The Good Provider (56 page)

Guiltily Archie dropped the cigarette and put his heel on it. At first he was inclined to sing dumb and stay hidden, then he recognised the figure and, disregarding the rain, ran out, shouting, ‘Craig, for God’s sake, man. Come in here.’

Craig skidded to a halt, swung round and came at Archie as if he intended to assault him.

Archie raised an arm defensively.

‘What the hell’s wrong wi’ you?’

‘Have you seen Malone?’ Craig demanded.

‘What? Naw. Naw.’

‘He’s here, he’s gone after Kirsty, he’s wearin’ a frock coat an’ a tile hat.’

‘Christ!’

‘You have seen him?’

‘Frock coat—’

‘
Archie?
’

‘I saw her, your wife. She was goin’ down to Walbrook Street. I walked part o’ the way wi’ her.’

‘Kirsty? She’s supposed to stay at home.’

‘She said she was fine but she didn’t look too grand to me,’ said Archie.

Craig laid a hand behind his neck and pinched it to make him tell the truth. ‘You bloody did see him, didn’t you?’

‘Aye, I’m thinkin’ maybe I did.’

‘When?’

‘A quarter-hour ago.’

‘Why didn’t you challenge him?’

‘I didn’t know it
was
him, did I? In a bloody frock coat like a bloody toff.’

‘Where did you see him?’

Archie hesitated. ‘Goin’ towards Walbrook Street.’

Craig released his grip on Archie’s neck and stepped back. He drew in a lungful of wet night air and expelled it.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now, Archie, I want you to run to Ottawa Street—’

‘Where are the coppers that are supposed to be with you?’

‘Lost,’ said Craig curtly. ‘Listen, up to the station. Rouse them out, every man that’s there. Malone’s in the Walbrook Street area, dressed like I told you. He has a knife now, not a sword.’

‘How do you—’

‘
Shift it, Archie
.’

‘Where will you be, Craig?’

‘Lookin’ for my wife.’

Wringing her hands, Mrs Frew said, ‘I cannot allow you to do this, David. It isn’t – isn’t decent.’

‘Decent or not, Aunt Nessie, I’ve no choice.’

‘Wait until I fetch a proper doctor.’

‘She is, I believe, close to expulsion. Do you want to risk her life and the baby’s because of modesty?’

‘How many babies have you delivered?’

‘Twelve,’ David said. ‘Now, Aunt, I haven’t time to argue the point. Will you please take off her garments then fetch clean linen and towels.’

‘Take off her—’

Angrily David said, ‘Will I have to do it myself, Aunt, when I’ve so many other things to get ready?’

‘I still think—’

‘There isn’t any time,’ David told her again. ‘If it makes you feel better by all means leave on an upper garment, a nightgown, or put a sheet across her.’

‘But you’ve no – no instruments.’

‘I’ve these.’ He held up his hands.

Leaving his aunt to ponder and act upon his instructions he hurried out of the bedroom into the kitchen. He had not spoken to Kirsty yet, had not asked the questions that would confirm his opinion that birth was imminent. He was frightened of what he might find when he made an examination, what complications might present themselves, situations with which he could not cope. He had told his aunt the truth; he
had
delivered twelve babies, ten of them alive and kicking. He had not told her, however, what a harum-scarum thing the course in obstetrics was for youthful and exuberant students of the medical faculty, how the cynicism that marked the breed was never more manifest than when confronted with the mystery of birth, that messy entry into the world.

He recalled one night in particular when he had attended a woman in Maryhill in company with a fellow student, Binks. Binks had been half-seas over when the call had come and the woman had been mad with pain and restless. He had walked her round and round the tiny stinking kitchen, observed for most of the labour by four other children huddled under the table. Father had kept out of sight, drinking in some shebeen or other until the great mysterious event was over. Binks had fallen asleep on the woman’s bed and when he had finally roused Binks to let the woman lie down, Binks had been sick all over the tousled clothes. Binks laughed about it later, boasted of it in fact, but he, David, had borne the brunt of it.

