The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  The father-to-be bit his bottom lip. ‘Ta, but Myra’s the type who runs a mile if you so much as mention having her temperature taken. You don’t know what she’s like.’

  ‘But I do,’ Hazel reminded him. ‘We’ve lived on the same street for years and we went to the same school.’

  ‘That’s a point.’ John took the wrapped bottle of cod liver oil from Glenda then thought a while.

  Hazel was the first to break the silence. ‘I know it’s a tough nut to crack. No one can force someone to see a doctor if they don’t want to. And the Penningtons are like a lot of people around here – they’ve never been ones to make a fuss, as you put it. But this is Myra’s first pregnancy. She really ought to have proper advice in the build-up to the baby being born.’

  John took her counsel with a grateful smile. ‘This might seem a bit of a cheek after what I told you at the jazz club last Friday,’ he ventured, ‘but would you mind dropping in to say hello to Myra?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind,’ Hazel replied. ‘We don’t have to mention her fainting. I could say I’d popped in for a good old chinwag for old times’ sake.’

  ‘But you’ll take a look at her on the quiet?’

  ‘Yes, by all means. When would you like me to visit?’

  ‘Now, if you’ve got time,’ John decided on the spur of the moment. ‘My car’s outside. Why don’t I give you a lift?’

  Hazel turned quickly to Glenda. ‘Can I leave this with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, give it here,’ the dispenser agreed.

  No sooner said than done, Hazel and John left Barlow’s together. He strode ahead and held open the passenger door of his gleaming grey Ford then quickly took up position behind the steering wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and signalled to join the stream of lorries, buses and carts.

  ‘This is nice.’ Hazel admired the dials on the walnut dashboard and the soft comfort of the black leather seat.

  ‘It’s a Model A,’ he told her with pride. ‘Ford stopped making them a few years back but I hung onto this one and try to keep it in good nick.’

  ‘Very nice,’ she said again. She turned to look at the back seat and noticed two cricket bats, several red leather balls and some wicketkeeper’s pads.

  ‘I coach the youngsters at Headingley,’ John explained before she had the chance to ask. Spotting a gap in the traffic, he lurched away from the kerb, narrowly missing a delivery boy on his bike.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ the lad yelled, ‘watch where you’re going!’

  ‘You’ve got to have eyes in the back of your head these days,’ John muttered, lifting one hand from the steering wheel then running it through his dark hair. Hazel noticed that there was black dirt under his fingernails and oil smears on the backs of his hands as well as down the front of his blue overalls. She realized again how preoccupied he was when he forgot to signal left onto Ghyll Road, this time incurring the wrath of Jim Napier driving his horse and cart loaded with scrap metal.

  John gritted his teeth and drove on. ‘Remember, don’t let on to Myra that I’ve asked you to come,’ he told Hazel as they careered up a steep hill then took another left turn onto Raglan Road.

  ‘Cross my heart,’ Hazel promised, gripping the door handle as the car swung round the corner then came to a sudden halt at the bottom of the street.

  ‘I’ll drop you off here,’ John decided. ‘I’ll go on ahead.’

  Relieved to get out of the car in one piece, Hazel agreed. This is a lot of trouble to go to, she thought, just so Myra Moxon doesn’t suspect that we’ve cooked up this visit between us. But then again, who knew what games were played by husbands and wives behind closed doors, especially when the woman was eight months’ pregnant and the man befuddled by the best-left-alone business of childbirth?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hazel walked steadily past her own house and on up the hill to reach number 80 just as John Moxon hurried back out, banging the door after him. He took the steps two at a time, pausing only to nod at her and mutter a quiet thank-you before jumping into his car.

  The door opened again as Hazel prepared to go up the steps and she found herself face to face with Myra’s mother, Dorothy Pennington.

  ‘Now then, John – what’s the big rush?’ Dorothy called fractiously after her son-in-law.

  ‘Sorry, Mum – my boss will tan my hide if I don’t get back to the garage,’ he called over the throttle of the car’s engine. ‘You know Baxter – he’ll dock an hour off my pay as soon as look at me.’

