A Step Back in Time
Chapter Four

Max raised his glass of sparkling white wine and we all followed suit, Claire, Stuart and I, clinking our glasses against one another’s in the soft genial atmosphere of The Old House at Home public house. Max had arranged this evening to celebrate the fact that my sister, Claire, would be coming to work with us on a temporary part time basis. He had done the same for both Sarah and I at the start of our employment.

“Thanks, Claire, for agreeing to help us out on such short notice,” said Max, taking a sip from his drink. “I don’t think you realize how stretched we’ve been without Sarah.”

“Hmm, tell me about it,” I said. “I’ve been run ragged.”

“Yes,” said Stuart. “Hannah can now take a well-earned break—from my work, at least.” He smiled wryly.

“No problem,” said Claire, raising her glass to Max and giving him a full on, wide eyed, teeth gleaming smile, which I thought was quite strange. She turned to Stuart. “It will be a pleasure working for you, Stuart.”

I eyed Claire warily. She seemed different since her return from London, more brittle and edgy. Her appearance was different too. Her hair, which had been fairly short and a nondescript brown the last time I’d seen her, was now long, well past her shoulders, and highlighted very blonde. Her figure had become lean and lithe since she’d taken up running and going to the gym—at my suggestion, and I had barely started yet. What a joke! —and her skin, which I assumed was meant to be sun kissed, looked more like a chewed up caramel toffee.

Even her dress sense had changed; at one time she would never have worn such a short skirt and low-necked top together. I felt positively old fashioned and dowdy in my skinny jeans and long-sleeved shirt, which until now I had thought the height of fashion. I hoped upon hope that she didn’t dress that way in the baker’s shop.

In fact, I thought, with a frisson of shock. She looks just like one of Max’s girlfriends. Like a Barbie!

To hide my alarm I gazed at my surroundings, at the gleaming cozy bar, all the seats filled with chattering diners. The pub was old, really old, dating back to the sixteenth century; in fact, only a little later than the life time of Margaret and Ursula Pole. It had a cozy thatched roof, and thick beams covered the ceilings. A wood burning stove glowed brightly in the huge fireplace, sending out a smoky, woody smell which I sniffed appreciatively.

“A penny for them, Hannah?” asked Max suddenly.

I was very conscious of the fact that I was sitting very close to him on the bench, our thighs almost touching. I was also very aware of how much he looked like Gregory, Gregory Walsh, who I hadn’t seen for what seemed like ages—years, in fact. Or, of course, centuries.

“Oh,” I said airily. “I was just thinking about this pub and how old it is. Also, did you know that there was a fire in Havant in seventeen sixty, which almost wiped out the whole town? The only buildings to survive were this pub and part of the church next door.” I pointed in the general direction of St. Faith’s Church. “Well, this pub was a row of cottages then.”

“Really?” Max asked, as he took his eyes away from the menu—a large leather coated affair more like a book than a menu—to look at me. I noticed that a black clad waitress hovered uncertainly in the background. “You’re very knowledgeable,” he grinned, turning towards me. “A bit of an historian, are you?”

Before I could reply, Claire butted in. “Wow! A fire? You’re making boring old Havant sound as exciting as London. You know, the fire in Pudding Lane and all that.”

“Hey, don’t knock Havant,” I said. “We’ve got loads of claims to fame.” I then went on to tell them about Warblington Manor and Margaret Pole and Henry the Eighth. As I got into it, I realized that I loved talking about them, and that in fact I was getting an almost perverse pleasure out of just saying their names.

Piped music played softly, and amidst the hubbub of the other diners—the pub was very busy as it was a Friday night—Stuart suggested that hadn’t we better order our food. He nodded towards the waitress, who had moved slightly nearer and was clutching a note pad and pencil close to her chest like a shield.

We fell silent as we ordered our food, and then as Stuart and Claire carried on their conversation, Max turned towards me again and said very quietly, “Hannah, I think I need to make an apology about the other night.”

I frowned, pretending that I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“You know, in the cemetery. I don’t really know what happened.”

Slightly put out by his words, I replied, “Yeah, okay. I know it was a mistake. There’s no way you’d ever want to kiss me.” Oh my God, why did I say that?

