Home Sweet Home (6 page)

‘Whoa!' he cried out, spreading his arms to take the impact before folding them around her. ‘You almost knocked the breath out of me.'

There were no words that could express what she was feeling. Mary burst into tears. ‘Michael, Michael, Michael!'

‘Is that all you're going to say?' His arms were around her, his hands caressing her back.

Her face safely hidden against his jacket, she squeezed back the tears. He was home. He was safe and he wasn't nearly so badly disfigured as she'd thought he might be.

He held her at arm's length and laid his hand on her stomach. ‘So how's my family coming along?'

‘You didn't say “son”.'

‘I'm learning to be diplomatic. I know there are two possibilities.'

‘Would you prefer a son?'

‘I'll settle for a girl if she looks like you.'

‘I've made a pie.' Shyly, Mary changed the subject.

‘Does it have any meat in it?'

‘Yes. Paul knows somebody with a shotgun who knows where there's a warren bursting with rabbits.'

‘Sounds good. Spotted Dick for afters? With custard?'

‘Apple cake.'

‘I like apple cake. As long as it's sweet. Like you.' He kissed the top of her head.

She laughed, but one thought nagged at her. ‘I wish you didn't have to fly again,' she murmured against the warmth of his shoulder.

He winced when he read the fear in those eyes he loved so much, so blue, so clearly showing her love for him. ‘That's like saying you wish I never drew breath again. Anyway, the final decision isn't down to me.'

Mary closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She knew very well that he ached to get back into action. What was it about men and war that drew one to the other? ‘But you've done your bit. You've been injured. Your plane caught fire and you were almost killed. Surely that is enough?'

She could tell her argument was dismissed. He shook his head, his fingers combing her hair back from her forehead. ‘I was injured, but not incapacitated. My hands are healing. My arms and legs still work and my brain is still in my head. Or at least I think it is.' He tapped his head. ‘Sounds as though there's something in there.'

‘I wish you wouldn't tease me like this.'

His amused expression became serious. ‘I'm not teasing. I'm telling you how things are. I'm a serving officer. I have to fly. It's my job.'

Mary had hung her head. Deep down she had known it was useless, but she had had to try. She almost hated him for being so devoted to his job and to the war against the Nazis. Of course he couldn't promise, and he didn't deserve her hatred. She transferred it to the enemy instead. The war was not over and her husband would remain in danger until it was. Until then, there would always be the fear, but she knew better than to voice her fear. She had to support him. She had to have faith.

Another storm occurred on the twenty-sixth of the month. A torrential downpour turned roads into raging torrents and strong gales brought down trees. The cottage creaked and groaned under the onslaught, windows rattling and water overflowing from guttering and pouring down drainpipes.

Around midday, Mary went into labour. Michael managed to telephone the midwife before the single table lamp went out and the telephone went dead.

‘The lines are down.'

He pulled back the blackout curtains and looked out of the bedroom window with one thought in his mind. What do I do if she can't get here? The answer was obvious, if daunting: he would have to deal with the birth himself.

Mary caught his mood. ‘It's quite easy, really—' Another pain racked her body, forcing her to bend from what little waist she had left. ‘You won't be the first husband to do it—'

Astonished that she had read his mind, he looked at her helplessly, thinking how brave she was and how scared he was. Battling the enemy was not nearly as frightening as the prospect of bringing a child into the world.

‘Do I need to get some water boiling? Isn't that what they do?'

‘Who?'

‘In films they always send somebody to boil water and fetch towels.'

Mary's laugh was short-lived as another pain made her draw her legs up to her middle.

Michael felt so helpless. ‘What do I do?'

‘Make me a cup of tea.'

‘I can't leave you.'

‘The kitchen is only downstairs,' she declared somewhat sharply. The pain was increasing.

‘Tea I can manage, but actually …'

‘Michael. She'll get here. Sister Monica is indomitable. The weather means nothing to her. She'll fight her way through it.'

‘Sounds as though she should be on the front line,' Michael murmured and wished to God that she would hurry up.

