The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(24)
“I know what you’re up to, and I want none of it,” Elsie suddenly announced, lifting up the baby. “I’m taking her back to her mum.”
“No, you’re ruddy well not,” I said, snatching the baby back and returning her to the box. “You’ll stay here and do as you’re told, or you won’t get a penny off me.”
“I don’t care about the money. It’s wrong, it is.” She brought a hankie to her little nose and blew it loud as a baby elephant, her pretty eyes begging me. “Can’t you see that? Can’t you give it back?”
“It’s being done for the right and proper reasons, and that’s all you need to know,” I told her.
“Well, I’m not having any of it,” she sniffed. “I’m going back to the Manor.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” I stood between her and the door. “I can’t have you ruining my plan!”
She tried to barge past me. I could hear the faint caterwauling of Hattie in labor next door and panicked that everything was about to collapse around me. “I’ll let you go if you promise not to tell anyone.”
She pondered for a moment. “I’ll not mention a word provided you give me my five quid.”
I seethed. It’s completely immoral to demand money for a service she’d failed to finish. But, like Hercules overcoming another obstacle, I reached into my black bag for the money. “You keep your mouth shut or it’ll be curtains.” She snatched the money away and barged past me into the sunshine. I fretted about what she’d say to Mrs. Winthrop, but then I imagined her dainty throat between my hands and focused on the task at hand, grabbing my bag and hurrying off to Hattie’s, leaving the baby girl to fend for herself in the box.
After a few knocks I let myself in to find Hattie slumped by the door, moaning loudly.
I leaped down to her and checked her—thank God the baby was still moving around inside. I prayed it was the boy I needed. Once I’d helped her up to bed, she moaned and strained, the baby refusing to budge.
That’s when I began panicking about the baby girl in the box in my kitchen. She would need milk by now, but I couldn’t get away from Hattie, who held my hand with a viselike grip. Would she be all right?
At last Hattie’s screams grew almost inhuman, and I felt panic rising—what would happen if she didn’t have a boy? Would the Brigadier have me disposed of in some gruesome way? I was petrified as a ferret in a snare by the time the baby eventually squirmed its way out.
But the surge of joy—it was a boy!
“It’s a girl!” I announced.
“Let me see her, let me hold her!” Hattie cried, leaning forward and trying to grasp the baby from my arms.
“No, she’s not breathing properly. I need to take her to my house to resuscitate her with my mechanical ventilator.”
Hattie screamed, “My baby!” And she was on him, dragging the blanketed little fellow out with all her might.
Scared to damage the baby, yet adamant to salvage the plan, I yanked him back with a lunging turn toward the door. “I have to go!” I screamed, pushing her back on the bed with a firm shove.
Her screams of “No” echoed through the house as I surged down the stairs and out the door, not knowing what I’d find when I got back to my house. The horror of finding the baby girl dead, white-blue and stiff, her big eyes glazed like a doll’s? Or maybe stupid Elsie had called the police, and I’d find the village matrons gathered to witness my downfall.
But the house was ominously quiet. My heart began to race. I am not the most saintly of people, I know, but I couldn’t bear to have caused the death of a baby. The vision of her lying dead in the box came to me, and I dashed for the kitchen.
I could hardly breathe as I looked into the box. There she was, pale and limp, her eyes closed. This couldn’t happen! My hand darted to her neck to feel her pulse. I felt a faint fluttering, and she opened her toothless mouth as wide as a baby hippo, and let out an ear-piercing screech.
I took her out of the box and thrust the bottle of milk into her gob.
“Don’t you worry, baby girl,” I muttered to her. “You’re about to have the most adoring mother this side of London.”
I placed the boy baby in the box, fitting a blanket around him as he seemed a scrawny kind of lad, the type to catch a chill. Then, scooping the girl back up, I headed back to Hattie’s.
Hattie was just inside the front door, desperate for me to return, still in her bloody nightdress, her dark curls wet and matted. “Is she all right?” she cried, panic on her face. “Is she going to be all right?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “She’s going to be fine.” I handed the baby into her outstretched arms, and she gazed at the perfect little face with blue, blue eyes and a little pointy chin, a coating of pale blond hair over her head. She truly was an exceptionally beautiful baby—and take it from me, most of them aren’t.
The afterbirth came promptly, with a little help, and after promising to be back as soon as I could, I wrenched myself away to deal with the boy. I could hear him bawling as soon as I opened the door, the little bugger, and had to stuff his mouth with a bottle as soon as I got to him. I took him in my arms, bottle and all, and headed for the door, but as I was nipping onto the green, I saw a group of women in the square. It was the WVS ladies just off the bus from Litchfield, Mrs. B. holding forth with Mrs. Quail and the dreaded Tilling woman.