Free GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love by Nuala Duncan; Calvi Barrett Page A

Hospital, she was struck by the bitter irony of her situation. Trying to get rid of the pregnancy, alone in her room, had been the darkest hour of her life. Yet now, just when she was beginning to be hopeful about her future with Lawrence, she stood to lose the child.
    By the time she arrived, there was nothing the doctors could do to stop the baby from coming, even though it was still in a breech position. The labour took twenty agonising hours and Margaret did her best to breathe through the waves of pain, hoping and praying that the child would survive despite being six weeks premature.
    Just as the baby was finally coming, the doctor shouted, ‘Quick! She’s breathing in.’
    The breathing reflex had kicked in while the child’s head was still in the birth canal, and she was inhaling mucus. If it went on too long she would be brain-damaged.
    The doctors managed to extricate her and the cord was hastily cut before she was rushed out of the room.
    â€˜What’s happening?’ asked Margaret, so weak after almost a day in labour that she could hardly speak.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Mrs Rambo. They just need to clear her tubes,’ the midwife said, patting her hand.
    News soon came that baby Rosamund was now breathing normally, but the doctors couldn’t say what effect those first few minutes without oxygen might have had.
    â€˜I want to hold her,’ Margaret sobbed. But Rosamund was so tiny, at just three pounds three ounces, that she had to be kept in an incubator, and Margaret was not able to see her until the next day. Even then, she wasn’t allowed to pick her up.
    Margaret was sent home, but she had to leave Rosamund behind, and since the baby was too small to breast-feed she had to express milk for her and take it to the hospital every day.
    Eventually, Margaret was allowed to take the baby home, but she felt that the separation of the first few weeks had made it hard for her to bond with Rosamund, and even harder for Lawrence to do so.
    He seemed distracted and fretful, and explained that he was under immense pressure at work. He was helping to plan the equipment needed for D-Day, and was coming home later and later from the office. Margaret worried about the long hours he was putting in, and knew that having a screaming baby in the house wasn’t helping. Sometimes he didn’t come back until eleven or twelve at night, having gone for a drink after work, which he said was the only way he could unwind at the end of the day. He would often wake in the night and lie there tossing and turning until morning.
    He also seemed to be anxious about money. When bills arrived they sent him into a fit of anxiety, and he scratched out endless sums on pieces of paper, then screwed them up and threw them into the bin. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about it, my dear,’ he told Margaret, when she asked him if something was wrong.
    One day Lawrence arrived home late again, clearly already more than tipsy. He was carrying a bottle of whisky and went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a large glassful. Margaret watched in surprise as he knocked it back, then immediately poured himself another one and knocked that back too, as if it was no stronger than water.
    â€˜Lawrence, are you sure that’s a good idea?’ she asked, concerned.
    He turned to her, his familiar features contorted into a furious scowl and his dark-brown eyes flashing with anger. ‘Don’t you go telling me what to do!’ he shouted.
    The baby started to cry and Margaret rushed from the room to comfort her. As she soothed the child she could feel her heart racing with fear. The man who had just spoken to her seemed like a completely different person to the husband she knew.
    When the baby calmed down, Margaret crept into bed, hoping that by now Lawrence had drunk enough to fall asleep in his chair.
    The next morning when he went off to work he looked a little worse for wear, but acted