Shelter From the Storm

by Ellie Dean

  ‘I know that, love,’ he replied wearily. He took her hand and held it to his heart. ‘There, feel that? Running as good as gold again, so you’ve no need to worry.’

  She blinked back her tears and gave a tremulous smile. ‘She’ll be all right, Stan, I’m sure of it,’ she murmured. ‘April’s young and strong, and they’ll look after her ’ere.’

  Stan thought about that and prayed Ethel was right, but the realisation that he could lose April before the night was out weighed heavy. ‘I have to find out what’s happening,’ he said, struggling to his feet. But the floor seemed to tilt beneath him and the room spun alarmingly, sending him slumping back into the chair.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ snapped Ethel. ‘I’m getting the doctor whether you like it or not.’

  Stan was too drained and dizzy to argue. He closed his eyes as she bustled out of the room and the next thing he knew he was back in his bed, a little nurse hovering at his side. ‘Where’s Ethel?’ he managed.

  ‘It’s after ten o’clock, Mr Dawkins,’ the girl replied, checking his pulse. ‘I sent her home over two hours ago.’

  Stan grasped her hand urgently. ‘I have to know how my niece is doing,’ he rasped. ‘Her name’s April Wilton and she had emergency surgery tonight to save her and her baby.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find out, but you’ve got to promise to try not to worry, Mr Dawkins. You don’t want another attack, do you?’ She noted down his temperature and pulse on the chart and hung the clipboard over the end of the bed. ‘I’ll get Doctor to give you something to help you relax.’

  Stan was asleep by the time the nurse had managed to get any news on April.

  Four hours had passed since April had gone into theatre, and with no news from anyone, Ron was restlessly pacing the floor. He’d been up to the station to see to the trains, had informed his superior at the Home Guard meeting that he wouldn’t be attending, and had eaten the Scotch egg with a lettuce sandwich and drunk half a flask of tea. Now the food seemed to be churning in his stomach, and the only way to stop it was to keep on the move.

  Ruby had left to go to her night shift at the factory, and Ivy had gone back to Beach View to take over babysitting duty from Rita and to snatch some sleep before she went on shift at five the following morning. Although visiting time was long over, there had been no further sign of Ethel – which was a huge relief, because Ron had come to dislike her intensely.

  ‘I’m wondering if Ethel told Stan,’ he muttered. ‘To be sure the poor wee man has a right to know, but he’ll take it hard.’

  ‘Who knows what that woman will do,’ said Peggy. ‘I know her heart’s in the right place despite her prickliness, but I do wish she’d think before she speaks. Poor old Stan will find the news hard enough to take, but if she comes out with the sort of things she said earlier . . .’

  ‘Hopefully she’ll have more sense,’ Ron replied grimly.

  As Peggy, Cordelia, Sarah and Rita sat in doleful silence, Ron could see by their faces that they were desperately worried and struggling with their consciences. However, he had no words of consolation for them, only a deep sense of regret for how he’d first reacted himself when he’d discovered that April was in the family way and expecting a brown baby. What did it matter in the scheme of things? No one was perfect, and mistakes happened. Who was he to pass judgement when his own sins were so numerous?

  He heaved a deep sigh and reached for his pipe and tobacco. That it should come to this didn’t bear thinking about, and although he rarely prayed, he sent up a silent plea for the miracle that would save April and her baby.

  ‘I really do think they could have sent little Fran to tell us what’s happening,’ said an anxious Cordelia. ‘All this not knowing is making me feel quite ill.’

  ‘She must still be in theatre,’ said Peggy. ‘I wonder if she’s one of the team working on April?’

  ‘We can only hope that no news is good news,’ muttered Ron. ‘But to be sure I’m feeling as impatient and worried as you with all this hanging about.’

  Cordelia sniffed back her tears and dabbed her eyes. ‘Poor little April. Such a sweet girl despite everything. I feel so guilty that I wasn’t as kind to her as I might have been.’

