The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘It nests on the ground, so it will have to be kept separate in case someone treads on its babies.’ Eric makes another note. ‘Apparently it wasn’t very bright.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ murmurs Silas.

  ‘What did you say, Silas?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Silas has nearly finished his hare, and is enormously pleased with it, although apparently hares’ eyes are hard to get hold of. ‘Will rabbit’s eyes do, do you suppose?’

  It is at this stage, in the middle of the dodo/hares’ eyes discussion, that two things happen at once. All the lights go out and my waters break.

  ‘Bugger!’ I stand shocked into inactivity, warm water trickling down my legs and seeping into my socks. What do I do next?

  ‘It’s only a power cut, Ruth. Not to worry,’ says Eric, foraging in a drawer for candles and matches.

  ‘No. It’s the baby. I think it’s started.’

  There is a stunned silence (which, when I come to think about it, is odd, since it’s what everyone seems to have been waiting for).

  ‘Where’s Rosie?’ Silas asks, after a moment.

  ‘She’s gone up to bed. She was feeling a bit under the weather. Do you think you can hang on, Ruth?’

  The idea of hanging on to a baby who has decided to be born is so ridiculous that I laugh.

  ‘No,’ I tell him, ‘I don’t think I can hang on. Or rather, I don’t know whether I can hang on. I’ve never done this before. But don’t disturb Mum yet. This will probably take ages.’

  ‘Not a good night to have a baby,’ Silas remarks, going over to the window and drawing back the curtain. Frenzied snowflakes are hurling themselves against the darkened window. They appear to be going up rather than down.

  ‘Thank you, Silas.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ruth. But I’m sure you’ll be ok. It says in my book —’

  ‘Silas, this is not the time for your book. I need proper help. I think I should phone the hospital.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Silas sounds disappointed. ‘Can I ring them for you?’

  ‘I think I’d better speak to them myself.’

  But it isn’t only the power lines that have come down, and the phone is dead.

  ‘Mobiles. Has someone got a mobile?’ Kent asks. Kent himself doesn’t use a mobile, and knows very little about them.

  ‘No signal here,’ Eric says. ‘No-one can use a mobile from Applegarth.’

  ‘We could try,’ says Silas.

  We try. Three mobiles attempt to phone the hospital, and fail.

  The first pain rises like a wave in my stomach. It isn’t too bad, but I think it means business. I look at the circle of helpless faces round the candlelit kitchen table, hoping someone will say something helpful.

  ‘I’ll drive her to the hospital. Get your things, Ruth,’ says Kaz. ‘And for God’s sake, wrap up warm.’

  ‘In that case we really do need to fetch Rosie. Brian, could you go and tell her? She’ll need some warm clothing,’ Eric says.

  Dad, who has been standing helplessly in the background, seems only too pleased to have something to do, and hurries off upstairs, while I pack a small suitcase (this should have been ready weeks ago, but somehow denial got in the way, so I’ve probably left vital things out).

  Ten minutes later, Kaz, Mum and I totter unsteadily out into the blizzard, together with Kent, who’s coming as extra support. The snow is falling fast, blown in all directions by a wind which is threatening to become a hurricane, stinging our faces in icy gusts and forming steep drifts all over the garden. We scoop the snow off Kaz’s car, our hands already numb with cold, and climb in. With four adults and a suitcase, the car seems very full, and fulfils my worst fears by refusing to start.

  ‘We’ll have to take the Land Rover,’ Kaz says.

  ‘Are you insured for it?’ I ask.

  ‘Ruth, this is an emergency. Insurance doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘I’ll drive if you like,’ Kent offers.

  ‘Please.’

  Kent fetches the keys, and we all pile in. By now, I’m so cold that it’s somehow ceased to matter. I sit hunched in the front passenger seat, my arms wrapped around my stomach, waiting for the next pain. It comes in a gentle crescendo, but is still easily bearable. I’m beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about. So far (weather conditions notwithstanding) this is proving to be a doddle.

