A Carriage for the Midwife (13 page)

In the mid-afternoon Mrs Coulter decided to do another examination.

‘I don’t do this without good reason, Susan, for ’tis painful to the woman and makes for a greater risk o’ childbed fever – but I need to know how much the ring o’ the womb be opened after all these hours.’

Lubricating her right hand with goose-grease, she thrust her fingers into the birth-passage while Susan stood on the other side of the bed, holding Sally’s hand.

‘The child’s head be still high, and the ring be hard and thick,’ said the midwife in disappointment. ‘’Twill scarce admit three fingers as yet.’

She withdrew her hand and said under her breath, ‘Were it not for the dropsy I’d get her out o’ bed and walk her round the room – but as things are I’d better send out for Turnbull again – not that he’ll have any better ideas than I.’

Nor did he, though he looked grave.

‘We can but wait and hope that the ring will dilate, madam, and that she may have strength enough to deliver the child when ’tis fully opened.’ He frowned and pursed his lips. ‘I think ’twould be a good idea to have the opinion of Dr Parnham. His Chamberlen forceps might shorten her ordeal.’

Mrs Coulter shook her head firmly. ‘Give her time. I’ve never called in a man-midwife yet.’

‘Can you not ease my poor Sally’s pain at all?’ asked Sarah Bennett, openly disregarding the Church’s prohibition on relief of pain in travail. ‘A little sweet wine in warm water?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I am completely against the use of alcohol in childbirth, having seen the results of it in the House of Industry. It makes the mother stuporous and unable to bear down when she should. And babies are slow to cry.’

However, he produced a small dark bottle of opium tincture, with instructions to give three or four drops in water sweetened with honey, and to repeat the dose at Mrs Coulter’s discretion. Thanks to this Sally gained a little relief, though her sleep was disturbed by the frequent need to sit on the chamber pot to pass tiny trickles of urine.

Mrs Coulter’s head drooped while Sally dozed fitfully, and Susan was emboldened to whisper a question.

‘What did Mr Turnbull mean about Dr Parnham’s – what did he say –
forceps
?’

The midwife pulled a face. ‘’Tis a device like a great pair o’ tongs by which the man-midwife may grasp the head o’ the child and pull on it, to draw it forth from the womb. Ugh! I would as soon open up the belly to take out the child, though ’twould surely cost the life o’ the mother.’

Susan was both horrified and fascinated. ‘Why, has that ever been done, Mrs Coulter?’

The midwife shrugged. ‘Aye, on very rare occasions, to save the child. ’Tis said that the Roman Emperor Julius Caesar was removed from the womb that way, and that his mother’s belly was stitched together and she lived – but that’s as may be, Susan. I would never dare do it, not even as a last resort.’

That evening Mrs Bennett demanded that Marianne should come and take over Susan’s duties to enable the maidservant to rest for a few hours, but the younger sister’s horror at the sights and smells, Sally’s irritability and Marianne’s clumsiness proved an intolerable combination, and Susan was recalled to bathe Sally’s face and hands without splashing the sheet, and hold a glass of water to her lips without spilling it.

As the midsummer dusk fell it was clear that the pains were getting weaker and less frequent. Mrs Coulter yawned, shook her heavy head and secretly prayed for the strength and right judgement to see this young mother through to a happy outcome. She thanked God for the sensible Lucket girl.

‘The womb’s tired and taking a rest, Susan,’ she said. ‘It has gone into inertia, as the doctors say. There’ll be no progress without the pains, but ’tis my belief that this is Nature’s way ô giving the woman some respite – her and those who wait with her,’ she added half under her breath.

The hands of the green marble clock on the mantelpiece pointed to twenty minutes to eleven.

‘Then let’s take what Nature offers, and you an’ Mrs Bennett go to bed,’ answered Susan, alarmed by the older woman’s grey features, exhausted by pain, anxiety and sleeplessness. ‘I’ll stay here along o’ Mrs Twydell – don’t worry, I’ll call ye if she needs ye.’

And so for a few night hours there was an uneasy silence over the farmhouse. Alone with Sally, Susan curled up in a blanket on the floor as she had done as a child in the roost at Ash-Pit End. She slept in snatches, getting up at intervals to make sure her charge was resting, and quietly placing her ear to the belly to hear the child’s heartbeat.

