Isa and Peter were both determined there would be no abortion. When they told the family, Margaret left work immediately to stay with Isa. She saw her sister was utterly dispirited and tried everything she could to cheer her again. She got out the best bed linen and made up the bed. She got Isa into one of her prettiest nightdresses and combed her hair. She picked flowers in the woods and filled jars and vases everywhere. She dusted and polished everything until it shone. She looked up Isa’s cookery books and her old notes from her time in service, finding recipes for invalid cooking: poached fish in parsley sauce, steamed chicken and spinach, tasty soups and milk puddings. With the rest, company and good food, Isa began to revive. Margaret discovered she really liked looking after someone. Being a housemaid was all right, but caring for someone was more rewarding. She could see her older sister reviving under her care and it felt very good.
In a few weeks, Isa was on her feet again but Margaret did all the work in the house and looked after her little niece. Isa saved her energy for walks on sunny afternoons through the autumn leaves in the park. She was glad to be better again, but still rested most of the day. By the end of October, she felt well enough to do some cooking, and at this point she told Margaret to head back to work. Jeannie had said they could do with her back as soon as she was able and Isa felt ready to take on most of her duties again. Her sister made her promise to do no cleaning, to leave that to her, and she would come on her afternoon off.
So Isa and her daughter settled in to a new routine of resting together in the middle of the morning and again in the afternoon. Sometimes Isa would read to her while they lay on the bed, but sometimes she would sing Margaret to sleep and then fall asleep herself.
Then one morning, late in November, Peter was getting ready for an early shift and came through to the bedroom to find his wife panting and clutching her abdomen.
“Peter, I think I’ve gone into labour.”
This was a bit earlier than expected. Since his wife had never given him the details of the experience of Margaret’s birth, and he had not been there when it was getting tough, Peter headed off quite cheerily, saying he would telephone for a midwife from the office phone. Then he closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs.
Little Margaret had woken up and came through to her mother’s bedroom sleepily.
“Up, Mummy,” she said. “Up, up.” Her little hands grasped at the bedclothes as she tried to clamber up on to the bed. Normally her mother or father would have stretched out to pick her up by now and draw their delightful eighteen-month-old baby girl into their arms. This morning, though, all her mother could do was groan.
“Margaret, go and get teddy and some books and bring them through beside me.”
Off Margaret went to her bed, returning with her teddy and some cloth picture books. Now her mother reached down and helped her clamber on to the bed. Isa got her settled behind her, surrounded by some cushions. It was all she could think of managing at this point. Perhaps when there was a bigger gap between contractions she could go and get a neighbour.
“Aghhh!” she groaned, as the pains gripped her and the urge to push overwhelmed her. Surely the baby was not going to be born so soon. Last time the contractions had gone on for over a day before the final stage came. But what she was feeling now was definitely the urge to bring forth her child. What choice did she have? She got herself into the birthing position, knees up, feet close to her hips, leaning back on the pillows. She gritted her teeth in her shut mouth to stifle her moans. She could not give rip to her cries with her baby daughter on the bed beside her.
Again the contractions gripped her body and she let herself push as she wanted. Then she lay back exhausted on the pillows. When she had recovered her breath, she sang to Margaret. “Rock a bye baby on a treetop.”
That was as far as she got before she was overcome by another wave of contractions. Little Margaret’s piping voice hummed in the background and was something for Isa to hold on to in the dazed state that she was now in, all her effort concentrated on birthing this new child into the world.
“Aghhh! ” At last she felt it pass from her, aware of the emptiness in her and of the slipperiness between her legs. She let her knees sink down on the bed splayed apart and looked down at the bloodied body on the sheet. She bit the cord and took the baby up to her chest. The little mite was already making tiny cries, not the strong, loud cries her sister had made on her entrance into the world, but tiny weak sounds. All the same, it was proof that her lungs were working. Now she needed to suck and feed and stimulate Isa’s milk, so she was brought to the breast and made a few gentle tugs before falling asleep. Isa covered her with the top sheet on the bed and then covered herself up with the blankets.
Beside her, sheltered by the cushions, Margaret babbled away, oblivious to what had taken place in such proximity. Somehow her mother had managed to protect her from the strangeness of it all, and in looking after her, Isa had protected herself from the horror of the situation. She had given birth alone, with her tiny daughter on the bed beside her. Who would have planned such a thing, allowed such a thing? Why had her husband walked out of that door so easily this morning and left her in this situation? Why had they stupidly let her sister Margaret go back to work when she could have been here with her? She sank on to the pillows exhausted, wanting so desperately to cry but not allowing herself to do this in front of Margaret.
“Cooee. Midwife calling.” Isa heard the front door opening and footsteps in the hall.
“I’m in here,” she called weakly.
“Oh, Mrs Swan. I’m too late. How are you my dear?” The woman was shocked at the state of the new mother. Her face had the unhealthy pallor of ash, her hair was wetly plastered to her head and every part of her exposed skin was slick with sweat. Still, she quickly recovered herself to reassure her patient. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for the birth. You must have been so quick. Let’s have a look at Baby and then we’ll check all’s well with you too.”