A lull in the pains gave Mary the chance to turn her head to one side and close her eyes. The one thing she did know about having a baby was that it took a lot of energy. Sleep was the best way to conserve that energy for when it was needed.

While she slept, Michael paced the room, sat down, got up, went downstairs, put more coal in the kitchen range, and came back up again. Seeing her still sleeping, he went back downstairs. Between peering out around the blackout curtains and willing somebody to hammer on the front door, he checked the wall clock. The thin black hands ticked from one Roman numeral to the next, though to him time seemed to be standing still.

When would the midwife come? He was terrified that he would have to bring the baby into the world himself. ‘What do I know about babies?' he muttered.

The wind chose that moment to blow down the chimney, sending a shower of sparks from the burning logs and on to the hearth-rug. There was a smell of singed wool.

‘Oh hell!'

Michael stamped on the sparks then pulled a wire fireguard in front of the glowing embers. Bombing raids were scary enough, but this waiting for a baby to be born on a night as tempestuous as this was taxing his nerves.

He was just about to dash upstairs again when a heavy thudding sounded from the front door. He opened it to a round-faced woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a sodden woollen cloak.

‘I'm Sister Monica. Sorry to be late, but it's a filthy night. My bicycle and I have been blown all over the place. Besides which I'm soaking wet and on a night like this I really should be able to put my headlamp on full beam.'

She breezed into the house with more force than the wind was blowing outside, leaving a trail of water behind her, her bulldog expression reminiscent of Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

Michael closed the door, though a scurry of leaves managed to enter with the midwife.

The midwife took off her hat and shook it. Michael helped her off with her waterlogged wet cloak, which weighed a ton.

Sister Monica continued to complain. ‘How they expect me to see on these dark roads, I don't know. And the wind nearly blew me off my bike! Did I already tell you that? I think I did. Well, I'm here now. However, I think I shall write to someone. Just because there's a war on doesn't mean to say that babies will stop being born! I need to use my headlamp on full beam. It's imperative!'

Michael stood dumbstruck, the midwife's hat in one hand and her cloak in the other. This was it! They were about to have a baby! Suddenly, with the midwife standing here before him, it all felt very real.

Sister Monica fixed him with an expression almost of contempt. ‘Right! Well, once you've finished doing a very poor imitation of a coat stand, perhaps you wouldn't mind shaking my things dry and hanging them up.'

Michael leapt into action. ‘Right.' Everything was quickly hung up. Relieved the midwife was here, he rubbed his wet palms on his pullover, beginning to feel excited at what was about to happen.

‘Hot water,' Sister Monica said to him when he attempted to follow her up the stairs. A stout arm barred him from going any further.

His expression reflected his anxiety. ‘Hey! That's my wife up there and I'm not used to taking orders.'

‘Well, get used to it,' the midwife retorted, her bag clenched in a meaty fist and her feet plodding heavily up the stairs.

‘Anything else?' Michael called after her.

‘Tea. Sweet tea. Oh, and whisky if you've got it.'

‘Whisky? For my wife or for you?' Tea he could understand, but surely it wasn't routine to dispense alcohol.

‘No. For you. To keep you occupied and out of my way.'

The slamming of the bedroom door made the windows rattle and brought an empty bird's nest down the chimney.

He boiled water for the midwife and made a pot of tea. She came tramping down the stairs to pour a cup for herself and one for Mary. She didn't bother to offer him a cup and he didn't ask.

Once she was back upstairs again, he went to the sideboard and got out a bottle of whisky and a tumbler. ‘Two fingers should do it,' he said to himself. He added just a splash of water then sat down in his favourite armchair to await developments.

He didn't know how many times he went over to the sideboard or at what time he'd fallen asleep. His dreams varied between a burning aircraft, acres of Canadian prairie and a riotous evening in the bar of a local pub. A curly-haired tot accompanied him in all those scenes, which was ridiculous because the baby hadn't been born yet.

