Holborn, London
February 1941
There had been no news of Teddy for three months, and adrenaline shot through Nancy each time footsteps passed the flat door.
Mrs McLaughlin had acknowledged the miscarriage without a word. She’d taken Nancy into her front room soon after and given her a large whisky, and together they’d sat and listened to the soothing rhythm of the mantel clock. When it had chimed on the hour, Nancy handed her the empty tumbler and attempted a smile. ‘Don’t bother with that smiling business,’ Mrs McLaughlin had said, her own glass still half full. ‘I don’t need any of that.’ Nancy had nodded and shown herself out, a little lighter, a little better.
She had become fiercely protective of Charlotte over the following months. They worked together at Woolwich, Nancy taking up the slack when Charlotte was unable to carry on. The hours at the factory were long – seven until five – but Sundays were a half-day, and they lived for them.
The work was hard, more so even than Nancy had expected. That, with the added tension – the fear of bombs from outside and inside – put her on constant alert. But Charlotte, however unlikely, seemed to be made for it. She’d put her feet up at night and say, ‘God, don’t you love that throb, right at the back of your heel? The standing’s horrible but it’s worth it just for this small pleasure.’ Her unwavering enthusiasm kept Nancy from the brink.
Christmas had been a quiet affair. They dined on wild goose, courtesy of Mr Hodges’ nephew, and Nancy concocted a Christmas pudding – bulked out with breadcrumbs and grated carrot – and topped it with holly dipped in snowy Epsom salts. They’d kept aside the last of the brandy and tipped it on the cake in a moment of decadence, striking a match and watching the blue light flicker over the gently crisping greenery until it began to smoke and they flung open the windows to cold air, and even Nancy let out a burst of laughter.
After lunch, Charlotte became a seanchaí and held a rambling house for two in their Holborn sitting room. She told Irish folklore, recounted tales of Tír na nÓg and sang the same haunting tune Tomas had performed at the Ballinn Dramatics Secret Society the year before.
‘How is the rambling house?’ Nancy had asked.
‘Gone. Burned to the ground,’ said Charlotte. At Nancy’s look of horror, she added, ‘An accident. A dry spring, a thatched roof, a wayward spark. The O’Briens have moved above the shop. And Tabby has a mind to start a new rambling house.’
Charlotte had finished at Woolwich three days before New Year. On her last day, a photo was taken with a small group of friends for the factory’s newsletter. Five girls gathered around her, and in one hand she clutched a small cake, baked from donated rations. With the other, she held Nancy’s hand. The camera’s shutter had clicked moments before a cold downpour drenched the girls.
Although they could get by on Nancy’s wage – which was higher than her job at the newspaper – Charlotte had taken her ruby ring to Hatton Garden and received a sum of money for it. Nothing like its worth, but a substantial windfall nonetheless. When she presented the funds to Nancy, she’d waved them away. ‘Keep them safe – you’ll need them when you get home.’ At that, Charlotte had nodded, though not necessarily in agreement. It was the first time either of them had talked about her future and the possibility of a return to Ireland.
After her miscarriage, Nancy had half-heartedly tried to convince Charlotte to evacuate to the countryside, where, on the outbreak of war, maternity hospitals had been provided by the Ministry of Health. Following the birth, mother and child stayed at their countryside billet awaiting the end of the war or a reason to return home, whichever came first. But Charlotte’s factory colleagues had recounted tales about the initial evacuation.
‘It was shambolic,’ she repeated to Nancy, ‘completely shambolic. Mabel’s sister ended up at the wrong hospital – if hospital is the correct word: a converted school with walls so damp that water ran down them. She took a train straight back to London, gave birth at home.’
Nancy had heard the rumours, of course: tales of overcrowding and gastroenteritis. She’d offered to write a story on it, but her then boss had said there were more pressing issues at hand than the ‘clucking of women who put themselves in that inconvenient state at such a time’. But still, the result of the decentralisation of maternity services was that London was left with a scarcity of midwives. Nancy had been told to wait until her seventh month before contacting the overstretched service, and all discussions with her doctor were held in the chaste kind of manner that made her wish she hadn’t bothered with the time and expense. Charlotte had been visited at the flat by a dour midwife three weeks previously. She prodded the girl as though she were bread dough on its second rise. ‘Maybe,’ Charlotte had said as they watched the fat woman waddle away along an almost empty street, ‘all the good ones were sent to the country.’
Now, as the two women sat on the sofa under a pile of blankets, Nancy was filled with worry. In the last week, the glow had dimmed from Charlotte’s cheeks. It was clear that the pregnancy was taking its toll.
