Adventures of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  We hadn’t even reached Gunnerside when the baby slid quietly and effortlessly into the world. A baby girl, small and perfectly formed, who squinted under the bright lights. We stopped momentarily at the side of the road and the paramedic who had been travelling behind in the first-responder car now joined us. He busied himself checking over the baby whilst I watched wide-eyed. He must have seen the worry on my face.

  ‘She’s gonna be fine,’ he said. ‘We just have to keep her warm.’

  I nodded; suddenly I, too, felt very shivery.

  ‘Congratulations, by the way,’ he said as he swaddled the baby as best he could, bearing in mind that she was still attached to me via the umbilical cord. And with that, we were on our way again. She was premature, smaller and more delicate than a full-term baby, but she was here and safe, and my sense of panic lessened.

  ‘Can yer ring Clive an’ tell him that all’s well?’ I said.

  ‘Not a problem. I’ll let him know, then he can sleep easy,’ he said.

  Once off the country roads, we raced away while I held my baby close to my chest and closed my eyes, lulled by the crackle of the ambulance radio. I was brought back to my senses when the back doors were opened, and the calm and warmth was replaced with the chill of the early-morning air. A team of midwives and neonatal nurses stood ready and waiting, and extra layers of blankets were piled on top of us as we were wheeled into James Cook University Hospital in Middlesbrough. I blinked under the stark, harsh strip lights that lit the labyrinth of corridors. Finally, we reached the labour ward where we were both thoroughly checked over, the cord was cut, and the baby was weighed and dressed in a tiny vest, bodysuit and knitted hat, whilst the assembled throng of medics talked in hushed voices and studied charts.

  ‘What happens now?’ I asked as they carefully laid her in an incubator.

  ‘She’s going to have to stay on the Special Care Baby Unit for a while,’ said one of the nurses. She assured me that there was nothing wrong, it was all very precautionary, and it was just that my baby was small and a little fragile.

  ‘We are going to put a feeding tube in and you’re going to see if you can express some milk for her,’ she said. ‘She’ll be fine, you’re an experienced mother, but I can see that it’s all been a bit of a shock to the system.’

  To be honest, I felt a bit weepy.

  ‘I’ll ring my husband and let him know what’s going on,’ I said as she left.

  I had lost all track of time, such a lot had happened, and I was sure that the household would be asleep, so I was surprised when Clive sleepily picked up the phone.

  ‘Hiya love,’ he said. ‘How are you an’ the lal’ dote?’

  I told him that we were both fine but that we couldn’t come home right away, and that he was going to just have to hold the fort for a while.

  ‘I’ll email some pictures of her through to Raven, so you can all ’ave a look at her, she’s so sweet.’

  It made me think of how things had changed over the course of the years. When Reuben had been born very prematurely and had to stay in special care, one of the nurses took a picture of him with a polaroid camera. Then we had scanned it and sent it through to a neighbouring farmer who had a fax machine. The result was a very grainy black-and-white picture on shiny paper, but it was enough to give Clive a peek at his newborn son. That was only twelve years ago.

  I spent the next twenty-four hours expressing milk and staring into the little incubator down on the special care unit. I had forgotten just how useless you feel when faced with a sleeping baby wired up to a confusingly complex array of sensors and monitors. I would put my hand through one of the portholes of the perspex box, stroke the back of her tiny hand with my finger and wonder what I should be doing. I’d furtively look around the unit at the other incubators, trying to see what the other parents were doing, looking for reassurance that I wasn’t the only one feeling fidgety. I had already decided that, looking at the situation objectively, the most sensible thing for me to do would be to go home, organize some kind of rota with Clive and the children and try and restore some order. I talked to the nurses and a plan began to form. I’d go home and fill some little pots with breastmilk for feeds, since being at home I’d be more relaxed and do a better job. I could also pick up some smaller clothes. I still had Reuben’s tiny vests and all-in-one suits in a case in the loft.