  The car was gone in a cloud of exhaust fumes and Dorothy was left in the doorway holding the bottle of cod liver oil that John had bought. She was a small woman with a loud voice and dyed red hair that framed a long, pinched face. ‘If he thinks I can find time to stay here and mollycoddle Myra all afternoon, he’s got another think coming,’ she grumbled. ‘What are you up to anyway?’ she thought to ask Hazel, who hovered uncertainly at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘I was passing so thought I’d knock on Myra’s door for a good gossip,’ she fibbed. ‘Why? Is something the matter?’

  Dorothy jerked her head backwards then rolled her eyes. ‘She’s a bit under the weather, that’s all. But you can still go in if you like. Myra!’ Dorothy called without more ado. ‘Hazel Price is here. Go on in and give her a spoonful of this to buck her up,’ she muttered to Hazel, handing her the cod liver oil as they passed on the steps.

  ‘Myra?’ Hazel went into the kitchen where the embers of a fire glowed in the hearth and flimsy underthings had been hung to dry on a wooden clothes-horse nearby. Silk stockings were draped over the back of a chair and a pair of women’s shoes had been kicked off onto the worn hearthrug.

  ‘Here I am; over here.’

  ‘Where? Oh, there you are.’ Hazel stepped past the drying laundry to find Myra lying on a brown moquette sofa, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, her head propped on two green cushions. She seemed listless and made no attempt to sit up and greet her visitor. Instead, she turned her head away from Hazel and immediately started to sob.

  ‘There, there,’ Hazel soothed as she pulled up a chair. ‘There’s no need to talk if you don’t want to. Why not have a good cry and let it all out?’

  ‘What’s up with me?’ Myra whimpered. ‘I try not to let things get me down, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘There, there,’ Hazel murmured again. Her gaze flicked around the room, from the iron resting in the hearth to some crumpled shirts on the table and on to a man’s jacket and cap hanging on a hook beside the front door. It came to rest on the pitiful sight of her old friend mopping her puffy eyes with a sodden handkerchief.

  In fact, Myra was scarcely recognizable as the vivacious girl Hazel knew from a year earlier. Then she’d been a real beauty, her startling red hair and pale complexion drawing attention wherever she went. Now the curly mane was unwashed and flat, the green eyes dull. More to the point, as far as Hazel was concerned, Myra’s ankles and fingers were badly swollen.

  That decided it. Having read the textbook theory that the innocuous-looking cod liver oil could worsen hypertension in pregnant women, Hazel hid the bottle in her bag. ‘I’m here to cheer you up,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘Dry your eyes while I make us a nice cup of tea. Which cups shall we use? Where do you keep your milk?’

  As Hazel chatted, Myra rallied. ‘I’m a nuisance, aren’t I? And I must look a right sight,’ she said as she took the tea. Her voice was light, the tone pleading.

  ‘Not at all,’ Hazel said, like a mother soothing a child.

  ‘Did you know Mum found me spark-out on the hearthrug? It turns out it was nothing to worry about, though.’ Wincing, Myra passed both palms over her stomach then let out a groan. ‘There I go again,’ she sighed. ‘I’m such a cry-baby.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Hazel assured her, her worries increasing the more closely she observed the pitted appearance of Myra’s swollen limbs. ‘You must be due any time now. You’re bound to have aches and pains.’
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br />   Myra smiled weakly. ‘I’ve got a blinding headache so I definitely won’t be burning the candle at both ends like we did in the good old days, worse luck. You remember that, Hazel?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘That’s where I met John – at the Assembly Rooms where we all used to go. He turned up there one night with your cousin Dan.’ A dreamy look came into Myra’s eyes as she remembered the moment.

  ‘Your eyes met across the dance floor?’

  ‘It was love at first sight,’ Myra said fondly. ‘They say it doesn’t happen in real life, but it did with me. We danced the night away and I didn’t have eyes for anyone else. Two months later we were married. That says it all, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Hazel admitted.

  ‘Don’t I know it? John was a good catch, even if I say so myself.’ Colour came back into Myra’s cheeks but then a frown appeared. ‘Too good for the likes of me, a lot of people said.’

  ‘Hmm – they were jealous, I bet,’ Hazel said quickly, as more tears appeared in Myra’s eyes.

  ‘Honestly?’ The childlike appeal was genuine and it was swiftly followed by another whispered confession. ‘Don’t tell anyone, Hazel, but I’m not a very good wife. Look around you. I can’t remember the last time I dusted or polished.’

