He looked alarmed. ‘Me?’
‘Aye, you,’ Rose smiled. ‘You are his father. Gan on,’ she encouraged.
He came over cautiously and stood looking down at them, his large rough hands hanging limp at his sides. Rose held the baby out to him.
‘Here, put him in the crook of your arm. That’s it. See how snug he fits.’
John’s furrowed brow relaxed into a look of amazement. ‘He’s no weight at all, is he? Light as a feather.’ He stood stock-still as if to attention, his arms frozen in position.
Rose could see the wonderment on his face at the feel of something so small and delicate and alive in his hold.
‘Me own flesh and blood,’ he murmured in awe. His look met Rose’s and for the first time she could recall, she saw tears well in his eyes.
‘Feels grand, doesn’t it?’ she asked softly. He simply nodded, unable to say anything for the sudden lump lodged in his throat like a boiled sweet. Rose did not know how long he might have stood there, if she hadn’t said, ‘Don’t be late for work, John man. We need your wages more than ever.’
Abruptly, he handed the baby back.
‘I’ll take him,’ Sarah cried.
‘It’s my turn!’ Kate insisted.
‘You two get yourselves off to school this minute,’ Rose ordered, holding out her arms for Jack.
There were howls of protest at which John growled, ‘Do what your mam says or I’ll smack you. The bairn’s not a toy.’
‘Elizabeth gets to hold him all the time,’ Kate continued the protest.
“Cos she’s a sensible lass and you two are as giddy as foals,’ John derided. ‘Now off with you.’ He raised a hand in mock threat and the girls grabbed their jackets from the nails halfway down the back door. He laughed at them and chased them out of the back door with a shout to Rose of, ‘See you the night!’
Rose sighed thankfully as peace descended on the house. She planned a quiet day getting used to dealing with a baby again and sending Elizabeth out on errands.
‘See if you can get a bag of coal on tick from Henderson’s - tell him about the baby,’ she instructed. ‘Say John’s in work again and he’ll be paid Friday. We’ll need to put a wash on an’ all if we get the coal.’
But the day did not go as Rose planned. The baby tried frantically to feed, but the more he tried, the more he slipped off her nipple. By the end of the day he was exhausted and crotchety and she was sore and tearful. That night she stayed downstairs, but suffered more of the same. The next two days were no better. By the fourth day she was snapping at the girls, achingly tired and her breasts were swelling painfully as they filled with milk. More alarmingly, Jack seemed to have given up the fight to feed and lay sleeping for hours on end, sometimes lying so still that Rose shook him awake in alarm and set him mewling like a kitten.
The following evening, both she and John were at their wits’ end. Worried by his wife’s weepy state, John went round for his mother.
‘St Theresa! The bairn’s not gettin’ enough to eat,’ she fussed. ‘He’s a tiddler to start with; he can’t go missing meal times.’
‘But he’s not interested!’ Rose wailed. ‘I’ve never had trouble feedin’ before - but this little devil...’
Mrs McMullen studied the baby closely, nudging her little finger into his tiny mouth. Then she pulled back Rose’s bodice and looked at her engorged breasts. They were painfully swollen with milk, the skin stretched tight as a drum and the nipples cracked and inflamed.
‘He’s too small to latch on to the size of them,’ she exclaimed. ‘Rose Ann, they’re as hard as cabbages! Put a pin to them and they’ll burst.’
Rose flushed at her frankness, only too aware of John hovering close and staring at her. She pulled her shawl about her, feeling her neck and face burning with embarrassment. The girls, sitting at the table, had stopped drawing on John’s newspaper to listen and gawp.
‘Not in front of the lasses,’ Rose hissed.
Mrs McMullen made an impatient sound. ‘They’ll all have to go through this soon enough. It won’t kill them to know.’
‘Please!’ Rose said, tears springing to her eyes.
Her mother-in-law turned to the girls and said briskly, ‘Away and play in the lane for a few minutes.’
Kate, who had looked on in horrified fascination, complained, ‘But it’s dark and cold outside.’
