‘Been promoted, have you?’ she said.
‘Ah, yes. A good excuse to buy a new uniform, not that I needed an excuse you understand. No, in fact it was a necessity. Can you believe it – some blighter stole my tunic?’ He lowered his voice. ‘What did you do with it, by the way?’
Peggy tried hard not to smile.
He put on a stern voice. ‘It’s a criminal offence to steal an officer’s uniform. I could have you arrested.’
‘Attempting seduction by plying a girl with champagne is a worse offence in my book,’ said Peggy.
He acknowledged the point with a wry smile. ‘But there were mitigating circumstances, your honour.’
‘Were there indeed? Maybe you’d care to explain.’
Archie leaned across the table. ‘The girl was so very beautiful that I lost my head. I meant no harm. I made a terrible mistake and I promise never to do anything like that again.’
Peggy sighed and shook her head.
Archie went on, ‘And can I say, given another chance, I would make it up to her.’
At that moment a waitress appeared with a menu and he flashed her a smile. ‘Two cups of coffee and two of your splendid toasted teacakes, please.’ He turned back to Peggy. ‘Well, what’s your verdict? Am I a condemned man about to have his last meal of teacakes?’
The thing about Archie Dewer, thought Peggy as she walked back to the music shop, was that you couldn’t stay angry with him for long – he was such good company. He was clever and funny and he made her feel that she was the only person in the world that he wanted to be with. Oh, she hadn’t let him off lightly. She made him promise that there would be no repeat of his low, louche behaviour and she only agreed to go to the Grand Opera House with him to see Me and My Girl if he did everything she told him to.
Sheila sat in a cafe just round the corner from the Royal Academy, and waited for Charles to arrive. No one at the school knew that they had been spending time together over the past few months and Charles had been keen to keep things that way. He had instructed Sheila to leave for her dinner at twelve and make her way to the café and he would follow her ten minutes later. She was very uneasy about giving him an answer to his proposal in such a public place, but he had assured her that, whatever she decided, he would respect her wishes.
She had hardly slept the night before with everything spinning in her head. Charles was a lovely, gentle person and she didn’t doubt for a minute that he loved her – his kisses and caresses told her that. But marriage was for ever and, now she’d found Charles to love her and take care of her, there would be no need ever to fall in love again. That morning she had eaten her breakfast porridge thinking she would say no, on the bus to work she thought she might say yes, but as the morning wore on she panicked and had no idea what her answer would be.
She smoothed the tablecloth and rearranged the condiments and watched the door and decided. She’d tell him she needed more time. And suddenly he was there, coming towards her with his lovely smile. He touched her shoulder and her heart missed a beat. He slid into the seat opposite her looking so nervous.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me quickly.’
And she took his hand and the words tumbled out. ‘Yes, Charles, I’ll marry you.’
Chapter 15
Throughout the bleak winter of 1943, the Battle of the Atlantic raged, and on the shores of Lough Erne the flying boats came and went by day and by night. Flying hundreds of miles out over the ocean, their mission was to protect the convoys of ships from attack by German U-boats. Losses among Allied ships, with their precious cargo of food and fuel, mounted and the greatest fear was that the country would be starved into submission.
New squadrons of British, Canadian and American pilots and crew arrived and the camp at Castle Archdale grew and grew. Ground and air crews slept in shifts with little respite from the gruelling routine.
Irene, only a few miles down the road from the base, saw less and less of Sandy. Occasionally, he would turn up at Dorothy’s house on his motorbike to spend an hour with her. But each time, he looked more and more exhausted and had little to say beyond asking her how she was and sitting with her, his head on her shoulder and his hand stroking the bump that was their unborn child. But on one of his visits, just two weeks from Irene’s due date at the end of March, he seemed much brighter. They lay on the bed together and Sandy told her that he would be allowed to leave the base to come and see her and the baby once it was born, provided he could get someone to cover his shift. He was so excited.
