The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Not tonight. I’m having a quiet night in.’

  Off she rushed, oblivious to his disappointment, out through Reception, past an ever-watchful Eleanor and down the steps onto the street. ‘If you go into town, say hello to the others from me,’ was her breezy parting shot.

  The next day, Saturday, was the time set aside for Hazel and Gladys to continue their flat-hunting. They met at ten in Nixon’s café, fortifying themselves with tea and toasted teacakes, armed with lists from two new estate agents.

  As usual, Gladys was full of gossip.

  ‘You missed a good night last night,’ she told Hazel as she tucked into her snack. ‘I danced the night away with the usual crowd.’

  ‘From the hospital?’ Hazel asked, without paying much attention. In her mind, the quest to find a flat came before hearing about Gladys’s social life.

  ‘Yes, and your David was there too.’

  ‘He’s not my David.’ Gladys’s quip was so cheeky and blatant that for once Hazel didn’t blush.

  ‘Says you. Anyway, our old friend Bernard is becoming quite a pest. He wouldn’t leave me alone for one minute, always on at me to dance with him. And he made remarks that I didn’t like. In the end I had to put him in his place. Oh, and something is going on between my friend Mary Fenning and John Moxon, I’m sure of it.’

  A jolt of unpleasant surprise ran through Hazel. ‘So he was there last night?’

  ‘Yes – with Dan and Reggie, propping up the bar as usual until Mary inveigled him onto the dance floor. He went off with her at the end of the evening.’

  Hazel remembered Mary, Gladys’s fellow secretary at the King Edward’s – a self-possessed, striking-looking, auburn-haired woman who was obviously at ease in male company. Ignoring a small stab of jealousy, she concentrated on her list once more.

  ‘And there’s bad news to do with Dan,’ Gladys prattled on as she leaned sideways to wipe the steamed-up window then peer out onto the street. She pulled a sour face at Hazel as Doreen, Mabel and Dorothy walked by armed with shopping bags and umbrellas. ‘By the way, Mabel’s been on at Mum to sort Sylvia out,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sort her out – how?’

  ‘I don’t know – get her organized for when the baby finally comes, I suppose. Anyway, Dan—’

  ‘Yes, what’s he done now?’ Hazel asked.

  ‘You remember he went off to the bookmaker’s at Blackpool and came back with a face like a wet weekend? It turns out that he’d entered into a big betting syndicate with Reggie and John a few days earlier, using money that he hadn’t got. Of course, their horse lost that day and Dan knew he would have to scrounge more cash from somewhere if he wanted to carry on being part of the group. That’s why he looked so glum.’

  ‘What about John? Could he afford to lose the bet?’

  ‘I doubt it – not on a garage mechanic’s wages. Reggie’s different. I expect he can splash out whenever he wants.’

  ‘So what will Dan do?’ Telling herself that what John got up to was none of her business, Hazel steered the conversation back towards her ne’er-do-well cousin.

  Gladys shrugged. ‘Dad wouldn’t give him any money and he’s not getting a penny from me. He says he’ll have to work overtime to pay it back. The thing is, Dan and John borrowed from Reggie to get themselves into the syndicate in the first place. It’s him Dan owes the money to.’

  ‘That’s the way to ruin a friendship,’ Hazel commented. ‘I don’t know much about Reggie, but he doesn’t strike me as the type you should cross. And I’m surprised at John.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t know him very well. Perhaps he’s easily led.’ Gladys had finished her tea and was pulling on her gloves.

  ‘No,’ Hazel argued, ‘I don’t get that impression.’

  Gladys caught her earnest tone and gave her a sharp look.

  ‘He seems decent, that’s all.’ Feeling a strong urge to spring to his defence, Hazel put on her gloves to avoid looking directly at Gladys and to give herself time to settle some qualms about John’s behaviour. ‘If you must know, he went out of his way to let me off the hook after Myra died.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’ This was not the time to tell Gladys about last Sunday’s drive out to Shawcross, Hazel decided. ‘Come on, slow coach – we won’t find somewhere to live by sitting on our backsides. And by the way, how is Sylvia now that she’s back home?’

