Maggie's Child

Maggie’s Child

Glynis Smy

MAGGIE’S CHILD

Glynis Smy

Copyright © 2012 Glynis J Smy

First Edition

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN-13: 978 – 1481253352

                                                     ISBN-10: 1481253352

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Actual place/street names have been used, but not necessarily in the correct map area or town.

Credits: Cover image: Bigstock: AnnekaS

Dedication

For my children, Darren, Nicola, and Emma

who are always my babies, despite being too old to wear nappies.

I hold you in my heart forever and a day.

***

For my husband, Peter

who keeps me fed and supports me 100%.

***

For Mum, my biggest fan. Thanks for cheering me on.

***

Heartfelt thanks for support and encouragement go to:

Len Lambert for reading the first draft with enthusiasm.

To Talli Roland for cover creation support, and reading through for me. for spurring me forward yet again.

To Jen Moon and Dieter Moitz for their input on the cover creation.

Angela and Sally who listen over coffee and cheer me onto another bout of novel writing.

To my readers. Without you my dream would not be fulfilled. Thank you.

***

Also by Glynis Smy

Ripper, My Love (novel)

From My Heart Inside My Head (poetry)

Sticky Sandwiches (poetry)

Maggie’s Prayer

I have never seen your eyes-

nor looked into your heart-

it beats deep within-

the rhythm of life-

tick tiny tick tock-

timing is crucial-

days are long-

waiting-

hoping-

for a

Breath of Life.

Copyright GJSmy 2012

Chapter 1

Monday 13
^th
October 1856

Intense pain ripped through Maggie’s body in waves. Sweat lay on her brow and nausea drained her. She bit hard on the stick between her teeth. As she entered her sixth hour of labour - the longest pain of childbirth endured by Maggie - she convinced herself death must be around the corner, for her and the baby. In past pregnancies, labour was over within two hours, and the babies slithered wearily down the birth canal. All died within the first few minutes of arrival. This - her fifth pregnancy - seemed different. Unable to pinpoint as to why, Maggie concentrated on the task ahead.

Her body, sapped of energy, gave into nature. Maggie drew in a deep breath, arched her back, and pushed through the pain. Now came the moment she dreaded, the split seconds when life and death merged. When body and soul would cry out with the pain of loss. Bearing down, she bit deeper into the stick. Never had she felt so alone and helpless.

Damn you, Stephen Avenell. Damn your promises.

A breeze wafted across her face, and Maggie welcomed the cool offering. She placed trembling fingers between her legs, and her hands recoiled when she touched a warm sticky mass. With speed, she made out a rounded mound, and with slippery hands helped the tiny body into the world. She tugged gently, and while she wrapped her hands around the small mass, a hand grasped at her fingers. Maggie inhaled and held her breath for a few seconds; the wet hand had a firm grip. Tiny fingers moved and told her there was hope. She pushed away the stick with her tongue. The wood left behind earthy flavours. She longed to rinse away the taste, but there were no luxuries surrounding her at this delivery. She spat indelicately onto the ground beside her, and with as much speed as she could muster, Maggie pulled the babe onto her belly. With one arm supporting the child, she forced her body downwards and pushed out the afterbirth. With her free arm, she wiped herself clean with rags laid out in readiness.

Now came the moment of truth. Slowly she lifted her head and looked down at the squirming pink flesh, celebrating life on her abdomen. A sob caught in the back of Maggie’s throat when a small squeak escaped from rosebud lips. The cries of her baby were an orchestra to her ears. She had never heard a sound from her labours before today. The vibrations against her breastbone were like church bells on a wedding day for Maggie. A sound to be rejoiced.

She cut the cord with a clean knife from her basket, rubbed the child clean with a rag, and bound a binder tight around the rotund belly. Exhaustion kept her lying on the ground. She comforted the child upon her body with one hand, while she fumbled and wrapped the afterbirth in the bloodied rags, with the other. Maggie put them to one side, and reached out with trembling hands to hold her newborn for the first time. The warmth of its skin made hers tingle.

A red face settled to baby pink when she enclosed her arms around its tiny frame, and rested it gently in the crook of her arm. She traced her fingers around the mouth and down the cheeks. Eyes opened and looked into hers. Maggie’s whole being surged with powerful love as she looked back into them. Tears streamed down her face and ran along the soft downy head of a blue-eyed boy.

She had a son. Baby Sawbury had a mother. Two lives from one body was the only miracle Maggie had ever asked God to grant her. The only child, who managed to find solace in her womb and lived, was now telling the world the good news at the top of his lungs. Sadness crept into her soul when Maggie remembered what was to be done before nightfall. The task to be carried out would be the hardest task of her life. For nine months, she played the role of the happy pregnant woman, despite knowing she would never keep the child. Jacob had been fooled into believing the child was his once she suspected she was pregnant with her lover’s baby. Her husband showed no interest, claiming he would only be happy if she produced a boy, live and kicking. Maggie knew boy or girl - if it lived - Jacob would play no part in its life. Telling him was a ploy to protect her and the baby’s future. Now the time had arrived, it was a nightmare - not the plan she thought would be simple to carry out. In her heart of hearts, she had convinced herself this baby would die like his siblings. Now he lived, she needed to face the consequences.