“Um….” Max fumbled for what to say. “Boss and personal assistant, Hannah? Not a good idea.”

“You don’t like me anyway,” I pouted. Oh my God, why did I say that? The wine must have gone to my head. Stupidly I picked up my glass and took another deep slug. “I’m not your type,” I hissed.

Max opened his mouth to speak, and just about managed to utter, “That’s not true—” when Claire, picking up on the venomous undertone between me and Max, gave a pointed glance while tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. Then, thank God, with such perfect timing, the waitress arrived with the food.

We ate with relish. The food was excellent, aromatic, and appetizing, taking the edge off the fact that I had maybe drank my wine a little too fast. I felt a bit fuzzy and out of control. I chatted with Stuart, noticing all the time that, from her seat opposite him, Claire flirted unashamedly with Max, frequently shaking her long blonde hair back from her face, giving the mega-watt smile, and even offering him tiny portions of food, which he ate from the tip of her fork in what I thought was a blatantly sexual way

Feeling more and more put out, and not really knowing why—why should I feel that way about Claire and Max? —I excused myself to Stuart, wondering if the other two would even notice that I’d gone, and went to the ladies’ room. For once there was no queue and I went straight into a cubicle, still inwardly fuming at Claire’s behavior with Max and wondering what it was all about.

Yeah, okay, Max’s interest had obviously been ignited by the fact that Claire now looked like a Barbie doll. But Claire’s interest in Max? She’d never been attracted to him before. In fact, she’d always said that she didn’t even like him, and I remembered her saying only recently that she thought he was up himself.

I gazed at myself in the mirror and shook my head sadly, seeing once again Max’s gaze slipping from mine when I’d asked him what he’d been doing at the ruin that night. He was obviously hiding something. I was reluctant to go back to the bar with the others, afraid that I’d made a fool of myself and feeling pretty much left out of things, when I felt a gentle pulling at my arm and a face appeared at my side, making me catch my breath.

The face was virtually unlined, with smooth red cheeks surrounded by a fluted white bonnet tied under the chin. She was round and jolly as a Weeble, and wore a long skirt with a short sleeved embroidered peasant blouse tucked in, and a voluminous apron covered in very suspect rusty looking stains tied over the top. When she smiled, I noticed that some of her teeth were black as night.

“Come dear, come and lie down. I’m Mrs. Dawes, the midwife. You must stop pacing and come to the bed. The baby is coming.”

She pulled at my arm again but not so gently this time, so that her nails, long and sharp as claws, dug into my skin. Glancing again into the mirror, I saw that its surface wavered brightly like a restless glassy sea, making my eyes feel tired and heavy until the lids, which I was valiantly trying to keep open, finally fell, and suddenly I, Hannah Palmer, was gone.

***

It was September, the ninth month, an ending month, yet the first month of the old Roman year. Even though it was early in the morning, barely seven o’clock, the sun hung like a golden disc, hot and heavy, spreading rapidly across a bright blue sky speckled with smoky tendrils of cloud. Its heat pierced the uneven glass of the windows, and spread around the room like thick yellow butter smeared on bread—over the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the wooden wash stand, its flowered bowl and jug shiny and clean. It spread over the huge bed, its wooden headboard and footboard rising up like shields, and upon which I lay tangled in sweaty sheets that were clammy against my burning skin as I writhed and coiled in my bloody agony, my bloody pain.

Servants were scurrying around the bedchamber, hanging heavy tapestries at the windows to block out the light of the impending hot day, and lighting candles with long, smoldering tapers that now guttered fitfully on the bedside table and the shiny wash stand. My pains had begun at the very first light, softly at first, gently, just a faint, irritating needling in the small of my back. Yet they woke me—the pains, and the birds, the noisy chattering, chirping birds that squawked and hustled and bustled in the blood red sky like a raucous party.

My mother, Margaret Pole, was there and I grabbed her hands. “Don’t leave me, Mother,” I begged her. “Don’t leave me.” The pains were bad now in my lower back, like nasty red-hot fingers pinching, and it felt as if a big man wearing hob nail boots was marching the length of my rigid spine, up and down, up and down. My huge stomach seemed to clench and unclench as I held it tightly with laced, white knuckled fingers. The baby was uncannily quiet, and very still.

