A Mother’s Hope

Because they had had such an energetic day, both Rose and Martin went early to bed and Rose, at any rate, slept deeply almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. She was awoken by muffled sounds which she could not at first identify. The sounds stopped, but she realised, with considerable reluctance, that she was going to have to use the large chamber pot which had done such yeoman service over the past month. Sighing, she swung her legs out of bed, smiling to herself as she realised that it must have been Millie’s efforts to get in and out of bed for the same purpose that had woken her.

She was getting back into bed again when there was the sound of footsteps on the landing and someone knocked on their door. At first the sound was tentative but then, as she approached, her feet cringing from the cold linoleum, the knock was repeated, much more urgently, and someone began to turn the knob.

‘I’m coming . . .’ Rose was beginning, when an impatient hand switched the light on and Rose saw that her visitor was Scotty, pale-faced and distraught. His dark hair stood up as though he had had an electric shock and he was wearing a jacket over blue cotton pyjamas.

‘Oh, Rose, I think she’s bloody well started on the baby and I’m half out of my mind with worry,’ Scotty gabbled. ‘I want to go down to the telephone box on the corner so I can ring for an ambulance, but she won’t let me. She says they told you at the clinic that you shouldn’t ring for an ambulance until the contractions were coming every five minutes. And hers aren’t, not yet. But suppose something goes wrong? I’d be no use, honest to God I wouldn’t. When I said better safe than sorry, she grabbed my jacket and said I mustn’t leave her here alone in case the baby just popped out. What’ll I do, Rose?’

Rose patted his arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t get in such a state, Scotty,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘I’ll go and sit with Millie while you make the phone call to the hospital. They’ll ask you questions and then either send for an ambulance or tell you to wait for a bit.’ She turned to the camp bed where Martin was struggling into a sitting position. ‘It’s okay, Mart, you go back to sleep. I’m just nipping in next door to sit with Millie while Scotty rings the hospital; there’s nothing you can do.’

Martin, however, continued to scramble out of bed. ‘Off you go then,’ he said thickly, and turned to Scotty, who was still hovering uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Want me to go and make the call so you can stay with Millie?’ he asked, and even as he spoke he was reaching for his trousers. ‘I dare say Millie will feel more comfortable if you’re with her.’

Scotty watched Martin push his feet into his worn boots and reach for the thick, paint-stained jersey which he wore for work, then glanced down at his own pyjamas and bedroom slippers with a look of such surprise that Rose, slipping on her own coat over her winceyette nightie, almost laughed aloud.

‘Oh!’ Scotty said. ‘Tell you what, Mart, I’ll nip back and put some clothes on, then we can go down to the box together. If there’s a problem, two heads are better than one, and – and I’d be grateful for your company.’

Scotty and Rose made for Scotty’s room, where they found Millie sitting on the edge of the bed, a blanket round her shoulders. She was looking white and scared but brightened at the sight of them, though it was only Rose whom she addressed. ‘Thank goodness you’re here, Rosie,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘I’m sure it is the baby, but the contractions are coming every fifteen minutes, and they did tell us not to bother them until they were coming every five.’ She raised her head and directed a scornful glare at her trembling husband. ‘And don’t you be fooled, Robert Scott, because I call them contractions. They’re bloody awful pains, much worse than I ever imagined, and since I don’t want to start with a telling off you can just forget telephoning . . . oh, oh . . . no, it’s all right, it’s gone off.’

‘Helped the pain, you mean,’ Millie snarled. ‘Oh, oh, oh, here comes another!’ She looked up at her friend, her eyes scared. ‘I say, Rose, that wasn’t fifteen minutes from the previous one, not even ten. D’you think Scotty’s right? D’you think he ought to ring for an ambulance?’

‘I dunno,’ Rose said, frightened of giving wrong advice and downright horrified by the idea of the baby’s being born here. ‘Tell you what, if you have another couple of contractions – pains, I mean – ten minutes or less apart, then we’ll tell the men to call for an ambulance. We won’t wait until they’re coming every five minutes, just in case the phone at the end of the road isn’t working. Ah, here comes the tea.’