  ‘You mustn’t expect to – not in your condition.’

  ‘It’s too much for me – all the mending and ironing.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Hazel noticed that the flush on Myra’s cheeks had intensified into two hectic spots. Fresh tears began to trickle down her cheeks towards the corners of her mouth.

  ‘And how will I ever cope with a baby, that’s what I’d like to know! How will I feed him or keep him clean or stop him from crying when I’m in such a state?’

  ‘You will. Mothers do.’ Hazel took Myra’s hand and squeezed it, then deliberately broke the promise she’d made to John. ‘Listen to me, Myra. I know you don’t like to make a fuss, but I really think it would be better if you let Dr Bell take a quick look at you.’

  Myra pulled her hand away. ‘No,’ she said weakly. ‘Anyway, what for?’

  Not wanting to alarm her, Hazel prevaricated. ‘I’m only saying, where would be the harm? Let the doctor come to the house and give you the all-clear.’

  ‘No.’ Myra’s answer was louder and more insistent than before. ‘I’ve got this far without him, haven’t I?’

  ‘Well then, come to the clinic on Tuesday.’ Hazel suggested what she hoped might be an acceptable alternative. ‘Get John to take an hour off work and bring you along in that smart car of his.’

  The frown didn’t clear from Myra’s face as she looked at Hazel with suspicious eyes. ‘What kind of clinic?’

  ‘It’s an antenatal clinic where mothers get weighed and have their blood pressure taken – that kind of thing. It’s nothing to be worried about.’

  ‘When do you say it is?’

  ‘Tuesday at half past two. Let me add you to the list, then you can come and give it a try,’ Hazel pleaded.

  Slowly Myra agreed to consider it. ‘I’ll have to see what Mum has to say first, though.’

  ‘Champion – you do that.’ Pleased that they were inching forward at last but still deeply concerned, Hazel took the teacups to the sink. ‘Talk to John, too.’

  ‘I will. But don’t put my name down just yet,’ Myra objected. ‘There’s Mabel to consider as well, don’t forget. The last thing I want to do is step on her toes.’

  ‘The lilac or the royal blue?’

  Knowing that she’d done all she could at Myra and John Moxon’s house, Hazel had gone home and turned her attention to Sylvia’s wedding the following day. She couldn’t decide what to wear and flitted between two choices.

  Now she held up the two dresses for her mother’s inspection. The lilac dress had short sleeves and a flared, panelled skirt with a row of pearl buttons down the front; the blue one was more tailored, with a pleated skirt and contrasting white piping around the collar and cuffs.

  ‘The blue.’ Jinny looked up from her task of ironing Robert’s best shirt. ‘It picks up the colour of your eyes.’

  ‘What about a hat to go with it? I couldn’t borrow that smart little Empress Eugenie you bought from the market, could I?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ Jinny had already decided on her own outfit – a bolero jacket and calf-length dress in green and pink floral print that would go best with her summery straw hat. ‘You’re leaving it a bit last minute, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m nothing compared to Sylvia.’ Hazel went up to the mirror to study her reflection. The blue dress definitely suited her and her mother’s hat would add an up-to-date touch. ‘Gladys says the wedding dress from Jubilee needs alterations – it was too big across the bust for Sylvia, apparently. Muriel has volunteered to stay behind and do it for her tonight, after the shop closes.’

  ‘It’s decent of Muriel to lend it in the first place.’ Jinny pressed hard with the iron, making sure to get all the creases out of the shirt front.

  Hazel agreed. ‘Sylvia will look lovely in it so I suppose Muriel will think of it as a good advertisement for Jubilee. It could bring in extra business.’

  ‘Anyway, let’s hope Sylvia realizes how lucky she is.’ Slam went the iron on the starched cotton as Jinny began on the shirt tail. ‘Talking of luck, your dad went out to fetch you something that might come in handy.’

  ‘For the wedding?’

  ‘No, not for the wedding, silly. He heard of a Raleigh bike going spare from the office manageress at Oldroyd’s. She said she only wanted a couple of bob for it so your dad leaped at the chance. That’s where he is now – collecting it from her house on Ada Street.’