  They left the café and walked briskly across Ghyll Road down steep steps onto Canal Road, where their figures were dwarfed by the three-storey, grimy walls of Kingsley’s and Calvert’s mills and Brinkley Baths beyond. There was a constant rumble of traffic and a frenzy of activity as cars and buses pulled up at kerbs and trams trundled by.

  ‘As far as I know, it’s all quiet on the western front,’ Gladys said in reply to Hazel’s question about Sylvia. ‘My dad took over from yours at the start of the week – lending a hand with the decorating and such like. Now Sylvia and Norman have at least got a bed to sleep in and a table to eat off. Mum’s keeping Mabel at arm’s length, saying Sylvia isn’t ready to think that far ahead. I told her that the first thing she should do is sign up to your clinic.’

  ‘Ta for that.’ Hazel was relieved that Sylvia was now getting some family back-up. ‘I hope she listens to you.’

  Gladys breathed out and popped her lips. ‘Pah! When did she ever do that? What number Canal Road are we looking for?’

  ‘102. It’s past the Victory, on the right-hand side.’

  The address they’d been given by the agent turned out to be one of a long row of large terraced houses that had once belonged to wealthy merchants and factory-owners but had now gone to seed. Stone steps led up to porticoed entrances with fan-shaped windows above wide, panelled doors. They were blackened by soot and weeds wilted in the high gutters. Most of the paintwork was faded and flaking.

  ‘Not very promising,’ Gladys commented. ‘98…100…102. Ah, this is better!’

  Indeed, the door to 102 was painted a shiny black, with a polished lion’s-head knocker. The worn steps were freshened by donkey-stoned edges.

  ‘Worth a look,’ Hazel agreed.

  Gladys went ahead up the steps and lifted the knocker. They waited a long time without a reply and were about to give up when the door was opened by a nattily dressed black man whom Gladys thought she recognized.

  Busy lighting a cigarette, he looked them up and down. He wore a trilby hat at a cocky angle, a pinstriped suit with broad shoulders and lapels, two-tone shoes and a yellow cravat – in other words he was bang up to date, as Gladys recounted later.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ she asked with a cheeky grin.

  ‘I have no clue – do you?’

  ‘You’re in Earl Ray’s band. You play the saxophone.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, nonchalantly slipping his silver lighter into his top pocket. His lazy American accent stretched out his vowel sounds – different to the flat, clipped dialect they were used to. ‘The name’s Sonny – Sonny Dubec. I guess you’re looking for the lady of the house?’

  ‘Yes. She has rooms to rent.’ For once Gladys was thrown off balance so she kept her answer prim and to the point.

  ‘Miss Bennett!’ Sonny called in his low, lilting voice, still unashamedly weighing up the visitors.

  A middle-aged woman emerged from a room at the end of the tiled hallway, drying her hands on a towel and hurrying towards them. ‘Thank you, Mr Dubec.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine, Miss Bennett,’ he intoned, drawing hard on his cigarette then directing a plume of blue smoke upwards to the ceiling. He smiled broadly as he brushed past Hazel and Gladys and went on his way.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to wait. I was busy in the kitchen,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Miriam Bennett. Have you come about the rooms on the top floor?’

  As Gladys introduced herself, Hazel took in details of the landlady and their surroundings. Miriam Bennett was a trim woman with mid brown hair going grey at the temples. She wore a blac
k jumper and matching skirt, teamed with a string of pearls and black shoes with a small heel. Hazel noted with approval that she took care to keep the intricate mosaic of terracotta tiles polished and the patterned stair carpet clean, its brass stair rods gleaming. Overhead, a plain skylight lit the stairwell that ascended three storeys to a high attic landing.

  ‘Follow me,’ the landlady told them, explaining the situation as they climbed the stairs. ‘Most of my rooms are rented out to people from the theatre and the clubs – like Mr Dubec. They come and go from week to week. But I prefer to have permanent lodgers on the top floor. That way I can be sure of one steady rent and some familiar faces.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Gladys agreed. She too seemed impressed by the standards of cleanliness.

  ‘There’s a young couple in here at the moment – Mr and Mrs Jackson. They’ve gone away to Scarborough for the weekend. They leave for good at the end of the month.’ Reaching the spacious top landing, Miss Bennett opened a door onto a living room with easy chairs to either side of a small fireplace, made cosy by the current tenants’ ornaments and pictures.