It would not be like that tonight, David told himself as he stripped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and laved his hands in soap and warm water. Aunt Nessie’s bedroom was clean and warm and he would bully the woman into assisting him. He would need help. Kirsty Nicholson was in distress and, since the baby was premature, he might be faced with a transverse lie or a shoulder presentation or some other foetal abnormality. As he trimmed his fingernails with a pocket clipper, he ran over the procedures in his mind, rehearsing them.

He had, he suspected, only minutes to make ready and, now that he had committed himself, wasted no more time on self-doubt. If, after preliminary examination, he found a severe trauma or abnormality he would send at once for expert assistance or for an ambulance from the Western Infirmary. Somewhere in the vicinity there must be a doctor or midwife. Indeed if Walbrook Street had been less genteel there would have been a gang of spectators gathered about the door to offer help and advice. He went back into the bedroom.

Aunt Nessie had dressed Kirsty in a pretty floral-patterned nightgown and had draped a large Irish linen sheet about her lower limbs. Kirsty had assumed the position of ‘naturalness’. He saw at once that his guess had been correct. She had entered commencement of the second stage. The membrane had ruptured and the sheet was stained with forewaters. The left shoulder and arm of her nightgown was bloody but Aunt Nessie, as an emergency measure, had padded it with a towel. He had quite forgotten that Kirsty had been wounded by the devil with the knife. He ignored the wound for a moment and got down on one knee by the bedside.

‘When did the pains begin, Kirsty?’

‘David?’

‘Yes, it’s only me, I’m afraid.’

In spite of it all she tried to smile. She looked less than pretty, quite ravaged, in fact, but he felt towards her a greater weight of responsibility than he had ever felt in his life before. He brushed back her hair and touched his hand to her brow. She was perspiring but was not much fevered, not more than a degree or two. He must, of course, take the effect of shock into his calculations.

‘The pains, Kirsty?’

‘All – all day.’

It was possible that she had gone through first stage labour without realising what it was, especially as the child was three weeks in advance of its term. Why had the blasted doctor not given her fuller instruction or put her in touch with a midwife who would have explained what to expect?

‘I’m going to look, Kirsty,’ David said. ‘Hold tightly to my hand. Squeeze if the pain becomes too great to bear. Don’t be afraid to cry out.’

Aunt Nessie left the room. Had the whole thing become too much for her delicate sensibilities? Had she gone for help? To his relief the old lady soon returned with a canvas apron pinned over her frock, a big enamel basin full of hot water in her arms.

Kirsty panted. The vigour and frequency of abdominal contractions were considerable. Involuntarily she stretched her legs and feet and sought for the bedboard. He assisted her, helped her slide downwards. He adjusted the bolster beneath her head. Her face had become congested and she could not find breath to speak to him.

Observing the distention of the oval, David counted out the minutes. Thank God, it seemed that he would not have to interfere, that presentation would be normal.

The infant’s scalp, dusted with dark hair, was visible.

As soon as the contraction eased he would begin the process of delivery, would guide the head to ensure that its smallest diameters passed through the outlet.

Kirsty gripped his hand fiercely and let out a cry.

Aunt Nessie touched his shoulder and passed him a napkin with which to cleanse the discharge.

Unbidden he heard again the voice of his obstetrics professor, James McKinnon, as he boomed out rudimentary instruction.

The core of that lecture, the language of it, had affected him oddly but the romance of the words had vanished when he had finally confronted the reality of a woman in the throes of labour. But with Kirsty’s hand clutching his and the child’s soft crown visible between her thighs David experienced once more, just before he began his work, a little of the wonder that some men find in woman’s obligation.

‘Factors in labour are,’ McKinnon had declared, ‘the Passages, the Powers, and the Passenger.’

David glanced over his shoulder. Aunt Nessie had placed the basin on the rosewood table which she had swept clear of its clutter of dainty ornaments. She was watching with interest now.