‘I don’t mind if it’s a girl or boy, but if it’s a girl I hope she takes after you, because you’re beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?’
Irene smiled. ‘And I hope he or she will be clever like you.’
‘You know, when the war’s over the first thing we’ll do is visit my family way in the north of Scotland. You’ll meet them all and I’ll show you round the town. Och, it’s only a wee fishing port …’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘I didn’t used to, but now I have you and soon the baby will be here, I don’t know – it seems so important now.’ He laughed. ‘Of course, you won’t understand a word they say, but that won’t matter. They’ll love you as much as I do.’
Irene had made her decision to stay in Fermanagh knowing full well that she wouldn’t see much of Sandy, but she counted herself lucky that Dorothy was such good company and the two of them had become firm friends. She also learned a great deal about looking after children. She bathed them, changed nappies, sang and played with them and became more and more excited at the thought that soon she would be nursing her own child.
A week before the baby was due, the doctor, an elderly man with not a hint of a bedside manner, called on Irene and spent quite a while feeling the way the baby was lying, tutting every now and again. Irene watched his face for any clue as to what was going on. Eventually, he spoke. ‘Now here’s one with no hurry to see the light of day.’
‘What do you mean?’ Irene hardly dared ask.
‘Breech, missus, breech.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The baby’s head is up and its legs are down. So it’ll be coming feet first if we can’t persuade it to change its position.’ He shook his head. ‘Trouble is there’s not a lot of room for manoeuvring.’
‘Will it matter if it comes feet first?’
He looked at her as though she was daft. ‘Let’s just say it wasn’t the way God intended babies to be born.’
Irene was frightened now. ‘So what’s going to happen?’
In reply, the doctor took off his jacket and hung it behind the door. ‘I’ll have to try and persuade it to move,’ he said, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. The next ten minutes were quite simply the worst of Irene’s life as the doctor tried to manipulate the baby, grasping and pulling at unseen limbs, pushing upwards, twisting downwards, until her stomach was heaving.
At last the doctor stood back, sweat rolling down his face. ‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘You’ve a stubborn one there – it’s just not for turning.’
Irene could feel the panic rising in her chest. ‘What’s going to happen? How will it come out?’
‘Well, maybe the manipulation I’ve done might give it a bit more room and it’ll turn of its own accord. There’s a week until the confinement date, so there’s still time.’ He took his jacket from behind the door and put it on. ‘I’ll call again in a few days.’
When he had gone, Dorothy came upstairs to find Irene lying on her back, her face wet with tears. ‘What in God’s name is the matter?’ she asked.
‘He said the baby’s the wrong way up. He tried to turn it round.’
Dorothy was very calm. ‘Breech, is it?’
‘Aye,’ said Irene, ‘he said it might turn itself, but what’ll happen if it doesn’t?’ and she reached out and grabbed Dorothy’s arm.
‘Now then, there’s plenty of time yet,’ said Dorothy. ‘Sure, I’ve known women have a b
reech birth and everything was fine. What you need is a strong cup of tea.’
When Ethel came home from work, she sat Irene down and explained exactly what it meant to have a breech birth and reassured her that the majority of breech babies either turned or were born naturally and, failing that, there were other procedures that would be explained to her if they were needed.
Irene lay in bed that night listening to Ethel across the room snoring gently and waiting for sleep to come. She cradled the baby’s shape with her arms and prayed that the child would be safe. ‘I wouldn’t mind about dying,’ she told it, ‘if it means that you will live.’ And, as if in answer, she felt a knee or an elbow move across her stomach from one side to the other. Maybe the child was turning already. Then there was another sensation, one she had never experienced, and she knew exactly what it was.
She got out of bed and walked across the room to wake Ethel. ‘I think the contractions have started. What should I do? Ethel, what should I do?’
‘Just stay calm, Irene. Now tell me, have you felt them before now?’
‘I’ve had a few twinges, but nothing as strong as this.’
