by Jenny Holmes
A figure burst from a house and sprinted towards her and she soon made out that it was John Moxon. He wore only a shirt open at the neck and trousers without braces – no shoes or socks, so that his steps were soundless in the dark, silent street.
Hazel froze on the spot.
‘Baby’s on its way,’ he gasped as he drew nearer and recognized her. ‘But something’s gone wrong. Dorothy sent me to fetch Mabel.’
The look of panic on John’s face told Hazel that this was an emergency. ‘Why – what’s happening?’
‘Myra passed out again, only this time I couldn’t wake her. I rushed up the street for her mother and she saw signs that the baby was being born. Myra’s still asleep – unconscious, I don’t know …’ His words broke up and fell away into silence as he looked pleadingly at Hazel.
‘Wait here,’ she decided on the instant. She ran into her house and up the stairs to fetch her bag and was out on the pavement again before John could gather his wits. ‘We have to hurry,’ she told him.
He ran up the street ahead of her and flung open his front door, standing aside to let Hazel pass. ‘She’s upstairs in bed.’
Hazel steadied herself and hurried up, to be confronted by an angry Dorothy blocking her way and demanding to know where Mabel was. Like many small, older women, Dorothy had a surprising amount of sinewy strength. She advanced on Hazel and thrust her back towards the landing, allowing only a glimpse of Myra lying on the bed.
Hazel gasped. Myra was not only unconscious but writhing and flinging her arms this way and that. Her head was back, her eyes closed, her teeth clenched. Without a shadow of a doubt these were convulsions brought on by full-blown eclampsia.
‘Fetch Dr Bell!’ she told John, pushing Dorothy to one side. ‘Now!’ she urged. She heard him leave the room and take the stairs two at a time.
‘Stay away from her,’ Dorothy insisted as Hazel set down her bag on the dressing table and took out a blood pressure meter. Dorothy ran forward again and tried but failed to grab the equipment.
Hazel held her ground and waited for Myra’s latest convulsion to ease before she proceeded. ‘Please, Mrs Pennington, listen to me – this is very serious. You have to help me by holding Myra still while I take her blood pressure.’ As she spoke, she was able to lift the sheet and determine that Myra’s waters had broken and labour was indeed underway. Now that she was here and able to assess the situation, she overcame the shock she’d felt when she first saw John and then the flurry of nerves on her way to the house. She made her decisions calmly.
Myra’s mother, in contrast, had taken leave of her senses. ‘You’re having me on – I’m not laying a finger on her.’
‘It’s frightening, I know.’ Hazel continued with her work and found that Myra’s blood pressure was extremely high. This meant that things had reached a critical point. Another fit quickly succeeded the last and Myra’s features distorted, her jaw remaining tightly clenched. ‘We need to get Myra’s mouth open to stop her tongue from rolling backwards and blocking her oxygen supply,’ she explained to Dorothy.
‘Not me – I’m off to Nelson Yard to fetch Mabel!’ With a look of horror, Dorothy backed out onto the landing. ‘She’ll know what to do.’
So Hazel was left alone in the battle to save both mother and baby, working quickly to take Myra’s temperature, which had reached 104 degrees. She had no tongue wedge with her, so between fits, when Myra’s jaw relaxed, Hazel managed to ease open her jaw and use a bandage from her bag to make a gag, which would hold down her tongue. Then, when she was sure that the airway was open, she moved on to see how labour was progressing.
There was hardly time to observe the crown of the baby’s head, however, before the next convulsion sent fresh rigors through Myra’s body. She threw back her head in agony, her red hair darkened with sweat, foam frothing at the corners of her mouth. Her spine was arched clear of the bed, her arms flung wide.
Hazel inhaled deeply. It was as bad as could be, but once David arrived and was able to sedate the patient, they might yet get through this. Meanwhile, the baby was being born. Here came the head and then, to Hazel’s horror, a glimpse of the dark umbilical cord wound tightly around the infant’s neck. She acted on instinct, using her hands to twist the baby around to allow the shoulders to slide out but she knew from the limp feel of his body that the muscle tone was wrong. His face was blue. The child was stillborn.
