On the way back to his house he told us the reason for his drinking bout - a prolonged and violent row with his wife Doreen - not an uncommon event I was to learn. He asked us in for a night-cap and after entertaining us with amusing stories, he suddenly said: "Eddie, there is something I must tell you. I'm in love with your wife". You could have heard a pin drop. And then the conversation became general for a short time and we went home.

The next morning began as usual. I went to Mass with the children and then, while I was preparing lunch, the telephone rang. This time it was the Royal Infirmary and the Sister was 'phoning to tell me that Ernie was in the Intensive Care Unit. His heart had stopped beating under the anaesthetic and he would be kept in the unit for several days. Would I notify his wife that he wouldn't be home for lunch? I did this, of course, and when her response was: "Thanks for telling me Pam, but I can't go and see him just now, I'm making a steak and kidney pudding," I felt once again the terrible pain and isolation of being cut off from one you love. My instinct was to drop everything and run to the hospital, but all I could do was pretend to be quite happy and carry on as usual.

It was to be many years before things were essentially different. Many years of intense pain and intense happiness, if only for fleeting moments. Many years during which deep bonds of affection and trust were built up, many years during which we became more and more mutually dependent on each other.
 

                          * * * * * *
 

                           CHAPTER 12

Around 1968 Mother's health began seriously to deteriorate. For as long as I could remember she had been very overweight and suffered pain and stiffness in both knees due to osteoarthritis, but gradually she had been finding walking increasingly difficult, due to pain, yes, but also to a general weakness in her legs as well. Her mind was alert as ever and she enjoyed a game of bridge at which she was very adept (although not such a professional player as her sister, Auntie Milly). We obtained a zimmer walking aid for her and, with this to help her, she got about the house and out to the car and I would drive her to her destination. She found stairs very difficult but with assistance and plenty of time she would manage. She would wait at her friend's house until I was free to pick her up and then we would struggle down the stairs - a feat which she found even more difficult than climbing up. She continued to give bridge parties at home as long as she could manage to see but, unfortunately, her sight began to fail and the time came when she was registered blind. Previously she had been an avid reader, a crossword buff and needle woman. All these hobbies had to go - not at once but bit by bit. We obtained the talking books for her and she would listen to them or to the radio for hours. Unfortunately a magnifying glass was of little use to her as, by this time, the muscles of her hands and arms had virtually disappeared and she was unable to hold anything but the lightest object.  Her legs too eventually failed completely and by 1969 she was in a wheelchair, partially sighted and with diminishing movement in her hands and arms. Her speech also was becoming affected and she would have long verbal blocks before managing to come out with what she was struggling to say. But she still was mentally clear and if you had patience you could carry on a slow conversation.

Poor Mother, it must have been awful for her but she never complained - at least not when she became really disabled - but when comparatively well, she would inevitably greet me on my return from work with the words, "I've had a bad day today." What could I say in reply? I knew she would never improve but if only she had varied the words, even slightly! But no, they were always the same. However, I shouldn't complain. She had so much to suffer ahead of her.

As she became more disabled I decided I would keep her at home at all costs. I could not bear the idea of my Mother in a nursing home all by herself. She had been surrounded by people all her life and had only been in hospital once, and that was for my delivery.

But to keep her at home we needed to make proper arrangements. We had a wheelchair and a hoist to get her in and out of bed, and the district nurse called regularly for bed baths, etc, but more was required, and it is here that Mrs McHale came into our lives. She had been a patient of mine since I took over the practice and if I remember rightly, she approached me and offered her services which I more than gratefully accepted.

She was small and dumpy, with a round face, blue eyes and fair hair, and had a tendency to smile and spoil those in her care. Not over particular about housework she was, what they so rightly call, a Godsend.

