The Factory Girl

by Maggie Ford

  He sat down opposite her, obliging another customer to move up a little, and leaned forward, peering into her wan features.

  ‘I know it ain’t no Buckin’am Palace, but it was the nearest in an emergency. Just take a couple of bites and drink the tea and yer’ll feel better and then we can find a decent place and talk. Yer need to talk, Gerry, yer really do, the state of yer when I saw yer. Now eat up, gel. Get yer strength back.’

  He was kindness itself. She thought of the time she had told him she did not want to see him again, how she must have hurt him, what he must have thought of her chucking him over for a man with money. Yet here he was behaving as if none of that had happened. She felt humbled.

  ‘You’re being very kind,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Oh, bugger that!’ He gave a small chuckle. ‘Damsel in distress – wot bloke wouldn’t come to ’er aid?’

  Geraldine took a small bite of the toast, found it palatable, even tasty, realised how hungry she was, as though she hadn’t eaten for a week. She took another bite and another, then a sip of tea, making certain to wipe the rim first in case it hadn’t been properly washed. The tea was hot, short of milk, bitter and strong enough to stand a blessed spoon upright in, Mum would have said.

  Normally she’d have pushed it aside in disgust but she gulped it down gratefully, finally putting the cup back on its saucer to lift her eyes to Alan.

  ‘I don’t feel hungry any more.’

  He was sipping his tea and thoughtfully eyeing her over the rim of the cup that looked more like a soup bowl it was so wide. He dropped his gaze to the half-eaten round of toast. His had already gone.

  ‘You ain’t ’ad much. Go on, get yerself stuck inter it. Yer need a bit more ter get yerself all the way ’ome on. ’Ow yer getting ’ome anyway? D’yer want me ter come with yer?’

  ‘No, I’ll get myself a taxi.’ She saw his chin tilt a little, one eyebrow raise itself slightly, and she realised what a snob she must have sounded and hurriedly tried to rectify it. ‘I don’t think I could get on a bus.’

  ‘No, I don’t s’pose so, like you are.’ He paused, apparently reflecting on their meeting, for when he spoke again it was to ask what she had been doing stumbling along on her own and in tears.

  ‘Yer seem in some sort of trouble, that’s fer sure. Where was yer comin’ from when I caught you up?’

  ‘Me Mum’s.’ It seemed easy to fall into his way of speaking.

  All of sudden she found herself pouring out all that she had wanted to tell her mother and couldn’t. He listened without interruption. The men sitting talking to each other next to Geraldine, seemingly oblivious to her, eventually left. The one sitting next to Alan lingered on, quite obviously ear-wigging as Mum again would have put it, for all Geraldine tried to keep her voice low. Until Alan gave him a long and deliberate penetrating look so that, clearing his throat noisily, the eavesdropper hurriedly got up and made his departure. Geraldine found herself quite suddenly admiring Alan for his strength of character in facing the man. She felt oddly protected and within her something reached out to Alan, a sensation she quickly stifled but which over the next half-hour kept arising.

  They didn’t seek another place to sit and eat in better surroundings. She said she just wanted to go home, even as she felt a strange longing to stay with Alan. Not that he’d said much, had offered no advice – simply listening had been enough – beyond saying that she must be careful to whom she spoke of the things she had told him.

  ‘It’s not the sort of stuff yer should be bandying about,’ he’d said quietly as the man who’d been sitting next to him left. ‘There’s big ears everywhere and someone always around ready ter make a bit of mischief. Yer never know ’oo’s listening.’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ she’d returned, colouring a little, aware of the man with ears virtually flapping like an elephant’s and pale blue eyes widening every now and again despite his obvious attempt to look nonchalant and interested only in his double helping of egg, chips and sausage.

  ‘But I see what you mean,’ she’d continued in a whisper even though the man had left and the table had become empty for the while, less working men around these days able to spend even in a cheap working men’s eating room. ‘I’m going to have to keep it all to meself in future.’

