by Jenny Holmes
‘Yes – Sylvia’s not one to miss out,’ Jinny said.
‘You two should come along as well.’ Hazel expected a resounding ‘no’ to this suggestion and she wasn’t disappointed. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ she laughed. ‘Jazz is modern. Everyone’s listening to it these days.’
‘Not us,’ Robert said on Jinny’s behalf. ‘We’re behind the times, we are.’
‘You speak for yourself.’ Contrary as ever and finishing her tea of scrambled eggs on toast, Jinny rattled her knife and fork down onto the plate. ‘So keep your eyes peeled, Hazel – I might surprise you by turning up there one of these nights.’
The rest of that week seemed to fly by for Hazel. On the Wednesday she followed up two enquiries from women who had attended the clinic. The first took her out on the tram past St Luke’s church, almost to the edge of town, where she found Lydia Walker, her mother-to-be, ensconced in a house at the entrance to Herbert Oldroyd’s moorland estate. The small stone lodge, like the mansion behind it, was built in the style of a castle, complete with Gothic arched windows and battlements, constructed at a time when the now-struggling mill owner’s family had had pretensions of grandeur. The lodge house was well kept, both outside and in, with an oak sideboard and two comfy chairs in the living room, which was separate from the kitchen. The sideboard sported a silver trophy and two carnival-ware glass dishes, plus assorted china ornaments.
Sitting in one of the chairs, Hazel listened quietly to Lydia’s first question.
‘I’ve asked you to come here because I want to know, if you were me, would you want to have this baby in hospital or at home?’
‘That’s entirely up to you,’ Hazel explained. ‘Some women choose hospital for a first baby because for them it feels safer to have the doctor and midwives on the spot. Others prefer to be at home in familiar surroundings.’
‘I’d be happier here with you,’ Lydia said without much hesitation.
‘Ah, but you’ve been on Dr Bell’s list for a long time. He’s probably the one who’ll come out to you.’
‘Why not you?’ The blunt response came from a woman who was approaching her due date and not in a mood to be thwarted. Her broad, scrubbed features were set in determined lines.
Hazel smiled. ‘Thank you, I’m flattered. But I’ve only just started with Dr Bell and you’ve been his patient for all of your pregnancy, so it’s only right that he attends the birth – unless of course he’s caught up somewhere else when you go into labour.’
Lydia’s stern expression broke into a knowing smile and a wink. ‘Is that right? Then I’ll have to see what I can arrange.’
Hazel laughed. ‘No, no – we have to let nature take its course. Baby will only come when he’s ready. But whether it’s me or Dr Bell, I can promise that you’ll be well looked after.’
There were more questions, which Hazel answered honestly and fully, then it was time to leave. Her second visit was closer to home and followed much the same lines, though this time the patient, Evelyn Jagger, was a nervous type who needed more reassurance. She was halfway through her second trimester and willing to keep on coming regularly to clinic.
‘Good for you,’ Hazel said enthusiastically as Evelyn showed her out. If she got a move on, she would just have time to go from there to Betty’s house for another post-natal visit before dinner. In the afternoon she would cycle over to the infirmary to see Irene.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ Betty greeted her from the top step of her house. Ordering Keith and Polly to stay put, she carried a basket of wet laundry into the yard and began to peg it out on the line.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ Putting her bag down, Hazel sat on the step to wait, happy at first to let Polly settle on her lap until she noticed that the little girl’s hair was crawling with head lice. At this point she swiftly set her down on the step. ‘I’ve come to weigh Daisy for you,’ she explained to Betty. ‘Do you have a pair of kitchen scales I could use?’
‘Yes – help yourself,’ Betty replied, midway through a haphazard pegging of shirts and blouses to the line. ‘And have you got something for sore nipples while you’re at it? I’ve tried the old cabbage-leaf trick but it’s not done a ha’p’orth of good.’
‘You should use a barrier cream. I’ll see if I have some with me.’ Knowing it was best to keep her amusement about the old remedy to herself, Hazel went inside and duly found the scales in a cupboard under the sink. She was midway through weighing Daisy when Betty came in. ‘By the way,’ she asked, ‘have you tried washing Polly’s hair in a vinegar solution and using a fine comb on it? Or else there’s a special shampoo you can buy from Barlow’s.’
