A Sixpenny Christmas (6 page)

‘Sorry, nurse,’ Molly said humbly. ‘I forgot.’

Ellen, however, though she waited until the nurse had disappeared, gave a scornful sniff. ‘They oughter provide us wi’ nursin’ chairs; they’d be a deal better for us than sittin’ up in bed,’ she told Molly. ‘I’m a-goin’ to buy one with me allowance, just as soon as I’m out of here.’ She unbuttoned her nightgown and the baby, feeling her mother’s flesh against her soft cheek, began to weave her head, plainly searching for the nipple.

Molly smothered a chuckle. ‘It’s a miracle to me how babies know what to look for,’ she confided. ‘Chris was just the same, so I s’pose they all know instinctively that they need to suck. They’ll suck your little finger, if there’s nothing else available.’

‘Mmm hmm, I guess you’re right,’ Ellen droned, sounding like a contented bee which has just entered a flower and begun to enjoy the honey. ‘They say the milk don’t come in until the third day but this little ’un of mine thinks otherwise.’

Molly smiled. It was odd that she was more experienced than Ellen, who, she guessed, was so much older than herself, but rather pleasant, too. It was also pleasant to have found a friend after so long alone on the farm. Ellen might not be the sort of person she would have chosen to pal up with once, but now she knew better. She looked approvingly at the other woman. Ellen’s dark hair, a mass
of curls, was tied back from her face with what looked suspiciously like a piece of hairy parcel string, and her nightgown had several cobbled tears. But Ellen’s skin was creamy, her cheeks pink, and her large dark brown eyes full of humour and intelligence. Earlier, a glance around the ward had shown Molly that most of the occupants of the beds were young girls, who were unlikely to have much in common with herself. Ellen, on the other hand, was bright and intelligent, and though they came from very different backgrounds and had led very different lives, Molly realised that they could become good friends, though the distance between the farm and the city might make such a friendship difficult.

She was still wishing that Ellen lived nearer her when both babies stopped sucking simultaneously and the nurse came round, reminding the mothers to lay the babies across their shoulders and rub their firm little backs in a circular movement to bring up the wind. When they had done that they could try the babies on the other breast. As Molly obediently draped Baby Roberts across her shoulder, Ellen leaned forward and stared at the child’s pink face, then at her own little one. ‘Gawd almighty, ain’t they alike, though? They could be perishin’ twins,’ she said. ‘Still an’ all, I reckon babies do look alike – remember what Churchill said? “I look like all babies, and all babies look like me.”’ She chuckled. ‘And weren’t he just right? I reckon most of the babies on ward eight look the same.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Oh, not that gypsy’s brat. I never see’d a kid so hairy. If I’d not known I’d ha’ thought it were a young cat.’

Molly glanced cautiously around the ward to make sure that the gypsy woman could not possibly overhear
them, and Ellen gave a throaty gasp. ‘I don’t s’pose you know, queen, but the gypsy lit out after that terrible storm was over last night. I heard two of the nurses talkin’ about it; they said it weren’t just her baby she took either, but two good blankets, a couple of feedin’ bottles, a quarter-pound of tea from the kitchen and one of the nurses’ cloaks. I reckon we’re lucky she didn’t fancy a proper baby instead of that hairy little bugger. Mind, I’ve always reckoned it’s lies that gyppos steal kids; judgin’ from what I’ve seen they’ve gorr enough of their own.’

Later in the morning, Molly tried to find out just what had happened to the gypsy woman and her baby, for the thought of anyone’s voluntarily leaving the dry and well-heated hospital for the cold, wild night appalled her. But Nurse Middleton, when questioned, could only shrug. ‘I wasn’t on nights, chuck; better ask Nurse Reid when she comes on duty,’ she advised. ‘But all gyppos is alike in hating roofs over their heads. I know she had a hard labour – it was a cross-birth – but once she’d got her child safe, I reckon all she wanted was to go back to her camp, wherever that may be.’

A passing nurse stopped to give a derisive laugh. ‘All she wanted was to go back to her camp with an armful of stolen property,’ she said. ‘Ah well, you live and learn. Next time a gypsy comes in they’ll put her into the private room at the end of the ward and lock the door on her.’ She smiled and patted Molly’s arm. ‘Just be thankful she’s gone, ’cos they ain’t just brown from the sun, you know, and Sister likes ward eight to shine like a star.’

