The House on Rosebank Lane Read online

  To add to Kirsten’s concerns, in the warmth of the bath, she acknowledged that her present confinement felt so different from her other two. This time she was troubled with very little of the violent morning sickness that had affected her before. However, by the time she was five months gone she was so swollen she resembled a stranded whale. A floundering mass that had to be helped in and out of the bath.

  ‘Are you sure you are only having one baby?’ Duncan asked when responding to Kirsten’s plea for assistance.

  Kirsten answered with a gulp. However, she knew it was crunch time. For a week now she had been afraid to tell Duncan what the nurses had suggested to her at the maternity clinic. Drawing in a deep breath she spoke quietly. ‘Darling, to be truthful . . . the Sister at the Maternity has sort of . . .’ At which point, her courage began to desert her. Really, she was afraid to continue, but she had to, so she hung her head and whispered, ‘That I should be prepared for more than one baby.’

  ‘More than one!’ Duncan exclaimed. ‘Naw. Naw, Kirsten, we’re no’ haein that. You’ll just hae to tell them we havnae the room for any more than one. Jesus!’ he gasped. ‘Look, I agreed to come ashore for one baby. I never signed up to twins. Twins! God in Heaven help us . . . please . . . no twins! I couldnae cope with twins.’

  But then five weeks later Kirsten received the news that she knew she could not confide to Duncan unless she wished him to have a heart attack. No way could she tell him that, instead of twins, triplets were now on their way!

  SIX

  1960

  Kirsten’s labour started on the Thursday of the third week of the seventh month of her pregnancy. As luck would have it, this was the day before the Trawling Fleet docked after their week of fishing.

  ‘Why, oh why,’ she screamed as the first pains gripped her, ‘do these bairns have to make an early entrance? Do they not know that tomorrow would be more convenient?’

  Fortunately, Aileen had decided that she best stay with Kirsten at nights while Duncan was at sea. This meant she was on hand when Kirsten’s first screams awakened her. She jumped out of bed and threw a coat over her. Without saying a word, she dashed from the house to summon a taxi from the phone box on Leith Walk. The cab arrived within ten minutes and whisked Kirsten away to the Elsie Inglis Maternity Hospital.

  The babies were in such a hurry to get into the world that Kirsten had just got installed in the labour suite when child number one slipped from her. Before she could ask ‘Boy or girl?’ she was gripped with the labour pains of baby number two, who arrived a short ten minutes later. Infant number three, also in an immense hurry, made its entrance a quarter of an hour after that.

  Giving birth to three children in under an hour left Kirsten on the brink of complete exhaustion. It was a struggle, but still she managed to sit up. ‘Is there a boy among the three of them?’ she gasped. ‘My husband would like at least one of them to be a son.’

  No one in the labour suite responded. All seemed to be busy with the triplets; the senior midwife was severing the umbilical cord of the last-born baby. Kirsten was about to ask again when she heard a doctor, either in her cubicle or nearby, whisper, ‘With such a rushed and intense labour I fear she’ll never have any more children.’

  ‘No, no,’ she almost protested, ‘my three little darlings just slipped happily into the world.’ She then stifled a giggle as she thought, ‘Besides, I don’t care about not having any more, because five is more than enough for Duncan, and for me!’

  As she glanced about her, Kirsten became aware that two of her babies were now being placed in incubator-like contraptions before being wheeled out of the ward.

  ‘Please, will someone speak to me,’ she cried. ‘Tell me if I have boys or girls. And, wait, why are they being wheeled away?’

  By now the senior midwife’s face was showing signs of alarm as she stared down at the third infant’s face.

  With her own alarm surging through her, Kirsten demanded that the midwife allow her to hold her baby.

  Ignoring Kirsten, the midwife turned to her colleague. ‘Wrap him in a blanket,’ she whispered, ‘and take him immediately to the nursery. They will know how to attend to him there!’

  ‘Take him to the nursery in a blanket?’ the young nurse questioned. ‘Why is he not being put in that incubator?’

  With a swift wave of her hand the midwife indicated that the nurse must immediately carry out her instructions. At which point Kirsten threw open her arms.

