After a few minutes of...intense discussion with his mother, the memory of which Lord Patrick was determined to suppress forever after, they all set out for the hospital and not long after entered St Bartholomew's small but homely maternity wing.
"Aaagh!" A sweet female voice shook the walls. "I swear I'm gonna kill dat bloody bastard! I ain't ever gonna let 'im stick 'is prick in me again! 'e'll be lucky if I won't squash 'is bloody bollocks!"
On the other hand, Lord Patrick thought in his infinite wisdom, maybe it would have been a wiser decision to stay away.
"My, oh my..." Amy cupped an ear behind her head. "I think I 'ear da dulcet tones of me friend."
"Bloody friggin' shit! Agh! Get that oversized parasite out of me stomach!"
"Yes...dulcet." Lord Patrick swallowed. "Very dulcet."
"Patrick Day, stop hanging back!" the dowager duchess called from ahead, sending a commanding glare in his direction. "You are a British gentleman! You should take responsibility!"
His Lordship Lord Patrick Day, peer of the British Empire and Knight of the Order of the Garter, felt his face twitch. "You do remember me explaining how I had nothing whatsoever to do with this, don't you?"
She sent him a stare of which only mothers are capable. A stare that promised no dinner, two weeks grounding, and other horrific punishments. "Harrumph. I am still sure that you are somehow ultimately responsible. Just look at the poor girl!" With maternal outrage, she gestured at Miss Amy Weston, who was currently having enormous fun indulging in fits of fake sobbing. "Look what you've done to her! How could you betray her like that? How could you just throw her away for some other woman?"
"I did not...you aren't listening, are you."
"There, there." Putting a comforting arm around Amy's shuddering shoulders, the dowager duchess patted her gently. "Don't cry. I'm sure he won't leave you, dear. He'll make it up to you." Glancing over her shoulder, she threw another glare at her son. "Will you look at that? You should be ashamed of yourself! Can you see how she's shaking?"
"Yes," Lord Patrick agreed, staring daggers at the shaking shoulders of Miss Amy Weston, who seemed to be having a really hard time to not burst out in laughter. "I can see that."
"Are you quite finished?" Dr Thomas T. Gallagher enquired, gesturing down a corridor to the left. "This way!"
Amy's signs of hilarity immediately ceased, as did Her Ladyship's stares. Lord Patrick was about to breathe a sigh of relief—when, once again, an earth-shattering bellow shook the hospital, followed by several ear-searing curses.
No relief yet, it seems.
All too soon, they arrived in front of a double door, from behind which continued curses issued. Some individual with a lovely sense of humor had placed a sign saying DO NOT ENTER—ONGOING OPERATION on the door, only with the word 'operation' crossed out and replaced by 'armageddon'.
Brushing the sign aside as if it weren't even there, Dr Thomas T. Gallagher opened the door and stepped into the room, then cast an enquiring glance back at his friend. "Are you coming?"
Lord Patrick decided he would need to thank his friend for this later. Hm...how about bringing him to Madame Mulberry's Tea Salon for Sophisticated Ladies for a nice cup of tea? It would be such a good way to show his appreciation.
"We're coming." Patrick gave his friend a smile that promised a multitude of various tortures. "We're coming."
***
Everyone crowded into the room together. Amy had long abandoned her fake sobbing. As much fun as it had been, now was not really the time.
"Push!" one of the doctors around the bed in the center of the room advised. "Push!"
"What da friggin' 'ell do ye think I'm doin? Pullin'?" The harpy on the bed who somewhat resembled her friend Jenny screamed. "I ain't some idiot in front of an unlabelled front door!"
"Why, 'ello there, Jenny," Amy greeted her friend with a bright smile. "Lovely day, ain't it?"
"Frigg ye, too!"
"Ah." Amy nodded. "Dat's my friend dat I know and love."
"What is the poor girl talking about?" the dowager duchess whispered. "What is a 'frigg'?"
"An ancient Germanic goddess," Lord Patrick hastily leapt forward before Amy even opened her mouth, leaving her quite impressed by his supreme bullshitting abilities. "Though why she would mention something like that now I couldn't guess, unless..."
