The Apprentices

by Leon Garfield

  But she never looked at Blister in that certain way, and every Christmas Eve Blister would grow frightened that someone else had been chosen to bear the glory of the world. The dreamy frown, but now tinged with apprehension and melancholy, settled on her face as she floundered on in Moss’s wake.

  “Make ’aste, marm!” shrieked out a linkboy, streaking his torch along a row of railings, so that a fringe of fire fell down and iron shadows marched across the houses like the army of the Lord. “Cat’s ’avin’ kittens!”

  “There’s a imp for impidence!” puffed Moss, shaking her fist and making as if to rush upon the hastily fleeing offender. “Just let me catch ’im and I’ll pop ’im back where ’e came from!”

  “Just let me catch ’im!” screeched Blister, shaking her fist likewise, so that midwife and apprentice made a pattern in the street, of wrath in two sizes.

  Then Moss gave up and beckoned to Blister; there was no time to waste; they were needed in Glass House Yard, where Mrs. Greening’s waters had broken and the whole household was having contractions in sympathy.

  “D’yer fink it’ll be the one?” panted Blister, swinging her heavy business bag from one hand to the other. “You know. ’Im what’s comin’ for the second time?” Her voice trembled, and so did her lip.

  “Nar,” said Moss. “It’s got to be in a stable, Blister. Ain’t I told you that? There’s got to be a donkey and three kings and wise men with frankincense and—and more.”

  “Wot’s frankincense?”

  “It’s a sort of fruit. Summat between a orringe and a pommygrunt,” answered Moss, who did not care to appear ill-informed.

  Blister nodded. They really were pig ignorant, the pair of them; although why a pig, who knows where to find truffles and live the good life, should be put on a level with Moss and Blister, passes understanding. Moss didn’t even know that the world was round, while Blister didn’t know that China was a place as well as a cup. Moss’s arithmetic—apart from counting out her fee, about which she was remarkably sharp—was confined to the natural proposition that one and one, coming together, can make one, or, sometimes, two—twins being the largest number she had ever been called upon to deliver. And Blister was even more ignorant than that.

  Although she knew her trade in every particular, and could have delivered a baby as safely as kiss your hand, she’d no more idea of how the seed had been planted than she knew what happened to the River Thames after it went past Wapping. Moss had never seen fit to enlighten her. In Moss’s view, all that Blister needed to know was how to get babies out; getting them in was no part of the trade. The nearest she ever came to telling Blister was at Christmastide, when she went on, with a radiant smile, about a woman being with child of the Holy Ghost. This made Blister very frightened; she had nightmares of being confronted, when she least expected it, by something inexpressibly fierce in a sheet:

  Presently they reached Glass House Yard, and there was Mr. Greening’s shop, leaking light and commotion at every joint. They began to cross the dark cobbles when Moss cried out.

  “Stop! Stop!” She halted in her tracks with her arms spread out so that her cape fell down like a pair of mildewy wings. Something had darkened her path.

  “Black cat, Blister! Cross your fingers and think of wood—else the baby will be wrong way round!”

  Obediently Blister dropped her bag, crossed her fingers, and emptied her mind of everything except a broomstick that stood behind Moss’s kitchen door. It was the only wood she knew.

  “Done it, mum.”

  Moss heaved a sigh of relief and advanced upon the premises of Mr. Greening.

  “You can’t be too careful,” she said, giving her famous double knock upon the door. “Not where such ’appiness is at stake!”

  “They’re ’ere! They’re ’ere! Thank Gawd you’ve come! Mr. Greening—it’s the midwife! Mrs. Greening! It’s all right now! Oh, thank Gawd you’re ’ere! They’re all goin’ off their ’eads! Is it always like this, marm?”

  Mr. Greening’s apprentice, who was small and sharp like a weasel, and who nursed ambitions of becoming one of the family, was quite beside himself with anxiety and excitement as he admitted Moss and Blister through the trade counter that occupied the entrance of the establishment. They’ll remember this, he thought to himself as he took Moss’s cape and offered to assist Blister with her bag. They’ll remember how I give up me Christmas and worritted myself sick like a son!