Up until the advent of Mrs McHale we had been struggling along somehow and we managed remarkably well with the help of the family - Anne, Nick & Vivienne. Anne was no longer at home so was not so directly involved, but did what she could to help. Many a time I have seen Nick, the Prodigal son, spoonfeeding his Granny her lunch and often we relied on him in the later years to lift her up in her wheelchair, but I must give most credit to "Wee Viv".  Although barely fourteen, if I was delayed by the surgery or calls, she would wheel Granny through to her bedroom, lift her on the hoist onto the bed, undress her and generally settle her down until I came home. I would give mother her breakfast in bed before surgery and that meant literally feeding her her breakfast, as she was no longer able to feed herself. I had to turn her, change her bed and give any necessary medication, etc. The district nurse would come later in the morning to wash or dress her, lift her into her wheelchair and take her through to her sitting room. Mrs McHale would come along between 10 and 11 to give her meals and generally look after Granny. Sometimes she would just sit and talk away, keeping her company. The other charge which she took upon herself (and whom she delighted in spoiling and feeding) was the "wee laddie", Douglas, who still had a hearty appetite and received all her attention gratefully but also as the due right of a 12 year old boy, fond of football and food.

Because Mother was so totally immobile and unable to call out for attention I moved into her bedroom and so was at hand when she woke at night uncomfortable and in pain. Twice a night for 4 years I had to turn her and give her a drink and a paracetamol if she required it. I remember one night being so tired that after getting up for the second time and trying to turn her, I came out in a cold sweat and felt faint. I hastily covered her up and collapsed onto my bed, where I lay for about 15 minutes before daring to get up again and finish attending to my poor old mum, whom I loved dearly and who I never thought of as a burden.

I was lucky to have such an adaptable family and Mrs McHale to help me. Just knowing they were there was an enormous relief, to know she had company and that they could call for help if it was required. Now and again my sister Bumpy would come and stay for a week or two to allow us to get away for a short holiday together, and so we struggled on - struggle becoming more and more the operative word.

                           * * * * *
 

Here might be a good place to recall a holiday we had around this time (1970). It was decided that I would take Vivienne and Douglas on a farmhouse holiday in Devon for 2 weeks. We set off full of high hopes down the motorway. The first day was uneventful and we stayed the first night in Bolton with my friends Harry and Sheona. The next day was bright and sunny and just as we were leaving, Sheona came hurrying out of the house carrying a large basket of fruit (which a grateful patient had handed in) and which, as they were flying abroad for their holiday that afternoon, was of no use to them. That basket of fruit came in extremely useful - how useful, no one could have guessed.

We set off again down the motorway feeling confident and cheerful. The day was warm and sunny and we were on our holidays, without a care in the world and the open road before us. After about 45 minutes or so I felt the engine losing power and then it came to a halt. Luckily I was able to draw in on the hard shoulder before stopping completely. "Now what?" says I to myself, having no knowledge of cars whatsoever. After a few minutes silent debate with myself I got out of the car and had a look at the engine. All I could fathom was that it was badly overheated. I waited until it had cooled a little and then filled up the water reservoir with some saline that I happened to have in the boot of the car. No luck; so there was nothing for it but to use the Emergency Phone and call in the RAC.

This we duly did and settled down in the car to wait. It was getting hot by now so we opened the windows wide and had an orange each. We waited and listened to pop music on the car radio. Eventually the RAC man arrived. I cannot remember what he did exactly or what he said, except that "It will be all right now for you to limp on" and limp on we did. In a few miles we came to a "Refreshment " area where I drew in, and we had a light meal. There was no one to advise us about the engine and so I decided to drive on. This was not a wise decision. We had only been driving about twenty minutes when the engine once again seized up. Without hesitation I went to the emergency phone, came back to the car and waited, and waited, and waited. The sun still shone and it got hotter and hotter. We opened the windows of the car but eventually had to get out and stand at the side of the embankment. The AA man came past. He stopped and asked if we had used the emergency phone. I explained the position and he said he would remind the RAC and off he went. We had some more fruit and settled down once again to wait. The hours passed and the AA man came again. "Have the RAC not been yet?" "No, we've seen nobody". "Right, I'll let them know and tell them to hurry up", which he did there and then.

