It's some time since I had a go at writing a short story, but talk of all the new babies we're looking forward to on GRU this coming year sparked the idea for this one.
Dorothy look anxiously out of the kitchen window at the darkening winter sky pierced with big fat snowflakes fluttering around in the wind but eventually falling to cover her back yard in a blanket of white.
The fallen snow gleamed against the dark brick wall surrounding her tiny patch, clothing its stark drabness in a beauty she could only wish for normally. The bin lid showed the snow had piled up several inches already, and the radio had warned people not to go out this evening. The solemn tones of the news reader told of high winds to come, drifting and blocking even busy main roads. He reported 12 inches of drifting snow in London, and in parts of the country it was easier to walk on top of buried hedgerows than on the pavements.
Looking at the clock, Dorothy realised she had to get a move on. Dennis would be home from work any minute and he’d be ready for his tea. She filled the big whistling kettle at the kitchen tap and heaved it on to the gas hob, lighting it with a match from the box she always kept nearby. It was New Year’s Eve, and she was lucky to have some cabbage and potatoes left over from Christmas Dinner and some lovely back bacon the grocer had cut for her just that morning. Dennis loved a bit of bacon. She hummed to herself as she sliced the bread into good thick wedges. Oh, she did like that young Cliff Richards’ singing “The Young Ones”. It spoke of hope for generations to come. Dorothy wasn’t much given to thinking deeply about things, but when she looked at her three playing a noisy game of snakes and ladders by the fire, it made her hope for a happy, peaceful world for them. With the horrors of the War well behind them, surely the 60s were going to bring so much goodness into their lives.
Back to earth, Dorothy cut the bread into quarters - it would mop up the delicious bacon fat something lovely and her three gannets would be there like a shot, mopping up their dad’s plate. Dennis would tell them they were greedy piglets and hadn’t they had their dinners and teas already, but would make sure they got every last bit of the ‘forbidden’ treat.
She went into the front parlour to draw the thick chenille curtains across the windows to cut out the draughts that howled down their narrow street of terraced houses. Something made her pause - the street lamp wasn’t lit and there was a large area of darkness in the steep, winding road. On impulse, she left the curtains open, and turning to close the door, left the light on. It would give a bit of light to people struggling to get home in the blizzard. They wouldn’t be sitting in the front parlour on a Monday night, even if it was the last night of the year. They’d listen to the radio for a while and then Dennis would switch the television on and they would let the children watch Coronation Street as a treat. There’d been talk of colour television in a few years, but she really couldn’t imagine such a marvel.
The piercing whistle of the kettle made her hurry back to the kitchen to fry up the cabbage and potatoes into a tasty bubble and squeak. Dennis was very late. It was turned 6 o’clock and he was usually home before half past five. Perhaps the buses weren’t running. She hoped he didn’t have to walk the 6 miles home from the factory after a long day on his feet. His chilblains were agony this cold weather, and his work boots needed new soles.
She covered the cooked bubble and squeak with a dinner plate and left it in a low oven, hoping it wouldn’t dry out too much. She decided to get the children ready for bed and put their lovely new red dressing gowns on and stay up until their dad got home. Eight year old Malcolm thought Daddy wouldn’t be home until at least midnight and they could all have a midnight feast. The twins, five, thought this was the best idea ever, and just as exciting at Christmas Eve when they were hanging their stockings up over the fireplace.
With nothing left to do, Dorothy finally lowered herself down into the fireside chair and picked up her knitting. She was knitting a little matinee jacket for her new neighbour across the road. The young couple had moved into the house just that summer and Tina shyly confided in Dorothy that she was in the family way. She had already knitted the little bootees and mittens and was thinking it would be really special if she knitted a cosy shawl as well. With baby due at the end of January, there would be plenty of cold weather when baby would need keeping warm and Dorothy loved knitting.
Time passed. The children asked for the tv to be switched on at 7.30 for Coronation Street. Dorothy watched the programme with her mind elsewhere. Where on earth could her Dennis be. She wondered if she should go down to the phone box and see if she could ring the factory, but as she tried to open the front door the gale seized it out of her hands, battering it against the hall wall, and at least two foot of snow fell in on to the doormat. Closing the door quickly, she realised she’d never make it to the phone box, and had still less chance of getting back.