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The bed which had contained the gypsy woman – and several other unwanted visitors – was stripped and the mattress taken
to be fumigated, and the new mothers bathed their babies, Ellen almost drowning poor little Lana when she seized her by one soapy arm, which promptly slid through her fingers. Molly showed Ellen the safest way to bath her child, soaping Rhiannon’s tiny limbs one at a time in order to have a firm purchase and thus prevent the child from slipping too low in the water, but once the babies were towel-wrapped, both Lana and Rhiannon giving every appearance of having enjoyed their first bath, Molly could not resist glancing at the empty bed and wondering who would occupy it next. Because she had it on her mind she was less surprised than she might have been, when she was in the ablutions later, to find herself addressed by the ward maid, who, when she entered, had been industriously polishing the taps.

‘Hey, missus, is – is your baby right well? Only thing is, there was some muddling over labels. Course, I know nothing about it official-like, but the word’s gone round as two of the little ’uns might have gorrin the wrong cots. It were the last two to be born – well, the only two – in that perishin’ dreadful thunderstorm.’

Molly was amused rather than worried by the strange little person’s warning, but she said soothingly, ‘It’s all right, honest to God it is. The other mother concerned was Mrs O’Mara, and I’m sure if there had been a mistake someone would have noticed; we might even have noticed ourselves! You needn’t worry; I’m certain Rhiannon is my own dear little baby.’ She smiled kindly at the ward maid, dug a hand into the pocket of her hospital dressing gown and produced a small bar of Fry’s chocolate. Rhys had bought her three such bars the night before, and she thought this one might be put to good use if it enabled
her to extract a promise from the ward maid not to make any more fuss. ‘What’s your name, queen?’

‘Florence Lana Manners, only they calls me Flossy,’ the girl said. Her eyes glistened as they spotted the chocolate.

‘Listen, Flossy; Mrs O’Mara and myself have become good friends and we hope to continue our friendship after we leave the hospital. Mrs O’Mara’s life is hard – her husband is not supportive – and if there were any doubt as to the parentage of their little girl a great deal of harm might come of it. Will you promise me that you will say nothing of this to anyone? I suppose you might mention it to a member of staff . . .’

‘No, no, I couldn’t,’ Flossy broke in, her pale little face flushing. ‘You see, I’m skeered of thunderstorms and though I were off duty and should have gone home, I – I hid and saw what I shouldn’t have seen. Honest to God, missus, I thought someone switched two of the babies, only it was so dark and the thunder roared so loud . . .’

‘Very understandable,’ Molly said. The poor kid must have fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing, she told herself. ‘But put it right out of your mind, Flossy, because only harm can come of planting such thoughts in people’s heads. Shall we shake hands on it?’

Flossy agreed and accepted the chocolate bar with real gratitude. ‘Well, I’ve telled you wharr I saw,’ she said happily, making for the door into the corridor. ‘And I won’t say a word to anyone else, I promise on me mother’s grave.’

‘Is your mother dead?’ Molly asked; the child looked young to be orphaned, but . . .

Flossie looked puzzled. ‘Dead? I sometimes wish she were, but . . . oh, I
see
!’ She chuckled. ‘I promise I’ll never say a word to a soul.’ She drew a hand across her throat. ‘See this wet? See this dry? Cut me throat if I dare to lie!’ She smiled seraphically at Molly. ‘That do?’

Molly chuckled. ‘That’ll do,’ she confirmed. ‘And now I’d best do what I came in here for, or the staff will think I need nappies as well as Rhiannon!’

Molly and Ellen were ready well before the appointed hour of their discharge from the hospital. Since Ellen admitted she still had some sweet coupons and Molly had money, they had decided to share their gift for the nurses, which was to be a box of Black Magic chocolates and a packet of Player’s. Most of the nurses smoked, and though Sister disapproved Ellen and Molly knew how eagerly the cigarettes would be shared out amongst the staff and were glad to give pleasure, for though the chocolates would be welcomed they were not forbidden fruit, like cigarettes. Rhys had visited the previous evening, to make sure that he would arrive at the right time, for there were formalities – form-fillings and such – to be attended to before Molly would be allowed to leave. He had asked idly, as he sat on the padded bench drawn up close to Molly’s bed, who was calling for his wife’s new friend, and upon hearing that she did not know offered to give her and her baby a lift. Ellen, however, though she thanked him politely, refused the offer. ‘Me mum would be right put out if she came all the way to the hospital, thinkin’ to give me a hand with Lana here, and found us gone,’ she explained. ‘If she don’t come, Sister says the hospital will give us me taxi
fare, so I’ll be just fine and dandy, wharrever way the cookie crumbles.’

