A Carriage for the Midwife (53 page)

‘Tell ’ee what, Sukey Lucket – Oi hear’d as yer young parson got drunk as a rat when un went down to Portsmouth to seek out yer brother at the smugglers’ inn. Spueing all over hisself, un was! Oi doubt as him’d mind us takin’ a drop o’ punch on Christmas Eve!’

Susan turned round slowly and faced her.

‘What?’

‘Oh, ah! Them two gold guineas Madam Glover gi’ me burned a hole in me pocket ’til Oi hear’d as young parson ’ud got back safe an’ sound! Oi didn’t know as Oi’d done right tellin’ her where him’d find young Jack, an’ by what Oi hear’d, him got fightin’ drunk an’ nigh on done fur un!’

She gave a hiccuping laugh and raised her pewter mug to Susan, who stood stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly back at her.

‘Wh-when was this – when Parson Calthorpe went to Portsmouth?’ she stammered, white to the lips.

‘Go on, Sukey, ’ee knows well enough, ’twas just arter Dolly died, when him come back from gettin’ hisself made a parson.’

She drained her mug to the last drop, grinning defiance at Susan, whose thoughts whirled round in her head like pieces of a broken picture gradually coming together.

She remembered Edward’s unannounced return from Oxford, his box left at Belhampton; his pallor and tiredness as he told her of his sudden decision to take a vow of chastity. She had seen certain looks passed between him and Sophia; and there had been the odd matter of his newly bought clerical garb arriving wrapped in brown paper with a washerwoman’s bill attached.

‘And did ye say he saw my brother – Jack?’ she whispered, sitting down beside the old woman and nodding to the maidservant to leave them alone. ‘Tell me all about it, Mrs Gibson. What’d my husband hear from my brother?’

‘Same as what Oi could ha’ told un and many could ha’ told un. Come on, Sukey, ’ee knows how it was wi’ Bartlemy an’ Doll an’ ’eeself,’ muttered the handywoman, drawing back a little from the unblinking grey eyes. ‘Nobody blamed ’ee, poor little thing, an’ ’tis all past an’ done now. No sense in lookin’ back.’

‘And ye say Miss Glover came to ye with – with money?’

‘Oh, ah, fur what Oi could tell. Maybe Oi shouldn’t ha’ spoke, but her mind was made up, an’ her made me tell.’

Susan found her voice, and held up a shaking hand. ‘Enough ha’ been said, Mrs Gibson. ’Tis well that I know.’

‘And ’ee won’t say nothin’ o’ the brandy trade to nobody?’

‘Never a word, Mrs Gibson,’ promised Susan, who knew nothing of the woman’s connection with the smuggling ring.

At that moment the maidservant called down the stairs that Mrs Decker needed the midwife, and Susan rose at once.

It was after eight when Mrs Roberts was delivered by Lizzie Decker of her first-born, a son, to the joy of the curate waiting downstairs. The baby was named John after his father, and at the moment Lizzie put him into his mother’s arms there came a sound of voices singing and a knock at the front door. It was the choirmen from Great St Giles carolling round the village and bidding all men to be merry. Widow Gibson’s punch was liberally ladled out by the new father, and the refrain ‘O tidings of comfort and joy’ echoed as they departed, their breath visible in trailing clouds behind them.

‘How wonderful it is, Susan, to see a new life safely brought into the world!’ exclaimed Lizzie as they climbed into the trap to go home. Around them the fields lay dark and silent, but the arching sky was full of sparkling stars.

‘Did you see Mr Roberts’ face when he came into the room and saw Jane holding their sweet little son? How happy we are to be midwives, Susan, don’t you think so?’

Susan was willing to let Lizzie chatter away in her exultation over the baby’s arrival while she secretly pondered over what Widow Gibson had revealed.

Edward knew
. He had known for the past three months. And like Dr Parnham he did not blame her: on the contrary, he had shown her nothing but love, denying himself for her sake. And as for whatever had happened at Portsmouth, her mind reeled away from imagining it.

Oh, Edward, my husband, now I can be honest with you at last, she thought gladly, for there is nothing to hide.

But when they reached May Cottage Edward was in sombre mood, having lately returned from the rectory with the news of Dr Gravett’s death.

