‘Yer’ll give up that room and come and live here!’ A moment ago the voice had sounded thin and drained of life but now it had gained new strength.
From eyes swollen with weeping Molly May stared at her mother-in-law, the bane of her youthful life since marriage. She drew the black shawl more securely about her slender shoulders and trembled inwardly. She had never had to fend for herself in her whole life but she couldn’t let the woman who so patently disapproved of her take her over now. ‘No,’ she said shakily.
Ma Payne’s salt and pepper eyebrows twitched together, hooding her protuberant eyes as she folded skinny arms across her non-existent bosom, scaring the life out of Molly May. ‘I didn’t hear that,’ she said tersely. ‘Our Cath’ll go with yer. Help carry what yer’ve got for the baby.’
Molly May swallowed nervously, one hand straying to her swollen belly. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t let this overbearing, self- opinionated woman get her claws into Frank’s child. ‘No,’ she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
‘Don’t be so bleeding stupid, girl!’ the woman said wrathfully. ‘How are yer going to manage on yer own with no husband and nowt coming in? Yer too near yer time to find yerself some work.’
Molly May lowered her head and swallowed, her brown eyes fringed by reddish-gold lashes full of trepidation. ‘I’ll manage.’ How she wished her mother was still alive. Mabel wouldn’t have allowed Ma Payne to boss her like this. Nor would Nanna. She drew on all her resources of courage and stammered, ‘You might rule the whole bl-bl-bloody street but you-you’re not going to rule me and mine. With Fr- Frank gone there’s no reason for m-m-me to be as nice as pie to you and yours anymore. I’m-I’m off!’
There was a concerted gasp from Ma Payne and her two daughters. ‘The cheek of her, Ma!’ said Josie, the eldest, who was tuppence short of a shilling. ‘She needs a clout round the earhole for swearing at yer like that. Her and her stupid accent.’
‘You-You just try it,’ said Molly May, wishing the ground would open and swallow her up. I’ll-I’ll knock the spots off you.’
‘Yous? Yous couldn’t punch a hole in a paper bag!’ crowed Josie. ‘Yerra heretic and yer’ll go to Hell! Our Frank should never have married yer! Yer not one of us. You tell her, Ma.’
‘Shut up!’ Ma Payne turned on her daughter. ‘How could I stop my boy? He was well past twenty-one. We’ve just got to make the best of a bad job, that’s all.’
Molly May’s heart sank. That was how Ma had viewed her from the start – as a bad job. It was so very different from how Nanna had seen her. ‘I don’t want you making the best of me,’ she said, clearing her throat nervously. ‘I know you-you never thought me good enough for F-Frank.’
Her mother-in-law fixed her with a baleful glare. ‘Too right but you were his choice and I had to go along with it. Now I want that baby so I’m prepared to put up with you and yer slapdash ways. Spoilt, that’s what you’ve been, girl! But I’ll soon knock yer into shape once yer living here.’
Molly May didn’t want to be knocked into shape. Nanna and Frank had thought her perfect as she was, so why should she change for this woman? She decided to make a move and tilted her head defiantly. ‘I’m going. Maybe I’ll see you again one day, and maybe I won’t.’
She headed for the door but was brought to an abrupt halt by a tug on her hair. Molly May clutched her hat as it slid sideways and turned carefully to face Josie, who stood grinning at her like a Cheshire Cat.
‘I got her, Ma,’ she crowed.
Molly May’s heart plummeted even further as she took a grip on the hair which hung down her back almost to her waist and tugged to free it. But her sister-in-law, who sometimes scared her out of her wits with her wild laughter, hung on like grim death to the handful of curls she had seized. ‘Let g-g-go!’ insisted Molly May though her teeth chattered with fright.
‘Not so fast,’ said Ma Payne, long black skirts brushing the floor as she marched across the room. She thrust her face close to her daughter-in-law’s. Determined eyes as dark and evil-looking as brackish pools in a marsh gazed into Molly May’s and the girl’s knees shook with terror as she sent up a quick prayer for deliverance. ‘Yer haven’t any understanding of a mother’s luv, have yer, girl?’ said the older woman, shaking her head. ‘That babby is my boy’s and it belongs to us as much as you do. So yer staying here!’
