‘No!’ Kathy squeezed his arm. ‘Ruby would never again trust me. She hates interference, even from the neighbours, and I gave my word not to blab about it.’ She gave David a stern look. ‘I let you in on it as I know you’ll keep it to yourself.’
‘Course I’ll keep it to myself,’ David reassured, dropping an arm about Kathy’s shoulders. ‘There are plenty of Ruby Potters about in the East End, I’m afraid. I couldn’t help them all, even if I wanted to.’ He sighed. ‘They all lie about tripping and falling to cover up for the old man anyway. If they don’t they get another pasting when he comes home.’
David had been walking the beat around Whitechapel for two years and had got to know the ways of the poorer residents. The women were rough but usually decent enough; their prime concern was pulling ends together because they were married to men who handed over a minimum of housekeeping to keep the rest of their wages for the pub. But Potter was a case apart. In a part-time capacity, working for Wes Silver, he was a hired thug and had served time for battery. He was well known to the constabulary at Leman Street where David was based.
‘Don’t have the best jobs in the world, do we, sweetheart?’
‘I like my job!’ Kathy protested with a chuckle, as she preceded David into the snug atmosphere of the café.
‘Wish I could say the same,’ David muttered, leading the way to a table.
‘Can you come quick, Nurse Finch? Me mum’s in a right state and she’s sent me to fetch yer.’
Kathy rubbed her bleary eyes, trying to focus on the panting boy hopping from foot to foot on her front step. Moments ago, she’d stumbled out of bed on hearing a furious hammering on the door. She’d been summoned before to deliver babies at night, but usually she opened up to find the woman’s husband prowling the path, sucking on a roll-up. Having recognised Ruby’s son, Kathy snapped to attention, gesturing he come in.
Beneath his threadbare coat, Peter’s thin chest was pumping and he could barely draw enough breath for his next words: ‘Me mum’s bleeding and she says you’re to come.’ He clutched at his sides as though assaulted by a stitch. Pulling a pair of women’s bloomers from his pocket he thrust them at Kathy. ‘She reckoned you’d want to see,’ he mumbled, turning about to hide his red-faced confusion.
Kathy examined the show of blood on grimy cotton that often heralded the start of labour. She’d been sure the Potter baby wasn’t due for at least another month. It was the woman she’d visited yesterday in Flower and Dean Street who was fit to burst at any moment.
‘Is your father at home getting things ready?’ Kathy demanded, blinking at the clock on the wall; it was almost half-past one in the morning. She had a feeling, whether Charlie was at home or not, she would find the house in a terrible state with no smell of carbolic soap in the air to reassure her the place was ready for the birth.
Peter shook his head. ‘Dunno where he is. Ain’t seen him for a few days.’
At this hour in the morning, if Ruby was in premature labour, even a man such as Charlie Potter might be of assistance in boiling water and finding old newspapers to spread around. It was a primitive but effective way of protecting bedding and clearing up quickly afterwards. ‘Go home, Peter, and stay with your mother. I’ll be along as soon as I’ve got my things together.’ Kathy could tell the lad was scared witless and on the point of bawling. ‘Off you go now!’ she ordered sharply, trying to snap him out of it. ‘Quick as you can! Is there a neighbour you can call on to help with your mother until I arrive?’
Peter shrugged, bottom lip wobbling.
‘Knock up the woman your mum is most friendly with and ask if she will help you. I promise I’ll be along just a few minutes after you get back.’
Peter hared down the front path and turned towards home. Kathy immediately closed the door and rushed to get dressed. She felt a frisson of uneasiness. Ruby Potter had had two children. She obviously knew the signs and stages of labour. Also, Ruby would not invite interference unless she had no choice. Kathy didn’t think the woman would have sent her son along at this time of the night unless she felt it was a genuine emergency.
Kathy wheeled her bike out of the shed, secured her case on it, then set off energetically through quiet gas-lit streets, glistening with springtime frost. Nervous exhilaration always set in whenever she was summoned to deliver a baby. But this time she felt anxious too. She didn’t relish the thought of Ruby being alone with just her young children at such a time, yet she knew it might be best if Charlie weren’t present. The vile beast might refuse to co-operate or help in what he’d consider to be none of his business. Kathy sighed, her breath freezing into a white mist, which she pedalled through. She feared the baby wasn’t Charlie’s, and knew Ruby did too. The last thing Kathy wanted was a violent outburst when she and Ruby were vulnerable and preoccupied with bringing the poor little mite into the world.
Kathy increased speed, though her aching legs felt on fire. She remembered Ruby recounting that Ivy Tiller had delivered her two previous children. Despite her own rigorous schooling, Kathy accepted that such people as Ivy, skilled through experience rather than textbook training, could be of invaluable help in some cases. No midwife, no matter how adept, knew if things would go to plan when the time came. On those occasions, another pair of hands was greatly appreciated. Kathy hoped there was such a woman in the street where Ruby lived and that Peter might be able to find her.
On turning the corner of Fairclough Street, Kathy was relieved to see a woman hovering in the Potters’ doorway, peering out. She recognised her as Mrs Mason, who lived on the end of the terrace of brick cottages. The neighbour waved urgently as soon as she spotted Kathy wheeling into view.
‘Thank goodness you’re here, Nurse. She’s delirious. Keeps cursing and telling me to get her mum, and I know she’s been dead for years.’ Peggy Mason retied her apron strings. She’d hurriedly dressed when Peter banged on her door and was feeling flustered.
Kathy parked her bike against the front wall, sped inside the house and into the back room, to find Ruby writhing on the bed. Little Pansy was crouched on the floor; her brother was clinging to his mother’s hand in a sweet attempt to comfort her.
‘Would you be able to stay and give a hand, Mrs Mason?’ Kathy asked quickly. She judged the birth might not be far off and prayed she’d have time to carry out basic preparations to keep mother and baby safe from infection in this insanitary dump.
‘For a while, I can,’ the woman agreed with scant enthusiasm. ‘But I’ve five kids of me own indoors and me husband’s off to work down the railway yard at four. He’ll expect something to eat before he sets off.’
Kathy bit back the retort that perhaps he might manage to get it for himself just this once as it was an emergency. But she knew these women were expected to act as skivvies to their menfolk. Her own father had held the same attitude and had stubbornly sat on his backside while her mother darted about like a blue-arsed fly.
‘Put some water to boil, please, and gather up any newspapers and old linen that you can find. Clean rags, mind, if there are any,’ Kathy added, optimistically. ‘There should be a birth pack here somewhere. I left it last week …’ Kathy whipped her attention to Ruby as she heard the woman whimper.
‘Just going to have a wash, then I’ll examine you properly, Mrs Potter,’ Kathy soothed, gently testing Ruby’s rigid abdomen with her fingers. ‘Peter, would you take Pansy back to bed then do whatever Mrs Mason tells you to do to help?’
The boy leaped up, dragging Pansy by the hand and scurried into the hallway.
‘Where’s Charlie, Nurse Finch?’ Ruby croaked.
‘I don’t know,’ Kathy replied. ‘Peter says he hasn’t seen him in a while.’
‘Can