Spilt Milk by Amanda Hodgkinson

she might speak to Vivian. Once she had been standing behind the elder trees, hidden from view, and Vivian came out of the cottage to feed the hens. Her sister’s face was dreamy-looking, her eyes shining with a peacefulness Nellie did not recognize. Was Joe Ferier in the cottage? It stopped her heart to think of them together. But no. She was sure Vivian was alone. Her sister moved slowly through the long grass of the orchard, lazily, like someone who did not know they were being watched. She wore a red dress and a pretty blue shawl. Her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders. Vivian had been skinny before, but she looked womanly now. It hurt to see Vivian looking so content. To realize that living alone suited her well.
    The hens – Nellie’s jolly red hens – followed Vivian across the garden, chasing after her skirts like fond children. Vivian was talking to them. She went indoors singing an old hymn Rose used to sing, the cottage door banging shut behind her, the hens settling on the doorstep to wait for her. Nellie turned away. Her sister did not need her.
    It was surprising to find there were still women in the village who called upon Anna Moats to deliver their babies. Nellie had gone with her to two confinements. It had been alarming to see women lumbering like wounded cattle through the pain of childbirth. Nellie felt useless. She did not know how to help. Their cries frightened her. ‘There’s no romance in childbirth,’ said Anna at the bedside of a labouring mother. ‘You hold her hand and tell her she’s a bloody marvel,’ she instructed Nellie as the woman’s face twisted in pain on the pillow. Nellie did as she was told. Such a small gesture, the clasping of another’s hand in your own. The woman clung to her. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
    The same day, Nellie and Anna did a tooth extraction. The old soldier in the village had a rotten tooth. He was in agony, a gin sweat pouring off him. Cheek like a cooking apple, green withinfection, shiny, round and swollen. Nellie got the tooth in a good grip with the pliers, her knee on the man’s chest, and then exclaimed loudly that the smell was too much to bear. She’d almost vomited over him, and Anna, gin-soaked herself, pushed her aside and pulled the blackened tooth, promising them all a tot of drink when it was over.
    ‘So will you deliver this baby?’ Anna asked Nellie and Louisa. ‘Mrs Thomas will be labouring with her sixth child, but I can’t walk there with my bad legs. She’s a strong woman and it’ll be an easy birth.’
    ‘I can’t,’ said Nellie. ‘Not without you. I’m afraid of what might go wrong. I think she should get a nurse.’
    Anna scowled. ‘A so-called qualified midwife wants fifteen shillings to do what I do for eight. Three months’ training these women get, and I’ve more years’ experience than I care to remember. A doctor costs one pound. All well and good if your husband’s working, but Mr Thomas hasn’t had full-time work in months.’
    ‘We’ll do it, Mother,’ said Louisa roughly. ‘No need to take on.’
    ‘Can you manage a bowl of soup, Anna?’ asked Nellie. The old lady thanked her and Nellie turned to ask Louisa, but she was putting on her coat, saying she was going out. It was a dark afternoon and snow was beginning to fall. Nobody would want to walk anywhere in this, except Louisa had told Nellie she was meeting the wheelwright, who had asked her to go away with him if he could get at his savings without his wife knowing.
    ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ said Louisa, and gave Nellie a wink.
    ‘You think you might go and see your sister soon?’ asked Anna as Nellie ate soup. ‘You and Vivian were so close. It’s a sad thing to see you apart. A man, was it?
    ‘Usually a man involved when women fall out,’ Anna said when Nellie didn’t reply. ‘Well, don’t leave it too long. It takes courage to go and make things better. You’re a brave girl,