"The poor girl!" Cooing, Her Ladyship bent down to embrace the panting, groaning Jenny. "She's hallucinating!"
Over the shoulder of Her Ladyship, Amy noticed her friend throw Lord Patrick a deadly glare. Judging by the way he ducked behind one of the doctors, His Lordship seemed to decide that from now on it would be best to keep his mouth shut, just in case.
Luckily for him, though, this was a delivery, and thus, most of Jenny's ire was naturally concentrated on someone else right now.
"Where is 'e?" Eyes burning with her desire for vengeance, Jenny whipped her head from left to right, looking around the room, searching. "Where is da son of a bitch!"
"And now she is imagining a puppy?" Shaking her head sadly, the dowager duchess turned towards one of the doctors. "Can't you give her anything to help her?"
"Well, ehem..." The doctor, who in Amy's opinion seemed to have pretty good survival instincts, cast a hesitant glance at the glaring Jenny. "I'd rather not risk it."
"Oh my, you think it might harm her?"
"Um..." He threw another glance at the murderous-looking pregnant lady. "It would certainly cause harm, yes."
"My goodness! Then what can we do?"
"Get dat bastard who did this 'ere!" A renewed roar echoed through the room. "Get 'im 'ere so I can strangle 'im!"
"Um, perhaps we should call her husband here?" the doctor suggested, taking cover behind a cabinet with medical supplies. "He might be able to comfort her."
"Hm...you might be right, doctor."
"You think so, Your Grace? Wonderful!" Clapping his hands in joy, the doctor leapt out from his cover and whirled to face the door. "I'll go and fetch him then! See you later!"
And, without another second's hesitation, he fled the room.
Yes. Amy nodded to herself. Really impressive survival instincts.
By the looks of it, Dr Thomas T. Gallagher seemed to think so, too.
"Nurse?"
"Yes, Doctor?" the nurse in the corner piped up.
"Doctor Martin's compassion and care is really quite extraordinary. He should be rewarded. Have him put on night shift cleaning duty in the morgue for three months, will you?"
"Yes, Sir!"
Amy decided this doctor friend of Patrick's wasn't too bad. Now, if only he helped her friend live through this and continued pranking Patrick, she might just grow to like him.
And if 'e fails, I'll boil 'im alive!
Stepping over towards the bed, she grabbed a water jug on the bedside table, dunked Lord Patrick's handkerchief—which just so happened to have found its way into her possession—into the liquid, and started cleaning Jenny's sweat-soaked brow.
"Well, well, girl," she mumbled, gazing down at her friend. "Look what a pickle ye've gotten yerself into."
"Isn't as if any of dis is my fault!" Jenny ground out between clenched teeth as convulsions shook her. "It's dat bloody bastard of a man of mine who..."
Amy gave the other woman a look that told her exactly how much she bought any of that bull. "Bollocks! Ye've bin in da business just as long as I! I wager ye know more dan half a dozen methods ta avoid little 'accidents'." Glancing down, she tapped the prone woman's quivering belly. "And dat one ain't little by a long shot!"
"I..." Amy watched as colour rose to Jenny's face. "Ye know I'm married to a bloody vicar! I couldn't just—"
"Bollocks!" Amy repeated, staring at her friend suspiciously. "Ye've never given a flyin' fig what ye can and can't do! I don't see ye startin' now. Unless..."
Her suspicious gaze intensified—then, as Jenny's blushed deepened, a smirk spread over Amy's face. "Aww, dat's so cute! Ye wanna make 'im 'appy!"
"Shh!" Jenny hissed. "Not so loud! 'e might 'ear ye!"
"From 'alfway across da city?" Straightening up, Amy cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. "Oy, listen up! In case anybody's interested, Jenny wants ta make 'er 'ubby 'appy!"
Nobody even glanced her way. They were far too busy discussing how to alleviate the poor woman's suffering.
"See?" Her smirk widening, Amy patted her friend's shoulder.
"You bloody little—" But whatever lovely insults Jenny was about to bestow on her best friend, Amy never got to hear them. Because, in the next moment, an earth-shattering scream of pain tore apart the air. Jenny convulsed on the bed, her fists clenching the sheets.