‘Play under the gas lamp,’ she replied. ‘Or go upstairs to bed.’
Kate and Sarah scrambled for the outside door. Elizabeth followed reluctantly to keep an eye on her boisterous sisters.
When they had gone, Rose asked in desperation, ‘What shall I do? The bairn’s not going to die, is he?’
‘Not if he gets fed,’ her mother-in-law reassured. ‘But we need to get the swelling down, so his wee mouth can suck again.’
‘I’m that sore,’ Rose whimpered.
‘Rub your milk around the cracks when we get some out and they’ll soon mend. The more you feed the more you’ll toughen up. Don’t you remember all this?’ The older woman gave a wry smile.
Rose shook her head. ‘It was never this bad.’
‘That’s ‘cos he’s so small, no doubt,’ she nodded, ‘and you’re too big for him.’
‘So what do I do?’ Rose asked, sniffing away her tears.
Mrs McMullen said nothing for a moment. She looked round at John and seemed to be considering something. Rose thought she was going to banish him from the room too and felt relief. Most men would have left them to their women’s worries long before. But not John. She couldn’t believe he was enjoying her discomfort, but he made her edgy standing there silently staring.
‘John will have to do it,’ his mother decreed.
Rose’s heart thumped in alarm. ‘Do what?’
‘Suck the milk from you, of course!’ Mrs McMullen said as if she was dull-witted. ‘He’s got a mouth for suppin’, that’s for sure.’
Rose was appalled. ‘You can’t mean—’
‘Why ever not? He’s your husband. It’s no time to be shy, Rose Ann.’ She was blunt. ‘That baby needs your milk if you don’t want to be burying him next week instead of christening him.’
‘Mother,’ John spoke for the first time, ‘is there no other way?’
Rose glanced at him and saw that he was as flustered by the idea as she was. His neck was scarlet under his open shirt and he scratched his head in a sign of embarrassment.
His mother put her hands on her hips with impatience at them both. ‘Aye, I could go and get Dr Forbes or Dr McKay to do it instead. But likely you wouldn’t want another man to do such a thing to your wife?’ she ridiculed. She turned and hobbled towards the door.
‘Don’t go for the doctor!’ John cried. ‘I’ll do it.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll stand outside with the girls for five minutes. That’s all you’ll need. So get on with it.’
She went, leaving Rose and John blushing furiously at each other. Between them Jack murmured and whimpered like a forlorn, unhappy puppy. Why was she so upset by the idea? She had lain with this man and done the most intimate of acts countless times. Even through her pregnancy his lust had not dimmed. That was it, she thought. This to John would be an act of lust, a taking of forbidden fruit, a mother’s milk. Whereas she now saw her body only in terms of providing nourishment for her precious baby, she knew he would gain sensual enjoyment from it. He was that sort of man.
But what did it matter? Rose thought wearily. She was at the end of her tether, lying in a sweat of agony and fear. All she cared was that her son lived. Rose closed her eyes against the indignity.
‘Haway and get it over with,’ she hissed at him.
For a moment he did not move. Then she heard him kneeling in front of her, his breathing growing more rapid. She flinched when he touc
hed the first of her swollen breasts, his hand tightening around it while his lips fixed around the nipple. He sucked. Nothing happened. He opened his mouth wider and pulled more of her in.
She cried out in pain, but he held on and squeezed as if it were a cow’s udder. Suddenly she felt small jets burst from her nipple as the milk found a release. The mixture of pain and relief was exquisite.
‘Oh, thank God!’ she shuddered.
John grunted in surprise as his mouth filled with the warm liquid. He gulped and sucked harder, kneading her breast rhythmically, intoxicated by the experience. He felt triumphant, better than being drunk. He had never felt so close to Rose as at that moment. He loved her, desired her, cherished her, and would never let another man touch her in all his life!
She pushed his head away. ‘That’s enough,’ she said sharply, ‘they’ll be nowt left for Jack.’
