Once a Land Girl (19 page)

By the time Prue was seven months pregnant she was feeling extraordinarily well. The sickness long past, most of her old energy had returned and she was thrilled whenever she felt the baby
kicking.

One morning she arrived at the farm to find that neither the Ganders’ car nor the trailer was there. A message was pinned to the door. Steve and Dawn had taken Jack to be shod, and would
then be going on to the market – perhaps to check the price of pigs, thought Prue, with a smile.

It was a morning of pallid sun and cool breeze. Prue had no heart to return home. She liked the routine of leaving the claustrophobia of The Larches for three days a week to come to the farm and
spend the day outside. She decided to wait for Jack to come back, go for a walk before returning to the bungalow to look at yesterday’s
Daily Mirror
. She set off for the woods.

The bare winter trees, the colour of smoke, were tugged by the breeze and the undergrowth sparkled from last night’s rainfall. Prue loved such winter mornings. At Hallows Farm, when she
and the others had had to be out in the fields at five in the morning, she had loved the sharpness of the air, the sudden frosty chill on her cheeks. She walked fast along the path that dipped down
into the valley, then left the wood to go along the side of the pigs’ field.

A few yards ahead she saw a huge and bad-tempered old Middle White sow standing in the path, foraging in the earth outside her field. Prue moved slowly towards her. She came to the large hole in
the hedge through which the pig had evidently escaped, and cursed herself for not mentioning it to Steve. Still, to usher the pig back into its own field and block the exit with a fallen branch
would not be difficult.

As she came nearer to the sow it raised its head, grunted. It stared at her, its veined ears, hostile, menacing. Prue was alarmed by its threatening air. She would have to be careful.

Slowly she moved past it, turned. Her plan was to whack it on the buttocks – just hard enough to make it understand it should go back through the hole in the hedge. She bent to pick up a
small stick lying on the ground. As she did so she felt the baby give a thumping kick. She brought down the stick on the pig’s hindquarters, not very hard, shouting orders as she used to at
Sly.

But the sow, furious at being discovered and disturbed, had no intention of returning to its own muddy pasture. With an ear-piercing squeal she leapt forward and began to lumber towards the
wood. Prue, amazed by the speed of so gross an animal, watched her in horror. There was a path out of the wood that led to the road. If the pig . . . Prue reflected no further. She began to run
after it.

But to get ahead of the sow and turn her back would mean she had to run very fast. She was naturally a good sprinter but the size of her belly, now, was an impediment. She increased her speed.
Running, just running, she thought, can’t do any harm.

And it didn’t. In the wood she followed the pig’s tracks, the grunts and squeals, and came upon her snuffling at the root of an oak tree. Prue picked up a large fallen branch, gave
the animal orders in what she judged was a persuasive voice. By lucky chance the sow, enfeebled by the spurt of exercise, decided to co-operate. With a defeated grunt she trotted back to the gap in
the hedge, eased her way through and made for her friends on the brow of the hill. Prue, bending awkwardly, followed. She pulled some stray branches across the gap. Steve would have to arrange
something more secure when he got back.

The incident now over, Prue felt a sudden weariness. It must be due to the anxiety of the near-disaster, she thought. She began to climb the hill. Her feet were heavy: the churned-up mud grasped
her boots. The stench from the shelters came in waves on the breeze, sickening, eye-watering. Suddenly she felt a strong, hot pain in her lower back.

Prue stopped, arched her spine, rubbed it. It persisted. Nothing to do with the baby, she thought. Labour pains were surely in the stomach. She set off again, very slowly, bending as she went to
ease the pain. But there was no ease. The pain increased. And then she felt wetness on the legs of her winter dungarees. She saw dark stains gushing through the corduroy, clotting its pile.

Prue told herself not to panic, to keep going. When she reached the bungalow Steve would run her to the hospital, just in case something was wrong.

Somehow she made her mud-heavy boots plod on. She placed both hands on her stomach to stop their shaking. It felt taut and hard as iron. Sometimes the scorching pain stopped for a moment, then
returned with greater strength. By the time she reached the top of the field, and was in sight of the farm buildings, she was groaning out loud. The pigs raised their heads and looked at her. Tears
were pouring down her cheeks. The Ganders and Jack the Lad had not returned.

The gate from the field to the farmyard was heavy and stiff – always an effort to open it. In her panic, and with only a filament of energy left, it took Prue several moments. With no time
to try to shut it behind her, she turned to make for the shed. No longer able to run, she hobbled, bent almost double now. A chorus of squeals from the pigs made her glance back at the field: they
were surging through the open gate, lumbering about the farmyard in celebration of their freedom. Prue didn’t care. There was nothing she could do.