Cooing over Daisy, who lay naked on the scales, Betty seemed unconcerned. ‘I did see Polly having a good scratch the other day, but no, I haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘Baby weighs in at six pounds ten ounces,’ Hazel reported, thinking that she would bring the shampoo herself on her next visit. ‘We need to keep her weight up. How sore are you, Betty?’
‘Not too bad. You give me some cream and I’ll soldier on.’ Betty carried Daisy to the table and put a clean nappy on her.
‘And how is your milk? You know, if you get too cracked and sore and you feel your milk supply is slowing down, we can always bring in bottle-feeding as a back-up.’
‘You won’t catch me doing that!’ Betty gave Hazel a dark look. ‘I’ve managed with these other two, haven’t I?’
‘Very well indeed,’ Hazel admitted. At this rate both Keith and Polly might end up with shaved heads, but neither looked underfed or miserable – in fact, quite the opposite. They were calm, contented children, showing the right mixture of curiosity and caution towards her – a stranger in their house – and happily following their mother around to tug confidently at her skirt for attention. Handing over a jar of cream and refusing payment, Hazel packed her bag, promised to call again before the weekend, then left the house.
‘Ta for coming,’ Betty called from the top step as Hazel ducked under the damp laundry that threatened to flap against her face. ‘By the way, Len says he can bring half the money to you on Friday after work. That’ll be five shillings and three pence we still owe you. Is that all right?’
‘That’s more than all right,’ Hazel assured her with a smile. ‘Ta, Betty. I’m much obliged.’
After dinner and with her confidence still on the up, Hazel cycled out to the infirmary as planned. On the way there, an idea came to her. It’s high time I got myself a smart nurse’s uniform for clinic, she decided. Maybe a pale blue one with a white apron – that would do nicely. She freewheeled down the hill onto Ghyll Road then out of town past the Green Cross and on towards the old workhouse, the scene until recently of so much misery. Its change of use had done little to soften the harshness of its exterior, with its thick stone walls, high, narrow windows and central archway leading into a shadowy courtyard that had once been the exercise ground for inmates. It was here that Hazel left her bike and found her way inside the building to Matron’s office where she stated her business and asked about Irene Bradley’s condition.
‘There’s been no change since she was admitted.’ Matron Fuller’s facial expression was as stiff and starched as her white collar and cuffs, and her slender frame belied a steely will. During her fifteen years in charge of the infirmary she’d seen thousands of pregnant women in and out of its studded oak doors; in the end they became names on a list and little more. However, she did break off from checking an invoice of bandages and dressings long enough to give Hazel a cursory glance. ‘Dr Bell is with her. Perhaps he can tell you more.’
So Hazel followed directions and met the doctor coming out of Irene’s ward into the long green corridor, head bowed to expose a bald patch on his crown and with his hands clasped behind his back as if lost in thought.
‘Hello, Dr Bell. How’s Irene?’ Hazel asked anxiously.
‘Hmm? Oh, Hazel, it’s you.’ Seeing her, he raised his head and smiled. ‘We’re colleagues now, so it’s Da
vid, please. Irene’s sleeping at the moment.’
‘Then I won’t wake her,’ she decided.
‘Best not. According to the nurse on duty, Irene seems to have accepted that this is the best place for her. What she and her baby need now is plenty of good food and rest.’
Hazel turned to accompany him back down the corridor. ‘How is the baby – can they tell?’
‘Alive, at least. There’s a stronger heartbeat and now Irene says she can feel the occasional kick.’
‘So we’ll keep our fingers crossed.’ Passing Matron’s office and coming out onto the flagged courtyard together, Hazel prepared to say goodbye.
‘My car is parked out on Ghyll Road if you would like a lift,’ David offered. He smiled again, this time a little awkwardly.
The invitation flustered her. ‘Oh no – I came on my bicycle.’ She pointed across the yard.
‘Ah well.’
‘But thank you anyway.’