Off he went again and again we settled down to wait, feeling a little more hopeful. It surely couldn't be long now before some one came to our rescue. The sun was beating down and the traffic roaring past but never stopping, and it was as if we were marooned on a desert island. We ate some more fruit and waited - not one word of complaint did the children utter and we managed to keep cheerful (although without the fruit we would have been seriously dehydrated by now). The hours were passing and evening drawing near, but still no RAC man. The AA man stopped a third time and shortly, after him, the Police. The usual questions - what are you doing here? How long have you been here? Have you used the emergency phone?

I told him all that had happened or, more truthfully, what had not happened. The RAC had been phoned 5 times, either by myself or the AA man, with no result. There and then he phoned the RAC, and I heard him say in no uncertain terms: "Come and get this woman and her kids off the motor way - now".

We helped ourselves to the diminishing store of fruit and waited. This time not for long, but we had begun to lose all sense of time. It was 6 o'clock before the pickup van drew up in front of us. The somewhat ungracious driver asked me if I had ever been towed before. I said no but I was sure I could manage. He looked doubtful, but hitched my car onto the towing apparatus and off we set. You cannot imagine the relief it was to get off the motorway, away from the constant roar of traffic and onto smaller windy roads which led us over 15 miles to the not-so-delightful oasis of Bilston, outside Birmingham. Here we were able to get out of the car and stretch our legs while the proprietor of the small garage examined the engine and assessed the damage. As it was obviously going to take some time, I thought it a good opportunity to have a meal.

"Is there any cafe or restaraunt open where we could get a meal?" I asked him. "Nope". "Well, is there anywhere we could get something to eat? The children are very hungry". "There is a chip shop down the street", he grudgingly told us, but which street he refused to say. We need not have worried. At that time there only seemed to be one street in Bilston, which was surrounded by waste ground and industrial buildings on the horizon. We found the chip shop and that fish supper was the best I've ever tasted I can assure you. Having bought a bottle of lemonade to quench our thirst, we wandered back to the garage - to be told that the engine was kaput and I would either need a new one or it would have to be stripped down and reassembled. Either way it would take a week and: "I would want paid in English money. No cheques and no Scottish notes". Charming.

What to do? I don't know about the kids but, by this time, I was beginning to feel desperately tired. I thought we should have a night's rest before deciding what to do for the rest of the holiday, so I asked him: "Is there anywhere we can have bed and breakfast around here?" "Nope", says he, not looking up from the desk at which he was sitting. "Is there a hotel at which we can stay?" "Nope"
I knew there must be plenty of hotels in or around Birmingham, so I said: "Are there any buses into Birmingham?" "Nope" "Is there any public transport into Birmingham or any way of getting there to find somewhere to sleep?" "No". There was a long pause during which I racked my brains, trying to think what on earth to do, when I remembered I had cousins who lived at Leek Wooton, well on the other side of the city. I asked where there was a phone I could use. "Down the street and round to your left". "Could you give me change for the ten shilling note?", I timidly requested. Very reluctantly he gave me change.

So once again we set off down into Bilston High Street and found the telephone kiosk without any problem. I had looked up their number in the telephone book at the garage beforehand so had no problem getting through.

"Hello Robert, this is Pam. We broke down on the motorway and myself, Viv and Dougie are stuck in a place called Bilston. Could you possibly come and get us?"

Slight pause and then "I think the best thing would be for you to hire a taxi and drive out here. Don't worry about the expense. It will be quicker than driving all the way out there and back again. Now don't worry. Just hire a taxi and come. We would love to see you".

So we plodded back to the garage once again and I asked the proprietor: "Are there any taxis for hire around here?" "Nope", says he, not looking up. I could hardly believe my ears. Such rudeness and indifference to our plight was almost unbelievable. Could this be racial prejudice?

"Well there must be someone willing to drive me out, if not a proper taxi. Could you possibly do it?"

Long pause during which he conferred in whispered tones with his lady associate. After about 10 anxious minutes he replied: "Yes, but I've got to be paid in English notes. My partner here will drive you. Where do you want to go?"

"Leek Wooton on the other side of Birmingham. It is a drive of about 50 miles". "What is the address?" "The Hedges, Leek Wooton". "What is the proper address?" "The Hedges, Leek Wooton" "What is the proper address?", says he, getting somewhat irate. "That is the proper address?", says I, getting equally irate, "You'll see".

