The Circumstances of Birth

At the furthest tip of Cornwall reaching out into The Channel and slightly towards the Atlantic, lies the rugged peninsular known as The Lizard. A land of turbulent seas and thick mists. A land of gales and the plaintiff long call of the foghorn. It was here that Valerie and Josef found themselves a home.

Predannack in Cornwall was the new location for Bomber Squadron 311. They were despatched under the cover of darkness from Beaulieu in the New Forest to their new RAF base. No warning was given beforehand. This is how it was done; it would just take place under cover of darkness, and this covert deployment was understood by all the servicemen and women.

The now totally shocked and pregnant Valerie was no longer a WAAF. Indeed, she could still be a WAAF or she could be pregnant. But alas, not both. She was stripped of her role and uniform and now considered a family member only – a sort of nuisance tag on – and left behind. This all compounded her terrible sense of shame; a shame that she was forced to acknowledge especially when down in Cornwall amongst the local inhabitants who seemed to continue to follow the dictates of ‘folklore’. She often said that she was made to feel like “Tess of the d’Urbervilles” by the treatment meted out to her at that time. Josef felt none of this. He was proud and got a slap on the back from the chaps in The Squadron, and had found accommodation near the airbase for Valerie. (Mind you, he carefully omitted any reference to the forthcoming baby bunting, knowing it would scupper his chances.)  So the defrocked WAAF took up residence in 8 Beacon Terrace, The Lizard, right down at the furthest tip of land. The couple were married in the little church at Mullion Cove, Josef in Uniform and Valerie in an ugly suit and hat. The few male guests were all in uniform also and, for that matter, most of the women. Just a few of the wives were in civilian attire. It was not as if it was anything unusual at the time and under the circumstances: the best they could do was rustle up something. Nobody cared so long as the couple were in love. And the couple were. All they wanted was to be together. Their wedding reception food was supplied by the NAAFI and spread out in a small hotel near the cove. Somehow, ingredients for a white iced cake was procured and made by one of the Czech chefs. It was a great little party with other young women who had married Czechs also. Everyone was in high spirits and afterwards, they all ran on to the beach in the darkness laughing and merry.

By the morning the whole of the village knew about it and gossiped evermore about the foreigners cavorting on the sands by moonlight. Such casual frivolity in times of war. These young men who flew regularly over Germany and suffered extreme strain and high loss sometimes needed to just have some relaxed enjoyment. It was a treat hard-won. But the locals never forgave them, bloody foreigners!

For their sins, Valerie and Joseph had a new landlady, a woman straight out of the book of folklore. Mrs Roberts was suspiciously unhappy with her new lodgers. She had been hoping for a nice squadron leader at least. All the landladies preferred the gentlemen. They didn’t want the nuisance of their soppy wives, hogging the bathroom and blocking the plug holes with their long hair... or hanging their dripping smalls on the line. No shame whatsoever; stockings, cami knickers and brassieres. Now the young pilots, that was a different story. Why, for them they would actually offer to do their washing. And for a squadron leader, they would iron it as well. Indeed they would!

Mrs Roberts almost said no to Mr and Mrs Novotny. She scented trouble somehow. It was just that the rental received was so good and paid directly to her by the Forces so the situation had to be accepted and swallowed. That extra cash really eased things along. She particularly did not care for Josef coming to stay over when he could leave the base. On the nights that he did, she insisted the couple slept with the bedroom door ajar and would leave hers the same. She said it was because she wanting to hear the tic toc of her grandfather clock on the landing. The young couple of course did not care for this and were awoken on every chime on the hour throughout the night, but they were in no position to complain. To cap it all, Mrs Roberts had a sneaking suspicion that she had somehow been hoodwinked by this couple, charming as they were. She was certain that some sort of damage had already been done. At the outset, she had insisted on seeing Valerie’s wedding ring and checking that it was actually gold, but the penny dropped with a resonant ‘clang’ when she heard poor Valerie’s morning retching, realising in an instant it was pregnancy sickness. She was furious and demanded the couple display their marriage certificate and furthermore, went as far as to check it out with the local vicar. Not satisfied with even his confirmation of their marriage, she did a mathematical calculus and worked out that the wanton girl had been ‘well gone’ before her wedding. My poor mother was forced to suffer a shaming of Victorian magnitude and withstand the ‘cod fish’ side glances from the locals thereabouts.

