‘No, I delivered Lady Smithe’s baby and she never made a sound all the way through, so brave she was; it was a very long labour, and the baby weighed nine and a half pounds. Now she’s what I call a proper lady, but oh, no, this one was in a class of her own. A disgrace. An absolute disgrace.’
‘I was a disgrace, wasn’t I?’ said Diana ruefully, looking at her mother over James Gunning’s downy head. ‘I really didn’t behave very well. Not exactly brave. I’m sorry, Mummy.’
‘Oh, darling, don’t be silly. I didn’t mind,’ said Caroline untruthfully, for she had been ashamed of her daughter, in particular with the swearing. She could remember the birth of all her babies, and she had managed to remain silent, and there had been no gas and air then, just a whiff of chloroform towards the very end. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
‘Oh – fine. I’m just being lazy. I’ll be up soon. This maternity nurse is marvellous. So clever of you to find her so quickly. She just lets me sleep right through, gives Jamie bottles. Three last night – imagine if I’d had to do that, get up and everything, I’d be exhausted.’
‘He is very sweet,’ said Caroline, smiling down at her grandson. ‘Such a shame Johnathan can’t get here to see him.’
‘I know. But they’re completely snowed in. I’ve described him very carefully. Awful we can’t even get some snaps developed to send. Thank goodness I’m here, though – it would be awful if I was up there with only Her for company and no escape. It’s been so lovely, being with you and Daddy, and we’re here for a while longer, I’m afraid. We’re lucky, aren’t we, Jamie?’
‘Well, it’s lovely for us. Oh, dear, the milkman had some sad news – wonderful how he’s managing to get round most, although we’re down to one pint a day now, there’s a real shortage – Jack Knelston, the postman, has died, apparently. He was such a nice chap. So reliable. It’s the funeral tomorrow. I thought I’d write a note to Mrs Knelston.’
‘Oh, yes, he was a nice man. And his son, the oldest one, did rather well, went to the grammar school. Michael said he was very good at cricket.’
She was silent, the image of Tom digging out the drain suddenly vivid in her memory. How good-looking she had thought him, with his wild auburn hair and amazing green eyes. Probably wouldn’t look so good to her now, of course. She’d met a few really good-looking men over the past few years.
It had taken Tom almost eight hours to get home to West Hilton. One bus was running, over-packed with people, and the conductor would have refused him had he not explained his desperate need to get home. That took him almost to East Hilton; after that he had to walk. It was only four miles, but it was heavy going; the snow was deep, although the snow plough had cleared it once, only to have it blocked again two days later. He got a lift on a tractor for a couple of miles; the farmer was in despair. ‘All the sheep are getting buried in the snow – most of the ones I find are already dead. We’re going to lose most of the flock, and that means the lambs too. Don’t know how we’ll survive this year, I really don’t. We’re ruined already and it’s only just begun. As for the cattle . . .’
Tom said he was very sorry, but could find nothing else to offer by way of sympathy; he was almost relieved when the journey was over and he was back on the road. He had got very cold, sitting on the tractor; at least when he was walking, he got warmer – apart from his feet. He had his stoutest boots on, but they had begun to leak miles back; freezing wet feet didn’t make the walking any easier. He reached the cottage at three, opened the door and found himself confronted by a roomful of people – Arthur, Jess his eldest sister, two of her younger children, a couple of neighbours and, coming down the little staircase, Colin.
‘Oh,’ said Jess, rushing across the room and hugging him. ‘Oh, Tom, how good to see you. How wonderful of you to get here – we didn’t think it possible. ‘
‘Hello, Tom. It can’t have been an easy journey,’ said Colin.
‘Not exactly, but I’m here. How – how is he? I’m not too late . . .?’
‘No, he’s putting up a fight.’ It was Jess, white with exhaustion. ‘The doctor says he really should be in hospital. But he won’t go and anyway, how would we get him there? Oh, Tom, go up and see Mother quickly, she’ll be so pleased to see you.’
Mary was; she stared at him in silence for a long moment as if he was an apparition. Then her exhausted face relaxed, smiled even, and she stood up and went into his arms.
‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Thank God. Thank you, Tom, for coming. I didn’t think you would, the snow’s so bad . . .’
‘Well, of course I came,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner – you should have told us before.’
‘He’s gone down quite quickly,’ she said. ‘He’s got very frail recently, had funny pains in his chest, and I wouldn’t wonder if there wasn’t something else as well, but he refused to have any tests, said they were a waste of money. Got the cough that turned to bronchitis, and now – this.’
She turned to Jack, lying on the bed. He was breathing with horrible difficulty, coughing hideously in spasms; but he saw Tom and his face, like Mary’s, softened into a smile. He clasped his hand and said, between coughing spasms, ‘Hello, Tom. Good to see you.’
‘He should be in hospital,’ said Mary. ‘But he refuses. Says people die in hospital and if he does go, he wants it to be from his own bed.’
Jack’s wish was granted, three days later, during which time the snow fell relentlessly, a quiet and peaceful backdrop to the seemingly endless struggle within. Tom was in the room, holding one of his hands, when the moment came, Mary holding the other, both willing the end to come, Colin and Jess at the end of his bed; the others were all downstairs, for there was no room for more. The sudden silence and stillness in the room was a bittersweet relief; his suffering had been horrible to see. The doctor, exhausted himself and generous with his time and indeed his treatment, had done his best, administering what little he had of the only drug that might help, sulphonamide. His stock was small – Jack was not the only pneumonia patient in the village – and he made his decision, as supplies dwindled, that a small boy of four should take priority. Mercifully, the Knelston family did not know this.