panted, starting to cry in desperation, moving her body restlessly on the bed. Rose made helpless movements with her hands.
‘You’ll be all right,’ Joan said, switching needles to begin on a new row. ‘Just give him a good push.’
Dora heaved again. ‘Help me – oh God, help me!’
Unable to do anything to help, Rose felt like crying herself. In the end she went to stand in front of Joan.
‘Look, you old cow,’ she shouted as Dora writhed on the bed beside them. ‘You’re s’posed to be here to help, not knit jumpers for the whole British bleeding army.’
The midwife waddled over to Dora in the shadowy light and said, ‘You’ll have to watch this one, Dora. She’s got too much of a gob on her.’
‘And you’ve got too big an arse on you,’ Rose retorted. She was suddenly feeling exhausted.
‘It’s stuck,’ Dora screamed. ‘It won’t come. Get it out, for God’s sake. It’s killing me.’
‘You ought to get a doctor,’ Rose hissed at Joan. ‘You’re not up to this.’
‘Cheeky little sod,’ Joan said. ‘I’ve done hundreds of these.’
She bent down behind Dora, breathing heavily. Rose watched, horrified, as she pushed two of her thick, lardy fingers into her mother. Dora groaned, and Rose saw frothy saliva dripping from her mouth on to the crumpled newspaper. She was making whimpering animal sounds that turned Rose’s stomach.
‘The babby’s ready all right,’ Joan said. ‘Must have an arm caught awkward.’ And with no warning she forced her entire hand up inside Dora and began to manipulate the baby inside her, trying to free it. Dora’s screams rose to a single high-pitched shriek like a creature caught in the iron teeth of a trap. Joan pulled her hand out, slimy with blood, and Rose squeezed her eyes tight and pushed her fingers into her ears, unable to stand it any longer.
When she opened her eyes a moment later, Dora was still screaming, but now it was more of a yell.
‘Now you’ve woken up you can come here and give me a hand,’ Joan said.
Still sick and dizzy, Rose just managed to peer under her mother, who was squatting again. Bulging out from her she could see the top of a little head covered in dark, wet hair.
‘I can’t – I CAN’T!’ Dora shrieked.
‘Just push,’ Joan shouted down her ear. ‘One more’ll do it.’
With an almighty cry, Dora pushed the child’s head out and Rose saw the blood spurt from her ragged vagina. Another push and the little body slithered out covered in blood and a white pasty substance. Dora collapsed forwards on to the bed.
‘What is it?’ Rose said, all her faintness of a moment before quite forgotten.
Joan’s meaty hands picked up the little body and turned it to tie the cord.
‘It’s a boy, Mom!’ Rose said, as Joan wrapped him in an old white cloth. ‘You were right.’
‘Told you,’ Dora said faintly. ‘Give him here.’ She held out her arms, the palms of her hands grey with newspaper print, and took the little boy to her. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You can go and tell your dad he’s got another son. And Rose,’ she said, as the girl headed for the stairs, ‘thanks, our kid.’
Rose wasn’t at home when it happened.
George ran across the court in his bare feet as if his breeches were on fire.
‘Mom, Mom! Come quick!’
‘What?’ Dora’s heart started pounding as she pulled off her apron. ‘ What? Tell me.’
‘It’s our Violet,’ George panted. ‘She’s gone under a horse.’
Dora was out of the court in front of him and into the street. At the top of Catherine Street by the main road she could see a small crowd of people and she tore along the pavement towards them.
Silently they let her through as if she were royalty. She heard someone say, ‘It’s the child’s mother, the poor cow.’
A man was standing in front of his cart holding the bridle of a heavy black horse. Dora always remembered from that day the smell of the sweating animal, its damp heaving flanks in the
‘You’ll be all right,’ Joan said, switching needles to begin on a new row. ‘Just give him a good push.’
Dora heaved again. ‘Help me – oh God, help me!’
Unable to do anything to help, Rose felt like crying herself. In the end she went to stand in front of Joan.
‘Look, you old cow,’ she shouted as Dora writhed on the bed beside them. ‘You’re s’posed to be here to help, not knit jumpers for the whole British bleeding army.’
The midwife waddled over to Dora in the shadowy light and said, ‘You’ll have to watch this one, Dora. She’s got too much of a gob on her.’
‘And you’ve got too big an arse on you,’ Rose retorted. She was suddenly feeling exhausted.
‘It’s stuck,’ Dora screamed. ‘It won’t come. Get it out, for God’s sake. It’s killing me.’
‘You ought to get a doctor,’ Rose hissed at Joan. ‘You’re not up to this.’
‘Cheeky little sod,’ Joan said. ‘I’ve done hundreds of these.’
She bent down behind Dora, breathing heavily. Rose watched, horrified, as she pushed two of her thick, lardy fingers into her mother. Dora groaned, and Rose saw frothy saliva dripping from her mouth on to the crumpled newspaper. She was making whimpering animal sounds that turned Rose’s stomach.
‘The babby’s ready all right,’ Joan said. ‘Must have an arm caught awkward.’ And with no warning she forced her entire hand up inside Dora and began to manipulate the baby inside her, trying to free it. Dora’s screams rose to a single high-pitched shriek like a creature caught in the iron teeth of a trap. Joan pulled her hand out, slimy with blood, and Rose squeezed her eyes tight and pushed her fingers into her ears, unable to stand it any longer.
When she opened her eyes a moment later, Dora was still screaming, but now it was more of a yell.
‘Now you’ve woken up you can come here and give me a hand,’ Joan said.
Still sick and dizzy, Rose just managed to peer under her mother, who was squatting again. Bulging out from her she could see the top of a little head covered in dark, wet hair.
‘I can’t – I CAN’T!’ Dora shrieked.
‘Just push,’ Joan shouted down her ear. ‘One more’ll do it.’
With an almighty cry, Dora pushed the child’s head out and Rose saw the blood spurt from her ragged vagina. Another push and the little body slithered out covered in blood and a white pasty substance. Dora collapsed forwards on to the bed.
‘What is it?’ Rose said, all her faintness of a moment before quite forgotten.
Joan’s meaty hands picked up the little body and turned it to tie the cord.
‘It’s a boy, Mom!’ Rose said, as Joan wrapped him in an old white cloth. ‘You were right.’
‘Told you,’ Dora said faintly. ‘Give him here.’ She held out her arms, the palms of her hands grey with newspaper print, and took the little boy to her. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You can go and tell your dad he’s got another son. And Rose,’ she said, as the girl headed for the stairs, ‘thanks, our kid.’
Rose wasn’t at home when it happened.
George ran across the court in his bare feet as if his breeches were on fire.
‘Mom, Mom! Come quick!’
‘What?’ Dora’s heart started pounding as she pulled off her apron. ‘ What? Tell me.’
‘It’s our Violet,’ George panted. ‘She’s gone under a horse.’
Dora was out of the court in front of him and into the street. At the top of Catherine Street by the main road she could see a small crowd of people and she tore along the pavement towards them.
Silently they let her through as if she were royalty. She heard someone say, ‘It’s the child’s mother, the poor cow.’
A man was standing in front of his cart holding the bridle of a heavy black horse. Dora always remembered from that day the smell of the sweating animal, its damp heaving flanks in the
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