  He must have seen the loneliness register itself on her face for he’d leaned forward and, taking one of her hands between his, said softly, ‘If ever yer need someone ter talk to, I’m always ’ere. Yer know where I live.’

  It could have sounded like some overt invitation such as a man might give to a girl he fancied, but she knew that this was purely a warm offer of help and friendship, and again that strange flutter had made itself felt inside her, and again in a kind of alarm she hurriedly quelled it.

  He stood with her by the kerbside to hail a taxi, at one time pulling her gently back as a one-armed busker, a war veteran, trudged by playing a cornet, quite skilfully and tunefully, with his left hand.

  Automatically Alan reached into his trouser pocket and drew out a coin which he tossed into the box hanging by a thin string from the man’s neck, and on which a placard was pinned:

  ‘WOUNDED AT MONS – WIFE, FOR KIDS AND NO WERK’

  The gesture brought yet another pang to Geraldine, but this time she ignored it. She was feeling backachy, a dull throbbing that was beginning to take up all her thoughts. All she wanted now was for a taxi to hove into sight and get her home to that quiet room and soft sofa.

  ‘Are you on your own still?’ she asked by way of diversion while they waited for something to come along.

  He inclined his head in a wry sort of way. ‘I got me divorce, finally, but still on me own, yeah. Looks like that’s me future as far as I can see, bein’ on me own.’

  ‘You’ll find someone,’ she tried to console him. It proved the wrong thing to say for he turned his face to her and the look in his eyes pulled her up sharply, reading that look as plainly as though he’d spoken. ‘There’s no one I want,’ it seemed to say, ‘but you.’

  A split second later the look had vanished leaving her wondering if it had actually been there, that she must have misread what it had said to her as he quickly turned away in catching sight of a vacant taxicab rattling along the road. His hand shooting into the air, he signalled to the ever-alert driver who swung his vehicle over to the kerb.

  ‘There y’are,’ he said cheerily, and she thought for a moment that the cheeriness sounded false. ‘Soon be ’ome. And remember what I said, keep shtum! Certain things shouldn’t be talked about. But if yer need ter talk ter me, I’ll be there. Remember now.’

  She didn’t know why she did it, but as he helped her into the taxi, she awkward at getting in, she turned and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you for everything, Alan, for listening, for being there.’

  He seemed taken aback, but said calmly, ‘Remember what I said.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ she promised.

  ‘And good luck with the baby,’ he called as she closed the door. ‘And maybe yer’ll let me know what it is.’

  ‘I will,’ she called back as the taxi bore her away.

  By the time she reached home her back was killing her. How had it come on so quickly and what did it mean? Her mind harked back to the fall she’d had a couple of days ago – had it been that?

  If only she’d gone to see Doctor Bailey-Sutchens this morning instead of chasing off to see her mother. Nothing had come of that. It had been a waste of time, though meeting Alan Presley had been beneficial. She knew now that she had the hard task in front of her of keeping her husband’s illegal activities to herself – not easy when one’s insides were squirming with anxiety and fear of his getting caught.

  Geraldine got herself onto the sofa, gingerly, trying to concentrate all her thoughts on diminishing the slow ache in the middle of her back, and awkwardly because of her lump which, when she lay on her back, resembled an overlarge football and was just about as hard.

  If she had seen the doct
or, whatever it was that was creating this ache might have been sorted out and she’d be feeling comfortable now. She had so longed to spend a restful afternoon getting over this morning’s escapade, now all she was doing was suffering. Slowly, Geraldine allowed herself to relax and a huge sigh to escape her lips at the relief lying down afforded.

  Without warning there came a piercing pain in her stomach so that the sigh became an abrupt cry. Geraldine struggled to an upright position as the pain died away. But she was left rigid with a new fear. The baby wasn’t due for weeks. So what was that pain?

