‘And, perhaps, one day you will become a nurse again.’ He stroked the side of her face. ‘I know you must miss that as much as I have missed being a doctor.’
His concerned remark gave her a spasm of regret. She’d fought her father to become a nurse. He’d wanted only that she brought money into the house. She’d loved her job, especially being Matron at Pont y Haven. And she wouldn’t have met Peter if she hadn’t worked in the hospital at the camp. But now she had a whole new life to look forward to.
‘I think this baby will be more than enough for me for the time being. One day – who knows?’ She leant forward and, pushing against his shoulder, stood up. ‘I must go to the lavvy.’
‘You must go slowly.’ He steadied her but she pulled him with her, laughing.
All at once she felt a sudden pressure on her bladder. She couldn’t move. ‘Peter?’ Water gushed from between her legs onto the flags. She stared down at her feet, unbelieving. ‘Oh no!’ She doubled over in pain. ‘It’s too early,’ she cried, ‘Peter, it’s too soon.’ She stayed still, trying to catch her breath. ‘Peter, it’s too soon.’
For a second he froze and then he lifted and carried her into the house, inwardly cursing himself. ‘When I was a doctor at home in Germany, I have delivered many early babies. You must not worry.’ He should have known, should have made plans for this. ‘From what you have told me, it is only three or perhaps four weeks early.’ He laid her on the rug and placed cushions around her, anxious to reassure her. ‘Your waters have broken, Mary, so we must be prepared. We must take off your underclothes, Liebling. Try to lift yourself up.’
She groaned as she helped him. Her stomach rippled but there was no pain, only a dull ache.
‘We must telephone the midwife.’
His composure stopped her panic. ‘The number’s on the sideboard.’ She pointed upwards, towards it.
‘There is pain now?’
‘No. But—’
‘It will be fine.’
‘It’s too soon. The baby will be too small.’ It was almost a question. She searched his face.
‘No, the baby is fine. I think perhaps he – or she,’ he added, ‘seems impatient to be with us. We should try to get you upstairs on the bed.’ She would be more restful there, he thought.
‘I’m not moving.’
He wouldn’t argue with her. ‘Then we must put the towels under you and make you comfortable here.’ He moved around her as he spoke, tucking towels under her buttocks, arranging the cushions.
‘Peter!’ The ache increased, travelling down her legs and around her pelvis at the same time. ‘Peter.’ She clutched his hand, her eyes wide with terror.
‘Stay calm,’ he said, ‘it will be fine.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I will telephone.’
‘Don’t leave me.’ Mary rose up on one elbow.
‘I will only be in the hall. Try to relax.’ His prised her fingers gently away from his and pressed on her shoulder until she was lying back on the cushions. ‘Stay still for a moment.’
When he returned he was carrying a sheet and two pillows. ‘The midwife,’ he said, ‘she will be here soon.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
As he covered her with the sheet she curled up again, unable to speak until the surge of pain subsided. ‘That was worse.’
‘You did well. It will be fine.’ He bent over the fireguard, putting a match to the newspaper in the grate. ‘It is good that it is always set.’ The flames died down and then began to lick around the wood.
‘I’m too hot already,’ Mary complained. The sweat was beaded on her top lip and over the bridge of her nose.
‘You will need the warmth later. And so will the baby.’ He sat beside her. ‘Stay on your side,’ he said, ‘it will make you feel better.’
‘No, I need to walk around.’ Mary flung the sheet away from her and pushed herself into a half crouching, half standing position. Peter didn’t stop her. Supporting her weight he rubbed the small of her back.
Mary could hear herself grunting. ‘Talk,’ she said eventually, when the next pain receded. ‘Talk to me … anything … say anything.’ She held the weight of her belly in her hands. ‘Where the hell is that midwife?’
Peter had no answer. He continued to massage Mary’s back. ‘When this baby is born … we will go home?’
‘Yes, we’ll go home.’ Mary crouched down. ‘I think it’s coming.’ Pushing Peter to one side, she collapsed onto the floor on her back, hearing herself scream, cutting off the noise by biting down on her lip and burrowing her face in the cushions. The contractions were almost continuous, she couldn’t take much more; the pain was tearing her apart, all there was was agony.
And then she saw her mother’s face, felt her cool hand on her sweating forehead. Mam? She was wearing the flowery wrap-around pinny she always wore.
Shush now, Mary. Winifred smiled at her. She smelt the blend of carbolic soap and lavender. You’ll be fine. She was leaning over Mary.
But then she was gone and it was Peter parting her legs, looking at her. ‘You should push now.’ His voice was low but definite. ‘Mary? Now push.’
‘The midwife?’ Mary gripped hold of one of the cushions and pulled it over her face and screamed into it. Soon it became a rhythm of pain and release. With each contraction she felt the increasing fullness between her legs. And then there was a sudden rush of pressure.
‘It’s a boy.’ She heard the smile in his voice but the pains increased again.
Another voice. Not Mam’s, not a voice in her head, another presence following a waft of air.
‘Mary? Nurse Patterson. I’m here now.’ The midwife tried to bustle Peter from Mary’s side but he didn’t move.
‘The ambulance?’ He questioned her, his old authority emerging.
‘I’m afraid we’re on our own. Two of them are already out on calls and the third has mechanical problems, I believe.’ She smiled briskly at Mary. ‘Now mother, let’s see what’s going on here.’ She rifled through her case to find gauze, clamps and scissors. ‘You can go now,’ she said to Peter, preparing the cord.
‘I will cut it,’ he said.
‘No, father, this is my job.’ She looked askance at him.
‘I know how to do this.’ He didn’t explain any more. ‘And, as you say, I am the father.’
‘Well!’
Smiling, carefully taking the scissors, he slowly cut through the umbilical cord between his wife and his child and lifted the baby onto Mary’s chest. She cupped her son’s head.
Nurse Patterson sniffed, resentful. She started to speak but then Mary panted, ‘I need to push.’
‘It’s the placenta.’ The midwife glared at Peter. ‘You will allow me?’
‘I will take our son.’ He reached over to the fireguard and pulled down the towel that had been warming.
Mary only had time to hand the baby to him before the scream erupted from her.
Nurse Patterson quickly examined her. ‘It’s not the placenta, there’s another baby.’ She looked shocked for a moment and then glanced at Mary and smiled. ‘Well, we didn’t see that coming, did we mother? You’re having twins, my dear. Next contraction, push.’
Mary threw her head back against the cushions and rode the wave of pain as the baby slid out with a tiny cry.
‘It is a girl.’ Peter gazed enthralled at the child in the midwife’s hands.
Taking advantage of his bewilderment, she laid the baby on Mary and clamped the cord in two places. At the last moment he realized what she was doing and, holding out his hand, he said, ‘Please?’
Reluctantly handing the scissors to him she shuffled back. ‘Thank you,’ he said, passing the little boy to her. ‘I did this for my son. I need that I do this for my daughter as well. I would never forgive myself if it was otherwise.’ Cutting the lifeline between his wife and children created a bond between himself and the babies.