  ‘No! No, he is my baby. I’ve carried him for nearly eight months. And I demand that you let me hold him.’ Tears brimming, she sobbed, ‘And I wish to hold my other two babies. Kiss them. Tell them they are welcome. Tell them their home and their sisters are ready and waiting for them!’

  Ignoring Kirsten’s pleas once more, the midwife opened the door and signalled with another brisk wave of her hand for the nurse to leave.

  Once the door closed the midwife’s full attention was honed on Kirsten. ‘Mrs Armstrong,’ she began, as she reached out and grabbed Kirsten’s fluttering hands, ‘please calm yourself. You cannot hold your babies just yet. You see they all weigh less than three pounds and that means they have to be in the care of the special baby unit. Now, once your husband arrives, you and he will be allowed to go and see them.’

  ‘Why can’t I go now? I must see them now!’

  Before the midwife could respond, the young nurse re-entered and with a stern nod she indicated that she had something important to say. The midwife released Kirsten’s hands down onto the bed before turning and following the nurse out into the corridor.

  A few agonising minutes passed before the midwife returned. Lifting up Kirsten’s hand again, the midwife sat down on the bed. ‘Mrs Armstrong,’ she began. She gently massaged Kirsten’s hand as she spoke. ‘You gave birth to three boys. Unfortunately one of the babies, the last one to be born, was very underweight and he was stillborn.’

  Kirsten grabbed her hand away from the midwife. ‘Are you saying one of my babies is dead? Dead and I never held him. Brushed my lips over his forehead. Let him know he had a mum who loved him and wanted him.’ Hot salt tears were now coursing down Kirsten’s face. But, with dignity, she demanded, ‘What kind of people are you?’

  This outburst unsettled the midwife. ‘Look, my dear, I think what you need right now is rest. Sleep so that when your husband comes in you can go to the nursery and . . .’ The midwife’s voice trailed off. ‘Come on now,’ she began again, pressing two tablets into Kirsten’s right hand. ‘Here is a glass of water. Now, just you swallow these pills down. Believe me, when you awaken you will feel more able to cope with . . .’

  Kirsten groaned and fell back against the pillows. Terror welled within her. Why was the midwife being so officious and yet so vague? Why was she not being allowed to hold her babies? Was there something wrong with all of them? And if there was, and she required help, what would she do? Her mother, her anchor in the storms of life, would soon be returning to her native Shetland – that blow had been delivered only yesterday.

  Aileen, her voice full of enthusiasm, had exclaimed, ‘Here, Kirsten, when you are back on your feet after your babies are born, Dad and I will leave Leith. Going back to Shetland, we are. Our hearts have always been there and now Dad has a job up there we are going to jump at the chance.’

  Kirsten sighed. Mum and Dad’s return to Shetland was yesterday’s news. Today was today, and –

  ‘Look,’ she almost whispered, hoping the tight-lipped midwife did have a heart, ‘please get my babies back. I just want, no, need, to hold them.’

  But, as ever, Kirsten’s entreaty was ignored. ‘You are becoming overwrought, Mrs Armstrong. Now, be a good girl and take these pills. They will help you sleep.’

  ‘I am not a girl, I am a mother. And I don’t wish to sleep. Didn’t you hear me? All I want is to hold my babies!’

  The midwife simply pushed the glass of water towards Kirsten again.

  ‘And as to these blooming pills, yo
u can stick them where the monkey sticks its nuts. And in case you don’t understand, that means swallow them your blooming self!’

  ‘Look, Mrs Armstrong, I am only trying to help you. It would be best for you to sleep until your husband arrives. And when he does he will take all necessary decisions about your sons.’

  Kirsten, eyes blazing, mouth gaping, started to get herself out of bed. Immediately the midwife restrained her. ‘Try and understand, my dear, your babies are very tiny and need to be in the hands of specialists . . .’ She blew out her lips before adding, ‘Mrs Armstrong, they must be in isolation. Protected from germs. Given time to grow.’

  ‘Be that as it may, I’ve had enough. So get me a wheelchair and take me to the nursery to see them.’

  The midwife lowered her head. ‘As I have explained it would be best to wait until your husband gets here. When did you say his trawler would dock?’

  Kirsten’s eyes flew to the clock. ‘Not until three this afternoon and it is only just midday now.’

