Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  “Of course. There’s a mirror in our bedroom.”

  When she returned with her lovely dark chestnut hair swept up with the combs, her family could all see she was on the verge of growing up, a child no longer. A thought passed through Isa’s head that it was just as well Margaret was able to fend for herself and her little sister was about to follow suit, because she now needed to prepare for her own child. It felt as if these two dear sisters who she had mothered were ready to fledge: she felt so proud of them, so closely bound up in them, so grateful for them, and so glad they were nearly grown into adulthood just as she was about to become a mother herself.

  As they got ready for bed that night when the others had left, Peter turned to her and said, “Here. This is for you.” It was a small box, wrapped carefully.

  “But I thought you had joined in with the shawl.”

  “No. I wanted to get you something myself and I wanted to give it to you when we were just ourselves. Won’t you open it?”

  Isa removed the lovely patterned paper and opened the box. Cushioned in a cloud of cotton wool was a glass swan. It was cut with many facets which caught the lamplight and created shafts of fractured light as she turned it in her hand.

  “Peter, it’s beautiful. It’s so delicate. Thank you, Mr Swan.” She put her arms around him and kissed him, still holding it in her hand as he laid her on the bed and showered her with hungry kisses.

  *

  On Hogmanay, as the hands of the clock reached midnight, Isa and Peter were sitting quietly with a drink of ginger cordial. The gentle chimes rang out that the new year had arrived. They clinked their glasses together and kissed.

  “This is the best new year, Isa,” Peter said. “To be with you in our own home together expecting our first child.”

  There was a knock at the door. Who was going to be their first foot so quickly?

  Peter went to the door. Tradition said it was unlucky for the first foot over the door at the start of a new year to be that of someone with fair hair. They should be dark. So it was with great relief they discovered Theresa Findlay and her husband Paul on the doorstep. Theresa, with her dark wavy hair, was welcomed first.

  “Here’s yer handsel, Peter, frae us.”

  “Thank ye both. Come away in and sit ye down by the fire. Isa’ll put the kettle on.”

  The Findlays had brought a lump of coal and a round of home-made shortbread, the traditional gifts that symbolised the heartfelt wish of your visitors that you would always have fuel for your fire and enough to eat: life’s essentials. Peter showed them through to the living room and pulled out two dining chairs for himself and Isa, giving the neighbours the two armchairs by the fire.

  Isa brought through a tray laden with her cake and the shortbread, glasses of ginger cordial and the teapot and tea things.

  “Noo then,” said Paul. “First things first. We’ll dae the coal ceremony.”

  They all stood while Paul took the coal he and Theresa had brought and put it on the fire, saying, “A good New Year tae one and a’ and mauny may ye see.”

  Then they raised their glasses and toasted the New Year.

  After they had drunk tea and eaten cake, the Findlays then suggested that Isa and Peter joined them in first footing the rest of the neighbours. Peter fetched a jacket and Isa took her new Christmas shawl around her shoulders and they followed Theresa and Paul to visit Cathy and Joseph across the landing.

  They were warmly received by all their neighbours and it was well into the “wee sma’ hoors” of the morning before they were back in their own bed.

  “What grand neighbours we have here, Isa. Ye know it relieves me so much to think when I’m off on my shift that you have these sensible women friends tae keep an eye on you.”

  “I know, Peter. I’m right glad too. I feel as though they’re good friends already. Cathy has been right helpful on those early days when I was so sick. And I’m glad they’re all mothers themselves. They’ll know what it’s like.”

  Peter felt heart-sorry for his wife not having her own mother to support her. He wished his mother could be more generous and affectionate towards Isa but knew that was not likely. She was not known for her warmth towards anyone outwith the family. Thank goodness there were these other women looking out for his lovely young wife.