As soon as she lay down again, weird and fantastic images passed before her eyes. She was with her mother, who was giving birth to Joby by the light of a guttering candle while the pale, silent faces of her three lost brothers looked on – Bartle, Will and Georgie, floating past in the darkness like disembodied souls. Then Edward Calthorpe was riding on a tall horse, coming to rescue her from some kind of danger; but before he could get to her she fell beneath the wheels of the Bever carriage and would have been trampled into the dust had it not been for Miss Glover in a grey silk dress and bonnet, hauling her up into bright sunlight and kissing her.

‘You are the best pupil in the class, Susan!’ she cried.

And then there was Edward again, coming towards her in the cornfield, holding out his arms as she ran up to him and was encircled in his arms, clasped against his chest; she felt the softness of his shirt, smelled his delicious cleanness, heard his whisper as he held her strongly, safely. ‘Sweet Susan, do not cry – dear Susan!’ She could hear his heart beating as she lay against him.

And then –
horror
! A hateful, intimate sensation of pain, of shame, a hideous dark shadow spreading over the cornfield like a blight. Edward had disappeared, leaving her alone in terror, and she dared not turn round for fear of seeing two lustful red eyes beneath black brows. She screamed and struggled – and sat bolt upright in Sally’s bedchamber. In the half-darkness before dawn she saw that Sally was also sitting up on the bed, and calling out in panic.

‘Help! Help me, my pains are upon me again, harder than before.
Help!
Mother, where are you?’

Susan struggled to her feet just as Mrs Bennett came into the room, summoned by her daughter’s cry. Mrs Coulter, stupid with sleep, limped painfully behind her, and a loud, unconcealed fart escaped from her before she could control her tired muscles. Susan tried to pull her thoughts back to reality.

‘Oh, why will not the child come out?’ cried Sally. ‘Oh, that my belly might be cut open and let it be taken from me!’

Susan could not help glancing at Mrs Coulter, remembering their earlier conversation.

‘Hush, Sally, y’r baby’ll come out the proper way, now that y’r pains ha’ started again, and ye’ve had a good rest,’ she said confidently, and Mrs Coulter embarked wearily on another examination.

‘If the ring be no further opened I’ll send for Turnbull again,’ she told them, ‘and then he may call for Dr Parnham if he pleases and the husband agrees.’

While the midwife thrust her hand into the moist cavity between Sally’s splayed thighs and Susan held the writhing girl’s hand, Sarah Bennett read aloud from the Book of Common Prayer, choosing Psalm 116.

‘“The sorrows of death compassed me, and the pains of hell gat hold upon me:”’ she read, glancing towards the bed. ‘“I found trouble and sorrow. Then I called upon the name of the Lord; O Lord, I beseech thee, deliver my soul.”’

The words hung on the air while the midwife’s fingers probed.

‘The child’s head has come down, that’s for sure,’ muttered Mrs Coulter, her eyes tightly shut as she concentrated on an entirely tactile examination. ‘And yes, there’s the ring round it – I can feel it at the front but not at the back. Praise be to God, ’tis almost fully open. There, there, my sweet dove, not so much further to go now,’ she said to Sally, who gave another despairing wail as her muscles hardened again.

‘How much longer, Margaret?’ implored Sarah Bennett: the age-old cry of the birth-chamber.

‘Ah, if I could answer that question every time I’m asked it, I’d charge a fee for’t, and be rich as well as wise,’ replied Margaret Coulter ruefully. ‘Ye’d best carry on reading, Sarah.’

Mrs Bennett picked up the book. ‘“The Lord preserveth the simple: I was brought low, and he helped me.”’

Susan reached for the cup of water to hold to Sally’s lips.

‘“For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears and my feet from falling. I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.”’

Mrs Bennett could read no more, but covered her face with her hands. Susan remembered Miss Glover’s firm faith in the Almighty, and began to repeat the Lord’s Prayer quietly. The two older women joined in, and Sally repeated the final ‘Amen’ two or three times.

Mrs Bennett always said later that their prayer was answered, for as the midsummer sun rose on that Thursday morning, Sally’s groans took on a different sound: from helpless wailing, she now began to grunt and strain.

‘Quick, I need the commode-stool again!’ she cried in panic. ‘Help me to sit on it now, or I shall make a stink!’

Susan’s thoughts flew back to the cold and dark of a February morning when as a child of seven she had helped her mother at the birth of Joby.

‘Is it a great stinking turd, Ma?’ she had asked as Doll gasped and pushed down.

She now saw Mrs Coulter turn her eyes heavenward in thanks.