“I will never leave you, Ursula, my Little Bear,” my mother told me. “I will never leave you.”

I was sitting now, my back against the headboard, my legs wide open and the harsh cotton of my nightgown scraping over the bulging dome of my contracting stomach. The material felt wet and sticky against my breasts, which were full and leaking.

My mother was close to me. She held my hand tightly, securely, while the midwife, Mrs. Dawes, touched between my legs, her fingers prodding and poking, searching for the baby’s tiny, furry head. The metallic odor of blood hung heavily as an abattoir in the hot air. I sat up higher and leaned forward, trying to bear down, to push hard. I knew I was grunting and squealing like an animal, like a pig rooting in mud and fallen leaves for truffles.

Time passed—endless time—and I opened my eyes. The room seemed even darker now, and from the gaps in the hangings, I saw the sun sinking into the earth like a fiery crimson ball. My mother’s face floated in front of me like a pink puffy balloon. Her mouth was opening and closing, opening and closing. She spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Defeated, I closed my eyes.

“The shoulders—oh my God, the shoulders,” said a voice—I thought it was Mrs. Dawes, the midwife. “I’ve got the head—I’m holding the head. She must push.”

“She can’t push anymore,” my mother said tiredly. “Surely—not anymore.”

The room was dark now, but I could see my mother pacing and pacing, then peering between the hangings, where blackness stood hard at the windows. Long deep shadows lurked in every corner. Candles guttered fitfully on the bedside table, a tiny flickering blue flame encased with gold. They smelled warm and greasy. I wanted to be sick. My mother held me securely, her arms around my stiff shoulders, as I retched and heaved.

“We’re almost there. Just another push—a tiny push,” said Mrs. Dawes, the midwife, and then I heard my mother’s voice, her familiar beloved voice, irritable now and afraid.

“We’ll have to cut her. Here, go on—you’re the midwife. Take the knife. For God’s sake, woman, you’ll have to do it! I can’t—she’s my daughter! I can’t do it.” She wiped her sweating forehead with the back of her hand.

Soft empty sobbing filled the air and the room. My mother was hunched over, her black dress tight against rounded shoulders and her hands covering her face. Yet Mrs. Dawes, the midwife, stood at the bedside, cradling a baby in her crimson splattered arms, a sleek, naked baby. It was a boy, for I saw his tiny penis waving erect. He opened his mouth, a deep black cavern, and bawled long and loud. My swollen breasts leaked a long stream of thin tepid milk.

It was strange now, for I found that I was not in my body, but floating somewhere near the ceiling. It was good to feel so light and free and not hampered with a body, a heavy unresisting body. Yet where was my body? Had I died? The sun was coming up and had appeared, a lemon globe hanging in the sky, for the candles had long since flickered and gone.

The birds were chattering and chirping again, squabbling and quarrelling. Did they never rest? I floated nearer and nearer to the bed—to the figure on the bed, the blood-soaked figure on the bed. My heart banged heavily, so very heavily against my ribs. I cupped my mouth and my nose with my hands, my eyes bulged, and I bit my knuckles to stifle a scream, as I realized it was me!

***

I was in bed when I came round. I felt as if I’d been gone for years, and was not sure of the day or the time, or indeed the year. All I knew was that I was in my bedroom at number forty Mitchell Road, Bedhampton, tucked securely between crisp white sheets. My duvet smelled reassuringly of the sweet scent of comfort, and there was a glass of water on the bedside cabinet. White curtains decorated with enormous blue flowers were pulled across the window, but t didn’t quite meet in the middle, and I could see that it was raining, and that little drops rolled down the glass like tears on a mourning face.

I was overwhelmed by sadness, such a deep, deep sadness, and I wondered why I felt that way. All of a sudden, memories came crashing into my mind and I was Ursula again, and the baby was coming and the pain was intense. I put my hand to my stomach. Yet my stomach was flat, flat as the proverbial ironing board. There was no baby there now. I remembered the midwife, Mrs. Dawes, holding him, holding my baby, his tiny face peeking from the crook of her arm like a slice of cream cheese. I’d had no chance to hold him, to feel his smooth skin against mine, or to kiss the tip of his tiny upturned nose.

