Elizabeth and Bill were to spend the wedding night in the town’s hotel, before moving to Bill’s house in Kings Langley. According to Elizabeth, it was nothing but a humble cottage, but she didn’t mind. What Bill lacked in money, he made up for in charm. And charm, we all agreed, was something he had in spades.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight,” he’d said when he opened his speech. “It’s humbling for a man such as myself to be in the presence of you fine folk, and even more so to have married into a family such as the O’Hallorans. Most humbling of all”—he smiled at Elizabeth—“is to be standing here as the husband of this beautiful creature. I won’t pretend to be anything more than I am—the son of a farmer who spent a few years in the service. A lot less than Elizabeth deserves. But I promise that I will work hard every day of the rest of my life to make myself worthy.”

The room came apart at the seams. What a delightful young man! Isn’t Elizabeth lucky? Many of the guests were in tears. I also shed a tear, though perhaps for different reasons.

The bridal waltz followed, then all the dances after that. Father–daughter, mother–son, in-laws, bridesmaids. Bill and Elizabeth swept around the floor, gazing at each other, as indeed they should have been. Evie and her new beau, Jack, pressed up against each other like a pair of magnets. Meanwhile, I took my maid of honor duties seriously, powdering Elizabeth’s nose, keeping her quarrelling aunts apart, dancing with the best man. As the event drew to a close, I helped Elizabeth’s parents pack up the hall. As I bundled the last of the gifts into Elizabeth’s father’s car, two fingers tapped impatiently against my shoulder.

“Does the groom get a dance with the maid of honor?”

I slammed the trunk and turned around. Bill was glassy eyed, his top three buttons undone and his bow tie hanging open. He gave me a cheeky grin.

I consulted an imaginary piece of paper that I pulled from an imaginary pocket. “I don’t see it on the run sheet, I’m afraid.”

He moved in closer beside me and I caught a whiff of the carnation in his pocket. He looked at my pretend run sheet. “Are you sure? I think I see it—” He pointed a finger in the air. “—right here.”

“I think you’re seeing things. Elizabeth is about to throw the bouquet. We’d best get inside.”

“Are you hoping to catch it?” he asked.

“No. Evie should be the one tonight.”

“And why, may I ask, not you?”

I looked at my feet. I worried that if I looked directly at Bill, I might not be able to look away. Ever. “Well … she and Jack have been dating for months, and I—I don’t have a lad.”

“Well, then…,” Bill said, “how about that dance?”

I scanned the space around us. A few guests hovered by their cars, saying good-byes. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Bill opened his arms in a waltz stance. He grasped my right hand in his left and pointed them at the sky. “Bill,” I said. “We really should get back to Elizabeth.”

I heard a car engine, then watched as the small group who’d been hovering outside drove away. Bill looked from the car to me and waggled his eyebrows. “All alone.”

He pulled me a little closer. Our bellies pressed together. My heart started to race, and I had no idea if that was good, or bad.

“Elizabeth has had my attention all day,” he said into my ear. At the same time, he moved his right hand a fraction lower. “And you, not having a lad and all, are in need of a bit of attention, I’d say.”

7

Neva

I decided to become a midwife on a Wednesday. I was fourteen. After school, my teacher had passed me a note with the address where Grace was delivering. This happened from time to time, when the client’s house was within walking distance from school. This day it took me about twenty minutes to get there and when I did, a piece of lined paper was wedged between the wrought iron and the mesh of the screen door. The handwriting was Grace’s.

Door is open. We’re in the back.

“I’m here,” I called as I let myself in. I stood in the hallway, waiting for Grace to shout out a greeting. After a few minutes, she’d come and update me on how it was going, and either give me cab money or tell me Dad would pick me up on the way home. Not this day. Instead, the bedroom door peeled open. Her face was pale.

“Neva—thank God. Quick. Come in.”

I froze; a deer in the headlights. “What?”

“My birth assistant is sick, she’s had to go home. Agnes is nine centimeters dilated—I need someone now.”

When I was younger I was often in the room while Grace’s clients delivered. On those days, she jokingly called me her assistant. I may have passed her a towel or held a client’s hand for a while. I may even have whispered a few motivating words. But she’d also had an actual assistant. Someone experienced with childbirth. “I can’t.”

“Course you can.”

She ducked back into the room. Despite my reservations, I dropped my bag onto the floor and slowly followed her.

The woman—Agnes—sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a cream waffle-cotton robe. Her elbows were pressed against her knees and she rocked back and forth, moaning softly. Her husband sat beside her, rubbing her back.

“This is my daughter,” Grace said. “She’s attended more births than you’ve had hot dinners.”

I wasn’t so sure. The man was at least thirty. I’d attended about twenty births—fifty, if you included those I’d heard from my bedroom but didn’t see. Unless he’d eaten a lot of cold dinners, Grace’s stats were off.

“How old is she?” he asked.

I opened my mouth.

“Sixteen,” Grace cut in. “And we don’t have a lot of choice, Jeremy. My birth assistant had to leave. We’re just lucky we have an experienced person here to help us. Unless you’d like to transfer Agnes to a hospital?”

“No,” Agnes said.

Her husband, Jeremy, turned to her. “Honey—”

“No hospital! I’m not sick and neither is my baby. Why should we go to the hospital? I want my baby to be born right here in its home, not in some stark, sterile hospital room surrounded by strangers in surgical masks.”

Agnes’s tone left no room for doubt. I could tell Grace was trying not to look smug. She failed. “Right, then,” she said. “It’s decided. Neva, I have to prepare. Can you stay here with Agnes?”

She was gone before I could respond.

Another contraction was upon Agnes, and she curved in on herself again. She was in the advanced stages of labor, clearly, but I’d heard worse. I let her finish the contraction, then spoke.

“I’m Neva,” I started, feeling self-conscious. I squatted down, bending to see her face. It struck me that she might not be in the best position for this stage of labor. “Are you feeling comfortable there?”

She sat upright. I didn’t expect, after the strength of her no-hospital declaration, to see anguish on her face. “I’m just … exhausted.”

“I know,” I said, though I didn’t. I was a fourteen-year-old girl—what did I know about labor? I tried to think of what Grace would say to this woman, but all the options were too airy-fairy for my liking. You are a warrior was one of her catchphrases. Think of your precious little angel, ready to grow its wings. Neither of those things felt like me.

“Would you like to try standing?” I said. That was one thing my mother had taught me that was based on science, rather than fairy dust and sunshine. Good old gravity. “Your husband and I can take your weight, and you can hug one of us through contractions.”

I must have got her at the right time, because she seemed happy to get up, and reported that it helped a lot. Strangely, Agnes chose to hug me during contractions, rather than her husband, but I attributed it to height. Her head rested on my shoulder and we got into a good rhythm, pacing and adopting the slow-dance position when the pains came on. With each contraction, her face locked up—but she remained purposeful. She listened to all my suggestions and followed them.