Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,12

she folded back Fiona’s stained sheet and cautiously felt about her bulbous stomach for indication that the placenta was about to be expelled. It could take several minutes for that to happen and there was no sign from the all-too-quiet Fiona that she was having another contraction. There seemed no danger of bleeding and so Dorrie covered the mother again, deciding to wait another minute. Among the things laid out in preparation for the birth was a small pair of scissors and surgical spirit. Dorrie swabbed the scissors with a wad of cotton wool in readiness should she need to cut the umbilical cord.

Moving round the bed she went to the spot Fiona was facing. Fiona’s eyes were open. ‘Can you hear me, Mrs Templeton?’

‘Yes,’ she answered miserably.

‘You’ve done very well, a beautiful baby girl, you must be so pleased.’ Dorrie had a passionate belief in encouragement being the best help in all ills. ‘You have some water here. Try to take a sip. I’m sure your mouth must be very dry. Finn is doing sterling work downstairs, I’m sure. He’s seems a very capable young man, you must be proud of him. Nurse Rumford will be here at any moment and you’ll soon be made comfortable.’

‘I didn’t ask him,’ Fiona murmured.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Finn went out to look for a job. I didn’t ask him if he got it.’

‘Well, he can tell you about it in a little while,’ Dorrie said cheerily.

‘He mustn’t get a job,’ Fiona whispered in desperation as if she was giving up all her strength. ‘I can’t cope with this baby. I don’t want it. Take it away . . . Just want to sleep . . .’

‘I’ll take her for now,’ Dorrie said, with sympathy. Poor woman, she thought, as she gathered the newborn into her arms. It must have been so hard facing this in her circumstances, without her husband at her side, wondering how she was going to manage in the future. She heard a persistent ringing and gazed down at the baby, now yawning, now opening her minute rosebud lips and turning her head as if searching to suckle. ‘Oh, thank God, now Nurse Rumford will make sure all is well with you and your mummy. Don’t worry, little one, I won’t desert you, your mummy or Finn.’

Four

Greg Barnicoat knew at once the house was empty. Although he was met by Corky waddling round from the back, Greg knew Dorrie wasn’t home. He had such a strong connection with his sister, although their physical characteristics were different. Dorrie favoured their dainty red-haired mother and Greg their strong-boned, statuesque father. ‘Hello, old chap, where she’s gone then? Where’s Dorrie? I suppose she’s left me a message. What’s this? You want to show me something? Lead on then.’

‘Well, well.’ Greg pressed down the corners of his moustache. Corky’s legendary nose had headed him straight to the three-tiered pagoda. Greg and Dorrie and their siblings had played out many Oriental dressing-up games in the folly. Genuine Eastern lanterns had been strung from the wooden decorative jutting eaves and citronella candles lit on summer evening to chase away troublesome insects. The pagoda had a cast-iron spire, on which Greg and his brothers had laughingly threatened to impale Dorrie and their sister Diana if the girls refused to allow them the lead in their joint games. The cat and dog squabbles had been won by the boys and the girls in equal numbers. The pagoda was a great source of comfort to Greg after enduring the horrors of Flanders trenches, and witnessing in the recent war the loss of so many vital young men under his command in North Africa. And there was the never-ending ache of losing his wife and son. A motorcar accident while holidaying in France had deprived Greg of his five-year-old son, Gregory junior, and his beloved homely wife, Caroline. Greg would never forgive himself for not avoiding the Breton lorry, although its driver had been speeding on his side of the road. Like Dorrie, he was on familiar terms with that dreadful inner hollowness of losing his soul mate. Greg thanked God every day that he lived in a place of so many happy, carefree memories.

Greg gazed down fondly at Corky’s find. ‘Verity, my irrepressible niece, sleeping like a baby on the cane sofa, she must have travelled down overnight.’ Verity Barnicoat was a picture of cherry-cheeked girlish innocence that belied her obstinate forwardness. It wouldn’t have surprised Greg if she