“How much do I have to take?” She took the bottle and eyed it, her rosy mouth pinched with fear.
“A teaspoon will do the trick. Let me pour it out for you.” I took the bottle and got her a glass of water. “There’s nothing like having a proper midwife to help you with these things.”
I stepped back to open the mixture, as the smell can knock you out. Breathing through my mouth, I poured the globuled liquid, and a faint green-gray effervescence lifted off as the smell of dog meat and motor oil crept up my nostrils unaware. I handed it over.
“Are you sure?” She dithered, grimacing at the powerful concoction.
“I know it doesn’t look appetizing, but what medicines do?” I eased her elbow up, lifting the spoon toward her mouth, and down it jolly well went.
She turned rather green, and I worried she might throw up, or worse, faint. It wasn’t an official medication as such, and I’d heard about some of the side effects—internal bleeding, convulsions, coma—and for a moment she gasped for air and her eyes seemed to pass backward into her head. I sat her down (before she fell) and patted her heartily on the back, and at last she choked violently and seemed more herself, clutching the bottle like it was a blooming lifesaver. I stayed with her a few minutes, trying to get the bottle away. I wasn’t going to leave any evidence for that interfering Tilling woman to examine. In the end I had to grab it and run, as time was moving fast.
“But, Miss Paltry, I feel something happening,” she gasped, grabbing my hand.
“Early days, early days,” I said kindly, yanking my hand away and running for the door. You see, I had to get the Winthrop baby out quick, before this one gave birth. It was all a matter of timing, and I wasn’t letting pleasantries get in my way.
I rushed out and strode up to the Winthrop house. To get to Chilbury Manor, you only need to cross the green and the square and take the lane up to the driveway. It’s ten minutes on a usual day, five if you’re in a hurry, less if you run. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
Elsie met me at the side door, looking alarmingly disheveled, hair falling out from under her cap.
“I don’t know if I can watch the baby for you. I mean, if I had to,” she said. “Nanny Godwin stays in her quarters in the mornings, and there’s no one else about. I don’t know if I’d be able to get away.”
“You must,” I urged, taking her slim wrist and digging my grubby nails into the soft underside.
A gasp of pain escaped her. “I’ll do what I can.”
“You’ll explain that it’s for the baby’s sake, your duty as a servant.”
She looked bewildered, and as I followed her upstairs, I let out a sigh, thinking, God help me if the idiot girl ruins the whole thing!
Wimpy Mrs. Winthrop took the medicine without any qualms, only grateful that I should be thinking of her. Since it was her fourth child, labor began almost instantly, and the child’s head was peeking out before Elsie had got back with the hot water. There was a moment, I recall, where I wondered if luck would be with me and it would be male. But before I could even cross my fingers, the baby was born, and as she plopped out in front of me, my eyes homed in on the ominous lack of boy parts.
“It’s a boy!” I announced, containing my disappointment while snipping the cord and swiftly swaddling the baby in a blanket. I tried to be fast so Elsie wouldn’t see, but as I turned, there she was, a look of anguish on her face.
“But it’s a girl,” she said, quiet like.
“No, Elsie,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s a boy.” I frowned at her and jerked my head toward the door, and I saw her eyes narrowing as the penny dropped.
Luckily the lady didn’t hear Elsie. “It’s a boy!” she cried meekly, “Thank God it’s a boy!”
“But he’s having trouble breathing,” I gasped, trying not to make it sound rehearsed. “I have a mechanical ventilator at my house. I’ll have to rush him away quickly. This maid can come with me. Will the nanny be able to help with the afterbirth?”
Elsie ran off to get the nanny, and I was left with Mrs. Winthrop begging me to see the child.
“Please, please, I want to see my baby!”
“No, no, no, Mrs. Winthrop. I need to get him away as soon as I can.”
She just kept on and on. Lucky she wasn’t strong enough to haul herself out of bed or else I’d have been in trouble.
