A finer end - Deborah Crombie [122]
She had the trousers down to Faith’s ankles when the next contraction began and Faith slid into a squat, pressing against the wall.
“That’s good, now. Breathe,” Gemma coached as she scrabbled for her temporarily forgotten torch. But it was useless and Gemma flicked it off with a mutter of frustration. She was going to have to do this by touch alone.
She reached down, feeling Faith flinch as her hand made contact. “It’s all right,” she soothed. “I’m just checking the baby’s progress. I won’t hurt you.” Oh, God, was that the baby’s head she felt, crowning already? Then the contraction eased. The baby receded, withdrawing into the safety of its mother’s warmth.
Faith sagged against the wall, eyes closed.
“All right, love. You’re almost there. Next time I want you to push, bear down with the contraction as hard as you can.” She pressed her palm flat against Faith’s abdomen, breathing with her, and she felt the ripple of the muscles even before Faith moaned.
“Okay, here we go. Wait for the crest, then push.” She felt for the baby’s head again as Faith bore down. There it was, the crown, then the entire head emerged as the contraction slacked off. “Breathe,” she urged Faith. “That’s a good girl. The next one will do it.”
Gemma felt the groan resonating through the girl’s body as the next contraction began. She tried to ease the baby’s passage, but still Faith yelped at the unexpected pain of the baby’s shoulders—and then Gemma held the infant in her hands.
It was wet, and warm … and still. “Oh, dear God …” Desperately, she cleared the mucus from the tiny nose, then used the tip of her little finger to clear the child’s mouth.
Silence.
Oh, God, please, Gemma prayed. What else had they taught her to do? Stimulate the baby’s reflexes—that was it. She scraped her fingernail across the sole of the tiny foot. And again—
A cry split the air. Weak with relief, Gemma clasped the tiny form to her as a second wail followed the first.
“It’s a girl. Oh, Faith, you have a little girl.”
“Let me—I want to hold her,” Faith whispered.
As Gemma inched forward, transferring the infant to her mother’s arms, she felt a warm patch beneath her knee. She touched her fingertip to the spot, felt the dark pool in the grass. Faith was hemorrhaging.
She would not, could not, panic now. “Faith,” she said quietly, “you’ve got to get the baby inside your blouse, for warmth. Put her to your breast, let her suckle. And I need you to lie down, love. Now, put your knees up. There. Like that. Good girl.” Taking off her jacket, she covered mother and baby.
She had read somewhere that the mother’s uterus would contract in response to the baby’s nursing, a natural reaction that might slow the bleeding. She had no other recourse, and no means to warm them other than her own body.
Nor did she have any way to call for help, she realized as the dreadful enormity of her folly sank in. She had left her phone in her handbag, in the car.
Huddling against Faith to protect mother and infant as best she could from the wind, Gemma pointed her torch at the sky and began to flick it on and off.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Some of those who make the Glastonbury pilgrimage come to do reverence to the dust of saints in the serene green nave of the Abbey; some come to open their souls to the fiery forces going up like dark flames from the Tor. Who shall judge between them?
—DION FORTUNE,
FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART
WHEN KINCAID FIRST returned to Garnet’s kitchen and found it empty, he assumed that Gemma had gone out to meet the ambulance. A look out the door, however, showed the yard deserted and quiet, the only vehicle Gemma’s Escort parked in the lane. He crossed the yard and pulled open the gate, tearing the crime-scene tape loose.
But a look down the lane revealed no sign of activity. He went back into the house and knelt by Andrew Catesby. The man’s skin had taken on an unhealthy tinge. Swearing, Kincaid rang 999 again and was assured by the dispatcher