Maggie went into labour on Christmas Day. She thought it was indigestion from the luxury of having a scrap of meat for dinner with a heap of turnip and stuffing and potato. The annual treat of beer had been dispensed to the men and somehow a couple of jugs had been smuggled to the women’s tables and Millie Dobson was supping determinedly. The staff seemed content to let them have their way this once and were turning a blind eye to the drinking.
‘I think I’ve eaten too much.’ Maggie nudged Millie and clutched her stomach as a spasm of pain seized her again.
‘Have a sip o’ beer to settle your digestion,’ Millie cackled and pushed her cup at Maggie’s lips.
Maggie gave a groan of pain and turned her head away. Millie put a hand on Maggie’s swollen womb and said, ‘It’s not the food, hinny, the bairn’s startin’. Could it not have waited till after our dinner!’
With a large belch, Millie hauled herself to her feet and helped Maggie to hers. Alerting one of the attendants, they left the dining hall and mounted the stairs to the labour ward above the infirmary. Along the icy corridor, Maggie gripped her friend by the arm.
‘I’m that scared!’ she whispered.
Millie patted her hand and told her to be quiet.
Two rows of cells made up the ward; the woman on duty who did as a midwife led Maggie past these to a room with a plunge bath.
Take your clothes off in here and wash yourself down,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll get the bed ready. You,’ she turned to Millie, ‘can go now.’
‘Please, I want her to stay,’ Maggie said in panic.
‘She’s been drinking,’ the midwife said with distaste.
‘I can still help,’ Millie protested. ‘I’ve had one of me own and helped plenty other lasses down the quayside.’
‘She’s me auntie, please let her stay,’ Maggie begged.
The woman nodded reluctantly and left them alone.
After a tepid bath, Maggie was dressed in a coarse, loose gown and led by her friend into a tiny cell where brown paper had been laid out on the thin mattress. A towel was tied round the iron bed frame.
‘What’s that for?’ Maggie asked in trepidation.
‘To hang on to, hinny,’ Millie told her. ‘Pull it when you feel the pains come.’
Maggie’s courage nearly failed her, then she felt another spasm and lurched for the bed, doubling up in pain.
‘Haway, let’s get you on the bed,’ Millie ordered.
‘I’d rather walk around,’ Maggie protested restlessly, eyeing the hard bed with its paper bedding in alarm.
‘We can’t have this bairn of yours born in the corridor!’ Millie was sharp. She helped lever Maggie up. ‘Be quick before the Kaiser comes back.’
Maggie grinned weakly at Millie’s irreverence and set her teeth determinedly as she felt another contraction coming on. Millie covered her in a thin blanket and rubbed her back to ease the pain. From far away the sound of singing and the wheeze of a harmonium drifted up to them.
‘“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”,’ Millie snorted. ‘Aye, well, make the most of it, hinnies, ’cos it’ll be gruel the morra!’ she shouted. ‘Cept for the Master and his missus. They’ll be supping into the New Year, that pair.’
Maggie was torn between laughing at Millie’s commentary and crying out at the mounting pain. The purgatory seemed never-ending as she twisted and moaned and shifted position and tried to get comfortable. It grew dark outside and an attendant came in to light the gas lamp.
Later in the evening, Millie began to sing in her raucous, tuneless voice.
The midwife appeared and reprimanded them for making a noise.
‘The other patients are trying to sleep! You’ll have to leave if you can’t keep quiet.’
‘What time is it?’ Maggie asked, already exhausted.
‘It’s nearly midnight,’ the nurse replied sternly and shut the door firmly behind her, leaving them in a sallow pool of light from the gas lamp.
‘I’ve been here hours!’ Maggie cried in dismay. ‘How long does it take?’
‘Could be all night, hinny,’ Millie sighed. ‘Don’t worry about the old cow, the Kaiser. We’ll make a din if we want to and there’s nowt she can do but twist her face.’
Maggie lay, alternately shivering and sweating, trying to fight the spasms that gripped her whole body and left her weeping with weakness. She was terrified by what was happening to her and baffled as to how the baby would force its way out of her. No one had told her exactly how a baby was born and she had been too young to witness the birth of either Helen or Jimmy. Yet she was past caring, only wanting the ordeal to be over and the pain to stop.