Elsie returned promptly with the old nanny, who looked both tired and dismayed. I told her about the afterbirth, clamped the baby to my chest, and darted down the stairs and out the door. As I strode down to the village, Elsie trotted along beside me asking pointless questions and being worried about getting found out. I wished I’d never employed the stupid girl.
Back in my kitchen, I had a nice box for the baby and a bottle of milk made up from powder. The way I saw it, I’d only be gone a few minutes and she’d be fine with Elsie for that short time. As I laid her down, the baby looked up with her big china blue eyes, just like her sister Venetia’s, and I briefly wondered what it would be like to be a mother, to have such a lamb. I might have been a mother if that stupid Ida didn’t get pregnant and force Geoffrey to marry her instead of me. He didn’t even have proof it was his, the fool that he was. He could have asked me to help. I’d have sorted her out, well and proper.
“I know what you’re up to, and I want none of it,” Elsie suddenly announced, lifting up the baby. “I’m taking her back to her mum.”
“No, you’re ruddy well not,” I said, snatching the baby back and returning her to the box. “You’ll stay here and do as you’re told, or you won’t get a penny off me.”
“I don’t care about the money. It’s wrong, it is.” She brought a hankie to her little nose and blew it loud as a baby elephant, her pretty eyes begging me. “Can’t you see that? Can’t you give it back?”
“It’s being done for the right and proper reasons, and that’s all you need to know,” I told her.
“Well, I’m not having any of it,” she sniffed. “I’m going back to the Manor.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” I stood between her and the door. “I can’t have you ruining my plan!”
She tried to barge past me. I could hear the faint caterwauling of Hattie in labor next door and panicked that everything was about to collapse around me. “I’ll let you go if you promise not to tell anyone.”
She pondered for a moment. “I’ll not mention a word provided you give me my five quid.”
I seethed. It’s completely immoral to demand money for a service she’d failed to finish. But, like Hercules overcoming another obstacle, I reached into my black bag for the money. “You keep your mouth shut or it’ll be curtains.” She snatched the money away and barged past me into the sunshine. I fretted about what she’d say to Mrs. Winthrop, but then I imagined her dainty throat between my hands and focused on the task at hand, grabbing my bag and hurrying off to Hattie’s, leaving the baby girl to fend for herself in the box.
After a few knocks I let myself in to find Hattie slumped by the door, moaning loudly.
I leaped down to her and checked her—thank God the baby was still moving around inside. I prayed it was the boy I needed. Once I’d helped her up to bed, she moaned and strained, the baby refusing to budge.
That’s when I began panicking about the baby girl in the box in my kitchen. She would need milk by now, but I couldn’t get away from Hattie, who held my hand with a viselike grip. Would she be all right?
At last Hattie’s screams grew almost inhuman, and I felt panic rising—what would happen if she didn’t have a boy? Would the Brigadier have me disposed of in some gruesome way? I was petrified as a ferret in a snare by the time the baby eventually squirmed its way out.
But the surge of joy—it was a boy!
“It’s a girl!” I announced.
“Let me see her, let me hold her!” Hattie cried, leaning forward and trying to grasp the baby from my arms.
“No, she’s not breathing properly. I need to take her t
o my house to resuscitate her with my mechanical ventilator.”
Hattie screamed, “My baby!” And she was on him, dragging the blanketed little fellow out with all her might.
Scared to damage the baby, yet adamant to salvage the plan, I yanked him back with a lunging turn toward the door. “I have to go!” I screamed, pushing her back on the bed with a firm shove.
Her screams of “No” echoed through the house as I surged down the stairs and out the door, not knowing what I’d find when I got back to my house. The horror of finding the baby girl dead, white-blue and stiff, her big eyes glazed like a doll’s? Or maybe stupid Elsie had called the police, and I’d find the village matrons gathered to witness my downfall.
But the house was ominously quiet. My heart began to race. I am not the most saintly of people, I know, but I couldn’t bear to have caused the death of a baby. The vision of her lying dead in the box came to me, and I dashed for the kitchen.