‘No, sweetheart, I doubt ye need the stool now. ’Tis the child’s head ye feel pressing down,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid, ’tis a good sign. I’ll take a look to make sure.’

She and Susan separated Sally’s legs and when the next pain began the midwife pointed out to Susan the distension of the female parts, the slight parting of the fleshy-lipped opening, and a glimpse of what the watchers longed to see. Mrs Bennett leaned over to share the first sight of a dark, shiny glimmer through the slit before the pain subsided and the curtaining folds hid it from view.

‘There it is – the top o’ the head,’ breathed Margaret, while Susan thrilled with anticipation and Sarah wept for joy. It was nearly six o’clock.

‘Come, Margaret, we must get her to sit up and push hard. I have a sheet to tie to the bottom of the bed—’

‘No, Sarah, we need to see a lot more than that before she spends her strength,’ replied the midwife. ‘She must save it for the last great efforts. Be patient, Sarah,’ she added kindly. ‘’Twill be born within another couple o’ hours.’

But it took longer than that for the head to descend, and when they listened to the child’s heartbeat, it was noticeably slower. The foetid odour of stale sweat filled the room, and Susan’s head swam; the hands on the green marble clock blurred and cleared; half-past six, seven, half-past seven, eight; the sun had been risen four hours when Sally began the final expulsive efforts. Sitting up against her pillows she pulled on a sheet tied to the end of the bed as she strained down.

‘That’s my good girl – push down as if ye were on the closet-stool – come on, push again, we can see the head, give another push, Sally, give another heave down . . .’

When Margaret Coulter’s tired, husky voice gave out, Susan took over the encouraging and exhorting, with Mrs Bennett adding her impassioned pleas to her daughter, begging her to keep going and not to lose heart.

‘I can push no more, for God’s sake, I tell you I
can’t
!’ gasped Sally, her face congested and her lips bruised and bleeding from biting. Susan rolled up a handkerchief and placed it across Sally’s mouth between her teeth to bite on.

Half-past eight. The child’s crown, swollen and spongy, was now filling the outlet at the height of a pain, and the mother’s delicate skin was stretched to paper thinness.

‘She will tear below for certain,’ whispered the midwife, and Susan’s heart ached for Sally’s inescapable agony.

‘Let me die, for I cannot push – let me die . . .’ Sally’s face was ominously blue, with a white circle round her mouth.

Susan impulsively threw away the sheet, which she saw was of no use, and guided by her memory of the past, she placed Sally’s hands behind her drawn-up knees.

‘All right, Mrs Twy— all right, Sally, just grip y’r knees when ye get the pain and pull on ’em. Never mind about the pushin’,’ she said.

Twenty minutes to nine. The damp, dark circle of the child’s head slowly advanced. Margaret Coulter and Susan Lucket exchanged a nod: they were partners working together to save two lives. Birth was about to take place, and Death was waiting to snatch Life away. Susan’s courage rose like a flame at the challenge.

With a final surging contraction the head was born. The face was bluish-purple, with squashed features, and the crown elongated as if it had been stretched. The eyes were open, and Mrs Coulter quickly wiped them and placed a forefinger in the mouth. First one shoulder was born, then the other, the arms flopped out limply, and the rest of the slippery, blue-tinged body of a large male infant appeared, followed by a brisk loss of blood. Mrs Coulter spread a huckaback towel on the bed and received the baby upon it. Sally gave a long-drawn-out sigh, and her mother hardly dared speak.

‘Is he . . .?’

Margaret Coulter blew upon the child’s body.

‘Come, little man, give me a cry, for the love o’ God,’ she muttered under her breath. She flicked her fingers against the soles of his feet, and gently blew upon him again. She placed two fingers on his chest and nodded when she detected a slow heartbeat. She wrapped him in the towel, and placed her mouth over his nose, sucking out moisture, and then blew directly into his mouth.

The baby stirred faintly. He gave a spasmodic gasp. He wrinkled his nose. His legs jerked up in a convulsive movement. He flexed his arms. His chest rose, drawing in air, and when it came out it made a weak, grunting sound. And again. And again.

‘Praise be to God, he lives,’ Sarah Bennett groaned in her relief. ‘But his head, Margaret – has he got water on the brain?’

‘No, no, Sarah, he has had a hard journey and his head’s pressed out o’ shape,’ replied Margaret, tying and severing the umbilical cord. ‘’Twill improve in a day or two. Here, take him. I must attend to his mother.’