When the Bough Breaks

by Connie Monk

  ‘. . . was the pigsty . . . the smell . . . it’s all over my Wellies . . . couldn’t pull them off.’

  What a moment for him to remember the first time he’d seen her, a girl like no other. Slim, a picture of health, her eyes so clear and luminous, her wide bright smile. It hurt him to see what time had done to her. Even the rich chestnut of her hair seemed no more than dingy brown, her skin looked weathered and yet there was nothing to hint at a healthy outdoor life, rather it seemed yellow and tight across the bony structure of her face. There were crows’ nests around her sunken eyes, eyes with dark smudges under them. And her hands! As she raised one to wipe it across her mouth it registered on him as it never had before just how work-hardened and rough they were; that happy, energetic, glorious young girl he had fallen in love with had had soft hands, he remembered clearly how she had wiped the oil off them on the rag he had given her that day when her bicycle had broken.

  ‘Kathie, dear Kathie, what have I done to you?’

  She made herself smile even though the effort made her eyes sting with hot tears. ‘You’ve given me a baby. It must be coming early. Oh . . . ooh.’ Frightened to breathe, she gripped his hands.

  ‘Come out to the garden bench and I’ll pull your wellies off,’ he said gently. ‘Then upstairs we go.’

  By the time Nurse Cox pedalled up the track the feet of the offending wellies were standing in a bucket of water outside the back door, and Kathie was undressed and in bed, a bed in which Dennis had spread the mackintosh sheet they had in readiness. For Kathie it was hard to concentrate when she was consumed with pain, but somehow she’d managed to give Dennis instructions so that everything was ready for labour. She had no idea what to expect, but nothing less than labour could make her hurt like this. Would it get worse? She had been in the house when her mother had given birth to Algy and then to Lily, but she had had no idea that she’d been going through anything like this. And if her mother could bear it without making a fuss, then so could she. She tried to remember what the nurse had said on her one and only visit: when the contractions come, you have to push with all your might. She had imagined that when they talked about contractions it was something that came and then eased, but this just went on and on.

  ‘Den,’ she breathed holding her hand towards him, ‘let me grip you.’ Then when he took her hands in his, with all her might she pushed, then pushed again.

  ‘Here’s Nurse Cox,’ he said, thankfully, ‘I’ll go and bring her in. Kathie, you’ll be all right.’ It was meant to boost to her confidence but it sounded more like a plea.

  Kathie heard him greet the midwife.

  In the village Emily Cox was always known as nurse, but in truth for all her experience of bringing local babies into the world she had no qualifications. Dr Knight trusted her, the local women had faith in her, and hearing her voice gave Kathie hope.

  ‘This little rascal keen to get into the world, is he? Now then, Mrs Hawthorne my dear, let’s take a peak at you.’ With one swift movement she threw back the bed covers, then hoisted up Kathie’s nightdress. ‘How often are you getting the contractions?’

  ‘The pain doesn’t stop. My back . . . just goes on . . . on . . .’ Kathie bit her lip, ashamed at how near she was to losing control.

  With hands that were still cold from her cycle ride, Nurse Cox felt her patient’s hugely swollen stomach. ‘Um,’ she grunted, an uncertain sound. ‘Big load you’re carrying m’dear, no wonder your poor back is letting you know about it. I’ll pull the covers back over you – just want a word with your husband.’

  As if by magic Dennis appeared in the doorway from where he had been listening just out of sight.

  ‘That lad of yours, can you get him to ride out again and see if he can get Dr Knight. The baby is in no position to get born; the head isn’t engaged. If it decides to try and push its way out we shall need forceps, it’ll be a job for the doctor.’ Then following Dennis to the head of the stairs, she said in a whisper, ‘There’s something here that worries me.’

  Half an hour later it was apparent there was something that worried Dr Knight too. The nearest telephone was in the village street, so he reversed his motor car the length of the lane and parked by the kiosk.