With lightened hearts we transferred a few things from our car into theirs and off we set yet again with the lady driving and myself, Viv and Dougie in the back. By now I was feeling tired but slightly euphoric, and every time the lady driver asked us the address I had a tendency to giggle. "We will see a long beech hedge and the house is at the end of it.".

After an hour's drive we came to Leek Wooton and as we drove past the hedge I cried, "There is the entrance. There, just ahead of us". You should have seen her jaw drop and her eyes pop out in amazement as we turned into the gates and sailed up the drive, with a tennis court on one side and terraced lawns and trees on the other. She was even more amazed when Robert, with his two sisters Ida and Judy, came out of the beautiful house, waving his wallet full of ENGLISH notes to pay her. Because we had Scottish accents and wore casual clothes, she and her charming boss had considered we were nobodies and not worth bothering about. Oh well. C'est la vie!

After a light meal, the children and I went gratefully upstairs to bed, but not before finding time to admire the wondrous toilet and bathroom. The toilet was more of a library than a simple toilet. The toilet bowl itself was raised up on a platform and was made of perfect Edwardian porcelain. The wood was of the very finest quality and there were bookshelves on either side. The bathroom was next door and equally delightful. Everything was of the very highest quality from the Edwardian period and had not been altered or modernised at all. The children, then aged 11 and 12, were entranced.

The next day was a bonus to our holiday. The sun was still shining and the anxiety truly alleviated. We phoned the Bilston garage and arranged for them to go ahead with the repairs, and in the meantime we hired a car for the following day to take us on to Devon. The rest of the day was our own - which we spent walking in the garden or sitting in the sun and generally relaxing - except Douglas and Robert who played tennis in a very serious match till both were tired out.

Dinner that day was a very memorable occasion if only because of the presence of Robert's dog. He was a highly trained Bull Terrier and during the meal sat up on a chair with his paws on the table, not moving a muscle, but occasionally turning his head to left or right as if politely listening to the conversation. He had the most perfect manners - that is until the meal was finished and we were relaxing over our coffee, when suddenly he gave an enormous fart. There was a moment's silence and then the children started to giggle; so did Judy and I, but Robert decided we should ignore it and try to carry on our conversation as an exercise in self-control. He and Ida managed to keep straight faces but Judy and I and the two children kept breaking into helpless giggles. I remember the discussion was about an old map but what was said I really did not notice, as I was trying desperately not to giggle. Robert did most of the talking and not once did he even smile - what self control!

The next day we picked up our hired car and drove back to Bilston, transferred the rest of our belongings from our own car into the hired car, and off we set on the last part of our journey to Devon where we had a lovely uneventful relatively holiday in Brendon valley, near Lynmouth. On the way home we stopped for another night at Leek Wooton before collecting our car at Bilston. Even when I phoned up to confirm if it was ready he once again said, "Remember, I want English notes or no car". I paid him as requested but he received no thanks as we climbed into our car and drove away. Once home I wrote to the RAC complaining of his behaviour. I wonder if they removed him from their list of recommended garages.

                             * * * * *
 

When we returned from our holiday I felt refreshed but unfortunately not for long. The cares of looking after the home, of Granny, and the practice descended on me once again and it was soon as if I had never been away. Also I was concerned about Ernie whose business had failed. He was living on his little remaining capital and was, needless to say desperately worried and depressed, so depressed he was seriously contemplating suicide and, to save his wife Doreen from further worry and distress, would turn to me for whatever comfort or advice I could give - which was not much, I am sorry to say. I felt so helpless and unhappy, always being on the outside - not really being able to help or share the problem. To meet for an hour or so over a cup of tea or coffee sometimes on our own, sometimes with his wife and the children, his or mine, but always to say "Good-bye", not knowing when I would see him again.

At this time I had a recurrent nightmare in which I was in a circular dungeon and could faintly see Ernie moving about outside, but I could not get to him however much I tried rattling the bars and crying. I would wake up weeping into my pillow.