‘Bring me a reel of strong cotton thread, Aunt, if you will.’

‘Certainly,’ the widow said and went out.

David studied Kirsty for a moment and then put his hand upon her body, the sheet discarded.

Pain appeared to recede. She gasped and sought his arm. He could not give it to her. No further recession of the infant’s head had occurred. It had engaged much more rapidly than he had thought possible.

With the fingers of his left hand he touched the crown and pressed it very gently.

‘Kirsty,’ he said. ‘Bear down.’

The Passenger was due to arrive.

Craig did not reach Walbrook Street or learn what had happened to his wife. At first, fear for Kirsty’s safety churned within him but what really drove him on was hatred of Malone’s cleverness. Malone did not have an excuse of poverty or ignorance or that miserable lack of will which induced most law-breakers to commit crimes. Malone was selfish, greedy and mendacious. To murder for revenge was evil. He had no heart at all. What was more, he coaxed from Craig a similarly heartless response. As he raced towards Walbrook Street through sheeting rain Craig felt as cold and hard as the pavement beneath his feet. Red anger contracted and his one real fear was that bloody Malone had slipped away, clever enough at the last to trade vengeance for freedom.

It was ironic that torrential downpour had brought the traffic of the district and its citizens to a temporary halt, that the only movement in the night was the scuttle of a train along the embankment, its funnel spouting sparks. Far, far off in the distance Craig caught the sound of a police whistle. He checked his dash for Walbrook Street and paused, chest heaving, cocked his head and listened intently for that ‘chain’ of shrill urgent whistles that would indicate that an officer had sighted quarry and required assistance. He heard nothing after that first faint blast and soon swung to the left and found his stride again – and saw not Malone but Sammy Reynolds, quite unmistakably Sammy, seated on a kipper box by a blank brick wall, with a torn black umbrella held over his head.

‘Sammy?’

‘Aye.’

‘Remember me?’

‘Aye.’

‘I’m chasin’ a man, a tall man in a black coat, with a lum hat on his head.’

‘Aye.’

‘Did he come this way? Did you see him?’

It was like crying into a close mouth and hoping for an echo. Craig could hardly believe his luck when Sammy nodded.

‘When did you see him?’

‘Just now.’

‘Please, Sammy, tell me where.’

‘He went up there.’

‘Up the embankment?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Saw him, so I did.’

Sammy gave the brolly a twirl, spinning droplets from protruding spokes, and looked, Craig thought, quite smug and manly for a moment.

He had to be certain, however. ‘Lum hat, frock coat?’

‘Up there, t’ the trains.’

Craig gave the boy a gentle pat on the shoulder.

‘You’re a good lad, Sammy,’ he said, then ran.

Splashing, he crossed the road and threw himself at the barricade of heavy wooden sleepers that braced the ramp of earth, ash and charred grass, hauled himself over it and dropped to the base of the embankment proper. Instinct told him that Sammy had been right. It was exactly the sort of thing that Malone would do, make for the railway, claw on to a passing truck or wagon to ride along the edge of the Greenfield, through police cordons and away to Bowling or Dumbarton, any place that did not buzz with blue boys agog to nail him and see him topped.

Rain had turned the slope into mud. Craig slipped and slithered as he clambered towards the skyline. He did not feel winded or blown, did not notice that he was wet to the skin. He climbed swiftly, using his hands. Rain reflected every scrap of light and made a strange pale curtain across the sky. Craig could discern the plane of the railway and its curves, the bridge to his right and the small squat shape of a plate-layer’s hut.

Crouched, cautious, he came out on to the stone-fill and checked the lines, up and down. A thousand yards away, towards Greenfield West, the local track linked at the junction. There was a signal-box, lit like a watchtower against the sky, tiny but distinct. He had no clue as to which direction Malone had taken, whether he had gone towards the city and the welter of lines that fanned out from the goods and mineral yards at Stobcross or had headed towards the West box.