‘No! You-you can’t m-make me,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, trying to be neither browbeaten nor scared. Her mother had often said in the exasperated tone of voice she’d frequently adopted with Molly that it gave your opponent an advantage if you showed weakness. Tears threatened as the girl remembered her mother who had died only eighteen months ago in childbirth. They had moved to Bootle three years after the old queen died in 1904, the widowed Mabel May having met her second husband on a trip to Southport. Until then mother and daughter lived with Nanna in Burscough, an agricultural village in Lancashire which had gained some importance when the huge mere at Martin had been drained and the new Leeds–Liverpool canal was built.
‘Can’t I?’ Ma Payne’s voice was silky and heavy with threat. ‘Cath, help Josie get her upstairs. She can go in the front attic now it’s empty. The door has a lock on it.’
Josie’s expression was jubilant as she seized Molly May’s arm. ‘Haven’t got much to say for yerself now, have yer? If yer cheek me again, I’ll give yer a swipe!’
Oh, God! How Molly wished she dared tell her to take her filthy paws off and then give her that look Mabel May had used to demolish her enemies, but she just didn’t have the guts.
‘Maybe I’ll hit yer anyhow,’ said Josie, eyes glistening, and her hand came up.
Ma Payne seized hold of it. ‘Control yerself! We’ve got to look after her. Don’t want her going into early labour and losing me boy’s babby.’
‘That’s right,’ said Molly May, relieved. ‘You’ve got to take care of me.’
‘I am a caring woman,’ said Ma Payne solemnly, adjusting a strap beneath her frock. ‘But many a mother dies in childbirth… so think on that.’
‘I do,’ said the girl honestly, forcing down the fear which drenched her in perspiration every time she imagined going into labour.
‘Good,’ said Ma Payne, sounding pleased. ‘It’s a fact of life, girl, as yer know. Now, if yer had any sense you’d throw in yer lot with me and mine. After all, we share a common grief since the sea claimed my boy.’
Her boy! There had been times when Molly May had felt like exploding on hearing those words. It was that possessiveness in Ma that filled her with dismay. She thought of all the times this woman had interfered, not only in her and Frank’s lives but in so many others, with her rigid morality and fixed ideas on what was best for them all. Due to her one of the girls in the street was ostracised for falling for a baby while she was unmarried. Her own parents had cast her out and the poor girl later drowned herself in the canal.
‘Well, are we moving?’ said Cath impatiently. She was twenty and the brains of the family, with dark red hair and a creamy skin. ‘Is Moll being locked up or not? I think you’re daft meself. She’s going to be nothing but trouble.’
‘I wanna do it,’ said Josie, almost jumping up and down with impatience. She brought her face close to Molly May’s so the girl could smell onion on her breath. ‘You’d better start being nice to me,’ she said in a sing-song voice.
Molly May shuddered, scarcely able to believe this was happening. It was like something out of a penny dreadful. Oh, how she wished Nanna or Frank were here! She fought every step of the way but when Josie lost her footing on the stairs, almost dragging her down with her, realised there was a real danger of falling and losing the baby, maybe even her life, so stopped struggling.
She walked into the front attic without being forced, her heart banging away beneath her ribs as she heard the key turn in the lock. She wanted to burst into tears as she stood in the middle of the room, gazing at the whitewashed walls. On one there were hooks for hanging clothes and beneath the window a single bed. A chest of drawers and a washstand stood opposite. It was a terrible room and had been the lodger’s until he’d left a week ago. Before that it was Frank’s.
Oh, Frank, Frank, why did you have to die? Tears trickled down Molly May’s cheeks and she wiped them away with her hand. How many times had her mother told her crying would not solve a thing when she came home from work to find Nanna pandering to Molly May’s every little problem with soft words, a large embroidered handkerchief ready to mop her tears, and the delicious buttery homemade scones and jam sponge permanently on offer? ‘You spoil her,’ Mabel May would say. ‘Poor little mite,’ Nanna would reply. ‘She’s got no father to look out for her and thee’s never here.’ ‘I’ve got to do something to keep us,’ Mabel May would reply irritably. ‘You can’t do it with your game leg.’
She’d always been irritable with Nanna and herself as long as Molly May could remember. Nanna said it was ever since Molly’s father had been killed in that terrible accident. Still she was dead now and the girl would have had her back in an instant for all she’d been forever finding fault. Mother had looked after her in her own way, even marrying again to provide Molly May with a better standard of life or so she’d said. Though how rooms over a pub in Bootle could be better than Nanna’s cottage with its roses round the door, a roaring fire in the grate and delicious smells coming from the oven, was something the girl had found hard to understand. It was true she had seen a lot more of life there, even though the fights that broke out most Saturday nights had soon sent her diving for cover under a table in the farthest corner of the saloon bar.
