The Giver of Stars(106)

‘Okay, I think she’s coming. Alice, you hold on now.’

After that everything became a blur. As the sun rose, forcing fingers of blue light through the narrow bars, Alice remembered the events as if on a ship in high seas: the rocking of the floor beneath them, Margery’s body, thrown one way and then another by the force of her labours, the scents of blood and sweat and bodies pressed together, the noise, the noise, the noise. Margery hanging on to her, her face pleading, afraid, begging them to help me, help me, her own rising panic. And underneath it all Sophia, calm and reassuring one moment, bullying and fierce the next. Yes, you can, Margery. C’mon, girl. You got to push now! Push harder!

Alice had feared for a dreadful moment that here, in the heat and the dark and the animal sounds, with this sense that they were on their own, locked into this journey, the three of them, she might faint. She was frightened of the uncharted depths of Margery’s pain, afraid to see this woman who had always been so strong, so capable, reduced to a crying, wounded animal. Women died doing this, didn’t they? How could Margery not, in such agony? But just as the room swam, she caught Sophia’s fierce expression, saw Margery’s furrowed brow, her eyes swimming with tears of despair – I can’t! – and she gritted her teeth and leaned forward so that Margery’s forehead was pressed against her own.

‘Yes, you can, Marge. You’re so close now. You listen to Sophia. You can do this.’

And then suddenly as Margery’s wail reached an unbearable pitch – a sound that was like the end of the world and all its agonies compressed, thin, drawn out, unendurable – there was a shout and a noise like a fish landing on a slab and Sophia was suddenly gripping this wet, purple creature in her arms, her face illuminated and her apron bloodied as the baby’s hands lifted blindly, grappling with the air for something to hold on to.

‘She’s here!’

And Margery turned her head, the tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks, the survivor of some terrible, solitary battle, and on her face was an expression Alice had never seen before, and her voice was a soft keening, like cattle in a shed, nuzzling a calf, ‘Oh, baby, oh, my baby!’ And as the tiny girl let out a thin, lusty cry, the world shifted, and they were suddenly laughing and crying and clutching at each other, and the men in the cells, whom Alice had not known were there, were exclaiming in heartfelt tones, ‘Thank the Lord! Praise Jesus!’ And in the darkness and the filth and the blood and mess, as Sophia wiped the baby, wrapped her in the clean cotton sheet and handed her to the trembling Margery, Alice sat back and wiped her eyes with her sweating, bloodied hands and thought she had never been anywhere so glorious in all her born days.

She was, Sven said that evening, as they toasted him in the library, the most beautiful child who had ever been born. Her eyes the darkest, her hair the thickest, her tiny nose and perfect limbs unparalleled in history. Nobody felt inclined to disagree. Fred had brought a Mason jar of moonshine and a crate of beers, and the librarians wetted the baby’s head and thanked the Lord’s mercy, deciding for that evening at least not to look further than the joy of that safe delivery, that Margery was even now cradling the tiny child with a mother’s fierce pride, enraptured by her perfect face, her tiny seashell fingernails, briefly oblivious to her own pain and circumstances, while even Deputy Dulles and the other jailers passed by to admire her and offer their congratulations.

No man had ever been prouder than Sven. He could not stop talking – of how brave and clever Margery was to produce such a creature, of how alert the child was, the way she had held his finger in a fierce grip. ‘She’s an O’Hare all right,’ he said, and they all cheered.

For Alice and Sophia the night’s events had started to catch up with them. Alice was exhausted, her eyelids drooping, her gaze flickering to Sophia’s, which was tired but relieved. Alice felt as if she had emerged from a tunnel, as if she had lost some layer of innocence she had barely been aware of.

‘I’ve sewn her a layette,’ Sophia told Sven. ‘If you could take it to Margery tomorrow the child will have something decent to wear. A blanket, some booties, a little hat and a sweater in light cotton.’

‘That’s mighty kind of you, Sophia,’ said Sven. He was unshaven and his eyes kept filling with tears.

‘And I have some things from my babies she can have,’ said Kathleen. ‘Spare vests and cotton squares and suchlike. It’s not like I’m going to need them again.’

‘You never know,’ said Beth.

But Kathleen shook her head firmly. ‘Oh, I know.’ She stooped to pick at something on her breeches. ‘There was only one man for me.’

At this Fred caught Alice’s eye and, after the euphoria of earlier in the day, she felt suddenly sad, and weary. She hid it under a toast. ‘To Marge,’ she said, holding up her enamel mug.

‘To Margery.’

‘And Virginia,’ said Sven, and, as they all looked at him: ‘After Margery’s sister.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s what she wants. Virginia Alice O’Hare.’

‘Well, that’s just a beautiful name,’ said Sophia, nodding her approval.

‘Virginia Alice,’ they echoed, lifting their mugs. And then Izzy abruptly got up and announced that she was sure there was a book of names somewhere and she would very much like to know where it came from. And everyone else, swallowing just as hard and more than grateful for the distraction, agreed, so that nobody had to look at Alice, who was now sobbing, silently, in the corner.