I could hardly breathe as I looked into the box. There she was, pale and limp, her eyes closed. This couldn’t happen! My hand darted to her neck to feel her pulse. I felt a faint fluttering, and she opened her toothless mouth as wide as a baby hippo, and let out an ear-piercing screech.
I took her out of the box and thrust the bottle of milk into her gob.
“Don’t you worry, baby girl,” I muttered to her. “You’re about to have the most adoring mother this side of London.”
I placed the boy baby in the box, fitting a blanket around him as he seemed a scrawny kind of lad, the type to catch a chill. Then, scooping the girl back up, I headed back to Hattie’s.
Hattie was just inside the front door, desperate for me to return, still in her bloody nightdress, her dark curls wet and matted. “Is she all right?” she cried, panic on her face. “Is she going to be all right?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “She’s going to be fine.” I handed the baby into her outstretched arms, and she gazed at the perfect little face with blue, blue eyes and a little pointy chin, a coating of pale blond hair over her head. She truly was an exceptionally beautiful baby—and take it from me, most of them aren’t.
The afterbirth came promptly, with a little help, and after promising to be back as soon as I could, I wrenched myself away to deal with the boy. I could hear him bawling as soon as I opened the door, the little bugger, and had to stuff his mouth with a bottle as soon as I got to him. I took him in my arms, bottle and all, and headed for the door, but as I was nipping onto the green, I saw a group of women in the square. It was the WVS ladies just off the bus from Litchfield, Mrs. B. holding forth with Mrs. Quail and the dreaded Tilling woman.
“Lovely day!” she said cheerfully as she spotted me trying to creep back inside.
“Yes, glorious weather,” I enthused, concealing the baby inside my coat. “I’ll have to get my hat!” I disappeared in, grabbed my hat, and knew there was nothing else for it, I was going to have to stuff the baby into my black bag, and hope he didn’t jolt around too much.
I emptied the contents, and the crumbs at the bottom, put the baby inside, trying to balance the bottle against his mouth, and crept out once again. The women were thick in discussion, and I decided to make a dash for it across the green.
“Hello there, Miss Paltry,” Mrs. Tilling hollered as I made a dash for the lane. “You should have been with us today for the meeting.”
“We were just saying how uplifting it was,” added Mrs. Quail, her round face puce with pleasure.
“Oh, how marvelous,” I said, keeping a distance. A crowd had gathered outside the shop, all in green uniforms like pecking budgies, and I was stuck listening to their nonsense for a few minutes. It was ridiculous. How a bunch of women can honestly believe that a cake sale and some raggedy sewing can win a war, I have no idea.
“Lady Worthing was there,” Mrs. B. preened. “We have been so fortunate to have her as our benefactor.”
The baby boy in the black bag began sniveling, quietly at first, and then louder, and I knew I had to leave. Now.
“Must dash,” I said, making off.
“What was that noise?” Mrs. Tilling said with a start, looking around the green.
“Oh, the ducks are such a menace at this time of year,” I said cheerily. “They keep me up half the night with their mating rituals,” I added with some quick thinking.
“Oh,” she said primly. I’m sure she’d consider any allusions to reproduction inherently coarse.
Only then a distinct baby’s cry came from my black bag, and she glared at it, her mouth open to speak, yet unable to decide what to say.
I strode off faster than a hen escaping the pot, petrified the woman would start asking questions. But as I rushed up the lane, with the boy’s vocal cords reaching a fine volume, I knew that I could corroborate any questioning with a half-truth of sorts. I would say that the baby in my bag had been Mrs. Winthrop’s son, who I had whisked to my house for resuscitation. On returning him to his mother, I felt it best to keep him hidden so that she could see him first, before the village folk. Yes, it was perfect.
No one would suspect a thing.
When I reached Chilbury Manor, I took the baby out before knocking at the side door—it wouldn’t be considered proper for a midwife to be going around with newborns in bags.
The door was promptly opened by Kitty of all people, the little evacuee brat hanging around in the background.