  ‘Now, Cordelia, you mustn’t think like that,’ Ron insisted. ‘This was none of your fault, and although I know you didn’t approve of what she’d done, you did very well to hide it, so I’m sure she never realised.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she murmured. ‘It would be awful if she left us and never knew how much we cared for her.’

  Sarah took Cordelia’s hand. ‘I feel guilty too,’ she said quietly. ‘I should have been more supportive, and not let old prejudices colour my judgement. If anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  ‘Then let’s hope she pulls through,’ said Peggy. ‘It’s bad enough that her mother doesn’t seem to care, and even though I know you and Cordelia have found it awkward to accept her situation, now is the time to put all that aside. Of course you feel guilty, we all do – and as we’ve none of us lived blameless lives, it’s right we should feel ashamed.’

  ‘Ach, Peggy, you’ve no call to feel that way,’ protested Ron. ‘You’ve mothered that wee girl and looked after her with more love and care than Mildred ever did.’

  Peggy was about to reply when Fran came hurrying towards them. ‘She’s out of theatre and in the recovery ward,’ she said quickly. ‘The baby was delivered by Caesarean section during the op as its little heart was struggling and Mr Hooper feared the worst.’

  ‘But April’s all right?’ asked Peggy, leaping to her feet. ‘She’s expected to recover fully?’

  ‘It’s very early days, Peggy. She’s gone through a traumatic time, and has yet to come round properly from the anaesthetic.’

  ‘But surely the doctor has some idea of whether she’ll recover?’ Peggy’s face had drained of colour and she had to sit down again.

  Fran took Peggy’s hand, her expression solemn. ‘None of us have any way of knowing,’ she said softly. ‘She’s been through a great deal, and it’s going to depend on how strong she is to fight her way back to health.’ She gave Peggy a warm, consoling smile. ‘But she has the best team of doctors and nurses looking after her, so she won’t have to fight alone.’

  Peggy patted her hand, the tears running unheeded down her face. ‘Don’t let her die, Fran. Please don’t let her die.’

  Fran made no reply, but put her arm round Peggy’s shoulders as she met Ron’s concerned gaze over her head. ‘We’ll do everything possible,’ she murmured.

  ‘And the baby?’ asked Cordelia tearfully, gripping Sarah’s hand.

  Fran bit her lip, her green eyes dulled from weariness and care. ‘She’s five weeks early and so very tiny and had to go straight into an incubator. Mr Hooper is monitoring her closely, because she’s premature and her underdeveloped lungs are struggling.’ Her voice became ragged. ‘I’m sorry, Cordelia, but he doesn’t hold out much hope that she’ll survive.’

  ‘Poor little mite,’ wept Cordelia, ‘and to think . . .’

  Peggy was battling her own tears as she looked at Fran. ‘When can we see April? She’ll need us more than ever now.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ said Fran. ‘She has to come round properly and then sleep naturally for a while before she’s told about the baby. It’s probably best you all go home. I’ll ring if anything happens in the night – if not I’ll let you know how things have gone when I come off shift in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t like the thought of leaving her,’ fretted Peggy.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on her, Peg,’ said Fran, ‘and be with her should the worst happen. I promise.’

  Peggy patted her cheek. ‘Bless you, Fran. You’ve a good heart, and I feel easier knowing she won’t have to go through this alone.’

  ‘It’s why I’m a nurse, Peggy. But, to be sure, ’tis a hard calling at times.’

  Fran bustled off back to work, and Peggy and the others wearily gathere
d up their discarded coats, bags and baskets, and made their slow way home through the dark streets. It was a beautiful night, the air soft, the sky a canopy of stars above the mirrored surface of the sea, but in their hearts lay the chill of winter.

  31

  Stan woke long before the early morning cups of tea were due to be handed out, and as he was feeling much stronger, he clambered out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and shoved his large feet into his slippers. He had a suspicion that the doctor had given him a sleeping pill the night before, and so even if the nurse had been able to discover what was happening to April, he’d have been out cold, and that made him more determined than ever to see April for himself.

  There was no sign of any nurses on the ward, so he pushed through the doors and went into the sluice room where they were chattering over cups of tea.