So when Rhys drew up outside the revolving doors his wife was ready and waiting, the baby in the crook of her arm, her friend by her side and her small suitcase at her feet. She waved joyfully as soon as she saw the baby Morris approaching and her waving redoubled when she saw Chris bouncing up and down on the back seat. Ellen, who was standing beside her with her own baby in her arms, grinned at the little boy. ‘I guess that’s your Chris; ain’t he a grand kid?’ As she stopped speaking a tram drew to a halt and she gave a squeak of excitement. ‘Here comes me mum; can you see her, Moll? Ain’t that just the luckiest thing? We had our babbies on the same day and now we’re leaving hospital on the same day as well.’

Rhys jumped out of the car and came round to take Molly’s suitcase and help her into the front passenger seat, whereupon Chris flung his arms round her neck, squeaking with excitement and chattering away nineteen to the dozen, whilst Molly and Mrs Meakin exchanged polite conversation through the open window and Ellen informed her friend, with some pride, that her mother had arranged for a feller who drove a taxi cab to pick them up. ‘He’ll be around in five minutes or so,’ she said happily, as Rhys slid back behind the wheel. ‘Goodbye, Molly, and don’t forget to write. You’ll have more to say than me, I guess, but I’ll do me best to tell you all our doings.’

‘I won’t forget,’ Molly said happily. It was another cold day and babies are delicate creatures, in their mothers’ eyes at least, so she cranked the window up and they
set off. Rhys, not used to city traffic, proceeded with caution, particularly when they reached the tunnel beneath the Mersey, but once well clear of both Liverpool and Birkenhead he speeded up a trifle, every now and then casting a loving glance at Molly and the child in her arms.

‘I know I’m prejudiced, but I do think that our little Rhiannon was the prettiest baby in ward eight,’ he said as the little car trundled along. Chris, squeezing between the two front seats, extended a small and rather grubby hand and touched his sister’s cheek.

‘Nonny,’ he announced. ‘Her Nonny.’

Both his parents laughed but Molly corrected him at once. ‘It’s not Nonny, sweetheart, it’s Rhiannon,’ she said, speaking slowly and clearly and turning to give Chris’s cheek a kiss. ‘Can you say Rhiannon? Baby Rhiannon?’

‘Yes; Nonny. Baby Nonny,’ Chris said definitely, and though Molly laughed she guessed that it would be some considerable while before Chris could get his tongue round his sister’s proper name. In the meanwhile she would be known as Nonny, by the family at least.

The journey was a long one and Chris used his little blue plastic chamber pot twice before they had even stopped to eat the sandwiches and drink the flask of tea which Rhys had lovingly prepared. They sat in a lay-by beside a tinkling stream to enjoy their picnic and then Rhys took Chris for a wander whilst Molly fed Rhiannon, decorously draped in a muslin nappy for fear a passer-by might be offended at the sight of a woman breastfeeding her child.

Not that there were any passers-by, Molly told herself, bringing up the baby’s wind and deciding not to change
her damp nappy until they reached the farm. Then she signalled to Rhys that she was ready to leave and cuddled the baby back into her shawl whilst Chris, full of excitement over the little fishes he claimed to have seen in the stream, fell asleep in mid-sentence on the spare blanket which Rhys had put on the back seat of the car.

When at last they reached the potholed driveway which led to Cefn Farm, Molly felt a surge of excitement and pleasure. This was her home and she loved it! The car drew up outside the back door and to Molly’s surprise it opened and a face appeared in the aperture, a wrinkled little face, shyly smiling. Mrs Pritchard, their nearest neighbour. She and her husband and ten-year-old son lived five miles further on along the rough little lane and were always eager to help the Robertses in any way they could. Molly turned round, bewildered eyes on her husband. She had assumed he had brought Chris to the hospital so that he would not have to ask another favour of their neighbours, who had had their only child late in their forties and seemed permanently exhausted by the demands of the hard life they led, yet here was Mrs Pritchard walking towards them, smiling her sweet, anxious smile.

‘I asked her to come to feed the hens and the pigs because I didn’t know what time we’d be home,’ Rhys said rather guiltily. ‘But I didn’t mean her to hang around until we got back. However, it was good of her, so give her a nice big smile.’ Molly did her best to comply and Chris, bouncing out of the car, ran over to their neighbour and began to tell her that his mummy was home with the new baby. He spoke in Welsh, but when Molly began to thank Mrs Pritchard for feeding the stock the other
woman answered so haltingly in an accent so strong that Rhys, carting the suitcase and the baby bag, broke into hasty speech. ‘It’s good of you to stay, Mrs Pritchard; I’m sure Molly will put the kettle on, so we can all share a cup of tea before you go back home.’