As she made her way to the shed she could feel the baby pushing down. The pain was grotesque. In the shed at last she made her way to a single layer of sacks of pig feed. She longed for bales of
hay, the comfort of Hallows Farm’s barn. But there was no hay, no straw. Shaking, she pulled off her jacket, laid it over a sack. She knew there was no hope of pulling off her boots. So she
tore down her dungarees and pants to below her knees, and threw herself on the bed of pig feed. She could hear her own screams, a kind of torn, blue noise that curdled with the ghastly sound of the
pigs’ hysterical squealing. She opened her eyes to see the shed’s corrugated roof: its striated lines seemed to quiver.

Minutes later – it might have been ten, or eternity – she felt a scalding sensation that she thought would rip her apart. Then something slid between her legs. The pain stopped.

Prue heaved herself into a sitting position. Between her thighs lay a pink and blue baby. It wriggled. It looked very small, but Prue had no idea of the size of a new-born baby. The umbilical
cord glinted in a wisp of sunlight that had appeared in the shed. Prue kept looking, unable to believe what she saw. The baby was a boy. Barry would be pleased. She noticed her son had thin,
definitely amber-coloured hair.

Prue knew little about babies. It had been her plan to study the intricacies of childbirth in the last two months of her pregnancy. She vaguely remembered hearing they had to be smacked as soon
as they were born. Strong with relief that the pain had ceased, Prue acted instinctively. She picked up the bloody little creature, who slithered about in her grasp. She felt oddly proud. With a
shaking hand she thumped him gently on the back. He whimpered for a moment, then began to yell.

It was cold in the shed. The earlier fragment of sun – which, in her spinning mind, Prue fancied had come to congratulate her – had gone. She knew she had to get the baby to hospital
as soon as possible. But how? No one was here. The nearest ambulance was miles away – if, indeed, she could get into the bungalow to use the telephone.

There was a sudden, second expulsion from between her legs. For a horrified moment Prue thought it might be another baby. Then she realized it must be the afterbirth. She had heard of that but
had had no idea what to expect, or what should be done with it. It was attached to the umbilical cord, which was attached to the baby. Prue was surprised that she could look on the alarming
products of her womb with some detachment. From outside the barn, the pigs’ screams were louder. In the terrifying wonder of the birth, she had forgotten about them.

Prue pulled the blood-sodden jacket from beneath her and dumped the scarlet mess of baby and attachments into it. She wrapped them as well as she could. Then, standing shakily, she pulled up her
sodden dungarees, but could not waste time on the buttons. She picked up the whole bloody parcel, cradled it in her arms, and turned to move outside. Her legs were unsteady. She had trouble in
keeping her balance.

Just before she reached the opening of the shed a pig appeared, its head back, sniffing, grunting, squealing, excited by the smell of her and the baby. Then another, and another. In a moment a
crowd of pigs was barring her way. Some of them nudged her legs with flared, wet nostrils. Others, in their excitement at the smell of blood, made a heavy, hopeless attempt at jumping up to reach
the baby she held. Prue shouted abuse at them. With a surge of adrenalin, she barged through the obscene animals, feeling their scratchy warmth on her legs, to the Sunbeam. They followed her,
squealing louder. Prue flung open the passenger door, threw the jacket and its extraordinary contents onto the seat. The straps of the dungarees were slipping off her shoulders: the entire rank
garment was descending, impeding every movement.

Once in the car, the warmth of its leather seats rose up to her like a balm, but the baby was screaming again. ‘God, help me,’ she cried out loud. ‘Don’t let him
die.’ Her bloody finger kept slipping on the starter button.

God granted her wish. The engine started. She could hear the pigs still clamouring round the car, snuffling furiously at its sides. Prue banged the horn. A few pigs jumped away, the baby
screamed louder. She put her foot on the accelerator and lurched forward, hitting some of the animals, she was sure. But she didn’t care. She was aware that the adrenalin was still there to
help her. Suddenly completely in control, she found herself driving faster than she had ever driven down the rutted track to the road. She could see everything as clearly as in a nightmare: the
frill of new sun round the edge of a black cloud, the shadow patterns of bare trees on the mercifully empty roads to Manchester. She swerved too fast round corners with no thought of danger.