  ‘The ambulance is coming out from Deremouth. I want you to have an X-ray. I shall follow the ambulance in my motor car to be there to see the result.’ he said as came back into the bedroom. His voice was big and over-cheerful.

  ‘Why an X-ray? Is there something wrong with our baby? I can’t feel it moving.’ Desperately Kathie wanted to sound calm, but it was impossible to hide her terror as she waited for his reply.

  ‘The heartbeat is strong,’ he reassured her.

  So why the X-ray? Kathie and Dennis looked at each other helplessly.

  ‘Is there room in the ambulance for me?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s most unusual.’ For a moment the doctor hesitated as he looked from Dennis to Kathie and then back again, his mind working on the right action. ‘Most unusual. But I think perhaps it might be a good thing if you were to come along. Come in the motor car with me. I’ll let you know the outcome, Mrs Cox. Perhaps we’ll be delivering Mrs Hawthorne home and you’ll be needed after all.’ He was a kindly man and he could see the fear in Kathie’s eyes. In his opinion she was too old to be giving birth for the first time. A girl of twenty, now that was what he considered ideal, the body young and supple. But this one must be well into her thirties – his assumption was evidence of what her hard life had done to twenty-nine-year-old Kathie. ‘Now then, my dear, can you manage the stairs or shall we see if they can get you down on a stretcher?’

  Kathie took a deep breath and made sure she spoke clearly despite the dreadful feeling that she was being torn apart. ‘I walked up, so I can walk down. But why do I need an X-ray?’

  ‘I want us to be sure of the baby’s position,’ the doctor said with little regard to the truth. However, the answer stilled some of her fear.

  For Kathie that evening was lost, but for Dennis, waiting on a hard bench, it seemed endless. They had arrived at the hospital just as the winter daylight was fading and the lamp lighter was working his way along the street. As Kathie had been carried away to where he supposed the X-ray machine was, Dennis had been told to wait and someone would come and tell him what was happening. In fact Dr Knight appeared from the sister’s office after not much more than ten minutes. Immediately Dennis was on his feet.

  ‘What’s happening? Is the X-ray done? Is she in labour?’

  ‘Mr Hawthorne, the result is much as I suspected. Your wife is already under sedation so Sister will bring the consent form for you to sign.’

  ‘Sedation? Consent? For what?’

  ‘The birth is not due for more than a month, but it is imperative the surgeon performs a Caesarean immediately.’ Then, seeing Dennis’s mystified expression, he explained, ‘An operation to take the baby. Have no fear; early though it is, it appears to be a large embryo. The real cause for alarm is not the birth; it is your wife’s condition. The X-ray confirms what I feared: there is a large tumour in the womb.’ Whatever Dennis had braced himself to hear, the doctor’s words seemed to strip him of the power to think. ‘The only thing to do is to remove her womb – a total hysterectomy. How long the tumour has been developing or whether it has spread I can’t tell you, but she couldn’t be in better hands than Mr Freeman’s. Ah, here comes Sister.’

  ‘When?’ Dennis was incapable of putting a whole sentence together.

  ‘As I say, she is already under sedation and being taken along to the theatre. The baby will be delivered and please God it’s the fine healthy specimen I anticipate. You’d better read this before you sign, although I fear there is no other way but to perform the operation.’

  Dennis scanned through the words but his mind was incapable of understanding. Kathie . . . Kathie who had never had a day’s illness . . . a tumour . . . in good hands . . . yes, but could even the cleverest of surgeons make her well?

 
; ‘She’s always been well,’ he murmured more to himself than the doctor. ‘If they take it all away, will she get well?’

  As the sister scurried off with the signed form the doctor sat on the bench by Dennis’s side.

  ‘There is always risk with any form of surgery. But assuming that it hasn’t spread into other organs we must hope and trust that she will soon be restored to her normal good health – bearing in mind, of course, that she will be unable to have more children.’

  ‘We’ve been married for ten years, you know. We wanted children and I know how much she cared that she could never conceive. I wish to God she had gone on being disappointed, then this might never have happened.’

