The Midwives of Raglan Road

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Norman,’ Sylvia echoed in a faint voice and tears came to her eyes.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better—’ Hazel began.

  ‘No.’ Sylvia wouldn’t let her finish her sentence.

  ‘He’s bound to find out in the end.’

  ‘Don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone. Go away, Hazel. I don’t want to talk to you if you’re going to carry on like that.’

  ‘Can you give me a straight answer – what are the chances of a child being born to a white woman with a black father turning out to look …’ Under David’s direct gaze, Hazel struggled to find the right words.

  ‘White?’ he said bluntly.

  Tuesday’s clinic had finished and Hazel had sought him out to ask his advice. He’d taken her up to his living room where a newly laid fire burned brightly. The curtains were drawn and a tray set out with tea and sandwiches. Luckily there was no sign of Irene.

  ‘Yes.’ Hazel was sure that the conversation wouldn’t go beyond those four walls, but still she trod carefully in case she slipped up. ‘I feel out of my depth. I’ve been asked by—’

  Again David swatted away the rest of her sentence. ‘It doesn’t matter by whom. The question is purely and simply about inheritance. Let’s say, for instance, that the father is of one hundred per cent African origin, then the chance of the baby born to a white mother being completely white or completely black is very remote. Most likely the newborn will have features that show a mixed origin, though it may not be obvious in the first few minutes after birth. As we know, most babies emerge with a dark purple or reddish skin tone.’

  ‘That turns paler when they start to breathe – yes.’ Hazel listened intently. This was not a topic they’d covered in college and she was grateful to David for talking about it with his usual directness, displaying no personal curiosity or bias.

  ‘Other than the most obvious difference, Caucasian babies are born with dark blue eyes, African and Asian babies with grey or brown. Hair colour is usually of no significance in determining race.’

  ‘Back to the question of skin colour – it’s not all or nothing?’ she asked, still tentative.

  ‘Quite right. There’s an enormous range and besides it’s not fixed. Very often the colour of such a baby’s skin will grow darker during the first year of life – not always, of course.’ He finished then looked closely at her, wishing that he could do more to lift her mood. ‘Is that enough information for you to go on?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She sat for a while gazing into the fire, absorbing its warmth and reluctant to head out into the cold evening.

  ‘In my experience, this doesn’t present a problem if the parents are settled – married, and so on.’ David’s remark was open ended, leaving Hazel to decide whether or not she wanted to follow it up.

  She frowned and continued to look at the flames. ‘And if not?’

  ‘Then it can cause a great deal of anxiety. I remember a case in my last practice when a young mother was cut off by her whole family – not for being unmarried, though that was seen as bad enough, but for the so-called sin of giving birth to a child with dark brown skin – unmistakably the result of a brief liaison with a chap from one of the cargo boats.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘The mother had plenty of spirit. She took the baby away and made a fresh start in a faraway town, apparently successfully. On another occasion, a young woman came to me with a similar problem. She had not a scrap of support from her family during her pregnancy and she was adamant that she didn’t want to keep the baby after it was born. I recommended a maternity home in the Borders run by nuns. She went there, had the child, and in due course the Catholic sisters made arrangements for it to be adopted by a couple in Pennsylvania – all above board and satisfactory.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Sorry – I should have thought of that.’ Hazel resolved to make up for this omission by discussing this course of action with Sylvia as soon as possible.

  ‘I’ve also known a few women who stayed put and stuck it out,’ David added. He looked thoughtful but still resolved not to probe. ‘It depends entirely on the individual.’

  Hazel stood up and straightened the creases in her skirt. ‘Ta. I appreciate that.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I’ll see you on Thursday.’ He too stood then showed her to the door. ‘Our new clinic day.’

  ‘Yes, Thursday.’ The reminder drew a faint smile. ‘A new clinic to start the New Year. Fresh beginnings.’

