At last they said their good nights and, half an hour later, the house was still. Rose prepared herself for the journey. She had bought and concealed a wrap-around dress, which she now took from the wardrobe drawer. There was a big cardigan to wear over it and, for underneath, an outsize under-slip, knickers, stockings and garters. With the navy-blue gabardine buttoned but left unbelted she looked large but not noticeably expectant, she thought.
She pulled the bag from its hiding place and, quiet as a mouse, left the bedroom, slipped down the stairs and out into the backyard.
The station was only yards away, across Waters Green and she was not seen as she went over the square. The station was deserted and nobody saw her, sitting in a dark corner of the platform, her pulse racing. She strained her ears towards the tunnel, willing the train to come.
It was freezing cold and the wait interminable. Her eyes ached from the strain of looking into the darkness of the tunnel. She felt she’d been here for hours. She made her way to the blacked-out waiting room and went to stand under the eerie, blue-shaded light. She looked at her watch. Twelve-thirty. She had been there for two hours. She left the waiting room to go back to her seat outside.
‘Who’s there?’ A railway porter was walking towards her down the platform. ‘Who is it?’
Rose got to her feet. ‘I was waiting for the eleven o’clock to Manchester,’ she told him.
‘Didn’t you see the notice?’
‘Which notice?’
‘The one chalked up outside?’
‘No.’
‘It will take ’em a day or two before this station’s in use. The line’s been bombed south of Crewe.’
‘When do you think it will be clear?’
‘You’d best make for t’other station,’ he said. ‘This place will be out of action yet awhile.’
Rose picked up her bag and went to the exit. She was cold, hungry and faint. If she walked down the Manchester Road she could wait for a bus as soon as it was light.
She passed the Temperance Hotel, climbed the Hundred and Eight steps and set her feet in the direction of Manchester. She must put a few miles between herself and Macclesfield before she stopped for a rest, though there was a dragging sensation low down in her back, from the climb.
Chapter Twenty-three
Thinking about it afterwards, Nat revised his belief that chance and coincidence were the explanations of fools. If everything had not come together as it did, then the outcome might have been tragic.
Right from the start there had been many differences from the old pattern of his days. For one thing, that week he’d started to deliver his milk in the late afternoon instead of early morning. It was pitch black in the mornings and he was training a new horse since Dobbin was old. But that night he’d taken Dobbin because it was a Monday, Mona’s free night and Dobbin was used to being left in the stable behind the Swan. He had taken Mona to the pictures.
Again, that night he’d been later than usual in leaving Mona’s house. Her mother was up and they’d waited until she went to bed before he could get down to business, do what he’d been wanting to do for months, what he should have done years ago – ask Mona to marry him. She’d said ‘Yes’.
It was to turn out to be the best decision he’d ever make but on that night he’d not been sure she would have him. He’d wanted to ask her for weeks but Mona was very popular and he’d always felt there might be someone waiting to snatch her away from him. Mona said she’d been hoping he’d ask her. She said she’d like to be a farmer’s wife, so it was with a heart full of hope and anticipation that he’d left her. He walked back to the Swan, hitched the cart, lit the little lantern, fixed it to the front and set off for Rainow at half-past one in the morning.
The cold was intense and the road fast and icy but Dobbin was well shod and heavy on his feet. Nat was eager to get home and get his head down for a couple of hours before the morning milking. He sang a little, there on the box, his muffler round his neck, woollen hat knitted by Mam pulled down over his ears, the reins loose in his gloved hands as he watched the glittering new frost he could see on the bit of road ahead of Dobbin’s steadily jigging ears.
It was one of those dark nights with a high half-moon. There was a halo round it and had been for three nights on the run. It was going to be a hard winter.
All at once, about a mile after they had left the houses behind, Dobbin lifted his head, put back his ears and, within half a dozen paces, halted. Nat was almost pitched out on to the shafts.
‘Gidd-up,’ he urged when he’d righted himself. He sent a wave of pressure along the rein. ‘Go on. Gidd-up.’
Dobbin threw back his head, rattling the harness as he whinnied in protest. Something must have startled him. Nat clambered down to have a look. Aye, there was something. It was a body, almost tucked under the hedge. Someone lay there, an arm outstretched, clutching a bag. It was a woman.