Hazel’s heart missed a beat and cold shock coursed through her. But she must go on and deliver the infant – clamp and cut the cord then wrap him in a clean sheet and place him in the Moses basket to the side of the bed that Myra had lined with warm blankets and a small pillow ready for his arrival.
Again Myra was seized by a shuddering convulsion so that Hazel didn’t notice John return with the doctor. She was only aware of a hand on her shoulder and David’s quiet voice informing her that he was here to assist. Then she moved to one side to let him attend the patient, aware that John was torn between staring aghast at the sight of his dead infant son in the basket and his wife thrashing wildly on the bed.
With difficulty David felt Myra’s pulse then sounded her chest. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he removed his stethoscope and laid it across his knees then watched as Myra’s final fit eased and her head lolled to one side.
‘Do something, Doctor.’ John’s voice was low and desperate.
Gently David removed the gag from Myra’s mouth, felt for her pulse then stood up.
Hazel could hear more voices at the bottom of the stairs – Dorothy’s and Mabel’s.
‘Do something.’ John stood tall and helpless, seeming too big for the room. His eyes darted from Myra to the baby and back again.
David felt once more for a pulse. ‘I’m sorry, John. We were too late – for both of them.’ The room was thick with silence, the air suddenly unbreathable. ‘Hazel and I will leave you with them for a few minutes to say your goodbyes.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’ With a stricken look and a low, robotic response, John moved closer to the bed.
Hazel followed David out of the room and down the stairs where they came face to face with Dorothy and Mabel.
Mabel was the first to speak. ‘Never!’ she said in disbelief when she saw their closed, drained expressions.
‘I’m afraid so,’ David confirmed. ‘There was nothing we could do.’
Hazel took another deep breath. Shock hollowed her out and rendered her speechless. She saw only Dorothy’s look of horror. Upstairs the silence was unbroken.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘How was it your fault?’ Robert would have none of it. Though it was the middle of the night, he sat Hazel down at the kitchen table, took out the bottle of brandy he kept at the back of the cupboard above the sink, poured her a glass and set it before her. Jinny stood in her blue dressing-gown by the window, listening quietly.
Hazel sat dry-eyed, but she was trembling all over. ‘There was no one there except me to start with. Myra and the baby died – both of them, right there in front of me.’
‘Drink,’ her father insisted, pushing the glass towards her. He was in his pyjamas, his grey hair ruffled from sleep.
Hazel took a sip and felt the brandy hit the back of her throat. She brought her hand up to her mouth as she gagged then gasped.
‘Better?’
She took a deep breath then nodded. ‘You say I’m not to blame, but I am,’ she went on. ‘I knew Myra needed to see a doctor the minute I set eyes on her but I couldn’t make her understand.’
Jinny came forward and sat next to her, taking a long time to come out with what she was thinking. When she spoke, her words were firm and to the point. ‘And what were you meant to do – tie Myra’s hands behind her back and drag her to the surgery?’
‘No, but I should have told David – Dr Bell – about her symptoms.’ Yes, that was it – that was exactly where the fault lay, Hazel realized. ‘Then he would have gone to the house and examined her. Myra would have had no choice – the a
mbulance would have come and taken her to hospital.’
Hazel looked so sad and bereft, so young and lost, that Robert felt a lump in his throat. ‘You did your best,’ he said.
‘Even if Dr Bell had knocked on the Moxons’ door, who’s to say he wouldn’t have got the same treatment?’ Jinny was the logical one, as usual. ‘He’d have had Dorothy and Mabel to contend with, just like you did. And if he’d got past the old guard, there would have been Myra herself. From what I remember, she wasn’t the type to face up to anything that frightened her – she’d rather bury her head in the sand.’
‘Drink,’ Robert reminded Hazel. ‘Go on – swallow it.’
‘I’m still to blame,’ she said after a second sip of brandy had slid down her throat. Then she covered her face with her hands. ‘Say what you like – when it came to it, I was the only one who could have saved them.’
