21
Joyce
Devon, April 1941
‘Libertatem per Lectio’
Bulletin No. 23
Friends. We’re back in London. I know I can trust you to keep our secret. We did the right thing, didn’t we?
Joyce
Adela was propped against the historical fiction bookcase in the travelling library, her fingers gripping the stacks, her head resting against the books. Every so often she would clench and moan, a long, low, drawn-out sound that pulled Joyce out by the roots.
‘It’s important we don’t panic,’ Annie said. ‘I’m going to fetch the midwife. Beth, you go and get some hot water and towels.’
‘I don’t think we’re at that stage yet,’ Evelyn remarked.
‘Aren’t we?’ Jo asked.
Only Harry was actually doing anything, laying down blankets in the back of the library van.
‘Let’s give Adela some privacy. Don’t worry, my love,’ he said, utterly unflappable. ‘On the second day of the Blitz, I helped deliver a baby during a raid. At least we ain’t got Jerry bothering us.’
‘It’s too soon,’ Adela gasped.
‘I’m not sure the baby agrees,’ Harry replied, keeping his tone light as he bundled up blankets into a pillow. ‘You lie down andrest. The midwife’ll be here soon... please God,’ he added under his breath.
Beth and Jo were already gone, off to fetch the midwife. Annie went off to close up the library.
‘I can’t do this,’ Adela whimpered.
‘Take her shoes off, Joyce,’ Harry ordered. ‘Her ankles are so swollen.’
Joyce eased her pumps off and reached for her hand.
‘Don’t worry, my love, everything’ll be just fine,’ she soothed, removing first her shoes, then helping her out of her slacks.
Adela cried out as another contraction took hold.
As she gripped hold of the bookshelf, her eyes wide with terror, Joyce felt so helpless. Adela looked so young. Shewasso young. Only seventeen and on the cusp of becoming a mother. In the library and during the bombings, she had been so capable and calm, so grown up and composed, Joyce had somehow convinced herself she was older than her years. But the truth was, she was utterly unprepared for this birth and the trauma that would follow.
Joyce saw the tightening of her belly and braced herself.
Adela cried out as more pain ripped through her body, and Joyce felt a tidal wave of guilt. She should have given her more information and helped her access some support for the birth. She imagined there would be time for that, but now the baby was coming and none of them were remotely ready.
‘I want Mama and my sister,’ Adela cried. She fixed her bewildered gaze on Joyce’s. ‘Do you think they’re alive?’
Her eyes were unfocused, the sweat pouring from her.
‘I dreamt my sister had died,’ she gasped. ‘My beautiful Dorotha. Please God forgive me. I’m so ashamed. They sacrificed everything to get me here. She’s dead... she’s dead...’
Adela was rambling now, incoherent with pain, guilt and fear.
There was so much Joyce wanted to say in that moment.This is not your shame to bear. That bastard raped you. You were a vulnerable young refugee and he took advantage of you in the worst possible way.
Instead, Joyce locked eyes with Clara and Evelyn, feeling utterly helpless.
