“Breathe deeply and slowly, my dear,” encouraged Mrs. Westlake in a gentler voice, as Charlie came back with three towels and a kettle of hot water.
Without turning to see who it was, Mrs. Westlake continued. “Leave the towels on the sideboard, pour the water in the largest bowl you’ve got, then put the kettle back on so that I’ve always got more hot water whenever I call for it.”
Charlie disappeared again without a word.
“I wish I could get him to do that,” gasped Becky admiringly.
“Oh, don’t worry, my dear. I can’t do a thing with my own husband and we’ve got seven children.”
A couple of minutes later Charlie pushed open the door with a foot and carried another bowl of steaming water over to the bedside.
“On the side table,” said Mrs. Westlake, pointing. “And try not to forget my tea. After that I shall still need more towels,” she added.
Becky let out a loud groan.
“Hold my hand and keep breathing deeply,” said the midwife.
Charlie soon reappeared with another kettle of water, and was immediately instructed to empty the bowl before refilling it with the new supply. After he had completed the task, Mrs. Westlake said, “You can wait outside until I call for you.”
Charlie left the room, gently pulling the door closed behind him.
He seemed to be making countless cups of tea, and carrying endless kettles of water, backwards and forwards, always arriving with the wrong one at the wrong time until finally he was shut out of the bedroom and left to pace up and down the kitchen fearing the worst. Then he heard the plaintive little cry.
Becky watched from her bed as the midwife held up her child by one leg and gave it a gentle smack on the bottom. “I always enjoy that,” said Mrs. Westlake. “Feels good to know you’ve brought something new into the world.” She wrapped up the child in a tea towel and handed the bundle back to its mother.
“It’s—?”
“A boy, I’m afraid,” said the midwife. “So the world is unlikely to be advanced by one jot or tittle. You’ll have to produce a daughter next time,” she said, smiling broadly. “If he’s still up to it, of course.” She pointed a thumb towards the closed door.
“But he’s—” Becky tried again.
“Useless, I know. Like all men.” Mrs. Westlake opened the bedroom door in search of Charlie. “It’s all over, Mr. Salmon. You can stop skulking around and come and have a look at your son.”
Charlie came in so quickly that he nearly knocked the midwife over. He stood at the end of the bed and stared down at the tiny figure in Becky’s arms.
“He’s an ugly little fellow, isn’t he?” said Charlie.
“Well, we know who to blame for that,” said the midwife. “Let’s just hope this one doesn’t end up with a broken nose. In any case, as I’ve already explained to your wife, what you need next is a daughter. By the way, what are you going to call this one?”
“Daniel George,” said Becky without hesitation. “After my father,” she explained, looking up at Charlie.
“And mine,” said Charlie, as he walked to the head of the bed and placed an arm round Becky.
“Well, I have to go now, Mrs. Salmon. But I shall be back first thing in the morning.”
“No, it’s Mrs. Trumper actually,” said Becky quietly. “Salmon was my maiden name.”
“Oh,” said the midwife, looking flustered for the first time. “They seem to have got the names muddled up on my call sheet. Oh, well, see you tomorrow, Mrs. Trumper,” she said as she closed the door.
“Mrs. Trumper?” said Charlie.
“It’s taken me an awful long time to come to my senses, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Trumper?”
DAPHNE
1918–1921
CHAPTER