  We make our way cautiously down the driveway, through drifts of snow, the windscreen practically obscured by a billion snowflakes which dance and dazzle in the headlights.

  After about ten yards, the Land Rover comes to a gentle halt. Kent revs the engine, but nothing happens. He gets out to have a look.

  ‘There’s a huge drift,’ he tells us, ‘and a massive tree’s come down. We won’t be able to get out, even if we manage to clear the snow.’

  His voice is practically drowned out by the wind, but his meaning is clear. We’re stuck.

  ‘Is there another way round?’ he yells.

  ‘No.’ I know this for a fact. The track is the only route through the thickly wooded coppice which separates Applegarth from the road. Silas and Eric have discussed plans for a ‘back way’, but these have never come to fruition. To all intents and purposes, we’re stranded.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Mum’s gloved hands make little flapping movements. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘First things first. We need to get Ruth back into the house,’ Kaz says. ‘She’s frozen.’

  ‘Can you walk?’ Kent asks me. ‘Because the car is well and truly stuck now.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  With Kaz and Kent on either side of me and Mum still fretting behind us, we begin to walk back to the house. We are facing into the wind, which is so strong we can almost lean on it without falling. It hurls the snowflakes into our frozen faces, snatching away our breath, as we stumble over the hidden ruts, pausing as I have another, stronger contraction. Although it’s such a short distance, it takes us about fifteen minutes, and by the time we reach the house, we’re all exhausted.

  ‘Well, you said you loved snow. You’ve got snow,’ remarks Kaz, as we stumble in through the back door, bringing with us a strong gust of wind and yet more snow.

  Eric and Silas fuss over us, as they help us out of our wet coats and gloves. When we’re more or less settled, Eric makes a big jug of cocoa (at least the Aga is still working). I am still shivering, despite the rug around my shoulder and the hot water bottle on what’s left of my lap. Up until now, it’s all been a bit of an adventure, but now reality has set in and I’m beginning to feel seriously frightened.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Eric says. ‘The baby probably won’t be born for ages, and by then the phones will be back on.’

  ‘You think?’ I wish I shared his optimism.

  ‘Well, I certainly hope so. And anyway, people give birth all the time, don’t they? In many parts of the world, they just get on with it on their own.’

  ‘At the edges of paddy fields,’ I finish for him.

  Another bigger contraction tightens my stomach and makes me gasp. I have a feeling this is not going to be such a doddle after all.

  ‘Perhaps she should go to bed?’ Kent suggests (it seems that already I’m becoming a third person; a helpless victim, incapable of being spoken to directly).

  ‘No. She’s better up and about, as long as she feels like it.’ I can tell that Silas has his bible on his knees, and is referring to it surreptitiously under the table.

  ‘Don’t we need boiling water?’ Eric says. ‘I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that we need lots of boiling water.’

  ‘I always wonder what they want all that hot water for,’ Kent muses. ‘They never seem to use it; they just get it ready.’

  ‘The hot water’s a myth,’ says Silas. ‘But we’ll need sterile scissors — now, those will need to be boiled — and some kind of string or thread to tie the cord.’ He brings his book out of hiding and lays
it on the table. ‘And of course a clean sheet or towel to wrap the baby in. But first we have to clear the baby’s airway. Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  I give Kaz a despairing glance. I don’t want my predicament medicalised by Silas and his book. I don’t like his plans for what “we” are going to do. What I need is sympathy, and cosseting, and someone who knows what they’re doing. I’m very much afraid that if someone doesn’t do something soon, I’m going to cry.

  ‘She will be all right, won’t she?’ Dad asks. He suddenly looks small and vulnerable, and even in my present parlous state, I feel oddly touched.

  ‘Of course she is.’ Kaz takes control. ‘Ruth, how about a nice hot bath? It’ll warm you up, and while you’re having it, I’ll put some clean sheets on your bed, and a fresh hot water bottle. It’s going to be pretty cold up there without the central heating. And then I think you should try and get some rest.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Mum is obviously desperate to be of some help.

