Yes, Mama. Helen Forrester
of Alicia’s slightly premature birth, the Queen was to drive down the Boulevard from Princes Park, on her way to St George’s Hall. As a result of Alicia’s arrival, her mother, Elizabeth Woodman, missed the chance of seeing her Sovereign.
Mrs Dorothea Evans, the wife of a Liverpool shipping magnate, had graciously invited Elizabeth to view the procession from her bedroom window, which faced the Boulevard. ‘If you wore a veil and a large shawl and came in a carriage, no one would realize your – er – condition. You could watch in absolute privacy from behind the lace curtains.’
Elizabeth had been thrilled by an invitation from such an eminent lady, who was herself to be presented to the Queen. She had looked forward to extending her acquaintance with Mrs Evans. She guessed that it would please Humphrey exceedingly if she were to make a friend of the wife of such an influential man – and Elizabeth knew that in the months to come, she would have to do a lot to mollify an outraged Humphrey Woodman, her husband of twenty-two years.
Between the painful contractions, as her forty-year-old body strove to deliver the child, she was consumed by anxiety, an anxiety which had commenced when first she knew she was pregnant.
Had Humphrey realized that the child was not his?
It was always so difficult to be sure of anything with her husband, she worried fretfully. He was so wrapped up in his multifarious business activities and the woman in the town whom he kept, that he rarely talked to his wife, never mind slept with her. But, of late, his usual bouts of temper had been so violent that she felt he must suspect her. And yet he had never commented on her condition.
Could it be, she wondered, that her huge skirts and swathing shawls had been a sufficient disguise, and that he had never realized her condition? She had found it difficult to believe, but she had still clung to the idea, hoping that she might miscarry. Now she prayed that, faced with a living child, he might use his common sense and accept it.
Peevishly, between gasps of pain, she commanded that the heavy, green velvet curtains be drawn over the ones of Nottingham lace. ‘The sunlight’s hurting my eyes,’ she complained to the midwife. Mrs Macdonald, a stout, middle-aged woman in an impeccably white apron and long, black skirt, sighed at her difficult patient and hauled the heavy draperies over the offending light. The huge, brass curtain rings rattled in protest.
‘I’ll need some more candles, Ma’am.’
‘Well, ring for them,’ panted Elizabeth.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Mrs Macdonald went to the side of the fireplace and tugged at the green velvet bell-rope.
Though the bell rang in the basement kitchen, the distant tinkle was answered immediately by Fanny, a skinny twelve-year-old skivvy, who had been posted outside the door by Rosie, the housemaid, with orders to bring any messages from her mistress to her while she snatched a hasty lunch in the basement kitchen.
The child opened the bedroom door an inch, and hissed, ‘Yes, Missus?’
‘Fanny, tell Rosie to bring us some more candles immediately and make up the fire,’ ordered Mrs Macdonald. ‘And bring another kettle of water – and a trivet to rest it on.’
‘I’ll do fire afore I go downstairs.’ A hand with dirt-engrimed nails gestured through the narrow opening of the door, towards the brimming coal scuttle by the fireplace.
Mrs Macdonald was shocked. ‘Good gracious me, no! A young one like you can’t come in here. Send Rosie up to do it.’
‘Ah, go on with yez. I’elped me Auntie last time.’
‘Don’t be so forward, young woman,’ snapped the midwife. ‘Get down them stairs and tell Rosie.’
‘She int goin’ to like doin’ my job. Fires is my job.’ Fanny shrugged, her thin lips curved in a grimace as she turned to do the errand. She was stopped by the sound of a querulous voice from the bed. ‘Mrs Macdonald, ask Fanny if Miss Florence has arrived yet – or Miss Webb. Or Mr Woodman?’ The voice sounded flustered, as Elizabeth named her husband.
‘Nobody coom to the front door, Ma’am, not since doctor coom an hour ago,’ piped Fanny.
‘Where is everybody?’ muttered Elizabeth exasperatedly. She moaned, as another bout of pain surged up her back and round her waist.
Mrs Macdonald answered her soothingly. ‘It’s early hours, yet, Ma’am. There’s no hurry. Just rest yourself between the pains.’
Elizabeth grunted, and clutched the bedclothes. The thud of Fanny’s big feet on the long staircase seemed to shake her and added to her fretfulness. Would the girl never learn to walk lightly?
Mrs Macdonald picked up a clean sheet and leisurely began to wind it into a rope. She looped this over the mahogany headrail and laid the twisted ends beside Elizabeth’s pillow, so that her patient could pull on it when the need to bear down became intense. On the bedside table by the candlestick lay a new, wooden rolling-pin; Mrs Macdonald knew from experience that mothers giving birth needed something to clutch when their pains really began.
‘Dr Willis should have stayed; he knows I need him,’ Elizabeth complained, as the surging misery in her stiff body subsided.
‘He promised to look in again in a couple of hours, Ma’am. Would you like a cup of tea, Ma’am?’
‘I’d rather have a glass of port.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it, Ma’am. It might make the baby sleepy.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll have tea.’
‘That’s better. I’ll make a good, strong brew.’
Mrs Macdonald moved through the shadowy room to the fireplace to put a small, black kettle on to the fire. On a side table, lay a tray with a flowered teapot, a tea caddy and cups and saucers. The midwife liked to have tea handy and not be dependent upon a far-away kitchen. Tea always diverted a patient, made them feel that something was being done for them.
A soft knock at the bedroom door announced the arrival of Rosie, the housemaid, bearing a kettle of water and a brass trivet. Several long white candles stuck out of her apron pocket. She had not yet finished her lunch, and was cursing her employer under her breath, as she waited for Mrs Macdonald to bid her come in.
As she entered, Rosie composed her face. She handed the kettle, trivet and candles to the midwife and then made up the fire. She made a polite bob towards the bed and turned to leave.
‘Rosie,’ called Elizabeth from the depths of her supporting pillows.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Tell Maisie to show Miss Webb straight up when she arrives. You will all take your instructions from her. I also want to see my daughter, Mrs Browning, when she comes. Tell Cook that both ladies will probably be here for dinner.’ Elizabeth paused to take a big breath as a stab shot through her abdomen. Then she went on, ‘And, Rosie, none of the servants is to leave the house without Cook’s permission.’ She twisted suddenly in the bed and arched her back. ‘Ah!’ she cried.
Waiting to be dismissed, Rosie stood woodenly facing her, while the spasm passed. ‘Blow her,’ she thought, ‘just when I were thinkin’ I could nip out a few minutes to see the Queen. And Miss Webb is a single lady – she won’t want to come into a birthing room, any more’n she’d want to look into a midden full o’ garbage.’
Mrs Macdonald wrung out a cloth in cool, scented water and began solicitously to wipe the patient’s face. Elizabeth pushed her impatiently aside. ‘Has Mrs Ford come?’ she gasped to Rosie.
‘Yes, Ma’am. She’s bin waitin’ in the kitchen this past three hours.’
‘Send her up – I’ll see her – while I still can,’ Elizabeth ordered pessimistically.
II
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