“Where have you been?” she demanded in a way that made me wonder if she knew somehow. Could she have intuitively guessed the whole thing? Did she understand her father well enough, and me sufficiently, to fathom the entire scheme? Her big eyes glanced from me to the baby to the black bag, and back again, the scowl stiff on her face like I’d ruined her life.
I shook my head briefly to remember the right storyline. “The baby is alive!”
“Why did it take so long?” she muttered, leading me through the grand entrance and up the marble staircase to the long gallery. “What could you possibly have been doing?”
“It took as long as it did,” I said crossly. I wasn’t so scared of Kitty, you see. I was in her father’s employ, after all. He would get her to shut up if need be. So perhaps I wasn’t as cautious as I could have been. I might have made a big error there. Kitty is close as clams with the Tilling woman.
Mrs. Winthrop was still in bed, sniveling in her usual way, when I handed her the whimpering baby boy with his dark fluff of hair. The perfect family.
“Dear, dear little boy,” she crooned, bringing him to her chest. “How can I ever repay you for saving his life, Miss Paltry?”
“The Brigadier will pay what’s due,” I said with the best smile I could muster. I could hear Kitty sniff moodily beside me, the nosy evacuee girl watching with a keen interest. “What are you going to call him?”
“His name will be Lawrence Edmund,” she smiled. “Edmund after our dear lost son.” That set her off weeping again.
I didn’t want to mess it up now, the end so clearly in sight, so I checked the afterbirth and waited patient like I was the Queen herself, and when it had calmed down, I promised to visit in the morning and backed out of the room.
Nipping down the back stairs and into the kitchen, I was heading for the door—for freedom!—when who should turn up but Elsie.
“I know your game,” she sneered.
There was no one around, so I took her by the scruff of her maid’s uniform and pulled her close. “You’d better not breathe a word or you’ll be found in Bullsend Brook before you know it.”
I let go, and she fell back onto the floor. Trembling she was, so I think I did a worthy job. Threatening has always been a skill of mine.
Stepping over her, giving a small kick for good measure, I headed for the door, and with a sharp tug of the handle, I was out in the open at long ruddy last. Skipping for joy down the drive, one hand carrying my now-empty black bag, the other waving around wildly like a jubilant cowboy.
I’d done it!
I’d escaped ambus
h, gotten over hurdles, avoided pitfalls, and arrived victorious, babies swapped, both mothers happy, and me wealthy. The hero of the day.
No one else could have done it, Clara. I swear there’s not a woman out there who could have made it through the way I did, always keeping calm, using my quick thinking. The rest of my well-earned money will be with me within the week, and I will be on my way to you, Clara, to begin our new life together.
Edwina
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Friday, 3rd May, 1940
Dear Angela,
You owe me cocktails at the Ritz, my dear, as I have won our little bet! Mr. Slater, who I now call darling Alastair, has joined the throng of admirers who worship the ground I walk on. I knew I could do it, given some time, although I have to confess that this one was quite resistant. It took some of my more sophisticated moves to prompt action, but now he’s mine.
And what a man he is! I never dreamed he’d be so fascinating. He’s transformed his living room into a studio—he has the house next to Hattie’s on Church Row—and it’s crammed with canvases and oils and piles of paintings. Every evening he lights candles and paints while we listen to the wireless. One night they played “All of Me,” and we danced around like we were in a tiny ballroom of our very own, spinning through a haze of flickering lights as if in a different world.
But listen, this gets scandalous! I’ve been such a naughty girl, even by your standards! Having seduced him in the stable last weekend, all raw and naked in the hay just as I had planned, I slipped out of work early yesterday and surprised him at his studio. Luckily he wasn’t busy, just trying to mend some typewriter contraption, so I began flipping through his pictures. I didn’t know what to expect, but my eyes almost popped out of my head: weird shapes plastered with clashing colors, blacks and grays and yellows, violins sliced in half and deranged, figures made monstrous with mutations and distortions.
“What’s this supposed to be?” I asked him, wondering if he hadn’t finished it properly.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 8