  Mr. Greening himself appeared. He was an ugly man with a nose like a warty old potato. He was a silverer of mirrors, which was an unusual trade for one of his unlucky appearance.

  “Thank God you’ve come!” he cried.

  Next came the Greenings’ two daughters, young ladies of twelve and fourteen and quite as ugly as their father.

  “Thank God you’re here! We thought ma was going to die!”

  Then a maidservant looked in, and a neighbour’s wife, and they thanked God for Moss, so that Moss felt deliciously holy all over. With a wave of her hand she dispatched Blister upstairs to see how things were proceeding; then she went into the warm, bright parlour to receive whatever else of respect, gratitude, and hospitality might be coming her way.

  “This way, miss! Do let me carry yer bag. Gawd, it’s ’eavy!” exclaimed the weaselish apprentice as he conducted Blister up the stairs and towards the room from which Mrs. Greening could be heard moaning and peevishly inquiring where everyone had gone. “Wotcher got in it, miss? The Crahn jewels?”

  “Instryments,” said Blister. “Knives and forksips and fings.”

  “Gawd,” said Mr. Greening’s apprentice. “It’s a real business, ain’t it?”

  Blister smiled proudly, and the weaselish one couldn’t help reflecting that the saucer-eyed Blister was a raving beauty compared with the two Miss Greenings at whom he’d set his cap in the hopes of marrying one of them—he didn’t care which—and inheriting the business.

  “Make much money at it?”

  “Not on Christmas Eve,” said Blister. “We don’t charge then.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Ain’t you ’eard? It’s on account of the Son of God might be comin’. It’s all written down.”

  “I never ’eard of that one!”

  “You’re pig ignorant, you are,” said Blister loftily.

  “No more’n you. ’Ow would you silver a mirror?”

  “Dunno. ’Ow would yer deliver a hinfant arse first?”

  “Send for you! What’s yer name?”

  “Blister. ’S on account of me skin bein’ all bubbly when I come out. What’s your name?”

  “Bosun. It’s on account of me family bein’ Bosuns.”

  “I never ’ad a family. I was given to Moss when she delivered me. Sort of present. Moss took a fancy to me, called me Blister, and brung me up.”

  “Like ’er daughter?”

  “’Prentice. She ain’t got a daughter. . . .”

  Bosun nodded and, with an affable smile, stood aside for Blister to enter Mrs. Greening’s room.

  The lady lay in her bed, weeping and groaning that all the world had abandoned her, that nobody cared any more, and that she was going to die.

  There was indeed some reason for this latter fear as she was advanced in years and had begun to believe herself past the age of childbearing. Like Sarah of old when the messengers from God had crossed the plain of Mamre to tell Abraham that his wife was with child, Mrs. Greening had laughed when Moss had called and left her card. She’d leaned behind the door and laughed at the stout little angel of the annunciation till the tears had run down her cheeks.

  But then, as the days and weeks had gone by, she’d come to laugh on the other side of her face, for Moss had been right and the mirror maker’s wife did indeed “have a little reflection in the glass.”

  “I’m going to die,” moaned Mrs. Greening, seeing that her visitor was only the midwife’s gawky apprentice. “It’s true—it’s true!”

  “Yus’m,” said Blister, wh
o had been taught there were two things in the world that there was no sense in arguing with: bad weather and a woman in labour.

  She opened her bag and began to set out the instruments on a table. They were a ferocious assortment: scalpels, cruelly curved bistouries, probes, leathern forceps, scissors, and a bone saw that, from age and infirmity, had lost all but a few of its harsh teeth. Moss had picked them up, as she liked to call it, at various stages in her career when she’d attended in the presence of surgeons. She hadn’t the faintest notion what they were for; the only instruments she actually used were her small strong hands and a pair of dressmaker’s scissors she’d also picked up and which she kept in her pocket to cut the umbilical cord. Nevertheless, she insisted that Blister always lay out the whole surgical armoury, as she felt the sight of it gave her a real professional standing and the air of one who was not to be trifled with.

  Mrs. Greening, watching Blister’s preparations, lost her fears in a terrified awe; dying was nothing beside what her imagination had suddenly proposed. Blister, sensing the lady’s respect, felt proud, but at the same time she couldn’t help wishing the weaselish apprentice outside the door could also behold her in her importance.