  ‘Precisely. Now take the sleeping pills. You are in no state to make decisions, that’s what your husband will do!’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘At present a husband is the head of the household. His name is on the rent book and in law he makes all decisions regarding the family. That is what I mean, Mrs Armstrong.’

  Any desire to argue further with the midwife ebbed from Kirsten. She knew what the woman had said was true. Men made all the decisions and women, in the eyes of the outside world anyway, obeyed. And hadn’t she, when she married Duncan, agreed to obey, but somehow never did?

  Lifting her hand to her mouth Kirsten swallowed the pills, not out of defeat but because, somehow, she knew she would have to be strong when Duncan arrived. After all, if her precious babies did have any little problems she would be the one to fight for the best life they could have.

  SEVEN

  A gentle touch on her hand woke Kirsten from her troubled slumber.

  ‘Duncan, it was three boys but one wee soul,’ she mumbled, before she became aware that her husband was weeping. ‘Oh Duncan, sweetheart, don’t cry.’ She struggled to sit up. ‘And it is true that we have lost one but we still have two.’

  Duncan sought for her hand before softly brushing his over it. ‘Kirsten, dear, you and I have to be brave.’

  At his words, she jolted herself upright and snatched her hand from his grip. Frustration and deep concern overwhelmed her. So much so that she forgot her mother’s teaching that a lady never uttered profanities. ‘What the bloody hell are you saying?’ she snapped. Then, before she caught control of her tone, she added, ‘First I am not allowed to hold my babies. Then I was drugged against my will. And now you, my loving husband, are saying I have to be brave . . . About exactly bloody what do I have to be bloody brave is what I want to know!’

  A nurse quietly walked over and pulled the screens around Kirsten’s bed. This action only added to Kirsten’s terror. A lump in her throat started choking her and hot tears burned her eyes.

  Duncan tenderly bent over her and began to brush away her tears. ‘Kirsten, love, another of our babies didn’t pull through. And the one who is left, he is so tiny and fragile that . . .’

  ‘Duncan, oh Duncan, please tell me that at least one of our triplets is going to hold on?’ However, more to herself, she thought that the remaining baby was, like his brothers, so seriously underweight that he too may . . . No, she could not think that. ‘Duncan,’ she whispered, ‘he will make it. I just know he will, and we will be there every step of the road, willing him on.’

  But Duncan knew the best thing to do was spell out to Kirsten exactly how difficult rearing the baby was going to be. Taking a sharp intake of breath he blurted, ‘Kirsten, if he makes it, and I am praying he does, but it doesn’t look good.’

  Within seconds Kirsten was kneeling up in the bed. Her clenched fists pummelled into Duncan’s chest as she cried, ‘What in the name of Heaven are you saying? No, no, you can’t mean he too will . . . Look, he will make it and I will be with him every step of the way.’

  ‘My darling, the poor wee soul is fighting hard, but the odds are . . .’

  Energy spent, Kirsten flopped. ‘No, no, no. No, no, no,’ she repeated over and over. ‘Please tell me he is going to be okay!’ she pleaded. A fierce determination she did not know she had, nor did she know where it came from, surged like a fire within her. ‘But what kind of a mother would I be if I accepted that I would lose him too?’

  Amazed at the energy in Kirsten, Duncan tried to restrain her. But she threw back the bedcovers and, before he could stop her, had leaped out of the bed. The special care baby unit was where she wished to be. So, before anyone could restrain her, she raced in that direction.

  With Duncan and a nurse at her heels, Kirsten reached the unit entrance.

  ‘Where is my baby?’ she demanded. ‘I must see my son and right now at that!’

  The duty sister floated towards Kirsten. ‘You must be Mrs Armstrong,’ she said, her Irish voice melodic.

  ‘I am, and I demand to see my child.’

  ‘And you shall. Now come with me.’

  The duty sister took time to draw herself erect before turning towards Duncan. ‘I am sure,’ she began sweetly but emphatically, ‘that I am correct in assuming you are happy to allow your wife to see her baby?’

  If Duncan thought he would like to contradict her, a withering, warning glare from Kirsten had him meekly nod yes.

  Tucking Kirsten’s arm firmly under her own, the Sister led Kirsten to the far end of the nursery, where three special cots were situated.

