The Blossom Tree

“I love you Iris,” Jim whispered, smoothing my hair and cradling me in his strong arms. Together we determined that if there was a baby on the way no one could stop us from being together. It worked. Catholic dogma not consenting to a church wedding, we were married in the registry office in Greymouth. I was sixteen and a half and Jim was nineteen. On the morning of Saint Patrick’s Day 1929 I went into labor with our daughter. My father’s mother came over to attend the birth. By evening I was in trouble, exhausted by the effort. Jim was in tears listening to my screams. Writhing with blinding pain, I thought I was going to die. Suddenly my mother was beside me. I felt her warm hand stroking my hair the way she did when I was a child. I melted into the serenity of her unseen presence. Granny instructed Jim to fetch the local doctor. He found Paddy Muldoon at the pub. He arrived smelling of malt whiskey. The baby, he said, was large for my size. “Children having children,” he complained, as his forceps slipped time and time again. But he saved our lives. Colleen was born with a misshaped head, due to the forceps delivery, and both eyes blackened like a seasoned prize fighter. For weeks after the delivery I was unable to walk and Jim carried me from room to room.