  David smiled warmly. ‘Goodbye, Hazel. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Ta-ta,’ Eleanor said to Hazel as she came down the stairs. The receptionist looked up at Dr Bell still hovering on the top landing and sighed as she put the cover on her typewriter. ‘Did Irene make your sandwiches?’ she called up to him.

  ‘She did – thank you, Eleanor.’

  It wasn’t Hazel’s place to comment on David’s wistful look as she left the building, but her heart was heavy as she put on her hat and coat. ‘Cheerio, then.’

  ‘Cheerio,’ he said, swept up in a whirlpool of wondering who was the mother in Hazel’s story, who was the father and what would be the eventual outcome. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday and don’t be late!’

  That Thursday, Barbara Baxter, with all the eagerness of a recent convert to modern midwifery, took first place in the queue at the start of Hazel’s new clinic.

  ‘I got here nice and early,’ she explained to Hazel as she lay back on the examination table. ‘I’ve been reading up about things and there’s a lot I need to ask.’

  ‘Fire away.’ Hazel jotted down satisfactory blood pressure readings in Barbara’s notes.

  Conscious of other women lining up beyond the screen, Barbara lowered her voice. ‘This enema thingy, for a start – do you have to do that?’

  Hazel was brisk but sympathetic. ‘Yes, that’s the routine these days. We need to empty the bowel at the start of labour.’

  Barbara grimaced. ‘Do I absolutely have to?’

  ‘I’m sorry but yes. It’s to help contractions.’

  ‘And when will you be able to see that the baby is in the right position and not the wrong way up?’

  ‘Much later in your pregnancy,’ Hazel assured her, glad that Barbara seemed more in charge of what was happening. ‘Right now he’s got plenty of room to move around. Some babies don’t present head down until the very last minute.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. And did you check with Dr Bell about you being there at the birth instead of him?’

  ‘I did and he says it’s perfectly all right.’ As she made more notes, Hazel told Barbara that she could get dressed. ‘So, you see, you have nothing to worry about,’ she concluded.

  ‘That’s a relief. I can go home and tell Philip. He could do with some good news to cheer him up.’ Everything about the garage owner’s wife was refined – her manner of speaking, her appearance, even the delicate way she worked her fingers to ruche up her nylon stockings before putting them on. ‘Did you know that he’s struggling to find a trained mechanic?’

  Hazel put down Barbara’s notes and methodically replaced her stethoscope on its metal tray. ‘What happened to John?’ she asked, failing to hide a quiver in her voice.

  ‘Philip had to lay him off for poor timekeeping.’ Barbara was matter-of-fact as she slipped her feet into her shoes then put on her jacket. ‘He didn’t want to, knowing what poor John went through last year, so he gave him several chances to pull his socks up – all to no avail, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure Mr Baxter gave him every opportunity.’ Hazel tottered on the brink of revealing her personal interest in John’s fate. Why exactly? When? How did he react? How difficult will it be for him to find a new job?

  Fully dressed, Barbara took a make-up mirror from her handbag and applied a slick of red lipstick. ‘Who would believe that in this day and age it would be so hard to find a replacement? You’d think there’d be men queuing up at his door, wanting the work. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you from your ot
her ladies.’ Clipping her bag shut, she gave a grateful smile then made a brisk exit.

  The news flustered Hazel and made it hard for her to concentrate but fortunately the rest of the afternoon went smoothly and by the end of the clinic she’d decided what to do.

  ‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ Eleanor mentioned as Hazel reached for her hat and coat, ready to make a hasty exit. Nothing escaped the notice of Dr Bell’s sentry who came out from behind her desk proffering a black umbrella. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’

  ‘Ta. Whose is it?’

  Eleanor flicked her eyes towards her employer’s closed door. ‘Take it – he won’t mind.’

  So Hazel grabbed the umbrella and was grateful for it as she left the Westgate Road surgery and hurried through the rain. The pavements were crowded with workers, heads bowed against the downpour, all intent on getting home after a weary day in the woollen mill or iron foundry, the department store or bank. No one spoke above the grind of motor traffic that swished through puddles or stopped to disgorge passengers at the tram stop by the Common.

