lower back was hurting now, really quite badly, and a ripple of anxiety ran through her. She was ten days past term now and something told her that the baby inside her knew it. That it was just waiting, the little bleeder, for the worst possible moment, which, given she was out the front, attempting to get down far enough to scrub her front step, might just be now.
She bent back to her task again, scouring swiftly, anxious to finish now. Anxious to have everything ready for when this little one came into the world. Would she be blessed with a boy this time? She hoped so.
Not that she didn’t love her little Margaret, her precious daughter, who had probably saved her. But she really wanted a boy this time. For Reggie.
She’d been punished. She knew that. They both had. Punished by a vengeful God, for their wickedness before they’d married. He’d taken their firstborn, their dear little son, Frank, conceived out of wedlock and born just eight and a half months after. Snatched him from them before he was even a year old.
She could hardly bear to bring the pictures of that day to mind, even now. If she so much as thought about it – and she couldn’t help but think about it, what with a new baby imminent – the images would tumble in, swirling round and round her head, making her feel so sick and panicky that it was all she could do to try and shoo them away again. And it wasn’t like it had been a disease that had taken him, either. It had been an apple, just a ruddy piece of apple, that was all, that had done for her cherished firstborn. Choked him dead – killing him even as she watched. There’d been nothing anyone could have done – they’d all said that to her, everyone. Reggie too, but Annie still felt he blamed her.
Didn’t matter anyway. She’d been punished, and that was all there was to it. Reggie could never blame her as much as she blamed herself.
Annie gave up, puffing as she rose again, and glared at her next-door neighbour. It was always the same: Agnes Flanagan, queen of the perfect ox-blood doorstep, happily scrubbing away at hers with a stiff wire brush, getting a right lather on it with her trusty bar of soap. ‘You’ll scrub the bloody paint off if you carry on,’ Annie said, feeling an irrational amount of irritation that, right now, at least, she couldn’t have a nice, sparkling step too.
But she couldn’t – not with a belly the size of a baby hippo. With a belly, in fact, full of this bloody baby – where was it? Hopefully on its way, she thought, feeling her back twinge again.
‘Oh, be quiet, Annie,’ Agnes snapped. ‘Stop being such an old sourpuss. It’s jealousy is what it is, plain and simple. You’re only narked because you know your old man will notice mine’s the cleanest.’
Reggie wouldn’t. Annie knew that. He probably couldn’t have cared less. Wouldn’t even notice, because these days he seemed to prefer his time at the bloody pub. So much for the honeymoon ruddy period. Even so, just Agnes thinking that he might made Annie annoyed with her. If she hadn’t been so immobile she might have leapt the fence separating them and given Agnes a slap – just for being as annoying as she always was.
Which she had been, ever since they’d moved in two years back. An Irish couple in their thirties, they couldn’t have kids, apparently. Which meant they didn’t have any kids cluttering up their house, which for some reason seemed to make them feel superior. And it meant she had time, did Agnes Flanagan, something Annie sorely lacked. Time to have the cleanest windows, the shiniest step, the tidiest garden.
But she’d show the Flanagans. Show everyone, in fact. Once this little one was born, she’d definitely show them. They’d been talking about it, and Reggie had made her a promise – to dig up the garden and lay some turf for a proper lawn. Annie couldn’t wait to see the old cow’s face when she saw that.
‘Shut your cakehole, Agnes,’ she said now, anxious to get her own jibe in. ‘If your old man had a job, maybe he wouldn’t have the time to spend on women’s work. You only come out to the step so you can do your gossiping. It doesn’t even need cleaning. Stan only painted it again last week.’
‘Oh, my old man should get a job, should he?’ Agnes huffed, standing up now the better to waggle a finger in Annie’s direction. She was fond of doing that. Assuming the ten or so years that separated them gave her permission to carry on like she was Annie’s mother. ‘I’ll have you know, girl,’ she added, ‘that he has a chance of a great job. The railways are setting on and he’s been told he’s in with a chance. Now, that’s a job,’ she said, pausing to let the emphasis sink in. ‘Hmm, let me see … What is it your man does now? Oh yes, that’s right. He waits on up at the Punch Bowl, doesn’t he? When he’s not up there blind drunk, that is.’
Annie flinched as the pain left her back and gripped her abdomen. Gripped it hard, like a fist. Like a vice. Oh, how she wanted to fly for the old witch next door, but now definitely wasn’t the time. She was in labour. She knew the signs. And she knew time was short – little Margaret had been so quick she’d fairly fallen out. So instead, she leaned towards her neighbour and gripped the fencing between the houses. ‘Agnes! Go get the midwife, will you?’
Her neighbour’s demeanour changed instantly. ‘Oh, Annie,’ she said, looking anxious now. ‘Is it your time? Is it the baby?’ She dropped the brush and raised her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, what’ll I do?’
‘Just get the bloody midwife!’ Annie screamed as it hit her very forcefully that the pains were coming quicker now, and that her little one was spark out in her cot indoors, oblivious. ‘Then come straight back here and watch our Margaret for me!’ she added, trying to keep her legs from buckling. ‘Don’t stand there looking gormless, Agnes. Go!’
Agnes seemed to get the message then, abandoning the soap as well as the brush, then running down her path and out onto the estate. Thankfully, the local midwife only lived a few streets away and if there were no other babies being born that day – and fingers crossed there wouldn’t be – Agnes would find her home and ready to be called out.
Feeling reasonably calm now she knew help was on the way, Annie supported herself using the wall, and waited for the latest pain to subside before staggering back into the house. Once there she knew she had to try and think straight. Margaret was still asleep, curled into a comma in the cot Reggie had made for her, and for a moment or two Annie dithered about waking her. It was almost dinner-time though, and she’d soon be needing a feed. And if things started moving quickly, there’d be no chance of giving her one.
Decided, Annie moved towards the cot. She had to nurse her. And quickly, before the next contraction came – she knew only too well that it might be hours before she was fit enough to do it later. Groaning with the effort, she hauled her daughter from the cot, bringing the blankets with her, then settled into the big chair, better to get her breast out from under her pinny. ‘Come on, baby,’ she soothed to the semi-conscious toddler. ‘Shh, there, come on. Time you had your tea.’
Margaret was angry. And so she would be. She’d been disturbed from her slumbers. She kicked and fussed, at first refusing to take the breast. ‘Come on, you little bugger,’ Annie soothed, wincing as Margaret’s teeth clamped round her tender skin. ‘Make the most of it. You’ll be having to share it soon. Either that, or it’ll be down to the wet nurse with you,’ she gently joked. ‘And knowing her, it’ll come out sour!’
Margaret relaxed eventually and started to suckle, but as the pain started building again Annie knew it wouldn’t last – and, sure enough, as Annie writhed beneath her, Margaret snapped her head back angrily. ‘Mammy, no!’ she yelled, smacking Annie’s breast hard and kicking her. ‘Want bread! Want bread!’
‘Hush, Margaret,’ Annie