‘Good God,’ Nat said as he went towards the slumped figure. ‘What’s to do?’
He crouched down beside her and moved aside the coat that was covering her face. It was Rose Kennedy, half frozen to death and moaning in pain. He’d have to do something and quick. He went to the horse’s head. ‘Hey-oop! Hey-oop! Ease over,’ he said, drawing the shafts alongside so that he could get some light from the lantern.
Dobbin stood quietly, snorting softly, his steaming breath warming the side of Nat’s face while he carefully rolled Rose onto her back. He’d have to watch how he lifted her. There might be something broken.
He unfastened her fingers from the handle of the bag. Where on earth was she going, with a bag, in the dead of night? She was alive and her arms weren’t broken for now she had grabbed at his hand with both of hers. She was turning her head this way and that; groaning.
‘Help me. Please help me.’ Her face was twisted with pain. ‘Alan, Alan,’ she was calling.
‘It’s not Alan, love. It’s me. Nat.’ He put a hand under her head and slipped the muffler behind her neck to keep it off the earth. He wanted to check her legs before he lifted her on to the trap.
‘Nat! Take me to Manchester,’ she cried. ‘Take me to Manchester. I have to go to . . .’ Then she fell back again.
‘Eeh, Rose. Yer in no state to go off ter Manchester, love,’ he said, to soothe her. ‘How are yer legs? Can yer move them?’
He saw her bring her feet up a little way. Good. There was nothing broken then. ‘Where’s the pain?’
‘My back.’
‘Now,’ he said as he slipped an arm gently under her shoulder. ‘Put yer ’ands round me neck. I’m going to lift yer.’
She tried but dropped back, catching her breath against a second spasm of pain. Nat grasped her shoulder and slipped his other arm under her knees.
She weighed more than he expected her to but he lifted her easily, taking her up in his strong arms. Her coat fell open at the same moment he realised that the heaviest part of her was in the middle. He’d expected the head and arms to balance the weight of her legs. The lass was having a baby. And by the pain she was in she’d have it before morning.
He laid her gently on the floor of the cart and reached into the box for a horse blanket to wrap around her shaking limbs. He went back for her bag and rolled it to lie under her head.
‘Take me to Manchester,’ she cried. ‘I have to go to the Home.’
‘You’ll be a’reet, lass.’ Nat tucked the blanket around her, to keep in her warmth. She was much too cold. ‘You’ll not get to Manchester afore’t babby comes. I’ll tek yer up to Mam. Hold tight now. All reet?’ He fastened the little door at the back of the cart and jumped up on to the driving seat. He’d get her up to Rainow safely.
‘Go on!’ He flicked the rein.
The old horse, old Dobbin, must have known it was her. He made the trip faster and smoother than he’d ever done, easing that old cart gently round the corner of the lane on to the frozen cobbles of the silent farmyard.
Nat fastened Dobbin’s reins to
the post before lifting Rose from the floor of the cart. She was unconscious. He carried her to the back door, opening it by placing his shoulder against the latch.
Mam had left the kitchen lamp on low and he made his way through into the living room where he laid her gently on the big deep settee that was drawn up to the last glowing embers of the fire. The other door led to the front hall and the steep wooden staircase. He went quickly up them and into Mam’s bedroom.
‘Mam. Come quick!’ He shook her shoulder. ‘Come downstairs. You’re needed. She’s havin’ a baby.’
His mother was awake in an instant, sitting up, staring at him. ‘What? What’s goin’ on?’
‘Come down,’ Nat said, ‘as fast as yer can. I’ll go and sit wi’ her.’
He descended the stairs and found Rose conscious again, coming to, her knees drawn up in pain. He leaned over the back of the settee and spoke comfortingly to her. ‘You’ll be all right. Mam’ll be down in a minute.’
Then Mam was here in her dressing-gown, kneeling beside Rose, talking to her, her capable hands easing, loosening, feeling her abdomen with expert fingers.
She turned an angry look on to him. ‘Is this your doing?’ she snapped. ‘Are you responsible?’