  Peter’s older sister, Alice, had offered him the use of her pram, since her family of two were now grown and their family was complete. But Peter was determined there would be nothing second-hand for his child. He and Isa would be buying their own pram. Isa remembered how her mother had just carried her babies in a sling around her chest. But she realised it would be much easier to have a pram and was so proud that her husband was willing and able to provide for his family. It made such a difference to her father’s attitude at times. She looked in the shops to get an idea of prices and worked out how much she would need to save. Peter was giving her a bit extra out of the wages for getting things for the baby and she put some of this each week in an old salt jar she kept in the kitchen.

  Among the poorer families, the baby’s bed was often a drawer from a chest, lined with folded towels or blankets. It was warm, solid and saved the expense of a bed, for a while at least, but Peter would have none of that. His baby was to have a cot.

  By the end of April when the daffodils were out in Dunbeth Park, Isa had the pram, cot, sheets, nappies, little jackets and leggings, bootees and hats all ready for the expected arrival, who was starting to make his or her presence felt. Every time Isa lay down, she would feel the baby kicking and turning inside her, digging in her ribs or pressing on a nerve, which sent shooting pain up her spine and down her leg. She had terrible indigestion and so had begun to eat only light meals, but more frequently throughout the day. At night she would prop herself up with cushions under the pillows to avoid the worst of the burning sensation of acid reflux from her stomach. All perfectly natural, the other women assured her, as they swapped their pregnancy stories.

  A few days later, in the first week of May, a week before her due date, Isa started to feel a deep ache in her lower back and a cramping pain in her abdomen. It made her bend over slightly and stopped her in her tracks. Then it passed. She carried on with her dusting and polishing. Half an hour later the pains came again and she had to pause. By the afternoon, she was tired and decided to lie down. As she dozed, the waves of pain woke her then subsided again. They continued into the night and by morning were coming stronger and closer together.

  As Peter got ready for work he said to Isa, “I’ll let Cathy know and see if she’ll come and sit wi’ ye. I’ll leave the door open so she can let hersel’ in. I’ll phone the midwife when I get tae the office.” He kissed her and wiped the sweat from her brow. “It’ll no’ be long now, lass. I’ll see ye soon.” Off he went. For the brief time before Cathy arrived, Isa lay bathed in sweat, from anxiety as much as pain. This was such a lonely journey. Those who stand with a woman in labour to help her and aid her can encourage and support but they do not do the job. Isa shivered with the immensity of what lay before her and the sense of it being her task. Not Peter’s, but hers alone, as the mother. Self-doubt ran through her mind. Could she do this? Was she strong enough, brave enough? Would the baby live? Would she herself survive? She knew there was no guaranteed answer for any of these questions. It was terrifying.

  She was hit by another wave of pain. When Cathy Quinn arrived after seeing her boys off to school, Isa was moaning, so intense was the clawing at her back and abdomen. The contractions were strong now. Cathy held her hand. “It’s going to be fine, Isa. I’m here now an’ the midwife will be here soon. You relax now. Rest as much as you can in between the contractions. How long have you had them?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “In the evening?”

  “No, the first of them were in the morning. I kept going for a bit. I had to lie down in the afternoon. And then they kept on through the night.”

  Cathy now understood why the poor girl looked so
tired and blanched: that was very nearly twenty-four hours. She hoped the midwife got here soon. She must be well ready now, for here was yet another contraction coming. She herself had had quick labours, intense and short, six hours the longest. It struck her this was going to be hard on Isa.

  There was a knock and the door opened. “Midwife calling,” said the voice. Cathy came into the hallway to greet the familiar face of Effie Robertson, one of the local midwives. “She’s in here, Effie. Tired oot frae bein’ in labour since yesterday,” she told her in a whisper.

  When Effie saw Isa she realised the girl was about at the end of her strength. She ordered Cathy to fetch some broth, if she could, and to skim off the bree for Isa to sip. “We need to keep your strength up, Mrs Swan. Now let’s have a look.” She lifted up the sheet to see how far Isa was dilated. “Nearly there, Mrs Swan, well done. I hear you’ve had a long, hard night but it will all be worth it soon. Baby Swan will soon be in your arms.”