Isa was so relieved to have another person there with her, she felt herself relax for the first time in hours.
“My daughter. She was in the bed beside me. I should ask my neighbour to mind her for me.”
Then the midwife saw the clever but makeshift arrangement this poor mother had made to protect her toddler while keeping an eye on her during her labour. She was overcome with compassion and respect for her.
“I think I shall go and fetch her right now. Across the landing is it?”
Isa nodded. Within seconds, Cathy was in the flat, whisking Margaret into her arms and showing her to her new baby sister.
“See, Margaret, here’s your new baby sister. Look how she’s sleeping nicely. Why don’t we go through to my house for some cake?”
Cathy squeezed Isa’s hand. “You are an amazing woman, Isa Swan. You rest. When the midwife goes, tell her to knock on the door and I’ll be right back.”
Isa thanked her and smiled wanly from the bed. It had all been so quick she could hardly believe what had happened to her. The midwife helped with the delivery of the placenta and checked the cord. All was well. The new baby was not strong but then she herself had not been well. Hopefully they would both gain in strength now. She was just so glad it was over, too exhausted now to cry. The next hours were hazy as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She was vaguely aware of some panic around her, but she knew the midwife and Cathy were there and they would have to sort it all out, for she certainly could not help them.
What had transpired was the midwife could not stop the bleeding after the birth. Isa had haemorrhaged. She lost a lot of blood before the doctor managed to get it stopped using an injection of ergot. He wished he had been called sooner, so that he could have administered the injection prior to birth, which might have prevented the haemorrhage altogether. He was very concerned for his patient, considering how poorly she had been previously.
“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Mrs Swan,” he told her. “You get t
hat sister of yours back to look after you. I don’t want you moving around for ten days at least. You’ve to get your strength up. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll be in to see you tomorrow.”
When Peter was sent for, he hurried home, expecting to find his wife all wreathed in smiles holding his son in her arms, as he had been imagining throughout the months of Isa’s pregnancy. Instead he was met with Isa’s abject weakness and another baby daughter.
“Another girl!” he exclaimed in disgust. He did not look at the baby properly, nor did he come closer to see his wife. There were no tender words of comfort or joy. He simply turned on his heels and left. He grabbed his coat and hat again, and left to walk off his deep disappointment.
Why had he boasted so much about his virility, and of his future fathering of sons? How would he hold his head up now with the men at work, or with his brothers? He would be made to feel a fool. His father would sneer that he was not up to much. Daughters and granddaughters were not the thing that brought prestige. Only sons: strong, healthy sons to carry on the family name. He felt weak, useless, such a failure.
It was with a heavy heart that Peter went back through to the bedroom on his return. Isa was in bed, nursing the new daughter. She was pale, exhausted. Her glorious hair, dulled to brown and matted with sweat, lay tangled in clumps over her shoulders. She looked up at him with a fierceness in her eyes, the fierceness of a watchful tigress ready to pounce should she be required to defend her young. Peter almost backed away. The silence hung over him like a blanket smothering the breath in his chest.
“Aren’t you going to look at your daughter?”
He could not. Not without anger and pain and failure flooding out of him and disgracing him even further. “I’ll sleep in the other room. Do you need anything?”
“From you? I don’t think so.” Her voice was cold, her tone scathing. “I managed to give birth to your new daughter while your older daughter was on the bed beside me. I was on my own when the baby was born. I cut the cord and got her to my breast before the midwife even arrived and Margaret played beside me on the bed through it all. So, no, I don’t think I need anything from you.”
He was cut to the quick. He had behaved abominably, but he could not help himself. He did not know how to apologise or how to tell her what he felt. What did she know about his family and his upbringing and what was expected of him? Yet he knew what she told him reflected poorly on his organising for her and Margaret. As he lay on the spare bed his mind was filled with gloomy doubts about himself as a father and provider and as a man. He had badly let everyone down. He buried his head in his hands and wept bitter tears.
Isa was furious. She held her new daughter in her arms and gave in to the tears she had held back through the agony of the birth, the stress of having Margaret on the bed beside her and then Peter’s dreadful rejection. What had possessed him? Could he not see there was no way to control what nature ordained? Boy or girl, it was beyond anyone’s wishes or plans. Was it not enough that they had two healthy children and that she was still alive herself, despite the doctor’s fears and the terrible haemorrhaging? That had felt almost like death. She had felt herself slipping into a dark, peaceful oblivion. No more pain. No more tiredness, just utter peace. It had felt good. If that was death, there was nothing to be afraid of. What held more fear was staying alive and living this life of endless struggles and sorrow. Peter had asked perfunctorily did she need anything, and anger and dismay had prompted her bitter litany of grievance at his abandonment of her, his distance from her.
Yet she did need things. She needed him to take her in his arms as he had done at Margaret’s birth. She needed his love, his reassurance that they were close, together in all this. But because this child in her arms was not a boy she was denied his comfort. What a mistake it had been to marry this fickle, immature, unreliable man. She thought of her own parents, close and strong together, influencing each other for good, supporting each other. She remembered the warmth there was between them, her father’s compassion towards her mother over the loss of their baby. He had never complained about a lack of boys in the family.