Time was of the essence and Maggie moved quickly. She spoke to the baby in soothing tones while she wrapped him in linen robes.

‘I made these, little one. Your mama made these for you. Every stitch holds my love.’

They were nothing like the delicate outfits she had made for her firstborn, and those who followed. These were simple garments, with no embroidery; no identifying motif, but it lifted her spirits to think that at last, the tiny items she had kept secret were to be worn. Maggie would treasure this moment forever. She stopped rushing and gave herself a minute to enjoy her son. To absorb and make a memory of the most joyous event in her life. A twittering Yellow Hammer flew overhead, and Maggie fantasised it was telling the animal kingdom of a special arrival. Looking down at her son, she marvelled at his perfection, and traced a finger lovingly over his tiny button nose. Both she and Stephen had narrow noses. Maggie’s was petite with a slight tilt to the tip. Stephen’s was longer. Someone once described it as a Roman nose. The baby’s had a stubby shape, fortunately nothing that could be linked with either parent. His tiny fists punched the air; Maggie drew him close and held her cheek against his downy head.

‘Hush little one, all is well, you survived. God be praised. Know this, I will always love you. My heart will always hold you close. It is torn in two as I look down upon your beauty. Forgive me, but I cannot burden you with my life. When I next hold you, it will be in Heaven when we are reunited in the after world. I cannot let you live in my world on Earth. You deserve better, and my husband does not deserve you. He is not your blood, and I cannot bring myself to inflict him upon you. Your true father will never know you exist. He made his choices in life, as I have to make mine.’ Her voice was soft and tender as she crooned the only words she would ever say to her child.

Maggie wiped away the tears and gathered her belongings. The little boy lay in a wicker basket she had woven from soft wood. She had made a quilt in secret, from rags and old clothing casual farm workers left lying around over the past six months. From the moment she realised her pregnancy, she prepared for this day. Each item had to be anonymous - there could be no connection to her or the farm.

She tied a rag around her waist, and wedged it between her legs to absorb any blood. It chafed as she moved. She was sticky and sore, and the walk across the field to the roadside was a long painful one. Each bump of the basket tugged her insides. Now was not a good time to stop and adjust the rag for comfort. Maggie reached the long main road leading into Redgrave village centre. It was tree-lined with large horse-chestnut and sycamore trees. A russet carpet of leaves lay across the pathways, and the white tower of St Mary’s church was to her left. It indicated the south side of the village, and marked approximately one mile away from where she stood. Maggie turned her back to the majestic building and looked to the distance at a lone, large shape on the brow of a hill. Dark and dismal against the powder blue skyline was the outline of her home. It sat central to smaller buildings, and appeared forlorn among the furrowed lines of grey, brown fields and dilapidated fencing. The north side; the side that love forgot. It looked every bit as depressing as it was. Even a bright autumn day could not improve the view. A cruel fact of Maggie’s world gave her the nudge forward she needed. There was no turning back.

Shaking off the dark mood that threatened, she scouted around for a safe spot in the shade. The midday sun was not fierce but it could dehydrate an unattended child quickly, especially a newborn. Gently, Maggie placed the basket with its squalling contents onto the ground beside a large wall of greenery. The gorse bush would protect him from stray animals and give him shelter, but still allow him to be found. Despite the temptation, she did not touch him again. Maggie knew her resolve would break down. It would be so easy to scoop him into her arms and take him home.

Fight it, Maggie. Fight the urge.

Blowing him a kiss to last a lifetime, Maggie walked away with a heavy heart. Regret and remorse had no place inside the gap he had left at the present time. She would grieve later. Prayers - and hope - were her companions. Crawling into a small hollow of a hedge, Maggie lay low between the hawthorn and gorse. Her head ached and she was thirsty. There were only two hours left before her husband would miss her and Maggie prayed for a swift remedy to her predicament. It would be easier to walk away, but she wanted to see who claimed the child. She needed to reassure herself that all would be well in his new world. Should an unsavoury passerby pick him up, she would show herself and pretend she was answering the call of nature. Maggie had spent months contemplating how to secure a safe home for her child. To give birth and walk through the village holding a child, was not feasible. To give birth, hide a baby until dark, then place it on the doorstep of someone with money was not possible. A plan was needed, and this was the only one Maggie could come up with. Not ideal but necessary.

Her nipples tingled with the urge to feed her child. Her blouse was soaked. She fought against Mother Nature. Her son screamed for his mother. The louder his cries, the more the first breast fluids flowed, and she resisted with all her might. Brambles scraped at her legs, she crouched low, and placed her hands over her ears. Tears ignored her inner battle; they flowed adding to the dampness of her clothing.