using both hands gripped the handle tightly and gave it a mighty tug. The handle rebounded, jerking upwards. Lydia’s hands went with it, her aching arms feeling as though they’d been pulled from their sockets.
Flo regarded her with her big, soulful eyes and shook her head.
‘You hold the jug. I’ll pump,’ she suggested. This time Lydia didn’t argue. The water glugged and gurgled into the jug.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said the girl. ‘If the birthing of all me other brothers and sisters is anything to go by, it shouldn’t be long now.’
Lydia was of the opinion that the birth of the latest member of the family would be some time yet, but kept her opinion to herself. It wouldn’t do to be proved wrong again.
‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’ she asked the girl.
‘Three brothers and three sisters. Our Lil’s the eldest. Then Toby. Then me. Teddy, Walter and Vi are all younger than me. There used to be an Olive and Dorothy as well but they went with the whooping cough and the scarlet fever. They was only little. Still,’ she said, as she fastened the one and only button on her cardigan, ‘must be going. Ta ta, Sister.’
On her return along the stony lane, Lydia worked out that Mrs Kinski had given birth to eight children, the eldest of whom was twelve. Two children had died. That worked out to one a year over eight years and four years to spare. It appeared that Mrs Kinski had produced a baby every eighteen months or so, far too many for the strongest of bodies. Poor woman. Poor children.
The wood of the door back into the house was white with age. Here and there were chips of dark green paint, but most of it was gone. Warped through lack of attention, the door took some tugging before it opened.
She gasped at a sudden scuttling across the floor in front of her. The house being ill lit it was difficult to see whatever had scurried across her path. The creature was probably more terrified of her than she was of it, she told herself, so she kept going and made the stairs without spilling a drop.
On reaching the tiny square of landing, she thought she heard a mewing sound. The sound escalated into the unmistakable cry of a new-born infant. The girl had been right. She had been wrong.
Sister Ursula was wrapping the baby up in what looked like the pillowcase missing from the bolster. Glancing at the washstand, Lydia noticed the water in the bowl was rose coloured. She also noticed the forceps.
‘It’s a boy,’ declared Sister Ursula on seeing Lydia. Her eyes flickered between Lydia and the bloodied forceps before fixing on Lydia with a mix of warning and pleading.
‘Boy or girl, it makes no difference. It’s still another mouth to feed,’ murmured Mrs Kinski.
Lydia emptied the bloodied water out the back window of the second bedroom, though getting to the window was not that easy.
Mattresses covered the floor, leaving only the smallest avenue to get through.
As she threw the water out of the open window, Lydia contemplated all that had happened and all that she had seen today. No more would she ever expect a cosy home in this part of the world or a mother feeling immense joy at the birth of a child. Poverty and pain dictated a mother’s response.
On the way back to the hospital, Sister Ursula said to her, ‘You will not mention the forceps.’ She spoke in German, having been delighted to discover that Lydia was familiar with the language, given her parentage. ‘I had no choice.’
Lydia frowned. Wasn’t it true that only a doctor could use forceps? Doctors possessed greater skills than nurses or midwives and using forceps was a task that also required great responsibility.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ Sister Ursula continued, sticking to German so her comments could not be overheard. ‘For the most part I believe it best a doctor uses forceps. However, there are times when one must do what one can quickly and without recourse to a doctor.’
‘But if
Flo regarded her with her big, soulful eyes and shook her head.
‘You hold the jug. I’ll pump,’ she suggested. This time Lydia didn’t argue. The water glugged and gurgled into the jug.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said the girl. ‘If the birthing of all me other brothers and sisters is anything to go by, it shouldn’t be long now.’
Lydia was of the opinion that the birth of the latest member of the family would be some time yet, but kept her opinion to herself. It wouldn’t do to be proved wrong again.
‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’ she asked the girl.
‘Three brothers and three sisters. Our Lil’s the eldest. Then Toby. Then me. Teddy, Walter and Vi are all younger than me. There used to be an Olive and Dorothy as well but they went with the whooping cough and the scarlet fever. They was only little. Still,’ she said, as she fastened the one and only button on her cardigan, ‘must be going. Ta ta, Sister.’
On her return along the stony lane, Lydia worked out that Mrs Kinski had given birth to eight children, the eldest of whom was twelve. Two children had died. That worked out to one a year over eight years and four years to spare. It appeared that Mrs Kinski had produced a baby every eighteen months or so, far too many for the strongest of bodies. Poor woman. Poor children.
The wood of the door back into the house was white with age. Here and there were chips of dark green paint, but most of it was gone. Warped through lack of attention, the door took some tugging before it opened.
She gasped at a sudden scuttling across the floor in front of her. The house being ill lit it was difficult to see whatever had scurried across her path. The creature was probably more terrified of her than she was of it, she told herself, so she kept going and made the stairs without spilling a drop.
On reaching the tiny square of landing, she thought she heard a mewing sound. The sound escalated into the unmistakable cry of a new-born infant. The girl had been right. She had been wrong.
Sister Ursula was wrapping the baby up in what looked like the pillowcase missing from the bolster. Glancing at the washstand, Lydia noticed the water in the bowl was rose coloured. She also noticed the forceps.
‘It’s a boy,’ declared Sister Ursula on seeing Lydia. Her eyes flickered between Lydia and the bloodied forceps before fixing on Lydia with a mix of warning and pleading.
‘Boy or girl, it makes no difference. It’s still another mouth to feed,’ murmured Mrs Kinski.
Lydia emptied the bloodied water out the back window of the second bedroom, though getting to the window was not that easy.
Mattresses covered the floor, leaving only the smallest avenue to get through.
As she threw the water out of the open window, Lydia contemplated all that had happened and all that she had seen today. No more would she ever expect a cosy home in this part of the world or a mother feeling immense joy at the birth of a child. Poverty and pain dictated a mother’s response.
On the way back to the hospital, Sister Ursula said to her, ‘You will not mention the forceps.’ She spoke in German, having been delighted to discover that Lydia was familiar with the language, given her parentage. ‘I had no choice.’
Lydia frowned. Wasn’t it true that only a doctor could use forceps? Doctors possessed greater skills than nurses or midwives and using forceps was a task that also required great responsibility.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ Sister Ursula continued, sticking to German so her comments could not be overheard. ‘For the most part I believe it best a doctor uses forceps. However, there are times when one must do what one can quickly and without recourse to a doctor.’
‘But if
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