  ‘Mr Dawkins,’ gasped the little nurse he’d spoken to the night before. ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘I need to know about April,’ he replied, ‘and I’m not leaving until you tell me.’

  The nurse took his arm and tried to steer him out of the sluice. ‘She came through the operation, Mr Dawkins, so you’ve no need to worry. I expect you’ll be able to visit her in a couple of days.’

  Stan stood firm, blocking the doorway. ‘And the baby?’

  The girl looked up at him, her expression telling its own story. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dawkins. She’s premature and very frail. The doctor doesn’t expect—’

  ‘But she’s still alive?’ he interrupted.

  ‘She was last night, but . . .’

  Stan didn’t wait to hear any more. He went back to the ward, pulled the curtains round his bed and grabbed his clothes out of the bedside locker. He had to get to April and her baby before it was too late.

  He was just doing up his fly buttons when the curtain was whipped back with such force he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘And what exactly do you think you’re doing?’ demanded a stern-faced Matron.

  ‘I’m going to see my niece and her baby,’ he muttered, dragging his braces over his shoulders.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she countered. ‘Get back into bed immediately.’

  Stan reached for his jacket. ‘I’m not a schoolboy to be bullied,’ he said with uncharacteristic firmness. ‘And you can’t stop me.’

  She stood in front of him, arms folded, her steely eyes boring into him. ‘You’re my patient, and I’m in charge,’ she barked. ‘Get back into bed.’

  Stan placed his great hands gently but firmly on her arms, lifted her off her feet and set her to one side. ‘I hereby formally discharge myself,’ he said before heading down the ward.

  ‘You can’t do that. Come back at once.’ Her voice followed him as he cut a swathe through the startled nurses and slammed through the doors.

  Stan walked as quickly as he could along what seemed to be endless corridors, and finally found a sign for the intensive care wards. He slowed to get his breath, and realised he was still wearing his slippers and probably looked very wild as he hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. Shrugging off these minor details, he pushed through the first door he came to.

  The light was dim and the atmosphere hushed but for the steady pulse of machinery, and the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes as the nurses tended their patients. He tiptoed up to the desk where two nurses were dealing with a great stack of patients’ notes. ‘I’m looking for April Wilton and her baby,’ he whispered.

  The nurse took in the fact he was wearing slippers and looked rather dishevelled and wild-eyed, and although her eyes widened in surprise, she didn’t make a fuss. ‘Miss Wilton is not well enough for visitors,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll have to come back this afternoon.’

  This was an awful blow, and Stan’s level of concern soared to even greater heights. ‘I promise not to wake her,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I just need to see her. She’s my niece, and I’m all the family she has.’

  The nurses exchanged glances. ‘All right,’ the girl said. ‘You can take a look at her, but you’re not to touch her or say anything. Is that understood?’

  Stan nodded dumbly, the dread for April making his heart thud. He followed the girl down the quiet ward, and when she stopped beside the bed and he looked at the still figure lying there, he gasped in distress.

  He hardly recognised April, for her head and jaw were swathed in bandages, her skin was waxen, and she looked so tiny in that bed he could hardly believe she was more than a child. He wanted to touch her pale hand which curled on top of the sheet; wanted to kiss that deathly little face and tell her he was here and that he loved her. Tears blinded him as he watched the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. At least she was still alive – but for how long?

  ‘Can I sit with her?’ he breathed. ‘I promise not to wake her.’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘You have to go now,’ she whispered.

  He looked down at April and realised he could do nothing to help her, so he nodded and reluctantly followed the nurse to the door. ‘You won’t let her die, will you?’ he pleaded.

  ‘We’re doing our very best to make sure that doesn’t happen,’ she replied with a consoling pat on his arm.

  ‘Where’s the baby? Why isn’t she with her mother?’

  A shadow seemed to flit over the girl’s eyes. ‘If she didn’t pass away in the night, she’ll be in the special care baby ward,’ she replied softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Stan nodded and set off down yet more corridors in search of the special baby ward. A nurse was just coming through the door loaded with laundry, and on seeing him standing there, she took pity on him. ‘Mr Dawkins?’

