When the Bough Breaks by Connie Monk Read Free Book Online Page A

pig, Bertram, was growing well. Pig and chickens continued to be her responsibility. As the crops flourished so she blossomed, feeling herself to be one with nature. Outside, it was a case of all four of them – Dennis, the two lads and Kathie too – working long hours right through the autumn. The baby wasn’t due until towards the end of January, so she threw herself wholeheartedly into the work. As the season for each vegetable peaked she not only worked outside but indoors too as she put up her preserves for the winter.
    It was in December, a grey still afternoon when the clouds hung low, when she took her shovel and outsize bucket and set to work clearing the pigsty. Although it was a job she disliked, normally she got through it with cheerful determination. But on that day every movement was an effort; over the last few hours she was sure something was different. For weeks she had silently accepted backache as a natural part of her condition, but on that day it seemed to push everything else from her mind. There was nothing,
nothing
but pain.
    â€˜Oh Bertram, I know it’s not your fault, but this is a filthy smelly mess.’ With a mighty effort she emptied her shovel into the bucket, then just for a moment stood straight with her hand on the small of her aching back. It had been getting worse as the months had gone on, but it was something she had accepted as normal. When Dennis said, ‘Are you sure you want to help outside, you feel OK?’ she always replied with the same reassuring smile and, ‘Fit as a flea’, or ‘Just you try and stop me!’ But on that afternoon in Bertram’s sty she could have cried with the pain that was like nothing she’d known. It must be just the way the baby is lying, she told herself. It’s never been like this. I must pull myself together; I bet some women are much worse. Oh, but I feel so awful. Pull yourself together . . . one more shovelful and the bucket will be full. That’ll be all for this afternoon. Then I’ll go indoors. Mustn’t worry Den. If I lie down for a bit perhaps it’ll be . . . ‘Ouch!’ she cried out aloud before she could stop herself. With no one to see her she dropped her shovel then bending as near to double as her girth would allow, pressed her hands against the top of the fence of what she referred to as Bertram’s garden (his or any pig’s in residence at the time). She had never known such searing pain. It had woken her in the night and still been with her when she got up, but not like this. She ought to call Den and ask him to get one of the lads to carry the bucket. But Den would worry. Just because she had been so energetic all through these months that was no reason to suppose she wouldn’t get pain at some stage. It must happen to all women. If other people could put up with it and not make a fuss, then so could she. Using all her willpower she stood straight, then stooped first to pick up the shovel then the heavy bucket. Bertram watched her dolefully, then as if to tell her that this was
his
space and he’d do what he liked, looking her straight in the eye he gave a satisfied grunt as he left a steaming deposit then turned his back on her and ambled indoors to lie on his clean straw. She put her spade over the wall, and then with her spare hand let herself out, closing the gate securely. Now to carry the load to the far end of their five-acre plot.
    The rough grass track at the edge of the field had never felt like this before, so uneven that she wasn’t sure where her feet were going to touch ground. She’d have to stop for a moment. No, she’d get beyond the last row of sprouts before she let herself rest. Why didn’t the plants stay still? Why did they sway like that? Nearly at the last row of them, then I’ll . . . but she knew no more.
    Perhaps she only lay on the ground for a minute or two, or even only seconds, she was aware of nothing