  I followed the signs directing me to the central atrium of the hospital. Even though it was early, people were milling around the cafe. Looking around, I spotted the travel bureau where I could get a timetable for the shuttle bus that took people from the James Cook hospital at Middlesbrough to its smaller sister hospital, the Friarage at Northallerton. Once there, I could catch another bus to Richmond and then I would be on Clive’s radar; he could find his way to me in the Land Rover. I had used this route before when I had been carted off to Middlesbrough after I had Clemmie, although in that instance it had been both me and a baby making our way home.

  I can’t fault the man on the desk, he tried to be as helpful as possible, but once he’d found out where I lived, ‘in t’back o’ beyond’, he broke the bad news to me. The shuttle bus service had been cut, the only bus route now operating would take me into Middlesbrough town centre. I sighed. The fact that it was a Sunday wasn’t making things any easier as the buses were more infrequent too.

  ‘’Ang on a minute, what about a taxi,’ he said. ‘What’s yer postcode? I’ll get a price.’

  He punched in a number on the desk phone, wedged the receiver between his shoulder and ear, and armed himself with a pen.

  ‘Three hundred quid!’ He grimaced, noted my shaking head, and put the phone down.

  He apologized and handed me a pass so that at least when I came back in the Land Rover I could get through the car-park barrier and park for free.

  I wandered out of the hospital, across the road and towards a bus shelter where a couple of people stood waiting. I shivered, the day was by no means cold but being in the warmth of the ward had evidently softened me. I didn’t have to wait long before a bus arrived. I wasn’t even entirely sure how far this journey was going to take me, but every mile nearer to home was a step in the right direction. This was stage one, I was going to Middlesbrough town centre. I googled bus routes on my phone. Where could I get to from Middlesbrough? I couldn’t believe my luck when I discovered that there was a Dales Bus, a tourist and sightseeing service, that operated only in the summer on Bank Holidays and Sundays! I could get all the way from Middlesbrough to the Buttertubs Pass, only a fifteen-minute drive from Ravenseat. What luck! I kept scanning the small print, convinced that it seemed too good to be true. The cost? Just £7, not bad for nearly a seventy-mile ride that dropped me at the Buttertubs two and a half hours later. I saw things out of that bus window that I’d never noticed before, but more than anything, I was struck by the stark contrast between the urban and rural landscapes. By now, the colours of the countryside were at their most vivid, lush greenery everywhere, swathes of yellow flowers in the fields under the bluest cloudless skies, and as we got nearer to home, the smell of freshly cut grass filled my nostrils. I closed my eyes, a combination of tiredness and sensory overload. Pangs of guilt gnawed away during this quiet time; whilst the other passengers oohed and aahed at the scenery I just worried about my temporary abandonment of my baby. The other travellers were on a day trip whilst I was literally on a guilt trip.

  Clive was waiting for me at the bottom of the Buttertubs, leaning against the Land Rover watching the world go by. I thanked the driver and went and crossed the road to where Clive stood. All around us was a patchwork mosaic of small fields, drystone walls and barns that stretched as far as the eye could see. Clive, in his typically understated manner, put his arm around me.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he said. ‘She’ll be back ’ome wi’ us in no time.’

  The children were pleased to see me, Raven especially as the burden of responsibility for Annas and Clemmie had fallen onto her shoulders.
I had only been away for thirty-six hours, but it felt like a lifetime as so much had happened, but at home on the farm everything remained the same. That continuation is something that, in troubled times, can either be a comfort or a frustration. ‘Life goes on’ is how the saying goes, and this is certainly true on the farm.

  Clive’s little outing down the dale to pick me up had not served him well. The sight of rows of cut grass drying in the sunshine and the sweet smell of the hay that filled the air had made him impatient to get started haytiming at Ravenseat. By now, every farmer in the dale had a common purpose, to gather up as much hay as possible when the weather allowed it. To be left behind and miss your chance would be unforgivable. Come hell or high water the hay needed getting. I began to form a plan of sorts. Firstly, Edith and Violet were dispatched to the woodshed to find the ‘CLOSED’ sign and told to customize it a little to make it absolutely one hundred per cent crystal clear that I wasn’t open for visitors or business. They returned very pleased with themselves, though, upon inspection of their handiwork – ‘Mums had the babby’ in crooked capitals – I had to wonder whether it would have the opposite effect.