She sniffed back tears, thinking it didn’t do to remember the past. She had wept enough when the agent from the White Star line had called to tell her that Frank’s ship had gone missing during a hurricane off the coast of Maryland. She and Frank had only been married nine months: Since June 10th, 1908. He had been twenty-six to her eighteen years.
She sighed shakily, remembering him coming into the pub on Stanley Road where her stepfather was the licensee. Her mother had been dead only a short time and he and Molly May were finding life hard and frustrating. She considered it her duty to stay and try to look after him but he expected too much of her in her opinion. It seemed almost as if he wanted her to take her mother’s place: cleaning, working behind the bar, cooking, shopping.
It was not what Molly wanted from life and she just could not live up to his expectations. She was seriously thinking of going back to live with Nanna when Frank had appeared on the scene. Dark-haired, brown-eyed, broad-shouldered, and with a voice that could charm the sparrows from under the eaves, he made her laugh with his impersonation of Vesta Tilly (of all people!) singing ‘Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow Wow’. He soon had the whole pub looking on. She was collecting glasses and stopped to watch him. Their eyes met and that was that. Here was a man she felt certain would look after her, a seaman like so many of the men who came into the pub, bringing with him the flavour and freshness of the wide oceans he sailed. He opened her eyes to a whole different world: exciting and romantic. He was strong and caring but not always there to criticise her slapdash housework. And if her cooking failed there was always the shop round the corner which specialised in roasted hearts, pig’s trotters and steaming hot spare ribs. But now Frank was gone and she did not know how she would survive without him.
She took a deep quivering breath and moved slowly over to the window to kneel on the bed. She pulled aside one of the curtains, staring at the rivulets of rain making their way down the window pane. It was difficult to see out so she unfastened the sash lock, forcing up the lower window to gaze out on the glistening pavements below.
The lamplighter was doing his rounds and she heard him greet one of the neighbours. Her ears caught the faint plop as the gas mantle ignited and a pool of warm yellow light was reflected in the water rushing along the gutters. A couple of boys were splashing about. Racing sticks, she thought, listening to their voices above the noise of the rain. She lifted her eyes to see the huge drumlike containers of Linacre gasworks looming behind the shining roofs of the houses. She took several deep breaths of the smoky, damp air before withdrawing her head and closing the window.
The sight of so much water and the sound of it rushing along the gutters reminded her of the canal with its locks. Her father Joseph, of whom she had no memory at all, had been crushed against a lock wall after falling into the Leeds–Liverpool canal. The childless Nanna Fletcher was Mabel May’s foster mother and had taken them in without hesitation. It was she who’d looked after Molly May when Mabel found work in Ainscough’s flour mill repairing grain sacks. She was just a plain seamstress but Molly May had been taught fine embroidery by the vicar’s daughter at St John’s National School. Not that it had proved of much use since moving to Bootle.
She frowned as she gazed at the floor, absently noting the cracks in the brown linoleum. She must get away from here and Nanna Fletcher’s house was the very place to go. It was three months or more since Molly May had paid the old woman a visit although she wrote to her regularly, knowing Nanna would get someone to read the letters to her. A bargee’s daughter herself, Nanna had attended school only infrequently. Any news from her was passed to Molly May via Jack Fletcher, a distant relative, who worked for Williams coal and timber merchants, Liverpool. He plied the canal daily, using a steam-driven tug which pulled four to six barges laden with coal from Wigan. Some of his load he would drop off at Linacre and Athol Street gasworks before going on to Williams’s depot in the city of Liverpool. Then he would do the return trip loaded up with timber for Tyrer’s boat-building yard at Burscough.
Molly May lifted her head, hope stirring faintly inside her. If she could somehow get to the coal depot at Linacre then Jack Fletcher would certainly take her as far as Burscough Bridge.
The baby moved inside her and she placed one hand protectively over her belly. Her and Frank’s baby. The muscles in her throat constricted and she had consciously to relax them to force down a lump that felt like an egg in her throat. She had not thought of a baby when she had married Frank but did not want to wish it away now, however difficult it would make her life. Nanna would help her cope… if she could just escape this house.
