Page 31 of A Family Affair
And that’s when it happened. While I waited in line, worrying myself half to death as I listened to second-hand reports of how badly damaged Manchester was, horror stories of people being buried alive and burnt to death. I felt the first contraction, almost four weeks early. And then, while I clutched my stomach and tried not to cry out, my waters broke, right there in the corner shop. I was so ashamed. I also knew something wasn’t right.
Someone ran to get Mam, and two of our neighbours helped me to a chair while Mrs Baines, the shopkeeper, went to get a mop. I didn’t want to go to hospital. The midwife was supposed to be delivering my baby at home when the time came, but when Mam arrived she insisted. Said the baby might be in trouble and that panicked me more, so I did as I was told.
Anyway, Mrs Baines had a phone, so she rang for the ambulance and before I knew it I was on the way to the hospital. Mam didn’t come with me because she was minding our Linda’s three kiddies. Little buggers them lot were. Our Linda worked in the Avro factory as a riveter, same as me before I had to give it up because I was preggers.
So I went to hospital on my own. I’d just turned twenty-one and even though I was a married woman, about to become a mother, in those moments I felt like a terrified little girl who only wanted her mam.
I can’t remember much about arriving because it was all such a rush. I was in a big panic; everyone seemed to be from the second we got there. I was thrust into a wheelchair then pushed at speed along the corridors by a nurse who told me how busy they were, with the casualties from the air raid, and that everyone had everything crossed the Jerries didn’t come back.
‘I’ve not been home yet… was here all night and managed to get some shut-eye earlier but we’re dreading another raid… last night, well I saw things you can’t imagine and won’t want too, either.’
I wanted to tell her to stop, but reminded myself that was selfish and maybe she just needed to talk. Along the way, in between contractions that were getting stronger and made me howl, I passed people on stretchers and the walking wounded. Some of them had been patched up and hobbled along, others waiting to be seen. I felt like such a fraud despite the agony.
But I did as I was told, like Mam said I should. And I tried to be brave, like she wanted me to be. I can still feel her kiss on my cheek and her words as the ambulance doors closed.
‘Just listen to the nurses and do what they tell you. It’ll be okay, I promise. And be a brave girl. I know you can do it, love, and I’ll be waiting with a nice pot of tea when you bring our new baby home. Then you can write your Walter a letter and tell him he’s a dad.’
I hung on to those words through it all. The labour that just went on and on. Where I thought I was going to die from the pain and humiliation, my legs in stirrups and mess and blood all over the bed. Then when the air raid siren went off, I thought I’d die at the hands of the German bombers and my Walter would never see the little baby boy who lay quietly in my arms.
My baby was barely minutes old. There was pandemonium outside and I could tell the nurse was torn between me and rushing off to prepare for the worst. She appeared unconcerned by his weight and size even though I knew he needed longer in the oven, as Mam would say. The nurse had patted my hand and told me he had a good set of lungs on him, and not to worry. She’d seen plenty of little ones do well and after she’d done what was necessary down below, and tried to help me feed my little boy, she went off to fetch me a cup of sweet tea, telling me to rest a while. She never came back.
I was in a side ward, in a tiny room with a partition, and I presumed on the other side was another patient, perhaps sleeping because they made no sound. I was scared, sore and achy. Hungry, and thirsty. But the sight of my sleeping son wiped it all away. He was all that mattered.
The blood-curdling wail of the sirens outside seemed to heighten the sense of urgency beyond my room. I blanked it out at first and focused on my baby, Joseph. Before he went to war, me and Walter made a list of names we liked. Two choices for a girl or a boy but Walter said I should make the final decision when I’d had the baby. He reckoned I’d know what suited them once I’d seen their face.
Walter was right. Our baby definitely looked like a Joseph, after Walter’s dad. And he was already being a good boy and hadn’t cried since he was born, or suckled, but the nurse assured me he’d feed when he was ready. I told myself he was like his dad, a dozy bugger who liked his kip.
Before long it was impossible to ignore the nausea-inducing sound of the sirens and to be oblivious to the hurried footsteps on the corridor. Nurses gave terse instructions to orderlies who were moving people into the basement. Those who could walk were being told to make their way unaided and others I imagined being wheeled out in their beds. I was feeling fine and without being told, decided to get out of bed and find shelter.
When the door burst open, the ashen-faced nurse barked an unnecessary order, ‘You need to go down to the basement immediately, there’s no time to dress. Go as you are, now hurry.’
Before I could respond, another nurse appeared behind her and asked, ‘What about the lady next door? She can’t possibly walk, she’s too weak.’
I heard the first nurse tut and reply, ‘Come with me and we’ll take her in a wheelchair. You carry baby.’ With that they left me alone. No way was I going anywhere in that gown with my bottom showing. I’d had enough embarrassment for one day.
Joseph was in the little cot, swaddled in his blanket so I hurriedly dragged off my hospital gown and dressed in the clothes I came in with. Wincing as the anaesthetic down below began to wear off and the stitches made their presence felt, I told myself not to panic. Me and Joseph just had to get to the basement, and we’d be okay.
I’d just put my bag on the bed, slipped on my shoes and had one arm in my coat when the first bomb hit.
The noise was like nothing I’d ever heard before and the blast reverberated within me, rattling by bones and teeth. And the strangest thing – the room vibrated, the air wibbling and wobbling like a jelly on a plate. Maybe I imagined it, or my brain went a bit peculiar for a second but that’s how I remember it.
Then came the screams and noises that mingled together, mushed up alien sounds that translated into fear. Whether it was instinct or the voice in my head, I obeyed both and took cover in the only place available. I grabbed Joseph and, oddly, in the midst of it all, my handbag which I threw under the bed, and with my free hand pulled at the mattress and chucked that under the steel frame, too.
Holding Joseph tightly I crawled underneath, using the mattress as an extra layer of protection over our bodies. I yanked the pillows towards me, one of which I laid my baby on, then placed the other under my head. All I could hope was if anything fell on us, the sturdy metal bedframe and then the mattress would take the impact.
And there I lay, throughout the longest night of my life. Me, my baby boy, and my handbag.
CHAPTER24
When the next bomb hit, all the lights went out. We were plunged into darkness, and I remembered the woman in the shop earlier, recounting the sight of the buildings in Piccadilly gardens glowing orange, as shrapnel pinged off the bricks and peppered her coat and body. That’s what I imagined to be happening outside to all those poor people caught in the raid.
From the black abyss under the bed, as the bombs rained down on my lovely city, not caring who or what they hit, I sang Joseph nursery rhymes. And told him all about his brave daddy who was going to be so proud of his baby boy.
‘He’ll take you to the park and teach you how to play football, and when you get big you can go with him to Maine Road to watch a match and after, meet Grandad in The Hat and Feathers. No drinking, mind. Just lemonade for you. I know what your grandad’s like.’
About his grandma who couldn’t wait to see him, ‘She makes the best pea and ham shank soup in all of Manchester, and she’s knitted you some lovely things. We unravelled a couple of your dad’s jumpers, so it’ll be like he’s close to you when you wear them. You’ll be snug as a bug in a rug you will, because it’s blooming cold out there at the moment. Brass monkeys, your daddy would say.’
And his naughty cousins who’d look after him when he went to school. ‘They’re so excited to see you. And you’ll be our Christmas baby now. An extra present for the little sods to fight over. P’raps I should put you under the tree with a bow on Christmas morning. Imagine their faces.’