When Charlotte saw Nancy observing her, she made a show of brightening. ‘I’m fine. It’s close now.’ Cracked lips rimmed her tight smile. Her hair, now showing a wide blonde streak down its parting, was dishevelled. She looked half the girl who had turned up on Nancy’s doorstep nearly six months ago, and yet underneath the blanket she was twice the size. ‘I’m ready,’ she said in a way that suggested she wasn’t.
‘You need another visit from the midwife.’
‘Big Bertha? I don’t think so. I’d rather be seen by a veterinarian.’
Nancy laughed. ‘Well, I’ll call the Royal Mews in the morning,’ she said, ‘and if I can’t get through, I’ll see if someone other than Bertha can be found.’
Charlotte nodded and closed her eyes, a quick shiver crossing her shoulders. Nancy took this as consent.
‘It’ll be all right, you know.’ It was a statement.
Charlotte nodded. Her hands were resting gently on her belly, her swollen feet propped on a kitchen chair. ‘I’m just so tired.’
Nancy nodded. ‘It’s normal.’ She’d picked up two books on midwifery at Mr Hodges’ bookshop and studied them at night. They were dry reading. And overwhelming.
‘Tea?’ She put her hand on Charlotte’s; it was noticeably cold.
‘Mmm, thank you.’
February had started with a cold snap, the frosty mornings scattered with snow, the mercury barely rising during the day. Nancy went to the blackout curtain, pulled a corner aside. The darkness was flecked with falling flakes of snow. She bent down and looked at the sill. An inch of white powder had settled against the glass.
There had been no postal delivery for two days and the streets were eerily quiet. Nancy hated to think that there was news of Teddy and the cold, of all things, was keeping it from her. Charlotte had heard nothing from Tomas – though Nancy could hardly blame the snow for that – and no longer checked the post box with anticipation; or if she did, she didn’t show it. When she thought of the man who had altered Charlotte’s future so dramatically, Nancy boiled with rage. How he must have enjoyed his conquest.
To push aside her thoughts, she went to the wireless, switched it on. Mussolini, it seemed, had declared southern Italy a war zone, enacted martial law. Just another day. She glanced at Charlotte, to see what she had to say on the matter, but the girl had closed her eyes, leaned her head back, her breath a fog in the room. Nancy felt guilty for the chill in the flat, but what could they do? She stepped into the kitchen, lit the gas, leaned back on the counter and watched the blue flame flicker. Before she and Teddy were married, they’d joked – or half joked – about eloping to Italy for their nuptials and simply forgetting to return. They’d buy a small farm, keep chickens, eat sun-warmed tomatoes fresh from the vine. She’d whispered that languages weren’t her forte and he’d insisted it didn’t matter because she would just be at home, baking and having children. But he’d said it with a wink. Then, more seriously, ‘We could start the first English-language Italian newspaper.’ She asked, ‘There’re none?’ He’d shrugged and said, ‘The best one then.’
Her grasp on the course of the war had lessened since she’d left the newspaper. Back then, she could have waxed lyrical about current events. Now she felt like she needed a map table to keep track of who was where. The battles in North Africa were moving at pace; more than a hundred thousand Italian soldiers had already been taken prisoner. Ireland continued to grip on to neutrality despite last month’s bombing near the Curragh.
And the Luftwaffe’s nightly raids on London continued.
She swirled hot water around the pot and made a weak brew – they’d grown used to it – with the last of their ration. Her surplus had been exchanged for increasingly meagre cuts of meat over the last two months. And the cold winter had been hard on the fresh vegetable supply. Already she was dreaming of spring and the first crisp greens, the splash of colour from the city’s now-brown allotments.
When she returned, Charlotte had moved from her position on the sofa, the wireless’s murmur the only noise to fill the empty sitting room.
From the spare room: a crooning.
‘Charlotte?’ Nancy set the tea on the table, hot liquid splashing her hand. She swore softly and put her palm to her mouth.
The girl was sitting in the dark, the door cracked open, a weak slice of light illuminating her figure, hunched on the bed. She put up a hand. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ A veil of sweat had formed on her brow.
Nancy knelt in front of her, placed her hands on her sister-in-law’s knees, her head angled to catch Charlotte’s line of sight. ‘You don’t look fine.’
Charlotte gave a small smile, the effort to form it evident. ‘I’m fine. She’s just moving around.’
Nancy frowned. ‘You’re in pain. We need to get help.’ Her insides were tightening. She started to stand.
‘No!’ Charlotte grabbed her hand. The force of her grip was electrifying. ‘Just wait. Wait, a moment.’