Casting off, she looked at the tiny garment, and wished she was knitting for her own babies again. She knew there would be no more for her - the twins had arrived at breakneck speed and the subsequent haemorrhaging she’d suffered had resulted in a hysterectomy. Still, she knew she was lucky having three beautiful youngsters, even if they were tinkers at times. Looking at the clock - she shoo-ed them off to bed, tucking them in and giving each one a hug and a tender kiss.
Returning to the fireside, she stoked it up and damped it down ready to spring into a warming blaze when Dennis arrived. She had just enough of the wool to make a little hat for the baby. It wouldn’t take long, and it would take her mind of worrying about Dennis.
Slowly the hands of the clock on the mantlepiece crept forwards. Half-past eight, nine o’clock, quarter-past nine. Dorothy’s head lolled sideways as her eyes closed, tired from straining to see the tiny stitches and fine white wool. She dreamt a little - of having a warm, sleepy baby in her arms, drunk on a tummy-full of milk, with a tiny fist resting against a plump, smooth cheek.
A noise made her jump up - wide awake. It must be Dennis trying to get in. She hurried to the front door and yanked it open, trying to keep out of the way as yet more snow blew in. There was no-one there. She carefully put one foot outside, making sure the door couldn’t bang to and lock her out. It was hard to see, in the feeble light from her window, but there was someone fallen in the road. She heard a faint cry of help. Carefully putting the latch on, but not bothering to change out of her slippers she cautiously stepped out.
“Who is it?” she shouted. “What’s the matter. Are you hurt?”
At first the voice trembling and faint, called for help. “I think I’ve broken my leg. My baby’s coming. It’s too early, please help.”
Dorothy stepped cautiously towards the figure half buried in the snow. Tina! In labour, and hurt!
Nearly blown onto her face by the force of the wind, Dorothy carefully leaned over her.
“It’s all right, Tina. I’m here. I’m going to help you into my house, in the warmth”, she said softly, trying to calm the terrified girl. “I’ll help you to stand up and you can lean on me. It’s only a few steps. We can do it. I’ll lift you under your shoulders , and try not to put weight on that leg.”
They made their way painfully and slowly across the narrow pavement and into the blessed warmth of Dorothy’s hall. Closing the door against the elements, Dorothy helped Tina into the living room and grabbing a cushion from the chair, helped her to lie down in the warm glow of the fire. Her ankle looked bruised and was swelling, but Tina said she could wiggle her toes, so Dorothy hope it was just a strained muscle or something.
Dorothy had never delivered a baby before, but it looked as though Tina was well-established in labour. She hurriedly got clean towels from the airing cupboard and tried to see how often her contractions were coming. Trying to remember what she had read about delivering babies, she eased a rolled up towel under Tina’s lower back and helped her to wriggle out of her undies. The baby’s head was there. Praying everything would be ok, she carefully supported the head and with a whoosh the tiny infant arrived. Dorothy checked her mouth was clear, but she needn’t have worried. A loud cry of outrage as the tiny babe took a first breath was reassuring. Dorothy carefully lifted the wailing, slippery infant onto Tina’s tummy and covered them both in clean towels.
“Tina, look”, she beamed. “You’ve got the most beautiful little girl - she’s perfect, and she’s making sucking motions”. Tina’s face glowed with happiness as she gently eased her tiny daughter to her breast and the baby latched on, sucking noisily.
Exhausted, they watched the little puckered face and tiny fists and Dorothy remembered her dream of earlier. As she smiled to herself, the front door banged open, and Dennis stumbled in, cold and wet, followed by Tina’s very worried husband, Gordon. They stared in disbelief at the sight of the two women gazing in wonder and awe at Tina and Gordon’s tiny, new-born infant.
Neither Tina nor Dorothy had heard the clock chiming in the New Year of 1963. A little miracle of birth arriving with the New Year.
An hour later, the local midwife had pronounced mum and baby fit and well. Five pounds three ounces of utterly perfect babe, and a tired but happy mum, with nothing more wrong than a strained ankle which she needed to rest for a few days.
The following morning as Dennis cleared a path through the snow, Dorothy took steaming bowls of porridge over to the new parents.
“Come in”, beamed Gordon. Tina was peacefully nursing her little daughter by the fire, a glow of happiness on her still-tired face.
Tears stood in her eyes as she looked up at Dorothy.
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for helping me, but if you don’t mind, we’d like to call our daughter “Dorothy” after you, so she will always know how lucky we were that you saved our lives.”
Dorothy, blinking back her own tears, happily agreed. She had been feeling sad she couldn’t have any more children herself, but she knew baby Dorothy would always be a special part of her life.