  With a rapidly beating heart Hazel turned onto Raglan Road and walked past Pennington’s without a sideways glance. Once – just this once – she thought, I shall follow my heart. She knew it had to be done quickly and without too much thought. Two houses down from the fish and chip shop, she went up the steps and knocked on the door.

  After a minute or so, John opened it.

  Hazel tilted her umbrella so that he could see her face. ‘It’s me. Can I come in?’

  He stood back to let her enter. ‘Sorry about the mess.’

  Hazel found the kitchen in disarray. Pots were piled up in the sink, cinders and ash spilled out of the grate. John was in shirtsleeves, a broad leather belt buckled tight around his waist. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. ‘I hear you’re out of work,’ she said without any preamble.

  ‘Blimey, who’s been telling tales behind my back? Let me guess. I bet it was Mrs High and Mighty Baxter.’

  ‘John, don’t – this is serious.’ She faced him across the hearthrug, determined to find out what was going on.

  ‘I never said it wasn’t.’ His expression grew guarded. ‘Anyway, what brings you here?’

  ‘First of all, I wanted to find out if you were all right.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’ He spread his arms wide, inviting her to take a good look. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘That you’re not all right,’ she said quietly. She took in a row of empty beer bottles lined up at the cellar head next to an abandoned cricket bat and a set of wickets. ‘I noticed your car wasn’t parked outside for a start.’

  ‘Sold it,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘John – your beautiful car!’

  ‘A car’s a car.’ He shrugged.

  ‘But that Ford meant a lot to you.’ She saw in a flash that his life was indeed falling apart, that he was losing everything – not just his car and his job, but any pride that he might have had in himself and his place in the world.

  ‘Let’s just say I was strapped for cash. Sorry about that – I should have let you know. It means the ride out to Shawcross is off.’

  She shook her head to show that it didn’t matter. ‘And your job – that’s gone as well.’

  ‘Down the Swannee,’ he agreed with false bravado. ‘Old man Baxter gave me the push at the end of last week and I don’t blame him. If I were him I’d have sacked me too.’

  ‘John, what’s happening to you?’ Hazel murmured. Filled with alarm, she took a step towards him to try to break down the barrier. ‘Why haven’t you kept in touch like you promised?’

  He gave another ironic flourish, this time gesticulating towards the unwashed pots and the untidy grate. ‘Because this is what I have to offer. Do I have any takers? No, I didn’t think so.’

  ‘This isn’t you,’ she insisted. ‘This is what happens when you give way to feeling sorry for yourself. Everything goes to pieces.’

  The barb hit home and made him drop his flippant tone.

  ‘You’re right, it’s true. I’ve been drinking far too much and throwing my money away at the race course. You can blame Dan for that.’

  Hazel frowned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t ever hold Dan up as a good example, even though he is my cousin.’

  ‘To be fair, it’s as much me as him. We’re partners in crime.’

  ‘But Dan doesn’t have the reasons to go to pieces that you do. You must have had a miserable Christmas, all by yourself.’

  ‘Too much time to sit and mope,’ he agreed.

  ‘Is that where the drink came in – to dull the ache?’ Hazel began to see his plight more clearly but she wanted to know more. ‘And the fight between you and Dan at the jazz club – what was that all about?’

  ‘He lied about owing me a few quid, that’s all. It made me see red until Reggie stepped in and separated us. I’m not proud of the way I behaved.’

  ‘No, it’s Dan who was in the wrong,’ she insisted. ‘You’d been a good pal to him up till then. He should have paid his dues.’

  ‘Fair enough. But none of it alters the fact that I’m on my uppers. And if you really want to know why I haven’t kept in touch, it’s because the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn’t want to hold you back.’

  ‘You don’t hold me back,’ she protested, her voice low and soft.

  ‘Yes, I do. You’re just getting started as a midwife, setting up on your own, spreading your wings. I’m on the downward slide. Take a look around you.’