‘By what miracle?’ Jinny wanted to know. ‘Myra was already unconscious, wasn’t she? And from what you’ve said, the bairn didn’t stand a chance either.’
Hazel kept her face hidden. ‘Oh, I wish we’d got there earlier! David could have sedated Myra with morphine. We could have tried to save the baby. It was a boy, poor thing.’ She remembered the shock of seeing the thick purple cord around the child’s throat and knowing in an instant that he had not survived.
‘Your dad’s right – you did try.’ A glance at Robert’s bowed head told Jinny that he was too upset to say more and so it would be left to her to talk Hazel round. ‘I can’t think of anyone who could have done any different to keep Myra and her little boy alive – definitely not Mabel, or even Dr Bell for that matter. It just wasn’t meant to be.’
Her mother’s calm voice prompted Hazel to take her hands from her face then slowly look up. ‘It feels so sad,’ she whispered as the first tears began to fall. ‘Poor Myra – I’ve known her as far back as I can remember. And that poor, poor baby – he never even drew breath.’
‘But it was bound to happen sooner or later,’ Jinny said, taking her hand and letting her cry. ‘They must have taught you at college to expect it.’
Hazel grasped her mother’s hand tightly. ‘I wish it had been later then.’ Not now, during her first month as a midwife – before she’d really got into the swing of things. Yes, she’d learned in the lecture theatre about mortality rates and the complications of pregnancy, and she’d convinced herself that she would be able to deal with it. But back then it had been names and numbers on a list – not pretty-as-a-picture Myra Moxon, who was a novice at dusting and ironing, who had fallen in love with her handsome husband at first sight but feared she wasn’t good enough. Not her old friend Myra from Pennington’s fish and chip shop at the top of Raglan Road.
After Hazel had at last taken herself off to bed, Jinny and Robert sat a long time in silence. They still faced each other across the kitchen table as the sun rose and a grey light filtered in through the curtains.
‘That’ll be Fred delivering the milk,’ Robert murmured, at the sound of dray horses’ hooves on the cobbles.
Bottles clinked onto their top step then the rhythmical clip-clopping receded, replaced by the sharp seven o’clock rattle of the knocker-up’s pole against bedroom windows – the call for workers from Oldroyd’s, Kingsley’s and Calvert’s in advance of their Saturday-morning shift.
‘I’d better have a shave and get dressed,’ Robert said without stirring.
‘Try not to wake her when you go up,’ Jinny reminded him.
Still he didn’t move. ‘What do you think will happen now?’
‘There’ll be a funeral, of course.’ Though it wasn’t a prospect Jinny relished, she decided she would have to be there to pay her respects.
‘No – I mean, what will happen to Hazel?’
‘Nothing. She followed the rules. She didn’t do anything wrong.’ Staunch in her daughter’s defence, Jinny was surprised that Robert should worry about this. She pulled her dressing-gown tighter across her chest.
‘But how will she feel when she wakes up?’ This was what troubled him and stopped him from getting ready to go to work. ‘You know how much she minds what people think of her. And everyone’s bound to talk about how it turned out, and who was to blame.’
‘They are,’ Jinny agreed.
‘Do you think she’ll be able to – you know – face the music?’
Outside in the street there were more sounds: doors opening and closing, feet shuffling down the hill and bicycle bells being rung. Jinny went to the window and opened the curtains. It was raining – the slate roofs of the houses opposite shone a greasy, leaden grey. Noticing the first passers-by nudge each other and cast their curious glances towards number 18, she gave the curtain a sharp tug then stood back. ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
For two days Hazel stayed at home, too shaken to venture out. The world around her went on – mill hooters sounded, children played skipping games on the street. Girls swung their rope and chanted their song: ‘Lord Nelson lost one eye. Lord Nelson lost the other!’ On the Sunday Jinny cooked braised rabbit for dinner. Hazel took two mouthfuls then pushed her plate away.
‘Never mind.’ Robert consoled her with a gentle pat of her hand. ‘You’ll soon come round.’