"Crap." Amy pulled a face, glancing down at her friend's agonized face. "Drat! So much for successfully distractin' ye from what's going on."
"N-nice try," Jenny wheezed. "Thanks for the—aaagh!"
"Push," Amy offered the most helpful piece of advice she could come up with, pointing to the foot of the bed. "In dat direction, I believe."
"Go frigg yerself!"
"I'm afraid I've got nothing ta do with any paltry little goddesses. I'm much more awesome dan dem."
"Ye—agh! Ahahah—agh!" Jenny broke out into a coughing fit. "Curse ye! I can't be laughin' right now!"
Innocently, Amy blinked down at her friend. "Ye can't? Den do ye want me ta tell ye some jokes?"
"Don't ye dare, you—!"
"A doctor, a duchess and a lady of da night went into a bar...."
Conscientious friend that she was, Amy spent the next ten minutes or so telling her wheezing and giggling friend one joke after another. By the time she was done, Jenny was pretty much out for the count. Satisfied, Amy nodded to herself. Her friend seemed to be sufficiently sedated. And without any drugs, at that. Laughing gas was used to sedate people, so why not use laughing without the gas?
"Ye...hahaha—argh! Oh...ahahah, oh God, I'm gonna get ye for dis!" Jenny groaned.
Amy smiled sweetly at her friend. "I'm more dan willing ta challenge ye for a little boxing match. In fact, I've got plenty of free time for about the next, oh...eight hours or so?"
"So, about da average time a women needs ta give birth?"
"Around dat much, aye."
"I really 'ate ye sometimes!"
"Why, thank ye for da compliment. Where were we? Ah yes...a cat, a rhino and a pregnant lady went into a bar—"
But before she could finish the sentence, footsteps approached from outside and, moments later, the doors flew open and a panic-stricken scarecrow in funeral attire dashed into the room. At least that's what Amy thought at first glance. At a second glance, it might also have been a vicar and soon-to-be father in traditional clergical attire.
"Jenny! Oh my goodness, Jenny! Are you all right, dear?"
"Oh, aye!" Jenny wheezed. "I'm peachy! Just tryin ta shove a ten-inch head through a three-inch hole! Everythin' is just fine!"
"Oh, thank goodness!" Shoulders slumping, the vicar breathed a sigh of relief. "For a moment there, I thought you were in pain."
Amy covered her eyes with one hand. All right, now she understood why Jenny didn't want to disappoint her hubby. He looked more innocent than a newborn little puppy. You just couldn't disappoint those big, brown eyes.
That, however, apparently didn't stop Jenny from giving it to him straight.
"In pain?" She parroted sweetly. "Oh no, I ain't in pain."
"That's so good to hear, I—"
"I'm in bloody friggin' agony, ye stupid pillock! Get yer stupid arse over 'ere!"
"Yes, dear! Right away, dear!"
"And get me a bottle of whiskey!"
"Um...yes, dear?" The poor vicar threw a desperate glance at the doctor.
Dr Thomas Gallagher reached into a nearby cupboard and pulled out a bottle that he handed to the vicar who, in turn, handed it to his wife. She took a deep swig—then threw him a searing glare. "Water! Traitor!"
"No." Dr Thomas shook his head with a friendly but determined smile, pointing at himself. "Doctor." Then he pointed at the other man. "Vicar." Then he pointed at her belly. "Pregnant. No whiskey."
Groaning, she buried her face in a pillow. Amy was just able to hear her muffled voice: "Why da 'ell didn't I marry dat drug dealer?"
"Pardon, my dear?" Leaning forward in concern, the vicar cupped his hand behind his ear. "What was that?"
"Nothin'!"
"Oh. Um...well, would you like me to read you some calming sermons? I've brought some lovely preachings on the benefits of prudence and virtue in young women."
Jenny sent her best friend a pleading look.
Amy, for her part, simply smirked. "I think somebody said she wanted me ta stop talkin' and leave her alone earlier, right?"
"No! Don't ye dare! Don't ye—"
"Toodeloo!"
And before anyone could stop her, Amy skipped out of the room. This was gonna take a while. Today wasn't the first birth she had witnessed, although she sure as hell hoped it would go smoother than the ones in a certain bawdy house. For now, she should try and see if there was a cafeteria in this place. Later on things might get...colourful.