  ‘Plenty of headroom, you see – exactly the same as the room on the other side.’

  Gladys and Hazel found themselves peering into an attic room that was a mirror image of the other, only this time with a double bed and a dressing table.

  ‘There’s only one bedroom,’ Hazel pointed out.

  Gladys quickly worked out that they could convert both rooms into single bedrooms and turn the landing space into an open, well-lit living area.

  ‘There’s an inside bathroom down on the first floor with hot and cold running water, and a separate WC. They’re shared between all my lodgers.’ Miss Bennett listed the facilities then went downstairs to give Gladys and Hazel time to talk things through.

  ‘What do you think to being woken up every day by strains of saxophone music?’ The gleam in Gladys’s eye that had appeared when she’d recognized the jazz player was still there. ‘Or an actor rehearsing lines? “It is a far, far better thing I do …”! You know – the smell of the greasepaint and all that.’

  Hazel couldn’t help but smile. ‘I do like the place,’ she conceded. ‘And it’s handy for you that it’s close to town. But maybe we should look at others on the list before we decide.’

  ‘But then we’d risk losing this one.’ Gladys paced out the space on the landing. ‘We can easily fit two armchairs in here and plug in one of those two-bar electric fires. Or if we want peace and quiet, we can each go to ground in our own rooms.’

  ‘I know you – you’ll be hanging over the banister calling coo-ee to those handsome actors, inviting them up for cups of tea. There’ll be no stopping you.’

  ‘Does that mean yes?’ A gleeful Gladys was on the point of running downstairs to tell the landlady.

  ‘Yes.’ Hazel’s agreement took even her by surprise. But life would never be dull here – two girls jumping into the swing of things, living a modern life. Privately she thought that she wouldn’t mention the likes of Sonny Dubec and Earl Ray to her mum and dad, who would no doubt consider them too racy.

  As if summoning him by her thoughts, as Gladys and Hazel descended the stairs a door on the first landing opened and out stepped the great man himself. Earl Ray was an imposing figure dressed in a light grey three-piece suit with a camel-hair overcoat hanging from his shoulders like a cape. He was on his way out, but he stopped to say hello.

  ‘It’s a thrill to meet you,’ a star-struck Gladys gushed. ‘Isn’t it, Hazel? My friends and I love to listen to your band and my little sister is your biggest follower.’

  Earl Ray soaked up the admiration. He was glad to learn that they would soon be neighbours and hoped that Gladys and Hazel would settle quickly into number 102. ‘We’re a free and easy bunch,’ he assured them. And to prove it he offered them two complimentary tickets to a January concert at the Town Hall. ‘Front-row seats,’ he told Gladys as, with a flash of gold rings, he pulled the tickets from his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘It’s our lucky day,’ Gladys cooed after Earl Ray had said goodbye and left them overcome with excitement.

  Hazel heard his footsteps cross the hall and then the click of the front door closing. ‘Let’s find Miss Bennett and tell her we want to take the rooms,’ she said once she’d got her wits about her. ‘We’ll arrange to pay her a deposit. Come on, Gladys – stop catching flies.’

  ‘Oh, but this is wonderful,’ Gladys sighed, waving the concert tickets in the air. ‘Pinch me and tell me it’s true.’

  Life was nothing if not varied for Hazel. The arrangement was made with Miss Bennett for her and Gladys to move in at the start of January and with it came the promise of glamour and excitement for the two cousins from Raglan Road and Nelson Yard. The following Tuesday Hazel was back running a busy clinic, sleeves rolled up, rubber gloves on.

  ‘Take a look and see what you think,’ Cynthia Houghton told Hazel as she lay back on the examination table. ‘I’ve had so many aches and pains this last couple of days that I’m sure baby is on its way.’

  Hazel consulted Cynthia’s record card. ‘It’s a bit early. The pains are probably Braxton Hicks, but let’s see.’

  ‘What’s that when they’re at home?’

  ‘It’s what we call false labour – you’ll have read about it, I’m sure.’ Waiting until Cynthia was comfortable on her back with her knees crooked, Hazel began her examination. ‘Where do you feel the pain – in your back or in your abdomen?’

  ‘All over,’ Cynthia groaned. Up till now she’d been glowing with health through each stage of her pregnancy but today she was slow and listless. ‘Mostly low down in my back then it works its way round to the front.’