Would she? Hazel felt dizzy and oddly detached from her surroundings, noticing the skill of her mother’s embroidery on their best linen tablecloth – loop stitch, cross stitch and French knots to make pink and white daisies all along the border – as if she, Hazel, had no physical presence in the room.
On Sunday evening there was a knock on the door and her mother called her down from her room where she lay on the bed resting.
‘Hazel, there’s someone to see you.’
‘Ta – I’ll be down in a minute.’ Pushing her feet into her slippers and smoothing her hair, she went down tentatively to find David Bell waiting hat in hand by the front door. Her mother and father had retreated to the far side of the kitchen and sat awkwardly at the table, trying to escape attention.
‘Hello, Hazel. I hope you don’t mind my calling,’ David began, turning the brim of the hat and clearing his throat. His pale skin and fair hair, together with his starched white collar and dark tie, made him look clean and smart – too formal to be standing in the Prices’ humble kitchen.
‘No, I don’t mind,’ Hazel said softly. She was acutely aware of her father’s threadbare work jacket and cap hanging on the door hook and of the dirty pots from teatime still sitting on the draining board.
‘I took a stroll on the Common after Evensong. It’s a fine evening.’
‘Yes.’ She gave a cautious nod. What had brought him here? It was one thing for David to take the air on Overcliffe Common on his way home to Westgate Road, but he’d had to come well out of his way to make this visit.
Her wary expression pushed him into abandoning formalities. ‘I ran into Mabel Jackson and her cronies outside church. Of course they were tittle-tattling about recent events.’
Hazel’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced in alarm at her watchful mother and father.
‘What were they saying?’ Jinny wanted to know. Her voice rose above its usual low pitch. ‘No, Dr Bell, there’s no need to spell it out. I can guess for myself.’
David pursed his lips then continued. ‘Marjorie Sykes was asking Mabel for her version of what had happened to Myra. They were all eager for scraps of information – you know how it is.’
Hazel pictured the scene at the church gate – Mabel in her brown hat and coat at the centre of a storm of questions, people crowding round her like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Her faltering heart thudded. She’d known this would happen – that she would be the butt of criticism, the person whom everyone blamed.
‘To be fair to Mabel, she was careful in what she said,’ David continued. ‘It was a case of “These things happen”. And she didn’t pretend to know the ins and outs of what went on. It’s more the others that I thought I should warn you about �
�� they’re out for our blood, I’m afraid.’
‘Not Marjorie?’ Jinny asked.
‘No. I mean Berta and Doreen. But I’m here to tell you not to worry too much about what people in general think. There’s a good deal of ignorance dating back to the Dark Ages where something like this is concerned.’ Keeping his gaze on Hazel, David tried to interpret the emotions flickering across her face, showing mainly in her violet-tinted eyes – the frown followed by a flash of desperation then a sign of impending tears. ‘The point is that Dorothy was at the service too. She caught the drift of the conversation – that we didn’t do what we should have done, we should have stepped aside and let Mabel deal with things – she’s an old hand and would have known what to do, et cetera.’
‘When you say “we”, you mean “me”.’ Hazel knew that he was trying to soften the blow. ‘I’m young and inexperienced so I didn’t do what I should have done. I should have stepped aside. That’s what Dorothy believes too, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ he admitted, tapping his hat against his thigh with an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s to be expected – Myra’s mother isn’t thinking straight. It’s natural for her to look around for someone to blame.’
‘And did anyone stick up for Hazel?’ Robert spoke for the first time.
‘Rose Drummond did, in the face of a lot of opposition. She let everyone know that it was Myra and her mother’s choice to stay away from our clinic and not to seek medical help. I know Rose quite well from surgery visits – she’s to be admired.’
Again Hazel pictured the scene – Aunty Rose in her big church hat and smart smock coat, tiny and bent, striding down the church pathway with all guns blazing, sticking up for her niece. She cried grateful tears at the thought of it.
‘It’s just as well I wasn’t there,’ Jinny said darkly. ‘I’d have had plenty of my own to say.’
Hazel managed to wipe away her tears and cling on to some shreds of dignity. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she told David now that he’d delivered the bad news and was turning for the door.