Suddenly, in the middle of the night, she felt a gush of liquid between her legs and thought her insides were spilling onto the bed.
‘What’s happening?’ Maggie screamed. ‘Am I dying?’
Millie was roused from a groggy half-sleep and investigated.
‘Your waters have broken,’ she announced. ‘It’ll not be long now.’
Maggie sank back on the bed in fear and confusion.
The night crept on endlessly and it seemed to Maggie that she had lain there an eternity and still the baby did not come. Yet the contractions that convulsed her body became increasingly severe and more frequent and she shuddered and cried out and tried to follow Millie’s urgings.
‘Take deep breaths, hinny! Don’t fight against the pain.’
‘It’s killing me!’ Maggie screamed.
‘Pull on the bloody towel!’ Millie shouted.
Maggie did so and felt something hard pushing down between her legs. It felt as if her whole body was trying to empty itself.
‘What’s that, Millie man?’ she cried, terrified.
‘The bairn’s on its way. Don’t push yet!’
‘What do I do?’ Maggie wailed.
‘Sing!’ Millie shouted.
‘Sing?’ Maggie gasped in disbelief. ‘What the hell am I supposed to sing?’
‘Anything. Just don’t push till you feel another spasm!’
Maggie began a breathless rendition of The Women’s Marseillaise. Millie joined in and they sang in the eerie silence of the night: ‘To Freedom’s cause till death, We swear our fealty. March on! March on! Face to the Dawn, The dawn of Liberty!’
This brought the furious midwife to the cell.
‘Shut up!’ she ordered. ‘At once!’
Maggie cried out in pain and the woman moved quickly to the bedside and slapped her across the face.
‘There’s no need to make such a fuss!’
‘Leave the lass alone, her baby’s coming,’ Millie protested. ‘You should be helping.’
The angry attendant turned on her. ‘And you can shut up or get out, do you hear? Don’t you go telling me my business.’
Millie scowled and Maggie thought she might start a fight there and then.
‘Please!’ she begged. ‘Help me!’
The midwife turned to her and began issuing abrupt instructions. Millie returned to rubbing Maggie’s back.
‘Support her,’ the midwife ordered. ‘When you feel the contractions again, this time push as hard as you can.’
‘Push what?’ Maggie asked, bewildered.
‘Down below, you idiot lass,’ the woman snapped.
A moment later, the tightening began and grew into a searing pain that enveloped her stomach and pressed on her back. The midwife stuffed a piece of rolled-up rag into Maggie’s mouth and told her to bite on it.
‘Now push!’
Maggie pushed and bit on her gag, her dark eyes wild with terror. She sank back into Millie’s arms, but almost immediately felt the pangs of labour claim her exhausted body once more.
‘Push, girl!’ the nurse ordered.
Amid the waves of nausea, Maggie could now feel the presence of her struggling baby between her legs, but try as she could, the infant would not dislodge itself from its position.
The midwife peered closer in the poor light.
‘It
’s breech.’
Millie went to inspect too. ‘Fetch the doctor then.’
‘We can manage,’ the woman answered testily.
‘Maggie can’t!’ Millie protested. ‘She’s all done in.’
‘She’s not trying hard enough,’ the midwife complained.
Millie advanced on her with hands clenched. ‘She’ll die and lose the bairn too unless she gets help. That may not matter to you, but by heck it does to me! Now send for the doctor before I put this fist in your gob!’
The woman fled from the cell and Maggie lay back whimpering, faint from the effort. All she was aware of was Millie holding her hand and stroking the damp hair from her face, murmuring encouragement.
Finally a young doctor appeared, dishevelled from sleep and smelling of stale wine. He rummaged around in his bag and pulled out a fearsome instrument.
Maggie was galvanised from her stupor. ‘What are you ganin’ to do with that?’ she yelled.
‘I’ll have to deliver the baby with forceps,’ he said curtly. Maggie could see his hands shaking as he waved the metal pincers towards her.
