The pains were coming tighter and harder and it was a struggle to get on to the examination couch in the front parlour. The bustle of everyday business was going on around her in other rooms; Katy Beattie from Stratharvar village was carrying trays up to the first floor, there was the distant cry of infants, the ringing of bells, a smell of Izal and polish, a whiff of steamy washing somewhere.

Leithy turned her on to her side to examine her carefully, tugging a little. ‘Two fingers dilated, my girl, we’re on the way.’ Then the inevitable happened all over the sheet as the latest dosings took their foul effect.

‘Who told you to take castor oil? What a mess, you mucky pup! You could have done quite nicely without it. Netta Nichol, how much have you swallowed?’

‘A full bottle,’ she confessed, pink with embarrassment.

‘You must be a masochist to get all that down your throat. Go and have a bath now and clean yourself up. Your innards must be red raw. Away with you while I fumigate the room. Silly chump!’

*

Not a good start to a long gruelling day. At each stage Netta was prodded and examined and told to relax, but every contraction brought another smelly explosion until she feared plastering the walls with her foolishness. Leithy could see the funny side of it all but the victim was mortified. If only someone had warned her! As for using the pains, that only made matters worse. At regular intervals Leithy would put her cold funnel on the bump and smile confidently. Later she brought in some instruments. ‘I’m going to give the bag a wee snip to break your waters. That’ll hurry it along a bit more.’

What a splashy, watery business this birthing was. There seemed to be someone else in the next room, giving it great licks, shouting the odds for her ‘mammy’. Leithy patted her hand. ‘You just get on with it in your own way, a good yell never did any harm. It’s funny how men shout for their mammies when they’re injured and lassies when they’re giving birth. Don’t look so anxious, it’s all going splendidly.’

But Bump was proving stubborn and refused to budge much. Why did no one tell her about this pain? Netta moaned and groaned and tried to get comfortable. Never would she put herself through this torture again. Later in the evening Dr Begg popped his head round the door, his ‘kent’ face familiar and comforting.

‘Going to give you another wee snip and put the forceps on the bairn’s head, Netta. You’re both getting tired now. I’ll give you a jag to ease it up a bit.’