked her about her own child and received a potted history of her family.
‘So what if your own child gets hungry and you’re not there?’ he asked.
‘My sister will feed her. She’s got a bab of her own.’
‘I see.’
‘How’s Mrs Froggatt, anyway?’
‘Very poorly, Mrs Hopkins. My father’s still trying to do something for her.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be all right.’
‘Yes, I hope so.’
‘The doctor’s doing all he can, eh? It must be handy at a time like this to have a doctor in the family,’ she suggested.
‘But it doesn’t stop you worrying, Mrs Hopkins.’
Mrs Hopkins smiled sympathetically. ‘No, I s’pose not. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Tea? Yes, I would, as a matter of fact. A cup of tea would be very welcome.’
‘I’ll make one. I think your Sadie has got enough to do right now helping the doctor.’
While Mrs Hopkins made tea, the doctor called down to Clarence, who obligingly climbed the stairs to meet him.
‘How is she, Father?’
‘Comfortable for now, Son, but I want you to have her sheets changed again when I’ve gone.’
‘We must be running out of clean sheets,’ Clarence speculated.
Clarence nodded. ‘Sadie will know what to do.’
‘Give Harriet plenty of boiled water to drink, or lemonade. Try and get her to eat something if she’ll have it. How’s the wet nurse doing?’
‘She’s doing all she can, but the baby hasn’t fed yet.’
‘While I’m here I’d best look at the child.’ Dr Froggatt smiled reassuringly. ‘Have you decided what to call him?’
‘For a boy, we’d thought of George.’
‘A fine name.’ He smiled paternally. ‘We’ve had enough kings called George to make it perfectly acceptable.’
Together they went downstairs to the kitchen. Dr Froggatt enquired whether the baby had taken any food and Mrs Hopkins told the doctor what she’d already told Clarence.
‘Hmm,’ murmured the doctor. He examined the child again. ‘Well, I hope to goodness we rear him, Clarence. But it’s touch-and-go.’ He took Clarence’s arm gently. ‘Step into the hall with me, Clarence…’ They stepped into the hall. ‘Tell me, have you let your wife’s family know the situation?’
‘Not yet, Father. There’s been no time.’
‘I know it’s been difficult. But Harriet is seriously ill, as well as the baby. I think you should solicit their help, you know. You’re going to need it, my boy. Forewarn them that all is not well. I’ve done all I can again to stop the bleeding. How successful it is we shan’t know till morning. While the women tend to her and the child, I suggest you go and see her family. Fetch me again first thing in the morning…’
* * *
Clarence’s visit and his apparent anxiety caused instant concern in the Meese household. Four of the sisters were at school, so could not be made aware of Harriet’s condition. Emily, the next sister down from Harriet, was working in the shop with Eli, her father, and their unease at hearing the news was palpable, but they could not leave the shop at such a busy time. Thus, it fell to Harriet’s mother, Mary Meese, to accompany Clarence. In their mutual anxiety, Mary and Clarence hurried through Brierley Hill on the dog cart, rushing to be with Harriet. Once at The Larches, Clarence left Mary in the bedroom watching over her second daughter like a guardian angel, with tears in her eyes, while Clarence sought Mrs Hopkins and his child. Mary stroked Harriet’s face gently with the backs of her fingers. Her skin felt clammy, yet cold. Never had she seen her daughter looking so pale and drawn.