‘No,’ she whispered, then screamed in fear, ‘No! Don’t touch me with that!’
The midwife moved swiftly to hold her down. ‘Shut up, you little slut,’ she hissed. ‘Nobody speaks to the doctor like that.’
‘Have you ever used these before?’ Millie demanded The doctor gave her a dismissive look and carried on. ‘You never have, have you?’ Millie accused.
‘Out of my way, woman,’ the doctor snapped and shouldered her aside.
The next moment, Maggie was aware of red-hot pain between her legs as the young physician came at her with his implement and skin tore under the pressure from the forceps and that of the wedged baby. The agony engulfing her whole body was worse than anything she could remember of her torture in prison. She did not know if she would die first from the pain the doctor inflicted upon her or from suffocation from the nurse who pressed the gag in her mouth to muffle her screams.
She wanted to cry out to Millie but could not. All she could see was her friend’s horrified expression as she watched the delivery, powerless to help. Maggie closed her eyes and sobbed in agony and terror as she felt her insides rip.
Perhaps she passed out in the end, she could not remember. The assault seemed to last for ever and then the baby was out between her legs, lying in a bloodied heap. Maggie summoned the last of her energy to raise her head and look at it. The doctor was already washing his hands in the bowl of water in the corner.
‘Look at the bloody mess you’ve made of her!’ Millie screeched at him in fury.
Maggie’s head pounded and her whole body throbbed. But she spat out the gag as the midwife set about cutting the sticky cord that bound her to her baby.
‘Is it a girl or a boy?’ Maggie asked weakly, trying to make sense of the pink scrap of life lying on the soiled paper, still slimy with blood.
The woman did not answer. She mopped up the baby and wrapped it in a piece of torn sheet.
‘Let me see it,’ Maggie begged, panic beginning to seize her. The hateful woman was going to remove her baby without even telling her what it was and she was too weak to do anything to stop her. ‘I want to hold my baby!’ Maggie cried.
Galvanised by her cries, Millie waded in and grabbed the infant. It wailed for the first time as she plucked it from the attendant’s grasp and bundled it into Maggie’s waiting arms. Millie fended off the midwife with her bulk while Maggie explored her new baby. The doctor took one look at the truculent women and left quickly without another word.
Maggie gazed at the tiny wrinkled face that trembled and bleated at her like a protesting lamb. Unwrapping the sheet she touched the delicate limbs and body, so soft under her rough fingers, so perfectly formed.
‘It’s a lass,’ Millie commented.
Maggie nodded, quite speechless with triumph and pride, for her daughter was beautiful despite the marks left by the doctor’s violent forceps.
‘What you going to call her?’ Millie asked.
Maggie’s mind was a blank. She had been sure of having a son to replace George and he would have borne his father’s name. But here in her arms lay a girl and Maggie was filled with an unexpected delight.
At that moment, the baby opened its eyes wide, dark pools that fixed on her, trusting, expectant, demanding, as if this tiny newborn infant awaited the answer.
‘Well, it’s Christmas,’ Millie pointed out, ‘so give the bairn a Christmas name - Mary or Christina.’
Maggie gazed into the solemn eyes and knew at once that her daughter was strong and resilient and must have a name that would match her own unique character.
‘Christabel,’ Maggie said, her mind made up, ‘like Mrs Pankhurst’s daughter.’
Millie cackled with delight. ‘Another wee fighter, eh, bonny lass?’
‘She’ll need to be,’ Maggie smiled sadly, leaning forward and kissing Christabel lovingly on her head of matted dark hair. The baby stopped her quavering cry and began to make small smacking sounds with her tiny lips.
Suddenly Maggie felt her body seized by convulsions again. ‘Please God, no!’ she whimpered.
Millie was at her side at once, gripping her shoulder.
‘It’s just the afterbirth, hinny. Nowt to worry over,’ she reassured her.
‘I must take the baby away now,’ the midwife said abruptly, shaking off her discomfort at the intimate scene she had just witnessed.
Maggie cuddled her daughter tightly to her in fear.