By this time, Rose had got Millie into bed and her friend’s colour was beginning to creep back. Scotty came over with a cup of tea, his hand trembling so much that the cup was only three-quarters full by the time he gave it to his wife, or tried to give it to her, rather. Millie put out a hand towards it, then changed her mind. ‘Even the smell of it makes me feel sick,’ she said fretfully. ‘Where’s that hot water bottle? Scotty, you’re to do just as Rose tells you. When she says you’re to phone, then you’re to do it at once, d’you understand? And for goodness’ sake take Martin with you, because you’re in such a tizzy that you’ll probably give the hospital the wrong address, or forget my name or something.’

Martin appeared with the hot water bottle and Millie grabbed it, cuddling it gratefully; then she looked consideringly at the cup of tea that Rose was sipping. ‘Perhaps I could have just a tiny drink,’ she said. ‘My mouth is awfully dry; d’you think it’ll make me sick, Rose?’ Rose handed over the cup of tea and Millie took a sip, then drank deeply and was promptly sick over the side of the bed. ‘Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry,’ she said, tears glistening on her long lashes. ‘How far apart are they now – the pains, I mean? Oh, that tea was lovely, and the bottle is such a comfort. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.’ She pointed to the puddle of regurgitated tea by the bed. ‘Would you mind awfully fetching the mop and bucket from the landing cupboard? I’m sorry to ask, but if you leave it it’ll still be there when I get back from the hospital because Scotty’ll say it’s women’s work and wait for someone else to clear it up.’

Rose hurried out and immediately the door of their room swung open and Martin appeared. ‘Time to go?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Scotty’s in a rare old state, but at least he’s dressed now; I think the sooner we get Millie into hospital the better.’

Rose grabbed the mop and bucket and nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, ring for the ambulance,’ she said. ‘I’ll help Millie to dress and put some clothes on myself, though I suppose it’ll be Scotty who goes with her in the ambulance.’

This, however, did not prove to be the case. Millie rejected any suggestion that Scotty might accompany her, saying that he was so frightened he would only make her worse. She reminded Rose of her promise to go with her and Rose, remembering, said doubtfully that she supposed it would be all right.

It was now three in the morning and the ambulance charged silently through the starlit countryside, but when they reached the maternity unit it was all bright lights and bustle. Millie clung to Rose’s hand, insisting to the nursing staff that she must have her friend with her to give her moral support, and the staff agreed that until she went into the delivery room this would be in order. Once they had got their patient into an extremely ugly green gown and into bed, a comfortable middle-aged midwife handed Rose a timer, which she had thought at first glance to be an alarm clock, and told her to ring the bell which dangled beside the bed when the contractions were coming pretty steadily, a couple of minutes apart.

Millie sighed deeply and relaxed against her pillows. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Rosie,’ she said contentedly. ‘Scotty’s a – a dear, of course, but he’s no use in a crisis, and he clearly thinks birth is just that. Will he come along presently, d’you think?’

Millie, however, shook her head decidedly. ‘No. He can come in when it’s all over and see the baby, but not until then. Honestly, Rosie, he faints at the sight of blood. Promise me you won’t let him come in until the baby’s born. Well, he won’t want to see anything unpleasant.’

So Rose promised, and when a nurse came in and told them that Mr Scott had arrived, she went out and repeated Millie’s words and saw the look of relief which crossed Scotty’s countenance. ‘You’re a real brick, Rose,’ he said gratefully. ‘Will it be long now?’

Rose said she hoped not, and Martin echoed this, since he did not want to miss work. He left the hospital at seven o’clock, telling Scotty that he must walk Don before heading for the funfair. He told Rose severely that she must not forget her own condition and do too much and went, assuring Scotty that he would return when work finished for the day, if Millie had still not had the baby by then.

