‘What struggle?’ Dan said with scorn. ‘This isn’t Russia; you’re not going to get revolution here. People just want to make their way in the world like me and Millie; they don’t want all the good things in life done away with.’
Millie could see that Grant was livid. He came at Dan, shouting, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself! The General Strike was all about working men standing up for themselves, demanding decent pay and living conditions. We were promised those things after Flanders, for fighting the bosses’ war. You were there, don’t you remember?’ he bawled. ‘So what did you do in the General Strike, Dan?’
Dan squared up to him and Millie held her breath. ‘I drove a bus so that we could get to a midweek away game. There, I’m a capitalist and proud of it!’
‘You bastard!’ Grant fumed, and pulling back his fist he swung it into Dan’s stomach. Dan doubled up, winded. Marjory laughed, thinking it a game, until her mother grabbed her. Dan recovered and came back at Grant with fists flying. Walter tried to intervene and was hit in the face. Ella screamed and Marjory wailed. Millie and Teresa shouted at the men to stop, but to no avail. They brawled on the floor, knocking over chairs and sending the wedding plate flying. It smashed on the ground, still in its wrapping.
Millie seized Marjory from a petrified Ella and whisked her outside, followed by her mother. They calmed the terrified infant with hugs and soft words, while the fight inside raged on.
‘We should never have come, should we, Mam?’ Millie asked in distress. ‘You warned me how bad it was, but this is even worse.’
Teresa tried to comfort her. ‘It’ll probably do some good to let off steam. Grant’s at the end of his tether with talk of the strike breaking down in defeat. And Ava gives him a terrible time. He was a strange choice for her, but she just wanted to be wed. It’s a bad start for them.’
‘We have to stop them, Mam,’ Millie fretted. ‘If Dan’s injured, he’ll ruin his chances and be out of work.’ She hugged Marjory close. ‘Please stop them!’
Teresa touched Millie’s cheek with her hand. ‘That’s not all that’s worrying you, is it?’ she said, scrutinising her closely.
‘What do you mean?’ Millie asked, feeling sick with an unnamed dread.
‘You’re carrying a baby, aren’t you?’
Millie gaped at her mother’s wild suggestion. ‘No! I – I mean, I don’t know,’ she stuttered. ‘I don’t think . . . why would you possibly think that?’
‘I just sense it – you look pregnant to me.’
Tears welled up in Millie’s eyes. It would explain why she was feeling so odd these days, sick and tearful and as if her body was changing without her consent. She could not remember how long it was since her last bleed. She leant towards her mother, weak at the revelation, and burst into tears.
Teresa put her arms around her daughter and the tiny Marjory imprisoned in her hold. ‘See, that proves it,’ she smiled. ‘You’re going to have a baby at last.’
Chapter Thirteen
1927
Dan insisted that their firstborn should be attended to by a doctor, like the middle classes did, and had arranged for Millie to be seen by one in the city. Millie was nervous of the red-faced man, who was off-hand until he was assured they could afford him and then took pleasure in showing his array of metal instruments that he could use on her to ease the birth.
‘I’d be far happier just calling in Mrs Hodges, the midwife,’ Millie said afterwards, ‘and she’d only cost a few shillings rather than two pounds for that doctor and his instruments of torture.’
But Dan would not hear of it. ‘I want the best that money can buy for my son,’ he declared, ‘and for you.’ He had taken to kissing Millie on the head in a protective manner since the pregnancy had been confirmed, and their lovemaking had ceased on his insistence, ‘In case we harm him.’
Millie had given up asking what he would do if the baby turned out to be a girl. Dan just did not expect it. He came from a family of boys and could not imagine that his own child might be otherwise. The impending birth seemed to have given a fresh impetus to his football and he was playing brilliantly for the Vulcans. Supporters constantly told him that if Hughie Gallagher had not been brought from Airdrie to Newcastle United as their star centre forward, then Dan would definitely have a place on the First Division team. But Gallagher was their star player and captain, and seemed set to break club records with his goal-scoring. There was excited talk that Newcastle might become League champions for the first time since 1909, and a huge crowd of over 67,000 had crammed into St James’s Park the previous Saturday to see them beat local rivals Sunderland one-nil, with Gallagher scoring the crucial goal.