  ‘No, my dear chap, carrying the child has been a blessing in disguise. She might have gone on far longer not knowing anything was amiss if the wretched thing had had more space to grow.’

  ‘What are they doing to her now?’ Dennis ran his fingers round the collar of his shirt. Despite not being able to stop shivering he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. The sweat of fear; not for the first time he felt it. Memories crowded back on him. In the contentment and satisfaction of their life at Westways he had believed the past had lost its power. Then in the strange way that a mind can jump from one thing to another, he became conscious that he was still in his work clothes. ‘Straight from the field,’ he muttered as if he expected Dr Knight to have followed his thoughts.

  ‘As soon as she is fully unconscious they will perform the Caesarean – indeed they are probably bringing your child into the world at this minute.’

  They waited in silence. Five minutes or five hours, to Dennis it was like all eternity. Then the sister came from a double door at the far end of the corridor, hurrying toward them with a beaming smile.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Hawthorne. You have a beautiful daughter. She’s just being got ready to face the world and then I’ll let you have a quick peep. After that I’m afraid we shall have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘And Kathie? My wife?’

  ‘I’ll make sure you have the telephone number so that you can ring us in the morning.’

  ‘Ring? Can’t I see her? Can’t I wait until the operation is over? Kathie will want me. We have a daughter; we ought to see her together.’

  ‘I’m afraid the rules don’t allow anyone here waiting. There is a list of visiting hours in the reception area, you’ll see it as you go out. Wednesday and Sunday from three until four in the afternoons.’ Then, with a smile intended to take that frightened look from the poor man’s face, she added, ‘If we gave people access at other times we’d never be able to give our patients the care they deserve. Now you wait a few more minutes and I’ll bend the rules and bring your new daughter out for you to see.’

  Doctor Knight took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and checked the time. ‘I can wait a few more minutes,’ he said, ‘then I’ll drive you back to Sedgewood with me.’

  Dennis’ instinct was to refuse, to say that if they wouldn’t let him wait on the bench in the hospital he would go to one of the shelters on the seafront. Then in the morning instead of telephoning he would call in and enquire and perhaps they’d let him have a minute or two with Kathie. But at home there were animals to be looked after; and Kathie would need clean nightdresses brought in . . . please God, please make it be like that, make her need her things, don’t take her away from me. Then with something like guilt he realized that as he’d tried to hold in his mind the image of being with Kathie, the operation over and she looking fresh faced, rosy cheeked, those tell-tale dark smudges gone from under her eyes, not once in those moments had he thought of the tiny person who had just been brought into the world six weeks before her time.

  Soon Sister reappeared carrying a tiny bundle, wrapped so securely that the newborn could move neither hands nor feet.

  ‘There she is. Isn’t she a perfect treasure.’

  ‘So tiny,’ he murmured as he gazed in awe at the wonder of what he and Kathie had produced.

  ‘For a seven and a half month delivery she is a bonny babe. She weighs five pounds one ounce. Another six weeks and she would have given a real problem.’

  ‘Not much more than two bags of sugar.’

  The sister saw the way his face was working as with his teeth clamped together he held his chin steady. Poor man. What was ahead of him if he had to rear this bundle of love on his own?

  ‘And just as sweet, too,’ she answered briskly, her tone doing more to help him over his bad moment than any sympathy. ‘Now then, off you go. Your family will be in good hands. You may telephone any time after eight in the morning; just ask for Wyndham Ward.’

  To plead or argue would be useless. There was a strange comfort in the feeling of Dr Knight’s hand on his elbow as they walked down the empty corridor.

  That was on Monday night, a long night of anguish he would never forget.

