The Dictionary of Lost Words(61)

It was Tuesday, and Mrs Travis had left for the day. Sarah was due for afternoon tea, and the sisters were in the kitchen getting the tray ready. When I came in, Ditte was arranging slices of cake on a plate, and Beth was heating the teapot. I was about to ask if I could help when I felt a trickle down the inside of my leg. Before I could register what it was, I felt it gush out. I gasped and the sisters turned.

‘I think it’s my waters,’ I said.

Ditte held a slice of cake and Beth the kettle. For a few seconds they hardly moved. Then suddenly they were flapping around like chickens in fright: turning this way and that and speaking over each other. They debated whether I should eat or avoid eating, continue with the raspberry-leaf tea or stop drinking it. Lie down or have a bath.

‘I’m sure the doctor said not to let her have a bath,’ said Beth.

‘But I remember Mrs Murray saying that a bath was such a relief, and she’s had hundreds of babies,’ said Ditte, with none of her usual calm and precision.

I didn’t feel like eating, drinking or bathing, but neither of them thought to ask.

‘I think I just need to change into something dry,’ I interrupted. I was still standing in the puddle that had sent the sisters into such a flurry.

‘Have the pains started?’ asked Beth.

‘No. I feel just as I did ten minutes ago, only damper.’

I hoped my response would calm them down, but they looked at me, bewildered. When they heard a knock at the door, they both rushed to answer it, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

‘Where is she?’ Sarah’s voice.

All three came into the kitchen, Sarah in the lead, an enormous smile on her freckled face.

‘This is all perfectly normal,’ she said, holding my gaze until she was sure I understood. Then she turned to the sisters and said it more sternly: ‘Perfectly normal.’ Noticing the cake on the kitchen table and steam rising from the pot, she said, ‘Ah, excellent. Tea will be just the thing. Esme and I will join you in ten minutes.’ She took my arm and led me up the stairs.

In my bedroom, Sarah kneeled on the floor in front of where I stood; she removed one shoe, then the other. Without comment, she reached under my skirt and unclipped my stockings. I felt her fingers walk the length of each leg as she rolled the stocking down. Gooseflesh followed in their wake. Sarah did not ask if she could care for me; she just did it.

‘Is it normal?’ I asked.

‘Your waters broke, Esme. And they flowed clear. It is perfectly normal.’

‘But Dr Scanlan said the pains would start straight after. I feel no different.’

She looked up, her hand stroking my calf absentmindedly.

‘The pain will come,’ she said. ‘In five minutes or five hours. And when it does, it will hurt like the devil.’

I knew this to be true, but had hoped there might be exceptions. I felt my face pale. She winked.

‘I advise swearing. It will relieve the pain when it is at its worst, though you have to be convincing. Nothing half-hearted or under your breath. Shout it out. Childbirth is the only time you can get away with it.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

She stood.

‘Where do you keep your nightclothes?’

I pointed to the bureau. ‘Bottom drawer.’

‘I’ve birthed two babies,’ Sarah said as she took out a clean nightdress. ‘Unfortunately, their waters did not run clear.’

She helped lift my dress over my head, then the slip. She kneeled again and used the slip to pat my legs dry. She removed my drawers, checking every inch of the damp cloth before finally bringing them to her nose.

I recoiled.

‘Smells as it should,’ she said, grinning at me. ‘I’ve also helped my sister birth five of her littluns. Her bloomers all smelled like this and each of those babes was born squalling.’

She threw the bloomers on the pile of other garments. There was nothing else to remove. I was as naked as I’d ever been.

‘Will you stay?’ I asked.

‘If you want me to.’

‘Do women usually swear when they have their babies?’

She dropped the nightdress over my head. It billowed, then settled against my skin like a breeze. She helped me find the arm holes.

‘If they know the right words, they can hardly help it.’

‘I know some quite bad words. I collect them from an old woman at the market in Oxford.’

‘Well, it’s one thing to hear them in the market and quite another to have them roll around inside your mouth.’ She took my dressing gown from the back of the door and helped me into it. ‘Some words are more than letters on a page, don’t you think?’ she said, tying the sash around my belly as best she could. ‘They have shape and texture. They are like bullets, full of energy, and when you give one breath you can feel its sharp edge against your lip. It can be quite cathartic in the right context.’

‘Like when someone cuts in front of you on the way to the cricket?’ I said.

She laughed. ‘Oh dear. Philip calls it my motormouth. I hope you weren’t offended.’

‘A bit surprised, but I think that’s when I started to really like you.’

No words then; Sarah just stood on her toes and kissed me on the cheek. I bent slightly to meet her.