—————
Dorothy look anxiously out of the kitchen window at the darkening winter sky pierced with big fat snowflakes fluttering around in the wind but eventually falling to cover her back yard in a blanket of white.
The fallen snow gleamed against the dark brick wall surrounding her tiny patch, clothing its stark drabness in a beauty she could only wish for normally. The bin lid showed the snow had piled up several inches already, and the radio had warned people not to go out this evening. The solemn tones of the news reader told of high winds to come, drifting and blocking even busy main roads. He reported 12 inches of drifting snow in London, and in parts of the country it was easier to walk on top of buried hedgerows than on the pavements.
Looking at the clock, Dorothy realised she had to get a move on. Dennis would be home from work any minute and he’d be ready for his tea. She filled the big whistling kettle at the kitchen tap and heaved it on to the gas hob, lighting it with a match from the box she always kept nearby. It was New Year’s Eve, and she was lucky to have some cabbage and potatoes left over from Christmas Dinner and some lovely back bacon the grocer had cut for her just that morning. Dennis loved a bit of bacon. She hummed to herself as she sliced the bread into good thick wedges. Oh, she did like that young Cliff Richards’ singing “The Young Ones”. It spoke of hope for generations to come. Dorothy wasn’t much given to thinking deeply about things, but when she looked at her three playing a noisy game of snakes and ladders by the fire, it made her hope for a happy, peaceful world for them. With the horrors of the War well behind them, surely the 60s were going to bring so much goodness into their lives.
Back to earth, Dorothy cut the bread into quarters - it would mop up the delicious bacon fat something lovely and her three gannets would be there like a shot, mopping up their dad’s plate. Dennis would tell them they were greedy piglets and hadn’t they had their dinners and teas already, but would make sure they got every last bit of the ‘forbidden’ treat.
She went into the front parlour to draw the thick chenille curtains across the windows to cut out the draughts that howled down their narrow street of terraced houses. Something made her pause - the street lamp wasn’t lit and there was a large area of darkness in the steep, winding road. On impulse, she left the curtains open, and turning to close the door, left the light on. It would give a bit of light to people struggling to get home in the blizzard. They wouldn’t be sitting in the front parlour on a Monday night, even if it was the last night of the year. They’d listen to the radio for a while and then Dennis would switch the television on and they would let the children watch Coronation Street as a treat. There’d been talk of colour television in a few years, but she really couldn’t imagine such a marvel.
The piercing whistle of the kettle made her hurry back to the kitchen to fry up the cabbage and potatoes into a tasty bubble and squeak. Dennis was very late. It was turned 6 o’clock and he was usually home before half past five. Perhaps the buses weren’t running. She hoped he didn’t have to walk the 6 miles home from the factory after a long day on his feet. His chilblains were agony this cold weather, and his work boots needed new soles.
She covered the cooked bubble and squeak with a dinner plate and left it in a low oven, hoping it wouldn’t dry out too much. She decided to get the children ready for bed and put their lovely new red dressing gowns on and stay up until their dad got home. Eight year old Malcolm thought Daddy wouldn’t be home until at least midnight and they could all have a midnight feast. The twins, five, thought this was the best idea ever, and just as exciting at Christmas Eve when they were hanging their stockings up over the fireplace.
With nothing left to do, Dorothy finally lowered herself down into the fireside chair and picked up her knitting. She was knitting a little matinee jacket for her new neighbour across the road. The young couple had moved into the house just that summer and Tina shyly confided in Dorothy that she was in the family way. She had already knitted the little bootees and mittens and was thinking it would be really special if she knitted a cosy shawl as well. With baby due at the end of January, there would be plenty of cold weather when baby would need keeping warm and Dorothy loved knitting.
Time passed. The children asked for the tv to be switched on at 7.30 for Coronation Street. Dorothy watched the programme with her mind elsewhere. Where on earth could her Dennis be. She wondered if she should go down to the phone box and see if she could ring the factory, but as she tried to open the front door the gale seized it out of her hands, battering it against the hall wall, and at least two foot of snow fell in on to the doormat. Closing the door quickly, she realised she’d never make it to the phone box, and had still less chance of getting back.
Casting off, she looked at the tiny garment, and wished she was knitting for her own babies again. She knew there would be no more for her - the twins had arrived at breakneck speed and the subsequent haemorrhaging she’d suffered had resulted in a hysterectomy. Still, she knew she was lucky having three beautiful youngsters, even if they were tinkers at times. Looking at the clock - she shoo-ed them off to bed, tucking them in and giving each one a hug and a tender kiss.
