Free A Maxwell Mourned by Gwen Kirkwood

Rachel’s bedroom door.
    ‘Meg says can you come!’ he called hoarsely. ‘She thinks the babe is coming.’
    Rachel paused only to light her candle and pull on a woollen dress. She ran to Meg’s room.
    ‘Bring the doctor!’ she ordered Peter. He obeyed like a child.
    Fortunately Doctor Gill was at home in bed and he came at once. His manner was calm, but Rachel sensed his concern.
    ‘We must get your wife to the cottage hospital immediately, Mr Sedgeman.’
    ‘Shall I bring my van round?’
    ‘The back of my car, I think. Perhaps you would follow in your vehicle? Easier for getting home.’
    Peter nodded, his face white as the bed sheets. Meg did her best to hide the pain which made her want to scream, but Rachel could see the perspiration already dampening her hair and running down her temple. Her heart was filled with fear. The baby was not due for a month yet. Something was wrong. She packed Meg’s night clothes and the sheets and towels they had prepared for the hospital. Then she supported Meg down the stairs with the help of the doctor.
    Rachel waited up for the rest of the night hoping Peter would telephone with news, as he had promised to do. Strangely he had forgotten about his new gadget and run to get the doctor in person. It was probably just as quick Rachel reflected wryly. Doris, the local operator, was always curious.
    All next day they waited but there was no word from Peter. Rachel’s anxiety grew. Apparently Doctor Gill had not returned from the hospital either. The old Doctor had taken the morning surgery. News spread around the village. Cyril Johnson had more customers that day than he usually had in a week. Nearly everyone called in on the pretext of buying a box of matches, a reel of cotton, some linen buttons or four ounces of sugar, a packet of Woodbine cigarettes or two ounces of tea. Without exception they asked for news of Mr Sedgeman’s’ wife, Cyril reported later.
    ‘Their concern was genuine. Some of them offered prayers.’ Rachel could barely speak for the anxiety gnawing at her stomach. She knew she ought to eat but she couldn’t. Flora took the children for a long walk. Later they were bathed and fed and put to bed. Mrs Jenkins insisted she could not go home to worry alone. The old house settled down to its usual creaks and groans as darkness fell again. Rachel must have dozed. She wakened with a start. Mrs Jenkins was snoring in the wooden chair on the opposite side of the fire. The door creaked and Peter, white faced and exhausted put his head around.
    ‘Peter!’ Rachel’s voice was no more than a nervous squeak. She ran to his side. ‘Oh, Peter, you look exhausted.’ She took his arm and led him to a chair. He moved like a sleep walker. ‘Meg? Is she …? Is she all right, Peter?’
    ‘Very ill. Doctor thinks she has a … a chance …’ His voice was slurred with weariness and tears began to trickle silently down his cheeks. Rachel turned away and shoved the kettle onto the fire. Mrs Jenkins stirred and stretched stiffly. She opened her eyes, still confused.
    ‘Tea. I’ll make you some tea,’ Rachel croaked hoarsely. She could not bring herself to ask about the baby. She was sure it must be dead. Peter had not mentioned it. He looked stunned and bewildered.
    ‘They’re in a sort of tent …’ he muttered, half to himself.
    ‘Who? Who, Peter?’ Rachel did not know she was gripping his arm. She thought he was hallucinating.
    ‘Boys,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Don’t think he will live. So small … Must get back to her.’ He looked up. ‘Can’t believe Meg could have twins as well.’
    ‘Twins? Two boys?’ Rachel stared incredulously.
    ‘So small,’ he repeated. ‘They say … one might survive.’ He kept shaking his head. ‘My poor Meg.’ He shuddered. ‘Please God let her be all right.’
    ‘Does she know? About the twins, I mean?’ Rachel asked. Peter shook his head. ‘It took so long. They seemed to need so many –