Feeling weary to the bone she decided there was nothing she could do tonight. With difficulty she bent and unfastened the buttons on the boots which were the last present her mother had given her. She wriggled her squashed toes, cold and damp because one of the soles had a hole in it and let in the rain despite the cut-out cardboard she had placed there, and undressed down to her camisole before gingerly pulling back the blankets. She was aware of the smell of damp and bug powder and shuddered, remembering Nanna’s lavender-scented sheets. Still, no use dwelling on them right now. She must not allow this or anything else to prevent her from resting. She needed to conserve her strength. She must think of a plan to get out of the house. But within moments, with the abandonment of an exhausted child, she fell asleep.
Molly May woke from a dream in which she was clasping her baby to her breast. But hands, two hands, were clutching at it, determined to take it from her. It was still dark and a figure was bending over her, covering her mouth. ‘Don’t make a sound if you know what’s good for you!’ hissed Cath’s voice in her ear.
Molly May’s blood, already chilled by the dream, froze. The whole family were at it! Mad! Nervously, she tried to bite her lower lip but instead bit the hand covering her mouth. Cath caught her a stinging blow across the cheek with the tips of her fingers. ‘Stop that!’ She sounded exasperated. ‘I’ve come to help you. You want to get out of here, don’t you?’
Molly May let out an exclamation, scarcely able to believe that help could come from such an unexpected quarter. ‘Of course I do. But why are you helping me?’
‘I want you out of here and best now before you really begin to get on Josie’s and Ma’s nerves and I suffer for it,’ Cath hissed. ‘So are you going to shift your carcase or do I do it for you?’
‘No need for that,’ said Molly May, rejoicing, swinging her legs nimbly over the side of the bed. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone six. Here, get your boots on.’ Cath nudged them with her foot in her sister-in-law’s direction. ‘Now if Ma wakes and catches us, we say you’re going to the lav. Hurry, though, because I’d rather we didn’t bump into her.’
‘Me neither,’ said Molly May, quaking at the thought of bumping into Ma Payne.
Heart hammering, she crept down the top flight of stairs. She felt like a heroine from a Victorian melodrama as they paused on the landing, listening intently, before creeping down the next flight of stairs. She forced down a nervous giggle. ‘I never thought you’d do me a favour,’ she said when they reached the kitchen.
Cath did not answer but led the way into the scullery and out into the yard. She opened the back gate and would have pushed Molly May through it unceremoniously if she hadn’t resisted. ‘I do need the lavatory,’ she said in as dignified a manner as she could. ‘So if you don’t mind…?’
Cath shrugged. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. But don’t look back and keep on going. I wouldn’t even go back to your rooms if I were you. That’s the first place Ma’ll look.’
‘Why are you doing this really?’ she said, puzzled. ‘You’re able to stick up for yourself. I can’t see why my being here would make that much difference to you.’
Cath flashed her a smile. ‘I never could stand the way Ma treated our Frank, as if he was a little prince. The last thing I want is his brat lording it over us like he did. Tarrah!’ And with that she went back up the yard.
Molly May was surprised to hear Cath had felt like that about her own brother but did not linger to discuss it. Instead she hurried to her lodgings near the Diamond Match Works opposite the Methodist Mission, where she speedily packed her few worldly goods. The furniture had come with the room so it was no hardship to leave that behind. Soon she was walking in the direction of Litherland Road and the Leeds–Liverpool canal. With any luck Jack Fletcher would be at the Linacre depot already. He would need to go into Liverpool to unload the rest of his cargo but she did not mind that. Once aboard she would feel safe from Ma Payne.
‘Thee all right, Molly May?’ Jack Fletcher sounded concerned for her.
A happy smile warmed her elfin features as she gazed down at him from her perch on the cabin roof. ‘Better than I was.’
She thought how nice it was to have a man caring for her again, even if this one wasn’t Frank and old enough to be her father. Jack wore the heavy dark blue seaman’s gansy and khaki corduroys of the canal boatman. His big feet were shod in thick woolly socks and brass-buckled clogs, and on his greying hair was a cap which served to protect him from rain and sleet or to keep the sun out of his eyes. Nanna said he had once been in love with Molly May’s mother and would still have had her after she was widowed if he hadn’t already married another bargee’s daughter who’d inherited her father’s boat.
Molly watched him carefully steer his way past a muck barge carrying night dirt and horse manure from Liverpool to sell to Lancashire farmers, her small tip-tilted nose wrinkled in distaste. It was pulled by a horse, as was the Bradford flyer with its load of cotton they had passed earlier.