Ernie was less exuberant now, seldom going out and never to the Gillsland, living very quietly on his last little bit of money. To try and pass the time he would often come with me on my calls. This helped him to bear the inactivity and gave comfort to us both.

One morning he asked me to call in before surgery "Hello Ern", I said, "Is anything wrong? You sounded rather worried" "Well, I'm not sure. I've had trouble passing water for a couple of days. Sometimes it's OK but it seems to stop and start even in the middle of a pee. Do you think it is anything to worry about? I've no pain and I feel fine. I hate making a fuss". "You're not making a fuss. You must go along and see Dr Bignold today," I replied and then dashed into surgery to attend to my own patients.

Within a very short time he was admitted to the Western General Hospital, where he had a Transurethral Resection of the prostate - quite a minor operation - and when I went in the following afternoon for a brief visit he was sitting up in bed, looking the picture of health and cheerier than I had seen him for a very long time, entertaining the nurses and those around him with his infectious good humour. During my visit the doctors did a ward round and Ernie asked them to tell me everything about his case. I was taken into a side room and there the doctor explained that the biopsy was equivocal - it had shown some abnormal cells but they could not say it was frankly malignant. It was highly unusual in one of his age - he was only forty nine. Because of the potential dangers of his illness they suggested long-term treatment with female hormones. I felt the first stab at the heart as I envisaged for the first time, albeit momentarily, life with Ernie gone forever. Quickly recovering my inner composure, I thanked the Doctor and went back into the ward. It was so lovely to see him cheerful again that I did not discuss the results with him in any depth that day - there would be time for that later. Let him be cheerful while he could.

Later when I arrived home and was attending to Mother I started to cry and could not stop. The tears just flowed and flowed with all my pent-up emotions. She managed to ask me what was wrong but I could not explain - not really. I was just so damned miserable. I loved Ernie so much, I could not be with him, and now I was worried about his health as well.

After his recovery he continued trying to find a new job - applying for positions ranging from senior executive posts to a job with the Cleansing Department. This last in a moment of sheer desperation, but always the answer was in the negative. He would invariably be called for an interview and get on very well with the interviewers but, at the end of the meeting they would say something like this: "I'm sorry Mr Epps, but I can't offer you the post. You are too highly qualified and if I gave you the job you might soon be sitting in my chair". Or if the job was of a more manual nature they would say "Sorry Mr Epps, I would like to help you but the other men would not like it".

The trouble was his past experience. He had been born in Tooting, London in 1920. His parents had been very hard up as his father was mostly unemployed. He had been gassed in the war and had been a respiratory invalid since, dying when Ernie was in his mid-teens. At the age of fourteen Ernie left school and was employed as an office boy, later moving to Justerini & Brooks when he was 15 years old. He remained there until war broke out and, after nearly seven years in the army, returned to them to apply for his old job. The Company Secretary interviewed him and was reluctant to have him back, saying he would have forgotten all about the wine business and so on, but Ernie persuaded him otherwise, saying to himself at the same time: "Watch out, old son, I'll soon be sitting in your chair" - and so he was!

After a few years of hard work, studying accountancy and economics at night school, he rapidly gained promotion and was appointed company secretary. But he did not stop there. J & B Whisky was his baby for which he was wholly responsible; blending, bottling, selling and most of all exporting. At that time he travelled all over the world, appointing agents in different countries and selling J & B Whisky. He had even designed their famous yellow label. He was by this time on the Board of Directors, but too busy and involved in his work to be bothered with board room politics, and when Justerini and Brooks were taken over by a big corporation he received the Golden Handshake - it was a bitter blow indeed, from which he took a long time to recover.
 

It was then, in 1964, that he came up to live in Edinburgh and invested his money in developing a blend of whisky in his own name. This was to prove more difficult than he thought and, after four or five years of endeavour, the business failed and he was again unemployed. He felt he had risen from rags to riches and fallen into rags again, from which there seemed no way out. He refused to apply for help from the DHSS until the coffers were completely empty, due to a mixture of pride and stubborness, but when he did he found them very helpful. Strange as it may seem, he was penalised later on when he was once more in employment. Because he had not claimed unemployment benefits, he had to pay insurance stamps for these years when he was unemployed and not claiming benefits. So he saved the Government money in two ways - by not claiming benefits, and by later buying the insurance stamps for this period. If he had claimed benefits they would have stamped his card for him.