He was still dreaming when a strong hand shook his shoulder so roughly it felt like it was being jerked out of its socket.

‘Rise and shine!'

He blinked his eyes open, half expecting he'd been woken up by a particularly loud sergeant-major. He found himself face to face with the midwife's Churchillian features.

Assured he was fully awake, she plucked her hat and coat from off of the chair in front of the fire where he'd spread them out to dry.

Michael leapt up from his chair, then groaned and ran his hand over his aching head. ‘Has it happened? Has he been born?'

The midwife glanced at the half-empty bottle before throwing him a disdainful look. ‘Yes. She has.'

The moment Michael saw the baby he felt totally inadequate.

‘I'll break her,' he said when Mary suggested he hold her.

‘You won't.'

‘She's so small. What if I hold her too tight?'

Mary smiled. ‘You won't,' she repeated.

‘What if I drop her?'

Mary was tired after the effort of giving birth, but still she couldn't help chuckling at her big brave husband's inadequacy. The tiny bundle not only scared him but filled him with awe.

‘But my hands …' he said, looking down at them.

Mary understood now why he was so worried about picking the baby up. He was well on the way to recovery, but the damage to his hands had been significant. ‘You'll be fine,' she said reassuringly. ‘I know you won't drop her.'

As though sensing his nervousness, their daughter began to cry.

‘Wow! I can't believe such a small thing can be so noisy. She's got the lungs of a sergeant-major.'

‘The boys at the base said babies all look like Churchill,' he said, after a while, gazing into the tiny face peering out from the folds of a white shawl. He shook his head. ‘I don't think she does. I think she's the most beautiful female I've ever seen.'

‘You do realise you're making me jealous?' Mary's face shone with amusement.

He looked up and grinned. ‘It can't be helped. Perhaps I should just say that she's just as beautiful as her mother.'

Once persuaded that babies were pretty durable, he couldn't put her down.

Sister Monica, who also happened to be the district nurse, popped in every day for a fortnight, checking the baby's weight and on-going development. Beatrice was pronounced fit and well.

‘A bonnie baby indeed,' Sister Monica stated with the air of a woman who's seen a great many ugly ones.

‘I bet you say that about all the babies,' Mary said.

The midwife had a cryptic look in her eyes when she told her otherwise. ‘If a baby is pretty, I say so. If it's ugly, I say nothing.'

Sister Monica warned Mary to stay in bed for two weeks. ‘It's standard procedure. You have to regain your strength.'

Mary nodded meekly and promised that was exactly what she would do. Veronica, the wife of another pilot at the base, popped in each day to keep an eye on her and was also putting out feelers for a woman to come in and do the cleaning. But after a week, Mary couldn't stand it any longer. She was out of bed and keen to get on with her life, though she made sure she was in bed on the days when Sister Monica was due to call.

Only Michael and her friend Veronica knew she wasn't obeying orders.

‘I can't stay in bed all day. I didn't have too bad a time during the birth and I'm bursting with energy,' she complained.

Veronica was impressed that Mary wasn't taking advantage of an enforced stay in bed. ‘I'm glad to hear it, but take care.'

Michael found every excuse he could to grab time to come home and see her, or more specifically to see baby Beatrice. The moment he came home, he picked the baby up even if she was fast asleep. Mary ticked him off for doing it, but he just couldn't help it. His argument was that there would shortly be a time when he couldn't get away from his duties and so he had to make up for lost time.

Mary smiled when she recalled his initial concern and clumsiness when picking the child up. His worry that with his damaged hands, he would fumble while holding her. Bit by bit his handling of the child improved.

‘I'll be real skilled at being a dad by the time we have our sixth.'

Mary looked appalled. ‘Six? Who said anything about having six?'

He put his arms round her. ‘I like kids.'

‘I like them too, but there are limits. Let's settle for two – one girl and one boy.'

‘Okay.'

Settling in to the area and her new role as a mother turned out to be easier than Mary had expected. Even though she missed her family, she was happy and glad she'd come here, though she would have preferred that Michael hadn't been injured.