I rolled my head restlessly on the pillow and, as I tried to sit up to reach for the water, the aching in my body intensified and I felt bruised and sore, as if I’d been severely pummeled in a fight which I had definitely lost. I lay back down with a sigh.

There was a tiny tap on the door and Sarah, her eyes wide, poked her head into the room and said, “Hey, Hannah? Are you okay? Can I come in?”

“Yes Sarah, of course, come in.” I beckoned with my head.

“Hey, you don’t have to worry,” she told me as she came to sit on the bed. “I’m past the infectious stage.” When I must have looked puzzled, she added, “You know—the shingles.”

“Oh yes,” I said, but not really understanding or remembering. With all that had happened to me, I’d forgotten about Sarah’s shingles, but still asked her if she was feeling better.

She shrugged and said, “Hey, so so—maybe a bit.”

Leaning towards me, she placed a hand on my forehead, which felt good, cool and reassuring. Then she playfully asked, “Hey, how are you feeling now? Are you hung over? You were really out of it last night.” She looked at the bedside cabinet. “Do you want this water?”

Gratefully I took the glass from her as Sarah helped me to sit up and put a pillow against the headboard so that I could rest my back.

“How did I get home from the pub last night?” I asked her. “What day is it? Oh my God, Sarah, what happened?”

“Hey, Claire dropped you off in a taxi,” she told me. “She said she’d found you collapsed in the toilet, and that you’d had too much to drink, as usual. And it’s Saturday—luckily, no work for you today.”

“As usual?” I asked, “What did she mean by that? I’m not usually drunk. I mean, it’s not a regular thing, you know.”

Sarah shrugged. “Hey I know, but that’s what she said.”

“Did I say anything last night?” I asked tentatively.

“Hey, um...not really. Well, you just kept holding your stomach and saying that you hurt. Oh, and that you wanted your mother. But I just assumed that you said that because you were drunk. For some strange reason people do want their mum’s when they’re in that state.”

I smiled at her and nodded, and then, taking a sip of water, I asked her, “What about Max and Stuart?”

“Hey, they went home, I suppose,” she said with a frown. “You don’t need to worry about them, they’ll have been fine. How come you collapsed in the toilets, Hannah? That’s really not like you. And what’s happened to Claire? She looks like one of Max’s Barbie dolls.”

I managed to grin at her as I nodded my head. “I know. I don’t know how it happened, but yeah, you’re right, she’s become a Barbie. My sister is a Barbie doll. Oh no!”

We giggled together, and Sarah patted my hand and began to stand up, saying, “Hey, oh well, I’d better leave you to it. Is there anything I can get you? Would you like something to eat?”

I shook my head wearily, feeling as if I’d been through hell and back and wondering where it was all going to end. I worried that if I was going to live Ursula Pole’s life that I really would have to go through all fourteen pregnancies and, feeling as I did now after just one labor, that it could well be the death of me.

Before I knew what I was doing, I said, “Sarah, do you remember a few weeks ago when I talked to you about the strange experience that I’d had, and you told me about Margaret Pole and Warblington Manor and all that stuff?”

She nodded her head and sat down again, “Hey yes, I do. What’s happened, Hannah?”

“This is going to be hard to understand, Sarah, but please just listen to me, will you?”

She nodded again and put her hand in mine as I began to speak. The rain, falling harder now from a metallic grey sky, drummed against the window, so I had to raise my voice for Sarah to hear.

“Sarah, I didn’t collapse in the toilet. I wasn’t really drunk—well, a little bit tipsy. I’d only had a couple of glasses of wine.” I took a deep breath. “It might seem as if I’m hung over, but the truth of it is that I’m just completely worn out.” I paused for a split second, then carried on. “I gave birth last night, to a baby boy. I had a really bad time. In fact, I’m not sure if I died temporarily. I definitely remember floating on the ceiling and looking down at my body.”

“Hey, who were you?” she asked, with what seemed a genuine understanding and interest.

“I think that I was Ursula Pole and— Oh my God, Sarah, according to Wikipedia she gave birth to fourteen children!”

I watched her face intently as I spoke, and to say her reaction to my story blew me away is a total understatement.

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