‘Eeh, Mam!’ Nat said. ‘Of course not. She’s Alan McGregor’s girl.’
‘Well, she’s in a poor way,’ Mam said. ‘Lift her up while I get her coat off.’
Nat went to lift her as Mam asked, ‘Who is she?’
‘Don’t yer know? I thought you’d a’ recognised Rose Kennedy.’
Mam looked from him to Rose who was groaning again. ‘Oh, Nat,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know. I haven’t seen her since she was born.’ With her hand Mam brushed back the hair from Rose’s face. ‘Heavens, yes,’ she said. ‘I’d have known her anywhere.’
She stood up, brisk and capable. ‘Go back to Macclesfield,’ she said, ‘and fetch her mother.’
‘Her mother’s dead, Mam.’
Mam looked down quickly at Rose who appeared to be losing consciousness again. ‘Carrie Shrigley’s her mother,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Carry her upstairs for me, will you? We’ll have to put her in your room until I make up the spare bed. Then go back as fast as you can and fetch her. Fetch Carrie Shrigley. She ought to be here.’
He lifted Rose again and carried her upstairs to his bedroom with Mam two steps behind him all the way. He put her down on his bed and looked at his mother.
‘Go now,’ she said. ‘As quick as you can.’
He went out into the night and unfastened the horse. ‘We’ve got to get back there, Dobbin,’ he said, closing the right rein to turn the poor old beast. ‘Gidd-up.’
There was someone hammering at the front door. Carrie came out of a deep sleep at the sound. Her hands shook as she reached for her dressing-gown. Who could it be? A dozen possibilities came to her as she went down the dark stairs. ‘I’m coming. Stop that noise,’ she called.
It stopped. She stood behind the closed door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Nat Cooper. Open up.’
It was definitely his voice. Carrie unbolted the top and bottom bolts on the door, grasped the big brass handle and opened it a little way. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
He pushed the door wider, making her fall back into the hall. ‘It’s your Rose. She’s up at Rainow. Come quick.’
‘Rose?’ Carrie said, puzzled and annoyed at the same time. ‘She’s in bed. What are you doing, disturbing people in the dead of night?’
Nat Cooper hadn’t the patience to explain. ‘She’s with Mam,’ he said. ‘I found her on the Manchester Road. About an hour ago. Get yer things. Come quick, Mam says.’
‘Martha says?’
‘Aye. Come on!’
She couldn’t believe it. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘Shut the door.’
But he was halfway out, telling her to hurry. ‘I’ll be outside. I’ve got the cart. Hurry up.’ He went down the step, pulling the door to behind him.
There must be some mistake. Carrie hurried, wide awake, through to the kitchen and up the back stairs. ‘Rose?’ she said as she opened the girls’ room door. ‘Rose?’
She put on the light. There was nobody there. The room was empty, the beds made neatly, a few clothes over the back of a chair.
Carrie went down the stairs and back up to her room, panic rising in her as she went. What was Rose doing? Why was she walking to Manchester? Whatever for? Had she run away? Why?
She dressed as fast as she could, dragged her hair into a knot and pulled on a close-fitting hat. If she had to go to Rainow on that cart she’d need to wear something warm. She was going through all the practical motions, finding her heavy coat and strong shoes, and her lined gloves.
What was going on? Was Rose ill? Had she collapsed? Carrie ran down the stairs and outside to where Nat sat, reins in his hand, impatient to go. ‘Get in quick,’ he ordered. ‘Fasten the back and hold on tight. It’s goin’ to be a rough ride.’
Carrie held on to the seat with one hand and the side with the other as they went racing through the dark streets, on to the Manchester Road, then steep-turned and began the climb into the hills, the cart lurching and swinging over deep, frozen ruts.
Was Rose ill? Had she become delirious and gone wandering? Carrie felt sick from fear and the jolting motion of the ride but shortly the movement stopped and the only sound was the horse’s snorting. Then they were in the yard.
‘Go in at t’back. Mam’s with her,’ he said, handing the lantern to her. ‘I’ll stable the horse and get ready for t’milking.’
