Eclipse. Lynne Pemberton
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towards the bar.
The door was locked.
She knocked several times; then, stepping to one side, she peered through the dusty window to see three faces staring back at her. One man was leaning across the bar top and appeared to be the publican.
‘I’m lost,’ Serena mouthed plaintively.
No one spoke or moved, they just continued to stare.
She shivered, deciding that it might be better to get back into the car and drive to the next village. She was about to turn away when the landlord moved from behind the bar and walked towards the door. He opened it a couple of inches, so that she could just about see a long nose and one dark eye.
‘There was a bad crash on the M4. I’m trying to get to Castle Coombe.’ Her words tumbled out.
He opened the door a few more inches. ‘Yer a long ways off course, miss,’ he said, his beady eyes probing every detail of her body before eventually resting on her huge stomach, heavy with advanced pregnancy.
Serena felt uncomfortable; she shuddered, pulling her coat closer to her body. ‘If you could just point me in the right direction I would be very …’
Her voice trailed off as she became acutely aware of a wetness between her legs; a slight trickle at first, but followed seconds later by a gush of warm secretion, streaming downwards and forming a small puddle on the stone step.
‘Oh my God, no! My waters have broken.’
The man stared at her as she cradled her distended belly with both hands. Then the pain came.
The first contraction felt much stronger than she’d ever imagined. She clutched the side of the wall, her hand slipping on the frosty stone, panting until the pain gradually subsided.
‘You’ve got to help me, I’m in labour. Where’s the nearest hospital?’
Her desperate appeal finally stirred the landlord into action. ‘Come in miss.’
He moved to one side and she shuffled gingerly into the bar. Through a thin film of smoke, she could now see the faces of the two other men. One of them, Tom Bayley, was beside her in a single, long stride.
‘Sit yerself down here, miss.’ He was a big man and held her as she slid down into the nearest chair. He smelt of tobacco and manure, not a particularly comforting mixture.
‘Here, tell her to drink this Tom, it’ll help.’ The landlord had poured a large brandy.
She swallowed it gratefully, just before a further rush of warm discharge trickled down the inside of her thigh, followed by another contraction slicing across her lower back; this one even more intense than the last. Holding on to Tom Bayley’s hand, she squeezed so tightly he winced.
He watched the colour slowly drain from her face, leaving it ashen; and he still thought that she was the prettiest girl ever seen in the Plough, or roundabout for that matter.
‘You’re going to be fine. I’ll take you to Mrs Neil, she’ll see to you.’
‘Who’s she?’ Serena panicked. ‘I don’t want to go to any Mrs Neil, I must get to a hospital. You don’t understand!’
Hearing the hysteria creep into her own voice, she told herself to keep calm as no good would come from getting in a state. ‘My babies are four weeks premature. I need special medical care.’
‘The nearest hospital is more than twenty-five miles from here. With this fog we might not make it at all.’
The publican had spoken with authority and both other men nodded in agreement. They continued nodding as he went on.
‘Old Radley’s wife had her baby on the way to the hospital only last week; happened in a lay-by. Almost lost the little mite.’ He pointed to the big man. ‘I think Tom here’s right. We’d best get you to Mrs Neil. You’ll be fine with her, she’s by far the best midwife in the county. All the mothers swear by her. They won’t go near a hospital if they can have Mrs Neil.’
If Serena had been able to find the strength she would have screamed. As it was she had to conserve her energy for the next contraction that was about to begin. She realized with growing fear that the contractions were coming every few minutes.
‘OK, take me to this Mrs Neil. Anything’s better than a damned lay-by.’
‘Good girl,’ said big Tom, promptly lifting her effortlessly into his arms and carrying her out of the pub.
‘I’ll call Mrs Neil and tell her you’re on yer way,’ the publican shouted after them.
Tom settled Serena gently into the passenger seat of her own car, took the ignition keys from her, and then adjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate his long legs.
‘It’s not far,’ he reassured her, as the car purred into life. ‘No more than about half a mile down the road. Can you hang on?’
‘I don’t have much choice,’ she mumbled, relieved when the Range Rover pulled smoothly away.
The road to Mrs Neil’s was a treacherous, unmade lane, and Tom had to swerve suddenly to avoid a pothole. Careering off the road he bumped along for few moments, the overhanging branches of a huge sycamore tree slashing the windscreen and obscuring his view.
‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he apologized in his thick Gloucestershire brogue.
Serena thought the pothole would have been preferable, but said nothing. Holding her stomach, she ground her teeth together, half in discomfort and half in anger. She was thinking about Nicholas. He was out of the country on a business trip. She had begged him not to go but he’d insisted, reassuring her that it was only for a couple of days. But the thought of how guilty and remorseful he was going to feel at least made her feel marginally better.
Finally they reached the end of the lane and Tom stopped the car. ‘We’re here!’ he announced, jumping out and running round to the passenger side with the agility of a sixteen-year-old.
He helped her down to the ground, bearing all her weight, and then opened a three-bar gate at the bottom of the pathway to Saddlers Cottage. ‘Lean on me,’ he urged, as they struggled towards the front door, their feet crunching on the gravel path.
‘Mrs Neil!’ hollered Tom, rapping sharply. ‘Mrs Neil!’
There was no reply; the only sound being Serena’s laboured breathing.
He tried again. ‘Mrs Neil, are you there?’
A neighbouring dog barked, then stopped abruptly. A few moments later they could hear a voice, muffled and thick with sleep, speaking through the letter box.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Tom Bayley, Mrs Neil.’
‘What on earth do you want at this time of night?’ she demanded. ‘It’s gone twelve, man!’
‘Did Jack from the Plough not call you?’
‘No, he did not!’ she snapped, then added grudgingly, ‘Well, he may have tried, but my phone’s been playing up the last few days. I can dial out; it’s in-coming calls that are the bother. Still waiting for the blasted engineer to come; the rate they—’
Tom interrupted. ‘I’ve got a woman in labour with me, Mrs Neil. I don’t think she’s got long to go.’
With that the door was flung open and the midwife appeared in her nightclothes.
‘This lady,’ Tom glanced in Serena’s direction, ‘came into the pub earlier, asking for directions. She was lost.’ His eyes opened wide. ‘She started her labour right there and then in the bloody Plough.’
A stupid grin covered his face, making Serena think he looked slightly simple. Just my luck, she told herself, to get stuck with an ageing midwife and the village idiot. Then she felt the now familiar pain beginning its steady rise. Gasping