‘Sophia was at his bedside when the waits arrived, and Miss Gravett said they might sing a hymn beneath his window, very quietly,’ he told the household. ‘And Sophy believes that was the time he drew his last breath. Poor old Gravett.’ He sighed. ‘We must be thankful that he is freed from his earthly prison, Susan, but the real tragedy is that there is nobody who truly mourns his passing. Yet I cannot remember a time when he was not rector of Beversley.’

Susan thought of Sophia Glover attending the dying man, giving him comfort and easing his fears. Edward also praised the help she had given Miss Gravett over the final months.

‘It wasn’t as if he ever appreciated all the good she did in his parish,’ he remarked in a low tone, not wanting to be critical of the lately departed. ‘How different her life would have been if Henry had not been lost to her.’

Susan was silent, remembering the rector’s proposal of marriage. She supposed that Sophy had felt some kind of obligation towards the lonely old man at the end.

‘It means we shall move into the rectory in the new year if you are willing, my love,’ Edward went on, glancing at her anxiously.

She smiled. ‘I wish only to be at y’r side, Edward, wherever ye feel called to serve,’ she said with a loving look, and he put his arm around her.

‘How John Roberts will be rejoicing this Christmas, my love! I hope he will remember to say prayers at Little St Giles tomorrow, for I am engaged to visit the House of Industry after Divine Service.’

‘And we are all to dine at Bever House,’ added Mrs Smart, delighted to be included in the invitation along with her daughter and Kitty. Parson Smart had never once dined at Bever House.

Edward picked up the candlestick. ‘Come, Susan, you have had a long day, and another awaits tomorrow. ’Tis time you were abed.’

Up in their room they undressed quickly; Susan pulled her nightgown over her head, thrusting her arms into the sleeves while he divested himself of his breeches, shivering.

She said, ‘Edward.’

‘Yes, Susan? What is it?’ he asked, pulling on his nightshirt.

‘When were you last at Portsmouth?’

Silence. The question hung in the air between them. She turned and looked him full in the face by the flickering candlelight. Their eyes met.

And he saw. And he knew.

‘Ye spoke with my brother Jack, Edward.’

He nodded and lowered his eyes. ‘Yes, my love. I did.’

‘And the other . . .?’

‘No, no, he has been dead for two years. Rest assured, Susan, you will never see him again.

‘Ah.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Widow Gibson told me today at the parsonage – the handywoman.’

‘Ah, yes, I know – the contraband trade.’

‘Come to bed, Edward. No, don’t blow out the candle yet. Let it light us f’r a while longer.’

He got in beside her.

During the time that she had nursed him through the fever and in recent months when they had slept side by side, Susan had become well acquainted with her husband’s body: the wholesome smell of his skin, the way he positioned his limbs in sleep, his cold feet that warmed with the bed; all was dear and familiar to her, and on a couple of occasions when he had been called to the bedside of a sick parishioner, she had not been able to sleep in his absence.

Now she turned and faced him, looking steadfastly into his eyes. She put her arms around his neck.

‘Kiss me, Edward. Ah, kiss me, my husband.’

And so Parson Calthorpe was released from his vow. With her wide, trustful eyes fixed upon his throughout, she invited him to come to her. When he entered she uttered a low exclamation of surprise that it was so simple, so easy and natural that he should be within. When he began to thrust and pant she arched her back and gripped his shoulders, a drowning swimmer clinging to her rescuer. When his lifestream flowed she wept for joy at the cleansing power of love, driving out at last the fear and guilt that had darkened her life for so long.

She gave a long, long exhalation as the demons departed, never to return. She heard herself murmuring again the words: ‘
And I forgive you
,
too
,
Mother
.’

He heard and understood: there was no need for explanations between them as they kissed each other good night.

‘Susan, dearest wife, sleep well.’

It was midnight. The chimes of Great St Giles rang out through the frosty air. The holy tide of Christmas had come in with a birth, a death and a healing of the years.

SUSAN OPENS HER
eyes. Sophia is still at her side, and gently presses a damp towel to her forehead.

‘Will you take a sip of water, Susan? There, now.’

The slanting rays of late September sunshine have travelled round the room, marking the hours from first light to mid-afternoon. Hours of pain indescribable, pain unimaginable, tearing at nerves and muscles, causing her to scream out in agony every time her belly hardens. Time after time. Hour after hour.

Sophia asks: ‘Is there any sign of progress, Mrs Decker?’

Lizzie shakes her head, gazing at the spongy circle about the size of a crown piece, which is all that she can see of the child’s head at the height of a pain.

