by Jean Moran
Alice’s face appeared above her. ‘It’s over, Rowena. It’s all over.’
Rowena knew what she meant. The process of giving birth was over and so was the child. It had not taken a breath.
Her expression grim, O’Malley wrapped the cloth around the small body.
In her mind Rowena saw the blueness of the baby’s complexion, the process of checking for a heartbeat, the look that passed between her and Dr Anderson. His long sensitive fingers followed the same pattern over the stillborn child, checking for any sign of life.
Coming to the same conclusion as O’Malley, he shook his head and turned back to Rowena. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. There’s nothing we can do. The baby didn’t make it.’
Rowena had never expected to burst into tears, but that was exactly what she did as they continued to tend her, delivering the afterbirth and finally laying her on the bed.
Tears were streaming down Alice’s face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘So very, very sorry. It looked such a pretty little thing.’
Sister O’Malley passed Alice the bundle for disposal in the oil drum where they kept a fire burning for old bandages and amputated limbs in an effort to keep infection at bay.
Rowena enjoyed a sudden coolness when O’Malley wiped her face with a wet flannel.
‘’Tis not for you to be sorry. ’Tis that monster who kicked you. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I curse him to high Heaven.’
Rowena closed her eyes. She was terribly tired, but there were still pains so it would be some time before she could sleep. A single tear squeezed out of her right eye as she remembered Tansy’s words, how much she’d wanted the child she’d lost despite the circumstances of its conception. She’d never expected to have such feelings and desperately wanted to tell somebody how she felt. O’Malley was as good a person as any. ‘I didn’t want it, or at least I didn’t think I did, but now it’s dead I do. I feel it was my fault for not wanting it. What’s the point of entering a world if there’s nobody waiting there to love you?’
‘That’s a silly statement,’ scoffed O’Malley.
‘What was it, Sister? A boy or a girl?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t look.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’ll tell you in a few days when you’re fully recovered. You’ll take it better then. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. Are the pains gone?’
Rowena frowned. ‘They should be, but they’re not.’
Looking a little puzzled Sister O’Malley folded the sheet down and, using both hands, pressed Rowena’s stomach. ‘Hmm. Some residual contractions, I think.’
Rowena lifted her head enough to see that her stomach was heaving as though there was something else to expel.
O’Malley and the rest of the team were good and not likely to make mistakes, but this was not a clean regular hospital. The conditions were primitive, the staff underfed and worn out, the outcome of trying to treat diseases that would be so easily treated in different circumstances.
‘Are you sure the afterbirth’s come away?’ Rowena asked.
‘Thank you, Dr Rossiter, but we know our job as well as you do. We’ve already done that and it was entire,’ said O’Malley. ‘I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ve left no nasty bits behind.’
‘Unless...’ said Rowena, her eyes meeting those of the sister.
‘Unless...’ returned O’Malley, knowing what she was getting at.
Alice was told to put down the mop and bucket she was carrying and fetch Dr Anderson.
‘Tell him there are complications.’
Alice looked about to say that he’d only just gone to bed, but on seeing the expressions on O’Malley and Rowena’s faces, dropped the lot and went running.
‘Aaah!’ Rowena arched her back as the pain intensified. Raising herself up on her elbows she gazed at her heaving belly. The pressure between her legs had returned. She was giving birth all over again.
Almost as much sweat was pouring out of O’Malley as there was from her. They didn’t need to make comment. They both knew what was coming next.
Dr Anderson appeared at O’Malley’s shoulders. ‘There’s another?’
O’Malley nodded. ‘Or my name’s not Alexandra Kathleen Bridget O’Malley.’
‘With a name as long as that, I have to believe you!’ he said, pushing the ends of the stethoscope into his ears.
‘May I suggest that she does not deliver standing up this time?’ said O’Malley. ‘She’s tired out.’
‘You may, Sister, and I concur.’
Rowena knew that wasn’t the only reason. They weren’t going to risk this baby falling out too fast and injuring itself on the hard floor. She didn’t want it either. Suddenly the dour atmosphere lifted. This baby would be born alive.
Just as before, the fluid came in a rush, but not so much this time, accompanied by the second baby being born, pushing through all the obstacles nature and the world could throw at it.
This baby cried, and to all of them in that dire place it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
O’Malley was ecstatic. ‘A girl. A beautiful little girl.’
There were smiles all round. Rowena laid her head on the pillow and prepared herself for what was to come next. She was indeed totally exhausted, and also aware that, once more, she did not want to be a mother.
O’Malley smiled at her. Alice smiled at her, and so did Dr Anderson. It took a great effort to smile back at them, as though she had finally accepted her fate.
In a bid to hide her true feelings, she played along, naming the child, which was always done as soon as possible – just in case.
‘What’s it to be? Something traditional or something exotic?’
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s dawn. God’s made us another new day,’ O’Malley declared.
‘Then that’s what I’ll call her. Dawn.’
‘Very apt,’ said Dr Anderson.
A new beginning was exactly what it should be but when she looked at the black hair matted to the scalp, and saw the shape of the eyelids, the terrible memory came flooding back. Nobody put forward an opinion on which parent she most resembled. Even newborn, the child clearly favoured her father – whoever he had been. Closing her eyes, she turned away, bitter tears squeezing out from beneath her eyelids.