Dan’s admiration for Gallagher was transparent and Millie knew that he sometimes joined the Scotsman’s group of footballing friends who congregated at the William IV pub on Bottle Bank in Gateshead, to drink and play billiards. Now that Millie was so heavily pregnant, she no longer went with Dan on nights out, but he would roll home in a taxi, full of beer and laughter and stories about Gallagher’s generosity and good company.
But Millie sensed his admiration was mixed with envy that it was the tough young Scot who had been wooed by Newcastle for undisclosed thousands of pounds and wore their coveted number nine shirt, instead of him. So she was pleased that the thought of their first child was giving her husband such pleasure and anticipation. It had sweetened the bitterness of that terrible trip to Ashborough when Dan had ended up with a broken nose from his brawl with Grant. They had left with acrimonious words being shouted on both sides, and Dan had sworn never to visit his family again.
‘They can all gan to hell, Millie!’ he had ranted all the way home. ‘We’re better off without them.’ She knew deep down he did not mean it, but his pride had been hurt. He had wanted to help them, but they had thrown his generosity back in his face. They had not been back since, not even at Christmas, though she kept in contact with her mother by letter. From Teresa’s short notes, Millie gleaned that there was still little business at the hotel, even with the strike at an end, and although Walter was working again, there was no mention of Grant or Ava. She longed to see her mother again and was exultant that Teresa had agreed to leave Moody in charge for a week when the baby arrived and come and stay with them in their Tyneside home.
So as the March days lengthened and daffodils bobbed brightly behind the railings in the nearby park, Millie’s impatience grew to bursting point. She felt well and rested, but her baby now weighed heavily and stirred within her restlessly.
‘I’ve never seen a home this ready for a bairn,’ commented Dinah on one of her visits after work, as she gazed around the box room that they had decorated for the baby. They had painted it blue and yellow, with a stencil of toy soldiers and drums. The cot was in place with new sheets and blankets washed and pressed, Dan had painted an old chest of drawers blue, and there were blue and white gingham curtains at the narrow window. Dan had already bought several toys – a train, a duck on wheels, Dinky cars and wooden bricks – which lay piled in a box on the floor waiting to be used.
Millie caught Dinah’s look. ‘I know. I told him the baby won’t be able to play with these for ages, but he wouldn’t listen.’
Dinah laughed and touched Millie’s large bump gently. ‘I just hope you’re a boy in there, or God help you!’
‘It’ll play football whatever it is,’ Millie replied, hugging her baby with a tender smile.
It was while Millie was out buying bread at Tilley’s that she was gripped by a sudden acute pang. She had felt twinges before, a tightening in her belly that had sent Dan rushing out into the street to start up the engine of their new black Ford. But they had eased off and Millie had ended up laughing and feeling silly.
This time she gasped and clutched her bump. ‘I think it’s coming!’ The shop girl came running round the counter and steered her into the back of the shop, where she plonked her on a chair.
‘Shall I go for Mr Nixon?’ she queried, glanci
ng at Mrs Tilley for permission.
Millie winced as the pain came back again, and looked at them with anxious blue eyes. ‘He’s already gone. He’s playing away,’ she answered in panic. ‘The baby can’t come till he’s back!’
The women exchanged wary glances. ‘Who else can we call?’ Mrs Tilley asked kindly. ‘Dinah Fairish?’
‘Aye,’ Millie said breathlessly, ‘Dinah will help me.’
Dinah came rushing round from the hairdresser’s, squealed in delight and then rushed out again to fetch Bob before Millie could stop her. They drove back round in their car and made a fuss of helping her into it.
‘I can walk,’ Millie protested, gasping at another contraction.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Bob chided. ‘We’ll get you home and then I’ll go for that doctor Dan’s been on about. What’s his name?’
‘I’m not telling,’ Millie said stubbornly. ‘I’m not having him near me with them forceps things!’ She doubled up, convulsed in a new wave of pain. ‘Help me,’ she wailed.
She hung on to her friend’s arm so tightly that Dinah yelped. ‘All right, we’ll take you home.’
By the time they had driven the few hundred yards down Paradise Parade, parked and helped Millie upstairs to the flat, she was in agony.