  She had little idea of childbirth. No one had ever explained it to her. Her mother had kept it very quiet as if it were as private a function as going to the toilet. All Geraldine could remember of it was being told as a child to go off next door to a neighbour, tell them Mum’s time had come, then to be taken into the neighbour’s house to be fed and put to bed there for the night, she and Mavis and Wally. They’d return home next day to be taken upstairs to their parents’ room, Mum in bed looking tired but smiling, in her arms a tiny baby, they being told to say hello to their new little brother – that had been Fred, another time to their new little sister, Evie. There’d been a couple of occasions when coming in they’d been told there wouldn’t be any baby this time, and all questions would be harshly dismissed.

  There had been no more babies after Evie and Mum had never spoken about it. So as for knowing what went on prior to a baby being born other than Mum growing stouter around the waist, beginning to waddle and finally to hold her back with both hands as if it ached, this was all Geraldine had ever known about childbirth.

  Now it was her turn. There came a mounting sense of panic arising from an inborn animal instinct that needed no prior instruction or handed-on knowledge. Instinct too told her that she was about to give birth and that it was too early. Something had to be done. And she was all alone.

  There was a telephone in the hall Tony occasionally used to talk with business people. She’d never had need to, was too terrified to ever try using the thing sitting there on the polished mahogany side table, tall and elegant in all its black, menacing glory, it’s technology there to confuse, the round, metal dial with its finger holes showing letters and numbers, its yawning mouthpiece at the top, all making her fearful of touching it and doing harm.

  What would she do if she lifted the earpiece from its hook on the thin black stem to hear someone speaking to her? What would she say? But now a fresh bout of grinding pain got her to her feet in a panic and sent her stumbling to the hall and the thin, upright instrument.

  With the earpiece jammed against her ear she heard that dread voice. It was asking for the number. What number? What was she supposed to say?

  ‘I don’t know any number,’ she gasped into the mouthpiece that sat at the top of the stem.

  Her tone must have sounded frantic for the voice that had been so frighteningly efficient, now grew concerned. ‘Who are you wishing to call?’ it asked gently.

  ‘I need the doctor.’ In one breath she poured out his name and the street where he had his practice and that she’d not used a telephone before and didn’t know how, ending, ‘I’m about to have my baby!’

  The voice became urgent. ‘One moment please. Don’t hang up.’

  ‘Hang up?’ Geraldine queried idiotically, not knowing the phrase.

  ‘No, don’t hang up! Keep holding the receiver to your ear and wait.’

  Geraldine did as she was told, despite the beginnings of another pang coming on. It was an immense relief to finally hear the doctor’s voice asking who she was. Nothing had ever sounded sweeter. Quickly she gasped out her name, and to his question, her address, just able to add her need of him before the contraction had her breaking off with a cry of pain, dropping the earpiece to sink to her knees in an effort to help it subside.

  She remained there, unable to think what next to do, the earpiece still dangling by her side, until a rat-a-tat on her door made her struggle to her feet. She got to it, opened it as yet another contraction had her falling into the doctor’s arms.

  ‘Please help me,’ was all she could whimper ineffectually, then, ‘I ’ave to tell Tony, my ’usband,’ refined speech gone out of the window, still but a fine veneer over what she truly was.

  After that it was all a blur – being helped back to the sofa, the doctor making a telephone call while she lay moaning; people coming in to help her down the stairs and into an ambulance, being wheeled through the entrance of the private nursing home and into a white-painted single ward; examined by a doctor then being surrounded by nurses, and of pain, mounting pain that had her screaming, uncaring of who heard her, and pleading for all this to be over.

  The midwife glanced up at the doctor attending and the silent message that passed between them was brief but significant, accompanied by the midwife giving an audible click of the tongue. This was plainly a breech, the bottom being presented rather than the head as in a normal birth.

  Fortunately, being an eight-month baby, it was small and manageable and hopefully wouldn’t cause too many complications. Confidently they set to work to deliver the child as skilfully as possible while the mother, crying and moaning, needed to be coaxed or bullied as the case may be into doing whatever she was told to do as best she could. The doctor stood by, his presence required at any complicated delivery. Trying to turn the child at this stage had proved useless, so a breech delivery it would be though he didn’t foresee any real problem – the baby was small, the mother strong, and his nurses some of the best.