  Gradually through the years he and Kathie had taken each other for granted, content in their shared lives. Not until that afternoon had he looked, really looked, and realized how changed she had become, how drained and exhausted. What sort of a night would she be enduring, frightened and alone in that cheerless hospital. When she woke from the operation – please God make it have been successful – she wouldn’t know where she was. Would she be able to understand that their baby had been born? The baby, a girl so tiny she might have been a child’s doll, small and vulnerable and depending on them to take care of her and love her. He felt a strange unfamiliar tenderness. What would happen to them all? If Kathie didn’t . . . no, don’t let the thought even take shape; of course Kathie will pull through and be well again. She’s always been fit and full of energy. But had that really been true? She’s a fighter, she would never admit to being beaten no matter how tired she was. Had he been fair in taking it for granted that working all day and every day was all she wanted? She’d seemed happy. Often enough they’d both been too tired at the end of the day for anything more than to roll into bed with a mumbled goodnight. Yet on those other nights when he’d wanted her, she had never said she was too tired; no, plenty of times he had thought it meant more to her than it did to him. Dear Kathie, he could almost hear her urgent whisper, ‘Don’t rush, Den. Make it last’, right up to the last few weeks and even knowing how early they had to be up in the morning. Dear Kathie. Remember the day of their wedding, their honeymoon with the old zinc bath. Oh God, don’t take her away. Everything was so good; all that was missing was a family. You can’t give us a child and then take Kathie.

  The day had taken its toll on him. When he heard a sob break in his throat he didn’t care, he didn’t even try to fight it. Soon after that, sleep overtook him. When he woke and reached for his torch to look at the time, it was half past five. Normally he and Kathie got up just after six o’clock but on that morning he was glad to start the day. By six o’clock he had washed and shaved and was finding a clean shirt. A clean shirt to wear to phone the hospital? To go in his work things from the previous day would have felt wrong so he took what they thought of as his ‘tidy’ trousers from their hanger. He would do some of Kathie’s jobs early, helping the time to pass before he could make his call. So he collected the eggs, fed the chickens and replaced their bowl of water. Bertram would have to wait until later, a pigsty was no place when he was dressed like this.

  Before he had married he had looked after himself quite efficiently, so it was no hardship to cook his own breakfast. At last it was ten to eight and time to drive the van to the village.

  The night staff had gone off duty and the nurse who spoke to him told him, ‘Mrs Hawthorne has come round from the operation and is sleeping.’ And the baby? Apparently that was another ward, so he had to wait until his call was transferred. The answer was much the same: ‘The baby is doing well.’

  He drove home feeling strangely empty. All he knew was that Kathie and the baby were alive. He felt shut out from them and helpless. Once back at the cottage he took off his good trousers and cle
an shirt and put on yesterday’s work things. The greatest therapy was hard work, something Westways could always supply.

  By the time he was allowed to see Kathie on Wednesday from three o’clock until four she was truly back in the land of the living and she had been moved to the same ward as her baby. The curtains were pulled around her bed but the nurse ushered him in then left them alone. Propped against pillows Kathie was sitting in bed with the tiny baby at her breast. His eyes stung with tears.

  ‘Den, just look at her.’

  He nodded, frightened to trust his voice then, surprising himself and thankful for the curtains, he found himself on his knees at her bedside.

  ‘Kathie, oh Kathie, thank God. You look fine; you look like yourself. Been so worried.’

  ‘Worse for you than for me, I expect, Den. Most of the time I didn’t know anything about it. I wanted to have her properly, I mean like nature intended. But she’s so beautiful. You’d never think she came early would you?’

  ‘But what about you? Is your back better? What have they told you, Kathie? They say nothing on the phone, only that the operation was satisfactory.’

  ‘Mr Freeman, the surgeon, has been round to see me and he said it went very well and the tumour hadn’t spread any further. Apparently they have to send it to be analysed or something. They want to keep me here for three weeks.’ He knew from her expression that it was the cost that worried her. ‘But that’s ridiculous. They can’t make me stay.’

  ‘If they can’t, then I can.’ His voice was uncharacteristically masterful.

  ‘I promise I’d rest at home. If you said I couldn’t work outside, then I’d stay indoors in the warm.’

  ‘You’ll certainly do that, but not until they are happy for you to leave the hospital. Kathie, we’ve got a few pounds put by.’