The Diary Of Pamela D.

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Authors: greg monks
Tags: Drama, Suspense, Romance, Gothic, englishstyle sweet romance
wrists,
leaving her wrists red and raw and aching. Her thighs, too, ached
from the exertion of having to lift her legs out of the deep snow.
Just when Pamela thought the exposed skin of her face was going to
freeze, they came to the bottom of a hill. At the top, upon the
ridge, stood a cottage lighted from within by the yellow glow of
oil lamps. They soon stumbled their way up the hill to the cottage,
pulled open the door, went in, and shut the wind and snow
outside.
    Mr. Cross wasted no time leading Pamela to
the loft where the pregnant girl lay. Pamela soon noticed, however,
the moment she pulled off mitts, scarf, hat and coat, that the air
within the cottage was scarcely warmer than without.
    ‘For God’s sake, Mr. Cross,
build up the fire . . . it’s freezing in here! And fill that large
preserving kettle with water and boil it. No, that one, the big one by that pile of firewood. The
tap’s frozen? Then use snow! Don’t you have any clean linen? Well . . . take what
you’ve got, boil it on the stove and then hang it and dry
it.’
    ‘Now, Emma,’ Pamela said, trying her best to
sound brave and competent, ‘you’re obviously in labour, aren’t
you?’
    The girl, who appeared about Pamela’s age,
was brown-haired, her complexion pale and puffy-looking. She was
weeping and looked terrified. ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’
    ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous! Now, tell me,
Emma, are you in labour? And how far into your pregnancy are you?
And don’t fib to me about it! Your dad’s outside with Theo filling
pots and kettles with snow; neither of them can hear. Emma, this is
very important: how many months along are you?’
    ‘Uh! It’s nine! It’s nine months! But don’t
tell my father! Please! He’ll kill me!’
    ‘If he tries anything of the
sort, then I’ll beat him within an inch of his life,’ Pamela said, trying
to sound as though she meant it. After checking the girl’s belly,
what she discovered almost made her balk. Pausing to take a deep
breath, carefully schooling her features to conceal her own
anxiety, she said, ‘Okay, Emma, your baby’s not in the right
position to be born. That means I’m going to have to reach inside
you and turn the baby so that it can come out. This is going to
hurt like hell, but I want you to be very brave, and bite down on
this.’ She rolled up a facecloth and stuck it in the girl’s mouth.
‘Now, you can scream all you like, but don’t worry about it too
much. You’re not going to die. It’s only pain. In a few hours the
pain will be nothing more than a memory, and you’ll have a
brand-new life to look after.’
    After some time, it occurred to Pamela that
Mr. Cross hadn’t come near the loft, except to stand at the foot of
the stair and shout about clean linen and hot water. Theo did ask
whether or not she wanted help but Pamela declined, going down
once, taking Theo aside and asking him to keep a rein on Mr. Cross,
who sat at the kitchen table cursing his daughter’s indiscretion,
seeming not to care who heard. After a few more minutes of this,
Pamela heard Theo raise his voice only once, and nothing further
was heard from Mr. Cross.
     
    About three in the morning, a red-faced,
healthy baby boy screamed his protest over being brought into this
world of uncertainty. Soon after, Pamela came down the stairs of
the loft, white-faced and unsteady. Theo quickly got to his feet
and led her to the table. Mr. Cross sat on a small stool by the
stove with his arms crossed, trying to look defiant. But he said,
‘It’s over, then, isn’t it? My Emma, she’s dead, isn’t she?’
    ‘No, Mr. Cross,’ Pamela said, taking the tea
Theo handed to her. ‘She and the baby are just fine. You have a
grandson.’
    ‘A grandson?’
    ‘Yes, Mr. Cross. Why don’t you go up and see
him?’
    It seemed he wasn’t going to reply at first.
Yet when Pamela least expected it, he abruptly lost his composure,
his gruff exterior and bravado falling away like a broken

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