There followed a lengthy wait whilst the contractions got closer. Millie started saying repeatedly, ‘I wish I hadn’t done it, I wish I hadn’t done it,’ making Rose stifle giggles. However, when the plaint changed to: ‘If I’d known it was going to hurt this much I’d have tied a knot in Scotty’s willy,’ Rose grew embarrassed, not for her own sake but for the midwife, who popped in from time to time to see how things were going. She told Rose comfortingly, when Rose tried to apologise – in a hissing whisper – for her friend’s frankness, that she had heard far worse, and having checked the baby’s heartbeat and Millie’s pulse she disappeared again.

‘And do you know, they gave me a bloody enema?’ Millie announced when they let Rose re-enter the small side ward from which she had been ejected. ‘No one at the clinic told us that we’d have to have a bloody enema!’

In fact it was not until well on in the afternoon that Millie was taken to the delivery room. A mere twenty minutes later the midwife came into the waiting room, asking for Mr Scott. ‘I think he must have popped out for a moment,’ Rose began, for there was no sign of Scotty, but even as she spoke he appeared in the doorway.

He was eating a huge bar of chocolate from one hand and holding a bottle of beer guiltily behind a rolled-up newspaper in the other. Clearly he must have been shopping in St Asaph, tired and hungry from the long wait. He stared at Rose, scattering beer and the remains of what looked like a Cornish pasty all over the waiting room floor. ‘Is it born? Is she awright?’ he asked thickly and Rose realised, with dismay, that the bottle of beer, now lying on its side on the floor, was not his first. Scotty had either started his celebrations early or decided that his worries would be more bearable seen through an alcoholic haze. The midwife tightened her lips but told him, reproachfully, that his wife had given birth to a fine son, weighing in at exactly seven pounds. Then she left.

Rose brushed crumbs off Scotty’s tweed jacket and told him, severely, that he could be in big trouble for bringing alcohol into the waiting room. ‘Because it’s no good pretending that the bottle on the floor was your first drink of the day,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty clear to me that you’ve been celebrating early, but now you must pull yourself together, Scotty, because you don’t want the staff to think you’re drunk.’

Scotty stared at her owlishly. ‘Drunk?’ he said. ‘Wharrever makes you say shc – shc – scandalous thing, Rose Thomps – Thompson? I can hold – hold my liq – liq – liquor! Did she shay we’ve gorra boy?’

‘That’s right,’ Rose said resignedly. She had seen enough drunkenness when she lived in the tower block to recognise the uselessness of reproaches. She guessed that Scotty believed himself to be as sober as a judge, but thought it best to accompany him to the ward, warning him in a hissing whisper to say nothing and to keep his head turned away when near a member of staff.

‘If a nurse or a doctor smells your breath, they’ll kick you out, chuck,’ Rose said as gently as she could. ‘You want to see your wife and your new son, don’t you? Well then, don’t go huffing into anyone’s face.’

‘I am not . . .’ Scotty began, but at this point the nurse returned to the waiting room and led them down a long corridor and into the ward. Millie was sitting up in bed looking totally exhausted, but she was in her own nightgown and the smile which crossed her face when she saw her husband and friend was one of pure delight.

‘Have you seen him?’ she asked eagerly. ‘He’s in the nursery, the room just past this one. He’s really beautiful, with lots of black hair and teeny little hands and feet. He’s in the cot nearest the door and he’s got a thing like a wristwatch round his arm, with Baby Scott written inside it. D’you want to go and have a look at him? I can’t come with you but I’m sure if you pick him up and bring him back to me, we can all look at him together.’

In the nursery, Scotty and Rose bent over the cot. ‘Isn’t he tiny?’ Rose whispered. ‘He’s a bit like you, Scotty.’ She giggled. ‘His hair sticks up just the way yours did when you appeared in the doorway to say that Millie had started. Oh look, he’s going to say hello!’

Scotty did as he was bid and chuckled delightedly when he felt the soft silk of his son’s skin. They stood for a moment examining the tiny newcomer and then returned to the ward, where Millie greeted them so sleepily that Rose told Scotty they should leave now and return at visiting time that evening. ‘I don’t see why,’ he said, pointing to the empty bed next to his wife’s. ‘You run along, Rose; I’ve had a hard time of it. I’ll make myself comfortable here.’