The baby’s screams died down to a whimper. She glanced at his face above the blood-sodden lapel of her jacket. A minute hand wavered across his forehead. Tears came to Prue’s eyes,
blurring her vision. She saw blood oozing through the jacket and was terrified lest any part of its contents slipped onto the floor. But she knew that in a matter of moments, now, someone else
would take charge of the whole business. Safe in the hospital she would be able to start again. She would be able to think. The comfort of this idea made her smile through her tears.

Prue concentrated on a last tyre-screeching turn into the hospital grounds. She slammed on the brakes outside Casualty. In the distance a nurse was walking towards her. She wore a cloak and a
frilly white cap, which seemed to be a halo, worn by someone who would know what to do. ‘Thank God,’ Prue whispered. She opened the door and screamed for help. The baby twitched
violently at the sound. The nurse appeared not to be getting any nearer, though her legs were moving, like those of a figure in a bad dream. Prue yelled again. The word ‘help’ was lost
in an abstract scream. Then the nurse, her kindly face out of focus, was bending down into the car, enquiring, smiling, calmer than anyone Prue had ever seen.

Prue felt the cut of a stiff sheet against her cheek. She moved her thighs together. They were dry. She opened her eyes. Thin flowered curtains were drawn across a small
window. The walls of a narrow room were painted blue, but not a blue she recognized. She felt too drowsy to concentrate, and wondered what they had given her.

In the absolute silence, threads of the morning’s events began to weave across her empty mind. Pictures were outlined in red – the baby, the bags of pig feed, her jacket, the car
seat, the baby. Her son. Where was he? Prue glanced at each side of the bed for a cradle. There was nothing. Why not? She thought mothers had their babies beside them in hospital. What had happened
since she had arrived and called out to a nurse with a kindly face? She couldn’t remember.

The silence was broken by raised voices. The door opened. Barry flung in carrying a bunch of chrysanthemums so large it hid the top half of his body. He dropped it onto the end of the bed.
‘Where’s a vase?’ He turned to a nurse who had followed him in. ‘We need a vase, water.’ The nurse, lips gripped into a single line, left the room. Barry looked at
Prue with something near to reluctance. He bent over her, kissed her hair. The heaviness of his body was painful on her breasts. She wondered vaguely how the hospital had got hold of him, but she
didn’t care.

‘Sweetheart!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve seen him. My son.’ The crumpled skin beneath his eyes was damp. ‘What a thing to happen,’ he said. ‘What
you’ve been through. Terrible for you. Terrible. I told you you should have given up all that bloody stupid farm work. Still, the main thing is Alfred’s all right. He’s
fine.’

‘Alfred?’

‘Didn’t I tell you he has to be called Alfred? After my Sheffield uncle, the one who encouraged me. It’s always been my dream to have a son called Alfred.’

‘I see.’ Prue heaved herself up on the pillows. Nothing in the room was quite still.

Barry sat on the bed. ‘Haven’t they brought him in to you?’

‘No.’ In her drowsiness Prue felt no sense of urgency about seeing her son. She loathed the name Alfred.

‘Maybe, if you don’t like Alfred, we could call him plain Fred. Though Alfred would be on the birth certificate. I’ll attend to all that, sweetheart.’

‘Right.’

‘Would you like me to take you to see him? He’s in – what do you call it? The place where they put the babies in those incubator things.’

‘Later,’ said Prue. ‘I’m a bit tired.’

‘Of course.’ Barry sighed. ‘They say he’ll pull through. They say he’ll be fine in a while.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Looks pretty good to me. He’s very small, of course. But a mighty fine little fellow, I’m telling you. He’s got a good punch on him. Raised his fist at me . . .’
Barry gave a half-smile, lifted his arm with a clenched fist, punched the air. Prue managed a smile. Barry took her wrist. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It wasn’t meant to be like
this. Must have been a terrible shock, and then you managed so bravely, driving yourself here, they told me.’ A splay of fat fingers went up to each eye in turn, wiped it. ‘I
can’t wait for you to have a look at him. He looks like me, I’d say. Though he does have rust-coloured hair – auburn, you could call it. But then I had a great-aunt who was a
redhead. At least, everybody thought she was a redhead till one day she couldn’t get to the hairdresser in time and her secret was out . . .’ His shoulders rose in his effort to make
Prue smile. But when she simply looked towards the window and asked him to draw the curtains, he turned his attention to his watch. ‘Better be getting back, sweetheart. Things to organize.
Got to get the little fellow’s room done. Painters and so on. Any colour you’d like?’