‘It’s usual to cry. You’re exhausted,’ said O’Malley.
You cannot possibly know what I’m feeling, thought Rowena.
She looked down at the tiny face, the black hair, the scrunched-up features, and the bitter feelings returned. Despite Dawn’s origins, surely any mother would love a child like this, fuss over her and kiss the top of her silky head – but she couldn’t. The barrier inside her was like a wall composed of ice a mile high and a mile wide.
As the child was put to her breast, she became aware of O’Malley smiling as she chivvied her to put her hand on the back of the child’s head. ‘This should come naturally to you. You’re a doctor.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m a natural mother,’ she snapped.
O’Malley looked as if she’d been slapped. Experienced in the sometimes odd reactions of new mothers, though, she recovered quickly, believing that everything would be all right in the end. ‘You’ve been through a tiring time. You’ll be as good a mother as anybody. Did I ever tell you my mother had thirteen? Once my fifth brother was born, she decided it was enough and did all she could to get rid of the other pregnancies, cried buckets when they stayed firmly in place, but once they were born, once she’d got over the ordeal, well, she loved each and every one of us.’
After the baby had suckled, she turned her head away, repelled by her own confused feelings of love and hate, refusing to look at the small bundle tucked into the crease of her arm, feeling the warmth nestled against her, even the faint beating of the newborn heart.
‘She’s a beautiful child,’ said O’Malley.
‘Yes. She is.’
Even to her own ears, Rowena’s voice sounded co
ld. There was no denying the child’s beauty, but her features brought back the memories of that terrible Christmas Day. She flicked her gaze to O’Malley and saw the sadness in her eyes.
‘Doctor, I know what you went through.’
‘Do you?’ Rowena couldn’t help sounding disparaging. How could anyone know?
‘I went through the same, of course.’
Rowena gulped. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Luckily I’m mutton, not lamb, too old to conceive. I count myself lucky to be alive, and that way I can go on. I was spared for a reason, perhaps for you or for all the babies I may deliver in future.’
There was common sense in O’Malley’s statement and she said it with conviction. She was a strong woman and was taking a positive stance. Rowena couldn’t do that.
‘I’ll never forget that night for as long as I live. I wish it had never happened.’
‘Well, there’s no going back. The child is here now. There’s nothing you can do but get on with it.’
17
December 1943
‘Ever heard of the mad monk Rasputin?’
Connor and Harry were stretched out on their bunks in the cellar of the chemical factory, an airless place where the sound of machinery hummed incessantly from the floor above. The men crowded into the hold of the Tojo Maru had been divided into work gangs, some getting the work promised at Mitsubishi, but Connor and Harry were at a chemical plant where the stink of ammonia burned the lungs and irritated the eyes.
Connor’s were red-rimmed as he mumbled that, yes, he had indeed heard of the Russian monk who had exerted influence on the Russian royal family. ‘And don’t tell me that I’m in line to be the lover of an empress.’
Harry laughed, though it wasn’t the rich laugh he used to have: it sounded brittle, as though his throat was lined with broken glass. ‘Not at all, old boy. What I meant was your beard and hair are as long as his were. You look like a Russian monk, as do I. As do us all, come to think of it.’ Razors were in short supply, and scissors sharp enough to cut their hair into some sort of presentable order were virtually non-existent.
Their new home was in a series of cellars beneath the factory floor where the bunks were stacked in threes and there were too few latrines for the hundreds of men living there.
Single-bulb electric lights hung from shrivelled wire at intermittent intervals the length of their cellar and into the next.
Vicky was curled up at Connor’s feet, which were swollen from a mild attack of beriberi, the warmth of her body making up for the fact that he couldn’t get his boots on.
They were working inside the factory but it was winter and the weather had turned cold. Thanks to frequent American bombing, and the blockade of vital raw materials, heating and lighting were rationed and channelled towards industry rather than for private consumption, even when the consumers worked in the factories.
A small bloke from northern England, his sharp face made sharper by extreme starvation, crept up to them as though he had something very important to impart – or something of value to barter. ‘Care for a bit of this?’
Connor recognised the can he held up as containing the lard they used to grease machinery parts. ‘What would I do with it, my friend?’
‘Eat it, of course.’
‘You’re going to eat that?’
‘Yeah. Want some?’
Connor shook his head. ‘It smells terrible.’
‘How about your dog?’
Vicky raised her head, sniffed, then lay down again.
‘She’s not hungry.’
‘One ciggy and you can have a big dollop.’
‘I’d prefer the ciggy to the dollop – if I had one.’
‘Keep your dollop,’ muttered Harry, the dry wood of his bunk creaking as he turned over, pulling his meagre blanket up to his neck.
‘Then I’ll eat it all myself!’
Whoever was in charge of the factory generator chose that exact moment to pull the switch and cut the power. There were grumbles as the lights went out, then loud cheers when it was followed by the wailing of an air-raid siren.
‘Hunker down, lads,’ shouted Connor. ‘And try to get some sleep.’