‘You’re welcome – any time.’ Moving off towards the wide gateway, he cleared his throat then stopped and turned to call after her. ‘I’ll see you at clinic next Tuesday, Hazel, if not before.’
‘Which was odd, when you think about it,’ she confessed to Gladys when she recalled the incident on their way to the jazz club on the Friday evening. It was a warm, late-September night, and the two young women were dressed for dancing in summery dresses with floating skirts and nipped-in waists, topped with light jackets and finished off with dainty high-heeled shoes. Gladys had had her hair cut in a brand-new style, much shorter and shaped to her head, giving her a pixie look, while Hazel had carefully crimped hers into a cascade of waves that fell about her face. ‘Why would David say, “Tuesday, if not before”? Why not just, “See you at clinic, Hazel”?’
‘It’s “David” now, is it?’ Gleefully Gladys prepared to step off the tram as it rattled to a halt outside Merton and Groves. ‘So what did you reply?’
‘Nothing. The offer of a ride in his car took me by surprise.’
‘He asked you to call him David and then he offered you a lift home?’ Gladys hopped from the still-moving tram onto the pavement. ‘Oh my, Hazel. You are going up in the world!’
But that was just Gladys being Gladys, Hazel thought as they bought their entrance tickets and left their jackets in the cellar cloakroom. Before she knew it they’d entered the same crowded, smoky room as before, with tables and chairs backed up against the walls and the brightly lit stage at the far end. Earl Ray’s band was already in full swing and among the familiar faces she spotted Dan and Norman at the bar, and of course Sylvia, cigarette in hand and standing close to the stage, gazing up in apparent adoration.
‘Long time, no see,’ Dan told Hazel when Gladys dragged her to the bar to cadge a cigarette.
‘Yes, I’ve been busy.’ This music really does get under your skin, she thought. The beat of the drum in the background was like a tom-tom under the seductive sway of clarinet and saxophone. Not to mention the words, which were quite shocking if you paid attention. In this song, for a start, the singer was inviting a woman to his room and promising to make love to her all night long.
‘Hazel?’
A dig in the ribs from Gladys made her aware that Dan was offering her his packet of cigarettes. ‘Oh, I forgot – you don’t smoke. Ta, I’ll keep yours for later.’ Jumping in to snatch a second cigarette and perch it behind her ear, Gladys then drifted away to chat with a group of friends from the King Edward’s, leaving Hazel to exchange small talk with Norman.
‘You’ve got over the excitement of the wedding, I expect?’ she began pleasantly.
‘Just about.’
‘Sylvia looked a picture, didn’t she?’
‘She did.’
Winkling information out of the new husband was harder than Hazel had expected. Though taller than her and broad across the shoulders, his shy air made him somehow small and insignificant – an impression not helped by his quiet, light voice and a persistent tic at the corner of his mouth. So Hazel was forced to go on taking the lead with talk about the high cost of rents even on Nelson Yard and reassurances that Sylvia’s mother and father would be bound to help the young couple in any way they could.
‘Sylvia’s father wasn’t keen on me marrying her,’ Norman admitted in what was a breakthrough from his usual two-word offerings. ‘He asked us what the rush was.’
Though tempted to follow this through, Hazel resisted. ‘Don’t worry – Uncle Cyril will soon come round. And once he has, you’ll find he’s a dab hand up a ladder with wallpaper and paste.’
As the band came to the end of one tune and took up another, Hazel seized the chance to break away from Norman, using the excuse of going to spend a penny. When she came back from the cloakroom, she spotted Gladys in amongst her friends from work – one woman and three men, none of whom Hazel recognized. They seemed a jovial lot – the men dressed in sports jackets and white shirts with dark ties, the auburn-haired woman in a low-cut, bottle-green dress with a pearl necklace and red lipstick.
Gladys invited Hazel to sit at their table then gestured towards Norman who had retreated to a corner of the room. ‘He’s a cheerful Charlie, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s like Eddie – he doesn’t have a lot to say,’ Hazel agreed before responding to Gladys’s round of introductions with a smile.