Almost at the same time as he went to the DHSS for help, his wife Doreen found a job and some of the financial worries were lifted, but he was still unemployed and very unhappy. His relations with Doreen were becoming more and more strained; they were both worried and depressed and Doreen was often overtired after working long hours as a cook in a restaurant. I began to feel a bit like Judas because I felt Doreen liked me - and I liked her and did not want to hurt her - but I loved her husband. What an intolerable situation it was! Something had to give and eventually it did.

One morning, I received a phone call at the surgery. "Would I look in on Ernie as soon as possible?" I should add that after his business folded up they had been very lucky and hand managed to rent a house in Rankeillor Street, which had recently become vacant, and so I was able to call in before surgery. I found him in tears - he was leaving Doreen, saying that he couldn't go on any longer and it would be best for all concerned in the long run. It seems that they had had an enormous row which had gone on all weekend and Doreen had left in the morning for work, saying she would be better off without him. He agreed with her and made up his mind there and then to leave that day, and this is what he did. Not lightly or in pique, but with tears and much self-recrimination.

I could only stay a few minutes as I had to take the morning surgery. After I had finished there, I hurried round to Ernie again and found him packing up his clothes and personal belongings. He was still inclined to weep but very determined to carry out his decision. With the help of the phone and the Evening News, he had managed to find a caravan to let outside Dalkeith. Would I help him move his belongings out there? "Alright my dear", I replied, "but it won't be easy. You'll have to come with me on my calls first and then I'll drive you out to Dalkeith before going home".

So that was what we did, but after we had unpacked the car he had a moment of sheer panic: "Oh I can't spend all evening on my own, Pam, what will I do?" "I don't know darling. Let's think for a minute". He looked so sad and despondent. "Oh I know, why don't you go to the pictures? I'll give you a lift back into town". We climbed back into the car and I drove into town, stopping to let him out near the picture house, and then hurried home as fast as I could. What a strange day it was.

He only went back once to the Rankeillor Street house, to collect some things, and adamantly refused to see Doreen or discuss things directly with her. It seemed cruel at the time but perhaps a clean break helped her to come to terms whth the situation sooner than a round of meetings and discussions. There was really little to discuss - he had left her with the tenancy of the house and all their mutual possessions. Of the two boys, the eldest Ian had left school and was working in London. Keith was in his mid-teens at the Boroughmuir school, and both, I hope, understood that their parents had had a stormy relationship and had been unhappy for a very long time.

                             * * * * *

                             CHAPTER 13
 

Within the larger circle, there had also been changes.

First of all my eldest sister Moira died. She had suffered from extremely high blood pressure for many years and had had a diseased kidney removed to try and bring her blood pressure down. Technically the operation had been a success but, as far as I could make, out the effect on her blood pressure was minimal and she continued on huge doses of anti-hypertension drugs.

One day in 1969 she collapsed and was rushed to hospital where a massive myocardial infarction or heart attack was diagnosed. She had made little headway and, in the words of the consultant, was left with a "big floppy heart". Little could be done and it was only a matter of time. My sister Bumpy had visited her and found her with a longing for home. I remember Vida and I discussing the possiblilites of bringing her home to Tullibole - hiring an ambulance or a carriage on the railway, but almost the next day she was dead - only 59 years old. Such a sweet and loving nature - gone forever. My second mother - the first of the brothers and sisters.

She did come home - to be buried in the village church yard. It was a beautiful summer's day, all the family and friends were gathered together and after the service we went back to Tullibole, talking and walking on the lawns like the old pre-war days. I could not help thinking, "Moira would love this. It's just the sort of occasion she would so much enjoy".

