LITMIR.BIZ

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took twenty agonising hours and Margaret did her best to breathe through the waves of pain, hoping and praying that the child would survive despite being six weeks premature.

      Just as the baby was finally coming, the doctor shouted, ‘Quick! She’s breathing in.’

      The breathing reflex had kicked in while the child’s head was still in the birth canal, and she was inhaling mucus. If it went on too long she would be brain-damaged.

      The doctors managed to extricate her and the cord was hastily cut before she was rushed out of the room.

      ‘What’s happening?’ asked Margaret, so weak after almost a day in labour that she could hardly speak.

      ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Rambo. They just need to clear her tubes,’ the midwife said, patting her hand.

      News soon came that baby Rosamund was now breathing normally, but the doctors couldn’t say what effect those first few minutes without oxygen might have had.

      ‘I want to hold her,’ Margaret sobbed. But Rosamund was so tiny, at just three pounds three ounces, that she had to be kept in an incubator, and Margaret was not able to see her until the next day. Even then, she wasn’t allowed to pick her up.

      Margaret was sent home, but she had to leave Rosamund behind, and since the baby was too small to breast-feed she had to express milk for her and take it to the hospital every day.

      Eventually, Margaret was allowed to take the baby home, but she felt that the separation of the first few weeks had made it hard for her to bond with Rosamund, and even harder for Lawrence to do so.

      He seemed distracted and fretful, and explained that he was under immense pressure at work. He was helping to plan the equipment needed for D-Day, and was coming home later and later from the office. Margaret worried about the long hours he was putting in, and knew that having a screaming baby in the house wasn’t helping. Sometimes he didn’t come back until eleven or twelve at night, having gone for a drink after work, which he said was the only way he could unwind at the end of the day. He would often wake in the night and lie there tossing and turning until morning.

      He also seemed to be anxious about money. When bills arrived they sent him into a fit of anxiety, and he scratched out endless sums on pieces of paper, then screwed them up and threw them into the bin. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about it, my dear,’ he told Margaret, when she asked him if something was wrong.

      One day Lawrence arrived home late again, clearly already more than tipsy. He was carrying a bottle of whisky and went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a large glassful. Margaret watched in surprise as he knocked it back, then immediately poured himself another one and knocked that back too, as if it was no stronger than water.

      ‘Lawrence, are you sure that’s a good idea?’ she asked, concerned.

      He turned to her, his familiar features contorted into a furious scowl and his dark-brown eyes flashing with anger. ‘Don’t you go telling me what to do!’ he shouted.

      The baby started to cry and Margaret rushed from the room to comfort her. As she soothed the child she could feel her heart racing with fear. The man who had just spoken to her seemed like a completely different person to the husband she knew.

      When the baby calmed down, Margaret crept into bed, hoping that by now Lawrence had drunk enough to fall asleep in his chair.

      The next morning when he went off to work he looked a little worse for wear, but acted as if nothing had happened. He kissed her goodbye as usual and went on his way. The previous night’s behaviour must have been an aberration, she told herself, and she tried to put it out of her mind.

      The following night Margaret was already asleep when Lawrence came in, and they didn’t have a chance to talk. But on Friday, he once again returned home tipsy and produced a bottle of whisky from his pocket. He seemed to barely notice her as he set about pouring himself a large drink.

      Margaret felt instantly nervous. ‘Have you had any supper?’ she asked, and when he didn’t reply she quickly went to make him some food, hoping it might sober him up.

      But in the meantime he had drunk half the bottle. The wild, furious look was back in his eyes, and once again he seemed transformed into a completely different person. The Southern gentleman was gone and in his place was someone she didn’t recognise.

      ‘I don’t want that!’ he slurred, as she put the food in front of him. He shoved the plate away, sending it crashing onto the floor.

      Margaret didn’t stay to see what he would do next. She ran into the bedroom, and this time she locked the door. From under the covers, she could hear crashing and banging noises, and dreaded to think what he was doing.

      In the morning, Margaret was woken by a gentle knocking on the door. When she opened it, there her husband stood, his brown eyes full of grief. ‘I’m so sorry, Margaret,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what came over me last night. I’m under so much pressure at work, I just can’t think straight.’

      He looked overcome with shame and regret, and she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, shakily. ‘But Lawrence, please don’t bring whisky back to the house again.’

      ‘No, of course not,’ he agreed. ‘Margaret, you are the finest wife a man could have.’ He kissed her goodbye, gave her an adoring look, and then he was gone.

      When she went into the kitchen, she saw that he had cleared up the broken plate and food, but in the living room she found that the electric heater had been smashed to pieces. So that was what the crashing and banging had been. She shuddered to think of him in such a violent rage.

      Margaret couldn’t help feeling angry towards the Army, who were clearly putting her husband under such terrible stress that he was buckling. She was worried he might have some kind of collapse.

      The next few nights Lawrence came home earlier and did not bring any whisky with him. Margaret was relieved, but she was still worried about him, since he seemed anxious and again wasn’t sleeping well.

      One day Lawrence came home and announced, ‘I’ve found somewhere much better for us to live. We’re moving immediately.’

      ‘But don’t we have to give notice on our flat?’ she asked him.

      ‘I’ve arranged all that,’ he told her. ‘Just pack our things and we can go there now.’

      Margaret was surprised, but she hoped that a change of scene might help her husband. She did as he said and followed him to an address in Rabbit Row, half a mile away.

      When they arrived, she found it was a small mews street that had been badly bombed earlier in the war. But she didn’t want to complain, so she got on with the unpacking.

      The new flat didn’t seem to do anything to lighten the considerable load Lawrence was carrying, however. One day, while putting away some laundry, Margaret discovered two empty whisky bottles in his sock drawer.

      Worse, a letter arrived addressed to her from their previous landlady, Mrs Campion, demanding payment for the electricity, phone and cleaning bills, as well as the cost of the smashed electrical fire. The woman said she had spoken to Captain Rambo several times about the bills, and he had promised to pay them, but she had received nothing. So that’s why we had to leave in such a hurry, thought Margaret.

      She decided she would speak to Lawrence that night, and planned out in her head what she was going to say: that he needed to tell his superiors his workload was too large, that he needed a break and that she would help him keep on top of the bills. She just hoped that Lawrence would come home sober and at a reasonable hour.

      That afternoon, there was a knock at the door and Margaret went to answer it. She found an American military policeman waiting outside. ‘Mrs Rambo?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Ma’am, I need you to pack a bag and come with me. Your husband has been arrested.’

      ‘What

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