  Even so it took several hours of the mother’s strength to push the little buttocks clear of her young and strong pelvic girdle, positioned with her body balanced over the foot of the bed so that such a delivery could be handled easier. But when the child finally decided to come into the world, it was far swifter than even their training had prepared them for.

  All were well aware that a baby’s head, the largest part of its body, would stretch the pelvic girdle enough to let the rest follow easily, but a child’s bottom had no such girth, the child shooting out far too quickly.

  It was exactly what happened, a nurse leaping forward with a cry of alarm to hold the tiny body back before the head could appear. No breech baby could be allowed to enter the world so fast that the head, face up, became caught while still inside the mother. The method was that with her pelvis on the edge of the bed, her child could be eased out and down giving enough room for the head to emerge without harm.

  Seeing the danger at the same time as did the nurse, the doctor too sprang forward, automatically and instinctively, ready to hold back the eager child before the pull on its tiny head could rupture fragile blood vessels.

  Between them neither did their job well. The head had already popped out, being jerked in the process. Both faces registered alarm as the nurse took the child and laid it on the waiting side table. Then came a cry every midwife dreaded – thin, high-pitched, unnatural, like the cry of a seagull – often called a seagull cry. What they feared had happened. Already the little face was turning blue and rapidly darkening. There was nothing they could do. In less than a quarter of an hour the child would be dead.

  Instantly relieved of pain, Geraldine lifted her head in relief and anticipation to the group standing around her baby, their backs to her.

  ‘Is it all right?’ she queried. ‘What have I got? It is a girl or a boy?’

  A nurse turned and came over to her, a bleak expression on the woman’s face, the hand slightly outstretched as if to allay something.

  ‘A girl,’ she said simply, flat-toned.

  Lying back, tired from her ordeal, Geraldine dismissed the almost non-existent sense of foreboding that solemn look brought to her, and smiled. Nurses, especially older ones like this, could be dour. Soon she would be taken back to a private ward and Tony allowed in to view his daughter lying in her arms, all clean and wrapped in her new shawl.

  The doctor had come to join the nurse, was peering down at her, ang
ular face so serious she wanted to laugh. Perhaps to him delivering children was a serious business.

  But her laugh had become nervous, the doctor’s expression bringing slow awareness of something not being as it should be. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. She was being silly; what could be wrong?

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ began the doctor, but she was now ahead of him.

  ‘What’s the matter with her? What’s happened?’ Her voice sounded high-pitched to her own ears.

  He was still staring down at her. He had taken one of her hands between his. ‘I have to tell you, you have lost the child,’ she heard him say as from a long way off. ‘I’m so very—’

  But already she was screaming her disbelief, struggling against his pacifying hands so that the nurses had to hurry over to help calm her.

  She knew little else but for a sharp prick on the skin of her upper arm until coming to her senses much later to have reality press in upon her with all its cruel weight, reducing her to feeble weeping, aware of Tony beside her, ineffectually smoothing back her hair from her forehead, gazing into her tear-filled eyes. His own too were full of tears.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Gerry, my love, it’s been more than four weeks. You must start making an attempt to get over this.’

  Her only reply was to look at him as though he were speaking some foreign language. It was like this the whole time and was driving him mad for all he tried to see things from her side. Granted, it probably did not seem that long to her since the loss of the baby; granted, it was still all too fresh in her mind to grasp that life had to go on; granted, that had the baby lived it would be lying in its crib, but all the grieving in the world wouldn’t alter what had happened. Yet she seemed to think that it would.

  The crib had been put up in the loft along with the box of baby clothes, the fluffy toys, the teething rings, the napkin squares, the little baby bath – all at his insistence in a vain attempt to stop Geraldine moping, going endlessly through the stuff and weeping at each unused item, and especially in an effort to try to stop her referring to her lost child by name as though it were alive – Caroline this, Caroline that. He wondered how much longer he’d be able to put up with it.