Over the next two hours Ethel monitored Irene’s contractions as they increased in strength and frequency and when she judged that her labour was sufficiently advanced she said, ‘Right, I’m going to leave you for a moment to speak to Dorothy. She’ll fetch the doctor; he’ll be here in no time.’
It was nearly an hour before Dorothy returned, not with the doctor but in an RAF staff car.
‘What’s going on? Where’s the doctor?’ asked Ethel.
‘He was called out to somebody with a heart attack. I didn’t know what to do so I ran to the base at Castle Archdale thinking they’d come with their ambulance and take Irene to hospital. But there’s some sort of emergency – something to do with a plane coming down. All hell’s broke loose there, but thank God one of the senior officers was being driven to the military hospital at Necarne and he agreed to stop off to pick up Irene. The car’s outside.’
Ethel helped Irene to her feet. ‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘Your baby’s going to be delivered by an American, so it is.’
Irene lay on the back seat of the car with her head on Ethel’s lap, while they sped along the pitch-black country lanes for what seemed like an eternity. She had no idea whether they were driving so fast because of her condition or whether there was another reason to do with the plane. In any event, she was terrified.
The car screeched to a halt behind two military ambulances and bright light spilled from the front doors of the hospital, in defiance of the blackout. Medical personnel were carrying stretchers out of the ambulances and running into the building. The senior officer had already left the car, leaving Ethel and the driver to support Irene as she walked into the deserted entrance hall.
‘Where is everyone?’ Ethel asked the driver.
‘A Sunderland came down with ten crew on board. They were returning to base when one of the engines froze and it flipped upside down. Pilot managed to right it, but it crash-landed in a peat bog over near Belleek.’
Just then a nurse crossed the hallway and Ethel ran after her. ‘I’ve a pregnant woman here gone into labour – a breech birth. Her contractions are coming fast and she’s going to need help.’
The nurse shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t anyone to see to her at the moment. Staff are dealing with the airmen who have just arrived – most of them are in a bad way. We’re trying to get all medics in from their billets.’
At that moment there was a groan from Irene and she doubled up as another contraction began.
‘Have you at least a bed she can lie on?’ Ethel pleaded.
The nurse was torn between rushing off to where she was needed and her desire to do something to help. ‘Through that door.’ She pointed. ‘Second room on the left, there’s a bed there and I’ll send someone as soon as I can, but I warn you it might be some time.’
As part of her nursing training Ethel had witnessed several births and read all she needed to know to pass her exams, but she had never delivered a baby on her own, breech or otherwise. She made Irene comfortable, checked her blood pressure and prayed that someone would come soon. There was another contraction – a ten-minute interval this time – and when it passed Irene slumped back on the bed. Ethel found a cloth and rinsed it in cold water and wiped Irene’s face, arms and hands, then encouraged her to lie back to conserve her energy for the next one. Shortly after, there was the sound of a commotion in the hall and Ethel, now desperate for help, rushed out of the room. Two young men wearing leather jackets, one with a motorcycle helmet in the crook of his arm, were standing inside the door and a doctor was speaking to them about the plane crash. Then he said to one of them, ‘I need you urgently in the operating theatre; get scrubbed up quick as you can. As for you’ – he turned to the second man – ‘there’s a woman somewhere in the hospital about to give birth in the middle of all this mayhem. See if you can find her and do what you can.’
‘She’s in here,’ shouted Ethel and the man, who didn’t look more than twenty-five, followed her into the room where Irene was clearly having another contraction. He took one look at her and began pulling off his motorcycle gear, asking questions as he did so.
‘Time between contractions?’
‘Five minutes,’ answered Ethel and she gave him an update on Irene’s blood pressure.
‘You a nurse?’
‘Yes, at Castle Archdale.’
‘Head engaged?’
‘No, it’s breech.’