  ‘This is where we keep the babies who are in need of a little more attention than is normal. See here in the last incubator is your baby . . . Do you have a name for him yet?’

  Kirsten’s breath was now coming in short pants. She’d been preparing herself to gaze down on an ugly child, but when she looked into the cot she felt nothing but an overpowering sense of love for her baby. To her he was so handsome, so adorable. A quiet gasp of joy escaped her lips as she noticed two kiss curls, plastered to his forehead with sweat. Instinctively she bent forward and put her right index finger into his curled-up hand. What she didn’t see, because she chose not to, was that he was no bigger than a bag of sugar.

  ‘Sorry, Sister,’ Kirsten almost sang as she gazed at her son. ‘I was just so delighted to see my beautiful baby I forgot you’d asked the name we had chosen for him. Richard . . . but you know, now that I look at him I think that I will shorten it to Richie.’ Kirsten looked towards Duncan. ‘See, darling, our son. Isn’t he just so adorable?’

  Duncan was transfixed. He did not see a precious darling baby. His thoughts took him to the future. It was true he had been told that in all probability Richie would not make it . . . but if Kirsten could will her child to survive, then she would. Duncan slumped. He could picture their new life as a family. This tiny baby would require a lot of care. It would take him years to make up ground. For him to thrive Kirsten would not only have to sacrifice herself but also Duncan and their two girls.

  As if in contrast to Duncan’s thoughts, Kirsten began to softly croon a lullaby. With a shrug, Duncan realised that he would now always take second place in Kirsten’s life.

  He hunched his shoulders and turned his thoughts to what he would now need to do: arrange a funeral for two dead babies. He would prefer to leave something like that to Kirsten, but she couldn’t be expected to deal with it. Pursing his lips, Duncan wondered whom he could get to help. Relief seeped into him at the thought of the other strong woman in his life. His mother.

  *

  ‘Please, please tell me that I am hearing wrong,’ Jessie Armstrong cried when Duncan told her that two of the triplets had died and the other wee soul wasn’t quite three pounds. ‘No, no, surely your gormless, heartless wife has no’ mucked up bringing the bairns into the world?’ Duncan nodded, his eyes blank. ‘And I hope you told her that we Armstrongs ha
ve full-term big bouncing babies! No weaklings in our clan. Yes, that wee underweight soul is a Shetlander for sure.’

  ‘Mam,’ Duncan whispered as he bent over and looked at the floor, ‘there is something else.’ He hesitated. ‘Mam, could you help me out by –’

  ‘Are you saying you are you needing a handout?’

  ‘Naw. Wish it was just a shortage of money I had to think about right now. Oh Mam,’ he sobbed. ‘I have to get the bairns buried. Cannae face it myself, so I was hoping you would help me . . . to get it all over and done with.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Jessie haltingly replied. Her thoughts were now racing ahead of her.

  ‘Wondering, I was,’ Duncan continued, ‘if we could have them buried in beside Dad?’

  Jessie bit on her lip and the clock ticked the minutes by. Eventually she sniffed long and hard before saying, ‘No. The wee souls cannae go in beside your dad. Knowing Kirsten as I do, burying the bairns would just provide a shrine for her to be always attending. Never get over losing them, she wouldn’t.’

  Bewildered, Duncan looked towards his mother. Always he had thought that she’d meant every word of the curse she’d spat at Kirsten when, enraged, she believed she had trapped her son into marriage. But here she was thinking what would be best for Kirsten. She could see that if the babies were buried Kirsten would tend their grave every week, her grief never-ending.

  ‘Mam,’ Duncan asked tentatively, ‘are you saying we should have them cremated?’

  ‘Just you and I will be there to see the wee lambs go,’ Jessie confirmed. ‘And their ashes should be scattered in the Garden of Rest.’

  Duncan nodded his consent. Now that his mum was involved all would be taken care of.

  He was about to leave when his mum said, ‘Funny old thing, life is – all ups and downs. Here was me riding on the crest of a wave about . . . oh, Duncan, wait until I tell you some good news.’ She stopped and rubbed her hands with glee. ‘Our Nancy, your clever sister: one of the gaffers at Crawford’s has proposed to her.’