Later, there were groaning sounds from the bedroom and it was only his father’s hand on his that stopped Danny from leaping up and into the room to find out what was happening. ‘Let them get on with it, lad,’ he advised more than once. ‘This is women’s work. Rosie will be as right as rain. Sure, isn’t she in the best of hands?’
She might have been, but there was no way Danny would sleep that night, with it all going on just yards away. When Phelan was eventually driven to his bed with weariness, Matt sat on with his eldest son. Matt had been relieved they’d had no further children after Phelan. They had two fine sons by then and two beautiful daughters and he had no wish to see the body dragged out of Connie with a child every year. Yet, he was a normal man and Connie a sensual woman and she’d never refused him, but luckily there had been nothing to show for it since Phelan’s birth.
Life was strange right enough, he thought, as he gave the fire another poke. All around them there were families of ten – even twelve or fourteen weren’t uncommon – and Matt knew many men found it hard to earn the money to feed and clothe so many. There was a sudden strangled scream from the room and Danny, unable to remain still any longer, leaped to his feet. ‘Easy, lad,’ Matt said, standing up himself and putting his arm round his son’s shoulder. ‘I’ll brew up a pot of tea and put a wee tot of whisky in it, shall I? That’ll put you right.’
Danny wanted no tea, laced or not, yet he knew it would help his father to do something and so he gave a nod. ‘If you like,’ he said, and then with a glance at the closed door, asked, ‘How much bloody longer?’
‘God, lad, could be hours yet,’ Matt said, pressing his son back into a chair and pulling out the kettle to rest above the glowing peat. ‘’Specially with the first. Dear God, always worst with the first.’
Danny said nothing. His insides were tied in knots through fear and worry. Matt made the tea and Danny drank it without tasting it and still they sat. Eventually, Danny noticed his father trying to cover his yawns with his hand, and immediately felt guilty for keeping him up. ‘Go to bed, Da. You’ll need to be up for milking in a few hours.’
‘Aye,’ Matt said, getting to his feet relieved. ‘I won’t say I’m not weary.’ And then he leaned across to Danny and said, ‘See if your mother and that Abigail would like a sup of tea, and Rosie too. None of them have had anything for a few hours now and God knows it’s already been a long night.’
‘Aye, I will,’ Danny agreed, knowing he wouldn’t sleep either. ‘And I’ll make the tea, don’t worry. Go on to bed.’
Later, when he knocked on the door to tell them he had a cup of tea ready and his mother came out to take the tray, he asked anxiously about Rosie. ‘She’s fine, Danny. Dozing between the contractions now.’
‘Does it…Is it normal to take so long?’
‘God bless you, Danny, it’s been no time at all yet.’
‘I hate to think of her in so much pain.’
‘And Rosie, like many before her, will forget it as soon as she holds that wee baby in her arms.’
Danny doubted that, but returned to his seat before the fire and settled himself again for the long vigil.
He was dozing when his father came down the stairs for the milking a few hours later, but stirred when he heard him making tea. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and struggled to his feet. ‘No, lad,’ Matt said. ‘Stay and rest yourself, Phelan will give me a hand.’
‘Daddy, I’d be better doing something,’ Danny said.
Connie came out of the room carrying the tray at that moment and at the enquiring look from her son she shook her head. ‘Nothing yet.’
Danny sighed. He was glad to follow his father to the byre. A little later, with his forehead leaning on the cow’s velvety flanks and hearing the hiss-hiss of the jets of milk hitting the pail he felt more at peace. The rhythm of milking the soft, gentle cows, who stood so placid throughout with only the barest flick of their tails, often had this effect on him.
Back in the bedroom there was no such peace. Rosie was now in agony. She bit her lip to prevent the screams from spiralling from her, but she couldn’t help the gasping sobs and the strangled yelps.
She was glad she wasn’t alone, glad of Connie’s hand in hers, unaware that her nails had scored that hand often through the right. She thrashed on the bed, trying to get rid of the pain inside her that threatened to break her in two. ‘Hush, pet. Lie still,’ Abby said again and again. ‘Soon be over.’
How soon? Dear God, Rosie thought, this pain has been going on for hours already. No one warned me it would hurt like this.
Abigail tied a towel to the head of the bed. ‘Pull on that when the pain gets too bad,’ she said. ‘Many find it helps.’
Rosie glared at her. When the pain gets bad! ‘Every pain is bad, you stupid bugger,’ she wanted to cry, but the throes of agony took all of her energy and this time she tugged on the towel so hard she threatened to bring the bedhead on top of her.
And so it went on, hour after hour. Connie never left her side, for Rosie seemed to gain comfort from her presence and she continually wiped the sweat from her face, telling her she was a good girl and doing just fine.
Sarah and Elizabeth called in before they left for work and took in the situation in one glance. They felt sorry for Rosie: she was so ravaged by pain, her eyes glazed and sweat lending a sheen to her pale skin, for all Connie’s efforts.
‘We’ll see to breakfast,’ Sarah told her mother. ‘Shall I make something for you?’
Connie looked across at Abigail, who gave a brief nod. ‘Best have something,’ she said. ‘We have to keep our strength up if we’re to help the girl.’
But suddenly Rosie arched in the bed and Connie knew they’d soon be too busy to eat or drink anything. Rosie let out a long low scream just as Danny was coming in through the cottage door. He felt as if his heart had stopped beating. ‘What is it?’ he asked his sisters. ‘Dear God, what’s up with Rosie?’
‘She’s fine,’ Sarah said, closing the door firmly behind her, knowing it would do no good at all for Danny to catch sight of his wife now.
The breakfast was eaten to a background of groans and cries and the occasional scream or shout and Sarah and Elizabeth were glad to leave the farmhouse. Phelan too found many duties that kept him outside.
By eleven o’clock, Rosie was visibly tiring and Connie and Abigail became concerned. ‘I’m going to have a wee feel about,’ Abigail said. ‘But first I’ll scrub my hands. Seen too many women die because of infection.’
There was a pot of water hanging on the fire in readiness for this and Abigail poured some of it into the basin, and added cold from the bucket by the door. She began washing her hands thoroughly, glad the men, especially the girl’s husband, were out of doors.
‘Now,’ she said, returning to the room. ‘Let’s have a look.’
She lifted the bedclothes up and bent Rosie’s knees and felt gently inside her. Rosie was too far gone to know or care what Abigail was doing and Abigail nodded confidently. ‘I can feel the head. It’s nearly there. She must push through the pain now. Rouse her, Connie, for it’s time for her to help us along.’
Rosie didn’t want to be roused, and certainly didn’t want to push. What was Connie talking about? The pains tearing through her body took her breath away, especially now there was such little space between them. ‘I can’t push,’ she said mutinously.
‘You can and you must,’ Connie said firmly. ‘Take hold of me and when the next pain comes, push with all your heart and soul.’
Rosie pushed but when that almighty effort yielded nothing, Connie said, ‘All right,