  She’d been quite taken with Bosun and had been flattered by his admiration for the mystery of her craft.

  “You must keep yer mouf shut, marm,” she said, loudly enough for Bosun to hear and be further impressed by her wisdom. “Breeve froo yer nose.”

  “Why must I do that?”

  “’Case yer baby’s born wivout sense or soul. Gets out froo yer mouf, marm.”

  For the time being, Mrs. Greening gave up groaning and shut her mouth.

  “That’s it, marm,” said Blister, and went to unlatch the window. “Mustn’t ’ave nuffink shut,” she said. “Else yer labour will be ’ard as nails. Winders, doors, boxes, cupboards, drors . . . all got to be open. An’ bockles, of course—”

  “What?

  “Bockles—bockles! No stoppers or corks in ’em. Anyfink corked up corks up you, too.”

  “Tell Bosun,” said Mrs. Greening feebly.

  But there was no need; Bosun had heard.

  “Right away, Mrs. G.! Don’t you fret, marm! Bosun’ll open everything!”

  With a sound of thunder, Bosun was off, turning keys, lifting lids, opening bottles, and dragging out crowded, obstinate drawers. They’ll remember this, he thought, when I comes to ask for the ’and of one of them ugly girls. They’ll remember ’ow Bosun ran ’is feet off like a lovin’ son!

  “Knots,” said Blister. “Mustn’t ’ave nuffink tied nor knotted. Twists you up, else. If you got a norse or a dawg, it’s got to be untied, else the hinfant won’t be able to get out.”

  All these strange requirements, these pebbles of magical wisdom that were laid up in Blister’s head, had been gathered by Moss in her rollings among mothers and grandmothers whose memories stretched back to the beginnings of time. Moss had taken them all in, rejecting nothing, however far-fetched, and passed them on to her apprentice with the deep words: “You can’t be too careful; not where such ’appiness is at stake!”

  “I think it’s dead!” said Mrs. Greening in a sudden panic. “I can’t feel it any more! It’s dead—it’s dead!”

  “Yus-m,” said Blister, and drawing back Mrs. Greening’s bedclothes, bent down and laid her large, sticking-out ear to Mrs. Greening’s hugely swollen belly.

  Now as no one was talking about Blister, her ears were as cold as ice.

  “Mother of God!” shrieked Mrs. Greening, and Blister started in pleased surprise to hear herself thus addressed.

  “Yus-m?”

  “The pain! The pain!”

  Downstairs in the parlour, Moss was sipping port wine, which always imparted a rare skill to her fingers and a brightness to her eyes.

  “Never put the stopper on, sir,” she said reproachfully to Mr. Greening, and gently but firmly she took the decanter into her own hands and refilled her glass. “Nor clasp your ’ands nor cross your legs, else the baby’ll never come.”

  Mr. Greening compressed his sensible lips and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. Nevertheless, he obeyed the midwife’s injunction. Even as he did so, everyone heard Mrs. Greening shriek out, and directly after came Blister’s shout.

  “She’s started! Come on up, marm! She’s on the way!”

  The mirror maker stared down in bewilderment at his uncrossed knees, and everyone else in the parlour looked terrified, as if they’d just received an inkling of a mysterious web of laws in which they were all caught like so many helpless flies. The neighbour’s wife, who had been inclined to regard Moss’s superstitions with contempt, now stared at the fat little midwife with a respect that bordered on dread. And so she should have done, for Moss knew very well what she was about and was right to neglect nothing when such happiness was at stake.

  Moss finished off her wine and rose to her feet.

  “I’ll call you,” she said, “when it’s over.”

  She left the parlour and briskly mounted the stairs. Outside Mrs. Greening’s door, she came upon Bosun, who had gone very white in the face as the cries and grunts from within increased in urgency.

  “You must cover up all the mirrors,” she told him, “else the baby will be born blind.”

  Bosun nodded and prepared to fly at the midwife’s bidding. She raised her hand.

  “And put neither wood nor coal on the fire till the cord’s cut, else the baby might be born dead.”

