What If .........

Knitting Needles hadn't been invented?

If only I had gone to school that day what might have happened? Maybe my mother would have died and my life would be very different, maybe she still would have survived and I would never have known about all the lost babies. From that one single day my head was full of "what ifs. I managed for many years to push it to the back of my mind, but just closing my eyes I can transport myself back in time.

It was the summer I turned thirteen and the year I started my periods. I woke up that morning with the familiar cramps and just knew this month was going to be a bad one. I helped mum get the younger children off to school, she looked dreadfully pale and went back to bed after eating no breakfast. Our supply of sanitary towels was getting low and I remember thinking that she must be having her period as well. I felt selfish about keeping our only hot-water bottle to myself so I put the kettle on the gas, topped up the bottle and took her a cup of tea in bed.

The room was full of that familiar coppery smell and as I put the cup down next to the bed I noticed a trickle of blood on the sheets. We never discussed female problems in our house, but even then I knew something was very wrong. I tried to help mum drink the tea but she could hardly lift herself into a sitting position. Her face looked even more drained and her lips were strangely blue, a mere slash in the colourless face.
The whole thing was a silent charade, I run to get one of the old worn sheets without needing to be told. Pulling back the top cover to change the towel I could feel myself blanch from shock, the sheet was sodden, blood running through three sanitary towels. I could feel my own womb contract in sympathy.

'I'm going to call the doctor,' I said, my voice sounding harsh in the still quiet of the room, only a few faint groans coming from mum. She nodded her head and pointed to the hand full of coins on the dresser, still she hadn't spoken one word. I knew the doctor's number off by heart, my elder brother suffered from acute asthma attacks and often one of us would be sent out in the night to call our doctor.
I ran all the way to the corner box, my feet striking the sweltering pavements with dull thuds, echoing the frightening beat of my heart. The doctor promised to come out right away, his only instructions to raise my mother's feet with spare pillows.
I remember thinking 'how silly'; we barely had enough pillows for our own beds.

Throughout the next few hours I remained surprisingly cool, mum had taught us all not to fuss, but I did worry if she was going to die. I didn't need to be told what to do, I arranged with a neighbour to pick my younger brother up from infants school and keep him there until one of my sisters arrived home from grammar school. She never asked me why, later on I found out about the conspiracy of silence shared by all the improvished women.

Dr Ryan wheezed his way up the stairs, years of smoking and drinking whiskey was already taking its toll on him. He took in the scene with one glance and asked my mother a strange question, 'Does Alice know what's happening?'
Mum shook her head as another pain tore through her body.
'Jesus,' I was faintly shocked by his profanity; I knew he was a Catholic and not supposed to take the Lord's name in vain.
'Then she'll have to know, I need her help.'
Know What? I knew about babies and had already worked out that mum was having another miscarriage; we didn't stay innocent long in our part of town.
I pointed out the torn-up pile of rags and worn sheets and went downstairs to put the big boiling pot on to heat.

'Can you come up here a second, Alice,' he called down to me. I went up those stairs two at a time, trying to ignore my own cramps.
Handing me the bloody knitting needle from under the bed he sent me down to wash it.
'I'll need a hand here soon,' he said, looking at me, obviously wondering if I was up to the task ahead. 'Have you got a wee drop of the special medicine?'
I went into my brother's room and reached down the hidden bottle of whiskey, pouring him a generous measure. My parents never drank but we kept a bottle by for the doctor's visits.
'Maybe you should have one too?'
I hadn't noticed my hands were trembling, for the first time I sipped at the fiery liquid scorching my throat and making me gag. I could feel the warmth starting to glow and tossed the rest down in the same way as the doctor.

It was all over within the hour and that day I grew up quickly. Although sent out of the room for the last few minutes, my help was needed to carry the bloody bundle away,
'Best flush it down the toilet,' Dr Ryan said, I nodded mutely but didn't do as I was told.
Mum was sat up in the bed when I walked back in, hair combed and looking much better.
'She should be in the hospital, ' he said, but then added, 'You know why I can't send her in?'
I didn't but said yes anyway.
'Good girl, I've left some tablets, make sure she takes them every day for a week and call me if the bleeding gets bad again.'
He accepted another glass and then I saw him to the door.
'Poor Alice,' he said, smoothing my hair as if I was still the little girl he once sat on his knee.
'Try not to blame your mother and say your prayers each night?'
'Thank you Dr Ryan, I'll be sure to do that.'

I made another cup of tea and took it up to mum.
'I think I'll get up in a few hours,' she said.
'It's okay, I put that bit of bacon on to boil, it won't take me long to peel the potatoes.'
'Make sure the men get fed first,' oh why did she have to say that?
'I'll keep some broth back for you,' knowing that if I didn't offer she'd be up that night.
'You're a good girl,' that was high praise indeed.

I buried the tiny scraps of humanity at the far end of the garden, not realising I was crying as I did it. I'd looked at them, of course, sometimes I'd watched as my stray cats gave birth to kittens. This was very different. They were so very tiny but just recognisable as little babies, I hadn't yet leant the term "foetus at that time. I decided they were twin girls and named them that day, covering the soil I said a Catholic prayer over them. We weren't Catholic but I couldn't stand to think of my little sisters being in purgatory.

¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦..

I grew up with 'Whys' and ' if's 'tainting my soul. There had been other " miscarriages before then and for many years I wondered if I had been destined to become one of those. The following year my father allowed mum to have a hysterectomy, did he know about my part in that day?
It was never spoken of, things happened like that in poor households with too many mouths to feed.
If I hadn't been there that day, mum may have bled to death and I would never had gone to grammar school along with my other four siblings. If the twins had been allowed to live, would they have gone full term?
It had been a struggle to put us all through grammar school, if the twins had lived and the lost ones before that, would I have ended up working in a factory or as just another teenage mother?

If I had questioned my mother before she died, would I have been any the wiser? Sometimes silence is better than words. I was a difficult teenager, too wise before my time, I sometimes thought I understood and then the black wave of depression would catch me up.
My twins (for that is how I always thought of them) still run through my dreams even though I now have a grown-up daughter and a perfect grandson.

I see them as two bright lights, hair as fair as mine. Two bright-eyed five-years-old playing in a poppy field, making daisy chains to wrap around each other's necks. I can't imagine them as older than that, perhaps it coincided with losing my virginity at 18, who knows why or if¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦.?