Rose was beginning to ask him what he meant when, to her absolute horror, he kicked off his shoes, took off his coat, and climbed into the empty bed. She glanced round wildly. Millie was sound asleep, but there were women in the other beds who were not, and they began to giggle and comment whilst poor Rose tore the covers off the recumbent Scotty and tried to drag him out of the bed. She succeeded only when two of the other mothers took pity on her, and between the three of them they got his coat and shoes on and then manhandled an extremely reluctant Scotty along to the end of the ward. He was beginning to object to this treatment when a nurse, pushing through the swing doors, took in the situation at a glance and fetched a couple of brawny porters, who seized Scotty and ejected him from the hospital. The fresh air brought him abruptly out of his stupor and he began to apologise to Rose, saying that he did not know what had come over him but that he would now call for a taxi to take them back to Bath Street.

Rose, however, shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here for a bit,’ she said. ‘Tell Martin I’m still at the hospital. See you at visiting time, Scotty.’ She watched as he walked over to where a taxi had just disgorged its passengers and climbed into it. Rose waited until the vehicle was out of sight, then turned back into the hospital and approached the nurse who had summoned the porters. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in my going back home now,’ she said timidly. ‘Heaving my pal’s husband out of that bed and getting him to the end of the ward seems to have done something to my innards. I – I think, nurse, that the baby’s probably started.’

She had half expected the nurse to tell her it was just imagination, but the girl did no such thing. She cast a quick, shrewd glance across Rose’s bulging figure, then spoke. ‘Stay here whilst I fetch a wheelchair,’ she said. ‘How close are the pains?’

Gosh, she actually used the word pains, Rose thought, amused, but she told the nurse that they seemed pretty continuous and waited obediently just inside the doors. Presently she was whisked off in a wheelchair to an examination room, where a weary young doctor confirmed that in his opinion she was already in the second stage of labour and should be admitted immediately. She was not taken to the ward where Millie lay, but to a smaller side ward, where various unpleasant things happened to her, including the enema to which Millie had objected so strongly. Then she was left alone and found herself longing desperately for Martin. She even began to mutter his name and found some comfort in talking to him as though he were really there; how she wished he was! The pains were strengthening and the need for Martin was growing more intense. Rose sat up on her elbow and sent a desperate message. ‘Hurry, Martin, hurry! Oh, I wish you were here!’

Martin had returned to Bath Street upon leaving the hospital, and been greeted ecstatically by Don. The big dog was clearly impatient to be down on the beach, so Martin did not bother with breakfast, but simply grabbed a hunk of bread, spread it thinly with jam and left the room. It was early still, but Martin realised he would have to cut their walk short or be late for work, so he decided he would take Don with him to the funfair. He had done this once or twice before and no one had objected, for Don never wandered off or showed undue interest in passing dogs. Not even a cat in full flight had caused the greyhound to do more than follow its rapid passage with interested eyes, so Martin had no qualms about taking Don to work with him.

Once at the funfair, Martin went to the paint store and collected his equipment. He was repainting the gallopers, a task he greatly enjoyed even though it was slow and intricate work. The man who usually did the job had seized gratefully upon Martin’s offer to take over, for the work needed a steady hand and Alf admitted that as he grew older it was becoming more difficult to apply the paint without blurring the outlines. Usually, Martin kept his mind on his work, but today his attention kept wandering back to the hospital. He thanked God that it was Millie in the process of giving birth and not Rose.

He dipped his smallest brush into the tin of scarlet enamel paint and outlined the wooden horse’s flaring nostrils. Rose had borrowed books on having babies from the library and Martin had read them assiduously, so now he felt sincere sympathy for poor Millie, but had it been Rose his anxiety would have been overwhelming. She was the best friend he had ever had and the thought of what she still had to go through made his toes curl.

By now, all the chaps on the funfair knew that Martin and Rose were expecting a baby, though of course they had no idea that Martin was not the father. When he had first started work, he had always worn an old woollen hat and had never removed his spectacles, but now that the warmer days had come and his fellow workers accepted him, he took off his hat whenever they went into the offices in wet weather to eat their snap. Only one man had commented on his appearance and he was elderly, bad-tempered and sharp-tongued. Martin had removed his spectacles because he’d got a speck of paint on one of the lenses and old Norm had stared at him before calling the attention of the other men to him. ‘Look, fellers, we’ve got a bloody freak workin’ wi’ us,’ he had said. ‘I reckon we ought to shove ’im in a tent and charge tuppence to go inside and see the human white rabbit.’