John sat back and wiped the drips of milk from his moustache. Rose swiftly reached for Jack and shoved him on to her breast. The baby searched for a moment, aroused by the scent and taste of milk on her skin, then latched on.
Rose felt joy and relief flood through her at the sound of his slurping.
‘He’s taking it!’ she cried.
‘By heck, so he is,’ John grinned. ‘Just like his father.’
Rose felt uncomfortable at the comparison. ‘Ta for your help,’ she said awkwardly.
John studied her. ‘I’ve the other to do yet. Haway and let’s get on with it.’
Rose gritted her teeth while he bent to the task again. It was like feeding twins, she thought as the two of them pulled on her hungrily. The relief that it brought was indescribable. Once the first sharp pain had passed, she was astonished to find herself almost enjoying it. She would never admit it to her husband, but the feeling was not unpleasant. She felt bountiful and content and, for a moment, powerful, to have them sucking at her breasts together.
Rose put a hand lightly on his bowed head. John was hers. He would never do such things for any other woman and it gave her a warm, triumphant thrill. He loved her and she had grown to care for him. Now they were bound to each other for good by the baby who snuffled between them. If there were storms ahead, they would face them together.
Chapter 32
That winter was dogged by worry over baby Jack. He was small and sickly and did not thrive in the way Rose’s other babies had. She knew that the puddling mills had sapped her former strength and left her with a body that ached and wheezed in the winter cold, then swelled uncomfortably in the summer heat. She blamed her damaged health for her son’s premature birth and his listless start in life.
The priest came swiftly to christen the baby at home and Mrs McMullen shook her head with worry whenever she called. ‘He’s got the look of an angel already,’ she clucked, and muttered about accepting God’s will.
Relations grew tense between Rose and John. He looked on anxiously, chiding her for not feeding Jack enough or failing to keep the kitchen warm.
‘You’re neglectin’ him, Rose Ann.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You let the fire go out!’
‘Only when there’s nowt to buy coal with,’ she retaliated.
‘You’re a bad housekeeper - you should make the money go further.’
‘I do the best I can with what little you give me,’ Rose said reproachfully.
‘Don’t blame me,’ he grumbled. ‘I bring back a man’s wage.’ He gave her a stern look and jerked his head in Elizabeth’s direction. ‘You know what I think.’
Rose glanced at her daughter squatting on the wooden fender by the fire, absorbed in a book borrowed from Aunt Maggie. She knew how happy Elizabeth was to have returned to school. Yet it would be so easy to give in to John’s pressure to send the girl into service, for she was tall for her age, capable and eager to please, and would soon find a place. It would mean one less mouth to feed and extra money every fortnight once she was earning. But death had cruelly robbed Rose of her ambitions for her beloved Margaret and she was not going to be thwarted a second time. No amount of badgering from John would sway her. Above all, she was determined that her eldest should do better in life than she had.
‘No,’ Rose was adamant. ‘The lass has just been made a monitress. Likely she’ll be a pupil teacher by the spring - Miss Quinlan said as much.’
‘You shouldn’t be filling her head full of fancy ideas,’ John complained. ‘What do you want her to be a teacher for any road? No man’ll want to marry her, that’s for sure.’
‘She’ll be able to stand on her own two feet and fend for herself without being beholden to a man,’ Rose answered quietly but with an edge to her voice.
John gave her a surly look. ‘Well, if you won’t see sense over the lass you can stop your complaining about lack of money then,’ John said harshly, spitting into the fire and startling Elizabeth. ‘I’m the only one doing an honest day’s graft around here.’
‘And what do you think I do all day long?’ Rose remonstrated. ‘I never stop. There’s no nine-hour day for us women with a house full of bairns!’
Elizabeth glanced between them anxiously, aware that they were arguing over her again. Her two sisters fell silent and stole out of the room, preferring to play in the dank back lane than listen to the adults wrangling.
Rose and John continued to snipe at each other until the baby began to whimper. Then both of them reached to calm him.
‘I’ll see to him,’ Rose said testily.