  “I never knew, I never guessed there was so much to it, marm.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” said Moss, sombrely, “where such ’appiness is at stake.”

  Bosun fled. They’ll remember this, he thought. They’ll remember ’ow Bosun was a real son to them!

  By the time he’d scoured the premises and covered up every last glimmer of reflecting silver and returned to his station outside the bedroom door, matters were far advanced. Panting and gulping, he listened. . . .

  “’Old ’er legs, Blister! Up a bit . . .”

  “Yus’m.”

  “Bear down, mother! Bear down wiv all yer might!”

  “I can’t! I can’t!”

  “’Old your breff when it comes on! ’Old yer breff when you feel it pushin’. . . .”

  “It’s burning me—it’s burning me like fire!”

  “Bear down again, mother! Blister! Give ’er knees another shove! Push, mother! Push like ye’r rollin’ a cart of ’ay!”

  “I can’t . . . I—I’ve no more strength!”

  “’Old yer breff agin! Ah! I can see it! Luvly little thing! Ye’r all but crownin’ now, mother!”

  “No—no! I don’t want to! It’s going to kill me! Stop it!”

  “’Eave ho! ’Eave ho!”

  But Mrs. Greening was still reluctant to bring forth the little “reflection in her glass,” and she began to curse and swear in a way that made Bosun’s toes curl up. He’d no idea his mistress knew such words, nor was so wild and abandoned a soul as she sounded.

  “’Eave ho! ’Eave ho! mother,” urged Moss, and there followed a most awesome grunting, as of stout hawsers straining when the full tide heaves a great vessel to tug against its moorings.

  “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”

  “’Eave ho! ’Eave ho!”

  “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”

  “Spread them knees a bit, Blister!”

  “Yus-m.”

  “There ain’t nothing knotted anywhere, Blister?”

  “Bosun!” screeched out Blister anxiously.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Bootlaces! Got ’em undone?”

  Bosun looked down. His shoes were tightly laced—and double-knotted. Guiltily he bent down and tried to untie them. Mrs. Greening moaned and groaned; Moss urged her to still greater efforts—and Bosun pulled and snapped his laces.

  “Done it—done it, miss!” he shouted in triumph, and Mrs. Greening gave a last mighty cry.

  “Clever girl!” said Moss. “Blister! Get me sciss
ors out, there’s a dear!”

  “Yus-m.”

  “Look what a luvly little thing it is! All its fingers and toes! Listen—listen! Ah! There it goes!”

  Suddenly there came a fragile sound, so thin and winding that it scarcely seemed to make its way through the air. It was the sound of a voice, brand new, never before heard since the beginning of time.

  And I done it! thought Bosun, looking down incredulously at his broken bootlaces. Oh, they’ll remember this when I comes to offer meself as their son!

  “Tell Mr. Greening!” said the mother’s exhausted, happy voice. “I want Mr. Greening to come. . . .”

  “Bosun!”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Go tell ’em it’s over and everyfing’s all right! Tell Mr. Greenin’ to come on up an’ ’ave a look at ’is wife an’ son!”

  They’ll remember this, thought Bosun, flying down the stairs, when I’m their SON!

  The last word came out aloud, in a dismayed grunt and squeal. A son! But now they’d already got one!

  In the twinkling of an eye the apprentice’s ambitions tumbled as the tiny creature, which he himself had done so much to deliver safely, usurped his prospects. He saw it all. It would grow and grow and, sooner or later, come to lord it over him; Bosun would count for nothing; the newcomer would inherit the business. . . .

  “You got a son, Mr. Greening,” he said, entering the expectant parlour and doing his best to keep the dismay out of his voice. “You got a bruvver,” he said, gazing mournfully at the two ugly daughters. At least, he thought, he would no longer have to worry which of them would be the least disagreeable to marry. It’s an ill wind, he reflected wryly, that don’t blow at least some good!

  Everyone in the parlour exclaimed aloud with joy and began hastening upstairs, while Bosun—passed-over Bosun—went about fastening latches, closing doors, and corking up all the bottles with the vague, melancholy feeling that he was bolting the stable door after the horse had gone. He looked down at his loosened shoes. He sighed.