Martin had felt the hot colour creep up his neck and invade his face and knew that everyone was staring at him, not understanding what Norm was getting at. Hastily, he had jumped up, replaced his spectacles and reached for his woolly hat, but before he could abandon his food and simply run away – which was what he felt like doing – the foreman had flapped a hand at him, indicating that he should sit down again, and had then turned to address Martin’s persecutor. ‘How an ugly old bastard like you can criticise Martin I can’t imagine,’ he had said calmly. ‘You’ve a vicious tongue on you, Norm, and if you don’t control it, you can start lookin’ for another job. It won’t be difficult to replace you; in fact, if you hadn’t been with us for about a hundred years, we wouldn’t have re-employed you last autumn.’ He had glanced towards the window. ‘Ah, the rain’s stopped; it were only a shower. Back to work, fellers!’

Martin had expected that the other chaps would follow Norm’s lead and perhaps start calling him the Freak, but it was soon clear that the nasty little episode had instead turned them against Norm. They had continued to treat Martin as they had always done; he was a fellow worker who pulled his weight and was never slow to offer help, and as such they accepted him as one of themselves.

Martin turned and grinned at the speaker. He was a dark-haired, skinny young man named Ted, a couple of years older than Martin himself, and the two had become firm friends. ‘God, Ted, you nearly made me jump out of my skin,’ he said, resting his brush on the small tin of paint. ‘No, Rose hasn’t started yet, but her pal Millie has. Rose went with her in the ambulance and Scotty and meself followed in a taxi, but of course I had to get back so I could walk Don and come to work, so I don’t know what’s gone on and shan’t know until visiting time tonight.’

Ted pulled a face. He was a married man himself, though he and his wife had no children as yet. He glanced at the heavy watch he wore on his wrist. ‘Our tea break’s in ten minutes,’ he pointed out. ‘Why don’t you nip down to the box on the corner and give the hospital a ring?’

‘I might phone later,’ Martin said judiciously, ‘but I think it’s too early; from what I’ve read in Rose’s books, first babies take their time. I were just thanking God that it weren’t my Rosie up at the hospital giving birth, but when her time comes I’ll be with her, I hope.’

‘Ain’t your lodgings on the phone?’ Ted enquired, and, as Martin shook his head, added: ‘Not many are, come to think, but if Millie’s baby has arrived I reckon your Rose would come round here to let you know. So don’t worry, old feller.’

Doggedly, Martin continued to work, but at four o’clock he finished the gilding on one of the wooden horse’s bridles, carefully packed up his equipment, and went across to the workroom, where he conscientiously cleaned his brushes and pressed the lids on the little tins of enamel paint firmly into place. Then he went over to the office. Mr Foster, sitting behind the big desk, raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Everything all right, Thompson?’ he asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘You can’t have finished all the gallopers already.’

Martin, too, glanced at the clock and saw that it was only a quarter past four, but he had known as soon as four o’clock had struck, that he must leave. He was suddenly and absolutely certain that something was happening to Rose, that she needed him, was thinking about him. He could scarcely explain this to Mr Foster, however, and merely said that he had been told to ring the hospital after four. Then, having promised the foreman that he would come in at least an hour early next day, he left the funfair with Don.

He stood for a moment on the prom, considering his options. He was suddenly certain that Rose was still at the hospital, so he went to the box on the corner and rang them. He always felt guilty when describing Rose as his wife, but on this occasion he said it boldly. The young woman on the other end of the telephone asked him to hold and presently returned, to tell him briskly that his wife was indeed in labour and would be taken to the delivery room shortly. Martin crashed the phone down and ran out of the box, his heart beating a wild tattoo in his breast. Don stood up, his big dark eyes anxious, but right now Martin’s thoughts were all of Rose.