  Next, we discussed baby names and drew up a shortlist, from Rowan (very nice, but far too rock ’n’ roll in its entirety: Rowan Owen!) to Sheba. Queen of, I thought. ‘Cat food,’ said Clive.

  Eventually we settled on Nancy Grace.

  The older children had another week of school before the summer holidays and, with Clive having to spend his days out in the fields mowing grass on the tractor, I was going to be somewhat limited as to what I could do and where I could go, as I would have Sidney, Annas and Clemmie with me. I certainly couldn’t go back to the hospital until there was someone to watch over them.

  That week was a hard one. The heat and sunshine were phenomenal, perfect conditions for getting our hay in, but the exhaustion was something else! Our days were spent tramping around the edges of the fields, raking back the loose hay cast out by the hay bob around the perimeter walls of the fields. Occasionally Clive, thoroughly fed up of bouncing around the field on a tractor, would give me a change and I’d do a couple of laps in the driver’s seat whilst he sat in the shade of a barn with the children and took a breather. Robert, Clive’s eldest son, came to lend a hand when it was time to lead the bales home. For me, though, the days were just so incredibly long. I would wait until the older children got home from school, put their tea on the table and then scrub up in the shower. Then I would set off to Middlesbrough whilst Raven would keep an eye on the little ones, Edith and Violet would play, and Reuben and Miles would head off into the fields to help get the bales in.

  Nancy was in hospital for nine days, and during that time I went to see her every other evening, carrying little pots of my milk to feed her. It was a 69-mile trip to Middlesbrough and it took two hours whichever route I tried, and the same coming back. By the time I got there, it seemed that everyone else was leaving. Eight o’clock was the earliest that I could make it. I’d sit, feed Nancy, change her nappy and then set off for home at about 11 p.m., finally getting to bed at 1.30 a.m. There was a parents’ room at the hospital that I could have used to sleep in, but I never did. I’d be in the wrong place the next morning, and at least the roads were quiet when I was travelling.

  The staff filled in a little book about Nancy, so I was kept up to date with what was happening. They gave me a little piece of knitted cloth, asked me to place it inside my bra and then to bring it with me on the next visit. The idea being that it could be put in the enclosed space of the incubator and Nancy would feel comforted by the smell of her mother and home. I could see this being a good idea and duly wore the cloth as requested, only removing it when I went for a shower before visiting. I left it on the flake (the clothes drier that is suspended from the ceiling in the living room) and then replaced it when I was clean. My good intentions, to make Nancy feel at home, did not meet with the approval of the paediatric nurse who caught a whiff of smoke when doing Nancy’s obs.

  ‘Are you a smoker?’ she asked as she fished the cloth out and resolutely placed it in one of the paper disposal bags on the side of the cupboard.

  One of the disadvantages of having an open fire was that occasionally, when the wind was in a certain direction, puffs of smoke would roll back down the chimney. This was the smell that hung on the cloth comforter, I explained.

  I was well aware that the Special Care Baby Unit had to be a sterile, clean environment but with its harsh lighting and white, bright scrubbed surfaces I felt that every time I set foot in there, I polluted the place in some shape or form. I’d wash my hands repeatedly and even wore a clean tubular bandage over my bangles so that I could comply with the ‘no visible jewellery’ rule. When I mentioned that I’d worn the bangles for almost thirty years and that they wouldn’t come off without wire cutters the nurses wanted to know how I managed with lambing sheep.

  ‘I use t’other hand and it’s not oft’ that we have to intervene anyways,’ I said. ‘We don’t interfere with a sheep that’s lambing unless we absolutely have to, they’re better left to get on with it themselves . . .’

  I got nods of approval all round.