***
"Bloody friggin' fucktart of a steaming shitdump!"
Lord Patrick Day had to give Mrs Jenny Inglethorp credit where credit was due: she had expanded his vocabulary more in the last five hours than his linguistics professor had during four years at university. Only...the words in question were somewhat too spicy for his taste.
"Goddammit! 'oly boody shit dat 'urts! Goddammit!"
"Now, now, Jenny," said the vicar reprovingly. "You should not take the Lord's name in va—"
That was when she whirled her head around to glare at him. "What was dat?"
"Um...nothing, darling. Nothing. Do continue."
Yes, Lord Patrick truly had to hand it to Mrs Jenny Inglethorp. And maybe, after handing it to her, he should leave this room and run until he'd put ten miles distance between him and her.
Why was he here again in the first place?
Ah, yes. Because of that doctor he was going to dismember and decapitate.
Suddenly, a scream ripped through the air.
"Engagement stage is setting in!" Dr Gallagher shouted. "Nurse, help me position her legs! How fast are the contractions coming?"
A nurse with a watch bent down, observing the...something Lord Patrick would never ever think about, being the English gentleman that he was. Again, what was he even doing in here? Why hadn't anyone thrown him out? Why hadn't he thrown himself out?
"About three minutes apart, lasting fifty seconds!" the nurse called back. "Da bloody show's beginning!"
Ah, that was why. His knees were too weak to stand up.
Again, an agonizing scream ripped through the air. Thus it continued. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. With every passing minute, Patrick's respect for his mother and any other married woman in the world quadrupled. How long was this going to continue? This was supposed to be a birth, dammit! Didn't that just mean a child coming out of...some place a British gentleman shouldn't mention? Why did it have to take so long?
A new scream. Twice as loud and three times as agonized as before. Lord Patrick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was changing.
"Heck!" Just then, Amy came storming back into the room, eyes alight with emerald fire fixed on Jenny—then zeroing in on him. "Is it 'appenin'? Why didn't ye call me, ye bloody pillock!"
On the other hand, suddenly Lord Patrick felt it might not be so bad if the birth was still postponed a little longer! Just as long as there would be a door between him and the green-eyed demon Amy had turned into.
"The contractions are coming quicker!" the nurse called out, alerting the doctor. And unfortunately for Lord Patrick's male sensibilities, not just him. "Prepare for internal rotation!"
Did he want to know what that meant?
No, no, he did not!
"I'm 'ere, Jenny." Rushing over to Jenny's side, Amy clutched her hand, ignoring how Jenny's nails seemed to dig into her skin with a force that could probably scratch marble. "I'm right 'ere. Everything's gonna be all right."
"Frigg ye!"
"Nah-ah." Shaking her head, Amy pointed a finger over at the vicar. "Where ye're concerned, dat kind of stuff is 'is job."
The vicar blinked, confused. Clearly he was wondering how an ancient Germanic goddess had entered into the conversation, or something along those lines. "Pardon, Miss?"
"Aye!" Eyes narrowing, Jenny turned her burning gaze on her husband. "'e's responsible for dis...!"
"Now, ehem..." Clearing his throat, Mr Inglethorp retreated from where he had been leaning over his wife. "Don't do anything hasty, dear."
"'asty? 'asty? I'm bloody friggin' bein' torn apart from da inside because of your dick twiddling, and ye think I'm bein' 'asty? Come 'ere so I can strangle ye!"
"Ah." The nervous expression on the vicar's face was slowly replaced by understanding. "Ah, I think I've read about this..." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small book on the cover of which Lord Patrick noticed the title Dr Merryweather's Guide for Future Fathers. "Ah, yes. Here it says that, during the birth proceedings, women often get overexcited and, out of subconscious fear, say the exact opposite of what they mean." Smiling broadly, the vicar looked up. "And here I was worried she was upset with me! Seems it was all for nothing."
Lord Patrick scrutinized the man for a long moment, not wanting to miss a good look at this martyr to manly bravery. Then he glanced over at Mrs Jenny Inglethorp, and wondered how long he had left.
"Overexcited?" Jenny's face twitched. "Overexcited?"