Martin and Don were running along the prom when there was a screech of brakes from the roadway and a black taxi came to a halt beside him. The passenger in the rear seat wound the window down and a head popped out . . . good God, it was Scotty! ‘She’s had it! We’ve got a little boy!’ Scotty shouted, waving a beer bottle as he spoke. ‘Clever, clever Scotty’s a dad . . . and Millie hasn’t done badly, ’cos she’s a mum now, you know!’

Martin dived across and dragged the door open, causing Scotty to fall out on to the pavement, where he lay for a moment, grinning and giggling. Martin stepped over him and jumped into the taxi. Don would have followed him, but the taxi driver gave a shout of protest and Martin got out of the cab again and heaved Scotty to his feet. ‘Take Don back to our room, would you?’ he said breathlessly. ‘I see you’ve been celebratin’ already. How’s Rose? They told me at the hospital when I rang just now that she were in labour, so I’ve gorra get up there pronto.’ He looked accusingly at the other man. ‘You’re bleedin’ well drunk. A fat lot of good you’ll be to Millie in that condition. Did you see Rose before you left the hospital?’

‘Course I did, course I did,’ Scotty said quickly. ‘Only I had to get some stuff in the village.’ He grinned slyly. ‘I bought a bottle of whisky to wet the baby’s head. Uh-oh, I’ve left it in the cab; hang on a minute.’

Scotty began to fumble in his pocket for the fare and poor Martin remembered that he only had about a bob on him. He grabbed Scotty’s arm. ‘Will you promise me you’ll take Don back to Bath Road before you sample any of the bottles in that there carrier bag?’ he demanded. ‘And can you lend me some dosh, old feller? Only I never have much money on me when I’m going to work. I want to take this taxi back to the hospital and I’m in a desperate hurry!’

Slightly sobered by the urgency in Martin’s tone, Scotty agreed to see to the dog and paid the driver, saying loftily as he did so that the extra tanner was a tip; he then gave Martin a ten bob note. ‘I’ve not got anything smaller,’ he explained. ‘You can pay me back Friday.’

Martin jumped back into the cab, which promptly began to move, the driver grumbling as he did a U-turn that if there was one thing he hated it was daytime drunks. ‘I picked him up at the hospital thinkin’ I’d get back to Rhyl in time for a nice cup of tea at the taxi office, only he wanted to go into St Asaph first to find something he’d left there, which turned out to be booze,’ he said discontentedly. ‘Where d’you want to go? Back to the perishin’ hospital, I suppose.’

‘Oh aye, it’s the hospital for me an’ all,’ Martin said, leaning back against the cracked leather seat. ‘Scotty ain’t a bad feller, really. His wife had her baby earlier today, and mine is about to have ours, which is why I’m in a hurry.’

The taxi driver chuckled. ‘So you want to be in at the birth, eh? Well, I’m tellin’ you, I’ve got five nippers an’ I never seen none of ’em born, nor wanted to. I don’t hold with these modern methods . . . what good will it do your wife to have you faintin’? I mean there’s nothin’ you can really do, is there?’

‘Yes there is,’ Martin said indignantly. ‘I’ve read all the books. I can hold her hand, rub her back, fetch her a drink if she wants one . . . I can even time the contractions if that’s what she wants me to do. And of course I can talk to her, take her mind off the pain.’

He was as good as his word and drew up in front of the hospital with a flourish. Martin ran round to his door, paid him, and hurried into the foyer where he asked at the reception desk for Rose Thompson. A nurse was called and Martin was rather touched when the taxi driver appeared in the foyer and handed him a two shilling piece. ‘That’s for your kid when it comes,’ the driver said gruffly. ‘Good luck, mate. Hope it ain’t twins.’

This fearful thought had never occurred to Martin, but he thanked the driver and then followed the nurse through some swing doors and on to a long corridor. Presently he was ushered into a small cubicle where a little nurse told him in an awed voice that his wife was about to be taken to the delivery room as the baby’s birth was imminent, but he could see her for a moment.