Carrie pushed open the back door and entered. ‘Martha?’ She heard feet clattering down the stairs then Martha came into the dimly-lit kitchen. ‘Get your coat off, Carrie. She’s upstairs,’ she said. Her voice sounded severe.
‘What is it, Martha?’
Martha clasped her hands together and came closer. By the light of the lamp Carrie saw the stern look go, saw sympathy replace it. ‘You don’t know?’ she said at last. ‘She’s in labour Carrie. Her waters have broken. It’s going to be a long, hard one.’
‘Rose? A baby? Oh, my God.’ She couldn’t believe it. Carrie took off her coat and put it in Martha’s hands. ‘Take me to her. Where is she?’
‘Upstairs.’ Martha took the coat into the living room. ‘Follow me.’
Carrie followed Martha to the bedroom where, under the covers on a high bed in the room where a fire burned in the little grate, Rose lay very still and white. The poor child must have been desperate. Lonely and afraid. How could she have concealed it? What kind of a mother had she been, that her only child ran away in her hour of need? It tore Carrie’s heart, seeing her here, in a stranger’s house, pale and fearful.
She went towards her, reaching out her hands. ‘Rose, oh Rose love,’ she said in a voice full of love. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Rose turned her head to look at her. Tears began to brim, quiver and fall in the sweet face that lay frightened and ashen against the pillows. Then a hand came out and reached for Carrie’s and all the love and protectiveness that she felt for this child of hers rose up in response to Rose’s need of her.
She held on to Rose’s hand and tried to pass all the strength that was in her to the girl who, she believed, was her only reason for living. She leaned over and gently, she kissed her. ‘You’re going to be all right, Rose,’ she said softly. ‘I’m here.’
Then Rose’s arms were around her neck and wet tears were running down both their faces as they held one another close for the first time in their lives, Carrie making soft sounds of comfort into her daughter’s face and neck; tears and hands and cheeks and lips mingling as they clung together.
It felt as if they had been there for hours, not minutes, crying and murmuring to one another until at last Carrie disentangled herself, gazed at her with tenderness, picked up a towel and began to dab carefully at Rose’s face. ‘Now, love,’ she said in a voice breaking with emotion. ‘We’re going to get this baby
born.’
‘I’m frightened,’ Rose said.
‘Well, you’re not to be. There’s me and Martha here to see you through it. I want you to do as we say . . .’
She lifted the coverlet to examine Rose. Martha had placed hot-water bottles, wrapped in flannel all round her to warm her and had dressed her in a long white shift.
Carrie looked up at Martha. ‘How far is she, Martha?’ she asked.
‘The pains have stopped,’ Martha said. ‘That’s the worry. If the afterbirth separates before the baby comes . . .’
‘Yes, I know . . .’
Martha looked at Rose’s face. ‘We’ll have to keep her warm and quiet until we can get those pains coming again,’ she said.
Rose was shaking her head. ‘No more,’ she whispered.
Carrie went to the head of the bed. Now she was filled with a sense of purpose. This was something she could do – and do well. She had never lost a mother or a baby. And she wasn’t going to start with her own flesh and blood.
‘We’ll have no more of this talk, Rose,’ she said. ‘This baby is going to be born today. You’ll have pain but it won’t be beyond you. It won’t be more than you can stand. And when they start again love, you must go with them. Don’t fight them. We’ll be helping you.’
‘Don’t leave me . . .’ Rose began.
Carrie straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll be here,’ she said. ‘All the time. But I want you to rest. I’ll get you a hot drink. There’ll be something in it to make your pains come on.’
Carrie looked at Martha. ‘Have you given her anything?’
‘I gave her ergometrine, and quinine,’ she answered.
‘Good. Then I’ll make her some hot tea with plenty of sugar in it to warm her.’ She looked at Rose, willing her to respond. ‘And you’re to get it down and try to sleep until your labour starts again. All right?’
There was a moment or two before a look of courage came into her eyes, then, ‘All right,’ she said.
‘I’ll go down for the drink, Martha,’ Carrie said. ‘You sit with her until I get back.’
Carrie went downstairs and found Nat in the kitchen, filling a kettle.
Mill Town Girl Page 36