‘Soon be there,’ said Jack.
The words were sweet in her ears. Relief swamped her anxiety and grief like a flood. She glanced up at the sky. The rain had cleared and ribbons of silver-grey cloud hung as if suspended by invisible wires against a pale blue sky. To either side of the canal there were green fields and every now and again birds flew across with bits of twig or moss in their beaks. Hard to believe Frank really was dead. That the bottom had dropped out of her world on such a beautiful day. She longed for Nanna, to be held close to her soft bosom and comforted with kind words and buttered scones.
‘Are thee coming down?’ Jack said to her as one of his sons emerged from the cabin.
‘Aye,’ she said, accepting Rob’s hand as he helped her from her perch on the roof.
‘I hope thee finds the old woman fit,’ said Jack. ‘I haven’t seen her awhile. I’ll drop thee off at the Packet House. Thee won’t have far to walk then.’
She thanked him and her soft lips brushed his weatherbeaten cheek.
‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Uncle Jack,’ she said warmly.
‘It was nowt, lass.’ His face had turned brick red. ‘Thee look after theeself now.’
Molly May waved to father and son as she paused on the bank a moment, then made her way up to the red brick Packet House Inn. A brisk wind had risen, fluttering her skirts and teasing the fringes of her shawl. She settled the latter more securely about her shoulders and walked on in the direction of Orrell Lane. According to Nanna it had once been called Gobbins Lane and as a child Molly May had imagined goblins living there. Every All Hallows Eve she’d pictured them coming back to haunt the place and had thrilled deliciously to her own imaginings.
Children were playing out with hoops and skipping ropes. One or two cast a glance in her direction and she found herself imagining her own child skipping to school. The heaviness at her heart lightened a little. She passed the grocery store, hoping Nanna had plenty of food in.
At last she came to the house and to her surprise found the blinds drawn. Her heart began to beat unevenly as she pushed open the gate, hesitating a moment before sounding the black-painted wrought-iron knocker.
Almost immediately a neighbouring door opened and a plump, middle-aged woman looked out at her. ‘Thee’s not going to get an answer there, lass. Hasn’t thee heard?’
Molly May stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘Heard what?’
The woman hesitated only briefly. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this – Mrs Fletcher’s dead.’
Molly May’s heart felt as if it had slipped its moorings to settle like a lump of lead in the pit of her stomach. ‘Dead!’ She could not believe it and had to put one hand on the wall to steady herself.
The woman’s eyes were sympathetic. ‘Aye. She’s still up there on her bed. We’re not sure when the funeral’s to be. The vicar was going to get in touch with you.’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ said Molly May indignantly, feeling a sudden need to sit down. What a shock! She inserted one hand through the letter box, found the string and pulled the key out to open the door. Oh, Lord! What am I going to do now? she thought.
‘Do you want me to come in with you?’
She nodded, thinking: Of course I do. ‘It’s Mrs Smith, isn’t it?’
‘Aye.’ The neighbour smiled. ‘Fancy you remembering. I never thought you took much notice of me. You’ll be able to stay here a few days for the funeral and that, if you want? I know the rent’s paid ’til the end of the week.’
‘I’d planned on staying longer than that,’ said Molly May, voice shaking. ‘Poor Nanna. Do you know if there’s any food in the house?’
‘Not much, lass. You fancying? I’ve just done a baking so I could let you have a loaf.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ She smiled gratefully and went through to the kitchen. Immediately her eyes sought out the rocking chair with its knitted cushion set to one side of the black-leaded grate and her eyes filled with tears, remembering the times Nanna had sat there making some garment or other for her while she herself embroidered cushion covers, chairback covers, or did some fine smocking for the ladies round about.
‘Must have gone in her sleep.’ Mrs Smith was busying herself with the makings of the fire. ‘Seeth thee down, lass,’ she said, lapsing into Lancashire dialect. ‘How long before thy baby’s due?’
Molly did not answer but lowered herself carefully on to the rocking chair. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. ‘Jack Fletcher… He doesn’t know about Nanna. We’ll have to get in touch but it’ll need to wait until tomorrow now. He’ll have left the Bridge.’
‘Don’t you be worrying. If it’s too much for you, the Reverend Russell will arrange things.’