When the door opened and Martin came into the room, Rose could only sob out his name and grasp his hands. He stroked the hair off her wet forehead and told her she was his brave girl, but then the door opened again and Martin was bundled out of the room. ‘Not long now, young lady,’ a green-clad doctor told her. ‘Your husband arrived just in time.’

Martin was hovering in the waiting room, desperately anxious to do the right thing, yet longing to simply demand to be allowed to see Rose, when he was called. On entering the corridor, he saw her being wheeled out of the delivery room. With an upsurge of joy, he saw that she was tenderly cradling a small, green-clad body against her breast. She saw Martin and gave him a smile so full of relief and delight that all his worries disappeared. She was all right, and so was the baby! He stepped forward, putting out a tentative hand, and felt tears wet on her cheek. The nurse pushing the trolley stopped obediently as Rose gestured. Martin reached out and gripped Rose’s hand tightly, whilst he fought to control the uprush of emotion which the sight of her had engendered. ‘Oh, Rose,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, Rosie-posie, aren’t you a clever girl!’

He looked down at the baby and saw a small round head covered in soft black fluff above a pointy-chinned face still red from birth, with long swollen eyelids and a pink and puckered mouth. ‘Oh, Mart, isn’t he the most beautiful thing?’ Rose whispered. ‘It’s a boy. But you’ve not said how pretty he is.’

The nurse, who had been pushing the trolley, cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Thompson, but I have to get your wife on to the ward; corridors are draughty places,’ she said apologetically. ‘She’ll be in the same ward as her friend, so if you’d like to go to the waiting room whilst we get her into her own nightie and dress the baby properly, I’ll come along and fetch you and you can discuss names then.’

Martin immediately stepped back, watched until the nurse, the trolley and its occupants had disappeared, and then made for the waiting room once more. He realised that he felt as proud and pleased as though he really was the father of that tiny scrap. It would be wonderful to have a son of his own, but he must be content with the next best thing, and he knew his Rose. She was always generous and would share her baby as soon as she realised how much the little boy meant to him.

The waiting room was crowded and Martin realised that this must be because visiting time was approaching. However, there was still one vacant chair, so he sat down, smiled shyly at the man next to him and reached for a copy of Homes and Gardens which lay on the low table nearest him. He had barely turned the first page, however, before the door opened and the trolley-pushing nurse beckoned to him. ‘Mr Thompson? Come with me, please. We’ve put Mrs Thompson in a side ward for now, since visiting time is so near, so you and she can have a chat,’ she said, and Martin followed her eagerly. He was longing to hear any detail which Rose felt she could pass on, but even more than that he was longing to see the baby again.

The nurse showed him into the side ward, which was just a small room with a bed, a chair and a locker . . . and Rose, looking clean and neat in her own winceyette nightie, holding the baby, now shawl-wrapped, in the crook of her arm. She beamed at Martin and turned her head to kiss the child’s soft cheek. Then she spoke, obviously aware of the nurse’s presence.

‘Look, Mart, so far as the rest of the world is concerned, you and I are married, and you are the baby’s father. He has to be our baby when we’re talking about him – and not just in front of other people either, because if we do that we’re bound to slip up.’ She looked anxiously across at him. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mart? I can tell from the look on your face that you’re already really fond of him.’

‘Well, in that case, I thought you’d – we’d – pretty well settled on Richard, only you said we’d call him Ricky. I can’t remember exactly why, but it was something to do with a song you’d heard when you were a nipper.’ He smiled lovingly at her. ‘As for liking the little ’un, I reckon he’s me favourite person, next to yourself.’

‘Right you are, Richard Paul Thompson he is,’ Rose said. ‘Would you like to hold him for a minute? I think you two should get to know one another as soon as possible.’ Martin took the baby from her eagerly, then sat down on the chair by the bed, cradling Richard Paul in his arms. He was astonished by the heat that emanated from the small, solid body and saw that Rose was looking at him with considerable surprise. ‘Well I never!’ she said softly. ‘Most men are scared of babies; they think they’ll drop ’em or that the baby will piddle on ’em, but you’re holdin’ young Richard as though you’d been handlin’ babies all your life.’