‘The ring of the womb has been fully open for two hours, but there’s been no advance in the last half-hour,’ she replies.

A dismal howl is heard outside the bedroom door. ‘Oi be feared! Oi be feared fur her what’s bin so good to me – O Lor’, O Lor’!’

‘Stop your noise, Mag, for goodness’ sake. Go away, do!’

Lizzie’s irritation reflects her growing anxiety over this failure to progress after a promising start. Susan is a small-boned woman, and the child is large. Lizzie fears that the head may be arrested in its descent, and become stuck fast in the narrow outlet.

Susan knows that this is so. She also knows that she cannot push the head any further down, and that inertia will intervene, with lessening of pain but no progress. She wonders if Lizzie senses the presence of Death in the room, waiting to claim her and her child.

Sophia’s face is a pale blur above her, exhorting her to put her trust in the Almighty. Somewhere Edward is demanding how much longer she must suffer, and what may be done to hasten the birth. There are whispers, consultations, and a decision is made; a messenger is sent.

‘Can you bear down again, Susan?’ asks Lizzie’s distant voice.

Another futile straining of her muscles, another failure to move the object she can feel filling the narrow space deep down in her pelvis.

‘Rest now, Susan,’ says Sophia. ‘Lie back and rest.’

But she is rising from the bed and drifting upwards, away from pain, away from the heaviness of her flesh. The voices grow fainter as she drifts out into the golden sunlight, and she can look down through the window at the swollen body upon the bed, the face congested and eyes bloodshot from pushing. Sophia is weeping.

‘Susan, can you hear me? Oh, Susan, do not leave us. Oh, God, be merciful and save her!’

But Susan cannot answer. Below her in the rectory garden she sees Edward pacing the shrubbery with his father. He too is weeping as he speaks, but cannot see or hear her.

And now she is ascending in the clear blue air, lighter than thistledown as she moves upwards. She is above the rectory chimneys, and now she can look down and see the whole valley. Free as a bird she soars up into the cloudless sky, and calls out to her sister who died with her babies unborn.

Polly!

She is drawing towards a great light beyond which lies eternity. And no return.

Suddenly from far down below a sound reaches her. It is a horse at full gallop.

Sweating and foaming, the animal stops at the rectory, and the rider dismounts with a clatter. He strides into the house, and his footsteps thunder on the stairs; he bursts into the bedchamber.

‘How is she? Oh, my Trotula! Good God, why wasn’t I sent for earlier, you stupid creature? How long has the cervical ring been fully dilated? How long has she been pushing? Where is the husband? Make haste, there is no time to be lost.’

In the confusion of voices Edward’s rises above the others.

‘Save her, Parnham, save her who is everything to me, I implore you! Destroy the child if need be, but save her. I cannot bear to lose her!’

‘Hush, keep your voice down, man, think of Madam Glover. D’you think I would do otherwise than save her if I can? Listen, I will apply the Chamberlen forceps and make one attempt to deliver the child by their use. If I fail, I shall conclude the matter speedily.’

He does not mention the other instruments in his bag: the skull perforator and decapitation hook.

‘Go over to your church, Calthorpe, and pray for her. For us all,’ he adds in a softer tone, for he wants the frantic clergyman out of the way.

‘Come, Madam Glover, Madam Decker, get me water, soap and clean towels. Now, then – move her to the side of the bed, so – bring her buttocks right to the edge, and each of you take a leg and hold it up, like this – higher and wider apart – that’s right. Now, my Trotula, I hope your husband is praying. God give me the skill and right judgement.’

He takes the scissors and cuts a slit in the stretched flesh. There is a clink of metal as he grasps the forceps blades and pushes them into place around the child’s head. There follows a fearsome pulling, a sustained dragging: Sophia turns her face away as she holds on to the upraised leg. Lizzie gives a cry and the doctor an oath as the head is drawn forth, an inert child out of an inert mother.

The child is born, but it seems that Death has won.

The women watch while Parnham wipes the blood and mucus from the child’s mouth, blowing on its face and chest. He mutters under his breath.

‘Are you staying with us, little one, or returning forthwith? Hah! It gives a gasp and has a heartbeat. Come on, come on, take a breath of air – and another – yes, it lives and breathes. Oh, my Trotula, you have a daughter, but at what a cost. Take it, Madam a daughter, but at what a cost. Take it, Madam Decker. I must attend to her.’