Nobody got out of bed because there was no need to. They were locked in and deep down, safe enough unless the factory scored a direct hit.
The building shook in response to nearby explosions and the air turned gritty as dust fell from the ceiling.
Connor heard Vicky whimper. Luckily he was on the top bunk of three, and because he was tucked just beneath the ceiling, he could reach down to his feet where she was curled up to stroke her bristly coat. His dog worried him. Back in Hong Kong when he’d first found her, Vicky’s coat had been soft and reasonably glossy. Now it was patchy and rough, possibly due to parasites.
The walls shook in response to the thunder of the planes flying overhead and explosions close by. The raid went on for some hours, bombs falling on Osaka before the bulk of their payload was delivered to Tokyo.
Once daylight had arrived, Connor swung himself down from his bunk and waited with outstretched arms for Vicky to launch herself into them. ‘Are you coming, girl?’
All around him men were stirring, coughing, groaning and spitting up the phlegm that accumulated on their chests, thanks to the dusty atmosphere.
Vicky opened her eyes, looked at him then snuggled back down. Connor had known the parasites were bound to affect her health, but until now she’d had enough energy to prick her ears and wag her tail.
Somebody was calling to a comrade. ‘Hey. Arthur. Arthur!’
There were other murmurings of concern.
‘Hey. Can somebody take a look at this bloke?’ The request was made in a strong Australian accent.
Out of curiosity, Connor followed an ex-dentist called Steve, one of the few of their bunch with medical knowledge. He recognised the man who had offered him a portion of lard. His eyes were wide open with the knowledge of eternity that only the dead possess. Spit drooled from one side of his mouth and his body was already stiff with rigor mortis. In his hand he was still grasping the tin of grease he’d offered Connor. It was almost empty.
Connor took a sniff. ‘I smell almonds.’
The comment travelled from one man to another. Those who knew what he was driving at enlightened those who did not.
As a kid they’d had marzipan at Christmas and he’d loved the smell, breathing it in as others might the scent of a rose. It was only later he’d learned that cyanide had the same smell.
‘My money weren’t on ’im to go next,’ somebody said. ‘Too fly, I thought. But there, you never know. Anybody win the bet?’
To an outsider, betting on who would die next might seem macabre and unfeeling, but those men lived with death. There was no time and no energy for grieving over the inevitable.
He felt Harry following him as they joined the queue for rations before they made their way up the metal stairs to the factory floor.
‘Poor chap. Can’t blame him, though. What I wouldn’t give for a pork pie or a cake oozing with almonds and sugared icing.’
Connor smiled through the mass of beard that now hid the lower half of his face. ‘Food. Our favourite subject. Used to be women.’
‘Never.’
He fancied a sudden awkwardness between them. The truth was that even before the war Harry had rarely talked about women. He knew Harry preferred men and Harry knew that he preferred women. It was enough that they were friends and understood each other and as such it went unsaid.
There were three burials that day. Arthur’s was one, plus two rabusha – Tamils enticed by hollow promises to work for the Japanese in their newly acquired territories. Burial parties were picked to carry out the job, a much valued chance to get out into the fresh air. As there was only one European, the Tamils would bury the latest casualties.
The civilian labourers were kept separate from the Europeans, their quarters lacking even usable latrines. Also, they were given even
smaller rations.
The men tasked with the job filed past. Connor regarded the Tamils’ sunken eyes, the cheekbones prominent in gaunt faces. They were like walking skeletons. They’d been promised good wages but they were slowly starving to death.
There would be no mourners at the funeral. Everyone else would work, stopping at midday to eat a bowl of rice mixed with a green vegetable that looked suspiciously like a weed, and perhaps a little fish.
Rarely allowed outside, Vicky had contented herself with hunting and catching rats rather than pigeons. Stewed long enough, they tasted similar to chicken and nobody referred to their origins. Everyone was aware that they needed protein to fend off the more devastating diseases.
During the last few days she’d laid no kill at Connor’s feet. At first he’d found it strange. Now he was worried.
‘You might have to let her go,’ Harry said to him.
‘I can hardly put her down. I don’t have a gun.’
‘Rope? A garrotte?’ Seeing the distaste on his friend’s face, Harry put up his hands. ‘Pax. Didn’t mean it old man. Say, a bloke in the next cellar’s been making hooch from vegetable peelings. Not much, but worth a taster.’
Connor said he wasn’t that thirsty.
‘You don’t have to be thirsty, old chap, just in need of oblivion.’
For the rest of that day Connor kept his nose to the grindstone, barely looking up when a guard laid a cane across his back half a dozen times, purely because he hadn’t bowed deeply enough.
‘You’re too tall,’ remarked Harry.
‘And I don’t bow low enough. Neither do you, for that matter.’
It was nine o’clock in the evening when he finally dragged himself back down the cold metal stairs that rattled from the tramp of men’s feet. The cellar smelt of mould and the lighting was only barely enough to read by. Fresh air was a luxury.
Books were almost as valued a commodity as a cigarette, more so perhaps because they kept boredom at bay. Losing oneself in fiction also helped one forget hunger, aching muscles and the pain of swollen feet, broken spirits and eternal fatigue.