‘Mary, Bernard, Hugh, Gilbert – this is my cousin, Hazel Price. They’re all doctors at the hospital, except Mary. She’s a secretary like me.’
‘Hello, Hazel. How has Gladys managed to keep you tucked out of sight for so long?’ the man named Bernard asked with a bold, appreciative stare.
Gladys pouted at him then petulantly seized Hugh by the hand to lead him onto the dance floor while Mary went off with Gilbert, leaving Bernard to carry on flirting with Hazel.
‘I mean it.’ He smiled seductively as he leaned across the table. ‘Gladys and Mary are certainly easy on the eye, don’t get me wrong, but you, Hazel, are definitely a cut above.’
Hazel felt the colour rise to her cheeks. If Bernard, who was already slurring his words at this stage of the evening, expected her to thank him for the silly compliment, he was mistaken. Instead, she decided to turn the conversation towards areas that they might have in common. ‘How long have you worked at the King Edward’s?’
‘For ever,’ he quipped. ‘Actually, I’ve had ten hard years of taking out appendixes and tonsils so it does feel like an eternity. After all, one set of tonsils is very like another. But never mind me. What do you do, Hazel?’
Her answer surprised him.
‘Blow me down – I didn’t have you down as a midwife! Where do you work?’
‘I work for myself most of the time,’ she explained, wishing now that she’d gone back to ‘poor’ Norman, even if he was hard going. ‘And I’ve just started to help out at Dr Bell’s antenatal clinic on Westgate Road.’
‘Well, I never! Not David Bell!’ Bernard rocked back in his chair.
For a moment Hazel was afraid he was mocking her. She picked up her bag, ready to make her excuses.
‘No, don’t go. I trained with David in Durham donkeys’ years ago. I heard that he’d moved down here from the north-east and started afresh after he lost his wife, but I didn’t know where exactly. You say he’s on Westgate Road?’
‘Yes. What happened to his wife?’ Hazel asked, curiosity overriding her dislike.
‘From what I hear, she died in childbirth – I know, it’s ironic. There’s a chap with all that knowledge and experience and yet when it comes to it, he can’t save his own wife and baby son. Imagine that.’
Shocked into silence, Hazel was relieved when the music ended and the others rejoined them.
‘Why weren’t you two dancing?’ Gladys demanded as she subsided breathlessly into the seat next to Hazel.
‘Because, as you well know, I’ve got two left feet,’ Bernard reminded her, standing and fumbling to button up his jacket. ‘Anyway, I promised my better half that I’d b
e home before ten.’
‘You’re late,’ Gilbert pointed out. ‘It’s already a quarter past.’
Bernard groaned then mumbled his goodbyes.
‘That’ll be the end of the silly so-and-so’s night passes,’ Hugh said with a grin. ‘Vera will be sure to keep him on a tighter lead from now on.’
Hazel listened to the light-hearted exchanges and watched as the music and dancing resumed. She saw Dan approach a showy, raven-haired girl in a red dress. He bent over her to work his charm then stubbed out his cigarette and offered her his hand as he led her onto the dance floor. Sylvia and Norman soon followed then Gilbert asked Hazel to dance with him, leaving Gladys and Mary to fight over Hugh. And so the night went on in a fug of cigarette smoke, dancing cheek to cheek with strangers. At half past eleven, as the lights dimmed and the clinches grew closer, Hazel decided it was time to leave.
‘I’ll catch the last tram,’ she told Gladys, who was glued to Hugh in a tight hold on the dance floor. She slid past them and out of the club, collecting her jacket and running upstairs just in time to see the tram trundle into view. She was glad of the chance to catch her breath before stepping onto the platform then sitting close to the back, keeping herself to herself as raucous groups of young men and women got on and off. It was midnight by the time she alighted at the Green Cross then doubled back a hundred yards to the bottom of Raglan Road.
She’d had a good time, she decided – once she’d got over her affront at Bernard’s louche behaviour. Their conversation about David Bell had stayed with her, however, and she was picturing what he must have been through and how he must still be grieving for his wife and child, when the sound of a door being slammed at the top of the street pulled her back into the present.