Ethel saw him swear under his breath, but by the time he was stripped to his medic greens his voice was calm and reassuring as he spoke to Irene.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Irene,’ she answered, her eyes wide with fright.
‘Well, Irene, I’m Doctor Dennis Morello, United States Medical Corps, and I think your baby will be born before too long. What I need is for you to listen carefully and do what I tell you. Okay?’
And Irene just had time to nod before another contraction wracked her body.
Dr Morello spoke quickly to Ethel. ‘Outside here, end of the corridor – a storeroom. Grab everything we’ll need for a breech birth, and bring oxygen.’ He turned again to Irene. ‘The baby’s legs are coming.’
Everything happened so quickly after that. The body came and the doctor told Irene, ‘Listen carefully, I’m going to do a manoeuvre now to deliver the head.’
Chapter 16
It was pension day and Martha was up early to get her housework done before the post office opened. She had been meaning to black-lead the range for a while, but she’d put it off until a good morning with plenty of light, so she could see what she was doing. By nine o’clock the range gleamed shiny black and it took no more than ten minutes to run a damp cloth over the floor. She washed her face and hands, combed her hair, put on her hat and coat and set off. The postmistress, a stout woman with a cast in her eye, was always pleasant enough and this week she asked again as she had for the past three weeks, ‘Any sign of that grandchild of yours coming yet, Mrs Goulding?’
‘No, but sure it’ll come when it’s good and ready,’ she said, and she took her ten shillings pension and put it in her purse, before adding, ‘maybe by the next time I see you.’
Martha’s favourite shop, Joan’s Wool and Haberdashery, was a fair walk down the Oldpark Road and she never failed to feel a wee rush of excitement as she pushed open the door and went inside to the sound of the bell ringing. There was a whole wall of little wooden cubbyholes containing shanks of wool, each one a different colour, from the darkest near the door across the whole spectrum of colour and finishing with white near the till. In the middle of the shop was a sturdy table with knitting pattern books neatly set out and a couple of chairs where customers could sit while they browsed the Fair Isle and Aran, the V-necked pullovers and the lacy cardigans. Joan herself was to be found by following the click, click of the needles to the large
armchair behind the counter where she spent her days knitting to order for women who had money to burn.
Joan looked up as Martha came in and greeted her with, ‘Did you manage to finish that wee matinee coat with the fancy pattern?’
Martha gave a little smile of pride. ‘Indeed I did. Wouldn’t let it beat me, so I stayed up till two in the morning.’
‘Well, I hope this child appreciates all that’s been done for it. Now, what are you after today?’
‘I’ll need a yard of quarter-inch yellow ribbon to finish off the coat and the bootees,’ said Martha, ‘and I was wondering maybe about a shawl for the christening.’
‘Ach, there’s some lovely patterns, so there is. The crochet ones are best and they don’t take as long.’ Joan began leafing through one of the pattern books. ‘There you are,’ she said, ‘the three-ply wool in white makes it look fine and delicate; better than you’d find in Arnott’s,’ and she added, ‘– if it hadn’t been bombed, of course.’
‘I’m not sure about the white,’ said Martha. ‘Shows all the dirt, doesn’t it?’
‘Traditional christening shawl we’re talkin’ here – family heirloom,’ said Joan. ‘Wrap the child in it a few hours for the service then put it away in brown paper for the next one. Think about it, your handiwork could still be in use for your great-grandchildren.’
Martha paused then, for she had never imagined such a thing. And before she knew it she had bought the pattern and six shanks of soft white wool and couldn’t wait to get back up the Oldpark to start.
When she came in the back door she put the kettle on and, while it boiled, she sat at the table to look again at the pattern. Then suddenly she was on her feet, through the front room and out into the hall. She’d forgotten to look to see if there was any post. A single letter lay on the mat. She recognised Irene’s writing immediately and took it through to the kitchen. She set it unopened on the table while she made her tea and all the while her heart was racing – for this letter might be the one to change their lives.
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