  There was a gap between them that could have been closed by a single step. She could sense the shame of his situation, like heat through his skin. ‘What if I said that it doesn’t matter?’

  Momentarily weakening, he leaned in then thought better of it and pulled back. ‘It does to me.’

  Hazel sighed. She imagined what would have happened if he’d reached out to touch her – the embrace, the warmth, the irresistible feel of his arms around her. ‘I’d better go, then.’

  He made no move to stop her, but turned away, hands in pockets, head down.

  To her it felt too forlorn and empty to leave it like this. ‘I moved into the flat with Gladys, by the way. Remember my new address: it’s Canal Road, number 102.’

  John nodded. ‘Good for you.’

  She went to the door and picked up her umbrella. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming. I really was worried about you.’

  ‘No need.’ He’d retreated into monosyllabic, pared-down responses that gave nothing away.

  ‘Ah, but there is,’ she said with a sad look that almost broke him. She opened the door and stepped outside.

  The door closed. Hours later, John could still smell the perfume of her hair, and the slow softness of her voice echoed in the desolate room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Foggy January gave way to a bitterly cold February, which, to everyone’s dismay, brought the deepest snow of the winter.

  ‘I thought we were through the worst,’ Jinny complained when Hazel wheeled her bike through the afternoon gloom into the yard at the back of the house on Raglan Road. Robert had cleared a path to the shed through snow ten inches deep. ‘Your dad knew you wouldn’t be able to use it in this weather so he said feel free to leave it here until the thaw comes. Now come inside and get warm.’

  Gratefully Hazel accepted the offer. Over tea and crumpets, mother and daughter caught up with the latest events.

  Jinny went first. ‘Your Aunty Rose’s bronchitis is bothering her again. Dr Bell has ordered her to stay indoors. They’ve laid off more warp men at Oldroyd’s but your dad thinks his job is still safe for the time being. Cousin Dan lost his with the tram company, though.’

  ‘When did that happen?’ Gladys hadn’t mentioned this to Hazel, even though she went back regularly to Nelson Yard to call in on her mother and father.

  ‘He kept it quiet, apparently. The cat is only just out of the
bag. Anyway, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing new. Just work.’ This was not quite true. Two clinics per week plus daily house visits and night-time calls to attend births did keep Hazel’s nose to the grindstone, but she still found time to gad about with Gladys and accept occasional free tickets from fellow lodgers for nights out at the music hall and clubs. The only invitations she refused came from Earl Ray, whenever he was in town.

  ‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against him,’ Gladys would say, wrinkling her nose and vowing to give away Hazel’s ticket to a friend. ‘Earl is a gentleman and he’s always as nice as pie to you.’

  Hazel managed to fob her off with, ‘Sorry – I’ve got too much on.’ Nothing on earth would break her resolve to shun Sylvia’s seducer. In fact, the sound of his voice in the hallway made her seethe with silent anger.

  ‘Work, eh? You know what they say about all work and no play.’ Jinny savoured Hazel’s visits and always sent her away with a thoughtful gift – a hand-embroidered pillowcase or a pad of lavender-scented writing paper from WH Smith.

  ‘I know – it makes Jack a dull boy.’ Hazel was afraid that this was true. ‘I haven’t got any news, only that Sylvia is still refusing to attend my clinic.’

  ‘She’s not speaking to any of us either,’ Jinny said. ‘It can’t be doing her any good to be stuck at home by herself.’

  ‘No, but she’s dug in her heels good and proper,’ Hazel admitted with a sigh.

  Her mother tutted. ‘Mabel said as much when I ran into her at Hutchinson’s.’

  ‘How does she know that?’ Hazel asked warily.

  ‘Don’t worry – she didn’t get it from the horse’s mouth. Mabel heard it through Ethel, who got it from Norman, I expect.’ Jinny sighed and shook her head. ‘That girl’s still as stubborn as ever. To be honest, I’ll be happy when her baby finally puts in an appearance and we can all breathe a sigh of relief. By the way, I hear Mabel has started to put business your way.’