Sitting on the little bus one morning with nothing but silence, a young girl came aboard. She was fresh and extremely pretty and also expectant – s ready to drop in fact. She was a friend and also married to the Czech chef who supplied the wedding feast. As she cast her eyes around looking for a seat, she spotted my mother. “Ohhhh. CooooooooEeeeee Val,” she called out. All heads turned to check out “Val”, the other pregnant girl on the bus. Like a game of tennis, all eyes then reverted to the speaker. They were waiting for her to whack the ball back. They were not disappointed. “I’ve got some lovely bacon for you darling. Vladimir says enjoy it.”  All eyes turned back to Valerie. Enjoy IT? ENJOY IT? Oh, they would ENJOY it alright. Those two and their husbands who strutted about in their posh uniform would no doubt enjoy mopping up the fat with a piece of soft bread.

What THEY would have given for some tasty, succulent cured pork, and here were pregnant girls, shamelessly broadcasting that Vlad (a bloody foreigner at that) had got his hands on some from the NAFFI canteen stores no doubt! Well, what an affront to them, the hardworking citizens of Cornwall. They were fit to burst and just couldn’t wait to get off the little bus and have a good post-mortem on the subject. No recovery of status could ever be retrieved after that little vignette. No, not a shred of decency remained. Henceforth, the baker forgot to put the loaf aside for these young wives, the butcher the chop, and the grocer the tea. Locals looked the other way. To top it all, the words in Valerie’s parent’s letter, telling of their grave disappointment and broken hearts and lamenting her future prospects, made Valerie all the more despondent. The letter had arrived on her wedding morning tucked inside the embroidered nightdress case that had been on her bed at home since she was a little girl. Certainly not a wedding gift but a Freudian message of sorts.

Salvation came by the news that the RAF had been deployed overnight to a new base. A camp stationed up in Tain, Scotland. Highland country, just about as far away from Cornwall as possible. The sooner, the better! Oh goodness the sooner the better. It couldn’t come quick enough!

The men were gone, under the cover of darkness, and their wives would follow. This was all perfectly orchestrated by the RAF and the women and some babies were escorted to the station by the personnel. Bar a few sandwiches and a couple of flasks of tea, the travellers were ill-equipped for the lengthy journey ahead of them, however.  Not an easy trip by virtue of its extreme mileage, taking the passenger from the tip of Cornwall to the very highlands of Scotland. Valerie arranged to travel with a friend, Florence Sapak, who was also married to a Czech, and her baby daughter, Mira.

On boarding the train, a Czech doctor from the camp ran up to Florence and drew her to one side. “Watch Mrs Novotna she’s near her time,” he warned “I don’t think she is going to make it.”  However, the friend thought it best not to impart this news and worry Valerie. She had more than a month to go anyway and, furthermore, Florence was in desperate need of sleep herself and was banking on Valerie to take hold of the baby whilst she did so.

And so it was that more than a fair share of snoozes were taken by Florence during those long hours with the little one bouncing up and down on poor Valerie’s lap and playing with the buttons on her smock. Long and tedious was the route and through the night the train rumbled on. I have myself taken this journey and honestly wonder at my mother’s fortitude at bearing it as well as she did. One change was made in London and another in Scotland. Then finally a short little train deposited the two women, a baby, a pram and other paraphernalia, onto the platform of a tiny single line station called Nigg. “If ye two lassies are looking for two Czechs, they’ve gone! They got tired of waiting,” called a little station master whilst sweeping up the butt ends of those Czechs. “But if ye cross the track to the other side to yonder field, you can take a shortcut to your lodgings.” 

What a “short cut” that turned out to be. Putting the baby in the pram along with all the other heavy gear, the two women began to push and lift the massive contraption over the track into the “yonder field.”  However the path that ran alongside was baked hard with mud forming mounds and ruts, cut out by tractor wheels, along its entire length. They had never known anything like it.  At first pulling the pram and its contents, then pushing it whilst carrying the little one and sometimes lifting the whole pram complete with baby, over stiles, followed by luggage and bags of soaking wet nappies. Their progress was slow yet still they forged ahead on the assault course.   Sometimes they tried out a new tactic and sought to half push, half lift the pram around the stile in a bid to make it easier. However, trying to manoeuvre the wheels through the thick brambles on either side made it almost impossible and they were left with no other option but to the high, lifting method. The other “no option” they had to face was the crouching in nearby bushes, all dignity stripped, to “spend a penny” as they called it back in the day.