  In fact it took another two hours of hard slog before Isa reached the last stages of labour. She found the pain intense. Was this normal? She did not have the breath to ask. She felt so uncomfortable in the position the midwife had asked her to adopt, sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on two dining chairs. It certainly made it easier for the midwife to see what was going on but Isa had to prop herself on her arms and she felt every contraction boring into the base of her spine.

  At last the midwife announced, “Mrs Swan I can see the head now. On the next contraction we just need your strongest effort yet and Baby will be with us for sure. Ready?”

  Isa pushed with all the strength she could summon and yelled in shock as the midwife, determined to deliver the baby quickly, tugged at its head to ensure its mouth was free, and the whole body emerged. The baby was a girl and a good, healthy colour and was breathing quickly. The cord was cut and Cathy busied herself sponging away the blood and mucus covering the baby’s skin, then wrapped her in the towels and blankets she had warmed by the fire.

  Isa lay back on the pillows and found instant relief from the back pain even as she underwent more contractions to deliver the placenta. Soon it was all over. Effie examined the baby and Cathy washed Isa. They handed her the baby, wrapped in her swaddling. The young mother’s face was lined with exhaustion but she smiled down in disbelief at what she had done. Here was the new life, which she had carried inside her for nine months and now she was lying in her arms: a strong, healthy baby. Thank goodness, for a weaker one might not have lasted the arduously long passage through the birth canal. Isa found she was crying. She wished so hard that her mother had been with her to help her, to see her new grandchild. She felt for all her mother had gone through in giving birth so many times, and that last time so fruitlessly: to have made all that effort, gone through all this pain and to have nothing at the end must have been horrific. Isa understood her mother’s pain and sorrow in a new way.

  The baby was heavy in her arms. She looked tired out too but peaceful, her little fists up close to her face. The midwife was back at the side of the bed. “Now then, Mrs Swan. We’d best get the wee one fed.” She showed her how to open the baby’s mouth by lightly stroking her cheek, how to bring her to the breast and encourage her to latch on and start to suck. The baby knew immediately what was required and sucked strongly. “That’s grand. Ye’ve a strong one there, and no mistake. She’s fairly hungry. Now. That’s my work done really, Mrs Swan. How are you feeling now?”

  “Better. I’m so relieved she’s born and healthy. I just want to sleep.”

  “Once she’s finished sucking that’s what you should do. You’ll need as much rest as possible. Where are ye laying the wee one down?” She looked around the room and saw the brand-new cot.

  The midwife looked thoughtful. “You are so tired, Mrs Swan. To save you getting up and going to the baby we could make up a drawer and place it on the bed beside you. That way you can rest and just lift her out when she needs to feed or is looking for a cuddle.”

  Cathy was summoned and got the drawer ready. Isa realised it made sense. She was not strong enough to get up yet. So the baby was laid in the lined drawer beside her mother. Cathy got Isa to take a proper plate of soup and then quietly returned to her own flat, leaving both doors open so she could hear the baby and be there if Isa needed her help. She did not like the fact that her young neighbour was so exhausted. She would need to watch her. She set to making a fresh pan of broth and an extra-large mutton stew. Peter and Isa could get a share of her family’s meals for the next few days until Isa was on her feet again.

  When Peter came home off his shift it was to be greeted by the wailing of his hungry newborn daughter. He looked down in awe at the tiny hands and fingers and the perfect little face. New feelings of pride filled him.

  “Oh, Isa, I’m so proud of you. Look at her. She’s glorious. I’m so happy.” He leaned in and kissed his wife who was more peaceful now that it was all over. She handed the baby to him.

  “You’re all right now, my lass,” he said to the wee one, as he cradled her in his arms. “Yer wi’ yer daddy and mummy now and we’ll take right good care o’ you.” Isa watched him holding his daughter wrapped in the shawl she’d been given at Christmas by her sisters and was so glad to see him already besotted. The baby lay contentedly in his arms, full from another feed, and drifted off to sleep again.