  ‘Yes, but how . . .?’

  She placed the laundry in a heap on a nearby chair. ‘Matron telephoned and warned me you might come. But it’s all right, she’s given special permission for you to see baby Wilton.’

  ‘Is that because . . .?’ He couldn’t voice his fear.

  She nodded. ‘Baby Wilton is struggling, Mr Dawkins. All we can do is hope she stays with us long enough for her mother to be able to hold her.’

  Stan closed his eyes momentarily, forcing the tears back and steeling himself for what was to come, and then followed the girl into the room.

  There were six incubators lined up on one side and half a dozen cots on the other. The incubators were like see-through boxes on square stands into which oxygen was being pumped. There was only one incubator in use, the tiny occupant being closely monitored by a plump, sweet-faced nurse.

  ‘What’s that in the tank below the baby?’ he asked in a whisper.

  ‘It’s water being heated by a small pump to keep her warm,’ the nurse replied as she led him across the room. ‘This is Sister Black, who is looking after baby Wilton. You can stay as long as there isn’t an emergency.’

  Stan acknowledged the sister and then looked down at the miniature scrap of human life curled beneath a soft pink blanket in the cocoon of warmth and oxygen that was keeping her alive. Her light brown skin was wrinkled as if it was too loose for her bones; her hair was thick and dark, and her perfect miniature feet and hands could have fitted through a wedding ring.

  His heart melted and tears welled as he sank into the nearby chair and just gazed at her in awe. She was perfect, and he was overwhelmed with a love he’d never known – a powerful, all-consuming love that he could only pray she could feel and take strength from.

  None of them had slept well, and so it was a dispirited group that gathered in the kitchen at Beach View early that morning. As Fran hadn’t telephoned there was a spark of hope that April and her baby had survived the night, but it wasn’t enough to give any of them an appetite for dried egg and gritty wheatmeal toast smeared with foul-tasting margarine.

  Sarah and Rita reluctantly had to leave for their workplaces, promising to telephone if they could for any news. Cordelia, who usually devoured the newspapers in the morning, sat staring into space, and Ron was grim-faced as he returned from
meeting the mail train to feed the animals and clean out the ferrets and the chicken run.

  Peggy gave up trying to help Daisy with her spoon: a bit of egg spilled was unimportant in the scheme of things, and her mind was too taken up with April to be able to concentrate on anything else. She glanced up at the clock, urging the hands to move more quickly – but they seemed not to move at all.

  She cleared away the dirty plates and washed them up while Daisy nagged Ron to read her a story, but Peggy could tell that he too was preoccupied, for he kept drifting into silence, his gaze repeatedly going to the clock on the mantel.

  At the sound of the latch clicking on the gate they all stiffened and looked towards the door as hurrying footsteps came up the path. Fran came in smiling and they let out a sigh in unison.

  ‘April woke up half an hour ago, and although she’s still groggy from the anaesthesia, and unable to talk because of her wired jaw, she’s aware of what’s going on around her, and can even scrawl what she wants to say on a notebook.’ Fran took off her cape and cap and unpinned her hair, letting the copper curls tumble down her back.

  ‘So she will get better?’ asked a tense Peggy. ‘And there are no repercussions after the damage to her head?’

  ‘The doctor is hopeful that she’ll make a complete recovery, with no side effects from that fractured skull. It will be a while before they can remove the wires from her jaw, and of course the Caesarean scar will take some time to heal. All in all,’ she said on a sigh, ‘she’s been very lucky.’

  ‘Has she been told about the baby?’ asked Peggy fretfully.

  Fran nodded. ‘I was with her when the doctor explained everything. I thought she might want a familiar face at a time like that, and she seemed to appreciate me being there.’

  She sat down, her expression solemn. ‘I think she was shocked more than anything at first, and then when it sank in, she cried as if her heart was breaking. It was only moments later that she scribbled a note demanding to be taken to see her. The doctor was adamant she shouldn’t, but I’m not sure he was right. April needs to see her baby before . . .’