  Hazel felt her way carefully. ‘How long do the pains last? A few seconds or longer?’

  ‘Usually longer.’ Seized by a new twinge, Cynthia let out a groan. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? This is the real thing.’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Tell me – is there any way you could have missed your waters breaking?’

  ‘Lord only knows. I’ve been dashing to the WC a lot, though.’

  As Cynthia described her symptoms, Hazel grew convinced that her patient was right. Beyond the screen, the other women chatted over their cups of tea and children played noisily with building bricks and plasticine. Luckily Irene was still there, overseeing the teapot. ‘Irene!’ Hazel hissed as she poked her head around the edge of the screen. ‘We might need Dr Bell. Can you ask him to come up, please?’

  ‘He’s out on a house call,’ Irene told her.

  ‘Rightio. Ask Eleanor to pass on the message as soon as he comes back, then.’

  Sensing that something was up, the chatter in the room died down and Cynthia’s labour went ahead with an audience of avid listeners.

  ‘Ouch, that hurt,’ one of the women commented when Cynthia let out a groan followed by a loud cry.

  ‘Rather her than me,’ another added as Hazel urged Cynthia to turn onto her side and gave calm advice about breathing.

  Behind the screen it was now obvious to Hazel what was happening. The baby’s head was fully engaged and the cervix dilated. She drew boiling water from the gas geyser above the sink then slid towels under the patient. ‘Can you manage?’ she asked Cynthia. ‘Or would you like something for the pain?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Cynthia’s predictable reply came through gritted teeth. She breathed in sharply at the start of another contraction.

  ‘Hurry up in there,’ someone called. ‘I haven’t got all day. I’ve to be home in time to make Harold his tea.’

  This raised a titter and drew a sympathetic smile from Hazel. ‘Take your time, Cynthia. Deep breaths – that’s right, nice and easy.’

  Half an hour went by without much progress so Hazel decided it was best to move the weighing scales out from behind the screen and carry out some routine checks on the women who had chosen to stay while Cynthia rested and waited. ‘Call if you need me,’ Hazel told her.

 
‘That’s the ticket.’ The woman at the head of the queue jumped onto the scales with alacrity. She lifted her dress up around her chest for Hazel to listen to her abdomen, giving everyone a clear view of voluminous knickers and stout legs with skin that was mottled from sitting too close to the fire. ‘Take a good butcher’s,’ she invited her fellow sufferers. ‘And don’t you worry – before you know it I’ll be back to my sylph-like self!’

  Noting down figures amidst a round of friendly laughter and ribald comments, Hazel reassured her that all was well then moved on to the next.

  ‘Who’d have thought one young girl could get through us lot at the same time as keeping an eye on Cynthia?’ Approval for Hazel rose and was voiced by the next in the queue.

  ‘Don’t speak too soon,’ her neighbour warned as Cynthia let out a full-throated yell and Hazel disappeared once more behind the screen.

  ‘Deep breaths,’ Hazel reminded her patient, registering the presentation of the dome of the baby’s head. She mopped Cynthia’s brow as they waited for the contractions to ease. They began again almost immediately, making Cynthia grasp the edge of the examination table until her knuckles were white. She clenched her teeth and moaned. ‘Now breathe in and out quickly,’ Hazel instructed. Here came the head in exactly the right position – a steady, smooth birth during which the shoulders eased out and the worst was soon over. ‘Marvellous, wonderful, Cynthia – you’re doing beautifully! It’s a little boy.’

  Out in the room a cheer went up followed by a spontaneous chorus of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.

  ‘Let me hold him.’ Cynthia could hardly wait until the cord was cut and the mucus cleared from her baby’s face. ‘Is he all right? Why isn’t he crying?’

  ‘He will,’ Hazel assured her as she held the infant upside down and gave his bottom a sharp tap with her fingertips. He took his first breath then gave a long, high wail.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with his lungs at any rate,’ was the general opinion.

  ‘Give him to me, please,’ Cynthia pleaded.

  Hazel wiped the baby’s face with cotton-wool swabs then wrapped him in a blanket. The little boy’s eyes opened on the outside world for the very first time. ‘Here he is,’ she murmured, as, with infinite care, she nestled the precious infant in his mother’s arms.