  It seemed a very long nine days but finally Nancy was given the all clear. She was feeding well, had put on weight and was ready to come home and meet the family. I’d asked my friend Rachel if she could watch the children, so Clive could come with me on this final run to Middlesbrough. I woke early that morning, excited at the prospect of the day ahead. Everyone else was still asleep. Clive had had a hard few days working from dawn till dusk bringing in the hay crop and the children were now all officially on their school holidays so had enjoyed a riotous first weekend off. I tiptoed downstairs into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea and went to fill the kettle. The feeblest stream of water flowed from the tap, gradually petering out to just a pitiful few drops. Then it stopped completely. I frowned; this was not a good start to the day. I looked in the kettle. There was just about enough to make myself and Clive a brew.

  I couldn’t figure out why there was no water. The spring at the moor which supplied our water had never run dry in living memory, it was summertime so there was no frost danger, and it definitely couldn’t be the old ‘frog stuck in the pipe’ trouble that we’d often encountered before the days of public health water-testing. I had a consultation with Clive, the fount of all knowledge when it comes to the water supply. He was baffled . . . then annoyed.

  ‘It’ll be summat to do wi’ t’water treatment plant,’ he said. ‘Nae doubt about it.’

  We dressed and went across the yard and opened the dreaded green door, behind which were tanks, timers, pressure gauges and more pipes than you could shake a stick at. We never ventured in here unless there was something wrong and, even when we did go in, we could never fathom anything out.

  ‘Just git the helpline number of t’tank,’ said an exasperated Clive.

  I rang and left a message that I urgently needed someone to come out to the farm to sort it out. By now, some of the children had surfaced; from upstairs came shouts of ‘Mum, I can’t brush mi’ teeth’ or ‘Mum, bog won’t flush’.

  ‘Yer musn’t light t’fire,’ said Clive, who went on in great detail about how the back boiler might explode if it heated up and there was no cold-water supply.

  I decided that I should ring the hospital and tell them that Clive and I would come and pick Nancy up later in the afternoon, hopefully when everything was back in order.

  ‘I’ll be late picking up Nancy,’ I explained to the nurse on the phone. ‘I’ve got trouble with mi’ waterworks.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like you need to be coming to us straight away,’ she replied. ‘They can be nasty, those infections.’

  I hastily explained and told her that I’d ring them and update them on the situation later.

  It was four o’clock when, finally, hand in hand, Clive and I walked out of the hospital with little Nancy tucked into a car seat.

  ‘Hell
, she’s a lal’ un,’ said Clive.

  For all the pictures I’d taken, none had really put her actual size in perspective. She was dainty and her name, Nancy Grace, suited her to a tee.

  ‘From small acorns mighty oaks grow,’ I said, and from the moment we carried her through the old porch into Ravenseat farm, she thrived, never faltering, only going from strength to strength.

  4

  Smelling a Rat

  ‘By ’eck, tha’s got a lot o’ firewood there,’ Clive said, when he saw my latest purchase – four oak panels, elaborately carved with gothic arches and trefoils. All had come to me via a reclamation yard but, originally, they had been part of a country house in the Lake District.

  ‘What’s ta plannin’ on doin’ wi’ them?’ he said, but the truth was that I hadn’t decided. I knew that at one point the living room at The Firs had been split, with a panelled wall forming a passageway from the front door to the dairy. The same had been done at Ravenseat, basically it was just a simple way of keeping living rooms as snug as possible and keeping draughts at bay. The original Dales wooden partitions were simple affairs, constructed from floorboards, but I was considering replacing the long-lost partition at The Firs with these ornate oak panels.

  For the moment, the panels were propped on their side in the adjoining garage at The Firs. I had managed to persuade the dealer to deliver them to me, bearing in mind that my previous outing to pick up the granite worktop had landed me with a large bill from the garage. The dealer had also brought a chandelier that I had enquired about after seeing it on his website. This was no dainty crystal-embellished affair, it was a rustic wrought-iron one which hung from a chain, the type that you could imagine Robin Hood swinging from over a banqueting table. No agreement had been reached on the price, it was negotiable, he said, owing to the fact that it needed rewiring before it would be safe to use. As we struggled to carry the oak panels from the van to the garage, he commented on a small table that had previously stood in the dairy and was now languishing in the garage.