Her sorrow and longing was overwhelming. The tears dripped on her new daughter’s downy hair. Gently she wiped them away and kissed the baby’s tiny head. The maternal instinct arose in her and strengthened her. She would have to accept her lot and soldier on like she always had. Life had decreed that she lose her mother when she was but a child herself, yet she had survived and become a mother to her two sisters. She had been thrust into the adult world early but had learned its ways. She had not given up. Nor would she do so now. She would tell Peter to send word to her father and sisters, and to his family, and they would rally round. He would soon see what she was made of. Isa Swan was one of the Fighting Dicks after all. They did not give up; they fought. But she would never forget what he had done today.
*
“Come on, lad, chin up,” said his brother Jimmy, when he called in at the weekend to see the baby. The two men were in the kitchen by themselves. “It just gies ye an excuse tae try again, lad. It’s no’ the end o’ the world.”
“I wish we had aborted it now, like the doctor said. What a waste. If we’d got rid o’ this yin it wid hae bin easier tae try again for a boy.” Jimmy could not believe his ears. What was wrong with his brother that he could think such an abominable thing?
“Peter, for God’s sake. Abortion?”
“What of it? When I got that French lassie pregnant in Normandy when I wis on leave, that’s what she did.”
“You did what?”
“You heard me fine. I wasnae the only one snared like that. It was happening all the time during the war. She was fine after. God, why did we no’ do like the doctor said?”
Jimmy was shocked. He could barely take in what Peter had just confessed. His brother had just been a teenager throughout the war, yet he had been through this personal trauma on top of everything else. What had it done to him? He could not believe the callousness.
“Peter, dinnae say that. Ye’ve got twaw healthy girls. That’s grand. And ye love making a fuss o’ Margaret. Now ye’ll hae twaw tae fuss o’er.”
“I wanted a boy. A boy tae call after ma faither. A boy tae carry on the name. What use is another girl? That won’t cut it in ma faither’s eyes, tae just be the faither o’ girls. You’ve got a son, so has Tommy. But me – just girls. Useless. That’s what he’ll say. Useless.”
Jimmy knew his brother was right. That was his father’s view. But he also knew it was not a healthy one. He put his arm round his younger brother’s shoulders.
“What does it matter what the old devil thinks? I know you’re a man with guts. You fought in the war and came through it alive. That took courage and intelligence. You’re good at your job. You’ll be promoted to controller soon. Who cares what Father says? You don’t need to produce sons to be a man, Peter. You need to think about your lovely wife and girls. They need you to provide for them. That’s what being a man is all about.”
18
Margaret arrived that evening, Peter having telephoned from work to the professor’s house in Glasgow. She had quickly packed her things, caught the early evening train and hurried through the dark, wet streets to tend to her sister. She knew immediately there was more to the situation than Isa’s weakness. The tension was almost palpable between her sister and her husband. They hardly looked at each other and both directed their remarks to her alone, not to each other. As to the cause she had no idea. But she tidied up, prepared some food and sat quietly by her sister as she slept. When the wee one woke, she held her and rocked her for a bit then brought her to Isa to be fed. When the baby fell asleep at the breast Margaret changed her and held her till she fell asleep again, laying her down gently in the cot.
“Had you thought of names for her?” she asked Isa. She was unprepared for the sobs coming from her sister. “Isa, what on earth is the matter? You know you can talk to me. I can feel there’s more to this than you being
exhausted after the birth. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Peter. He was desperate for a boy. Wanted to call him after his father. We’ve no name planned for a girl.”
“Well, why not call her after his mother? Janet, isn’t she? That’s nice enough. Will she not be pleased if you do that?”
“If she’s ever pleased. But it won’t be enough for Peter.” Isa gripped her sister’s hand. “Oh Maggie, I’m terrified he’ll be at me to try again. I could not go through this again. I thought I was dying this time, Maggie. Margaret’s birth was longer and harder and more painful, but this time I was so ill all through the pregnancy and then lost so much blood. I don’t ever want to be pregnant again.” She paused, pulling at the bedcover. “In fact,” she blurted, “I don’t want Peter to come near me again.” She broke down and her sister took her into her arms and held her, stroking her hair and her arms and soothing her.
“Let it out. You’ve had such a hard time. Let it all out. We’ll not let you down, Isa. I’m here for as long as you need me. It’ll be all right. We’ll soon have you strong again and you can put all this behind you. Peter will be all right too in a few days. He’s disappointed right now, but he’ll come round. He dotes on Margaret and he’ll dote on Janet too – if that’s what you call her. He’ll be pleased at that suggestion, I’m sure. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. You need to get some rest.”
She helped Isa settle down.
When Isa had fallen asleep, her sister tiptoed through to the other bedroom, where Margaret was cuddled down beside Peter.
“Peter?” Maggie whispered.
“How is Isa?” he asked.
“She’s sleeping now. I think I should stay with her and help with the baby through the night if you are all right here with Margaret.”
“That’s a good idea, Maggie. Thank you for coming. You get some rest yourself. I’ll see you in the morning.” He rolled away from her and put his arm round his older daughter’s small, strong body protectively.
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