Baking hot and absolutely gasping for a cup of tea, the two women persevered. And this was supposed to be the more palatable route for goodness sake! Heaven only knew what the long way round would have been? By the time they set foot onto a road, they were exhausted. They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry but being young and somewhat foolish, they indulged in both. Laughing until their sides ached at the spectacle of themselves with their torn stockings and scratches. Laughing through their tears of fatigue. “So this is what we get for marrying Czechs?”  offered up Florrie whereupon they convulsed with laughter once again. “You’re lucky anyone wanted to marry you with that hair Florrie,” screeched Valerie. (Florrie’s hair, which had been immaculately constructed to form fat Victory Rolls on top, had fallen into bedraggled sausages around her face.)  “Well YOU Valerie, look at YOU. You’re like Humpty Dumpty. Good job your mum and dad aren’t here to see.”

Eight months gone, skinny but with a huge bump, she did indeed resemble the nursery rhyme figure. As for her parents witnessing her in this state? She decided not to even think about that possible scenario. Florence found her lodging place and was warmly greeted while a hasty message was sent to Josef to pick up his wife.

Whilst a normal and everyday occurrence in life, I feel that the particular circumstances of my birth deserve to be documented here, they being of sufficient incredulity and sweetness as to warrant the reading. In these days of hospital deliveries, Caesareans, gas and air and spinal blocs a scene of such basic naturalness (and I think beauty) unfolded that warm August evening.

After a lengthy walk, and up a curved lane off from the main road, lay a row of little cottages. These dwellings were tithed to the grand house further along and hidden from sight. In these humble dwellings lived the groundsmen, gillies and farmers to the big house. In number 4 Allan Gardens, Fearn, Tain, Ross-shire, there lived the particular family to whom I now refer: the Nimmons family. Mr and Mrs, Johnnie and Dolly with their children, Cathel, Malcolm, Mary and Evelyn. They were humble people and on hearing that some of the newly established RAF members at the nearby base were seeking accommodation, predominately for their wives (for the most time, men worked through the night on camp) they opened up their home to Mr and Mrs Novotny. It was later recorded that when Dolly Nimmons opened the door, Mrs Novotny was near to collapse, such was her exhaustion, and such a feeling of compassion was felt by that wonderful Scottish lady that she prompted put her arms around Valerie’s and drew her inside.

Everything was ready and prepared, she informed the couple, and opened the door into a dear little front room where a bed had been made up. Apparently, poor Mrs Novotny fell upon it and declared she never, ever, wanted to leave. Tea, the finest nectar ever drank, I was told, and griddle cakes were brought into her whilst the four children stared wide-eyed from the doorway. “Oh go on then Bert,” said the eldest and their huge black dog sauntered in with a slow wag of his tail, to pay his respects. It seemed like heaven to Valerie and, after a bowl of warm water was brought in to wash and soak her feet, she fell into the soft bed into a deep sleep whilst the sky was still hot and blue outside!

At some point during the night, Valerie awoke, restless and uncomfortable. She writhed this way and that feeling the rocking movement of the train still pulsating through her body. Her head throbbed and her arms felt that they were being wrenched from their sockets. She screamed out when a dagger-like pain stabbed her. Josef, next to her, leapt up. “What is it darling?” he inquired. “Oh it’s my arms, they ache so and my back, oh my back. I’m fine now, it’s going off a bit, don’t worry.” But, a little time later, she screamed “Oh no it’s come back. Oh NO, Oh No!”

Dolly Nimmons was already outside the door tying the cord of her dressing gown. Josef, abashed, began “Pardon me. I’m so sorry to bother you, but it seems that the journey has upset my wife’s stomach and arms.” Looking over his shoulder at Valerie, that dear lady replied, “Aye, ye don’t need to tell me what’s wrong with your wife. Get the bike out and go fetch the midwife. And tell Johnnie to get the crib down from the attic. My mother always told me that she felt like someone in a play with everything going on around her. A play in which she was the main character. A character who had forgotten her lines and was stupefied into uselessness. She watched as Dolly Nimmons set about preparing things; bringing in towels and hot water; making up the crib with a snow-white sheet and little blankets; laying out a tiny nightdress and shawl. This couldn’t be happening! After all, she wasn’t due for at least another month and, heavens above, an early arrival would only serve to compound her parents “grief” even more. Oh please no! not here in this cottage, in the home of a family she had never laid eyes on before this night. Please don’t let it be true! But, yes it was! Josef by now had located the midwife and she had cycled back on her own bike carrying her small medical bag in the front basket. She greeted Dolly amiably. She knew her well having delivered all four of her children. Together they stared down at the patient wondering at her small frame but sensibly hiding their fears. It was going to be very hard for this young woman. Tough going indeed. A moan emitted from the bed which had Josef running for the woods. 

A piercing scream rose through the air. So high and shrill that it made the birds take flight, I am given to understand. My mother’s final cry, followed by the wail of a new-born baby. Me.