  ‘Oof!’ Another contraction. Everyone watches in awe, as I sit it out. I’ve forgotten my breathing exercises (puff? pant? a bit of both?) and for the first time, I wish I’d paid more attention.

  ‘A bath would be lovely. Thank you, Kaz,’ I say, when I can speak again.

  ‘Was that painful?’ Silas asks. ‘It shouldn’t hurt that much at the beginning. It should —’

  ‘Silas, I think you should shut up. And please put that bloody book away!’ Eric says.

  ‘I’m only —’

  ‘Trying to help? Well, you’re not helping at all. You take Ruth upstairs, Kaz. Shout if you need anything.’

  The bath is soothing — even the contractions are less painful in warm water — and it is with some reluctance that I get out.

  ‘How often are you having the pains?’ Kaz asks, bringing me clean pyjamas.

  ‘You sound like Silas,’ I tell her.

  ‘No, I think it’s important. If they’re really frequent, it means the baby’s well on the way.’

  ‘And what would we do about it?’ I ask her.

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘You arrived quite quickly,’ Mum tells me. ‘For a first baby.’

  We look at each other in the flickering candlelight, and I think it’s at this point that we all realise the awful truth. I am almost certainly going to give birth here, at Applegarth, with no medical help whatsoever.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ says Kaz, after a moment.

  ‘Course we will.’

  ‘And we’ll both stay with you.’

  ‘Yes. Please do.’ I hesitate. ‘Kaz?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘You’re not squeamish are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Have you ever — fainted?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘And you, Mum? Will you be okay with all this?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ says Mum, smiling bravely.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll move my mattress into your room and sleep here,’ Kaz says. ‘We’ll leave the candle alight, just in case.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be the one to stay with her?’ Mum asks.

  ‘You’ve not been feeling too good, have you, and we’re going to need you later,’ Kaz says. ‘We’ll call you if anything happens. And Ruth, you should get some sleep if you can. I think it’s going to be a long night.’

  Strangely, I do get some sleep. The contractions ease up a bit, and I’m able to doze in between. Towards dawn, the wind drops, to be replaced by an eerie stillness. In the white glow reflected from the snow outside, I can see the outlines of furniture, and Kaz curled neat as a kitten under her duvet on the floor beside my bed. I wonder whether it’s worth going downstairs to see if the phones are working yet, but decide against it. Having got nicely warm, I’m reluctant to leave my bed. Besides, since no-one can get to us through the snow, there’s not much point in making phone calls. It’s not as though anyone can deliver my baby over the phone.

  I feel another contraction, and manage to breathe my way through it quite satisfactorily. Kaz turns on her back and begins to snore gently. Once more, I drift off to sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The baby means business.

  I have been awake now for nearly an hour, and the contractions are getting stronger and a good deal more painful. There is none of the stop-start nonsense of last night. This is for real.

  The news on my bedside radio (mercifully battery-operated) tells of storms and drifts all over the country. As usual, the British weather has been met with total astonishment by the British people, and everything has ground to a halt. There are people stranded in cars and trains, and sheep marooned in fields. All over the country, schools will be closed, and in Nottinghamshire, a woman has given birth in a village hall.

  ‘At least this isn’t a village hall,’ says Kaz, returning from the kitchen with a tray of tea.

  ‘There might be a doctor in a village hall.’

  ‘And there might be an audience of several hundred. You wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Kaz wraps herself in her duvet, and sits on the edge of my bed.

  ‘Painful.’

  ‘How painful?’

  ‘Pretty painful. Bearable, though.’ I lever myself further up the bed.

  ‘Should we fetch your mum?’

  ‘No. Let her sleep for the moment, and I’ll see how it goes.’ I shiver. ‘Gosh, it’s perishing in here. The poor baby will freeze to death before it’s even taken its first breath.’