‘Haway and give him here,’ John insisted, holding out his arms.
Rose gave in without much protest, silently thankful that her husband was willing to pacify the unhappy infant. The baby’s crying alternately filled her with panic and jarred on her frayed nerves. But John was surprisingly patient with their son and was soon pacing the small room, clutching him tightly and whistling Irish tunes until the wailing subsided.
This was how many of their arguments ended, petering out in concern over the child, bringing them together in shared worry. Jack was the cause of most disputes between them, but also the remedy. Rose felt fiercely protective of her tiny, delicate son, struggling to hold on to life, and she recognised the same passion in John’s rugged, concerned face. But the New Year came with no improvement. If anything, the baby’s weight was dwindling and during the short, raw days of January he contracted a cold which made him almost impossible to feed.
Rose, frantic with worry, stayed up nursing him by the fire, calling on the saints for help. She had no energy left for her daughters and scolded them if they came too near or coughed over their brother. Her only thoughts were for her son and keeping him alive. Somehow he symbolised her new start in life with John, this second chance of some security and a home life. If Jack died, Rose feared the rough tenderness and care that had grown between her and John would die with him, wither in the bitterness and guilt of losing their shared child.
She knew how much Jack meant to her husband. He was fiercely proud of this son he had waited so long for and thought he might never have. John rarely talked of his former life in India, but Rose knew it had been hard and at times he had thought he would never return alive. She also suspected Jack was extra special because he had no link with William. When John looked at her daughters, Rose knew he was reminded of her first husband. However much he laid down the law to them in his own home, he knew he would never truly be their father. But Jack was different, prized and unique. He could not be replaced, for she never wanted to go through childbirth again. He must live!
Yet as the days dragged on, Rose could see her baby weaken and was filled with terror at the sight of him fading before her eyes. In panic one February day, she bundled up the moribund infant and ran through the streets to Dr McKay’s house.
‘He’s out on his rounds,’ the housekeeper told her with a disapproving look.
&
nbsp; ‘Please tell me where he is,’ Rose begged.
‘I can’t do that,’ the woman said primly.
‘You must,’ Rose choked. ‘Me baby’s dying!’
The stout woman hesitated, then said grudgingly, ‘I’ll ask him to call as soon as he returns. Where is it you live?’
‘Albion Street,’ Rose said hoarsely, trying not to cry. ‘Fifty-four. Ta, missus.’
She trailed home, buffeted by a strong westerly wind, her hopes ebbing with each step. When the doctor finally called it was dark and they were all gathered near the fire in the gloom. Dr McKay unwrapped the baby, examined him and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do, Mrs McMullen. He was born too early, hasn’t got the strength of the fully formed. A common cold could see him off.’
Rose crumpled in defeat and Elizabeth put comforting arms around her. But John was indignant.
‘Not fully formed? He’s a damn McMullen! Of course he’s fully formed. There’s nowt wrong with him that a bit of feedin’ up and a bit medicine for his chest won’t put right. Call yourself a doctor? I’m not paying you owt for talking like that about my son!’
Dr McKay drew himself up and snapped closed his leather bag. ‘You don’t owe me anything, Mr McMullen. But no medicine I could give him would make any difference.’ He turned to Rose. ‘Best call for Father O’Brien - only prayers might save him now.’
When the doctor left, John paced the floor like a caged animal, hiding his fear with angry outbursts while Rose cried quietly over her silent baby.
‘Damn doctors! They’re quacks the lot of ‘em! Killed off more soldiers with their meddling than the Afghans. Wouldn’t let one near me even if me leg was hanging off!’
‘Stop your shouting,’ Rose whimpered in distress. ‘Give the bairn a peaceful end, for pity’s sake.’
John strode across, knocking a chair out of the way, and seized her by the shoulders.
‘Don’t say that!’ He shook her hard, so that she almost dropped the near-lifeless infant. ‘Our Jack’s not dying! He’s not going to die, do you hear me?’
The Jarrow Lass Page 28