‘You gan for Mrs Hodges in Cedar Crescent,’ Dinah ordered her husband, while she hauled Millie into the bedroom and helped her to undress. She rushed around the flat looking for newspaper to lay on the bed as she had done for her mother when younger siblings had been born.
‘You can’t use the sports pages,’ Millie cried faintly, clutching the bedframe.
‘Shut up and get into your nightgown,’ Dinah answered, stripping the bed of covers and laying out the newspapers. ‘It’s the racing results or a new mattress.’
Millie flinched, frightened by Dinah’s words, her mind filling with appalling thoughts of blood and mess. The doctor had never actually told her what would happen at the birth, and she had been far too in awe of him to ask.
‘What do I do?’ she pleaded.
‘Mam used to walk around the room singing the hundredth psalm,’ Dinah suggested.
‘Walk?’ Millie gasped. ‘I can hardly stand.’
‘Then lie down,’ Dinah ordered, and helped heave her on to the bed. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make us some tea. Mam always drank gallons of tea.’
Millie watched her through her bouts of sharp pain as Dinah brought in freshly brewed tea and poured her a cup. Then her friend disappeared into the adjoining sitting room.
‘What are you doing?’ Millie asked anxiously, wondering why she was taking so long.
‘Winding up the gramophone,’ Dinah called through. There was a crackle, followed by a jaunty burst of jazz.
‘This isn’t a tea dance!’ Millie shouted in disbelief.
‘It’ll take your mind off it,’ Dinah assured her, dancing back through the door with a grin and humming along to Count Basie.
By the time Mrs Hodges had been found, Dinah had been through the entire record collection and was starting again, while Millie was already gripped in the final stages of labour.
‘Turn that thing off,’ the craggy-faced midwife commanded in disapproval. ‘What will the neighbours think?’
Chastened, Dinah was put to dousing Millie’s sweating face with a wet cloth, though she continued to hum defiantly. Millie would have wanted to laugh if she had not been in such pain. Outside, the sky was a dull metallic grey, and she tried to concentrate on the sounds beyond. A delivery cart trundled up the street, a horse neighed, voices called, two dogs snapped as they passed each other, someone whistled. She had no idea what time it was, though she felt as if she had been lying in a red fog of pain for hours. A hooter sounded far off, somewhere down by the river, and then a strange sensation gripped her body and she shrieked aloud.
‘Quiet now,’ Mrs Hodges soothed. ‘The baby’s about to come.’
Dinah grabbed her hand and squeezed it so hard, Millie cried out. ‘This is it, Millie!’ Dinah squealed.
‘You keep quiet an’ all,’ the midwife ordered sternly, ‘or I’ll send you into the next room.’
‘I know what to do as much as you do,’ Dinah pouted. ‘You don’t want me to go, do you, Millie?’
Millie fixed her wide-eyed look on Dinah. ‘No, don’t go anywhere,’ she pleaded.
Then she was consumed by a searing pain, a force that seized her lower body as if it would rip her apart. The pain flooded her, pushing its way down like a tidal wave that would not be stopped. Mrs Hodges commanded when to push and when to stop, and Dinah broke into frantic song.
The small bedroom rang to the sounds of Millie’s panting and exertions, Dinah’s hysterical singing and the midwife’s chorus of instructions. Suddenly she felt the solidness of her baby push its way between her legs in an agonising rush that nearly made her pass out. Then there was relief, like the backwash from a ferocious wave. She sank on to the pillow, numb and shaking from the ordeal. It was over.
‘Is it a boy?’ she gasped.
There was a cry from Dinah: ‘What’s that?’
‘The cord’s wrapped around the bairn’s neck,’ Mrs Hodges hissed. ‘Quickly, pass me that bag.’
‘Is he all right?’ Millie wailed. ‘Oh God, my baby! My baby!’
There was a frantic bustling around the bed where the baby lay motionless, an unrecognisable bloodied bundle. Millie howled in distress. Dinah was not singing now. The room was strangely quiet after the noise of moments before, while Mrs Hodges struggled with the umbilical cord and the lifeless baby. She should have called the doctor, Millie tortured herself. Dan would never forgive her for this.