  ‘No it won’t. Kent’s lit a fire in the sitting-room, and you can lie on the sofa.’

  ‘Where’s Silas?’

  ‘Doing the animals with Eric. But he’s been looking things up in his book and he’s dying to come and interfere.’

  ‘Please don’t let him!’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ Kaz grins. ‘He wants to know how often your contractions are coming.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said I’d no idea.’

  ‘Good girl.’ I wrap my hands round my mug of tea. ‘And Dad? Is he okay?’

  ‘I think he’s praying. He said it was the only thing he could do. He’s awfully worried, Ruth.’

  ‘Poor Dad.’ I could do with his prayers right now. ‘I had this awful dream that the baby died and Silas insisted on stuffing it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘Neither would I. Are the phones back on?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Bugger indeed.’

  Another big contraction begins, and I almost spill my tea. I pant my way through it.

  ‘Wow,’ says Kaz, impressed. ‘That was serious, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘You know, I thought I wanted children, but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Thanks, Kaz.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She puts down her mug. ‘Let’s get you downstairs before the next one.’

  She helps me into my dressing gown, and down the creaking staircase. There seem to be a lot more stairs than there used to be, and I have to stop half-way for a breather.

  In the sitting-room, a fire is blazing. Kent has pulled up the sofa and made it up with blankets and pillows. It looks quite cosy.

  ‘Welcome to the delivery suite.’ Kaz helps me on to the sofa and covers me with several blankets. ‘I’ll go and fetch some towels. We’ll need towels. Breakfast?’

  I shake my head as another wave begins. ‘Please — keep — everyone — out. Ouf! And I think — it’s time — to call Mum.’

  Minutes later, Mum comes hurrying down, full of apologies. ‘I was awake half the night, and then I must have dropped off. How’s it going, love?’

  ‘A bit — painful. But — I’m — managing.’

  She sits down beside me. ‘I won’t talk. I’ll just sit here quietly. Bu
t you tell me if I can do anything.’

  The morning progresses slowly. Kent has set off on foot to see if he can tunnel his way out of Applegarth and find some kind of help, and Eric and Silas are busy seeing to the animals while Dad makes seemingly endless cups of tea for everybody. Meanwhile, Kaz, Mum and I are left to our own devices, with Mum rubbing my back and giving me sips of water, and Kaz timing my contractions.

  ‘Every five minutes, regular as clockwork,’ says Kaz, after what seems several days rather than a mere morning.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Didn’t you listen to anything they told you?’ Kaz says in exasperation. ‘If I were having a baby, I’d want to find out everything I could.’

  ‘Bully for you.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Ruth.’

  ‘I never asked you to.’

  ‘Ruth dear — Kaz is only trying to be helpful,’ Mum says.

  ‘Well, it’s not helping.’

  Somewhere at the back of my mind there stirs a memory of being told about a stage in labour where women tend to lose their tempers and swear. Is this it?

  Perhaps not.

  ‘Sorry, Kaz,’ I squeeze her hand.

  ‘Me too.’ She rearranges my pillows. ‘This baby thing is exhausting isn’t it, and I’m not even the one having the baby.’

  Silas pops his head round the door, his face barely visible above a brightly-coloured muffler.

  ‘Silas, you’re supposed to knock,’ says Kaz sternly.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I just wanted to know —’

  ‘Every five minutes,’ Kaz tells him.

  ‘Ah. That means —’

  ‘Silas, we know what that means —’ we don’t — ‘so please leave us to get on with it. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Is Kent back?’ Mum asks him.

  ‘No. I think he’ll be some time,’ Silas says. ‘The drifts are about eight feet deep in places.’

  I spare a thought for Kent, who certainly isn’t anything like eight feet deep, and hope he’ll be all right. It would be awful if he were to give his life for me and my unborn child.

  The time and the contractions tick by. The pain gets worse and more frequent, but I do my best not to make any noise, for I am uncomfortably aware that Silas is waiting somewhere nearby for an excuse to come and help.