"Yes, dear, that's what it says right he—"
"Go burn in 'ell ye bloody bastard!"
The vicar beamed. "I know, I love you too, darling."
"I'm gonna smash yer skull in with a fryin' pan!"
"That's the the caring wife I know." He gently stroked her head. "So gentle and loving."
Lord Patrick made a mental note to stop by a church on the way home, to have a few masses said for the vicar's soul. He was going to need it.
"Aaaaaagh!"
A new scream of agony tore through the air. Followed by another flood of curses raining down upon the head of the vicar.
"Why, thank you for the compliments, darling." He smiled widely. "You're the best wife anyone could wish for."
"Go find a corner and die, ye bloody cockroach!"
"Of course, my darling. I shall go find a comfy corner right awa—"
"Aaaagh! Crap! Shit! Frigg! Shit! Argh!"
The vicar's voice was cut off by a renewed series of screams and curses.
"It's coming out, Doctor!" the nurse shouted. "I can see the crown of the head!"
"All right, people, this is it!" Clapping his hands, the doctor checked his equipment and took a position at a place Lord Patrick really didn't want to think about. By now, he was standing in the corner staring at the wall like a naughty schoolboy. Some day, he swore, some day he would get revenge on Thomas for dragging him into this!
"Mrs Inglethorp, are you all right so far?"
"What do ye think, ye bloody dickhead?" Mrs Jenny Inglethorp bellowed.
"I need you to breath regularly and push. This is important. Can you do that for me?"
The young woman convulsed and, for a moment, Lord Patrick thought she was going to hurl another round of insults. But then...
"Aye. Aye, I can."
"Good. Breathe in and out before and after every contraction, if you can. In and out. One...two. One...two. Remember to push."
"It's coming out, Doctor!" the nurse shouted a warning.
"I know! Help her hold up her legs, while I take care of it. We'll start on three. One...two...three!"
"It's coming, Doctor! Any moment now! Any moment—"
And from that moment onward, Lord Patrick Day's memory went blank. He had fought on bloody battlefields. He had stabbed and shot more people than he could count. But he was not ready to see this kind of bloody mess. For nearly half an hour, it went on like that, until finally...
"Waaaah...waaah...waaah...!"
Screams. But not screams of pain. Not the screams of an exhausted woman.
"It's done!" Smiling more brightly than a fully lit chandelier, Dr Thomas T. Gallagher held up the child. "Here."
"Tell me it's a girl," Jenny croaked. "I can't stand any more men!"
The doctor lifted a corner of the linens wrapped around the little bundle of bawling. "Definitely a girl." Then he pushed the linens a little further aside, revealing the face. "And what a lovely one it is."
"Gimme! Now!"
"Certainly, Madam. Here you go."
Judging it was safe to look now, Lord Patrick peeked at the bed and saw Jenny cuddling the little girl in her arms, looking exhausted but satisfied. After a little while, the newborn was handed off to the nurse to be washed, and then made its way around the room, people ooing and awing appropriately. Finally, she arrived in Amy's arms. Hesitantly, Lord Patrick stepped up beside her, gazing down at the tiny new life asleep in Amy's arms.
In that moment, Patrick felt something in his heart. A sense of peace he'd never felt before. And yet, he knew that this peace was a pale imitation compared to what he'd feel when he, one day, would hold his own child in his arms. Instinctively, his arm slid around Amy's shoulders, pulling her close. For a long moment, they gazed down at the tiny face together.
"Patrick?" Amy asked. Her voice was low, but more determined than ever before.
"Yes?"
Half-turning, she glanced up at him. Their eyes met for just an instant. In that moment, silent agreement flared up between them. Silent determination.
"Dat child, da one in da gangster's letter..."
"Yes?"
"We're gonna save 'er. Somehow, we're gonna save 'er."
Grimly, he nodded. "Yes."
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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
In case you were wondering, Frigg was the ancient Germanic goddess of foresight and wisdom, and wife of the god Odin. I leave it to your own imagination what it says about Odin that her name became a colloquial word for masturbation.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
Bloody Show - Hard as it may be to believe, "bloody show" is actually an informal term for a certain stage of pregnancy. Considering the name, I don't think it requires a description.