‘I’ve never held one before, but I like it,’ Martin said. ‘I thought he’d be, oh, frail and cool, but he’s solid and hot.’ He glanced at the girl in the bed. ‘Rosie, I think I’m in love.’ Instantly, Rose’s face, which had been happy and open, closed like a steel trap and her eyes refused to meet his. Dismayed, Martin realised at once that she had misunderstood him. He gave a rather artificial laugh. ‘Not with you, goose, with young Ricky here. A feller doesn’t fall in love with his pal, even if she does happen to be a girl. Now tell me about this little chap.’

As soon as Martin had cleared up the misunderstanding, he saw Rose’s expression change to one of doting fondness. ‘He weighed in at six pounds eight ounces, and he’s twenty-two inches long,’ she said, glancing proudly at the child. ‘When I asked the doctor who delivered him why Ricky’s hair was black, as I suppose you and I could both be described as fair, he said that most babies lose their birth hair when they are a few weeks old, so I might still end up with a red-headed one.’ She gave a dramatic shudder. ‘Yuk, I hope not! I’ve spent me life being called Carrots or Sandy or Ginger and I wouldn’t wish that on the poor chap.’

‘Better red than white,’ Martin muttered, but he said it too low for Rose to catch. ‘Here, I’d better give you back to your mum, young Ricky, because visitors are coming along the corridor and Scotty may pop in. I expect he’ll visit this evening. Have you seen Millie’s baby, by the way? Scotty said it were a boy. What’s it like? I don’t believe he can be as pretty as Ricky.’

Rose smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him. She’s called him Alexander – I told you, didn’t I? Actually, they’re rather alike. When I’m on the main ward, you’ll be able to see for yourself because the babies all sleep in the nursery, which is a room further down the corridor. Each one is labelled round its little wrist, of course, so you can tell one from t’other.’

Martin had given the baby back to Rose and now he noticed how pale and tired she looked, and felt a stab of guilt. He stood up, then reached out a cautious hand and stroked her cheek. ‘You poor kid, here am I chattering away, completely forgetting what you’ve been through. I’ll be off now so’s you can get some kip, but I’ll see you tomorrer. When d’you reckon they’ll let you come home?’

‘I think it’s about a week,’ Rose said drowsily. She had already slid down the bed, but was still cuddling the baby closely. ‘They’ll move me into the main ward as soon as visiting is over, though, so don’t come here tomorrow because this little room will probably have another woman in it.’

‘Right,’ Martin said briskly, opening the door. ‘Have a good night, sweetie.’ He was actually in the corridor when something else occurred to him and he poked his head round the door of the small room. ‘Don sends his congratulations and tells me he’s bought you a big box of chocolates. I’ll bring them with me when I come tomorrow.’

He closed the door gently on Rose’s chuckle and walked rapidly towards the foyer. The visitors had all disappeared, save for one figure coming unsteadily towards him. Scotty! For a moment Martin had to fight an urge to ignore the other man, but then he conquered it. Instead, he stopped. ‘Hello, Scotty. D’you know which ward Millie’s on? It’s the second door on the left. Sorry I can’t stop, but I expect Don will be crossing his legs by the time I get back to Bath Street.’

‘Yes, we’ve gorra boy. If I hurry I’ll mebbe get the bus,’ Martin said. Although Scotty had himself well in hand, his breath smelt strongly of whisky and Martin had no desire to hang about the hospital for another hour. ‘See you later, Scotty.’

When visiting time was over, Rose found herself tucked up next to Millie in the very bed from which she had so recently dragged the indignant Scotty. They talked a little, but very soon the ward was quiet and the lights dimmed and Rose was filled with a vast sense of relief. The ordeal was over and the reward lay in the nursery, his small mouth pursing and unpursing, his eyes occasionally opening, only to close again almost at once. And dear Martin had come when she needed him, but had made no claims. In fact she had had to insist that he both spoke and thought of little Ricky as though he were the baby’s father. It was a piece of real luck, meeting Mart that awful day, she told herself now, snuggling down the bed. Yes, although she had not realised it at the time, it had been her lucky day.