Brother Bob must have felt rejuvenated. He even demonstrated some cartwheels on the lawn. I'm not quite sure why but it made us laugh. Poor Cyril, her husband, was quite distraught but managed to keep control - wanting to talk of Moira and telling me how, when lying in the hospital bed, one of the last things she said was, "I'm sorry I'm not very brave".

For many months afterwards I expected her to come into Mother's living room, smiling and wearing her white Irish tweed suit. It was quite strange because, as she lived in London and we lived in Edinburgh, she was not able to visit us very often, and yet I kept thinking she was going to walk through that door.

In December 1970 Anne remarried. She and Campbell had gone their separate ways many years before and now she was marrying again - to John, a widower and many years her senior. It was a quiet wedding but this time, although Eddie did not come, she was surrounded by family and friends and it was altogether a happy occasion.

Nearly a year later she found she was again pregnant and you can imagine how overjoyed the prospective parents were, especially as after baby Nicolas died and before leaving Campbell, she had two if not three miscarriages - traumatic experiences in themselves but doubly so shortly after a cot death.

Anyway here she was pregnant with a caring husband, and a nice home, determined to enjoy her pregnancy and her labour. Probably because she had heard me talking of my happy experiences of home confinement, she decided to have her baby at home. Dr Johnstone, the family doctor, took some persuading but eventually relented and made all the necessary arrangements for midwives etc. Anne kept very well during her pregnancy and we all looked forward to the great event with the keenest anticipation.

At last the expected call came. It was on 23 June 1971 around 4pm when the telephone rang. An excited voice, Anne's, shouted down the line: "It's me Mum. I've started". "Super", I said, "I'll just sort things out here and then I'll come along".

So after arranging for Mrs McHale to stay late if necessary, and to give Viv and Doug and Eddie their evening meal, I set off for Anne's home in Craiglockhart. It was only a five minute's drive away.

I found everyone in the highest spirits. John was excited but not panicky; Anne had the midwives with her and was chatting away to them; and Peter, John's son by his first wife, was watching television in the living room but was also interested in what was going on.

Most of the time Anne's bedroom door was open and she was moving about and there was plenty of conversation between everyone. Sometime around six thirty, Dr Johnstone arived. He stayed for a short time and joined in the general conversation and left, saying, "You'll probably be hours yet. Phone me later and let me know how things are going". This to the midwives.

He had no sooner left than the door bell went and who should walk in but Eddie, Viv and Doug. They had felt a bit left out of things so had come along to join the party. The noise from the living room was considerable for there were now three children aged 13, 12 and 7, plus two men and myself, although John and I divided our time between the living room and the bedroom, where the drama was taking place. Anne remained cheerful and undistressed but very soon the pains became stronger and stronger. We hastily phoned Dr Johnstone again but, before he arrived, Susan Pamela Moncreiff Nicol had made her appearance on the world's stage. The young nurse was so excited she wrapped the baby up and took her through to the living room where she was duly admired by each in turn until Anne, in desperation, had to shout from the bedroom.

"Hey, it's my turn now. I haven't seen the baby yet."

Three days later Anne arrived at Morningside Drive carrying a pretty little pink and white bundle which she laid carefully on Granny's lap. Granny could not speak but two large tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

Shortly after Susie's birth Anne had further problems. She had had one abnormal cervical smear and now she had a second and so it was decided she should have a core biopsy and amputation of the cervix Two weeks later the consultant had a talk with me. There were two problems:

1. The amputation was incomplete but showed definite cancer. 2. Anne was pregnant.

As they would now have to go on to futher surgery, the question was when. It would be her last chance of a further pregnancy, and so Anne decided she should try and continue with the pregnancy and have a hysterectomy after her delivery. A few weeks later Eddie and I were at the Police Ball with a group of friends from the Gillsland Hotel when there was an announcement. "Dr White is wanted on the telephone". It was a doctor from the Royal Infirmary. Anne was haemorrhaging and they would have to do an immediate hysterectomy. Would I come up to the hospital as Anne wanted to see me and get my approval before giving her permission for the go-ahead? Eddie drove me up to the hospital where I had a talk with Anne. Then they operated and the possibility of further children was gone forever. She was only twenty five.
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