‘Leave them be the night!’ Millie rounded on the woman and took Christabel protectively while the afterbirth was ejected from Maggie’s womb.
The attendant, weary of battling with the defiant pair, bundled up the waste in the soggy brown paper and took it with her to be burned.
‘I’ll be back before Matron comes round,’ she warned as she left.
Millie returned Christabel to her mother.
‘Here, why don’t you try and feed her - she’s clammin’ for a bit feed.’
‘Show me,’ Maggie urged, pulling her gown free.
Millie saw her friend was too weak to sit up, so she guided her onto her side and snuggled the baby in beside her. She helped the baby onto Maggie’s small round breast, gently prising open the searching mouth. Within seconds the hungry infant had latched onto Maggie and begun an instinctive sucking.
Maggie watched in wonder, weak but elated. She stroked her daughter’s cheek and felt an answering enthusiasm in her sucking. She had never imagined that such overwhelming happiness could spring from the simple, mundane act of feeding. Maggie gazed at her baby and felt love for her flooding every inch of her battered being. Never before had she loved so unconditionally or completely, Maggie thought, trembling at the realisation.
In that dismal, badly lit cell, still smelling of the stench of childbirth, Maggie wept with exhaustion and joy and love and trepidation. She looked at the sweet contented face at her breast and cuddled her closer still.
‘My Christabel,’ she whispered in wonder, kissing her again.
Millie sniffed and Maggie glanced up to see her friend was crying.
‘We’ll change the world together, me and Christabel,’ Maggie smiled. ‘She’s already changed mine, anyways.’
She saw Millie wipe her nose vigorously on her sleeve and then Maggie closed her eyes, weary beyond words, but content, fulfilled. She fell asleep still feeling the rhythmic trusting tug of her daughter’s suckling.
It was daylight when she woke. Grey light seeped in at the high barred window above her bed. Every inch of her ached and Maggie thought for a moment she was back in prison.
Then she remembered.
She turned on her side to find the space beside her empty and cold. She could still smell her, but Christabel was gone. Maggie tried to move, seized by panic, but the pain that shot down her back and between her legs was paralysing. She could see blood seeping into the blanket - her blood.
The
room was empty. I’m dying, Maggie thought numbly. They have left me to die. Then a far worse pain gripped her and caused her to cry out in agony.
‘Christabel!’ she screamed. ‘Millie! They’ve taken my baby!’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Maggie lay for weeks in a dingy dormitory recovering from the birth, hardly aware of the bleak empty winter days. The ward was filled with old women who babbled to themselves and wet the floor in their confusion, while Maggie lay on a corner bed with her face to the wall and gave in to her deep despair. She had nothing left to live for. Relentlessly fate had taken everything from her - her father, her mother, Granny Beaton, her beloved George; even her suffragist cause was dead. And finally they had taken from her the only precious thing that she had to call her own, her sweet daughter Christabel. Her physical pain was nothing compared to her mental torment and she seemed content to waste away in that cold, stinking, disinfected ward for abandoned old and insane paupers.
Her grip on life would have loosened faster if it had not been for the interference of the old whore Millie Dobson. From time to time Maggie was aware of Millie snatching moments at her bedside while under orders to scrub down the floor. Her craggy, bulbous face would peer over her in concern and speak softly. Maggie remembered little of what she said, only that the tone was gentle compared to the sharp barks from Matron or the disinterested grunts from the pauper nurses.
‘You must get your strength back, hinny,’ Millie encouraged. ‘You lost a lot of blood after the birth and they had to stitch you up like a burst pillow. That doctor should swing for what he done to you, hinny. I could tell he hadn’t the first idea what to do. Should’ve left it to us women.’ Millie held her hand. ‘It’s no surprise you cannot walk. But don’t let them bully you, hinny, you’ll be back on your feet when that poor body of yours is fully rested. I’ll bring you summat extra to eat the night.’
Maggie lay half listening, her eyes staring out at the blank pale green wall, not caring if she never walked again. She had grown used to the excruciating ache in her back that throbbed whichever way she lay and the searing pain between her legs when she tried to urinate.
No Greater Love Page 36