  ‘A bike for me?’ Hazel waltzed her blue dress around the kitchen table, her face wreathed in smiles. She pictured herself, once she’d got established, loading her midwife’s bag into the front basket and cycling out on her rounds.

  ‘It’s an old one, mind you,’ Jinny cautioned. ‘But your dad will do it up and make sure everything is in working order.’

  Hazel was still quietly celebrating the prospect of owning a bike to help her in her work when Gladys and tomorrow’s bride-to-be opened the door and blew into the kitchen like a whirlwind.

  ‘Calamity – my dress will never be ready in time!’ Sylvia wailed as she slumped into the fireside chair.

  ‘Muriel says it will,’ Gladys countered steadily. ‘We’ve just come from a fitting. She’s taking in the bust-darts as we speak.’

  ‘It won’t. I know it won’t!’

  Gladys winked at Jinny and Hazel behind Sylvia’s back. ‘Mum says you can borrow hers if you’re stuck. She’s kept it wrapped in tissue paper in a drawer all these years.’

  ‘Ugh – it’ll stink of moth balls. Anyway, I wouldn’t be seen dead in that old thing! And it turns out that the satin shoes I bought from the market are too small. I’ll be hobbling up the aisle at this rate.’

  Rolling her eyes, Gladys worked towards a solution. ‘What size are your feet, Hazel?’

  ‘I’m a size five – why? Oh, I see what you’re getting at – Sylvia can wear my white shoes and they can be the “something borrowed”.’

  ‘Except that I’m a size six.’ Sylvia thumped the arms of the chair in frustration. ‘Drat!’

  ‘So, no dress and no shoes.’ Jinny didn’t hide her amusement. ‘At this rate you’ll be walking down the aisle in your birthday suit.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Aunty Jinny!’ Sylvia sprang up from the chair then stormed around the kitchen. ‘All eyes will be on me and I’ll have sewing pins sticking in me everywhere and blisters on my feet. I’ll look a right sight.’

  ‘You’ll look lovely, love – you always do,’ Jinny assured her, ignoring Gladys’s sceptical look. ‘Forget about the shoes and the dress for a moment; I have something nice for you if you wait here a second.’

  While Jinny went upstairs, Gladys and Hazel tried to calm Sylvia down by talking of more pract
ical things.

  ‘Have you found a house yet?’ Hazel asked.

  ‘Number 15 Nelson Yard is empty,’ Sylvia replied airily. ‘Dad went to see the landlord about renting it to us earlier today.’

  ‘Without telling poor Norman,’ Gladys added quietly.

  ‘And what about furniture?’

  ‘Not a stick!’ Sylvia said with a high laugh. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Norman doesn’t know that either,’ Gladys pointed out. ‘He’s probably thinking the Drummonds can magic a bed and table and chairs out of the air. The poor lad doesn’t have a clue.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t care about what happens after we say “I do”,’ Sylvia declared, defiant sparks flying between her and her sister.

  ‘Just get her to the church on time,’ Gladys said sardonically.

  ‘Here,’ Jinny said as she came back downstairs with a small box in her hand. It was covered in red leather, lined with cream satin and contained a delicate silver brooch in the shape of a swallow in flight. The marcasite wings glittered and a sparkling blue stone formed the bird’s eye. ‘I’ll lend this to you for your wedding if you like.’

  ‘Something borrowed.’ Sylvia seized the brooch with delight. ‘Ta, Aunty Jinny, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Look after it, mind you,’ Jinny said quietly.

  ‘I will, I promise. Now, come on, Gladys, we have to pick up my flowers from Blamey’s – they’re staying open specially for us.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Gladys sprang to attention and gave a mock salute. ‘Quick march!’ she barked as she led the way to the door and Sylvia followed. ‘See you girls tomorrow.’

  ‘Ding-dong, the bells are going to chime,’ Hazel said in the silence that followed their departure. ‘Does Norman know what he’s letting himself in for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jinny murmured. ‘Does any man?’

  ‘Sylvia was pleased with the brooch, though. It’s not one that I’ve seen you wear.’

  Jinny picked up the iron and took up where she’d left off. ‘I bought it a few years ago and kept it safe in a drawer, thinking you might be the one to wear it some day.’