Suddenly Millie was gripped once more by birth pains. She could not believe it was happening to her again. She grew almost hysterical. Dinah rushed to her aid.
‘It’s all right,’ she assured her. ‘It’s just the leftovers.’
As Millie’s body rejected the afterbirth, a tiny cry rose from the bottom of the bed. She tensed, too fearful to ask. Mrs Hodges looked up with relief and wrapped the baby in a towel, handing it over to Millie.
‘Is he alive?’ she screamed.
Mrs Hodges smiled for the first time, and Millie saw tears in the old woman’s eyes. ‘She’s alive, hinny.’
Millie grasped at the towel and peered at the whimpering infant. ‘A lass,’ she spluttered, half crying, half laughing. ‘What will Dan say?’
Dinah came and scrutinised the baby too. ‘It doesn’t matter what he says,’ she replied. ‘He’s got a bonny baby daughter.’ She looked over at the midwife. ‘And thanks to Mrs Hodges, she’s alive.’
Millie looked up, still trembling from exhaustion and elation, and smiled at the older woman.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, then broke down sobbing, clutching her daughter to her as if she would never let her go.
‘What you going to call her?’ Dinah asked, hugging them both and wiping Millie’s tears with a handkerchief.
Millie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Dan was so sure it would be a boy we never decided on a girl’s name.’ She watched the stern old widow clear up the mess of afterbirth into newspaper and carry it through to the kitchen, looking for the range.
‘She doesn’t have a fire,’ Dinah called after her.
Mrs Hodges returned with a grunt. ‘I’ll get rid of it later,’ she offered. ‘Now, let me show you how to set the baby on.’
Millie looked at her, baffled. ‘On what?’ she asked weakly.
‘For a feed, lass,’ she said, as if dealing with a dense child.
To Millie’s embarrassment, the woman tugged at her nightgown and exposed her breast. She guided the baby towards it and Millie’s new daughter snuffled blindly at her like an inquisitive animal. All at once her little mouth latched on to the breast and gave a sharp tug that was almost a nip. Millie gasped at the unexpected pain.
‘Just take it easy, hinny,’ the old woman said gently. ‘Here, hold her like this.’
Millie saw Dinah look away awkwardly. ‘I think I’ll be more help making another pot of tea,’ she said, and hurried out of the room.
As the baby began to suck, Millie found her fear lessening and the sensation not unpleasant. Mrs Hodges sat beside her, watching quietly and occasionally throwing out pieces of advice like someone feeding titbits to pigeons. ‘Your milk will come in proper in a few days . . . don’t tense yourself . . . that’s it. Now this is how you take her off without it hurting. That’s it, hinny – now try the other side.’
Dinah came back with tea, and Millie carried on feeding, feeling proud and content in her new role as mother. Dan had got her to buy bottles and brushes in their spending frenzy on the new baby, but now that Millie had felt her daughter’s trusting tug on her breast, she knew she wanted to feed her herself.
After a while, Mrs Hodges suggested that she stop. ‘You don’t want to overdo it at the beginning – make you sore. I’ll give the bairn a wash and you can get some sleep.’ She looked at Dinah with suspicion. ‘Are you going to stop with her, or is someone else coming to help out?’
Dinah looked tired. ‘I’ll stay.’
Millie looked at her gratefully. ‘Don’t you have to get home for Bob?’
Dinah snorted. ‘He can get his tea at the cafe for once. I’ll stop until Dan gets back. Bob knows where I am.’
Millie closed her eyes and felt the pull of sleep immediately. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, unable to open her eyes even to watch her daughter lifted from her arms by the midwife. She heard them talking about her, insisting that she too should bathe and change into clean clothes, but she was asleep before the end of the conversation.
***
When she woke again, it was to the sound of a door banging below. Millie looked around, wondering where she was. The curtains were drawn and a lamp glowed from the room beyond. It took her a few seconds to realise that it was night-time and she was in her own bed. The familiar throbs and aches of her body as she stirred instantly brought back the memory of the birth. Someone had covered her over with bedclothes and wiped down her face and the blood from her hands while she slept. As she pulled herself up to look for her daughter, she heard the door to the flat open and Dinah’s voice greet someone with the news.
THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory Page 61