  Isa, still sore and exhausted, was so thankful for her neighbour’s kindness in leaving a meal for them because she could not move out of the bed. Peter ate his meal in the living room at the place setting Cathy had laid out, while Isa picked at hers on a tray in bed. She felt so different from even the day before. Then she had been an expectant mother, fit and happily tidying her house. Today she had been through a long, arduous labour, a horrific rite of passage, and had emerged on the other side sore, dispirited and feeling distant from everyone in the isolation brought by this experience, which Peter had not shared. He had left before it was really bad and returned when it was all over. How could he ever know what it was to have given life to this child? She looked into the makeshift cot. She was a mother now. No going back. How was she going to cope? Tears fell down her cheeks, hot and salty: they flooded out of her and she made no effort to wipe them away.

  Over the next few days they were inundated with visitors. No one stayed too long, just enough to reassure themselves mother and baby were thriving. There were all the neighbours, some bearing gifts of food for them and little bootees or knitted jackets for the baby. Her father and sisters came and were delighted to hold the wee one and to shower Isa with their gifts. Peter’s parents and family all called, although his parents still kept their distance and took minimal interest in their latest grandchild.

  All were anxious to know the baby’s name but neither she nor Peter had given this much thought. Now they would have to get organised for registering the birth. When she did turn her mind to the subject, Isa suddenly knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to name her new baby daughter after her mother, whose given name had been Margaret, despite being called Mary at home. Since she, Chrissie and her father often called her sister Maggie, she did not think having two Margarets in the family would be a problem.

  When she suggested it to Peter, he had no issue with it, and he was quite happy to give her the middle names of Murray, which had come down Isa’s mother’s side of the family, and her own maiden name of Dick. It was good to include these names, he thought. Isa was relieved and seemed to find it easier to hold the baby now she had a name.

  Those first few days passed in a blur of feeding, changing nappies and sleeping. When Margaret slept so did she. Her back still ached but she found it easier to get up out of bed when she needed to. Then, ten days after the birth, she decided to get up, wash and dress. She was going to get back to normal. She discovered moving around actually helped the pain in her back and she busied herself with some housework and cooking while Margaret slept. She thought she might take her for a walk in the pram in the afternoon if
it stayed fine. After she had fed Margaret and had her own lunch she got the pram ready, checked Margaret was safe in the drawer bed and started to bump the pram downstairs. Cathy heard the noise and came out to give her a hand. While Cathy kept an eye on the pram down on the street, Isa went to fetch the baby and carefully carried her downstairs. She felt such a surge of pride as she pushed the pram with her baby daughter along the street. Cathy walked beside her and saw Isa aglow with the pride of new motherhood.

  “This is such a precious time in your life, Isa,” she said. “You make sure you enjoy every minute because they grow up so fast – their babyhood is over in a flash. You have done so well. That was no easy birth and yet here you are out on the street again. Lesser women would have had everyone running after them hand and foot for ages.”

  Aye, thought Isa to herself. But I’ve no mother to do that for me. I just have to get on with it myself. Before she let her guard down and started crying she quickly changed the subject to ask about Cathy’s boys. Isa certainly felt very emotional. They said that was part of the effects of giving birth. She would be glad when she got her composure back.

  17

  The May blossom was past and the trees in the park were once again in leaf, their fresh greens a wonderful backdrop for the summer bedding in all its red and gold. Life had taken on a new routine for Isa. She was enjoying motherhood and felt more on top of things again. Peter was attentive to Margaret when he came home and this allowed Isa a little rest if needed, or more time to cook or tidy up. In the late afternoon, Chrissie and Margaret came through by train on Margaret’s afternoon off. That summer meant change ahead for them too. Margaret had big plans.

  “I saw this advert, Isa. The Salvation Army is helping people emigrate to Canada or Australia. They keep an eye on you on the voyage and then when you arrive you report to a Salvation Army office and they organise accommodation and help you find work . . .”