Returning to the fireside, she stoked it up and damped it down ready to spring into a warming blaze when Dennis arrived. She had just enough of the wool to make a little hat for the baby. It wouldn’t take long, and it would take her mind of worrying about Dennis.
Slowly the hands of the clock on the mantlepiece crept forwards. Half-past eight, nine o’clock, quarter-past nine. Dorothy’s head lolled sideways as her eyes closed, tired from straining to see the tiny stitches and fine white wool. She dreamt a little - of having a warm, sleepy baby in her arms, drunk on a tummy-full of milk, with a tiny fist resting against a plump, smooth cheek.
A noise made her jump up - wide awake. It must be Dennis trying to get in. She hurried to the front door and yanked it open, trying to keep out of the way as yet more snow blew in. There was no-one there. She carefully put one foot outside, making sure the door couldn’t bang to and lock her out. It was hard to see, in the feeble light from her window, but there was someone fallen in the road. She heard a faint cry of help. Carefully putting the latch on, but not bothering to change out of her slippers she cautiously stepped out.
“Who is it?” she shouted. “What’s the matter. Are you hurt?”
At first the voice trembling and faint, called for help. “I think I’ve broken my leg. My baby’s coming. It’s too early, please help.”
Dorothy stepped cautiously towards the figure half buried in the snow. Tina! In labour, and hurt!
Nearly blown onto her face by the force of the wind, Dorothy carefully leaned over her.
“It’s all right, Tina. I’m here. I’m going to help you into my house, in the warmth”, she said softly, trying to calm the terrified girl. “I’ll help you to stand up and you can lean on me. It’s only a few steps. We can do it. I’ll lift you under your shoulders , and try not to put weight on that leg.”
They made their way painfully and slowly across the narrow pavement and into the blessed warmth of Dorothy’s hall. Closing the door against the elements, Dorothy helped Tina into the living room and grabbing a cushion from the chair, helped her to lie down in the warm glow of the fire. Her ankle looked bruised and was swelling, but Tina said she could wiggle her toes, so Dorothy hope it was just a strained muscle or something.
Dorothy had never delivered a baby before, but it looked as though Tina was well-established in labour. She hurriedly got clean towels from the airing cupboard and tried to see how often her contractions were coming. Trying to remember what she had read about delivering babies, she eased a rolled up towel under Tina’s lower back and helped her to wriggle out of her undies. The baby’s head was there. Praying everything would be ok, she carefully supported the head and with a whoosh the tiny infant arrived. Dorothy checked her mouth was clear, but she needn’t have worried. A loud cry of outrage as the tiny babe took a first breath was reassuring. Dorothy carefully lifted the wailing, slippery infant onto Tina’s tummy and covered them both in clean towels.
“Tina, look”, she beamed. “You’ve got the most beautiful little girl - she’s perfect, and she’s making sucking motions”. Tina’s face glowed with happiness as she gently eased her tiny daughter to her breast and the baby latched on, sucking noisily.
Exhausted, they watched the little puckered face and tiny fists and Dorothy remembered her dream of earlier. As she smiled to herself, the front door banged open, and Dennis stumbled in, cold and wet, followed by Tina’s very worried husband, Gordon. They stared in disbelief at the sight of the two women gazing in wonder and awe at Tina and Gordon’s tiny, new-born infant.
Neither Tina nor Dorothy had heard the clock chiming in the New Year of 1963. A little miracle of birth arriving with the New Year.
An hour later, the local midwife had pronounced mum and baby fit and well. Five pounds three ounces of utterly perfect babe, and a tired but happy mum, with nothing more wrong than a strained ankle which she needed to rest for a few days.
The following morning as Dennis cleared a path through the snow, Dorothy took steaming bowls of porridge over to the new parents.
“Come in”, beamed Gordon. Tina was peacefully nursing her little daughter by the fire, a glow of happiness on her still-tired face.
Tears stood in her eyes as she looked up at Dorothy.
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for helping me, but if you don’t mind, we’d like to call our daughter “Dorothy” after you, so she will always know how lucky we were that you saved our lives.”
Dorothy, blinking back her own tears, happily agreed. She had been feeling sad she couldn’t have any more children herself, but she knew baby Dorothy would always be a special part of her life.
—————
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