‘You think?’ The girl’s eyes closed and she slumped back in the chair, feet neatly together on the rag rug. Then she sat upright. ‘Nanna… she… she was in the burial club?’
‘Aye. That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about, lass.’
‘Marvellous!’ Molly May’s laugh was hollow and tears filled her eyes. She searched for the scrap of embroidered linen up her sleeve, scrubbing her face with it before blowing her nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Only I’ve just lost my husband at sea and what with this on top and worrying about the baby, I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘You poor thing!’ Mrs Smith’s wrinkled face was full of sympathy. ‘You don’t look much more than a child yourself.’ She struck a match and a tongue of flame ran along the edge of the newspaper, weaving in and out of the kindling and sending narrow twists of smoke up the chimney.
Molly May watched, mesmerised, waiting for the whole lot to burst into glorious flame. She began to undo her boots, kicking them off and stretching out her toes to the warmth. ‘That’s lovely. Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ The woman got to her feet, rubbing her knees. ‘I’ll go and get that loaf.’
‘Thanks again.’ Molly May continued to gaze at the fire, reluctant to move. Although she knew she must go upstairs and view the body. She was feeling nervous, worrying about breaking down. She was apprehensive about lots of things: arranging the funeral, the birth of her baby. She wondered what would happen to it should she die? Lord, she couldn’t bear thinking about it! She stifled the thought quickly, telling herself it was not going to happen.
‘You’re looking a bit pale round the gills.’ Molly May’s Good Samaritan gazed at her in concern as she placed a tray of jam butties and a steaming cup of tea on a stool next to her. ‘Have you been up yet?’
The girl shook her head and sipped the tea, the colour slowly seeping back into her face. ‘I’m Molly Payne really. Mam and my stepfather used to give me my full title because I was a May and not a Shaw like them. It’s a bit childish. Perhaps I should drop it now I’m a widow?’
The neighbour smiled and said teasingly, ‘Right you are, Mrs Payne.’ Then her smile faded. ‘Sad about your man and the old woman. No wonder you’re upset.’
Molly agreed, before taking a large bite of bread and jam. Not as good as one of Nanna’s scones but delicious all the same. ‘I was planning on living with Nanna,’ she said sadly. ‘I feel guilty about not being here when she died, but what with getting married and setting up home, I just didn’t have time. Now it’s too late. Too late,’ she repeated. ‘Aren’t they the saddest words in the English language?’
Mrs Smith sat opposite her, clasping her hands in the lap of her pinafore. ‘If you have enough to pay the rent for a few weeks, you could stay on here. You never know, something might turn up.’
Molly sighed. ‘I’ve only a few bob. Nanna and Mother always saw to the housekeeping so I’ve never been very good with money. I’ve hardly anything for the baby either.’
‘If I were you I’d look in that big chest of drawers in Mrs Fletcher’s room,’ said Mrs
Smith, nodding sagely. ‘She was always knitting.’
Molly’s expression brightened. ‘It would be just like her to have made a whole layette.’
‘There you are then! Go up and have a peek. Perhaps you’d like me to come up with you?’
‘Yes. It would be best for me to get it over with.’ Molly swallowed the last of her bread and jam and stood up.
As they climbed the linoleum-covered stairs her heart was pounding. It made her feel even more peculiar than she already felt. There was a peculiar kind of stretching pain beneath her bump and an aching sensation in her lower back as if she was about to start her monthlies. Surely, surely, it couldn’t be the baby? No! Not now! It was much too early.
They entered the front bedroom where a large iron bedstead stood against one wall. On top of the knitted multicoloured bedspread lay a still figure dressed in a red flannelette nightgown. ‘Right stuck on red she was,’ said Mrs Smith, going over to the bed to gaze down at the corpse. ‘I looked for white but she didn’t have any.’
‘She believed red was warmer.’ But it wasn’t going to keep her warm in the grave, thought Molly, mouth quivering as she gazed down at the well-loved face.
‘She had a good innings.’ Mrs Smith smoothed a strand of hair on the corpse’s head. ‘Will you be all right here on your own? Only I’ve a hotpot on and I want to see it’s all right.’
‘Of course,’ Molly said brightly, asking herself what there was to be scared of. Nanna had loved her in life so it was hardly likely she would hurt her in death, even if she could have got off that bed and haunted her like one of Dickens’s ghosts. Gingerly, she sat on the wooden chair by the bedside, remembering the many things she had shared with the old woman.
