As the Crow Flies Read online

  “How long between the spasms?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “Down to twenty minutes,” Becky replied.

  “Excellent. Then we don’t have much longer to wait.”

  Charlie appeared at the door carrying a bowl of hot water. “Anything else I can do?”

  “Yes, there certainly is. I need every clean towel you can lay your hands on, and I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

  Charlie ran back out of the room.

  “Husbands are always a nuisance on these occasions,” Mrs. Westlake declared. “One must simply keep them on the move.”

  Becky was about to explain to her about Charlie when another contraction gripped her.

  “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

  13

  When I opened the letter, I confess I didn’t immediately recall who Becky Salmon was. But then I remembered that there had been an extremely bright, rather plump pupil by that name at St. Paul’s, who always seemed to have an endless supply of cream cakes. If I remember, the only thing I gave her in return was an art book that had been a Christmas present from an aunt in Cumberland.

  In fact, by the time I had reached the upper sixth, the precocious little blighter was already in the lower sixth, despite there being a good two years’ difference in our ages.

  Having read her letter a second time, I couldn’t imagine why the girl should want to see me, and concluded that the only way I was likely to find out was to invite her round to tea at my little place in Chelsea.

  When I first saw Becky again I hardly recognized her. Not only had she lost a couple of stone, but she would have made an ideal model for one of those Pepsodent advertisements that one saw displayed on the front of every tram—you know, a fresh-faced girl showing off a gleaming set of perfect teeth. I had to admit I was quite envious.

  Becky explained to me that all she needed was a room in London while she was up at the university. I was only too happy to oblige. After all, the mater had made it clear on several occasions how much she disapproved of my being in the flat on my own, and that she couldn’t for the life of her fathom what was wrong with 26 Lowndes Square, our family’s London residence. I couldn’t wait to tell Ma, and Pa for that matter, the news that I had, as they so often requested, found myself an appropriate companion.

  “But who is this girl?” inquired my mother, when I went down to Harcourt Hall for the weekend. “Anyone we know?”

  “Don’t think so, Ma,” I replied. “An old school chum from St. Paul’s. Rather the academic type.”

  “Bluestockin’, you mean?” my father chipped in.

  “Yes, you’ve got the idea, Pa. She’s attending someplace called Bedford College to read the history of the Renaissance, or something like that.”

  “Didn’t know girls could get degrees,” my father said. “Must all be part of that damned little Welshman’s ideas for a new Britain.”

  “You must stop describing Lloyd George in that way,” my mother reprimanded him. “He is, after all, our prime minister.”

  “He may be yours, my dear, but he’s certainly not mine. I blame it all on those suffragettes,” my father added, producing one of his habitual non sequiturs.

  “My dear, you blame most things on the suffragettes,” my mother reminded him, “even last year’s harvest. However,” she continued, “coming back to this girl, she sounds to me as if she could have a very beneficial influence on you, Daphne. Where did you say her parents come from?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied. “But I think her father was a businessman out East somewhere, and I’m going to take tea with her mother sometime next week.”

  “Singapore possibly?” said Pa. “There’s a lot of business goin’ on out there, rubber and all that sort of thing.”

  “No, I don’t think he was in rubber, Pa.”

  “Well, whatever, do bring the girl round for tea one afternoon,” Ma insisted. “Or even down here for the weekend. Does she hunt?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Ma, but I’ll certainly invite her to tea in the near future, so that you can both inspect her.”

  I must confess that I was equally amused by the idea of being asked along to tea with Becky’s mother, so that she could be sure that I was the right sort of girl for her daughter. Afte