Nancy let the iron grip subside before peeling away the burning fingers. Her heart was beating hard in her chest and she took a deep breath. Despite the cold room, her armpits felt damp. Charlotte leaned forward and, with another gasp, gripped her hands around her knees.
Nancy reached out and gently stroked her hair. It was soft, messy. ‘Will you try lying down? I’m going to get some blankets and water then go—’
‘No! Please . . . God, please don’t leave me.’
One moment they’d been talking quietly on the sofa, cocooned in warm blankets, joking about Big Bertha, and now suddenly everything was wrong.
Nancy ran her hand down Charlotte’s arm and let it fall to the bed, intending to push herself to her feet. The blanket was wet. Very wet.
‘Is that . . . Has it . . . broken?’
Charlotte began to cry, hugging her arms tightly around herself.
‘I need you to breathe slowly. Like this.’ Concentration began to clear Nancy’s mind. ‘Listen to me, Charlotte. The baby’s coming. Tonight. I need to get help.’ She stood quickly, stepped back from the girl before she could protest.
Still counting to herself, she left the room. She thought there was little chance of an ambulance navigating the snow. The flat could be made warm – there was a gas heater that they had until now used sparingly. It was as safe an environment as any. If only Jerry would stay away.
She took a woollen coat from the hat stand and the electric torch that hung next to it. When she opened the front door, cold air hit her like a wall. Quickly she descended to the ground floor, paused beside the telephone.
The line was poor. In this weather, and considering the last week’s heavy bombing, she wasn’t surprised. She replaced the receiver, tried again. The ghost of a voice tried to reach her. Loudly she repeated, ‘Can you hear me? Please. Can you hear me?’
The creak of hinges. Behind her, Mrs McLaughlin’s large head poked through her doorway, a look of mild concern plastered on her face. It was the most impressive display of anxiety that Nancy had ever seen her show.
‘Problems, dear?’
Warmth was radiating from her flat and the old woman had a flush to her cheeks. She looked toasty and, as she stepped out of the door, she pulled her tartan shawl a little tighter. ‘What a night to be out.’
Nancy fumbled with the receiver and dropped it. It clanged against the wall and then swung silently. She picked it up. Replaced it.
‘We need a midwife. Upstairs. Now.’
Mrs McLaughlin had accepted Nancy’s story about Charlotte’s heritage without question. She had swallowed the complicated tale of feuding sisters and Kerry relations with silence and a look that said I wish I hadn’t asked. ‘Is it time?’
‘Yes,’ said Nancy. She tried to gather her thoughts, but it felt like chasing a dropped bucket of marbles down a staircase.
‘It’s too early, surely?’
‘A week or two, I suppose.’
Mrs McLaughlin nodded and disappeared into her flat. Over her shoulder she called, ‘I’ll get to Great Ormond Street. Bring someone back.’
‘The raids could start any minute.’
‘Then I’ll find a shelter on the way.’
Nancy followed her. ‘It’s snowing.’
‘Is it?’
‘You know it is.’
‘I’m tougher than I look.’ She was speaking from the bedroom, her voice muffled. When she emerged, she appeared to be ready for a polar expedition. ‘Forty years in the Highlands. This is nothing.’
She breezed past Nancy with an air of purpose. Paused at the door to select a walking stick. Her boots were huge clumps of leather and Nancy’s eyes lingered on them.
‘They were my husband’s, God rest him.’
‘Thank you,’ Nancy said as she followed Mrs McLaughlin out of the flat. ‘Thank you.’
‘Nothing like a bit of excitement to keep the old ticker going.’
Nancy suddenly felt a shiver of fear. ‘I don’t know if you should . . .’
Mrs McLaughlin stopped, put her hands on Nancy’s shoulders. ‘Keep her calm, keep her warm. Focus on ambulation.’
‘Ambulation?’
‘Yes, keep her walking.’ She retrieved her hands and fastened her top button. ‘And talking.’ Wound her scarf a second time around her neck. ‘And a tot of whisky for the pain.’ She opened the front door. Snow danced in the darkness. ‘Get some water boiling. A big pot. And gather some clean towels.’
The instructions performed magic – Nancy’s breathing slowed, her mind cleared. ‘I’ll get them ready.’
‘Good. Your cousin’ – Mrs McLaughlin raised a scant eyebrow – ‘will be just fine. Women give birth every day. Early, late. On the street. At home or in a field.’ She paused, stepped back inside, squeezed Nancy’s arm. ‘With and without help.’
Nancy felt a prickle behind her eyes. Blinked once . . . twice . . . three times. She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ was all she could think to say as Mrs McLaughlin walked out into the night.