It was Nanna who’d dressed her in her Sunday best for St John’s Walking Day. A brass band had played and Molly had felt fit to burst with pride, walking along with the other girls. Then there were trips to the Thursday market at Ormskirk during the school holidays, and once they’d travelled with lots of other people to Preston during Guild Week. She recalled picnics on the canal bank, trips on barges and walks to Burscough Priory ruins. She thanked God for Nanna’s generosity of spirit and, no longer fearful of the dead, pressed her lips lightly against the wrinkled cheek before going over to the chest of drawers in the corner and pulling out one drawer after another.
It was as Mrs Smith said. In the bottom one there was a small pile of matinee coats, bootees and bonnets, as well as a cobweb shawl of the purest, softest three-ply wool. She held the latter against her cheek, her eyes damp. She should have come before. Forcing down the grief which threatened to engulf her, she placed the tiny garments back in the drawer. Then she looked down at Nanna again before leaving the room.
The bedroom which had once been Molly’s was not very big and she needed to squeeze past the foot of the bed to reach the window. A shaft of sunlight fell on the Wellington lockstitch sewing machine, made in Oldham. Her mother had sewed curtains and covers and clothes on this, never allowing Molly near it for fear she might break it. Pity, thought the girl. It could have been useful now, knowing how to sew.
She left the room to go downstairs and finish her bread and jam, conscious of that ache in the small of her back once more. She told herself not to worry. It was probably the bending down or that lousy bed in Ma Payne’s. Just thinking of it made her itch and she scratched her arm, then her neck, hoping she hadn’t caught a flea. At least she had escaped Ma’s clutches, she thought, biting into the bread and jam again. Then despair took hold of her as she thought of Frank and the forthcoming birth.
She forced the scary thoughts away, and placing her hands on the wooden arms of the rocking chair, pushed herself up to kneel on the rag rug and place more coal on the fire. She felt another twinge of pain and her teeth caught on her lower lip. The pain ebbed. She must move more carefully. She probably just needed rest after rushing from one place to another. She levered herself up using the chair and went upstairs, hesitating outside Nanna’s room before going into her own.
Molly removed the woollen skirt and the well-worn braided velour jacket Frank had brought her home from his last trip. In the high-necked blouse she had embroidered with flowers and her tie-waist drawers, she eased her bulk beneath the blankets. The pillow was of feathers and so was the mattress which enveloped her. She wriggled around, imagining how warm and safe a cygnet must feel beneath its mother’s wings. Comfortable now she closed her eyes. A stillness settled over the room but she could not ignore the ache in her heart nor the one in her belly. It seemed to ebb and flow as she drifted on the borders of sleep, wondering how she was going to cope. She had to find someone to help her.
It was a long drawn out pain which brought Molly back into a shocked awareness of her surroundings. For a moment she could not think where she was. The room was dark and she felt frightened. Instinctively both her hands cradled her belly. Oh, God, that hurt! She sat bolt upright, stiff with fear.
The pain eased and her head flopped back against the pillow. She lay for a few minutes recovering, hoping it was a false alarm. Then it returned, slamming into her with the force of a sledgehammer. She gasped and sat up again, clutching the wooden post of the bedhead, breathing hurriedly. Then the contraction passed and she sank back against the pillow, sweating and trembling. ‘This isn’t nice. If I didn’t know better I might believe Ma Payne had put a curse on me,’ she said aloud, trying to make light of the situation.
She forced herself up and rolled off the bed, feeling a trickle of moisture down her leg. She tensed, trying to hold the water in, but it was no use. When the pain returned with what felt like double the force, she screamed, gripping the foot of the bed. Why did Nanna have to die? She should have been here to help. Now Molly was going to have to help herself.
The pain subsided slowly and for a few moments she was able to breathe deeply – in, out, in, out – trying to get as much air into her lungs as she could. But she ended up feeling dizzy.
‘Oh, Lord, help me,’ she whispered, wanting to believe it was possible that an angel would appear and magically help her to have a painless birth. Of course it didn’t happen and she’d only managed to reach the door when she felt another contraction. She clung to the door jamb and screamed and screamed.
There was a thudding of feet on the stairs and Mrs Smith appeared on the landing with another woman. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear,’ muttered Molly’s neighbour. ‘I thought you were closer than you said. It’s a good job you’ve a healthy pair of lungs.’
Molly said in a faint voice, ‘I need a midwife.’
