“I don’t ave’ any bees and honey and besides, I ave’ cock and hen lil’ ones. I can do it meself jus’ fine.”
I set the medical bag on the bed covered in a graying white crocheted blanket.
“What?” I asked. I was completely confused. The woman’s cockney accent and language was thick and rich. She was truly Cockney too. It wasn’t a mash of other accents and dialects from other areas of London. Her mother, and soon to be grandmother, confirmed that her daughter, Mrs. Diana Brathwaite, was born within clear earshot of the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow. Cheapside.
“Sometime during the Great War,” the grandmother said as she poured hot water into a teapot.
“I’m going to need more hot water,” I told her. She nodded but fussed with milk and sugar instead.
“Did you ere’ me?” screamed Diana. “What’s in your head? What are ya? A septic tank?” Diana then moaned, doubled over, and spread her legs wider. In her screaming, the sass poured out and flatulence.
“Nothing but a raspberry tart,” she howled with sweat dripping from her forehead.
“I know little of Cockney,” I said firmly. “But I can help.”
“Where are you from?” asked Diana with curious interest in the midst of pain.
“All over the colonies. My father is a colonel in Her Majesty’s army. I just left Yemen. I’m a fully trained nurse.”
“You English then?”
“Can’t get more English,” I assured her. “Just new to London accents and dialects. Now how many children have you had?”
“I told you. Ten. This one makes eleven.”
Some babies are over eager to be born and some don’t want to come out. This baby didn’t. I didn’t blame the poor baby. Her and her dock worker husband lived in two rooms in the East End. They should have torn these tenements down back in 55’. They were sagging, infested and a colossal health disaster. I saw three bugs crawling on the wall to the side and a scurrying I was afraid to detect.
In the end, the baby was born, the father came home, patted the baby girl on the head, and then said he was heading to the pub.
“Don’t use the milk money,” screamed Diana. “You got babes.”
“Just a lil’ celebration is all luv.” And Mr. Brathwaite clomped down the stairs. Diana let the baby suckle, I finished up, and the grandmother tidied up. When I saw a rat in the hall I hurried down the stairs. I needed air. I walked off happy to be free of those two poor rooms and mass of children. What will become of that baby? What becomes of any of us?
THE END[amazon_link asins=’0449002632,B01LWX5M8M’ template=’ProductCarousel’ store=’200wordshort-20′ marketplace=’US’ link_id=’ba69c084-6cf5-11e8-84fc-f973ed2c516c’]