‘You’re in luck, lass. This is my sister-in- law and she’s had eight of her own. She knows what to do. Isn’t that right, Em?’ Mrs Smith turned to the woman next to her.
‘Thee knows it is.’ Em’s eyes were scanning the room behind Molly. She had a rawboned look about her and the girl noticed her large hands. ‘Have to get the lass out of there. Too small. What about the front room?’
‘Have you forgotten?’ whispered Mrs Smith, nudging her. ‘The old lady’s laid out there.’
‘The other one?’
‘Full of junk. No bed.’
‘Then there’s nothing furrit,’ said Em cheerfully. ‘We’ll have to move the old woman out. She won’t mind.’
Mrs Smith looked uneasy but her sister- in-law seized hold of her arm and the next moment they’d vanished into the front room.
Molly couldn’t believe it. Moving Nanna off her bed with no coffin to go into didn’t seem right, but she doubted Em would take any notice of her objections. Anyway when the pain came again she would not have cared if they’d laid Nanna outside alongside her and she’d given birth in the lane with the whole neighbourhood watching. Just so long as she could get it over with. The two women came out of the front room carrying Nanna’s body in the multicoloured bedspread. ‘Where are you putting her?’ gasped Molly.
‘Nothing for it, lass. Got no choice but to put her on your bed,’ said Em cheerfully. ‘Now shift your carcase. Oops! Didn’t mean to joke.’
Molly moved out of the way, considering Em far too cheerful in the circumstances. No doubt she would sing as Molly screamed in childbirth, too, considering her pain nothing to get upset about. She went into the front bedroom and gazed down at the spot where Nanna had rested. Mrs Smith entered the room, looking hot and flustered. ‘I’ve got to walk thee, lass. Em’s gone to get her bag of tricks.’
‘I can walk on my own,’ said Molly, shivering slightly. She didn’t like the sound of that bag of tricks. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, though.’
‘I’ll see to it. You just think about this baby.’
‘I can hardly think of anything else,’ she said crossly. A groan escaped her then, and she wished she could go to sleep and that when she woke the baby would be there. Still she walked up and down, up and down, knowing now why Nanna had never told her having a baby would be like this. Fairies and gooseberry bushes were all that had figured when Molly asked about such things. She paused as a pain gripped her again.
A smiling Em reappeared, wearing a spotless white pinny. ‘Bad are they, dear?’
‘That’s a bloody daft question,’ muttered Molly through gritted teeth, shocking herself by her own turn of phrase.
Em tutted. ‘Wash thy mouth out with soap! Things always get worse before they get better.’
‘Sorry,’ said Molly meekly.
‘It’s OK, dear.’ She rubbed her hands. ‘Get on the bed and let’s be seeing how far on you are.’
Reluctantly Molly climbed on to the double bed. ‘You’d better have washed your hands,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard about women like you going from the dead to the living and mothers dying. It happened to my mam. Septicaemia.’
‘Little knowall, aren’t you?’ said Em, rolling up her sleeves.
‘Let me see your hands close up? Let me smell the soap,’ said Molly bravely, still suspicious despite the spotless apron.
‘You’re a right doubting little madam,’ said Em sniffily, holding out her hands.
Molly inspected them, her small nose almost resting on the woman’s fingers. ‘OK,’ she said, submitting herself to her inspection.
Em surfaced with a pleased expression on her gaunt face ‘Won’t be long now, dear.’
Molly smiled with relief but the next contraction soon wiped the smile from her face. There was something different about this one and she told Em so.
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said the midwife briskly. ‘Now pushhh! Pushhh! Stop – take a breath. Pant!’
Molly did as she was told, pushing, panting, gasping, resting, and pushing again until with a supreme effort her baby was finally delivered.
‘She’s perfect,’ said Em, face flushed and eyes shining.
‘She?’ asked Molly doubtfully, lifting her head. ‘Frank wanted a boy.’
‘Well, she’s a beautifully formed girl. Straight limbs. Lovely head. Here, have a hold of her. Then cups of tea all round, I think, don’t you, Ada?’
‘I’m on my way,’ said Molly’s neighbour happily.
Molly felt really proud of herself. She had achieved something that nobody else could have done for her. She began to weep from joy, sadness and relief all mixed up, not minding at all that she had a daughter. They had both survived, thank the Lord! But how she was going to keep them both was a different matter altogether.